Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  “Hi,” he said, flashing even teeth to produce a smile that dimpled his cheeks as he held up a warrant card. “I’m Detective Constable Gordon Wright.”

  Gordon was doing call-backs on newsagents’ and filling stations that he had already been to. Some, like this one, had been closed, and at others many of the staff had been off duty over Christmas, and he wanted to be absolutely sure that no one was missed.

  “What can I do for you?” Lucy said. She was a little worried. She smoked a little pot, and didn’t think a copper would formally introduce himself just to buy cigarettes or a newspaper.

  Gordon pulled the flyer of Sutton from his pocket, opened it up and held it out for the teenager to see. “I need to know if you recognise this guy. We believe he lives in the area.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s Paul Savage. What’s he done, robbed a bank or somethin’?”

  Gordon couldn’t believe his luck. He had to work at hiding the elation he felt. “Are you positive, Miss. It’s very important that you be sure―”

  “I’m totally sure,” Lucy snapped, not amused at being doubted. “It’s him all right. He owns a breaker’s yard on Vicarage Lane. Drives a green Rover, and has a massive Alsatian. He calls in here for petrol, regularly.”

  Back in the car, Gordon rang the incident room and asked to be patched through to Matt as he drove up the B road past the entrance to Vicarage Lane and parked up on the verge.

  “Barnes.”

  “It’s Gordon, boss. I’ve had a positive ID of Sutton. He calls himself Paul Savage and runs a breaker’s yard in Goff’s Oak.”

  “Is that a definite?”

  “Without doubt, boss. He drives a green Rover and owns a German shepherd.”

  “That’s music to my ears. Who else have you told?”

  “No one.”

  “Keep it that way, Gordon. He has two hostages. Where are you now?”

  “At the top of the lane his yard is on. I’m advised it’s the only property, and it’s a dead-end.”

  “Keep out of sight. And if he makes a move, follow him and give me a bell on my mobile. Okay?”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  Matt racked the phone. His heart was pounding. He could hardly contain himself. This was more than a light at the end of a tunnel. Locating Sutton...Savage, or whatever the hell he called himself, was not something he had truly believed would come about before it was too late for Beth or Kirstie. Without any sense of guilt, Matt decided to go in with just Pete as backup. He was not going to let Tom send in an armed response unit. If Sutton even thought he was trapped, then he would kill his hostages, if they were still alive. He needed to go in hard and fast and rely on surprise to save the day.

  Matt turned to Pete. “We have the bastard’s address,” he said. “How would you feel about breaking every rule in the book and taking the son of a bitch out?”

  “I’ll risk my pension for a shot at him, boss. Where’s he holed up?”

  “In a breaker’s yard at Goff’s Oak; a village west of the A10, almost slap-bang in the middle of the area we triangulated from the phone calls. Gordon Wright is on the spot. If Sutton arrives or leaves, he’ll advise me.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Sneak up and play it by ear. He won’t be expecting us. But bear in mind he’s armed now, and we know he won’t hesitate to shoot. Taking him alive is not a priority. Do you have any problem with that?”

  Pete grinned. “Let’s do it, boss.”

  Gordon watched as the Volvo came into view, exited the lane and sped off. The driver had been a woman, the passenger a man. Maybe the killer they sought. The snow made it impossible to be absolutely certain. He set off after them. Stayed well back and rang Matt.

  “You sure it’s him?” Matt said.

  “As sure as I can be, boss, there are no other properties where the car came from.” Gordon said. “It’s a red Volvo saloon. Could be the Marshall woman at the wheel. And there was a dog in the back.”

  “No sign of Be...Dr. Holder?”

  “No, boss.”

  “Okay. Stay on the line and talk us to your location.”

  “Heading south on the B198. Should be on the A10 in a couple of minutes.”

  Sweet! They were also on the A10. With any luck they were on a collision course.

  “Now taking the M25 west at junction 25,” Gordon said.

  “Keep with him,” Matt said. “We’ll catch up.”

  They came up behind Gordon’s Mondeo just past junction 21. “We’re on your tail,” Matt said into his mobile. “Let’s take it in turn to be lead car.”

  Later, after bypassing Oxford on the A40, it dawned on Matt that Sutton had decamped. He was not going to return. If Gordon had not got the information and then made the decision to follow the Volvo, they would have been up shit creek. Destiny was sometimes decided on much less than the toss of a coin. It could be pure luck, like a car crash that would or would not take place, depending on one of a thousand variables that brought the two vehicles together at the same time and location, or didn’t. Matt shivered. Was everything as fickle as the spin of a roulette wheel?

  “Give the chief a bell, Pete. Fill him in over the witness at the garage and the place in Goff’s Oak. Tell him we’ll meet him there,” Matt said. “I doubt he’ll find anything to surprise us, but who knows? The place might be stuffed full of corpses or body parts.”

  “Do I tell him we’re in pursuit of Sutton?”

  “Hell, no. This is a private party. If he asks where we are, lie.”

  “I need to pee,” Kirstie said as they passed a sign advertising a Little Chef one mile ahead.

  “So fill your pants,” Paul suggested.

  “The needle is almost on red. We need petrol,” she pointed out.

  He looked at the fuel gauge. She was telling the truth.

  “Okay, but not Little Chef. Stop at the next garage.”

  Two miles further on, Kirstie signalled, pulled into a Texaco and stopped next to an island with two pumps.

  “Fill her up,” Paul said, getting out of the car and stretching as Kirstie obeyed.

  As she replaced the nozzle in its holder, he gripped her by the soft flesh on the underside of her arm and dug his nails in.

  “We’ll go in, pay for the petrol and pick up a few Mars bars, packets of crisps and some cans of Coke,” he said. “Stay cool and don’t do or say anything that would cause alarm, or I’ll shoot everyone inside.”

  A short guy who was basically as thin as a rake, but sported a huge beer gut, barrelled out of the door, pulled the bill of his ball cap down and headed for a beat-up Nissan Sunny. The only other person in the place was a young guy behind the counter. His face was scarred with acne craters, and his left eye was askew, staring off to the right, unintentionally mimicking a chameleon.

  “You got toilets?” Paul said as he paid the muppet for the fuel, snacks and Coke.

  “Y-yeah. R-r-round the b-b-back,” Ralph Peters said, taking a Yale key on a large yellow plastic fob from a hook on the wall and pushing it across the counter.

  Christ! Must be inbreeding, Paul thought. The dummy couldn’t even speak properly.

  There was nobody about, so he went inside with Kirstie, bolted the door and watched as she dropped the baggy jeans he had given her to wear, and took a leak. He was in too much pain to feel aroused. He had gone inside the toilet to make sure she didn’t climb out of a window, or scrawl a message on the mirror with soap. Both the bitches had proven themselves capable of spontaneous and potentially disastrous action. Neither would be given a second chance to cause him any grief.

  Back on the road and travelling under slate skies that promised more snow, he put a can between his knees, pulled the tab off and passed it to Kirstie. She accepted it, took a mouthful and ignored the foam that bubbled down her chin. He used his teeth to rip open the wrapper of a Mars Bar, and tossed the snack in her lap. His thoughts were mainly focused on reaching what would be his new home for the foreseeable
future. He didn’t once glance in the wing mirror. The last thing on his mind was the possibility of being followed.

  Tom rang.

  “I’m at the scene in Goff’s Oak, Matt. Where the hell are you?”

  “Following a lead, Tom. Let me run with it.”

  “Bollocks. You’re acting like a loose cannon…again You knew he’d left the area. How?”

  “I’ve got nothing concrete, Tom. I’ll call you if and when I have. Did you find anything?” He meant, had Beth been located, alive or dead. His jaws ached as he bit down and waited to hear news that may send him insane.

  “No sign of Beth or the Marshall woman. Scene of Crime are having a field day, though. Plenty of trace. Even what used to be a car in the yard that looks as though it was occupied when it went into the crusher. I’m warning you, Matt, don’t go it alone. He’s armed, totally out of his tree, and inventive. If you know where he is, tell me, now.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Matt said and terminated the call.

  “Where do you suppose he’s heading, boss?” Pete said as they drove ever westward.

  “Wales by the look of it,” Matt said.

  Being half of a two car tail was a Godsend. They could take it in turn to pull off for petrol and a leak, then play catch-up with the lead car.

  Matt thought it through. Sutton had got the jitters for some reason. He had a destination in mind, so had a bolt hole, and without any doubt a new identity to adopt. They had got close enough to the Volvo to ID Sutton and Kirstie Marshall at a garage when they stopped for petrol. The dog was left in the car, but there was no sign of Beth. He had to believe that she was still alive, either trussed up on the floor in the rear of the vehicle, or in the boot. The only alternative was that Sutton had already killed her. But why would he do that? It didn’t make sense. She was his ace in the hole against Matt. And Tom would’ve found her if she had been left behind.

  It was dark. The massed clouds lent their weight to curtail the already short hours’ of daylight. The Volvo was winding along a hilly side road south of Hay-on-Wye.

  They dropped back even farther and cut their lights, losing sight of the quarry as walls of fir trees and bends in the highway separated them.

  “If he turns off up some track, we’ll sail past without knowing,” Pete said.

  “Tell Gordon to overtake him,” Matt said. “If he’s between us, we shouldn’t lose him.”

  Pete phoned the following car and relayed Matt’s instructions. The Mondeo slid by and drew away. Two minutes later, Gordon affirmed that he was ahead of the Volvo.

  “Next left,” Paul said to Kirstie. “We’re almost at our new home, sweetheart.”

  She slowed, approached the gap in the forest wall and turned onto a narrow lane. A couple of hundred yards of tight twists and turns later, Paul pointed to a rutted driveway that was almost hidden from the lane by overhanging, snow-laden branches. She drove in, along ground so pitted and rough that it tested the old Volvo’s suspension to the limit. Up ahead, she could make out the shape of a low, squat, stone-built farmhouse or cottage, its roof bowed as the march of time weighed it down, to appear like an old beast of burden, its back sagging from many years of carrying too much weight.

  “Park down the side,” Paul said.

  In the boot, Beth was shaken awake and bounced up and down. The air around her was sour and thin. She had succumbed to the faint smell of petrol and prolonged motion sickness, vomiting several times due to spending so many hours confined in such a small, dark and moving environment. The engine noise had filled her mind, almost negating the ability to think clearly. Now, the engine died, and for a few seconds there was a stillness that she found oppressive. The dog barked, and doors opened and closed. They had arrived. Where she could not hazard a guess at. But she knew that the journey was over. She strained her ears and heard Sutton’s voice.

  “Put one on your left wrist, Kirstie, nice and tight. Good. Now lay on the ground with your hands behind your back.”

  He straddled her, not unduly concerned at having to put the gun down to secure the other cuff with his uninjured hand. Hannibal was sitting two feet from her head, attentive, more than ready to respond should she try anything.

  “Back on your feet, and walk over to those double doors,” Paul said.

  The inside of the extension that was integral to the main house was obviously a stable. There were two timber-built stalls with old straw on the stone floor and cracked and worn tack hanging from hooks and nails on the walls.

  The method he chose to restrain her was simple and effective. Ordering her to sit with her back up against a stout upright post, he then looped a length of sisal rope around it, to encompass her throat. Leaving little leeway for her to breathe, he tied it off, having to use one hand and his teeth. The pain in his fractured wrist and forearm was now beyond his capability to ignore. Under cover of his new identity, he determined to drive into Hay-on-Wye the following morning and seek treatment. For now, he would have to rely on a makeshift sling and large quantities of booze and painkillers to afford him some measure of relief.

  Satisfied that the cuffs could not be slipped, and that any movement on Kirstie’s part would result in her strangling herself, he went back outside, opened the solid oak door to the cottage and, making several trips, transferred carrier bags and boxes of provisions from the rear of the vehicle to the living kitchen. Lastly, he opened the boot, recoiling slightly at the smell. Urine and vomit made for an emetic that made him gag. He thought Dr. Beth Holder a sorry sight. Her breathing was ragged, face swollen, dark hair matted to her brow with sweat. No longer was this the in-control and imperious bitch capable of using big words and pat definitions to reason what made special individuals like him tick. He was not a product of neglect, cruelty, or patterned as a result of being denied suckling at his mother’s tit. He had not been physically or sexually abused, that he could remember. He was his own man, not programmed by the society he reviled. They all lived inside boxes, conforming to ethics and a way of life that denied them free reign to live out their fantasies. They were mentally constipated and, to his way of thinking, in need of a cerebral laxative to flush away the shit that constrained their individuality. How many men secretly wanted to fuck schoolgirls or nurses in uniform? Or were tempted to holiday in Cambodia or Thailand and sample all that was so cheaply on offer? Sex and violence made the world go round; greased the wheels and powered the engine. Red-blooded males from all walks of life surfed the Internet, jerking off as they downloaded images that they publicly denounced as being obscene. Cops, judges, politicians, bishops and celebrities had been caught with their fingers in an area of cyberspace that was a growing and unstoppable part of modern life. It was all a fucking game; one which he was a master of.

  “Out,” he said, standing back to watch as Beth groaned and struggled to sit up, then rolled onto her knees and attempted to climb from the boot, slipping and falling heavily to the ground. “Get up, or I’ll set Hanny on you,” he threatened.

  Beth somehow obeyed. Stumbled-hopped-limped into the house, to lean back against a cold, damp wall.

  “Watch her,” Paul said to the dog, before going to the table and taking a sturdy battery-operated lantern from one of the bags. He switched it on and the fluorescent tube filled the room with a cold, bright light. He then fished out the handcuff keys.

  “Turn round,” he said, and unlocked one of the cuffs when she complied. “Now go and sit on the floor near the sink and fasten yourself to the pipe.”

  Almost crying with frustration and the pulsating pangs in her knee, she did as he bid. The water pipe was almost as thick as her wrist, bracketed six inches above floor level. He watched and made sure that she was secured to it, then rummaged in another bag, withdrew a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label and put it between his feet to facilitate twisting the top off one-handed. He took a large mouthful, gasping as the spirit burned its way down to his stomach. He then searched out the box of Nurofen and popped another four tabs. The
second shot of scotch washed them down and tasted much smoother.

  “How do you like my country retreat, Beth?” he said.

  “I don’t,” she said. “It’s cold and damp. Where are we? Where’s Kirstie?”

  “We’re in Wales. The Black Mountains. And Kirstie is out in the stables. Things will seem a lot better in the morning when I get the generator going. I don’t get up here very often.”

  He found Hanny’s bowls, put food in one and poured bottled water into the other. Hanny cleared both, lay down with head on paws and stared at Beth with doleful, unblinking eyes.

  Paul went out to the car and came back with two rolled up sleeping bags.

  “There,” he said, throwing one of them to her. “I wouldn’t want you to die from hypothermia. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Beth, and you need to know that before this is over, you’re going to wish you’d never stuck your broken fucking nose into my life.”

  Beth said nothing. She got into the sleeping bag, zipped it up to her chest and put her free hand inside. Her thoughts were haphazard. She could not hope to be saved. Matt had no way of knowing where she was. If there was any justice, Sutton would drop dead from a massive stroke, or fall into a coma as a result of the head wound he had suffered. No! Belay that wish. If anything happened to him, she would be left shackled, to starve to death and be eaten by his stinking dog. She could not envisage anyone happening on this obviously remote location by chance. This was reality, not fiction: not a formulaic tale or movie in which a lead character was placed in dire jeopardy only to be rescued from certain death in the final pages or last scene to appease an audience’s expectation. This was not a scary thrill-ride in an amusement park designed to induce fear before disgorging its fare-paying occupants safely out at the end of a few minutes of programmed gut-churning pseudo terror. Survival was not a ‘given’ in the real world. No one was exempt to the myriad forms of sudden injury and death that were forever present and could strike in the space between two heartbeats.