by Tim Stevens
Terror and adrenaline reaching a peak within her – she couldn’t tell one from the other – Emma pushed through the door way and reached the front door.
From behind her a voice called, ‘Emma.’
She turned. It was an involuntary move, triggered by the familiarity of the voice.
At the end of the corridor, in the shadows, two shapes were locked together on the ground. She saw James’s white face turn to the side as if he were trying to look round at her. Beneath him, on the stone floor, was another man, his face obscured by a mask of some kind.
It was he who’d called her. And James had turned to see what she was doing.
The man beneath did something with his legs, a roar escaping his mouth through clenched teeth, and James was lifted up to sprawl backwards on his bottom.
Emma stood at the front door, petrified, knowing she needed to run, to get out into the street and get clear and try afterwards to make sense of it all; but she was unable to move her limbs.
The man in the mask rose to his knees and extended his arms. There was something in his hands, something that glinted in the thin light.
The explosions rocked Emma’s ears, claps of thunder that echoed through the corridor, two of them followed by a solitary third.
James was hurled back, his body jerking, a spray of something hot and black in the darkness lashing across the stone floor. He crashed hard, supine, one arm flung out at his side.
Emma clapped her hands to her ears and screamed, the sound choking off as her throat closed. The after-noise of the shots rang on and on, the air in the corridor rich with the stench of cordite and blood.
The other man rose, pulled off his mask. Despite the darkness Emma could see his face clearly.
‘Emma,’ he said quietly.
Brian.
Fifty-five
Tullivant drove, his route meandering but broadly purposeful, describing wide and irregular arcs away from the house in Fulham but staying this side of the river.
In the back, the only sound Emma made was a periodic, muffled sob.
Her wrists and ankle were bound with plastic ties from a supply he kept in his kit bag. In her mouth was a gag, secure enough to prevent most sound from seeping past but not so tight that she was in danger of suffocating. He kept his ears open for sounds of vomiting, which would put her in danger of aspiration.
When he’d been sure she wasn’t going to run out the front door, rooted as she was to the spot in shock, Tullivant had swiftly gone through Cromer’s pockets. He’d left the dead man’s own phone – it could have all sorts of alarms, bugs or traces built into it – but taken the one he’d recognised as Emma’s. Apart from the hunting knife, the man was unarmed.
Tullivant used a strip from the dead man’s shirt to bind the wound in his right arm. The man had thrown well. A few inches to the left and the blade would have penetrated Tullivant’s chest.
Tullivant’s blood was smeared on the floor, the walls, the living room door. In an ideal situation he’d have spent an hour scrubbing it off, and scoring the entire corridor to eliminate other traces of his DNA. In an ideal world, he’d also have taken time to remove Cromer’s body and dispose of it elsewhere, far away.
He’d used a suppressor on the Heckler & Koch, but the echo in the empty corridor had been loud enough to alert whoever lived next door, and probably others in the neighbourhood as well. And Emma’s scream would have put paid to anyone’s doubts that they’d heard something unusual in the house at the end of the terrace.
Tullivant left Cromer’s body where it was. He reached Emma in four rapid strides. She cowered against the closed front door, her arms crossed in front of her, her entire body shaking as though in the grip of a fever. She recoiled when he reached for her, but she didn’t try to run away.
Tullivant put his arms round her, held her close, feeling her face against his chest, her lips moving silently. He maintained the embrace for ten long seconds, feeling her juddering slow a fraction.
He took a quick look at her face. The frozen panic had been replaced by a dull caul of passivity.
Tullivant slipped the balaclava back on. Taking Emma gently but firmly by the upper arm, he pushed open the front door and led her down the short driveway, glancing about as he went. Lights blazed across the street and in the house next door. Silhouetted figures peered from behind slanting curtains.
Not breaking his stride, he marched Emma to the Mazda. Her eyes widened a little when she saw it, as if its stultifying familiarity brought home to her the horror of her situation.
She struggled only briefly, and weakly, as Tullivant bundled her into the back. He said, very soft and low: ‘Emma, no,’ and his tone was warning enough that he didn’t have to pull his leather jacket aside to reveal the grip of his gun or anything as melodramatic as that. She went limp, her face averted, her eyes closed, as he secured first the ties, then the gag.
He pulled away, leaving behind a house with a dead body, copious traces of his own recent presence, and a neighbourhood which had heard gunfire and witnessed a man and a woman fleeing the scene.
The situation was messy, that was for sure. But most messes could be cleaned up, given enough time and resources. And Tullivant had plenty of the latter to call upon.
It was the more immediate mess he was less optimistic about.
Tullivant said, ‘Emma, are you conscious? Can you hear me?’
A moan rose from the back seat.
‘In a little while, once we’re a safe distance away, I’m going to take the gag off you and ask you some questions. I’m telling you now because I want to give you the chance to think very, very carefully about how you answer.’
Silence.
He went on: ‘First of all, no matter how frightened you are now, no matter how confused, I want you to know that the children are completely safe. They’ll come to no harm at all, no matter what happens.’
Another low moan, and a sob.
‘But I can’t say the same for you, necessarily. When I come to ask you my questions, I want you to answer completely and unhesitatingly truthfully. I’ll know immediately if you’re lying. As you’ve discovered, I’m not who you thought I was. I have skills you won’t be able to beat.’
He let his words sink in for a few seconds.
‘If any of the answers you give me are less than the full and unvarnished truth, I will hurt you. If the lies accumulate, so will the pain. Eventually you’ll die.’
The closest thing to a scream escaped the confines of the gag. He felt her writhing in the back, thumping her knees against his seat.
‘Think about it, Emma.’
He said nothing more, and Emma’s stifled wails ebbed into harsh-sounding rattles. Tullivant wondered if she’d noticed what he hadn’t said.
That if she told him the truth, she wouldn’t necessarily live.
He found a less-than-salubrious street with faulty lamps that left most of it in darkness, and pulled up. Climbing out, he moved Emma into the front seat and sat beside her. Anyone passing would think they were a couple who’d stopped to pursue a late-night argument.
He pulled the gag free. Red lines marked its pressure across her cheeks.
She turned to look at him. In her eyes there was only wonder.
Tullivant began with some mild test questions - how long had she been having the affair with James Cromer, where had they met on specific occasions - to which he knew the answers. In each case she replied hurriedly, as though desperate not to be suspected of even trying to lie. He watched her carefully much of the time, only occasionally glancing up as a car’s headlights swept past. Before long, he moved on to more recent events.
What had she found that she’d shown Cromer at their meeting in the Tate Modern yesterday?
She paused for the briefest instant. Tullivant thought it was because she was stunned that he’d been there, watching the two of them in what they’d thought was the camouflage of the crowd.
‘Something he’d hidden in my handb
ag,’ she blurted. ‘A listening device.’
Had she found others?
Yes, she had. Hidden in her lipstick.
Had Cromer told her what they were for?
To eavesdrop on him, on Brian, she replied.
Tullivant closed in with his questions.
‘What did James tell you about me?’
This time her pause was, he knew, because she still couldn’t quite believe the enormity of what she was about to say, despite what she’d seen him do a short while earlier.
‘He told me you were a murderer. That you were responsible for that bomb that went off in Lewisham on Saturday.’
‘Anything else?’
She looked appalled by what must seem like his nonchalance. ‘No. I mean, yes. Just that… you’re a murderer. That you’ve been under surveillance for a long time. That he… used me to get to you.’
It came out in a rush. Tullivant let her continue, allowing her to vent. When Emma’s tone became increasingly shrill, he stopped her, guided her with a specific question.
He owed it to her to give her a chance to speak, because he had a momentous decision to make.
After half an hour, Emma seemed to be flagging. It was time.
Tullivant began the systematic interrogation. The questions about the fine points of what she knew, repeated sometimes in reworded form so as to catch her in a lie if possible. He worked methodically, patiently, relentlessly. Mercilessly.
Twice, Emma broke down in tears, and he had to give her time to regain her composure. Only twice; he thought it did her credit.
By the end, it was as though her eyes were desiccated, unable to express any more fluid. There was no gleam to them, just the dull patina of death in a still-living person.
Tullivant had detected three or four contradictions in her answers, all of them minor ones, none of them deliberate. It was par for the course. An experienced interrogator knew that a sustained barrage of questioning which elicited no errors whatsoever had to be regarded as suspicious.
Emma had told him the truth. And it was clear she knew next to nothing, about Tullivant or about his operations.
The tragedy was that what she did know was enough to condemn her.
He watched the side of her face in the silence of the car, considering the ways he might do it. Weighing them up for efficiency.
Her phone rang in his pocket, and although it was set to vibrate the noise was startling, making even Tullivant start.
He looked at the display. It was a number that was unknown to him.
Tullivant held the phone so Emma could see. ‘Who’s this?’
‘I don’t know.’
He believed her.
Tullivant grabbed pen and paper from the glove compartment and handed the phone to Emma. ‘Answer it. Put it on speakerphone. Follow my written instructions.’
She pressed the keys, just before the voicemail function kicked in, Tullivant thought.
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Emma Goddard?’
A man’s voice. Tullivant knew it.
He made a keep rolling gesture to Emma.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice steady.
‘Dr Goddard, listen carefully. Don’t ask who I am or react with surprise in any way, if there’s anyone there with you. Just listen. Your life may be in danger. Are you at home at the moment? Answer simply yes or no.’
Purkiss. It meant he’d discovered Tullivant’s identity.
And suddenly Tullivant saw a solution, one that would solve the problems of Emma and Purkiss in one go.
Fifty-six
Purkiss entered Regent’s Park at the western side, just down the road from the Central Mosque. He waited until the cab driver was out of sight, then vaulted over the spiked railing and landed in the shrubbery beyond.
He felt the vastness of the 400-acre park before him, dark and silent. It was closed to the public until five a.m., which was three hours away.
The display on his phone located Dr Emma Goddard, or at least her phone, in the north-west area of the park. Vale had called in what must be the last of his favours while Purkiss had hailed a taxi and made his way into central London, ready to go wherever the signal led him. As the taxi headed down Piccadilly, Purkiss’s phone rang.
‘They’ve got a lock,’ he said.
Purkiss switched to the relevant display. The pulsating dot was moving slowly to the north. Purkiss instructed the driver, his eyes on the display. After a few minutes the dot stopped, and remained stationary as it had done ever since. In Regent’s Park.
Purkiss knew it was a set up. Tullivant had his wife, Emma Goddard, captive, and had been listening in when Purkiss called. Tullivant knew Purkiss was on to him, and would put a trace on Goddard’s phone. And so he was leading him into a trap.
Without knowing exactly what he was heading into, Purkiss understood nevertheless why Tullivant had chosen this particular location. Regent’s Park was large enough that it would be next to impossible to cordon off, should Purkiss call in the police. There would be plenty of escape routes if things went wrong.
En route in the taxi, Purkiss made three calls. The third was to Kasabian.
She answered at once, as if she’d been expecting him. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s Purkiss.’
If she was surprised that he was calling her directly rather than having Vale do so as normal, she didn’t show it. ‘What have you got?’
‘The gunman – Jokerman – is Brian Tullivant, a former captain in the Paras. He’s got his wife hostage in Regent’s Park. I’m heading there now.’
‘What? Start at the –’
‘I’ll explain later,’ Purkiss cut in. ‘I need you to keep back. Don’t send anyone in, not Special Branch, not an armed response unit. Tullivant wants me. I’ve figured him out, and he knows it. He’s using his wife as bait. He knows I know that he’ll kill her if anyone else but me shows up. Understood?’
After a beat, Kasabian said: ‘Yes. But at least tell me which end of the park. So I can have help on standby.’
‘It looks like the north-west area, just above the Winter Gardens,’ said Purkiss. ‘I mean it, though. Be discreet. Keep everyone well back.’
He rang off.
Once over the railings, Purkiss set off across the grassland. The park was criss-crossed with paths, fewer than in the other Royal Parks, it seemed, which meant that the lamps which lined them were few, casting shadow everywhere. Purkiss skirted the tip of the Boating Pond, water fowl skittering away in a sudden noise that froze him for a moment. The air was cool, giving the merest hint of the autumn which, while not imminent, was on the horizon at least.
Ahead, Purkiss could see the dark outline of a copse of trees. The signal was coming from just beyond it. As he drew nearer, he saw the copse was in fact the nearest edge a rough ring of trees surrounding a central expanse of grass parkland perhaps sixty yards across.
He felt the apprehension rise from his abdomen into his chest, quickening his breathing, and felt the first prick of adrenaline like a surge of speed in his veins.
Through the trees, he could make out something, a silhouette, in the centre of the grass. Light was minimal, a few slanting sheaves managing to get in through the trees from the sparse lamps, but Purkiss believed he could identify a bowed head, narrow shoulders.
He stopped at the edge of the ring of trees, checked the display on his phone. Yes, the signal was coming from the middle of the clearing.
He took a step to the side of one of the trunks and peered through. There was a bench in the middle of the grass, he could see now, the kind that during the daytime people would use for picnicking or simply to rest their feet. Seated on the bench with her back to Purkiss was a woman, who he presumed was Dr Emma Goddard.
He watched her for twenty seconds. There – her head moved a fraction; so she was still alive. He assumed she was bound somehow, or perhaps drugged.
So she was bait, as straightforwardly as an antelope tethered to lure a big cat. Tullivant was
somewhere in the ring of trees, with a long gun. If Purkiss approached her, Tullivant would shoot him.
But if Purkiss didn’t arrive, or turned up but then left, Tullivant would shoot the woman.
Purkiss’s gaze roved steadily around the circle of trees. Tullivant knew he was coming, but wouldn’t know which direction he’d approach from. So Tullivant could be anywhere. He might be only a few feet away, even now drawing a bead on Purkiss, prolonging the moment.
Sweat trailed quickly down Purkiss’s back.
If he walked away now, to buy time, he ran the risk that Tullivant might have already detected his presence. Tullivant would shoot the woman.
Purkiss thought of Kendrick, comatose in his hospital bed.
He thought of the terrifying, crippling doubts he’d been forced to entertain about Vale, and about Hannah.
He thought about Claire, who’d betrayed him, but whom he’d failed nonetheless, because where there was life there was the possibility of redemption, and he’d failed to keep her alive.
Purkiss advanced a step.
The advantage he had – the single advantage – was manoeuvrability. If Tullivant had a rifle, then depending on his position in the ring of trees he might not be able to take satisfactory aim instantly, without a degree of movement. That could make his position detectable in time for Purkiss to take evasive action.
It was a hell of a risk.
He bounced on the balls of his feet a few times. Breathed deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth, centring himself.
He broke out of the circle of trees and into the clearing, feeling more naked than if he’d cast all his clothes off.
His environment was more intensely real to him than he’d ever known it: the springy firmness of the grass beneath his soles, the cool of pre-morning dew on his face, the aromas of nose-prickling late-summer pollen and industrial city grime.
The high-velocity bullet smashing through the base of his skull, shearing through bone and muscle and exploding his head in an obscene dark gout…
The bench was twenty yards away. Ten.
The woman’s head turned a fraction.