by Ellis, Tim
‘Yeah?’
He pulled the knife out of his pocket and took a step forward. The woman was quick. She tried to close the door in his face, but he’d been a copper for far too long and had his boot wedged in the gap.
The woman went sprawling across the floor of the large atrium as he threw his shoulder against the door like a rugby scrum half, which was the position he used to play as a young man growing up in Wales.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Now for some fun.
‘Come to Mervyn, bitch.’
She was quick, he’d give her that. She was already on her feet and sprinting down the corridor.
He saw the phone and pulled the wire out of the wall. Now, no one could phone in or out. He didn’t want any unexpected visits from the police. As he followed her along the corridor, the door slammed shut at the end. He used his shoulder again, but this time the door stayed where it was.
Now what?
Where the fuck were the other two women?
He backtracked and explored the rest of the old church. Yes, Quigg must be on the take. There was no way he could afford something like this on a DI’s salary. Maybe the bastard wasn’t as squeaky clean as he made out.
Inside a cupboard in the kitchen he found a claw hammer and returned to the door. It took him two attempts, but then the wood splintered as the door flew open.
The place was like the NASA Mission Control Centre at Houston. Why would anybody need all these computers unless they were up to no good?
Where was she?
He liked ‘locked room’ mysteries.
There was a door to the outside. Crap! Had she gone outside? He tried the handle. It was locked and it didn’t look as though it had been opened recently. He didn’t think she’d done a runner. But if she hadn’t, where was she?
People didn’t disappear into thin air. There must be a ‘bolt hole’ or a ‘panic room’ somewhere. First, he checked the walls – nothing. It didn’t take him long to find the trap door made from four tiles – the question was, ‘how did it open?’
On the wall was an intricate spiral of butterflies going from small to large. He pressed each one in turn until he saw the four tiles sink into the floor and shift sideways.
He smiled. That was too easy.
A set of concrete steps led down to an underground room.
‘Mervyn’s coming, baby,’ he said as he started down the steps.
***
DI Nick Caesar was proud of his Italian background. When he wasn’t commanding the Tactical Support Team (TST) of CO19 – codenamed ODIN, he was busy researching his family history. On his mother’s side, he had nearly traced his lineage back to the Trojan prince Aeneas via Julius Caesar. There were still a few gaps to fill in, but he was sure that eventually he would be able to find the evidence that proved he was the legitimate heir to the Italian throne. Unfortunately, he had paid a high price for his obsession. His wife – Cornelia – had left him eighteen months ago and taken their two children – Julia and Marcus – with her. One day, she’d come back to him. He just had to prove he was right.
‘What’s it all about, Sir?’ Constable Kunal Nagpal asked.
He was sitting next to the back door of the Armed Response Vehicle (ARV) with his 9mm Heckler & Koch semi-automatic carbine lying across his thighs – last in, first out.
They were on their way to Grisly Park at South Acton.
The other five members of his team turned to stare at him.
What was it all about? He’d been called into the Assistant Commissioner’s office to be briefed. What she was doing in her office at that time of night he had no idea, but she wasn’t alone. There were two men in the shadows by the window. He didn’t get a good look at them, because he was side-on and he didn’t want to make it obvious that he was looking at them by turning his head.
‘DI Quigg from Hammersmith MIT has asked for a TST,’ AC Ceara Hayton said.
He was standing at ease in front of her heavy mahogany desk. He’d never heard of Quigg, but then he’d never had to provide support for Hammersmith before, and MIT detectives were a weird bunch anyway. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
She sat down in her high-backed executive leather chair and her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Quigg doesn’t realise it, but he has a situation.’
A situation! What did that mean? ‘I see.’
‘No, I’m afraid you don’t see, Caesar.’
He liked being called by his last name. It was as if people were acknowledging his right to rule. Sometimes, in the privacy of his own bedroom, he’d wrap a bed sheet around himself and pretend he was the dictator of the Roman Republic. He’d read from Caesar’s Commentaries – perfecting his speaking voice in front of a full-length mirror. He had to make sure he was fully prepared when they did call on him to take the mantle of leadership.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘A government scientist has gone missing from Porton Down in Wiltshire.’ She passed him a photograph.
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
‘You don’t need to know where Porton Down is and what type of research is carried out there, Inspector. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. What you do need to know is that the scientist is conducting unauthorised experiments with stolen biological material. If anyone finds out it could harm the government and ultimately the country.’
‘I see . . .’ he began to say, but then changed his mind. ‘What are your orders, Ma’am?’
‘Orders . . . yes. I don’t really want you to think of them as orders. I’ll describe an end scenario, and I’d like you to use your initiative in reaching it.’
‘I see,’ he said, but he didn’t really see at all. Or, maybe he did. He’d heard about other officers being hung out to dry. When it all went arse over tit the people in charge denied ever having issued any such orders. Here was a case in point. The AC wasn’t giving him any orders – she was telling him to use his initiative. In other words, if the shit hit the fan, he was on his own and would be held accountable for his actions – a rogue cop.
She described a future in which the scientist was never found, where every bit of the biological material – together with any analytical documents – were destroyed, where no trail could be followed back to her or Porton Down.
Only officers with the highest security clearance were asked to lead wet operations. He only had a level one – classified – security clearance. Officially, there were another two levels above that. Unofficially, he’d heard there was another level, and he guessed he was being recruited into that fourth level. Was he prepared to do what was necessary to keep the country safe? Damn right he was.
Hadn’t Gaius Julius Caesar fought Rome’s enemies? Of course he had. Now, he was being asked to do the same. What choice did he have? This was his chance to emulate his ancestor. To prove to his wife and children that the Roman General still lived inside Nick Caesar.
He was being asked to cross the Rubicon.
‘I understand, Ma’am.’
‘Do you really understand, DI Caesar?’
He looked her in the eyes.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Now, he turned his head to reply to Constable Nagpal:
‘Cowards die many times before their deaths.
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Chapter Sixteen
There were no loose bricks in the cell. No one had a hammer and nobody’s shoes were heavy or substantial enough to be used as a weight to bang the titanium pin.
‘They don’t make shoes like they used to,’ Tams said.
Kline gave him a look of disgust. ‘Very helpful.’
‘Maybe . . . no,’ Joy said.
‘What?’ Kline encouraged her. ‘If you’ve got an idea,
tell us.’
‘I was going to say, why not use the pin you dug out of Alan’s shoulder to remove a brick from one of the corners of the wall by the door, but you’ll think it’s a stupid idea?’
Kline shook her head. ‘No it’s not. Except they’re not bricks they’re stone, which is even better for using as a hammer. Let’s hope the cement between them is easy to get out. Who wants to go first?’
‘It’s not called cement,’ Tams said. ‘It’s called mortar.’
‘Stop being a jerk, Chris,’ Alan Hewitt said.
‘Yeah, sorry.’
Olivia put her hand out. ‘I’ll go first.’
Kline passed her the titanium pin.
She began digging the mortar out from between two of the stones half-way up the wall.
‘Olivia, stop,’ Kline said. ‘Choose a stone behind the door, so that if the clown comes he won’t see what we’re doing.’
Alan tried to get his head comfortable in Joy’s lap. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to take a turn.’
‘You’ve done enough,’ Joy said.
Laura patted his leg. ‘Nobody would expect you to do anything else. Is it painful?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Try and get some sleep,’ Laura said. ‘We’ll do all the work.’
As it turned out, Laura did none of the work. Kline followed Joy, and then Tams took a turn and eased the stone out.
‘The mortar was fairly soft further in,’ he said.
‘You keep watch through the grill,’ Kline said to Laura.
‘Can’t someone else do it?’
‘You fucking lazy cow. Keep watch, or I’ll bite your nose off.’
‘Well,’ she huffed, but she kept watch.
Kline and Tams worked on Kline’s manacle pin next and soon hammered it out. Then, they worked their way round the other pins. Within a couple of hours they were all free.
‘What are we going to do when the clown does open the door?’ Olivia asked.
Kline held up the titanium pin and the stone. ‘We have two weapons. As soon as he opens that door we rush him. Chris can smash his head in with the stone, and I’ll stab him in the eyes with the pin. The rest of you have to pin him down.’
‘What if . . . ?’ Laura started to say.
‘Don’t start asking, “What if?”,’ Kline interrupted her. ‘All you need to remember is that if he gets up he’s going to kill you. Is that clear?’ She looked around the cell at everyone.
They all nodded.
***
What the fuck? Who was this guy?
She’d tried to slam the door in his face as soon as she’d seen the flash of the knife, but he’d wedged his foot in the gap. It had knocked her backwards, but even before she’d regained her feet she was sprinting down the corridor to her room. With the CCTV linked into her computer system she could see everything from there.
The door was a big heavy oak door with a dead bolt, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before he worked out how to get in.
What worried her now was Ruth, Duffy and the twins. What did this man want? Did he want just her? Or did he plan to kill them all? God, if they came back now he’d have leverage to get her into the open.
She rang Duffy first, and then Ruth – no answer from either. They must still have their phones switched off. She left messages on their voicemail. Next, she phoned that bastard Quigg – no answer. His reliability had just hit minus ten.
‘There’s a guy here trying to kill me, Quigg. Where the fuck are you again?’
If it was just her she’d go down into the tunnel and wait until he’d had enough and left, but it wasn’t just her. Ruth and Duffy couldn’t protect themselves or the twins the state they were in. It was up to her. She knew how that footballer felt now when he’d written: “Why always me?” on his t-shirt. Yeah, why was it always her the guys chased round the fucking church?
She watched as he came back down the corridor with a hammer – time to leave. After locking her computer terminal access, she pressed the butterfly on the wall, descended into the tunnel and moved to the far end beneath the atrium.
After the last bastard had tried to kill her, she’d installed a remote computer terminal. She logged on and watched him.
Then she remembered the gun. Quigg had shown her where he’d stashed it – a secret between the two of them. Maybe he wasn’t completely useless after all.
She found it behind the loose stone, released the magazine and checked how many rounds were in it – seven. She put five back in the hidey-hole, one in the pocket of her jeans and left one in the magazine. It was better to be safe than sorry. She screwed the silencer into the muzzle.
Then she watched the screen in horror as he pressed the butterfly.
Crap!
She switched the monitor off and pulled the plastic knob to open the trapdoor into the atrium. Then she shot up the steps and closed the trapdoor after her.
That had been too easy. She made a mental note to do something about that afterwards. That was, of course, if she got out of this alive.
She ran to the door and opened it, but then she closed it again. If she ran, he’d follow. If she ran, Ruth and Duffy could come back and then what?
Crap! Who’d appointed her as the fucking lifesaver? Quigg was really in for it when he got home. Was he ever coming home again?
She leaned her back against the front door, put the round in the chamber and released the safety catch. While she waited for him to open the trapdoor and walk up the tunnel steps, she noticed what was on the side of the barrel:
Carl Walther Waffenfabrik Ulm/Do
Modell PPK Cal. 7.65 mm
Made in W. Germany
She didn’t know who Carl Walther was, but he wasn’t getting his fucking gun back.
***
Avery Malpass leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and rested. His hands were a throbbing mess. The blisters came first, then they had burst. Next, the skin had fallen off leaving tender baby skin, which had soon cracked and started to bleed. Now, he had reached the raw flesh and nerve endings beneath it all.
‘I don’t think I can do anymore,’ he said.
‘Oh, dad,’ Willow said taking hold of his left hand. ‘They’re a mess.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘I’ll do some. We’ll each take turns.’
She took the knife from him and began working on his manacle pin, but soon gave up.
The others didn’t even pretend to care.
Joe had died. They’d heard a gurgling sound, a long sigh and then nothing. And because of the manacle they couldn’t move him, so Hayley simply covered his face over where he lay.
He had managed to remove the pin from Willow’s ankle manacle and had been working on his own, but his useless hands had let him down. Now, he had nothing left.
‘Don’t give up, dad.’
‘It’s my hands that have given up.’
‘But . . . I can’t kill the clown on my own.’
‘I know. I was hoping . . . ‘ What was he hoping? That the manacles would simply drop off? That his swollen ankle would repair itself? That he’d change into a superhero and save the day? All of those things. Hadn’t he always been a dreamer? Instead of facing the reality of the day-to-day struggle with life he had preferred to dream of the Lotto millions he was going to win, the massive advertising contract that would earn him a partnership, or the world-class invention that would make him a household name and enable him to buy his own island in the Indian Ocean.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d given up on Willow a long time ago. She wasn’t the daughter he’d dreamed about. He wanted a princess, someone who would turn people’s heads, a movie star. Instead he’d been saddled with a drug-addled whore. Who could blame him for turning his back on her? Avril – his wife – hadn’t lived up to expectations either. He’d wanted someone who would cater to his every whim, be a sexual goddess in bed and support him through thick and thin. Instead, he’d married a sow’s ear i
nstead of a silk purse, a shrew instead of a tigress, a hag instead of a temptress.
‘I don’t have any answers, Willow. With my swollen ankle I couldn’t have done anything to help anyway. Sometimes, we have to recognise defeat when we see it and hold up our hands in surrender. We’ve done all we can. You’re free, you have the knife – it’s up to you now.
‘But . . . you said we were getting out of here.’
‘I was being optimistic – that’s what people do. The trouble is optimism is never enough. Slowly, optimism is replaced by pessimism as the reality of the situation becomes clear. We’ve reached that juncture now. All I can tell you is that you have a couple of advantages. First, the clown doesn’t know you’re free, so you have surprise on your side. Second, you have a knife. Now, my advice is to get ready for when he opens that door. Lunge at him, and stick the knife hard into his chest. After that, you’ll have to play it by ear, but keep hold of the knife.’
‘I won’t be able to do any of that, dad.’
‘Why not? Think about all the things you have done in your short life that you thought you could or would never do.’
Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I’ve done some terrible things, you know.’
He wiped her tears and the salt stung the raw flesh of his hand. ‘It’s time to do one more terrible thing before you can move on with your life – you have to kill a man.’
‘I have no choice, do I?’
He shook his head. ‘No, you have no choice, my beautiful daughter.’
She snuggled into him and waited for the clown to come back.
***
The trapdoor slid open and the man slowly walked up the steps.
‘A gun? I’m in trouble now,’ he said.
She could see the corner of his mouth curl up into a sneer, and his eyes close to slits as he tried to work out how he could get the gun off her. She wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly what he was thinking.