by A D Davies
“Of course. Seemed like an odd relationship. Tanya didn’t get on that well with him, but she loved him. Guess she felt, I don’t know, obligated or something. She even built him a frigging parking lot under the house for his car collection. They weren’t exactly in the best of shape in the barn.”
“And what happened?” Murphy asked. “You announced you were engaged?”
“We stressed we were waiting a while, until Tanya finished uni at least, and told them our plan, that Tanya would live in halls for the first year and then I’d move down to Exeter to be with her. I’d spend that first year writing a draft of my book.”
“What happened to the book?” Alicia said.
“I burned it.”
Murphy’s pen scribbled away, the notebook no longer a prop. His stomach was empty, though, could virtually taste his seaside fish ‘n’ chips. He thought of them going cold, of Ball and Cleaver debating whether they should eat it themselves.
He asked, “When did you last see Tanya?”
“The day before the party. After, when she disappeared, Henry said she probably came to her senses and took a holiday. That police officer, Wellington, he put pressure on me. Came to Tanya’s flat, found me holed up there.”
Interesting.
Murphy saw Alicia also perk up at the mention of DCI Wellington.
“He hit me. Here.” Paavan pointed to his left kidney. “Then in the face. I was on the floor and he took one of those truncheon things, the long black one—”
“A police baton,” Murphy said.
“He pressed it against my throat and told me to confess. He said I killed her because she wanted to dump me. According to him, I flipped, went berserk, then hid the body.”
Murphy remembered Wellington as a solid guy, secure, serious, wanted results, but always by the proverbial book. He’d share that with Alicia later.
Paavan continued. “I refused. I blacked out, and when I woke up I was sick. The place was done over. I knew the police would be back, that they’d pin it on me. So I took my novel, my files, and I ran. I went to James for help.”
“James?” Alicia said. “Henry’s son?”
“He was the only one who approved. He wanted Tanya to be happy. I knew he’d help me.”
“And did he?”
“He got his dad on side, even though his dad hated me. He trusted James, though, wanted me out of sight, away from the cops for some reason. I stayed in the granny flat—”
“Sorry,” Murphy said. “But ‘granny flat’?”
“Yeah, you know, a property on your land where you stick an elderly relative? Someone too frail to live alone but doesn’t want to go in a home? Anyway, I stayed there. A week later, James comes to me with a credit card, an address, and a map of Brid. He told me to come out here, stay in this house, the card will be taken care of. I should live off it until things blow over. Had no problems with it since.”
“Why did they help you?”
Paavan looked at each officer in turn. “James is Henry’s only son. He has sway, and don’t forget they still only had Tanya listed as missing. It wasn’t until much later they told me the house was mine to keep.”
“They bought you a house?” Alicia said. “How cool is that?”
“I’d rather live on the streets if it’d bring Tanya back to me.”
Murphy’s radio crackled. He decreased the volume so it was only just audible. “Do you have anything of hers left?”
“I have some old letters upstairs. Travel journals, that sort of thing. I’ll show you.”
As the trio traipsed upstairs, the radio crackled again. This time Murphy turned it up slightly, adjusted the squelch, heard Ball: “…DI Murphy, come in.”
“I’m here,” Murphy said.
“Your chips are getting cold. You going to be long bringing the boy out?”
“Not long.” He turned the radio down.
They all stopped dead.
“What do you mean?” Paavan said. “Why would you be bringing me out?”
“We’ll need you to sign a statement,” Murphy said.
“Just routine,” Alicia added.
Paavan carried on upward. “This should answer a lot of questions.”
The tiny room contained about twenty boxes of papers and files, a small sofa bed, black bags of what looked like clothing. Through the window, a grey sliver of North Sea gleamed.
“You owe me a penny,” Alicia said.
Murphy frowned. “Why?”
“I saw the sea first. You owe me a penny.”
It hadn’t even occurred to Murphy, but they’d been in Bridlington an hour and not cast eyes on the ocean. He’d have a proper look before leaving.
“Been meaning to go down the charity shop,” Paavan said, kicking a bag to one side.
He moved four boxes, leaned on the windowsill to reach a pile he said was probably the one with the letters. Then he stropped. Focused out of the window.
“You bastards,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” Alicia looked where he was looking.
“Bastards!”
Before either could react, Paavan flung open the window and jumped through. He landed on the porch roof and hung from there before dropping to the ground.
“He saw the panda car,” Alicia said.
Murphy checked the view: the Priceway was also visible from up here.
Into the radio, he shouted, “Get over here. He’s bolting. Get over here!”
Chapter Twenty
Paavan fled ahead of Alicia, not quite touching distance. “You’re not a suspect,” she cried.
No response. He vaulted another fence. She thanked her decision to wear trousers today, but he put more distance between them. It was harder going for Alicia, being so short, even though she was fit, athletic.
But if she caught up with him, what then? She was no match for him, and the few pointers she received in judo at the academy were as real to her as last Thursday’s scary dream. She hadn’t been in a physical fight since high school, and that was only to hit a boy in the balls with her clarinet case because he was picking on her brother.
One final garden, and Paavan hit the main road. Alicia reached the tarmac three seconds behind, causing Ball to veer his car around her. Paavan made it over the road, heading for the Priceway, for the alley down which Ball and Cleaver headed to pick up lunch.
No cars could follow him. It would be him and Alicia. Alone.
She couldn’t let that happen.
She found a further reserve of energy, like a turbo-boost, and pumped her legs higher and harder. Gaining on him.
Oh please let him give up easily.
The three teenagers still loitered in the supermarket entrance, laughing and pointing, drinking Coke.
When Alicia shoulder-barged Paavan, she hit him with what she thought was the force of a rabid bull. He lost balance, flew lengthways into the little gang. Bottles dropped, one smashing. They all fell in a heap, swearing, not laughing any more.
Alicia knelt next to the panting Paavan, who lay there as the teenager demanded compensation for police brutality and lost Coca Cola. Footsteps behind announced the arrival of Ball, Cleaver, and the unis.
“Okay?” Ball said. “This him?”
Alicia nodded.
With difficulty, Paavan sat up. “Bitch. You tricked me.”
“If you’ve nothing to hide, son,” Ball said, “why run?”
Paavan glared at the officers. Then, fast as a snake, grabbed the remains of the Coke bottle, swung his arm around Alicia’s neck, and held the broken glass at her throat.
“I’m not going to jail!” he said. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Alicia yelped as he hefted her up off the ground. Ball backed away. Cleaver too.
Where are they going? No! Help me.
She pulled at Paavan’s arm, but it was too strong. The glass poked into skin at the side of her neck. She froze.
Murphy arrived in a fog of puffing breaths. The panda car pulled up too
. Everyone was out. The teens had scattered. A perimeter established automatically, a crescent of men holding out placating arms, saying, “Take it easy, take it easy.”
“I want a car, right now!” Paavan yelled. “That one. I’ll take that one,” nodding at the black and white.
“All police cars have trackers,” Murphy said. “You won’t get away.”
“Get me one without a tracker.”
Ball turned down his radio to prevent feedback and Murphy spoke into his own, asking, Alicia knew, not for a car but a hostage negotiator. In the meantime, it was Murphy’s job to do the best he could.
Ball turned his radio back up. A voice familiar to Alicia squawked out.
“Alicia Friend? Confirm, please. Alicia Friend is a hostage?”
“Confirmed,” came the reply. A controller. “But ARV is not required. Repeat, ARV is not required.”
“Sorry,” came Barry Staples voice, loud and clear over the radio. “You’re breaking up. I’m going off air until I can get this fixed.”
“Unit 376, you are not to attend. Respond, unit 376. ARV is not required.”
“What does that mean?” Paavan said. “What’s ARV?”
Alicia closed her eyes, dreading the next sentence, wanting it to be unreal, that the last five seconds never occurred. She’d be okay as a hostage with Paavan. He wasn’t a killer and, besides, she was sure Murphy would talk him down.
“What is ARV?” Paavan said again.
“Armed Response Vehicle,” Alicia said. “My ex-boyfriend wants to help.”
Richard listened on his police scanner with a certain amusement. He saw the situation clearly: the Asian lad waved his broken bottle about, shouting demands, although Richard was too far away to hear them.
Paavan Prakash backed into the store, dragging Alicia, her feet struggling to keep up. She lost a shoe. Richard lost sight of her entirely. With guns on the way, headed by what sounded like a rather enthusiastic policeman, the situation was not looking particularly positive.
Richard climbed out of his car, leaving behind his bulky jacket and donning a long-peaked cap. Under his black pullover, he secured a hunting knife in a scabbard, the size of the one Paul Hogan used in the Crocodile Dundee movies—messy, but efficient. He also carried the throwing knife and SEAL weapon. He didn’t want to use this one, though. Couldn’t keep using the same knives, didn’t want these deaths linked to the “same” man, especially now his dumping ground had been discovered up in Eccup. Switching weapons after each kill, varying the ethnicity of his victims, and using different methods of choosing them, all kept him off the ViCap radar while he was active in the States. In this, the smaller country, and in a compact time-frame with a clear connection to one another, he would not be able to hide for long.
Sneaking around the back, Richard found the staff entrance, which was locked via a digital combination, flush smooth metal that worked through light touches to each relevant number. He breathed on the handset. Thanks to a mix of the cold air and staff using sweaty fingers fresh out of toasty-warm gloves, the most often-used keys misted over. Four digits. He guessed the combination on the third go.
Inside, pulling on black driving gloves, he had no idea where he was going, so kept his head down, the cap low. Sometimes they kitted out these stores with more cameras than the Big Brother house.
The corridor split in two. One way smelled like a canteen, so he plumped for the other.
Success.
He poked his head out of the door to the sight of Paavan between aisles, yelling at shoppers and staff, ordering them outside. He could see Paavan’s head over the bathroom supplies shelves. He couldn’t see Alicia.
He slipped out, closed the door quietly behind him, and kept low. He unhooked the clip of his hunting knife and crouch-walked to the next aisle.
Alicia talked quickly. “Paavan, you are not a suspect. You’re a witness. Please believe me.”
“Shut up,” Paavan said. “If you only wanted a statement you’d have said. You’re just like the other guy, Wellington.”
Wellington.
A name Richard had not heard so far. He made a mental note and unsheathed the knife, shining silver under the fluorescent lighting strips.
“Tanya’s uncle has been lying to us all along,” Alicia said. “Him and James, they bought you off because Henry knows more than he’s saying.”
“Keep talking.”
“He either knows why Tanya was kidnapped, or he paid someone to do it. For her money. And I think it might be the latter.”
The stress in Paavan’s voice eased. “You don’t think I did it?” A pause, then the stress returned. “Of course you’re going to say that.”
Richard crouched at the end of the aisle. He peeked around. The two of them were right there, amidst bubble baths and toothpaste. Paavan could see the doorway from where he stood and constantly glanced towards it.
Richard put the knife away. The distance was too great to risk rushing Paavan. He selected the throwing knife, and sat himself out of sight. If he got this right, it would be beautiful. Once, he thought he had mastered it. He drugged a college girl in a bar in Texas and took her, sleeping, to an area of national park which he knew guaranteed privacy. When she awoke and was alert, aware of the situation, he released her, hunting her through the woodland like a … well, a hunter. He tracked her, found her hiding in a small clearing, got the throw just right. The blade landed in the centre of her back with a good healthy chug. But it didn’t kill her. Reluctantly, he slit her throat and buried the body.
He did not count it as a success.
Here, in the Priceway’s, mastery was not required; adequate would suffice. He practised with an air-shot, using a bag of dog food as an imaginary target—bring the elbow down, and at the last millisecond, snap the wrist and release.
Okay, he was ready. Land it right between the shoulder blades. Not enough to kill the guy. Just free Alicia without burying Paavan along with any info he may have. It was possible he talked some at the house—they were in there for a while—but Richard couldn’t run the risk of a bullet to the lad’s head. This way was much better.
He positioned himself. Held the blade between his thumb and first two fingers, retracted behind his head.
Make the target. Pull down hard, then snap. Chug.
It’ll be gorgeous.
A click from somewhere. A mechanical noise he recognised.
He lowered the knife, palmed it, and ducked back down. The staff door through which Richard entered was open a crack. A man in a peaked cap with the black and white checks of police branding leaned into the store, looking right at Paavan Prakash. Paavan hadn’t seen anything. Richard and the policeman locked eyes. He was rough-looking, unshaven, wearing body armour.
The door opened fully and the policeman snuck through, followed by another. Both were armed, automatic pistols pointed at the floor.
“Sir,” said the first. “You get out of here. This way.”
Richard nodded, the throwing knife still hidden in his gloved hand. The second officer held the door and, once Richard crawled in the back area, closed it silently. He was alone in the staff-only section.
This was all going wrong. He couldn’t allow it.
Then he heard the order: “Let her go, now!”
Richard opened the door and snuck back into the store.
The officers aimed at Paavan.
“I’ll kill her!” Paavan yelled back. “Get me a car. No. A helicopter.”
“Ain’t gonna happen, boy,” the lead officer said. “Let her go or I will put a bullet in your head.”
“I’ll count to five, mister.” Pavaan’s orders rose an octave. “You back off or I cut her.”
“No. I’m gonna count to five, boy. Then I’m going to shoot you through the face.”
Alicia said, “Barry, stop this. I can talk him down.”
Barry?
Richard had never killed a policeman before. That was wrong. Even if one caught him one day, he would no
t harbour any ill will towards them. They were doing a tough job after all. Still, this was more important than principle. He needed Paavan alive in order to locate Katie.
He pulled back his arm. Ready to duck back inside the staff door should he need to chug this blade in the officer’s neck.
“One!” Paavan said.
“Two!” the officer said.
“Man, stop that!”
Alicia said, “Yes, Barry. Stop it. Your macho nonsense isn’t helping. What happened to you? Did your penis fall off, because this is some serious over-compensation.”
Paavan actually giggled, but caught himself. “Don’t mess with my head. Making me laugh so they can shoot me.”
“I’m not. Really. It’s a penis issue.”
Barry said, “Come on, put it down!”
“Three,” Paavan whimpered.
“Four!” the officer called.
Richard tightened his grip on the knife. He would not allow Paavan Prakash to die. The moment either one of them said “five”, his elbow would come down, knife cutting the air, embedding in the policeman’s jugular. His partner would either turn and kill Richard, or Richard would duck inside and slice up the partner when he came a-searching.
Either way, Paavan lived.
“Okay, don’t shoot!” Paavan yelled, his hands raised and visible above the shelves.
Richard backed inside the rear door, observing the scene.
Footsteps, fast, panicked.
Alicia bursting into the arms of the lead ARV officer.
A quick hug, then, “Barry, you idiot. If you killed him I’d have doubled your penis problems.”
“I do not have penis problems,” he said.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Whatever you did to me, if it saved your life, it’d be worth it.”
“You still shouldn’t have come.”
“I’d do anything for you, baby, you know that.”
And as the second officer completed the arrest, disarming Paavan and snapping the cuffs on, Richard stared through what was now only a crack between the door and its frame, watching the officer touching Alicia in a familiar way, calling her “baby”, Alicia thanking him, calling him Barry again, calling him a big daft lump, shaking, the big daft lump taking advantage of her, of her state of mind.