by Will North
The line went dead. He nodded to himself. A start.
Thirty-Seven
IT HAD JUST gone 1:00 in the afternoon, when Jan wheeled her BMW into the forecourt at Davidstow Manor. The morning had been chilly, frost on the land, but the forecourt shimmered in bright sun and the frost had evaporated. The Range Rover was out of the tractor shed, the tailgate high. O’Dare had his head inside the rear compartment. He looked up when she killed her engine and stepped out. He was wearing tight black jeans and the same short sheepskin-lined leather jacket that reminded her of old RAF photos. He’s so sexy, she thought.
But instead of a wave of greeting, he stalked across the expanse of gravel, his face stormy.
“I told you,” he yelled as he strode toward her. “Never, ever show up unannounced.” He now was inches from her nose. She held her ground. She’d spent the morning surveying the moor and was dressed accordingly, scuffed boots, baggy hiking trousers, heavy black wool jumper, Barbour vest. She pitched her chin toward the cold blue sky and put a manicured hand on her left hip.
“Am I not your partner?” she challenged.
There it was again, that arrogance. It only made him angrier.
“Yes, but there are rules in this business. You violated them.”
“Do those rules include firing ‘the big bloke?’”
O’ Dare blinked for half a second and then flashed a grin the devil would have admired.
“I didn’t fire him, partner, I killed him.”
Her mouth dropped, the arrogance vanished, and she backed up to her car door. “You what?!”
He shrugged. “Killed him. Lugg.”
“That poor devil I found below Rough Tor? And you never told me?”
“Need to know basis. I caught him skimming and confronted him. He was high, he lunged at me, grabbed my neck in his huge left hand, and pulled a handgun from his right coat pocket. I grabbed it with both hands, but he twisted it inward to get it back and I pulled the trigger. He dropped instantly.” He shrugged again, this time smiling. “Lucky day for me.”
Jan was rigid. In her mind, as it raced, she drew a distinction. She was his lover, he’d never harm her. He needed her.
He grabbed her hand and tugged her back to the rear of the Range Rover. He turned her to face the interior and suddenly yanked her trousers down to her ankles. Then her red lace knickers. She gasped.
“Ronnie!”
“Time for a little lesson,” he said, pressing himself against her. “You violated the terms of employment. You need to be taken down a peg.”
“Here?”
“Shut up.”
He bent her over, unzipped his jeans, yanked both of her wrists behind her back, and mounted her from the rear. She was wet. He pounded her, his thrusts brutal, like a dog in heat. With his free hand he pushed her face into the Tesco bags full of used banknotes, but kept ramming her.
“You like that smell?” he demanded. “The smell of money? Illicit money? Yes, you do. You felt alive, you said, right? You want more, yes?”
“Yes!” she shrieked, clinging to the edges of the ridged rubber cargo mat as he rode her.
She was screaming now—he didn’t know if it was passion or fear—and didn’t much care. Thus, he did not hear the soft clop of hooves on grass as a horse appeared from around the corner of the tractor shed. He caught a glimpse in left side window: A chestnut stallion. A rider. A rider with a long rifle across his saddle. Randall Cuthbertson.
O’Dare withdrew and yanked Jan’s hair to get her attention.
“Pull your knickers up, lass, we’ve got company,” he said in a voice so calm she thought the storm had passed. She smiled to herself. Did she pass the test, if that was what it was? It was only when she tugged up her trousers and turned that she saw her father. She moved close to O’Dare. The Rover acted as a barrier between them and the horseman.
“Randall! What are you doing here?!”
“Shut up!” O’Dare said under his breath.
The old man did not respond to his daughter. Instead, very slowly, with only a light knee tap on its flank, he nudged his horse away from the car and into the forecourt, opening space.
O’Dare had faced guns before, of course, in Northern Ireland, where he’d been a foot soldier for the IRA. But he’d always been armed back then. Now, he cursed himself for storing Lugg’s revolver in the hanger. Motionless, he watched the old man. His left hand clutched Jan’s forearm, not out of protection, but to keep her still. Cuthbertson had settled his horse, faced them, and now had both hands on the rifle. He did not move. He did not speak. His polished riding boots appeared to have been pulled on over what looked to O’Dare like pale blue cotton pajama bottoms.
Somewhere in the distance, beneath the cold blue sky that arced above the moor, O’Dare could hear sheep bleating. Also, a motor engine—someone moving the sheep, perhaps. Next to him, Jan was breathing hard. He squeezed her arm as a warning.
O’Dare saw vacancy, not focus, in the rider’s eyes. Very slowly, he took one step forward. Then a second. He pulled Jan with him. He didn’t have a gun, but he had the old man’s daughter. Cuthbertson blinked, seemed suddenly to focus, and slammed the bolt over the stock of the rifle and back to load. O’Dare stopped. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said calmly. “You are my neighbor, I believe. What can I do for you today?”
The big horse snorted, dropping its head as it did so, then raised it high and showed its teeth. Cuthbertson lifted the rifle, put the scope to his right eye, and aimed at O’Dare’s skull, finger on trigger.
Watching him, knowing his skill, suddenly understanding what her mother had said about her father’s mind, Jan shook off O’Dare’s arm, jumped in front of him, threw her arms wide, and screamed “Daddy! No!” at the same time Cuthbertson pulled the trigger.
The stallion, startled by the scream, skittered left. Missing its intended target, the bullet ripped through the soft tissue above his daughter’s left breast and lodged just below her shoulder. Blood burst through the hole in her blouse. Her arms still outspread, she screamed, collapsed, and kept screaming. Instantly, as if at the shooting range, he reloaded and aimed. He seemed oblivious of the fact that he’d just shot his own daughter.
“Randall!” another woman’s voice shouted, this one behind him. He twisted in the saddle and fired again. It was like target practice, he thought.
The bullet cut straight through the right side of Beverly Cuthbertson’s abdomen and exited through her lower back. She stood there for a moment, staring at her husband in disbelief, put her hand to her belly, brought it back up bloody, and fell to the gravel. She never uttered a sound.
The horse was turning in slow circles, unguided. O’Dare caught the bridle, reached up, yanked the old man to the ground, kicked him in the head once, hard, and left the rifle. He ran back to the house, pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket, and dialed 999.
“Shooting at Davidstow Manor, Bodmin Moor,” he barked. “Two people down. Send ambulances and medics urgently.”
“Can you identify yourself, sir?” the calm voice at the other end asked.
But he’d already rung off and run to the house. In his office, he pulled the laptop off his desk, snapped it shut, tucked it under his arm, and looked around the room. There was nothing else of importance, nothing to reveal his purpose for being in Cornwall at all.
Outside, he slammed the Rover’s tailgate shut, tossed the laptop on the passenger seat, jumped in and started the engine, gunning it once and rocketing out of the yard and up the long drive toward the main road. Jan was conscious and watched him go. With her good arm, she tried to drag herself toward her unconscious mother, but passed out after only a few feet.
Randall Cuthbertson did not move from where he lay. His horse wandered away in the general direction of home.
Thirty-Eight
MORGAN LOOKED UP from her screen in the incident room. Someone was running down the corridor outside. Most unusual. The only cop she’d ever known who was in a hurry was hers
elf. She glanced at Calum just as Penwarren swung through the door.
“Double shooting at Davidstow Manor. Ambulances on the way. No idea about fatalities. The caller rang off before being identified.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “I have a bad feeling about this. I want all hands and right now. Calum get your SOCO team together and meet us there. Set up a cordon. Terry, I’ll need you to manage the site. We need to protect it. And God only knows if the media have already got wind of this. Adam, my ace hacker, you stay here for a bit and find out everything you can about the owner, this O’Dare fellow. He’s Irish. If something strikes you, come to Davidstow. I think we will need all of us on this. Morgan, you’re with me. You have the lead, plus I need a navigator. I’ve never been there.”
“It’s adjacent to Poldue.”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I don’t like about this.”
“Is that why you’re not the lead?”
“I am too close.”
PENWARREN TOOK THE Healey. Morgan had never been in it. Ducking under the convertible’s black soft top, she lowered herself into the leather bucket passenger seat, feeling every bit as if she were sitting on the ground. The interior of the two-seater roadster was admittedly posh—leather, polished wood—but it was cramped. She felt too big for it. As Penwarren gunned the engine and reversed sharply out of his space in the lot, she wondered how a man so tall could even fit. She found the answer beyond her feet. The foot well seemed to stretch out beneath the car’s long bonnet.
While he waited for traffic to clear beyond the Hub’s entrance, he turned to her.
“Route?”
She’d already worked it out. “A30 to Altarnun.”
“That takes us well north of the moor.”
“Yes, and it takes us there quickly. Four-lane highway. Reckoned you might be in a hurry.”
Within moments of merging unto the A30 from Launceston Road, Penwarren had whipped the gearbox into fourth and the engine was howling. He flashed his lights at anyone dawdling in the passing lane and forced them left. Morgan looked at the speedometer. Seventy miles an hour.
Then Penwarren reached forward with his left hand and flicked a chrome toggle switch on the walnut dashboard. The engine instantly dropped to a hum as if relaxing, yet the speedometer showed them approaching ninety miles an hour. Morgan looked a question at him.
“Electronic overdrive. Wonderful invention.” Almost a thin smile, but through clenched jaws.
“You okay, boss?”
A quick glance her way. “Yes. Of course.”
A FEW MILES of twisting lanes west of Altarnun and then they were at Davidstow, braking hard to avoid two idling rescue ambulances and two of the uniformed division’s big SUVs, their blues and twos flashing, as if at a traffic accident.
Penwarren leapt from the car as two paramedics slid a steel gurney bearing a woman into the rear of one of the ambulances. It was Jan Cuthbertson. She was moaning. One of the medics turned to him. Penwarren had his warrant card out. Morgan appeared beside him and flashed hers as well. The medic nodded.
“She’s got a bullet in her shoulder. No exit wound. She’s lost some blood but we’ve stanched that. Thirty minutes to the Royal Hospital in Truro, maybe less. She’ll get a mild sedative before we leave. A and E know she’s coming. She’s not grievously wounded. She’ll recover. The old guy is in the passenger seat, by the way. Nasty bump on the back of his head. Talking but makes no sense. Reckon it’s a concussion.”
“No, advanced Alzheimers.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
He walked to the front of the rescue ambulance. Behind the window, Randall Cuthbertson was strapped in and mumbling to himself. Penwarren shook his head and stepped away.
“Who’s in charge here?” Morgan asked the young medic, sweeping an arm across the crowded forecourt, her voice calmer than her mind.
He closed the rear doors and pointed to an older man kneeling over another woman’s body. “Harrison. That’s your man. Gotta get this lady to Truro.”
The second body lay in a pool of dark, already congealing blood. Penwarren already knew who it was. Some part of him had known it when the call first came in from Comms. He wanted to run to her but felt frozen in place. Morgan touched his arm. He shook his head to clear it and they approached the head medic. Two others worked with him, one cleaning fresh blood from a small hole on the right side of her abdomen, the other recording each procedure in some sort of logbook. Harrison was bent over, listening to her heart. A steel canister fed oxygen to a mask that covered her nose and mouth. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around her left arm and the note-taker was pumping it. As Penwarren knelt beside him, Harrison looked up.
“DCI Penwarren, Mr. Harrison. She’s alive, then?” His voice was raspy. He felt slightly dizzy.
“Only just. Tremendous loss of blood, I’m afraid. Bullet went straight through her and out her back. Her bum, actually. Must have been a downward shot. I can only imagine the internal damage.”
“Her name is Beverly Cuthbertson. Lives at Poldue, next door. She’s my ex-sister-in-law. The girl they just took away is her daughter, Jan. The old man is the father, Randall Cuthbertson.”
The assistant with the logbook took this down.
Harrison pressed what looked like a small piece of gel-coated sponge into the wound.
“What’s that?”
“Quick clotting agent.” He then began packing and bandaging the hole. “I’ve already bandaged her back. The exit wound was bigger, of course.”
“Will she make it?”
“I can’t say, honestly. We’ll do our best. I’ve got a rescue helicopter on the way, one of our own,” Harrison said. “Any minute now.”
Penwarren rested his fingertips on her hand. It was cool. Too cool.
Harrison caught the tenderness. “I’ll be with her the whole way, officer.”
Penwarren nodded. “Yes. Good. Thank you.” He looked up for Morgan. She had crossed the forecourt and was grilling the uniform who’d just come out of the house. The constable recognized her.
“No sign of anyone, DI Davies.” He was very young, ginger hair beneath his police cap. Rosy cheeks, as if he were embarrassed.
“Of course not,” she snapped, pointing to the empty tractor shed. “No car.”
“Not the black BMW?”
“Victim’s.” Dismissive wave of her hand. “Touch anything, move anything in there?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good lad.” She stalked into the entry and started her search. The house gave her the creeps. Like the uniforms, she would touch nothing. That was Calum’s purview and there was no one better.
Terry appeared at Penwarren’s side and he stood up.
“Calum and his SOCO team have arrived. They want to know if they can enter.”
“A copter is coming.” In fact, he could hear it already, its blades beating a steady whomp, whomp, as it hammered the air. “Morgan’s got the lead here and she’s just gone into the house. Calum will start outside. Tell him the scene is his after the copter leaves. Meanwhile, let’s clear all these vehicles, so it can land in the forecourt.”
“Anything else I can do, boss?” Terry asked, glancing as the medics lifted Beverly Cuthbertson’s body onto a rolling gurney.
“Pray?”
USING THE RANGE Rover to tow it, O’Dare pulled his small plane out into the sun through the wide wooden doors of the rusting Romney hut that served as his hanger and workshop, the place where he cut and repackaged the drugs he ferried from Cork and distributed in Cornwall. He’d been fascinated by flying as a boy and had scratched together enough money, mostly through shop break-ins around Belfast, to pay for lessons as soon as he was old enough. But poverty and the Troubles had crushed that ambition. It was the boyos in the New IRA, who had him retrained and bought the plane.
It was a fixed high wing RANS S-6 ES Coyote II, a two-seater with a maximum speed of 120 mph and a 220 mile range. The cockpit of the ultralight was welded steel,
but the rest of the plane, including the wings, had aluminum framing and only a doped fabric skin. Loaded, it took off in only 200 feet. It was a proper plane, nothing like the motorized kites and other flimsy machines the other flying club members played with.
He unhitched the Rover from the nose and parked the car around the far side of the hanger, closed and locked the hut’s doors, and climbed into the pilot’s seat. The engine roared to life. The avionics panel lit up. Oil and fuel were topped. He taxied fast along the rough lane to the short paved bit of the old aerodrome’s only remaining runway, the three-blade prop spinning smoothly. In seconds, he was airborne.
From his point of view, the great advantage of the old Davidstow aerodrome was that it was invisible to the horizontal radar system at Newquay Airport, just to the south. The aerodrome was screened by a ridge. Staying low, he banked the plane west, passing around the cliffs above Boscastle’s dog-leg harbor, and was over the Atlantic in minutes. He would climb to 1,000 feet eventually, but not until he was well away from the coast, and the radar.
The bulging Tescos bags were stacked in the cargo area, behind the seats.
Thirty-Nine
A MALE BODY had been found floating in the pool of the Albert Dock, just outside the Tate Liverpool art museum. DCI Waggoner was studying the roster for the afternoon shift to make assignments, when the mobile in his jacket’s chest pocket dinged with a text. It was from Doherty: O’Dare’s flying to Cork. He’s been rumbled…which is to say we’ve been rumbled.
Waggoner read the message again and stood. He stepped out of his office and walked through the CID room. Doherty wasn’t at his cubicle. His desk was clear.
“Anybody know where Doherty is?” he asked the room at large.
“Said he was feeling poorly,” someone called. “Went home early, though you might try the Dockside Sports Bar. I think there’s a footie on the telly this afternoon. Manchester United and some other team.”
Waggoner tried to remain calm. “Listen up, people. A body’s been reported in the Albert Dock pool, near the Tate. Harris and Bukhari, this one’s yours. Divers are already on their way. Doctor, too.”