by Dan Laughey
‘Far from it. He’s a stable individual for the most part. But my priming tests have paid off after all, Carl. Sometimes the effects of priming take time to register, like waiting for a signal before you can use your phone. And not only has the signal arrived; it must be strong. He’s remembered who shot him. I’m sure of it.’
Sant keyed in the last incoming-call number on her phone. Mrs Fleming picked up on the first ring. He started to introduce himself, but she broke into breathless soliloquy.
‘Well now, we usually get up at the crack of dawn every Remembrance Sunday, you know, a walk in the park, feed the ducks, throw a ball for the dog, that kind of thing, and afterwards we go together, every year, to the service in town. Our parents and grandparents fought in the wars, and we like to show our respects together. Anyroad, I don’t know why, but this year he told me to stay at home. Said he’d important business to take care of; would rather do it alone. Anyroad, I was a bit upset but took it in my stride. What I didn’t expect was for him to get up at some godforsaken hour, swearing and blinding about some job or other that had to be taken care of, it was now or never, an eye for an eye, and all that palaver.’
Sant thought for a moment, then put in: ‘You don’t have any weapons in the house do you, Mrs Fleming?’
‘Only a display cabinet with some antique bits in it – bayonets, swords, daggers. Odds and sods.’
‘Can you check the cabinet, Mrs Fleming, and let me know if anything’s missing?’
He heard her climbing some stairs before scurrying back down, still breathless as she blew at the mouthpiece.
‘I don’t believe it! The cabinet!’
‘Anything missing?’
‘It’s bloody empty.’
Sant memorised her address and rang off.
‘What did she say?’ Mia asked.
‘Her husband has left with his entire bayonet collection.’
‘OMG!’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He pressed his lips against hers and told her he’d be back soon.
Next he called Capstick. Before he had time to speak, though, his partner drowned him in a sea of apologies and don’t-know-how-it-happeneds.
‘How in the Lord’s name did you lose her?’
Sant’s voice bellowed down the phone with such force that Capstick lowered the speaker volume one notch above zero.
‘She just… vanished, sir.’
‘Vanished?’
‘One minute she was there. The next… she’d got away.’
‘Did you fall asleep?’
Capstick hated lying, though perhaps the circumstances justified a little economy with the truth. Fortunately, Sant butted in before he had chance to reply.
‘Never mind. I’ve got a job for you, Capstick. I’ve put Holdsworth on Mosley, but two others need tracing and tracking. One is Tony Gordon – I doubt we’ll find him easily. The other is Nigel Fleming: the present-day alias of PC Frank Tanner.’
‘The officer shot with Gray? I thought we’d no idea of his whereabouts.’
‘We do now, Capstick. I’ve just spoken to his wife. She’s in a panic because he left home two hours ago with a stack of old knives. I’ll get some uniforms readied and on the case, but an extra pair of eyes might make all the difference. He’s on foot somewhere in the vicinity of Bramhope, where the couple live. So if you see a roughly dressed seventy-year-old gent carrying a sack full of swords, he’s not Santa bearing a grudge – pull him over. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll head out that way now.’
‘Oh, and one last thing. I don’t suppose you know who’s representing the force at the remembrance service this morning?’
‘The chief constable, sir.’
‘Doesn’t Gilligan do the honours some years?’
‘Not sure, sir. Why?’
Sant mulled over Capstick’s question before saying: ‘It seems Tanner’s on his way to the service. And what he’s planning to do with those swords is anyone’s guess.’
‘Has he recalled who shot him all those years ago?’
‘Probably, which is why we need to find him – fast.’
Capstick waited for the connection to close before trundling down the hotel stairs, feeling no less naked than he’d felt inside Chloe’s four-poster den of iniquity. She’d exposed him; exposed his naivety. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out for this business after all. A true detective never fell for the femme; never succumbed to cheap frills; never veered from unwavering professionalism.
I’m not a true detective, he told himself. I’m a failure; a phony; a shadow of the man I work alongside. I’m not a patch on Detective Sergeant Amanda Holdsworth either. Will she find out about my indiscretion? It would serve me right if Amanda dumped me from on high.
He crossed his fingers, then his toes, and hoped for the best.
10
The fresh night air makes you feel alive.
More alive than ever.
The warmth of the whisky as it trickles down your throat has something to do with it, too.
You’ve sharpened and polished your instruments of destruction. All those little gems you’ve collected over the years, in auctions and fairs and flea markets, have finally found their purpose; their destiny.
But you can’t use them all. No way. You would happily draw blood with every one of your precious tools – but that’s not practical.
You stride forward with the sack on your back, pulling out blades one by one, discarding those of no use to you. It breaks your heart to see such wonderful weapons of war, from Africa and India, Russia and the Far East, going to waste. Kaskaras and sabres and rapiers and katzbalgers. But needs must. Your sack is too heavy. You are forced to shed weight.
Where you’re going is too dark to see the steel trail you leave in your wake. Your route is cross country, to avoid the boys in blue.
You walk through farmers’ fields, through woods, over hills and school playing fields. And when you’ve no choice but to walk along roads and paths, you keep to the shadows, hiding from headlights, joggers, dog walkers – dogs too.
And as dawn breaks and the swords fall and you approach the site of your final battle, all you can taste is sweet-bitter revenge. You will spend the rest of your years locked up.
Do you care? Not one ounce.
By intervals your sack lightens. Finally, with the rising sun in your sights, you grip the ivory handle of your
choice. The curved steel shank gleams in the first light of day. Deadly but discreet. It’s your proudest piece.
An original Gurkha kukri complete with side knives and scabbard, it was used in the battlefields of Nepal over two hundred years ago. But its hilt is still strong; its aim hard and true.
It will pierce skin and bone and flesh and organ without a murmur.
Your gem is chosen. It will deliver.
‘Is he still there?’
‘His bedroom light is on and he’s undrawn the curtains.’
‘Good. Call me when he makes a move.’
‘Right, Carl.’
‘Oh, and before I forget, do you know who’s representing us at the remembrance service?’
‘Lister.’
‘Not Gilligan?’
Holdsworth’s voice crackled down the line. ‘They alternate. Last year it was Gilligan, this year it’s Lister. In keeping with tradition it should be the CC every year, but Lister hates the public so much he delegates half the task to his next in command. And as Gilligan is always desperate to steal the limelight, he’s the only ACC vain enough to snap up the available slots.’
Sant now recalled Lister mentioning his important public engagement over the weekend. Holdsworth was right. Lister was preparing to lay the West Yorkshire Police poppy wreath. At least the chief constable needn’t resort to speaking in public. Lister couldn’t hold a candle to Hardaker on the orator front. Neither could Gilligan.
‘Okay. I’ll be waiting for your call.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
Sant smi
led at Holdsworth’s gibe, turned off his phone, shut the window by his desk to silence the drunken banter of all-night revellers. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated. Waiting time. That familiar feeling of helplessness was proving unusually hard to shrug off. He wanted to blame Capstick for being a careless idiot. He couldn’t. No real anger brewed inside.
Capstick was no bad cop, despite his flaws. He was willing to learn and Sant was keen to teach him. Those who succeeded in police work, the inspector knew all too well, fitted into two categories: the good cops who made mistakes and learnt from them; and the bad cops who made mistakes, blamed others, and learnt nothing but the truth of their own cowardice. Bad cops like Old Man Gilligan; like Lanky Lister. Bad cops who climbed ladders and smashed glass ceilings. Their life’s ambition? Personal gain.
The waiting game went on and on, night turning into dreary day as Sant looked out at the build-up of early morning traffic. Where was Chloe now? He made enquiries to the main taxi firms. Nothing of interest transpired. Considering how many lasses would be catching taxis after clubbing through Saturday night – their mates scoring with hunks while they went home on their ownsome – it was hardly surprising that Chloe’s description didn’t stand out, even for the more discerning cabbies.
As an afterthought, Sant called her dad in York and got a croaky response. No, Chloe hadn’t called at his place. No, he didn’t know she’d been staying at the Queen’s Hotel. The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds.
Sant shook his head in bewilderment. Here is a father whose girl had been missing for two months, and when news breaks that she’s still alive there’s not a smattering of emotion. Had any father-daughter relationship ever existed? Had Darren Lee chosen to disown Chloe in favour of his latest offspring? Sant failed to comprehend the indifference to which some people could stoop.
His phone rang. It was Holdsworth.
‘Mosley’s leaving,’ she said. ‘A taxi is outside his front gate.’
‘Stick to him like glue, Holdsworth. I’ll be right behind your XJS. Radio me your location.’
He grabbed his police radio and made for his car in such a hurry that he forgot to put on his Mackintosh, never mind his Sunday-best black attire. A black cotton shirt was all that came between flesh and November cold, but the last thing exercising his watchful mind at that precise phase of the lunar calendar was the seasonal complexion of the troposphere.
Foot flat down to the floor, Sant fired his feeble Fiesta to within a few yards of Holdsworth’s Jaguar as they tailed the taxi ahead. He was guided by the looming Gothic spire of the parish church silhouetted against the pale blue sky. For over a thousand years a church with much the same spire had stood on the same site.
What tales that spire could tell, Sant thought, of butchery over the centuries: Normans, Vikings, Saxons, Celts. It felt eerie that a video revealing what had happened on the morning of Halloween 1984 beneath the shadows of that church tower was forming the centrepiece of the here and now, unravelling the saints and sinners; the unsung heroes and heinous unknowns.
The taxi purred on for another quarter of a mile past Kirkgate before taking a sharp right and coming to rest outside the angular exterior of the West Yorkshire Playhouse. Let the drama begin, Sant said to himself.
He radioed to Holdsworth to drive on before overtaking her and pulling up in a layby beside ‘the Kremlin’ – a government building so named because of its likeness to the Soviet namesake. He scrambled out of his car, gave Holdsworth brief instructions, then took the lead as she followed twenty yards further back. They ducked low and ran towards the theatre, trying not to alert Mosley to the fact they were one step behind.
As Sant reached the summit of a floral embankment he spyed Chloe a hundred yards away, standing uneasily outside the playhouse doors. She was waiting for someone; for Mosley presumably. The theatre’s car park was deserted. Sant took in the panoramic cityscape beyond, the whole sloping metropolis yet to wake up, the only movement in the hazy distance from bric-a-brac vendors setting out stalls at the outdoor market.
Holdsworth joined him at the top of the bank, her boss gesturing to keep down. An element of surprise, he concluded, was needed to sway Chloe’s judgement. She was clearly terrified of the police given what she knew of their dark past, but it was time to convince her that the evidence she bore was in safe hands.
The cool air was humdrum – nothing out of the ordinary. Then Holdsworth nudged Sant and pointed to a spot beyond the car park. The outline of a figure was emerging through leafless trees. Chloe had seen the figure too. The detectives assumed it must be Mosley. The figure grew closer, formed a face, donned a baseball cap. They noticed Chloe step backwards and place a hand over her open mouth.
‘Remember me?’
Sant couldn’t see clearly enough to be sure, but the slightly waddling motion he now recalled seeing whilst passing the man along the university skywalk, added to the balding crown and Queen’s English enunciation, told him all he needed to know. It was Tony Gordon. And he had a gun.
‘I’ve come to retrieve what does not belong to you,’ he went on, waving the gun in his left hand.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she pleaded.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he mimicked. ‘Cut the bullshit, Chloe. Hand it over!’
‘I don’t have it,’ she screeched.
Sant wished he was armed at that moment. All he could do was watch and pray. Tony was now no more than an arm’s length from his cornered prey, his handgun levelled at her chest.
‘You don’t understand the seriousness of the situation!’ he shouted into her face. ‘My orders – and you know who I receive my orders from – are simple: do whatever it takes to return the film to its rightful owners. You’re wanted, Chloe, dead or alive, and I will do you serious harm if you prevent me from fulfilling my orders.’
‘Get away from me!’ she howled as he dragged her to the floor by her hair.
‘Hand over the video cassette now and we can be friends again – you studying for the degree you deserve, me imparting my expertise. How does that sound?’
She spat at him and screamed helplessly: ‘I don’t have it!’
‘I hate shooting people – I’ve shot so many I’ve lost count – but I will use this little pal of mine once more if required.’
Tony hovered the barrel above her head, executioner style, his finger slithering to the trigger.
Sant started to hurry down the slope of the embankment, but then he saw Mosley rounding the corner of the playhouse. Chloe’s scream must have spurred him into action. Sant bent low again and dived flat into a shallow gully, out of view of the main event. Holdsworth, shielded by a tree close by, signalled to her boss to hold back. She was right. The situation was lethal – but not for Mosley. He had no sense of the danger he faced.
‘Get off her you scumbag!’ the punk yelled, hurtling into the fray.
Sant hoped against hope that Mosley had more than knuckledusters on him, but he was miserably defenceless. Tony turned swiftly and directed the metal tube from Chloe’s head to her would-be saviour.
The deafening blast echoed through Quarry Hill and split the sky in half. Mosley fell to the ground, blood pouring from his chest. The report of the gun confirmed Sant’s suspicions: it was a Glock. He’d used that type before. They were police issue. The understated recoil of the weapon on discharge was all too familiar.
Chloe shrieked and collapsed to the ground. After a few moments she began to crawl despairingly towards her dying companion, Tony blowing away the smoke funnelling from his Glock.
It was time to enter the battlefield.
‘Put the gun down, Tony!’ called out Sant, wriggling his body over a rise in the gully before crouching behind a tree offering some slight protection.
Tony switched his gaze from Mosley to the remote challenger. ‘Inspector! How nice of you to turn up! You should be eternally grateful to me! Why? For sparing the life of your bit of fluff, you fucking sugar daddy!’
/>
‘I said put the gun down!’ bawled Sant, trying to stay hidden. ‘I know you’re a foot-soldier; not the ring leader. The quicker you give in, the better!’
The historian laughed out loud. ‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Inspector! I know I’m staring at life in prison if capital punishment never returns – and incidentally, I think it should and perhaps I deserve to die. But right now I don’t care what punishment’s coming my way. I have orders to fulfil and if you don’t cramp my style, I’ll let you and your woman PC over there – and Chloe here – live a full and healthy existence.’ At that cue, he turned back to the girl floundering at his feet: ‘The video! I won’t ask you again!’
‘Hand it over, Chloe!’ was Sant’s distant instruction.
‘Listen to the wise Inspector, Chloe, and do what he says!’ Tony hollered, getting angrier by the second.
‘He has it!’ she cried, looking tearfully towards her bleeding boyfriend.
‘There’s a good girl, Chloe.’ Tony walked steadily towards the fallen Mosley as the poor man jerked and choked. He bent down and reached into the inside pocket of Mosley’s leather jacket before lifting out the cassette in its transparent case. He kissed it and then stood up with a grin on his face. ‘At last, the fruits of my labour.’ Aiming his weapon in the vague direction of Sant and Holdsworth, he said: ‘By rights I should murder you all. But I’m feeling generous, so instead I’ll just ensure this sad fuck makes no recovery.’
He turned the Glock on Mosley and shot him in the head. The silence following that horrendous popping blast spoke certain death.
‘Job done! Now you three lucky devils can close your eyes and count to one hundred. And don’t cheat or I’ll shoot you like I’ve shot him. Oh, and I’d call for an ambulance, not that it will do any good.’ He laughed out loud again. ‘Ready? Start counting – and no peeping.’