“Let’s find out.”
Croft was glad to be back in the dim daylight of the upper room, where he presented the keys to Mrs Iqbal. “Have you ever tried any of these keys anywhere?” he asked.
She took them and quickly worked through them. “That one fitted the lock on the back gate. We put our own lock on when we first moved in.” Discarding the simple mortise key, she moved around the ring to the next three. “These were all to do with an old shed outside. We tore it down and got rid of it.” Pushing those around the key ring, she held up the final one. “That one, we never found a use for.”
Croft took it from her. It reminded him of an old fashioned car key, from his favourite decade, the sixties: the kind that had been in constant use in the days before alarms and immobilisers.
“It can’t be a car key,” he muttered after explaining his deduction to Millie. “Any car that old must be rotten by now.”
“Then what?”
A deep frown creased his brow. “I don’t know… wait. Yes I do. A caravan.”
Millie’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“A static caravan. You know. The kind they have on holiday parks. That’s what it looks like to me and…” He was silent for a moment, rushed memories hurrying through his mind, slotting into place. “That’s it. My God, that is it.”
“What?” both Millie and Mrs Iqbal hung on his words.
“That Sunday morning at Cromford Mill. Burke had my hands tied. He was waiting for the helicopter to make a final pass, after which he would run for it. I told him he would be caught in the explosion, but he said different. He said he would be smothered by the dust of the explosion, but soon after, he would be taking a taxi from the White Horse Inn, and you lot would assume he, Trish and I had all been killed in the blast. He also said by the time you realised what had happened, he would be miles away with a fresh identity.”
Millie nodded. “I remember you telling me.”
“But where was that new identity? Did you find a fake passport at his place?”
With a shake of the head, Millie replied, “We never found a genuine passport.”
“So where was it? In a caravan, probably on a holiday park somewhere at this end of the country, that’s where. And it’s still there, and this key unlocks that caravan.”
Millie shook he head. “Felix, there is no way he would have left that key here. It would mean he’d been planning an escape long before he was ever captured. He would have kept it with him.”
“This was a spare,” Croft argued. “He probably had one key on that bunch at Hattersley prison. I don’t know, because I didn’t take much notice. Millie, we both know how carefully Burke planned. He left nothing to chance. He would not trust to luck that he’d never lose his keys. Getting away, assuming a new identity was all part of his original plan, and he would have a backup. This key,” he held it up again, “is a part of that backup.”
Millie shrugged. “All right. Mrs Iqbal, do you mind if we take this key away? I’ll give you a receipt for it.”
“No, no. Of course…” Mrs Iqbal trailed off at the sound of a horn blaring and three sharp cracks tearing through the morning air outside.
Croft and Millie rushed from the room. Croft hurtled through the front door, out into the street, in time to see Prather half out of his car, a van behind him, its windscreen shattered, and Constable Ackworth on the ground, blood pouring from a head wound. Croft’s eyes darted from the wounded police officer to Prather and back again. An image came into his mind. Trish; cold, grey, laid on the mortuary slab. He stared into Prather’s eyes. Prather jumped back into the car and fumbled with the keys.
The fury, reined in and under control since his visit to Warrington, welled up, flooded and broke. Giving full vent to it, Croft rushed at the vehicle.
“Felix, no!” Millie cried.
Prather raised the pistol, aiming at Croft’s head. Croft ducked. The pistol cracked and the bullet whistled harmlessly over Croft’s right shoulder. He heard it zing from the unyielding brick of the house.
The car engine roared into life. Fumbling the gear lever, Prather gunned the accelerator and let the clutch in. Croft grabbed the door handle as the car leapt forward. Prather reached out and hammered at Croft’s hand. Its speed varying, the car reeled violently from side to side. Croft ignored the blows to his hand and managed to open the car door. The Nissan collided with a car on the left. Croft, still running alongside, heard Millie screaming after him. Ignoring her, he reached in to grab Prather by the collar. Prather yanked the wheel hard right, careening across the street, aiming obliquely at another parked vehicle. Croft saw it coming too and braced himself for the impact.
The half open door smashed into the parked car, Croft, too, slammed into it, the door was torn from his grip, and he fell to the ground, rolling over a couple of times on the hard tarmac while Prather accelerated away and out of the street.
His whole body aching, bones bruised and crying to him in agony, Croft sat up, pressed his back against a parked car, and conducted a mental, internal examination. The sound of Millie’s heels hurrying along the street reached him.
“Felix,” she wept. “Are you out of your mind? He could have killed you.”
Still dazed, Croft took her arm and, leaning on the damaged, parked vehicle, drew himself slowly, agonisingly upright. He shook his head to clear it.
Tears streamed down Millie’s cheeks. “We need you, Felix. I need you. He could have… could have killed you.” She stemmed the flow of tears, and let her anger show through. “This isn’t the rugby field at Loxley. It’s not a game. He’s armed. He shot at you.”
With a groan, Croft disagreed. “He was aiming past me. Trying to scare me.” His anger began to return. “I had him, Millie. I had the bastard in my hand and he got away.” Croft rubbed at his hip and with her help began to limp back along the street. “He won’t kill me. He can’t. He doesn’t have what he wants, yet.” His voice sounded croaky. “The constable?”
Millie ignored the question. “Are you all right?”
“Bruised. That’s all. Bruised and mad as hell that I let him get away. Come on, Millie. You’re a police officer. Check on the boy.”
She left him and trudged back. Croft limped along behind her.
A small crowd had gathered round Constable Ackworth. His blood had flowed across the kerb and pavement. The van driver was talking with residents, others looked away, yet others stared in pity on the broken boy.
“Let me through, please,” Millie barked. “I’m a police officer. Come on. Just stand back and let me through.”
The crowd parted for her. She pressed her way through, urging them back. Bending over Ackworth, she put a hand to his neck. Half turning she looked up at Croft and gave the slightest shake of her head. Taking out her mobile, she dialled.
“This is Detective Inspector Matthews of Scarbeck CID,” she barked. “I’m attached to the Serious Incident Unit dealing with the escape of Gerald Burke… yes, that Inspector Matthews. I’m in the Easton area of Bristol, outside 36 Sentinel Street. I have a man down, shot twice in the head. I am armed, but I want armed back up and Scientific Support out here now… Hold on.” She glanced at Croft. “Did you get the registration number?”
Croft shook his head. “Silver-grey Nissan Micra,” he said. “First two letters were FY. That’s all I can tell you.
Millie spoke into the phone again. “This is vague, but we need an APB on a silver grey Nissan Micra. First two letters of the registration are believed to be foxtrot yankee. It’s probably stolen, it’s certainly damaged on the offside driver’s door. The driver is our main suspect, William Prather. He is armed and dangerous. Have you got all that?” Millie waited while the station officer repeated the details. “Good. I’ll stay here until the backup arrives. And you’d better get an ambulance for Constable Ackworth. No, there’s no rush. He’s dead.”
33
Late in 1970, on the night Julius died, I finally realised the terrible truth abou
t my son and the damage he had done not only to himself, but to Billy.
He had been expelled from Granthaven the year before after an incident with a visiting nurse. If he’d only groped her, I could probably have got him off, but when she turned and slapped him, he lost his temper and beat her up quite badly. Technically, the school should have called the police. Gerald was, after all, over the age of criminal responsibility. The economy was in a poor state as luck would have it, and Granthaven was struggling for boarders, so they hushed it up. I had to pay for her treatment, and pay her off with a hefty, mouth-shutting bribe.
I squeezed him into the local grammar school so he could sit his O Levels, and later, I used a bit of pull with the local authority who were happy to take him on as a junior clerk.
I knew he had always had these tendencies, and yet I couldn’t understand why. Sure, I’d had to be hard with Julius when we first met at Folshingham Hall, but I wasn’t really that nasty, and time had mellowed me considerably. Gerald was worse, and his violence rubbed off on Billy.
The incident with the pup was only the first we knew about. As he grew, there were others. He slit the throat of a cat so he could watch it bleed to death. He hanged another dog so he would watch it struggle on the end of the rope. And then, during the summer after his sixteenth birthday, his exams behind him, he came home a hell of a mess, covered in blood, scratches and bruises. I asked what had happened and he insisted he had got into a fight with a fairground worker, but he boasted that he had given as good as he got.
Three days later, I read in the newspapers of the murder of a fairground worker; he was found in the Avon, under Brunel’s suspension bridge. He, too had extensive bruising, but he had been strangled. I knew then, that it was Gerald.
Naturally, I confronted him, and eventually he confessed. I said something like, “I wish Julius were here. He was the only one who could ever calm you down, boy.” That started an argument between Gerald and I.
As it became more and more heated, facts began to emerge, and when Gerald realised how badly they affected me, he played on them.
“He’s shagging mother,” he shouted at me. “He’s been fucking her for years behind your back. And she enjoys it.”
His words merely confirmed something I already knew, but I fought a determined rearguard on behalf of his mother’s good name.
“Good name?” He laughed at what he perceived as my naivety. “She’s a fucking whore. She behaved like a bitch on heat when he was around and you weren’t. And he didn’t need to use his precious Deep Secret on her.”
I beat him. I thrashed him until he could barely sit down, but he would not relent. He called my beautiful Georgina all the filthy names he could think of, and I beat him some more.
In the end, he faced me tearfully. “You will live to regret that.” I ordered him to his room and not to show his face again.
A cold distance separated me from the son I loved, and I took to my study, brooding on the things he had brought to the surface. I knew what he had done, but I could not make him pay for his crimes or his candour. Instead, I vowed that he would never have The Deep Secret until he could demonstrate that he was fit and ready for it.
And I grieved for my friend Julius who died, leaving me with the headache of my only son.
34
Barely suppressing her anger, Millie reported to Chief Superintendent Durbridge of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary.
“I was surprised to find Constable Ackworth alone and unarmed, sir. I spoke to Superintendent Shannon, my superior, last night, and he assured me that he had advised Avon and Somerset to deploy AFOs discreetly so that Harper, or Prather, as we believe his name to be, could be apprehended when he showed up at Sentinel Street. We were ahead of him and, as well as losing another officer, we’ve now lost him again.”
Unlike the station commander at Scarbeck, Durbridge preferred a dark grey business suit to his uniform. Not that it lessened his authority, as Millie became aware the moment she had entered the spacious, plainly furnished office, and Durbridge made clear who was in charge.
He reiterated his position now. “You have been given a free hand, Inspector, but I command this force, and it is my decision whether or not to deploy AFOs.”
Millie stood her ground. “I appreciate that, sir, and no one is trying to usurp your command, but all forces south of Manchester were informed that Harper was armed and dangerous, Avon and Somerset, in particular, were told that he was making for Bristol and specifically, Sentinel Street. In my opinion, to leave a single, unarmed office on duty outside the house is tantamount to…” She was about to say ‘dereliction of duty’, but restrained herself. That really would be beyond the pale. “… to a complete disregard of our advice,” she concluded lamely.
“Well, let me correct you, Inspector, before I consider reporting you for insubordination. The fax I received from Superintendent Shannon in Scarbeck insisted that Harper, Prather, call him what you wish, may be armed and there was good reason to suspect that he was coming our way. Like any other commander, I have to account for the deployment of armed officers, and I was not about to send them out against a man who might be armed and might be heading our way.”
“Is that an official stance, Durbridge, or are you simply rehearsing your excuses for the Home Office inquiry?”
Millie felt her blood run cold when Croft spoke. Before she could intervene to pour oil on troubled waters, Durbridge turned furious eyes on Croft and spat back. “How dare you speak to me like that? Let me remind you that you are attached to this investigation on a consultative basis only.”
“Consultative basis?” Croft hissed. “Let me remind you that this man murdered my partner. He had no need to. After what Burke did to her the year before last, she had no mind so she could never have told us anything. He killed her purely to goad me. He also murdered her brother and his wife. Not content with that, he murdered two police officers who were making a routine call at the house. He also killed his partner, Gerald Burke, then shot a shopkeeper, a farmer and his wife, and two employees at a Theatrical Supplies warehouse. He also had a hand in helping Burke to escape, during which he killed two prison officers, a nurse, a taxi driver, a van driver, and another nurse in Leeds.” Reaching into his pocket, Croft tossed his mobile phone on the Chief Superintendent’s desk. “I received a text message from him just after he killed your Constable Ackworth. It reads: ‘Bristol. Been there, done that, chalk another cop up on the scoreboard. The killing won’t stop until I have The Deep Secret’.” Croft jabbed his finger in the air at Durbridge. “Don’t tell me I’m only a consultant. This is personal.” He flung himself from his chair and marched out, leaving Durbridge gaping after him.
Millie picked up Croft’s phone and smiled wanly. “I’m sorry, sir, but much though we value Mr Croft’s assistance, he’s not a police officer, and not subject to our etiquette or disciplinary procedures.”
“It’s time he learned some manners. Did his father teach him nothing?”
Millie leapt to Croft’s defence. “He’s under a great deal of stress, sir. As he just pointed out, his partner was abducted, raped and tortured by Burke, to such an extent that she lost her mind. Mr Croft has had to live with that for the last eighteen months or more, and as if that were not enough, when Burke escaped, he made straight for Trish Sinclair, and murdered her.” She sighed. “Felix is a formidable opponent, and he has an insight, not only into Burke’s mindset, but those of his father and Prather’s father, too. If anyone can smoke Prather out, it’s Felix Croft.”
Durbridge was not mollified. “Man still needs to learn some respect. So, where are you up to, Inspector?”
Glad of the change of subject, Millie shrugged. “We’re not exactly back at square one, but the chance of apprehending Prather is gone and we have to deal with that. We’re in the same passive position as before, waiting for him to show himself again. We have one lead. It’s thin and it could take us to any one of a thousand places in the south and southwest of E
ngland. Unless Felix and I can find a hint in the documents we’re working on, we’re stumped.” In another effort to appease Durbridge’s irritation, she went on, “My report, naturally, will be factual, not opinionated. It will be up to you to argue it out with any internal inquiry.”
“I stand by my decisions, Inspector. So is there anything else we can help with?”
“A couple of points, sir. First, fireworks. Are there any large suppliers in the Bristol area?”
“A good number, I should imagine. The front desk will be able to help you there. You think Prather may strike at fireworks supplier next?”
“We’re pretty much in the dark, sir, but the pencil rubbing Mr Croft produced at Hattersley mentioned fireworks. Can I ask, where are the search teams up to at Sentinel Street?”
“Another waste of time and manpower, if you ask me,” Durbridge announced. “They finished the scans of the cellar yesterday and they found nothing. They were scheduled to begin work on the back yard this morning, but they could be delayed by the SOCOs out front. What are you doing from here?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Mr Croft does most of the lateral thinking, and I follow his lead.”
“Then God help you, girl.”
Millie tutted. She wanted to say, ‘Didn’t you hear one word I said just now?’ and had she been facing Ernie Shannon, she would have done so. Durbridge needed different handling. “That’s a bit unfair, sir. I believe Croft to be right when he says Prather wants him. Prather had ample time and opportunity to kill Croft on Sentinel Street, but instead he drove off.”
Durbridge harrumphed. “So how long are you likely to be cluttering up Bristol?”
Millie shrugged. “Not sure, sir. A day or two, maybe less, maybe more. We’re now looking for a caravan park which may have figured in Burke’s history.”
Durbridge gave a scornful bark. “Do you know how many caravan parks there are between here and Lands End, Inspector?”
The Deep Secret Page 23