The pinprick in her breast almost went unnoticed as she tugged the car door open, her relief palpable. The man’s entire presence no longer felt benign, but sinister as he closed in on her.
Fiona tried to enter the cockpit, to slide herself into the relative safety it offered, desperate to reach her pepper spray, the small canister lying in the coin tray, almost within her grasp. But she could not move, as if her limbs were suddenly cast in concrete, yet she felt the ground turn to sponge beneath her feet and the world seemed to sway, then tilt wildly before she fell to the gravel, still conscious, fully aware of her predicament.
‘Blow dart, Detective. Simple, but effective. Sorry, I had to. You clearly don’t play poker… From the look on your face you made a significant discovery in my study, and I can only conclude that your enquiries into my nickname might, let us say, embarrass me, or worse.’ The car door slammed and he grabbed the remote from her fingers a moment before she heard the familiar clunk of the locks engaging. Abimbola’s face loomed as he scooped her into his arms, then tossed her over his shoulder and hauled her round to the side of the house, chatting to her as he did so. ‘You see, Arthur is my official name. My slave name.’ The words were full of disgust as he added, ‘My Christian name.’
Fiona tried to speak, but her mouth was frozen, her tongue swollen and her throat constricted, as if a great wedge of meat had lodged there. Side effects from the drug administered by his dart, no doubt, combined with the terror she now felt at her helpless situation. Not that anything she could say would make any difference anyway.
Half her brain was desperately wondering what was going to happen to her, the other half analysing what Carver had told them during the team briefing last night about the shaman who had manipulated Daniel Ngwene, the Broadmoor guard. How the witchdoctor had threatened to kill both him and his mother to convince Daniel to risk his job by smuggling illicit mail to Harding.
A shaman named Akachi...
‘My mother, a Kamba from the land you would call Kenya, chose to name me after my father. I was born two weeks after the British murdered him in one of their concentration camps.’
Fiona’s mind was whirling, the man’s involvement now beyond doubt.
But how is he involved?
Was he The Surgeon? The mastermind behind the Rawlings mutilation? Working with Harry Butler, his accomplice? Had she unwittingly bumbled into a fearsome spider’s web thanks to her determination to follow up on the Atlas bone?
Her stomach churned and she felt the urge to vomit down the back of his jacket and on to his legs as Abimbola started down some steps to a cellar, carrying her like a fireman rescuing her from a flaming building, but her mouth remained frozen.
With Fiona over his shoulder, he had both hands free to unlock the heavy door before taking her inside. The cool air below ground chilled her, her clothes now saturated with sweat, and she felt the sensation despite the paralysis. In fact, her body seemed hyper-sensitive with the hard muscle and bone of his shoulder digging into her belly, bruising her. Even the slight friction from her blouse was uncomfortable, rasping at the tender skin battered by Willie Mutuku’s rugby tackle. Abimbola’s voice rumbled and vibrated into her as he spoke.
‘You see, my true given name, my tribal name, is Akachi, an Igbo word from my father’s ancestors meaning God’s Hand. A few of my closest African friends and clients prefer to use that rather than Arthur. Others use the western version or a variation of it — including the one you mentioned. Personally? I think it’s a very fitting name for the work I do.’
Akachi was the forename Fiona had recognised, spotted among the salutations on the letters displayed behind his desk.
Christ, he’s going to chop me up and kill me!
Fear of a kind she had never felt, a burning embrace that consumed her, flaring in her soul, blinded her, scrambling any further rational thought. Warm urine soaked her pants, and her shame at her body’s feeble reaction dragged her back from the brink. The panic subsided as she tried to focus on her surroundings again, to see if she could identify some possible means of escape, however remote a prospect it seemed in her powerless state.
The cellar was brightly lit and kitted out like a hospital or surgical clinic. Abimbola dumped Fiona on the steel operating table in the centre of the room and began fiddling with some medical implements on a trolley to the side. Panic surged again, smothering her, strangling the thoughts of escape, her imagination thrusting hideous images of the man’s mutilated victims into her consciousness, ratcheting up her terror ever more.
Her own voice erupted inside her head, chiding, as if some highly disciplined alter ego within her consciousness was trying to regain control of her faculties.
I’m a policeman. He will not hurt me... He cannot!
Surely he knew that other coppers would be banging on his door if she failed to return. These thoughts broke through, finally calming her as she tried to console herself, thinking he would probably leave her, tied up here, as he made his escape.
It was a forlorn hope and she knew it.
Abimbola turned to her, a syringe in his hand and a grin on his face that brought to Fiona’s mind the hideous death mask collection in the showroom above.
‘Now, I have some questions for you that you must answer. After I inject you with this cocktail of drugs you’ll be able to speak, but your limbs will remain immobile. Unfortunately for you, Detective, I find the judicious administration of pain a necessary adjunct to receiving an honest response. The dart I applied contains a drug designed to elevate such sensations, heightening the signals from your nerves while paralyzing your major muscle groups. Now this concoction,’ he squeezed a jet of fluid from the syringe to expel any air, ‘will also diminish the chances of you dying from shock.’
Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Nooooo!
He plunged the needle into her neck and murmured, ‘Let us begin.’
***
‘What’s up, Jack? You look really pale? Here, drink this.’
Doc had emerged from the kitchen and now carried two mugs as he arrived at Jack’s desk. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was already perking him up, although he felt a twinge of guilt for having raided Fiona’s secret stash before making the cafetière for them both.
Jack ignored the outstretched hand so Doc placed the cup on the desk and craned his neck to see what the detective was staring at. A composite photograph of the man Daniel had called Akachi.
‘I have a bad feeling about this, Doc. DS Fielding has gone AWOL, and your outburst earlier set me thinking about this shaman bloke. What is his involvement? And who else is there?’
‘Fiona’s missing?’
‘Sort of. She’s off on a lone wolf hunt for some bloke called the Hand of God.’
‘Seriously, Jack? I meant to tell you, but with all the things that have happened this morning, it slipped my mind. Akachi. I Googled it. It’s an African name meaning God’s Hand —’
‘Oh Christ, Doc! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’
‘I had no idea it was so important until now.’
Jack was already moving fast. He pulled open his desk drawer and grabbed his gun, then yelled across the room as he headed for the door. ‘Sam! Give me that bloody address you sent Fifi. And Ahmed!’ The DC looked up from her screen, her mouth open ready to respond, but Jack cut her off as he headed for the lift. ‘I’m gonna jump in my motor but see if there’s a chopper available to take me to Mitcham, and get the local nick to send a car to the location. Right now!’
Jack’s face was as dark as a storm cloud as he punched the lift call button, then stared at the level indicator as if willing the thing to hurry down to him.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Sod off, Doc!’ This was a first, and Doc would have taken offence in other circumstances, but Jack just carried on with his stream of rapid fire words. ‘You wait here. I can’t be looking out for you too. With Harding on the loose, you’re better off in this building than anywhere else.’
/>
The doors pinged open and Doc followed Jack inside, ignoring the scowl, and hit the button for the basement car park. Although Fiona’s safety was of immediate concern, Doc had other considerations too.
Like Judy Finch.
‘Listen, Jack. We need to know the extent of this Akachi’s involvement. I want to interrogate him as soon as possible. I’m coming.’
Doc’s words were spoken defiantly, his tone broaching no disagreement. Jack glared at him for a second then nodded.
‘If he’s harmed Fifi…’
‘We need him alive, Jack.’
Doc had seen his friend like this on only a few occasions, and knew he had to keep Jack from overreacting. Interrogating the suspect was now only of secondary concern to the detective.
‘Just don’t get in the way if I need to put him down, Doc.’
***
Antony Harding parked the cab, grabbed the twenty five litre petrol can from the luggage compartment with one hand, his holdall with the other, and walked unseen through the woods and heathland until he reached the waist high perimeter wall enclosing the old mill house near the centre of Mitcham Common. He used the binoculars he had found in his holdall thinking he would scope out the building before he made his approach, and started to skirt the whole site to decide how best to achieve his aim.
The instructions he had been given confirmed the man would be alone but a car arrived almost at the same moment as the escaped convict. A diminutive dark skinned girl in a trouser suit strode up to the main entrance to the building as Harding was starting his recce.
‘Bugger!’
He would wait and see if she left, but if not, he might have to kill them both, and remove her body from the scene of the supposed suicide he was about arrange. Confronting a twosome was a complication he could do without, and her presence would make the whole scenario more difficult, his task more dangerous.
After about fifteen minutes his patience deserted him and he decided to head inside. The thought was about to be converted into action just as the woman emerged from the building, so he resumed his concealed position in the undergrowth behind the wall, his binoculars focused on the man in the doorway.
He was big, maybe six foot six or more, and his stature and skin colour reminded Harding of Winston Diamond, the head of security back at Broadmoor. That thought dragged a quiet chuckle from Harding’s throat as he recalled the state of the place after this morning’s events.
Maybe Winston’ll lose his job. Serves the bastard right!
His reverie was punctured by what happened next.
The woman slumped to the ground immediately after opening her car door, and Harding was not sure what had caused her to faint. He continued to observe, fascinated as the man went to the car and slammed the door before locking it rather than aiding the stricken woman.
Well this is interesting...
Harding got a better look at him, recognising the face from the photograph in his holdall, confirming his target. The man was strong, demonstrably so as he lifted the woman like a giant soft toy, a raggedy doll, tossed her over his shoulder in an effortless sweeping motion, then carried her round to the back of the building. Harding took great care not to expose his presence as he followed the pair, crouching while keeping watch.
The man went down to a cellar, accessed through steps and a door at the rear of the property, opposite a double garage with shutters drawn. The careless way he carried the woman suggested to Harding that his intentions were not good.
Well, well. So she didn’t just faint. She was drugged! What have we here then? Rape?
Harding was old school, with the warped moral compass of a London gangster who had no problem with torture and deadly violence, but was unforgiving of rapists and paedophiles. Nonces, he called them, but after so long inside, well, he would have willingly reassessed his standards. She wasn’t unattractive, if a bit short and dumpy…
He lifted the binoculars for a better look and saw the woman’s eyes were wide, terror readily apparent as she drooled over the back of the man’s trouser legs, her arms flopping, her cheek bouncing against his back as he walked.
Harding fiddled with his gun, feeling potent with lethal intent as he handled the weapon, while simultaneously disappointingly impotent. He could kill without a moment’s thought, but the medications he had been subjected to and his years of incarceration had softened the one thing he would need to partake in sex, forced or otherwise.
If I can’t shag the dirty bitch, then why the hell should he?
The sickening knowledge that he could not join in the fun created a bubble of fury that expanded through his chest, brought him to his feet and had him marching across the gravel towards the cellar steps just as he heard a vehicle swing into the forecourt.
Damn! So much for the target being alone.
He sprinted back to the perimeter and leapt over the wall just in time to hear the car scrunch to a halt.
***
Jack drove furiously, swearing at the many drivers who failed to respond with sufficient haste to his blue lights, wailing siren and flashing headlamps. The nearside wheels mounted London pavements several times as he weaved his precious BMW through city traffic.
Doc’s left hand threatened to pull the grab handle off the roof as they swerved around another corner before finally hitting the A23 and blasting their way along Brixton Hill.
‘Jack! Watch out!’ A cyclist made the mistake of ignoring a red light just as Jack carved his way through the nearside, using the bus lane to pass the other vehicles. ‘If we’re to help Fiona we need to get there in one piece.’
Jack ignored the slight, the criticism of his driving as the bicycle struck the nearside wing with a glancing blow, shock and then fear on the rider’s face as he scraped the paintwork before slithering into the gutter, his helmet bouncing as he came to rest. With one eye on the rear view mirror and only one on the traffic in front, Jack managed to manoeuvre round another idiot pedalling with no thought for other road users. He noted, with some relief, the first idiot was getting to his feet while shaking his fist at the disappearing police vehicle.
‘Stupid bastards.’ His phone chirped and he pressed the answer call button on his steering wheel. ‘Tell me some good news, Sam.’
‘Sorry, sir. No choppers are available… And I think we might be overreacting, anyway.’ Jack could hear the doubt in the sergeant’s tone, waited for him to explain. ‘I’ve been on to the Mitcham mob about this Abimbola bloke. He’s a real friend of the local bobbies, big in charitable works, raised loads for the Police Benevolent Society, organises fund-raisers and the like.’
‘A real pillar of the community then. Didn’t Doc say we were looking for one of them?’ Jack’s tone was sharper than he intended, but he got a nod from Doc, so carried on with his high speed drive while asking Sam, ‘Have they sent a patrol car or not?’
‘Uh. Yes, there was one nearby when I called. They’ve been to the Abimbola place and left already.’
‘What?’
‘They reckon the building was deserted, locked up with no sign of his car. Only Fiona’s, sir. They were pretty dismissive… Apparently this Abimbola’s a real ladies man, and they reckon he must’ve taken her to lunch. No sign of his motor. No sign of him or her. And his mobile phone’s off. That’s not unusual either they said, especially when he’s out with some bird.’
Some bird?
‘DS Fielding is not some bird! She’s a bloody excellent detective, she’s on duty and there is no effin way she would bugger off for lunch with someone she suspects may be involved in a crime.’
‘She wasn’t too sure about that either, sir. She was working on a hunch she thought wasn’t connected to our main investigation.’
Jack would have some choice words for his team about solo operations when he got back, but this was not the time for bollocking anyone, least of all Sam.
‘You must have a driving licence photo of this Abimbola bloke in the system. Get Ngwene in asap to c
onfirm whether he’s the same guy, the one he knows as Akachi.’
‘We’re on it, sir, but he was suspended so he isn’t at work today and he left here after doing the photo-montage this morn —’
‘Just find him!’
Jack cut Sam off with a thump on the end call button, then changed gear rapidly, spinning the wheels as he turned off the trunk road to follow a signpost indicating two miles to Mitcham Common.
***
The patrol car stopped at the front of the building and the two occupants, uniformed bobbies, clambered out, then sauntered to the door. Harding could see there was no urgency, no sense that there was danger in the vicinity, so relaxed as he monitored their movements.
They got no answer from ringing the bell so circled round to the back of the building, checked the garage was locked, but could do no more to determine whether the cars housed inside were there as the building was windowless. They tried the main house, first the back patio, then the cellar door.
All locked.
So matey boy’s playing possum while the pigs snuffle round his gaff.
Generally incurious unless things impacted upon him personally, Harding now wondered what this character had done to deserve being on a professional hit list and why the police were interested in him too.
Maybe the nonce raped the wrong bird?
It didn’t much matter, the target would be dead as soon as the pigs were done with their nosing. Harding focused his attention back on them.
One of the two officers used his radio to inform his colleagues that they had checked out the building, that nothing was out of the ordinary and that ‘the dirty dog’ was probably ‘off somewhere, hoping to get his leg over’ before ending the call.
The sound of their receding footsteps was followed by the patrol car firing up then creeping out of the drive.
Seconds later, Harding sprinted across the gravel, bounded down the steps and inspected the door to determine how best to enter. Having observed the man carry the woman to the back of the property he guessed there was no internal access to the cellar, so he would have to use this entrance, but the metal door confronting him was solid, probably reinforced.
Mutilated (DP, DIC02) Page 31