by Oliver Tidy
10
A minute of silent darkness passed without incident. He’d accomplished his objective and it felt good. It felt like something. The thought crossed his mind to wait out the rest of the night, make himself comfortable in the car. And then his paranoia launched another assault. What if someone noticed the padlock missing? What if he had been seen sneaking in? What if the forces of law and order were on their way to his concrete box? Pointless delay would only encourage them to strengthen their positions and their advantage. What would be his benefit in staying there? Would it be better to leave under cover of darkness or in daylight? As if to speed his decision, the Doppler wailing of a siren a street away reminded him of the pressing reality of his situation.
There was no electricity in the garage. He felt his way along the wall, barking a shin on something solid. He fumbled the key into the door lock and was rewarded with the dull illumination of the car’s interior light. At least the battery wasn’t dead. He put his treasure box on the front passenger seat and investigated the garage for anything that might be useful. Apart from the car there was nothing.
With the key in the ignition the greens, reds and blues of the dashboard lights glowed brightly. He watched as the petrol gauge needle climbed steadily toward the three-quarter-full mark and stopped. He turned it off. It would start when the time came. He was sure. Thank you, Gerald.
Sansom’s eyes drifted back to his treasure box. He reached across and prized off the lid. He removed a small photo album and turned a couple of leaves in the dim interior lighting. Family pictures of his baby daughter and his wife. He withdrew one from its protective sleeve and stared at it until his eyes stung before sliding it into his shirt pocket. If he ever became separated from the box again, at least he would have something to remind him of the faces that his memory was beginning to struggle with.
The engine caught immediately and settled down to a healthy tick over. He got out of the car and pushed up the garage door. There was no shouting or shooting. No bright lights. He edged the car out, closed the door and replaced the padlock – in no guilty hurry if anyone was looking. Leave it as he found it. He eased the car on to the highway for the drive south and wondered more earnestly, now that the opportunity to do so had arrived, how he would discover Stan Tallis’s home address.
They had spoken on the telephone several times since Tallis’s return to the UK but at no time had the policeman given his address. There had been no need and it had never cropped up in conversation. Tallis was always going to come up to London to meet Sansom when the time came. All Sansom knew was the name of the village in which he lived. And only then because Tallis had mentioned it in passing during the few days that they had spent together at Eda’s coastal summer home.
Before he had travelled a mile he had been passed by three wailing police cars hurrying in the opposite direction. It gave him an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Familiar with the general direction in which he would need to head, he drove sedately through the almost deserted London streets for Richmond, then Feltham and then the M3 that would transport him towards the little village of Waterlooville in Hampshire.
*
She knew they would come for her. She’d heard the noises across the gardens, seen the pyrotechnic display and increased activity. She pulled the covers over her head and wished she had just minded her own business. Something terrible had happened and she was responsible for it. She understood that too. She feared she would be in trouble and she didn’t want to be. She wanted to be left alone.
She didn’t have to wait long. A hard rapping at her front door made her start. She forced herself out of her cocooned sanctuary and made her way to the upstairs window at the front of the house, so that she might look down on her front doorstep. Before she had managed the distance the banging had started again, more insistent. A police car was parked at the kerb, its lights going round and round attracting all sorts of attention. She opened the window and called down to the two men standing in her garden.
‘Mrs Daniels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could we speak to you, please, madam?’
‘What about?’ she said, sounding stupid to herself.
‘The nine-nine-nine phone call you made earlier.’
They weren’t going to go away. Better to get it over with. ‘I’m coming down.’ She shut the window and felt a heaviness settle in her chest.
*
‘So you saw one man cross the garden and enter the property opposite?’
‘I never said I saw him go into the house, only cross the garden and go over the wall.’
‘Right. But sometime later you did see two officers enter the house?’
‘I saw two people go in the back door. I couldn’t see whether they were police or not, but I suppose they must have been because there were flashing lights in the road in front of the house.’
The officer consulted his notes. ‘And then you saw two other figures enter the house? You are quite sure about that?’
‘Yes. After the man had come back over the wall and across the garden carrying a box, two others came around the side of the building and went in the back door.’
The officer frowned. ‘You’re sure you’re not confusing your timings? You’re sure the noises you heard came after the man left the property?’
The Inspector was beginning to irritate the old woman. She’d explained it twice already and he didn’t believe her. He obviously didn’t think she was reliable. She was used to it from her son. He always doubted her version of anything simply because she was old.
She fixed him with a stubborn stare. ‘I’m quite sure. I’m quite certain that I heard two noises that sounded like gunshots with matching flashes after the man had gone, and then two figures left the building. I was in the Land Army as a young woman. I remember what gunfire sounds like. Not all little old ladies are senile and unworldly.’ That made him think, she saw with some small satisfaction.
‘And then?’
‘And then I went to bed. It disturbed me.’
*
When his turn came, Chief Inspector Shelby didn’t want to believe her either. He wanted her to be confused, mistaken. He wanted her to seem uncertain, so that he could doubt her. He wanted her to recant her story. He wanted this to be simple, not complicated. Without her version of events they had one man entering the building, the police arriving and the unknown man shooting both officers dead and escaping before the intelligence services that had the property under surveillance – on the off-chance that the villain of the moment, Sansom, would put in an appearance at his father-in-law’s home – got the green light from their bosses and made their entry. That was bad enough. The old woman’s account made things much more complicated. It also made liars of the two intelligence officers who had called in claiming to have found the dead bodies. If they were lying about that, what else were they lying about? Were they watching for Sansom? If it was Sansom, what was he doing there? What had been in the box that this stubborn old woman in front of him was adamant he had got away with? And the hardest questions of all to consider: if Sansom had already left before the uniformed officers were shot dead in the kitchen of the house opposite, who did shoot them and why? The only answers that he could come up with for those questions made him very, very uncomfortable indeed.
‘Right, Mrs Daniels. One last time. Go from when you first noticed the man crossing your garden, if you would.’
*
As he drove, Sansom wondered and worried about Eda. He hadn’t spoken to her since he had borrowed the girl’s phone in the village square and he had no chance of doing so now. While he respected her for her stubbornness, he could only hope that she had understood the full potential and seriousness of the threat that their enemies posed and got rid of her mobile phone as he had instructed her to. He knew, too, that she would be worrying about him and he determined to leave a message for her at her paper as soon as he was able.
Joining the M3, he
relaxed a little. The alternative plan he had hatched to prove his innocence, guarantee future survival and freedom was audacious and would not be without its difficulties. He had only a broad outline that he was working from. Firstly, he needed to gather his evidence. Secondly, he needed to convince someone, a complete stranger who would not be sympathetic to his position or cause, not only to believe in him but also to help him. Thirdly, he had to set a trap and lure in his quarry and then cross his fingers that he could be persuaded to talk honestly. The factors, variables, chances and odds made his spirits dip when he tried to think through the logistical juggling act that it would be. As someone who didn’t believe in either luck or the Almighty, he felt both vulnerable and alone. His one positive that he could draw strength from was that he had been here before.
*
Bishop had not slept well. He hadn’t slept well since learning that Sansom had not perished, as he had been led to believe, along with the men he had been dispatched to kill in the explosive climax of his Turkish crusade. When he learned that Sansom was being encouraged back to England as a potential witness in some secret investigation against him his sleeping patterns had become even more disturbed. On discovering that Sansom had escaped Smith’s little welcoming committee and was probably focussed on something that he had proved rather effective at – revenge – he wondered why he went to bed at all, so little was he able to sleep.
As dawn showed itself behind the curtains he rose, even though he had no need to so early on this day. His one and only engagement wasn’t until after lunch and it wasn’t so far away that he couldn’t have enjoyed a couple more hours in bed. Under normal circumstances, that is. But with Sansom still loose and doubtless looking for him, with his guilt of association to events that were so far out of his control and approval plaguing his anxieties, he had to try to keep himself busy. Lying in a bed staring at a ceiling with his imagination conjuring up dreadful scenario after dreadful scenario was not helpful.
He moved downstairs to the large farmhouse-style kitchen, automatically filled the kettle, took out a tea bag, milk and a mug. While he waited for the water to boil, he turned on the little television. He flicked through to his favoured news channel. The screen cut from advertisement to grim-faced anchor-woman. As the kettle began to whistle on the gas ring, she told of the deaths the previous night of two police officers – both parents – called to investigate an alleged burglary in the capital. Both had been shot dead at close range. Neither had been armed. Police were linking the shootings with the deaths in the last week of an intelligence officer in the security services and a Detective Inspector who had heroically attempted to arrest a man that police were urgently seeking to assist them with their enquiries. A poor photograph of Sansom filled the screen. As Bishop stared fixated on the image his stomach misbehaved painfully. The news-anchor went on to strongly advise members of the public that, should they happen to cross the path of the man pictured, they should under no circumstances attempt to approach him. Anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts was also urged to get in touch with the police with information that might lead to the apprehension of the man being dubbed, ‘The Cop-Killer’.
As Bishop stared numbly at the screen, he knew Sansom hadn’t shot dead two unarmed police officers. That wasn’t his style. And if he hadn’t, but was being linked with the appalling event, then the politician felt sure he knew who was responsible.
The insistent high-pitched whistling cut through his thinking. He turned off the heat, his tea forgotten, and went to his study and his second mobile phone – his unofficial, unregistered one. Smith answered on the second ring. Bishop asked him straight: ‘Is he responsible for last night?’
‘The media and the police seem to think so.’
Bishop ignored it. ‘Why?’
‘Because they want to? It’s a sensational story. It sells papers.’
‘Don’t be facetious.’ He was almost shouting. ‘Why were they killed?’
‘Careful,’ warned Smith. ‘I suppose that “‘he’” must have had his reasons. Look on the bright side: keeping him as a high profile public-enemy-number-one ensures that his face stays on the front page and headlines the news bulletins. It’s what’ll catch him for us in the end – good old public interest.’
Bishop felt physically sick. Two completely innocent police officers had been murdered just to turn up the heat on Sansom. ‘Where was it?’
‘His ex-father-in-law’s.’
‘Why was he there?’
‘No idea. I can’t think why he would risk it, what could be so important to him.’
‘You’re sure it was him? Was he actually seen?’
‘Yes. Clear prints on the door handle. We have to thank him for that.’
‘I hope that you can find him soon,’ said the politician.
‘I think that after last night and the ten thousand pounds reward now being offered by the nation’s favourite tabloid-toilet-paper, he’s enjoying his last few hours of freedom. If we don’t get to him first, I doubt there’ll be much left to claim when Joe Public and plod have finished with him.’
‘You’d better be right. But you’ll understand if I remain unconvinced. He’s done nothing but run you in circles.’
‘Enjoy your afternoon,’ said Smith and broke the connection.
The afternoon, thought Bishop, feeling a fresh wave of wretchedness wash over him.
*
Sansom pulled into a twenty-four-hour motorway services thinking it best to stock up with fuel and food as one of the early morning’s anonymous travellers – one among potentially hundreds of unknown faces that would filter through in the early hours. He had the peak of the cap down, the large dark glasses on and the scarf up. He wondered what sort of look he might be accused of trying to pull off – robber, perhaps? – but guessed that the employees must see enough weirdoes pass through the forecourt each day to take little interest in another. In modern British society it was rarely a good idea to stare at weirdoes.
He’d done the last fifty miles of his journey struggling to come up with a satisfactory idea for how he was going to find Tallis’s home and whether it would be worth it – whether he would find what he would be looking for. He came up with only a few possibilities and none of them filled him with great hope for success. He could find the local library, hope that in this age of cutbacks it was still open and that it wasn’t the librarian’s day off. Maybe they would have an Internet-enabled computer that he could get something from. He could try a local newsagent, see if a local paper had anything on Tallis. Or he could wait till opening time and try to engage some bored barman in conversation: ‘Wasn’t that murdered copper from round here?’ As well as failing to excite him particularly, each option would involve contact with people, something that he wanted to avoid.
The forecourt of the petrol station had few cars on it. Tired-looking people concentrating on themselves and what they were doing. He took some comfort from this scene. He refuelled Gerald’s car and went in search of food and drink that would do the same for him. In the cramped, hot little shop, he filled a wire basket with high-energy snacks and cans of chemicals that promised him wings. The ubiquitous television was fixed high up on a wall and tuned to a news channel. Waiting for a coffee from the vending machine, he looked up to see a reporter standing in front of a house that reminded him of Gerald’s modest Victorian terraced property. It was clear that there was a good deal of police activity in and around it. The faces of two uniformed police officers filled the screen, a man and a woman – he was a father and she was a mother, the reporter said. They had died of gunshot wounds sustained at the scene. Police were seeking this man – cue the same Army photograph of Sansom that had been in the papers – in connection with the incident. Sansom’s appetite deserted him. Automatically, for appearances’ sake, he reached for the coffee he had ordered from the machine, conscious of the need to keep a rein on his emotions, outrage, panic and the last meal he had consumed. He maintained his attention on the scr
een, sipping the drink that tasted of liquid ash and burned his mouth, his immobile body doing a good job of disguising the feelings of flight, despair and nausea that flooded through him. He was glad that he did.
The story linked to the funeral that was to take place that afternoon of another of ‘The Cop-Killer’s’ victims – Detective Inspector Tallis – who was to be buried, after a service at Portsmouth Cathedral, near his home town of Waterlooville.
Sansom turned for the counter, paid for his things in cash and left without a word and on legs that were barely able to support him.
*
He drove. At the first available exit, he left the motorway, took the darkest road off the obligatory roundabout at the top of the slip-road and drove for a mile before turning off that on to a narrow B-road. He stopped the car, got out and paced under the stars in the new dawn. Years ago he used to smoke. He wished he’d thought to buy a pack in the services. He wished he had something that would offer him some comfort, some calm, something to do with his shaking hands.
He could understand why they killed Tallis. He could understand why they had silenced the intelligence officer. He could understand why they wanted him dead. But this? What kind of people could kill the innocent and unarmed? What kind of people were they who could shoot dead two police officers? Who the fuck was he up against? They reminded him of Botha’s mercenaries, men who had not thought twice about violently ending the lives of people as they would cattle, sacrificing humans as one might sacrifice pawns in a game of chess. But this wasn’t South Africa or the Pacific Ocean. This was England. This didn’t happen in the centre of the civilised world, a country that the world looked up to as a role model for its sense of fair play and systems of law and order.
He could think of only one reason why they would do it, what they could hope to profit from the senseless waste of life – to maintain and increase the outrage of the public and the law; to keep his face on the front of every newspaper and in every angry citizen’s mind. To make sure he was found and stopped.