by Simon Hall
Dan lifted his ankle onto his knee and gave it a quick massage. It was still aching, but not as badly. Another wave of tiredness soaked his body. He imagined Rutherford waiting at home and his cosy flat. When Nicola was finally found, he’d sleep for a whole day, he promised himself. Then he’d take his beloved dog for a good, long walk, ankle permitting.
‘I’d better get back outside in a minute,’ he told Adam. ‘I’ve got to do a live broadcast tonight to update the viewers about the search for Nicola. I don’t know what I’m going to say.’
‘You might as well tell it like it is, mate. That there’s no progress and we’re getting desperate. You were right at lunchtime. I’m sorry if I snapped at you, but it’s just the pressure getting to me.’
Adam paused, swirled the last inch of beer around his glass. ‘He has got to me you know. Gibson that is. I realised it this afternoon. I’ve been taking this personally. He’s got to me, with his plan and his riddles. And he’s winning. He’s been ahead of us all along. He’s got what he wanted. He’s humiliated us.’
‘I don’t know about that. You’re doing all …’
‘Oh, bollocks to him anyway,’ interrupted Adam, his voice suddenly stronger. ‘Sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves isn’t going to help. Come on, you’re the one who cracked McCluskey’s bloody code. Haven’t you got any ideas about what Gibson meant with those riddles of his? I’ll take any guesses at this stage. Anything.’
Dan shook his head, finished his pint. ‘Not a bloody clue. I’ve been trying to work on it all afternoon, but I haven’t come up with a thing. I had this hunch the stuff he said about Manchester was important, but I can’t work out why.’ Dan got painfully to his feet, his ankle protesting at being forced to take his weight. ‘I’m off to the loo, won’t be a minute.’
He limped out of the pub and into the toilets. One of the things he liked about the Spray of Feathers was the pleasant distraction they offered from the mundane chore of relieving yourself. On the wall above the row of urinals was a large ordnance survey map of Dartmoor.
Dan glanced idly over it, picking out Princetown and Dartmoor Prison in the middle, then going south and west to the Scout Hut where Gibson had hidden. He followed the green line of the old track up to the abandoned Eylesbarrow tin mine, where he’d taken Claire and Rutherford for their last walk. Another walk together this weekend would be very welcome. Some quality time was long overdue. It would be just what he needed, normality and affection, somewhere to hide from these six days of insanity.
The tiredness enveloped him again and he yawned, closed his eyes for a few seconds. He’d present tonight’s outside broadcast, then get straight home to a bath and bed. Lizzie was bound to want a follow up story tomorrow and if Adam was right, it could be very bad news. He needed to get some sleep.
Dan was about to leave the toilets when he stopped, turned back to the map. Afterwards, he could never explain what made him do it, just that his subconscious mind must have seen something and prompted him to take another look. He stared at it again. What was he looking for? There was something here he’d missed, something important. He knew it. But what?
The tiredness fled, beaten away by the sudden flare of hope. He was on to something, he knew it. But what? What was it? His instincts said there was something on this map that was telling him where Gibson was. It was so simple, but what was it? He knew it was there, but he couldn’t quite see it.
Dan forced himself to look again at the route he’d followed just seconds before. Slowly he traced it across the printed paper. Princetown. No, nothing there. The prison, nothing there. The Scout Hut. Gibson had hidden there, they knew that, but so what? Eylesbarrow tin mine. Nothing there. What was it that he’d seen?
He stared at the map, willing it to tell him. A man walked in and settled into the neighbouring urinal, but Dan didn’t notice, just stared on. What was it on the map that was telling him where Gibson was?
What had Gibson said in that final note, the one to Adam? That it was in the names and the numbers. The names didn’t mean anything, he couldn’t see any connection to where Gibson might be. What about the numbers? The only numbers on the map were the heights of various tors, a couple of roads and the grid references.
His eyes wandered over the tors. Higher Hartor Tor, 420 metres above sea level. Crane Hill, 471. King’s Tor, 380. Sheeps Tor, 369. Dan stared at them, but couldn’t see anything that gave him a clue.
He raised a finger and traced the few roads crossing the moor. The A386 to Tavistock, the B3212, the main east-west road across Dartmoor, the B3357. He tried to jumble the numbers in his mind, to see if they could mean anything. Nothing.
He felt the brief shot of hope start to wane. One last chance.
Dan traced the grid references along the side of the map. Horizontally they began in the 50s, then moved into the 60s. Vertically they ran from the 60s to the 70s.
Something triggered in his brain. What was familiar about those numbers? The man who had been using the urinal walked past him, out of the door, casting a suspicious look back over his shoulder. Dan didn’t see it, was oblivious to everything except the map and his resurgent thoughts. He stood back, leaned against the wall. What was important about those numbers?
It was something recent, something he’d only been thinking about in the last few hours.
But what?
Slow seconds ticked by. Nothing came. He screwed up his eyes, stared harder at the map. Dartmoor, the great wilderness, all hills and valleys, streams and forests. What was it?
A sudden realisation. The road map. That was it. The map of Manchester. He strode back into the pub, quickly pushed past a couple of waiting customers and interrupted the barman.
‘That map I borrowed earlier. Can I have it back please?’
‘Just a moment, sir, I’m dealing with this lady.’
No time to argue. Each second could be precious. Dan ducked down, under the bar, grabbed for the map. The barman reached out an arm, tried to stop him, but Dan slapped it aside. A wine glass hit the stone floor, shattered.
‘Here! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Saving a little girl’s life.’
The man just stared, open-mouthed. Dan walked quickly back into the toilets, his aching ankle forgotten. He fumbled the map open on pages 92 and 93, Greater Manchester. What was he looking at? Looking for?
What had Gibson said in one of his earlier letters? Something about a trip somewhere around Manchester. He stared at the map. Around Manchester … around Manchester…
Then he saw it. The motorway circling Manchester. The M60. And here, on the map of Dartmoor there were grid references in the 60s.
Dan felt his pulse quicken. His brain was fresh now, active, eager, the draining lethargy gone. What else had Gibson said? There was that stuff about Denton and Hyde. That had seemed odd all along. Why pick out those places? There was nothing special about them.
He ran a finger over the road map, found them. They were on the M67.
He gazed at the map of Dartmoor, traced the grid references with his finger. Square 6067. What was in it? His hand was trembling. It was where he’d walked with Claire and Rutherford. More importantly, it was close to the Scout Hut.
He was onto something, he was sure of it.
Dan swore loudly. He’d sat in his flat, looking for clues in Gibson’s letters, stared at these very bloody motorways and not seen it.
He concentrated, picked out the landmarks in the grid square. Higher Hartor Tor, Plym Steps … what was there that could mean Gibson was there too?
One place stood out. Dan’s eyes fixed on it. At the top of grid square 6067. A little valley called Evil Coombe.
Gibson had used the word evil several times in his letters, hadn’t he? He’d made a point of repeating it. Hadn’t he said something like “the question of evil is at the very centre of our dance?”
Hell, he’d walked past it with Claire, even pointed it out to her. Evil Coombe. It was on the side
of a hill, and the Chief Constable’s surname was Hill. That was it. That was where all this would end, where Gibson would make his final grand gesture.
He ran out of the toilets, threw down the map, grabbed Adam and pulled him up.
‘Come on, quick, quick, quick,’ Dan panted. ‘Quick! I think I’ve found him.’
Chapter Twenty
IT WAS ALMOST DARK when they reached the car park by the Scout Hut. They climbed quickly out of the police cars and vans and formed a semi-circle. Adam gave a fast briefing. His voice was still hoarse with tiredness, but it was urgent too.
‘We think he’s up there,’ he rasped, pointing along the old mine track, ‘in a valley by the side of Higher Hartor Tor called – and get this – Evil Coombe.’
There were about 20 officers gathered around Adam, dressed in black and wearing black baseball caps with checked bands and ‘Police’ inscribed on the front. It was all that could be gathered at instant notice. Adam ignored the sergeant’s request to wait for more, said they couldn’t afford the time.
Dan noticed most of the officers were armed. One man next to him, tall and silent, was holding an automatic rifle. Another by his side had a baton gun cradled in his arms. Both wore holsters containing pistols. He backed away slightly, making his ankle throb again.
‘I don’t need to remind you Gibson has a gun and a young girl with him,’ continued Adam. ‘I can’t afford to let this become a hostage situation. We don’t know what state she’s in. She may be cold and hungry and very frightened and for her sake, I don’t want to have to stay out here for the night negotiating. That’s why we’re going in now. We need a quick resolution. Our actions will be crucial in ensuring her safety. I’ll hand you over now to Sergeant Brand for the firearms tactics.’
The little light that was left was fading fast, the jagged moor now just a black silhouette against the blood-red threads in the sky, the dying embers of the fiery autumn sunset. A portly man stepped forward and addressed the group. He too carried a rifle, slung over his back.
Dan suffered a wave of nausea and tried to breathe deeply. The fatigue was enveloping him again, making him feel light-headed. The sight of all these guns wasn’t helping. He bent down to massage his ankle. It was aching unbearably and he wondered if he’d be able to follow the search team. Dartmoor’s tors and rough terrain were hard enough to handle if you were fit. He didn’t like to think about his own physical state. But he couldn’t give up now, not when they could be so close.
He had a sudden idea. It felt insane, but tempting, surely worth trying. The briefing would go on for a few more minutes. He didn’t stop to think, just limped over to the stream, sat down on a smooth rock, pulled off his walking shoe and sock and plunged his aching ankle into the freezing water.
A shock of delight rushed through his lethargic body, waking him, banishing the pain in an instant. The release brought an urge to laugh, lay back on the rock and let out wracking great guffaws.
Dan controlled himself, allowed a low chuckle to escape from his chest. What the hell was he doing? Amongst a group of armed police, closing in on a psychopath who was holding a young girl hostage, and he was sitting dangling his ankle in an icy Dartmoor stream. It felt good though, so good. It was liberating, a reprieve from the world of darkness where he’d spent the last unending hours.
He looked around, saw Adam standing rigid, gazing at the sergeant, his eyes wide and intent. He reluctantly pulled his foot out of the stream, dried it on his coat and put his sock and shoe back on, then walked over to the group. The ankle was still aching but felt much better than it had.
‘The open moorland gives us a tactical problem,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘I don’t want the risk of any officer being caught in a crossfire, so this is what we’ll do. We’ll surround the valley, but myself, Chief Inspector Breen, and PC Williams will approach from the front. We will be the talking team. We’ll use the standard contain and negotiate tactics. Our side will be designated as white, the front.’ He gestured at two men. ‘Andy and Bill, you take the right, or red side. Helen and Mike, you’re on the left, or green side.’
Dan looked over at the two figures Sergeant Brand was pointing to in surprise. He hadn’t realised any of the firearms officers were women.
‘And Will and Stephen, you’re on the back, or black side,’ the sergeant concluded. ‘Now, regarding the problem with the open moor. I want the surrounding officers to take cover as best they can, either lying down or behind boulders.’ He looked around the group. ‘That is for their own protection. You are not to open fire, unless Gibson makes a run for it, comes in your direction, ignores a challenge and is obviously armed and threatening. Is that understood?’
A low but sharp chorus of ‘Yes sir,’ came back.
‘There is one oddity to this operation,’ said the sergeant, beckoning Dan forward. He walked to the front, only hobbling a little now, stood beside Adam. ‘This man, you may recognise. He’s a TV reporter, Dan Groves, but he’s here to help us, at Mr Breen’s request. So remember, if it does come to opening fire, we have an unfamiliar face amongst us.’
Twenty pairs of eyes were fixed on him, and Dan felt a stab of fear. Why did it suddenly seem like he had a target painted on his chest? He hoped these people would recognise him, were good at their jobs. Particularly in this darkness. And under this pressure.
‘Gibson has specifically singled him out to pass messages to, so Dan could be useful if we have to negotiate,’ continued Sergeant Brand. ‘That’s why he’s here.’ He looked around the group. The faces were all calm, concentrating, focused, no hint of nerves. ‘That’s all then. Let’s go.’
They began walking fast up the mine track towards the silhouetted pyramid of the Tor. Dan struggled to keep up, his ankle beginning to throb again. The stream had provided only a transient relief. The team moved silently in single file, scanning the land from left to right. A half moon had begun to rise, dusting the land with a silver light. Dan noticed his hands were shaking and his heart beating rapidly.
They crossed another trickling stream and the sergeant held up a hand. He whispered to four black figures at the front of the group and they left the track, heading silently out over the moorland in a line. Dan watched them go, the moonlight reflecting from the rifles slung over their backs. Another few hundred yards up the track and four more were sent the same way. They must be circling, surrounding the valley. Dan took advantage of the brief rest to kneel down and massage his aching ankle.
They carried on up the track. Adam was in front, and Dan noticed he was breathing heavily, marching mechanically. The other men seemed calm, strode precisely. Dan’s foot caught a stone and he half fell, righted himself, the pain in his ankle biting hard. He swore silently, concentrated on the black outline of Higher Hartor Tor, a dark looming pile of strewn rocks against the moonlit skyline, tried to put the incessant throbbing out of his mind.
At the top of the track the sergeant again held up his hand. He produced a map from a side pocket, checked it. He pointed down a narrow and shallow valley running to the south of the Tor. The moonlight fell into it like a silver river, pitted only with black boulders of stray granite. Halfway down the valley, just a hundred yards away, was a small tent.
The sergeant beckoned to four more men and they divided, two each slipping down the opposite sides of the valley, well back from its lips. Another four were beckoned and began taking up positions around them, behind the granite rocks.
The sergeant stepped over to Adam. ‘We’re all in position now, sir,’ he whispered. ‘We’re ready to go. How do you want to play this? We could try going in on the tent to surprise him and lift him before he has a chance to harm the girl. Or we could take it more gently and negotiate. The textbook says we surround, contain and talk, but this isn’t a textbook situation. There are big risks in both options, sir, if he’s got a hostage in there. I don’t want to look like I’m passing the buck, but you’re the senior officer here. I’m afraid it’s going to have to be your call
.’
Dan looked at Adam. The detective stood silently, staring down at the tent. Thank God I have a job where if I make a mistake, the only penalty I pay is a going over from Lizzie, he thought. If Adam gets this wrong and Nicola is hurt, or even dies … he’ll resign from the police and that’s just the start of it. He’ll never let himself forget it, let alone forgive.
What would I do, Dan wondered? How dangerous is Gibson? We know he’s armed. Would he just shoot Nicola, then himself? I was sure he didn’t want to harm anyone. But am I that sure? Sure enough to risk a young girl’s life? Is this his grand final gesture, the deaths of them both? That would be a way of humiliating the police, wouldn’t it? To show how they could have stopped him if they’d been smarter. And it would certainly bring him all the publicity he seemed to crave.
Dan looked down at the tent. It was silent, no sign of movement or life. Above them an owl hooted, making him start. All else was still, but he felt breathless. Was Gibson in there? Holding a gun over a bound and gagged Nicola, waiting for them? Or had he got it completely wrong and the man was miles away, laughing at them?
The cold was seeping into his body, but Dan scarcely noticed it. He knew he was afraid, of all these guns surrounding him, of what they would find in the tent and what would happen in the next few minutes.
He looked again at Adam. The detective was breathing heavily, almost panting, still staring at the tent. The sergeant waited for his word. Then he saw Adam flinch, his eyes widen, the sergeant’s face, too, flicking down the valley.
Movement. A ruffling of the canvas, the unmistakeable sound of a zip slowly being drawn down. A figure was emerging from the flap of the tent, crouched at first, now standing tall, looking around. It seemed to nod approvingly.
A hand raised and swung sideways, back and forth in an exaggerated motion. It was a wave, Dan thought incredulously. The man was waving.
‘Hello!’ A familiar voice cut through the still air. ‘Hello, my dear Dan, and Adam too. And lots of others no doubt. Welcome to Evil Coombe. You’re just a little earlier than I expected, but I should have known better than to underestimate you. Anyway, it’s no trouble. We’re all ready for you. Hello, and welcome to my lair.’