by Jill McGown
“That’s me,” said Judy.
“Oh, sorry, ma'am. The situation is that my crew has him under surveillance from the roadway at the rear of the property—he seems quite agitated, pacing up and down, picking up the rifle, putting it down again. Well—it was his mother he shot at, wasn’t it? And it was a close friend that he hit, from what I gather.”
Judy nodded confirmation of that.
“So he’s going to be in a highly emotional state, isn’t he? My men can’t cover all the angles—literally. There are two windows, a door, and a skylight in that building. Once out of the building, there are three ways he could get out of this area and into the public area.”
Judy, having looked it up as Lloyd had suggested, found herself thinking that the man had used a dangling participle. She was letting her mind dwell on anything other than what she was facing, and she couldn’t do that. This was her responsibility. She nodded, and waited to hear what all this added up to.
“He’s already shot someone, and threatened the only person who’s tried to approach him. I’ve called out the Firearms Unit, and they’re clearing the grounds.”
Oh, my God. Twenty armed officers at least.
The sergeant saw her reaction to that, and smiled. “Don’t worry, ma'am. You can’t imagine the paperwork if anyone actually fires a weapon. And shooting someone doesn’t bear thinking about.”
She wasn’t really in the mood for being patronized, though she did think that this man probably patronized everyone who wasn’t a firearms officer, rather than just women. “You don’t think there’s any chance it can be resolved without bringing in even more armed police?”
“Well, there’s always a chance, ma'am, but I don’t deal in chance.”
Oh, a put-down. That was just what she needed. She was already beginning to acquire a hearty dislike for this man, but there wasn’t much point in having experts if you didn’t take their advice.
“We have to be prepared for any eventuality. He could hide anywhere in these woods and pick people off at will, if he got out.”
As he said that, Judy found out that her heart could, and did, sink lower, and all because of a word that hadn’t even been spoken.
He meant if he got out alive.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Stephen paced up and down the room. He didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Where was Ben? It was almost midday. Why was his rifle in here? And why had Keith Scopes been here? His first thought on seeing him had been that Mr. Waterman had found out about him and Ben, and had sent Keith to beat him up. But while that could explain why Ben wasn’t here and why Keith was, it didn’t explain the rifle. Anyway, the more he thought about it, the more he believed he had been wrong about that. He was sure Keith Scopes hadn’t expected to find him here.
He went over to the windowsill and picked up the rifle, trying yet again to free the mechanism so that he could empty it and get it back safely where it belonged. But he couldn’t. He sat down, the rifle resting on his lap. He’d tried to ring Ben, but his phone was dead, and that meant that Ben couldn’t contact him. He didn’t want to leave, not until he knew for certain that Ben wasn’t going to be here. Ben had said he would have to be back at the house for half past twelve, but lunch wasn’t until one, so he would give it till then. He didn’t want to go without even speaking to him.
He stood up again, and carried on pacing, then stopped at the window, and frowned. That was strange, as well—Tony Baker hadn’t come back to his car, which was still sitting there, and his mum hadn’t appeared at all. So their plans had also fallen through, apparently. But why? His mum was only going to watch the Morris dancing—she couldn’t have got held up.
Maybe something had happened to Mr. Waterman—or Ben. He felt alarmed, then. If something had happened to Ben, then his mum and Tony would naturally stay with Mr. Waterman rather than go wherever they were going, and it would explain why he hadn’t arrived. No, he told himself. Calm down. It didn’t explain the rifle, and it didn’t explain Keith. It was all very strange, but there would be an explanation to account for all of it.
“Stephen?”
The voice, coming out of nowhere, echoing over the lake, disturbing the ducks, made Stephen jump. What the hell was that? It was like God, or something, calling him. He couldn’t see anyone.
“Stephen. This is DI Tom Finch. There are armed police officers surrounding the building, so please don’t do anything silly. Just open the door, and throw your weapon out.”
What? Stephen shook his head. What the hell was going on? Who was that? Was this some sort of joke? Of course it was. It must be. Outside, the ducks settled back on the lake, and the sun shone on the water, glinting off the expensive cars on the tennis courts. It was a calm, sunny spring day. Of course there weren’t armed police surrounding the building. Was he dreaming?
“Stephen? Open the door, and throw out the rifle. Then we can discuss everything quietly. Do it now.”
Stephen looked at the rifle, then looked back out at the peaceful scene in front of him, smiling, shaking his head. It was a joke. It must be.
“Throw out the rifle, Stephen.”
It must be a joke. He went to the window at the back, and looked out at the grass, and the wood beyond. Blossom fluttered to the ground, birds sang. It was a dream, or he was imagining things, or someone was playing a very complicated practical joke. It couldn’t be anything else.
“Throw out the rifle. Now.”
It didn’t sound like a joke. But it was ridiculous. Why would Finch be talking to him like that? You would think that he was holed up in here, hiding from them, the way Finch was talking to him. Slowly, his head was getting round the fact that they did think that. They really, really did think that. Finch—if that really was Finch—had told him to throw the rifle out, but if he threw the rifle out like someone surrendering to them, that would just make them think it all the more, and they’d got it all wrong. He couldn’t do that.
“Stephen. Open the door, and throw out the rifle.”
He shook his head—no. No, he had to explain, make them understand. If he could just talk to them—oh, why had his phone had to run out of juice now? If he could call someone, tell them that it wasn’t the way they thought, that would sort it out. He turned away from the window. If he could just explain to them what had happened, they would know that none of this was necessary. But how could he? He didn’t know what had happened. And he couldn’t contact anyone anyway.
“Stephen. It might not be as bad as you think. No one’s dead. Just throw the rifle out, and we can talk about it.”
Stephen sat down on the arm of the sofa with a bump, as his legs gave way beneath him. No one’s dead? What did he mean? That someone had been shot? And they thought he’d shot whoever it was? He closed his eyes. He’d heard a shot. And this rifle had been fired recently. Oh, my God. My God—they didn’t understand. He had to make them understand.
“We can’t talk while you’re in there with a loaded rifle, Stephen. Just throw it out—things aren’t as bad as all that. Believe me.”
He had no option. He got up slowly, and went to the door, standing behind it, afraid to open it. What if they shot at him? No—no, they wouldn’t, not if he was doing what they said. He licked dry lips, took as deep a breath as he could manage with his heart pounding the way it was, grasped the door handle, and turned it slowly, pulling the door open just wide enough to throw out the rifle, then shut it again before they started shooting at him.
There was silence for a few moments, and Stephen waited, leaning his back against the door, breathing heavily, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. It was all right, he told himself. It was all right. Finch would come and talk to him now, and he could explain.
“Stephen? This is Sergeant Digby. I’m a firearms officer. I want you to come out slowly, with your hands on your head.”
Oh, no. No—this wasn’t happening. No. No, he didn’t want to do that. He slid into a sitting position behind t
he door. Please, he didn’t want to do that. Where had Finch gone? Just come and talk, he pleaded silently with Finch, tears streaming down his face. Just come and talk, like you said you would. Don’t make me do that.
“Stephen? Can you hear me? Come out slowly, with your hands on your head.”
He had to do it. He stood up, his mouth dry, his legs shaking, sweat pouring down his back, and opened the door again, a little wider. With his hands on his head, moving as slowly as he could, he stepped out onto the grass.
“Step away from the weapon. Take three long steps to your right.”
Stephen did as he was told.
“Now get down on your knees, and lie facedown on the ground.”
Stephen dropped to his knees, almost glad that he didn’t have to trust his legs to keep him standing any longer. He still couldn’t see anyone.
“Lie down on the ground, facedown.”
He dropped his hands in order to get into the position requested.
“Keep your hands on your head!”
Stephen’s hands shot back up on his head. Don’t shoot me. Please, don’t shoot me. He clasped his fingers, so he wouldn’t forget again.
“Lie facedown on the ground.”
He bent forward until his head was almost touching the ground, then, supporting himself on his elbows, slid his knees backward until he could lie flat, his hands still tightly clasped on his head.
“Don’t move,” said a voice.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone scoop up the rifle and put it in a bag. Then suddenly, his hands were pulled from his head, and someone was handcuffing him. It hurt, and his hands automatically pulled away from the pain, but that hurt even more.
“Keep still!”
He was searched then, and pulled to his feet by two policemen as a woman came up to him. She had a warrant card in her hand, but he couldn’t focus on it.
“Acting Superintendent Hill,” she said. “Stephen Halliday, I’m arresting you for the attempted murder of John Shaw. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned anything that you later rely on in court.”
Stephen stared at her, and tried to speak, but his voice was just a croak. He swallowed, and tried again. “This is all a mistake,” he said. “I found the rifle in there.” Then he realized what she had said. “John Shaw? Is that Jack? What’s happened to him? Has he been shot? I heard a shot.”
“All in good time, Stephen,” she said. “DI Finch is going to take you to the station, and we can talk about this.”
The policemen who had handcuffed him, just ordinary police-men, led him to a car. One of them put him in the back, and got in with him. After a few moments, Finch got in the front, and Stephen stared at the scene as the car drove off, twisting round in his seat, disbelieving, his eyes wide as he saw policemen with body armor, helmets, and guns come out from behind the building, behind trees, behind cars. They really had been surrounding the building.
And it was all a mistake.
Judy had felt like crying herself when Stephen had been standing there handcuffed, his face white and tear-stained, grass streaks on the knees of his fashionable, expensive jeans, his close-fitting, well-cut shirt soaked in sweat. He had got dressed up for a date, if you asked her, not for a murder. She had only seen him once before, and very briefly, and yet she felt, as surely as Tom Finch did, that he was no killer.
She turned to the firearms sergeant as he came up to her, handing her the bagged-up rifle. “Thank you,” she said. “That was very efficient.” It had been. She still felt that it had probably also been unnecessary, but she couldn’t have taken the risk of dispensing with the firearms unit’s services. And she’d upset Tom. He had wanted to go and talk to Stephen as soon as he’d thrown out the rifle, but the sergeant had pointed out that Tom didn’t know what other weapons he might have on him, and she had had to let the sergeant take over, much to Tom’s annoyance.
“I had visions of a shoot-out,” Lloyd confessed, as they got back to where the path forked, and walked down to the lakeside, where the ARV was parked.
“I’ve never been in a shoot-out,” said the sergeant. “It’s not very often like it is on the telly. It’s not always that easy to winkle them out, but his rifle had jammed, and he obviously couldn’t get it unjammed.”
Judy wondered about that. “What makes a rifle’s action jam?” she asked.
“Mostly, bolt-action rifles are very reliable,” said the sergeant. “It could be mechanical failure, but if the operator is under stress, he can jam the action himself by fumbling the maneuver.”
“Could it happen to someone who wasn’t used to the gun?”
“Well—no, it’s unlikely to happen just because of that. Someone not used to firing any sort of gun might fumble it, obviously. But that bullet in the tree was dead on target to hit the head of an adult standing in front of it, so it was no novice who fired it. It’s more likely to be something unexpected happening, panicking the operator and putting him off his stroke.”
Like Shaw throwing himself on top of Grace Halliday, thought Judy. Dr. Castle said that their man wouldn’t react too well to a contingency he hadn’t planned for. But that didn’t help Stephen much.
“And it’s got a moderator on it,” added the sergeant.
“What’s a moderator?”
“A sort of silencer. He’s got a license for it.”
Lloyd frowned. “Why would he need something like that?”
“It’s to cut down nuisance to neighbors and to make it easier to shoot foxes and suchlike without alerting all their mates.” Sergeant Digby smiled grimly. “But what with the moderator and the funfair—he could be pretty sure the shot wouldn’t attract much attention. It doesn’t muffle the sound like a silencer does, but it would sound more like an air rifle to anyone who heard it.” Back at his car, he removed his body armor with a sigh of relief. “That’s better. Well, we’ll be off now. Sir,” he said, nodding a farewell to Lloyd. “Ma'am.”
Judy and Lloyd watched as the ARV drove out of the lakeside car park, to join the other police vehicles that lined the back road, all, thankfully, going back to where they belonged without a shot fired.
“I think we can let these people come and get their cars now,” said Judy. “They’ll need to take the long way round, but there’s no need to cordon off the car park any longer.” She looked at Lloyd. “We’ll have to seal the summerhouse. And seal off both the pathways.”
“Baker didn’t ask if Grace Halliday was all right until we’d been there for about ten minutes,” Lloyd said.
“Does that surprise you?” She reached into her pocket and took out her mobile.
“Well—they’re supposed to be practically engaged.”
“Waterman might believe that, but I doubt it. The romance blossomed as soon as he realized that he was going to be here for the long haul and not the month or so he thought in the first place. If you ask me, he was missing his creature comforts, and Grace was easy prey.”
Lloyd smiled. “You’re so romantic. How do you know she isn’t the love of his life?”
“Because the love of Tony Baker’s life is Tony Baker.” She glanced at the phone. “I’ve got a text message from Hitch,” she said, and read it aloud. “ ‘Shaw not shot. Severe blow. Something approx inch and a half in diameter. Fractured skull, in coma. Emergency op in progress.’ ” She looked up. “So he didn’t just get in the way of the bullet,” she said. “He was deliberately attacked. I wonder what was used? It would be best if the SOCOs knew what to look for.”
She made the calls arranging for the VIPs to be told that they could collect their cars, for the crime scene to be protected, and for the SOCOs to come, putting her phone away with a tired blowing out of the cheeks that turned to a smile.
“Lloyd, look,” she whispered, pointing along the bank of the lake to where a duck was leading her fluffy brood to the water.
The mother duck slipped down the bank into the water, and
two of the ducklings more or less fell in after her. Two others stayed on the bank, and she quacked to encourage them to follow suit. The fifth and smallest one had fallen behind, unable to negotiate whatever it was over which the others had hopped.
“Is it ecologically incorrect to give it a helping hand, do you think?” asked Lloyd. “Are we supposed to let nature take its course?”
Judy laughed. “Go on,” she said. “Go and help it.”
Lloyd walked over to where the duckling was, close to the pathway back through the woods. “It’s one of Shaw’s crutches,” he called back to Judy.
Oh, of course, she thought, cross with herself. Waterman had told them Shaw was on crutches. “I had completely forgotten about them,” she said, going over.
“So had I. But I suppose we can be forgiven, what with one thing and another.” Lloyd squatted down, removed the duckling, sending it to join its brothers and sisters, and pointed. “Look,” he said. “I think the duckling’s found the weapon for us.”
Judy bent down to see that the rubber cup at the foot of the crutch had worn away over the years until it was just a useless ragged ring round the shaft, and the exposed wood beneath it was covered in what was almost certainly Shaw’s blood. She straightened up. “The attacker must have held it with both hands like a spear,” she said. “If Shaw was lying on the ground, and he drove down with it . . .” She shook her head, not wanting to visualize the scene anymore, and looked back up the path. They had found Shaw just beyond where it twisted back through the woods, and a good throw from there would have caused it to land where it now lay. A better one would have sent it into the lake, and perhaps destroyed some evidence, but Shaw’s attacker must have used all his strength hitting Shaw. At last, they had been given a break.
Lloyd stood up. “It’s a puzzle, though.”