by Shah, R D
Munroe’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the act. Two hostages were always better than one, unless there was a reason for it.
“Is he armed?”
“No sign of a firearm, but he came to the window holding a knife and he says he’s armed. I’ve got two blue berets covering the back and two to the sides of us covering the front.”
Munroe glanced from left to right to see the familiar sight of two armed men crouching semi-prone behind the opposing neighbouring fences, dressed in full tactical gear with helmets and holding SIG716 assault rifles aimed towards the house. The term ‘blue berets’ was police slang for the SCO19 armed response unit and it surprised him because these boys and girls were usually only called upon in the direst of circumstances.
“It’s a bit heavy, isn’t it?” Munroe noted, turning his attention back to Howell. “Why not the regular armed response unit?”
Sergeant Howell looked uneasy and he offered a shake of his head. “You know this spate of murders over the past six months, the pregnant woman over in Whitehall and that man they found chopped up under London Bridge?”
Munroe knew the case – who didn’t, it had been in all the papers. Five grisly murders, almost one a month, and all in a different ‘style’. If it hadn’t been for the killer’s message, written in blood at every scene, they might never have been connected. The finger-painted note was always the same: his name, his signature.
“Icarus,” Munroe mouthed softly to himself.
“Yep. We think so,” Howell said, taking a deep uncomfortable breath. “A squad car caught him in the act, still signing his name. The woman was already dead and he took off in his vehicle with them in pursuit. He crashed his car just a road over from here and broke into this house after he got cornered.”
“Was anyone else in the house?” Munroe questioned, staring at the windows for any sign of movement.
“No, the mother was inside but he threw her out and locked himself in.” Howell motioned back up the street. “We’ve got her with a counselling team up the road… she’s in a hell of a state.”
Munroe looked po-faced. “So would you be, Sergeant.”
Howell only offered a nod of his head as Munroe surveyed the windows once more. Still no movement, no shadows, nothing. “Tell your men to turn off the blues, will you. There’s no reason to make him more nervous than he already is.”
Without hesitation Howell reached in through the open window of his vehicle and clicked a switch before turning his attention to the other policeman standing by the other Discovery and waving his hand downwards. “Shut it off.”
In an instant they were all thrown into a dim light as the street bulbs above bathed them in a yellow glow. As a mild breeze drifted through the cul-de-sac, creating slow-moving swirls of fog across the darkened terrace house, Munroe caught sight of an eye poking out from behind the downstairs curtain. It remained there for a second before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
“Are we linked up to the house?” Munroe asked, before removing his overcoat and gently laying it across the Land Rover’s bonnet.
“We are,” Howell said, unclipping a mobile phone from his belt and handing it over, “but he only answered once and that was to give us a demand… said not to call back until we ‘made good’ or he’d kill the girl.”
“And the demand was for me?” Munroe said, lighting up the screen of the Samsung Galaxy S20 with his thumb.
Howell appeared bothered by it and his lips tightened. “Well, Superintendent, yes. He asked for you.”
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” Munroe said, preparing to press the call icon. “And call me Ethan.”
Howell gave a strained smile. “Brian.”
“What’s the girl’s name, Brian?”
“Stacy Wells.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
“Mother’s name?”
“Sarah.”
Munroe quickly digested the information, then placed the mobile to his ear and listened as it began to dial. “Please stay silent, Brian, and let’s see what’s going on, shall we?”
Ring ring, ring ring, ring ring.
The line connected in silence except for the sound of steadied breathing against the receiver, and Munroe held off for a few seconds before beginning to talk.
“Is this Icarus?” he said in a comforting tone, taking a big chance on using the name this man had apparently bestowed upon himself. On the other end the breathing now withered into a soft cry as the voice of a young girl replied.
“No, this is Stacy.”
The little girl’s voice was subdued and it was clear from the whimpers that she was doing her best not to cry.
“Hi, Stacy, my name is Ethan, and I’m here to help you get back to your mummy. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” the soft voice replied as Munroe continued.
“That’s good to hear. Stacy, is there a man with you?”
“Yes. He’s standing next to me.”
“OK, thank you, Stacy. May I speak with him?”
There was a pause. Munroe focused his eyes on the curtained downstairs window, but there was still no movement as the girl came back on the line.
“He says you have to come inside if you want to talk.”
The answer was ominous, because this killer already knew who he was. Hell, he’d asked for him personally, and that suggested to him that the man had an axe to grind and to play this out on his terms was a dangerous path to go down. The whole point of a negotiator was to make the man feel like he was in control, gain trust in order to find resolution without anyone getting hurt, but him being the centre of ‘Icarus’s’ attention could act a stressor and that could place the girl in danger… as well as himself.
“I understand, Stacy. You’re being very brave. Could you please ask the man if I can just hear his voice, so I know whom I’m speaking to?”
The line fell silent again. There was a slapping sound and muffled cry before Stacy returned to the line, her voice now wavering, clearly fighting back tears.
“He says… if you don’t come inside to talk then he’ll… he’ll cut my throat.”
The little girl now began to sob and at the downstairs window the curtain was pulled back, revealing Stacy’s face, one side of her cheek red from a slap, a large hand gripping her blonde hair tightly as the other held a serrated kitchen knife tightly to her throat. To the left, one of the blue berets was already readying his assault rifle, but it was a dangerous shot to take, the angle all wrong, and the officer glanced over at Munroe, who shook his head subtly. With a confirming nod the officer pulled back and resumed his earlier position.
Usually an armed officer would never take such a chance, but with the man inside considered a known serial killer whose gruesome crimes were splashed over all the papers, the blue berets were showing an uncharacteristically agitated state of mind.
“Stacy. Can you hear me?” Munroe asked and the curtain slowly fell back closed before he could hear a light sobbing on the line once more.
“He says he won’t give you another chance.”
The demand was finite, and as Munroe pushed the mute button and considered his options he could already see Howell slowly shaking his head from the corner of his eye.
“You can’t go in there, Ethan,” Howell ordered in nothing less than a growl. “I’d rather breach the house. The men are already in place and waiting to go with a plan to enter from the back.”
“Do you have the house plan?”
Howell offered a single nod before producing a hand-drawn layout of the lower floor from his trouser pocket. He held it below the car’s window so as not to be seen from the house. “The mother drew it.”
Munroe scanned the image and then pointed at the page.
“Do they know if the back door’s locked?”
“One of our men did a soft check. It’s locked and bolted from the inside but at least there’s a chance… If you go in then I have two potential deaths on my hands.
”
Even before he replied Munroe knew what he was going to do. The only words he needed to speak now were to convince Howell, who would undoubtedly take the fallout for such a risky decision. “Given that we know this man has no issues with taking a life, I’ll tell you how it’s going to go. A forced entry from the rear will take at least six to ten seconds to reach the front room. That’s more than enough time for him to slit that girl’s throat before your men subdue him. If they come from the front, it will take less time, but we have no idea if it’s barricaded. Either way the girl dies.” Munroe lifted his shoulders and loosened his muscles as Howell remained silent. He too knew the odds of success.
“We have no idea what this man wants. If he’s rational or on the brink of mental breakdown… He’s under a lot of pressure. The only thing we know for sure is that he wants to speak with me… so let’s give him what he wants.”
Howell stood motionless and unblinking while Munroe stared at him, his head lowered slightly, looking ready to go. Seconds passed before the sergeant’s shoulders began to sag.
“This is so beyond my remit that if it goes wrong my career is over,” Howell said, his cheeks beginning to flush, though not out of embarrassment. “And more importantly, I could have two dead people on my conscience.”
“If this goes wrong then that little girl’s life is over, guaranteed,” Munroe replied, softly tapping the mobile still held in his hand. “What’s one more life to a man that we believe has already killed five?”
Howell considered his options for a few more seconds and then, with one last glare, he gave a stiff nod. “OK, Ethan, we’ll do it your way, but take this.” He reached in through the car window and unlocked a small grey case sitting on the passenger seat. The top popped open; nestled within a cut-out in the foam interior sat a small earpiece, which the sergeant retrieved and then passed over to Munroe. “It’s one way, so we’ll hear everything that’s going on,” Howell explained as Munroe turned away from the house and slipped the tiny radio into his ear, as deep as it would go. “If I hear even the slightest hint of a threat, we breach. Understood?”
Munroe gave a firm nod as Howell continued with his stipulations. “I can’t give you a firearm, so you’re on your own the moment you step inside, but we’ll be listening.”
“I understand.” He reached into his pocket and offered Howell a glimpse of a black metal switchblade handle. “Just in case.”
Howell turned his head at the illegal item. “I didn’t see that,” he said sternly, grabbing a walkie-talkie which he placed to his ear. “Hold your positions. The negotiator is entering the house. Stand by for a full breach on my command.”
As soon as the order had been given Munroe was back on the mobile, his voice still calm and comforting even though his stomach was beginning to twist with the usual feeling of controlled apprehension. “Stacy, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Ethan,” came the reply. Any signs of sobbing had now ceased.
This was one tough little girl.
“Can you tell the man I’m coming in unarmed, and to unlock the front door.”
Without a reply the line abruptly cut off and, after adjusting the switchblade in his pocket for easy access, Munroe stepped out from behind the Land Rover and began to walk slowly forward towards the darkened doorway with his hands held upwards.
The front door was only twenty metres away but it felt like an eternity. The fog was beginning to clear, the thick wisps becoming mist, and as he approached the green wooden door the sound of a lock unclicking could be heard. He stopped at the entrance and with one final glance back at Howell, who was wide-eyed and understandably looking extremely out of his comfort zone, Munroe turned the knob and pushed back the door before then cautiously making his way inside.
The air was humid and Munroe looked down at a radiator that had been knocked or kicked from its position, creating a hot wet puddle beneath where the pipe had been cracked. He felt the fine vapours lapping against his trousers as he moved to one side to avoid the dampness. The hallway was dim, lit only by the ambient light coming from the first doorway on the left which was ajar only a fraction, and Munroe surveyed his surroundings for any sign of a threat. Against the left-hand wall stood a glossy wood side table on top of which was a blue plastic bowl with flowery patterns, filled with darkened petals of potpourri. To his right a coat rack hung from the wall holding a light green anorak and a child’s pink plastic raincoat with the image of a white unicorn on the back and silver lettering beneath reading ‘Lil’ Princess’. The hallway was typical of any family house in the UK, with two muddy pairs of wellington boots positioned neatly underneath the coat rack, but the smeared mark on the floral wallpaper beyond transformed the home into something far more insidious.
Munroe stared at the bloody handprint and noted the size. Icarus was a big lad.
“Hello. I’m inside,” Munroe called out, but instead of a reply he was greeted by the sound of scraping coming from the nearest room, like an object being dragged heavily across paintwork, and a sharp object at that. “I’m closing the door behind me.” He shut it with a hefty thud just to confirm his actions. He then slowly began to make his way forward, his steps heavy on the grey carpet informing those ahead of his approach. As he moved closer towards the partially open doorway and the subdued grainy light shining around its edges he heard a whimper from somewhere inside.
Munroe halted and then stood motionless in the hallway, the air stifling, but with no further sounds he continued with the last few steps and then paused to call out once more. “I’m at the doorway. May I come in?”
There was a creak from inside, as if someone was shifting their weight, but no response. Munroe stood by the edge of the door and with one hand nudged it open.
Inch by inch the door gently swung open on its well-oiled hinges until it came to a stop against the black rubber stopper screwed into the green carpet floor and Munroe got his first look at the chaotic mess that was the Wells’s front living room.
To the left was an open doorway that, by the plans he had seen, led to the kitchen. A two-seat dark blue leather sofa had been jammed into the opening, preventing easy access. On the opposite wall an armchair had been flipped upside down, now resting against the drawn curtain of the main window. In the corner next to it, part of the carpet had been pulled up and what appeared to be knife marks had been cut into the wood flooring beneath. A forty-inch plasma screen was attached to the wall opposite. A circular crack expanded outwards from its centre, clearly made by a heavy blow, and the hazy white static offered the only light in the room. In front of it the silhouette of a large man stood, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and slowly swaying from side to side. On the wall next to him jagged words had been cut into the plaster, Never Forget, and Betrayal underneath that. Below the scrawled words a single triangle had been carved, no doubt by the kitchen knife currently being pressed against the young girl’s throat as she was held firmly in his clutches.
The man raised the knife and used it to wave Munroe forward, the white of his teeth flickering from the flashing static of the plasma screen. “We’ve been waiting for you, Ethan. Come in and join the family.”
Chapter 3
“Icarus?” Munroe said, as the kitchen knife now returned to the young girl’s throat. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Icarus offered no reply and only continued to sway from left to right while the knife stayed stationary against Stacy’s thin white neck. Munroe turned his attention towards the girl.
“Hi Stacy, how are you doing there, little one?”
Stacy opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word the knife pressed even tighter as Icarus began to speak.
“We’ve been playing.”
The killer’s voice was soft, with a strong Scottish accent, maybe Edinburgh. He released his hand from the girl’s shoulder and pointed to a makeshift den built from the sofa’s cushions. “Just to pass the time.”
The backlight from the television made it difficu
lt to get a clear view of the man, and apart from the outline of long, scraggly hair hanging down the killer’s cheeks his face was clouded by shadows.
“I got here as soon as I could, Icarus. May I call you Icarus?” Munroe raised his palms slightly and moved out of the hallway so his whole body was visible, showing that he had nothing to hide. It was odd because the movement caused no reaction from the killer; he continued to sway left to right before giving a slow nod.
“OK, Icarus, is there anything you need? Food or drink?”
Icarus gently shook his head. “I have everything I need now that you’re here.”
To say there was an air of menace in his answer was a huge understatement, and sensing something was looming Munroe calmly turned his attention to the young girl, his priorities now taking charge.
“Hi Stacy, you OK there?”
Stacy gave a tearful nod.
“You’re very brave, Stacy, and I’m here to get everyone out safely.” Munroe looked up at the knife-wielding killer. “Both of you. So if you agree, then perhaps Stacy could play in the fort while we talk a little. I’d like to know what I can do for you.”
The repeated mentioning of the young girl’s name was deliberate on Munroe’s part. If Icarus could see her as a person and not just a bargaining chip then he might be less inclined to do something stupid. That was the theory, anyway, but given this man was an experienced killer with five, potentially more, gruesome murders under his belt, then it probably wouldn’t count for much.
Icarus looked down at Stacy and then he released his grip and pushed her in the direction of the makeshift den.
“Thank you,” Munroe said gratefully, and he motioned to the box of cushions. “Go on, Stacy, that’s a good girl.”
Stacy did as she was told and, her body rigid, stepped over to the den, pulled herself inside and sat down with crossed legs, her mouth quivering and her tear-strewn red eyes full of terror.
With the hostage now at a distance, Munroe turned his full attention to the silhouette of Icarus, who still had the kitchen knife held tightly in his hand, pointed in Munroe’s direction.