Want You Dead

by Peter James

  Another car went past.

  Then another.

  Then two cars, in close succession, heading in the opposite direction. Towards the helicopter?

  A few minutes later, headlights were approaching, very close now. In the beam she could see a rail-and-post fence. Close to exhaustion, she clambered over it. Then she stood still in the darkness. Waiting.

  After what seemed an eternity, she heard the roar of a motorcycle, saw the beam of light and watched it hurtle past at high speed. Over to her left she could see the red glow of the burning helicopter. She was barely aware of the rain any more. Nor of her isolation. She just felt a burning deep inside her.

  A burning rage.

  And helplessness.

  She was shivering with cold.

  Then she saw headlights. A large car coming along, slowly. When it was close enough for her to be sure it was not a white van, she hobbled out in front of it, her arms raised in the air. For an instant she thought it was going to run her over. Then, to her relief, it indicated left and slowed to a halt. It was a large, elderly Jaguar, with an equally elderly man behind the wheel. She ran round to the passenger side and the window lowered. He peered at her, looking clearly a little sloshed. ‘You all right, my dear?’

  She burst into tears. Sobbing, she asked, ‘Could you take me to the police?’

  He squinted at her. She could see his face in the green glow of the instruments, ruddy and flaccid; he was wearing a tie with crossed golf clubs on it, and a checked shirt. ‘Well, to be honest wish you,’ he slurred, ‘I was rather hoping to avoid them.’ He squinted again. ‘Your face is bleeding. Have you been attacked?’

  She burst into tears again.

  He leaned over and opened the door for her. She climbed in and pulled it shut, grateful for the warmth inside the car, inhaling the comforting smell of old leather, as well as the smell of booze. ‘I’ve been kidnapped,’ she blurted. ‘I’ve just escaped.’

  ‘Someone’s having a bonfire over there,’ he replied, jerking his thumb towards his rear window, not registering what she had said.

  ‘It’s a helicopter that’s crashed,’ she said, pulling down the sun visor and peering in the mirror. In its weak light she could see her face clearly. It was streaked with mud and blood.

  ‘Never fancied one myself,’ he replied. ‘I’m a fixed-wing man. Bloody deathtraps, helicopters. Engine packs up in those, you’ve got one and a half seconds to react or you’re toast. Roast – toast. You’re a pilot, are you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, casting an anxious glance behind her. Was Bryce somewhere out there, coming for her? She wished this man would drive on, quickly. ‘Could you take me into Brighton? Just drop me anywhere.’

  ‘You need to go to hospital?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Hospital would be good.’ Anywhere but here, right now, she thought, would be good. Even being driven by a drunk, right now, would be good.

  101

  Monday, 4 November

  Roy Grace, seated at the workstation in MIR-1, listened to the voice of Inspector Andy Kille down the phone in disbelief. ‘Gone down? The helicopter? What the hell happened, Andy?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, sir. We have the emergency services at the scene now. We do know the helicopter had picked up through their infrared camera that a man with a crossbow was at that location. Silver has sent armed Response units there as well as covert Response support.’

  ‘What about the crew?’

  ‘Information I have is that it’s a fireball. Doesn’t sound like there are any survivors.’

  ‘Would there have been a crew of three?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One of them a police officer?’

  ‘That’s correct, Roy.’

  ‘God.’ He balled his fists and knocked his knuckles together. Two officers killed on this operation. If he hadn’t gone on honeymoon, maybe Bella would not have been where she was at that time. If he hadn’t come back, maybe things would have been different with the helicopter, he wondered.

  He put down the receiver and buried his face in his hands, thinking.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Glenn Branson asked.

  ‘Shit’s happened,’ he replied. He picked the receiver back up and called Gold, Superintendent Jackson. ‘I’m on my way to the crash site, to ensure we don’t lose evidence, as this is a crime scene. Can you give me the exact location? Also, is there any other helicopter attending?’

  ‘I can try, but NPAS 15 is really our only one,’ Gold said. ‘Every unit we have is looking for Red Westwood; we need to find her urgently. I’m organizing roadblocks with at least ten more vehicles making their way from all over the county. I want every exit onto the main roads from the Dyke manned and to have them stop and search every vehicle approaching from the Dyke, and further afield I want a roadblock ring of steel around the whole city. Silver is implementing this strategy.’

  Grace agreed, and updated him on what his own team were doing.

  ‘No one in Brighton and Hove Police is to go off-duty tonight – neither uniform nor CID,’ Gold continued.

  ‘I’ll send that instruction straight out.’ Grace put the phone down.

  Glenn Branson said, ‘Did I hear right? The helicopter?’

  ‘You did. NPAS 15’s gone down at the scene.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Two minutes later, ignoring his misgivings about his colleague’s driving, Roy Grace sat cradling his phone in the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford estate car, and tightening his seat belt, as Glenn Branson drove them down the ramp at the front entrance of Sussex House.

  Switching on the blue lights and siren, the DI pulled straight out in front of a bus, narrowly missing being hit by a car coming the other way, and accelerated the Ford up the hill. ‘What information do we have on this, Roy?’ he said, nonchalantly hurtling over the roundabout almost under the wheels of a truck that had right of way. Branson never seemed to understand that driving on blues and twos did not grant you automatic right of way – it was a request for that, no more.

  Grace, holding his breath, took a moment to reply as they hurtled down the slip road and straight out into the heavy evening traffic on the A27 dual carriageway, the wipers clouting away the heavy rain. ‘The chopper crew reported two people – one stationary, the other running away. Sounds like Bryce Laurent and Red Westwood. They reported that he appeared to be shooting at her.’

  Grace’s phone rang. Then he heard the voice of the Ops-1 Controller. ‘Chief, I’ve just listened to the recording from NPAS 15. The sergeant on board is saying that the man on the ground is pointing a weapon at them. Then she’s screaming that the pilot’s been shot. Then it goes silent.’

  ‘Christ. Who’s the sergeant on board?’

  ‘Amanda Morrison.’

  ‘Amanda Morrison? I don’t know her. What’s happened to her and anyone else on board?’

  ‘I don’t have any information yet. I’ll keep you updated.’

  ‘We’ll be there in five.’ Grace nearly added with luck, as he gripped the grab handle. Branson came off the A27 and slewed the car into the roundabout at the top of the hill. Grace felt the tail slide out and for a moment thought they were going to spin. He gave Glenn Branson a nervous look.

  ‘Relax, old timer!’ he said, see-sawing the steering wheel one way then the other, as the car fishtailed twice, then somehow, seemingly defying the laws of physics again over a second roundabout and onto the dark, narrow road that led towards the Dyke Golf Club. Flashes of blue light streaked the hedgerows. They hurtled past a travellers’ encampment to their right. Headlights were coming towards them, on full beam, dazzling them.

  Glenn flashed his lights back twice. ‘Bloody idiot!’ he said.

  Almost at the last moment, the lights of the oncoming car dimmed. Grace peered at it as it passed, checking it wasn’t a white van. But it was a large saloon, an old Jag, perhaps. He stared ahead, and could see a red glow, like a bonfire, in the distance. He had a knot in his gullet, praying
silently that the crew were all right. But knowing in his heart that a helicopter going down was never going to be good news.

  Then his phone rang again. He answered and his heart sank even further. It was his new boss, Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe. He was not a happy man. ‘What the hell’s going on, Roy?’

  ‘My sentiments exactly, sir,’ he replied, mirroring his acidity.

  102

  Monday, 4 November

  Red saw the blue flashing lights approaching, then hurtling past.

  ‘Played a blinder today,’ the old man said. ‘And birdied the eighteenth! How’s that for a finish? Damned near got an eagle on the twelfth – went into the hole and damned well rolled out. You a golfer?’ he asked again.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Read about that terrible thing at Haywards Heath last week? Week before?’

  ‘That was my boyfriend,’ she replied, staring at the approaching roundabout, and the welcoming street lights of the city only a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. She was not sure that her driver, who was looking more at her than at the road, had noticed yet, but she felt strangely detached, not caring if they had a wipeout smash or not at this moment. Everything was surreal, as if she were a passive observer in a bad dream.

  He braked sharply, at the last possible moment, throwing her forward against her seat belt. Jolting her awake and to her senses.

  ‘Sorry about that, don’t remember that being there. Not exactly there.’ His face furrowed into a frown. ‘You play at Haywards Heath?’ he asked, navigating the roundabout uncertainly.

  She turned and looked over her shoulder, and to her relief the road behind was in darkness. ‘I’m not a golfer,’ she replied, thinking hard about what she should do. Go to the hospital, where she would be safe? John Street police station? Would that still be open at this hour? She could not be sure. Hadn’t there been stuff in the papers about all the police cuts, and many stations either closing or cutting down their hours?

  Where would Bryce be expecting her to go?

  As her thoughts began to clarify, she suddenly realized that he would have the keys to her flat, which were in her handbag. Would he go to the flat? Could she get there before him and get the locks changed?

  She suddenly felt leadenly tired. Yet strangely alert at the same time. If she went to the Royal Sussex County Hospital, she could find herself sitting in the Accident and Emergency department for several hours. But if her drunk rescuer dropped her at John Street police station, which he was clearly reluctant to do in any event, and she found it closed, what then, without any money for a taxi home?

  She wanted to phone Rob Spofford, but she couldn’t remember his number. She’d had it on speed dial for so long, she had never looked at it. Shit.

  They were heading down Dyke Road Avenue, one of the smartest streets in the city. ‘I live just over there.’ He pointed at a huge mansion behind wrought-iron gates, slowing to a halt. ‘Where would you like to go?’

  She thought for a moment, and knew she should go to the police, but the only place she could feel safe at that moment was in her safe room in the flat, and that’s where she needed to get to. She just wanted to shower, get into fresh clothes and get safe.

  She noticed a glow to her right and saw an iPhone nestling in a charger cradle. ‘Could I borrow your phone for a second?’

  ‘For a damsel in distress, anything!’

  She picked it up, and saw it had no security code. She went to the Google app and entered, Locksmiths in Brighton.

  Fifteen minutes later, she thanked her gallant, if somewhat inebriated, white knight, gave him a peck on the cheek and climbed out of the Jaguar, which he had pulled up in front of her building.

  ‘Sure you’re okay?’

  She nodded. ‘I can never thank you enough.’

  ‘Any time you fancy a round of golf. No pressure!’

  ‘I’ll remember that!’

  He raised his pinkie and winked at her. ‘Got to get home now, to she-who-must-be-obeyed.’

  She stood in the rain, looking around her, warily, as the Jaguar drove off up Westbourne Terrace, its tail lights fading and blurring. No sign of any white van. She glanced at her watch. 7.58 p.m. She felt conspicuous standing here. A lorry rattled along the Kingsway, followed by a number of cars, their tyres sluicing across the wet tarmac, then a noisy motorcycle. She was shaking, she realized, from her ordeal, from the sickening image of the crashing and burning helicopter, and from the icy wind blowing straight off the Channel, just a couple of hundred yards south of her. Her ankle hurt like hell, and her left hand and her cheek. Her eyes darted in all directions.

  Her brain darted in all directions, too. Thinking. Thinking.

  Where was Bryce?

  Why hadn’t she had her rescuer drive her to Raquel Evans’s house? Or just phone the police? Why had she come back here?

  But she knew the reason. Because the bastard had made her a victim. A bedraggled, cut and bleeding victim. All the time she was in this state he had won. She wanted to clean herself up, have a bath, dress her wounds, put on fresh clothes. Be ready for battle.

  I’m coming after you now, you bastard.

  Where the hell was the locksmith?

  A car was driving down Westbourne Terrace. Her hopes rose that it was the locksmith, but then she saw the little Nissan Micra pass, with an elderly-looking man at the wheel. The woman who had answered the locksmith’s phone number said he would be there within fifteen minutes. Still five to go yet.

  Please come quickly.

  In the distance she heard a siren. Then it faded away. She looked around her in all directions, staring at the shadows, convinced, for an instant, that she saw one move. She felt a dry prick of anxiety in her throat. Watched the shadow. Watched. Shivering. Ready to break into a run.

  Then she heard a vehicle approaching, swinging into Westbourne Terrace from the seafront. The lights of a tall, dark van dazzled her fleetingly. An instant later, she could read the words emblazoned above the windscreen: 24-HOUR LOCK-UP!

  She stepped forward, raising her hands in the air, and it pulled over beside her. A tall, wiry guy, with a Mohican haircut and a ring through his bottom lip, lowered his window and peered out. ‘Mrs Westwood?’ he asked. She could see him frowning at her appearance. At her victim appearance. He looked strong and tough enough to deal with anyone who crossed him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, shooting a glance at the shadow she thought had moved. But now in the beam of the headlights she could see nothing there. Just the side entrance to a house and some bins.

  ‘You’re locked out?’

  ‘Yes, but I need to replace the locks, please. The lady on the phone said you can do that, right?’

  ‘Yes, I can, but I’ll need some proof it’s your property.’

  ‘I have stuff in the flat – I can show you when we go inside.’

  ‘I can’t do that – I’ll need proof first, I’m afraid. What ID do you have on you?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘The thing is, I’m not allowed to open up any property without knowing I have consent from the owner.’ He was staring at her more closely now.

  ‘I’ve just been abducted – kidnapped – by my ex. He’s got my handbag with everything in it. I need to change the locks before he – he – ’ Her eyes welled with tears. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please help me.’

  She could see through her blurred eyes that he was wavering. ‘The thing is, I need to know it’s your property, lady. It’s more than my job’s worth.’

  ‘Come on, you don’t look like a jobsworth to me. You must have this all the time – I can’t believe that everyone who gets locked out of their home has ID with them, surely?’

  She turned, wiping away her tears, and stared warily around. Looking back at where she thought she had seen the shadow moving. But the street was deserted. ‘Please help me, please.’

  ‘Is there one of your neighbours who could vouch for you?’ he asked, more friendly now.

&nb
sp; She shook her head. ‘I haven’t been here very long . . . you see . . .’ She hesitated, unsure whether to tell him. But she couldn’t see any option. ‘This is . . . well, the thing is, I’m being stalked by my ex. This is a police safe house. The Sanctuary Scheme arranged this for me.’

  ‘Okay, so could we phone the police and have someone come down?’

  ‘I don’t have my phone. He kidnapped me and I escaped.’ She raised her arms. ‘Look at me, look at the state I’m in. I’ve just escaped – I’ve run over fields near the Dyke. He shot down a police helicopter. Some kind stranger gave me a lift here. There’s an officer who looks after me, PC Spofford, at Brighton police station – John Street.’

  ‘You look frozen,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, jump in, and I’ll phone him and put you on.’

  She climbed gratefully into the dry warmth of the van. There was a strong reek of tobacco. As she pulled the door shut she said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mal Oxley,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have a ciggie I could bum, Mal?’

  ‘How do you know I smoke?’

  ‘I can smell it on you.’

  Mal Oxley grinned. ‘I’ve only got roll-ups.’

  ‘A roll-up would be fine.’

  He picked up his phone from the dashboard cradle. ‘Do you know PC Stafford’s number?’

  ‘Spofford,’ she said. ‘Just dial 999 and ask for the police – that’s what I’ve been told to do in any emergency.’

  He dialled, put the phone on loudspeaker and jammed it back in the cradle. Moments later an operator answered.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

  ‘Police,’ he said, then rummaged in his pocket and produced a tobacco pouch and a pack of Rizla cigarette papers.

  ‘Sussex Police,’ a stern male voice answered moments later. ‘May I have your name and number, please.’

  ‘I have a very distressed lady with me who needs to speak urgently to a PC . . . er . . . Stanford.’

  ‘Spofford!’ Red corrected him.

  ‘I’m sorry, that should be PC Spofford.’