“I’ll accompany you, sir,” one of the officers said. They went inside.
The other officer lowered his battering ram, clearly disappointed, relaxed and shrugged at Winsome. Sometimes things were easier than you thought they’d be. Winsome was standing by the stairwell, Wilson behind her, when Kemal came out with the uniformed officer. Kemal was wearing a red T-shirt.
“I’ve gotta tie my laces, man,” he said in the doorway, and knelt.
The officers stepped back, behind him. In less than a second, he had a knife in his hand, pulled from a sheath strapped to his lower leg.
The officers took out their extendable batons, but they were too slow. The Bull wasn’t hanging around. Winsome and Wilson were the only ones blocking his way to the stairs, and Wilson was hidden behind her. The Bull came charging straight for her as if he’d just come into the ring, building up a head of steam, letting out an almighty yell, with his arm stretched out, mouth open, pointing the blade directly at her as he ran.
Winsome felt a chill run through her, then her self-defense training took over, pure instinct. There was no time for anything else. She stood her ground, readied herself, let him come to her. She grabbed his outstretched knife arm with both hands, let herself fall on her back, and using the impetus he’d built up, she wedged her feet in his solar plexus and pushed with all her might.
Kemal was traveling fast enough that it all happened in one seamless, choreographed movement. There was a gasp from the crowd below as he f lipped heels over head in the air, then his back bounced against the f limsy balcony, and he disappeared over the edge with a scream. Winsome lay on her back on the concrete now, gasping for breath. She had long legs, she had pushed hard, and his momentum had been considerable.
In just seconds, Doug Wilson and the two uniformed officers were 3 1 4
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standing over her, muttering apologies and praise. She waved them aside and stood up gasping for breath. She felt lucky. One minor misjudgment and she would probably have had a knife through her chest.
They should have handcuffed and searched Kemal before bringing him out. Well, it would all go down in the reports, and bollockings would be freely handed out. For the moment, Winsome was just happy to be alive. She turned and looked over the balcony, down at the courtyard. The Bull wasn’t so lucky. He was lying on his back in a very twisted way, a darkening stain spreading slowly around his head.
Wilson was already on his mobile for an ambulance, so the best thing they could do now was get down there. In the melee, the woman Kemal lived with, Ginny Campbell, had come out of her f lat and she was hanging over the balcony, a baby clutched to her breast, looking down at her lover’s body, crying and screaming, “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him! You filthy murdering bastards!” The crowd was picking up on her outrage, too, calling out insults. Winsome didn’t like the way she could sense the mood quickly changing.
Before things got any worse, she phoned the station for backup, and slowly the four of them made their way down the stairs to see what, if anything, they could do for Toros “the Bull” Kemal.
17
THE RAIN STARTED TO COME DOWN HARD ON SUNDAY
morning and it was still pouring on Monday, when Banks took the newspapers and his second cup of coffee into the conservatory. It had started as it usually did, with a light pattering on the glass roof, then soon it was running down the windows in thick slithering torrents, distorting the view of the dale outside like a funfair mirror.
That was the way Banks had been seeing the world lately, too, he thought, as through a glass darkly: Hardcastle and Silbert, Wyman, Sophia, the bombing—dear God, most of all the bombing—all of it nothing but a distortion of the darkness he was beginning to believe lay at the center of everything.
The weather suited Banks’s mood well enough. The music, too.
Underneath the noise the rain made, Billie Holiday was singing
“When Your Lover Has Gone” from one of her last performances, in 1959. She sounded as if she were on her last legs.
He had slept hardly at all the past three nights. The images seared in his mind’s eye wouldn’t go away; they only became more distorted. He had seen death before in all its gruesome forms. As a young patrol officer he had been called to road accidents, six-car pile-ups on the M1, with body parts strewn over a radius of almost a quarter of a mile. He had even been in his own house when it had been set on fire, though he didn’t remember much about that as he had been drugged at the time.
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But none of that was quite the same as what had happened on Friday. This had been different, and most of all, like the fire at his house, it hadn’t been an accident. Someone had done it deliberately to inf lict as much pain and suffering as possible on innocent people. He had met criminals who had done that before, too, of course, but not on this scale, in this random way. And none of the murderers he had ever met before had been more than happy to blow themselves to smithereens along with everyone else, women and children included.
More than once, he had wondered how the people he had led out were doing: the Asian woman, the young boy and the pretty blonde in the yellow dress. Perhaps he could make some inquiries and find out.
The music had finished and he needed more coffee, so he went first to the entertainment room and put on something a bit brighter and instrumental, a lively, jazzy string quartet called Zapp, then he refilled his mug in the kitchen. Just when he had settled down to see if he could concentrate on the crossword, his telephone rang.
He was tempted not to answer, but it might be Sophia. One day soon, he thought, he should invest in a telephone that displayed the caller’s number. Of course, that only helped if they didn’t withhold the number and if you recognized it. Most of Sunday he had contemplated phoning Sophia, and every time his telephone rang he had hoped it was her. But it never was. Brian rang once. Annie phoned with more details about Winsome’s latest death-defying escapade.
Tracy, his daughter, made her weekly report. And Victor Morton had rung, of course. But that was all.
This time it was her.
“Alan, I moved your car. You’re lucky the police didn’t impound it.
Things are still crazy around there. Anyway, it’s just down the street.
It’s safe now. I put my key in the glove box. Do you know you left your iPod in there, too?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound a bit . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m fine.”
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“I’d like to come and see you. I’ve still got some free time and things have quietened down up here.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I don’t know. I’m really busy this week.”
“We’ve always worked around that before.”
“I know, but . . . it’s just . . . I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“I think I just need some time, that’s all.”
“Time away from me?”
She paused, then said, “Yes.”
“Sophia, I did remember to set that alarm.”
“Then how did someone just manage to walk into my house and break my things without alerting the police?”
“The people who did it are very adept,” Banks said. “You have to believe me. They can get in anywhere.” He hadn’t told her that before, hadn’t wanted to frighten her, but as it turned out, he needn’t have worried.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Sophia said. “You not setting the alarm, or these paranoid delusions you’ve got about the secret service.
Do you seriously believe what you’re saying, or is it some kind of elaborate excuse you’ve just come up with, because if it is—”
“It isn’t an excuse. It’s true. I told you ab
out them before. Laurence Silbert was a retired MI6 agent. Semi-retired.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Anyway, it’s not even that. I don’t want to argue.”
“Me, neither. What is it, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s all been too fast, that’s all. I just need some time.
If you care at all about me, you’ll give me some time.”
“Fine,” he said in the end, exhausted. “Take your time. Take all the time you want.”
And that was that.
The rain continued to fall and Banks thought he could hear thunder in the distance. He thought about Sophia, how she would get emotional during thunderstorms. She would make love like a wild thing, and if she was ever going to tell him that she loved him, he would have bet it would be during a thunderstorm. But that wasn’t likely to happen 3 1 8
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now. They had been living together in so many ways, yet they lived so much apart. No wonder it all seemed too fast for her.
“ I ’ M S O R R Y for disturbing you, honest I am,” said Carol Wyman, opening the door to Annie, “but I’m really beside myself.”
She looked it, too, Annie thought. Hair unkempt, no makeup, dark circles under her eyes. “It’s all right,” Annie said. “What’s the problem?”
“Come in,” Carol said, “and I’ll tell you.”
The living room was untidy, but Annie managed to find a place to sit on the sofa. Carol offered tea, and at first Annie declined. Only when Carol insisted and said she needed a cup herself did she agree. Annie had driven all the way in from Harkside to Eastvale and was stopping at the Wymans’ on her way to Western Area Headquarters, where Superintendent Gervaise wanted the whole team assembled at twelve o’clock for a meeting in the boardroom. As she waited for Carol to make the tea, Annie glanced around the room and noticed that the photograph of Derek Wyman with his brother was missing, as were several others.
“What is it?” Annie asked, when Carol brought the tea and sat next to her.
“It’s Derek,” she said. “I don’t know where he is. He’s disappeared.
Derek’s disappeared.”
She started crying, and Annie put an arm around her shoulders and passed her a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “When was this?”
she asked.
“He didn’t come home last night, after the evening performance. I haven’t seen him since he went out for the matinee at two o’clock. He usually comes home for his tea between performances on a Sunday, but yesterday he didn’t.” She gave a harsh laugh. “You haven’t locked him up or anything without telling me, have you?”
“We wouldn’t do that,” said Annie, moving her arm away.
“At first I just thought maybe he’d grabbed a sandwich or something instead of coming home for tea—he sometimes does—then he’d gone with his mates for a few drinks after the play, but . . .”
“Did he phone or anything?”
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“No, nothing. That’s not like him. I mean, Derek’s not perfect—
who is?—but he wouldn’t do something like that. He knows my nerves aren’t good. He knows what it would do to me.” She held her hands out. “Look at me. I’m shaking.”
“Did you phone the police station?”
“Yes, this morning. But they wouldn’t do anything. They said he was a grown man and he had only been missing for one night. I told them about Saturday, when he was there talking to you, like, and that he’d been upset ever since, but they didn’t even know he’d been at the station. That’s why I phoned you. You gave me your number. You said I should ring.”
“It’s all right,” Annie said. There was no way the Monday-morning desk officer would know that Wyman had been in the station on Saturday afternoon; he hadn’t been arrested or charged, so his name wouldn’t appear on any of the weekend arrest or custody records.
They had simply questioned him and let him go. “You did the right thing. Have you any idea at all where he might go? Any friends or anything?”
“No. I’ve already phoned all his colleagues at school and from the theater. They don’t know where he is, either. They said he didn’t show up for last night’s performance.”
“But he was there for the matinee?”
“Yes. It ended about half past four. Maria said he left the theater, and she just assumed he was coming home for tea. But he never turned up. I don’t know where he went.”
“Does he have any relatives nearby?”
“An uncle and aunt in Shipley. But he wouldn’t go there. He hasn’t seen them in years. And he’s got an aunt in Liverpool, but she’s in a home.”
“So he disappeared after the Sunday-afternoon matinee?”
“That’s right.”
“Is his car gone?”
“As far as I know. It’s not parked on our street, at any rate.”
“You’d better give me some details.” Annie noted down what Wyman had been wearing, along with the make, color and number plate of the car he was driving.
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“Something must have happened to him,” Carol went on. “I think it was something to do with those people who came.”
“What people?” Annie asked.
“Late yesterday afternoon, while Derek was at the theater. A man and a woman. They were something to do with the government.
Anyway, they were a bit abrupt. Pushy. Wanted to know all sorts of things, personal things. Wouldn’t tell me why. And they went through the house from top to bottom. Took some stuff with them. Papers, photographs, Derek’s computer with all his school and theater work on it. They gave me a receipt, mind you.” She showed it to Annie. It was a sheet of paper listing the items taken. The signature was illegible.
“They took those family photographs, too, from the sideboard?”
“Yes. They do work for the government, don’t they? I haven’t been stupid, have I? I haven’t been burgled? I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”
“No,” said Annie. “They are who they say they are.” Not that that helps at all, she thought. “You haven’t been stupid. Did Derek know about this visit?”
“He can’t have done. He was at the matinee.”
Unless he’d been on his way home and seen them from the end of the street, Annie thought. That might have caused him to do a runner.
“His mobile wasn’t working,” Carol went on. “Maybe it was the battery. He’s always letting the battery run down. Maybe he’s seeing another woman?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Annie, hardly sure what was the worst conclusion Carol Wyman could jump to: that something had happened to her husband, or that he had run off with another woman.
“But what can have happened to him?”
“I’m going to the station to report him missing and see about initi-ating a search,” said Annie. “If I do it, they’ll have to listen. In the meantime, if there’s anything else you can think of, don’t hesitate to phone me again.” Annie stood up. “My boss might want to have a word with you about those two people who came to visit.”
“The government people?”
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“Yes.”
“Why? Do you really think they have something to do with all this?”
“I don’t know anything at the moment,” Annie said, “but I shouldn’t think so. There’s probably a simple explanation. Let me get working on it.” She paused. “Carol, you seem . . . well, you’re in a dreadful state. Is there someone . . . ?”
“I’ll be all right. Honest. You go. Do what you have to do to find my Derek. The kids are at school. I thought it best to send them off, just like normal. There’s Mrs. Glendon next door. She’ll stay with me for a while. Don’t worry.”
“Just as long as you’re okay. I won’t be far away, remember. And if you hear an
ything . . .”
“I’ll phone you right away. Oh, I do hope he’s all right. Please find him for me.”
“Don’t worry,” said Annie. “We’ll find him.”
T H E R E WA S more than a little tension in the boardroom, Banks sensed, as the Major Crimes squad congregated around the impressive varnished oval table under the disapproving stares of the Victorian wool barons, whose portraits in oils hung on the walls. Rain snaked down the broad sash windows and hammered against the slates on the roof, dripping from the blocked gutters and gurgling down the old drainpipes. So much for summer.
“Right,” said Gervaise, standing and leaning forward with her palms resting on the table. She was in true fighting form; it was time to chuck around some blame and see where it stuck. “I notice that DI Cabbot hasn’t seen fit to join us yet, but let’s get straight down to business. It’s wrap-up time. We’ll start with you, DS Jackman.”
Winsome almost jumped. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That was a very stupid thing you did on Saturday evening, wasn’t it?”
“But ma’am, in all fairness—”
“In all fairness, you should have taken more backup and you should have stayed out of the way until the suspect had been subdued and 3 2 2
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handcuffed. You knew he was big and probably armed with a knife.
It’s no good blaming uniform branch for this one, though the two officers involved will be disciplined if it is deemed appropriate.”
“But ma’am, we had no reason to think he’d go crazy like that.”
“Where drugs are involved, DS Jackman, you should realize that it’s folly to try to predict what someone will or will not do. Toros Kemal was high as a kite on methamphetamine. Given the reason you wanted to talk to him, you should have known to expect something like that. There are no excuses.”
“No, ma’am.” Winsome looked down. Banks noticed her lower lip tremble.
Gervaise let a little time pass, then she turned to Winsome again and said, “I hear your fancy footwork was quite a sight to behold. Well done, DS Jackman.”
Winsome smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”
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