In the grounds of the Beacon Hotel, Moth Two was still observing the silent figure of Inspector Hadley. Hadley had remained on the bench in the grounds for nearly two hours, moving very occasionally and sometimes standing up to stretch his legs or move his arms. In the darkness of that night and taking advantage of the shadows cast by the lights of the hotel, he was virtually invisible as he maintained his watch.
In the meantime, other cars had arrived at the hotel. Some two-dozen people had entered for dinner or as overnight guests; every registration number was recorded by the watching police, and now two officers, a man and a woman, both dressed for the occasion, had entered the hotel ostensibly as diners. Unknown to Inspector Hadley, who had a clear view of the dining-room from his seat, and unknown to Detective Inspector Swanson and his lady love, they asked for and were given a corner table. From there, they could observe the entire dining-room.
Their throat microphones were neatly concealed and thus it was possible to relay information to those waiting outside. But nothing appeared to be happening. Outwardly, this seemed to be a perfectly ordinary evening with diners enjoying a good meal in pleasant surroundings. No one was aware of the watching Hadley in motor-cycling gear as he remained hidden in the shadows of the garden and no one, not even the vigilant police, could know the reason for his presence.
But Pemberton was beginning to understand.
Being a fisherman, Inspector Victor Hadley had infinite patience. Just like a patient angler, he was, prepared to wait until he had secured a worthy catch. The bait, Hadley knew, was already in position; he hadn’t been a policeman and a detective without learning something about secret enquiries.
He would wait for as long as necessary.
Pemberton, along with officers from the armed response unit, his own CID and the observers from Holderness, was also waiting. The influx of police vehicles, none marked but most of them recognisable to a police officer, had been distributed around the small community. Some were parked outside the row of former coastguard cottages; some were in the hotel grounds; several had been moved into quiet lanes and fields; two were parked at the public toilets a few yards along the lane which formed part of the cliff-top footpath.
One of the vehicles which had entered the hotel grounds and parked opposite Swanson’s private car was a parcels delivery van. According to its livery, the firm was called Javelin Express Deliveries. It was a dark blue van with a gold flash around a javelin logo along each side of the van portion. It was just one of several vehicles which had arrived and departed during the last hour or so, but this one had remained.
It was out of the sight of the waiting Hadley, but had he watched, he would have seen a man climb out with a parcel, take it to the hotel and return to the van. But the van, which was the size of a bread van, had not left the premises. The driver must have decided to have a rest and was slumped in his seat, apparently asleep. Inside the rear compartment, however, were Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton, two detectives and two armed police officers in uniform; they were out of sight but equipped with their listening equipment and radio transmitters.
To anyone entering Bleawick, the tiny hamlet looked absolutely normal. For the waiting police, it was anything but normal.
Their target, Hadley, was still being watched by the anonymous Moth Two, but as he waited, Pemberton’s mind began to reassess his knowledge of Hadley, of Swanson, of the events at Millgate. If Swanson had been seeing Newton’s wife, and if Swanson had wanted her as his own, how easy it would be to persuade him to raid a security vehicle. If Swanson had slipped information to Newton that an extra high amount of cash was there for his picking…Newton would take the bait and organise the raid — and be arrested by the waiting Swanson and his officers. Thus Newton would be out of the way while Swanson made merry with his wife…but Newton had been shot dead. No one had bargained for that, no one had even considered Hadley’s swift response…and, Pemberton realised, Newton could have been about to shoot Swanson having discovered his adultery with his wife. If he’d realised what Swanson had been doing — and what lay in store for him if he was arrested — he might well have tried to kill the detective. Maybe Hadley was right? Maybe Newton had tried to kill Swanson…but if so, where was his weapon? If the recovered gun had belonged to Pollard, then it ruined that theory…
‘Still no movement,’ said Moth Two as Pemberton’s mind was in a turmoil.
‘Ten four,’ said Control.
‘Moth Five. Anything happening in the dining-room?’ asked Pemberton.
‘Swanson has reached the coffee stage,’ said the woman’s voice very quietly. ‘It’s the custom to take it in the lounge.’
‘Moth Six is in the lounge,’ said Pemberton.
Pemberton then addressed the men in the rear of the van.
‘I can’t see Hadley attempting to shoot Swanson in the hotel,’ he whispered eventually. ‘Be alert for another killer; we might have been on the wrong track. Repeat, don’t ignore the possibility of another killer. Hadley’s bike is in the car-park outside too, which means he has a gallop of, what, two hundred yards in order to make good his escape on the bike. His fishing gear is on board, strapped to the panniers. In the past, the killer has been astride the machine while committing his crimes… Don’t ignore Hadley, he has time to fetch his bike into the grounds, but do consider another killer… Repeat, do consider another killer! If there is another, he will have seen Swanson leave the table and go into the lounge, so he has a few minutes before Swanson leaves the hotel. Over.’
A colleague in the rear of the vehicle whispered, ‘I think chummy will take Swanson as he tries to enter his car, that’s when he’ll be at his most vulnerable. And that’s when we need to be ready with a reception committee. Guns loaded for use if necessary. Remember, Hadley’s a crack shot and he’s a trained police firearms officer, he won’t be easy. Even if he’s not the killer, the killer’s shown himself to be pretty effective at close range with a shotgun.’
‘There’s more of us than him,’ grunted another voice in the rear.
And then Pemberton’s radio whispered his call sign. He acknowledged it. It was Larkin.
‘I distinctly said no calls here, Paul,’ snapped Pemberton in a stage whisper. ‘Especially not now, things are beginning to move…’
‘Sir,’ said Larkin, ‘it’s vital…Hadley’s not the killer. Lorraine’s been to Nottingham — the gun that Newton had during Millgate is now being used by the killer…so it can’t be Hadley.’
‘Then what the bloody hell is Hadley doing here, leading us all into this situation?’ cried Pemberton, angry with himself. ‘If he’s not here to shoot Swanson, then why is he here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Larkin. ‘I’m convinced he’s not the man we’re looking for.’
‘Sir,’ said a detective in the van. ‘Sir, a motor cycle. A black one, heading this way…’
The motor cycle drove into the car-park of the Beacon Hotel, circled the entire parking area twice and then came to a halt between two cars. If was the distance of two cars away from Swanson’s. The rider switched off the engine and doused the lights. And in the light of the hotel, Pemberton could see that the machine was a black Suzuki with silver markings on the fairing. The rider climbed off and stretched his legs, coming to inspect Swanson’s car. He was a large man, well built, and he wore a black helmet; his motor-cycle suit was black leather. Having seen the car, he returned to his machine and sat astride it, waiting.
Pemberton whispered, ‘Moth Two, is Hadley still on the seat?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘But he heard a motor bike arrive, he stood up, I heard it too. He’s beginning to walk away now, sir, towards the main car-park—’
‘Radio silence!’ snapped Pemberton. ‘Operation Moth is entering its final phase. Everyone to their stations, everyone sharp and ready. Execute Operation Moth as arranged. But, repeat but, Hadley is not our target, repeat Hadley is not our target. Target is astride a black motor cycle outside the main entr
ance of the hotel, believed to be awaiting Swanson. Man, bulky build, in black leathers and crash helmet. He will surely be armed. Beware, beware, beware. Take him when Swanson appears…Moth Three, prepare to block the hotel gate with your vehicle, not too early…good timing essential. Dog section? Be alert in case he runs for it over the wall. Everyone to their posts.’
And so the trap was set.
Chapter Twenty
The wait seemed eternal. It was as if all noise ceased, all activity halted, and every person vanished into the darkness. Inside the brilliantly illuminated hotel there was light and happiness, but none of that noise permeated to Pemberton and his waiting officers. They could near nothing of the chatter or the sound of cutlery or even the soft music which played in the background. The only sound, discernible if one listened carefully, was the constant crash of the waves somewhere in the dark distance, breakers crashing on to the rocky shore deep below the hotel at the foot of the cliffs.
Everyone was waiting for Swanson to appear. From his hiding place in the van, Pemberton could see the main entrance of the hotel, a wide double door standing open to emit light which bathed the steps and paving stones in a pale unobtrusive glow, and inside he could see the antique furnishings, the mirrors on the wall, the paintings, the beautiful mahogany furniture and hall table. And outside, beyond the reach of the light, stood the motor cycle, engine silent and lights extinguished as the silent black figure astride it also waited. He was watching that doorway; the police were watching him. Hadley was watching him too. Hadley, equally invisible, had left the seat now; having heard the arrival of the black motor cycle, he began to move through the shadows towards the machine, silently moving among the trees and across the grass of the grounds with all the skill of a trained stalker. A countryman stalking his prey, a fisherman endeavouring to outwit a fish, a hunter with a will to outwit an animal with the keenest hearing and most alert of senses.
Moth Two, charged with the duty of observing Hadley, could not relay this movement to Control; radio silence had been ordered and Moth Two knew that if he moved, he might reveal himself. And if he did reveal himself, the entire operation could be aborted or ruined. He said a silent prayer that Pemberton and his men close to the scene of the forthcoming action might be aware of Hadley’s departure from the seat. Moth Two therefore remained in the shadows, as still and silent as a nightjar, wondering whether or not he was going to witness a death this evening, or whether or not he was going to be instrumental in preventing a death. He could do no more and he began to perspire in spite of the chill of the night.
Pemberton did see Hadley’s approach. An officer in the rear of the van noticed him first. In the quietest of whispers, he said, ‘Sir, Hadley’s moving, he’s left the seat. I can see him heading this way, he’s bloody difficult to see but the light of the hotel keeps glinting from his helmet…he’s coming towards the bloke on the bike.’
‘We might have to head him off.’ Pemberton’s voice was calmly reassuring; there was no sign of tension or of panic. ‘Is anyone close to the chap on the bike?’
‘One armed response member, one detective, both concealed.’
‘They’ll not let Hadley get shot…’
Then Swanson appeared in the doorway of the hotel. The woman on his arm was clad in a fur coat and was clinging to him with all the love and desire that she could display… They began to descend the steps.
Pemberton heard her say, ‘Oh, damn, Phil, I’ve left my handbag in the lounge…I’ll just pop and get it. I’ll see you at the car.’
‘Right,’ said Swanson.
‘That’s Newton’s wife!’ someone hissed. ‘Joss Newton’s, I mean — well, his widow.’
‘Has she set Swanson up for this?’ whispered another officer. ‘Led him into a trap?’
‘Quiet, all of you!’ snapped Pemberton.
And as the woman turned and melted into the glow of the hotel. Detective Inspector Swanson, off duty and having enjoyed a wonderful meal, continued towards his car. He strode quickly towards it, not using a torch or any form of light to guide his way.
‘Prepare for action,’ breathed Pemberton into the microphone.
There was no reply from his colleagues, but he knew they had heard and understood him. There was not a sound now, except for the breathing of the officers entombed in the van; the tension was threatening to cover the windows with condensation, but they had been left open just a fraction to allow a saving current of air…visibility was still good. They watched Swanson move towards the parking area, walking in front of the row of cars as he made for his own vehicle. The biker was waiting; he was watching Swanson. Whether Swanson would see the waiting man could not be guessed — he was tucked between two cars in the darkness, well back and beyond normal vision. One would have to look deep into the space to see him. Swanson passed the gap in which the man was parked; the man never moved.
Swanson gained his own car and, as so many police officers are prone to do, walked around it to inspect it, just to see if anyone had bumped it while it had been parked there: an automatic reaction from a police officer. Satisfied that no one had smashed his headlights or scratched his paintwork, he took the key from his pocket and unlocked the driver’s door. The watchers heard the click of the central locking system as all the doors were simultaneously unlocked.
The interior light came on as Swanson settled in the driver’s seat and placed the keys in the ignition. He started the engine, probably to get the heating system working while awaiting his lady love.
It was then that the motor cycle moved. Quite suddenly, the engine burst into life and the lights came up as the rider emerged from his parking place two cars distant. He drove out, then into the next space, weaving behind that parked car until he approached Swanson’s car from behind. He parked his bike near Swanson’s car, lifting it on to the rest with the detective not aware that the bike’s movements were in any way odd. Then he got off the bike, strode to Swanson’s door and hauled it open with his left hand.
‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Pemberton into his microphone.
Even as the man was hauling the sawn-off shotgun from his leathers with his right hand, a firearms officer shouted, ‘Police! Stay where you are. No one move. You are surrounded. We are armed.’
Hadley was now in the middle of the carpark and running towards Swanson’s car, unarmed and shouting, ‘You bastard… you bastard…’
The gunman saw Hadley’s approach and, in a flash, raised the weapon to his shoulders, aimed it at the oncoming Hadley and pulled the trigger. There was another shot at precisely the same moment. The shotgun was catapulted from his grasp as Hadley, reacting with split-second timing, sank to the ground, uninjured. The shot went wide. A police van moved across the hotel gateway to block it entirely; no vehicle could leave at this stage.
‘No one move, stand still everyone. The hotel is surrounded by armed police. We are armed and will respond if any move is made…’
‘Get that woman,’ shouted Pemberton. ‘Find Mrs Newton…she can’t be far.’
The shotgun was lying on the ground in front of the row of parked cars and now, as the tension eased, a policeman went forward to retrieve it. He broke it, ejected the second unused cartridge and said to the man in the biker’s suit, ‘You are under arrest for attempted murder…’ and then chanted the long and complicated new caution.
Pemberton was on the scene now and went to Hadley who had risen to his feet and was looking totally baffled.
‘Are you all right, Vic?’
‘Sir? How did you get here… I mean, all of you…’
‘I think it’s a good job we did, Vic, don’t you?’
‘This bastard was framing me, sir, making as if I was killing those people… He even bought a bloody bike like mine, even fitted with the same tyres, and look, he’s using my registration number. He never spoke during his crimes, he couldn’t fake my accent, but he left enough clues to lead to me. Who’d have believed me if I’d said that was happening?’
&n
bsp; ‘I believe you, Vic.’ Swanson stood as still as a rock, shocked into immobility by the sudden turn of events as Pemberton turned to the black-clad rider. ‘So who have we got here?’
‘I think it will be Newton’s brother Brian, sir, trying to get his revenge against me for shooting Joss. Joss was armed, you know, sir, he really was. Nobody would believe me about that either… He and Brian went on the raid, the Millgate job. Brian got the gun away. It was the Newtons we were waiting for, not those other bloody idiots.’
‘We know, Vic, and that’s the same gun he’s been using to kill Scott, Pearle and Hardisty. So what now, Vic?’
‘You arrest Newton, sir. I want to arrest Swanson.’
‘Swanson?’ Pemberton looked at the detective inspector, now sitting in his car, drained and silent.
‘Yes, sir, for corruption. Who do you think fed the villains with details of the raids, for cash? That’s why he was going to be shot tonight, to look as if I’d done it. They’d have said I’d shot a policeman who was committing crimes and getting away with it.’
‘He set the Millgate job up, then?’
‘Yes, he drew Newton into the proverbial net. And he told Brian Newton about Scott and the others, passed on information he’d gained from his detective work, all to implicate me…’
‘But you saved his life, Vic, at Millgate.’
‘I did, but he didn’t see it like that. Swanson wanted Joss put inside, a short sentence, that’s all, so he could firm things up with his wife, but when Joss got shot, you can imagine what the family felt. Swanson’s life became hell, sir, they’d got him by the proverbial short and curlies, and he helped the Newtons get their revenge on me. Until he was no further use, and then he was going to be shot as well, with me being blamed for shooting a corrupt officer.’
‘You’ve evidence of all this, Vic?’
‘You bet I have, sir! I wasn’t as sick as people thought I was, you know.’
Suspect Page 22