Simms’s shoulders sagged. ‘Is there a basement?’ Ingrams angled his body towards the firearms team commander, cutting Simms out of the discussion.
‘If there is, it’s not accessible. We checked the entire floor area.’
‘Do you want us to widen the search?’ Unwin asked.
Ingrams shook his head. ‘Waste of time, Sergeant,’ he said, at last turning to look at Simms, cold, hard anger on his face. ‘It was just bad intel.’
‘Tremain was probably injured or under duress,’ Simms said, refusing to respond to his hostility. ‘It could be he just got some of the details wrong.’
‘So, what – you want us to stick a pin in the map and try somewhere else?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said.
‘Do you know how much this operation cost?’ Ingrams said. ‘Do you have any inkling?’
‘No doubt you have it down to the pounds and pennies,’ she snapped back. ‘Why don’t you tell me the cost of a child’s life, Ingrams?’
‘Hey – this isn’t your case,’ he said. ‘And it isn’t your chance to make good on the mess you and Fennimore made five years ago.’
She moved forward. ‘You bastard.’
Unwin stepped between them, facing her, his intense grey eyes full of warning. She stripped off her helmet and walked away.
The cool air on her neck was a welcome respite and she quickly got a grip on her temper, but she walked on, putting distance between herself and Ingrams.
Their local intel said that parts of the canal were in the process of being reclaimed by a group of local enthusiasts, yet this stretch remained untouched, weed-choked and even drained in places where the banks had been stripped of their retaining bricks. The ground beneath her feet became soggy and she stopped, clenching and unclenching her fists for a few moments. She took some deep breaths, her nostrils filling with the mingled smells of damp brick dust, mould and the pond-water reek of the canal a couple of hundred yards behind the mill.
Ahead the ground rose slightly, and here and there scrubby bushes grew out of the brick dust and clay. Ingrams was right – they should cut their losses and go home – there was nothing here but rubble and two hundred years of city grime.
She lowered her head, preparing for the ordeal of admitting to him that she had got it wrong. As her head cleared, she focused on a pattern of ridges and troughs in the wet clay. At first she didn’t know what she was looking at, but her heart rate kicked up a notch a microsecond ahead of her thought processes. She dropped to a crouch and looked more closely. Tyre tracks.
Bikers, she rationalized, mini-scooters – the scourge of inner cities. But this place was so far removed from any housing development it seemed unlikely. She got lower and viewed the tread marks from an acute angle. Too wide for a pedal cycle or a scooter. She scanned right and found another faint impression, stood to get a feel for the distance between the two tracks. Too for wide a quad bike. An SUV would be more like it – and hadn’t they found SUV tyre tracks near Julia Myers’s burned-out car?
She stood to the side of them; they seemed to be heading up over the slight incline.
Walking a couple of feet to the left of the tracks, she followed them over the rise and then down into a dip, heading in the direction of the canal. The area was overgrown with bushes and whippy saplings, but the vehicle had flattened a pathway. She kept to the edge and, fifty yards on, entered a clearing of sorts.
It was a large concreted area, overlaid with moss and creeping grasses, and at its centre, a red-brick building, three storeys high – small in comparison with the mill they had searched, but still substantial. She remained at the edge of the clearing, taking in the steel shutters on the windows and skylights, a few slipped tiles on the roof. Most of the roof lead was gone, as were the guttering and downpipes. Ferns, buddleia and even a few small rowan trees grew out of cracks in the walls. But these were the only signs of life.
She carried on towards what must once have been a clock-tower, stepping over broken glass and spalled bricks, softened by damp and penetrating frosts. The clock-tower was blind, the faces long since taken down or looted for scrap. A wrought-iron canopy over the main entrance sagged, its glass in shards on the ground. She stepped back and found a date embossed in the brickwork: 1820. Faded painted lettering above the canopy read: ‘CHAMPION COTTON’. The once grand front doors were covered in steel plates, secured by rusted bolts and padlocks.
The tyre tracks had vanished at the edge of the concrete, but as she walked around the perimeter, she noticed some flattened willowherb: a vehicle must have been parked parallel to the wall. A short distance on, she found a large sliding door. The rollers were ancient, but it looked like new grease had been applied top and bottom, and three brand-new hasps had been fitted, each with a bright brass padlock.
The rat came back. Lauren kicked the water bottle and it skittered away, but it came back again. She put her hand inside Mummy’s bag to find something to throw. Her hand closed around a lipstick but it was too light and her hand felt floppy, so it just bounced and rolled, far away from the rat. She tried again, wanting something heavier to throw at the nasty old thing, and found Mummy’s purse. That missed as well, but it did make a loud thunk on the water bottle, and the rat ran away, squealing. Lauren dipped her fingers inside the bottle and sucked the dampness from them.
Simms heard a faint sound, something being dropped maybe? She felt for her mobile phone and called Ingrams. ‘I think I have something,’ she said.
‘For God’s sake, Simms—’
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Three hundred yards north-west of your location, there’s another mill. It’s smaller, secured, locked and bolted from the outside – and I think I can hear someone inside the building.’
‘All right,’ he said, sounding resigned. ‘Wait for back-up.’
‘Just follow the line of the canal,’ she said, closing the phone.
The rat was coming back.
Lauren’s tears felt hot on her skin. No. Go away.
She felt inside the bag again, and her fingers closed around something small and round. She pulled her hand out and looked at the shiny prize, hardly able to believe her luck. A yellow one. She put it in her mouth and chewed greedily, while she ransacked Mummy’s handbag for more. She found three and popped them in her mouth, even though they did taste a bit of Mummy’s perfume. For half a minute, she felt her old strength. But when she tried to get up, she couldn’t. Even the special sweeties couldn’t give her superpowers back to her. She slumped to the floor, sobbing.
Simms pressed an ear to the door and listened. Is that a child crying? Was she imagining it – conjuring up the sound because that was what she wanted to hear?
‘Lauren,’ she called softly. ‘Lauren Myers? It’s the police. Can you answer me, Lauren?’
Silence.
Mummy was calling her: ‘Lauren Myers,’ she said, like when she was in trouble and Mummy got cross. But Mummy was just in her head, and anyway her throat was too sore to speak out loud, so she answered inside her head. ‘I didn’t do anything, Mummy. I been good.’
Mummy called again: ‘Lauren, are you there?’
‘Yes. Yes – I’m here!’ Lauren shouted back, but only in her head.
Simms felt a hand on her shoulder and wheeled to face her attacker, shoving his chest hard with her left hand, her right hand already on her Glock.
It was Unwin.
‘Woah,’ he said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Simms exhaled in a rush.
‘You’re strong for a skinny lass,’ he said.
‘And you’re quiet for a chunky guy,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky you didn’t get your head blown off.’
She saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes and coughed a shaky laugh.
Tension defused, she turned to the door.
‘There’s someone in there,’ she said.
‘I’ve got two lads on the way over with bolt-cutters,’ he said. ‘We just need to hang tigh
t a couple more minutes.’
From inside the building, a child’s voice began singing: ‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Poppa’s gonna buy you a mock-in bird …’
Simms shushed him. ‘You hear that?’
‘What?’ he said.
‘There’s a child in there, Sergeant.’ She pulled frantically at the door, but two burly cops appeared and eased her aside, their bolt-cutters slicing through the padlock hasps as if they were liquorice. Two more armed officers arrived and they paused, waiting for the go signal. Two of them gripped the sliding doors while Unwin counted them down. The metal screamed over the rollers like a beast in pain and Simms’s heart seemed to grind with it like rocks over gravel. Finally, it yielded, flooding light into the dark interior.
Unwin’s men went in, their scope lights penetrating the furthest recesses of the old mill, scattering rats right and left. Simms followed, weapon drawn. The place was empty. The men looked to Unwin for guidance, weapons lowered.
Simms continued scanning. She hadn’t imagined that voice. She turned one-eighty and caught a slight movement to her left. She nodded to a humped blanket next to a rotting loom. Signalling the men to be quiet, she began singing softly, her voice trembling: ‘If that mockingbird don’t sing, Poppa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring …’
A tousled head appeared from under the blanket. Lauren was filthy and flushed with fever, and she looked half-starved.
Simms holstered her weapon and moved in slowly. ‘If that diamond ring is brass …’
‘Poppa’s gonna buy you a look-in glass …’ The little girl tilted her head and she seemed to be staring at something over Simms’s left shoulder. ‘Are we going home now, Mummy?’ she said.
Simms smiled down at her. ‘Yes, sweetie,’ she said, ‘we’re going home.’
44
Kate Simms rode in the ambulance with Lauren to the hospital. She stayed, keeping out of the medics’ way, as they performed a gentle preliminary examination of the little girl. A nurse drew every blind and switched off the lights to protect Lauren’s eyes from the sudden shock of daylight. When Simms had tried to leave, the girl became hysterical, screaming for her mummy.
Lauren’s father arrived just as they were finishing up. By now Lauren was on a saline drip and they had cleaned her up a bit. He stepped into the room tentatively: the family liaison officer would have briefed him to remain calm and to gauge Lauren’s reaction instead of rushing in. The doctor stepped back, with a smile.
‘Look who’s here, Lauren,’ she said.
The child stretched out her arms. ‘Daddy!’
Mr Myers rushed to his daughter’s side, tears brimming, but making an effort to control his emotions. ‘Hey …’ He crouched at the side of the bed. ‘How’s my brave girl?’
‘I ate the sweeties to make the Yellow Peril scare off the Bad Man when he took Mummy away and I shouted Bad Things at him and climbed up high but he whispered horrible things and Mummy didn’t come back, so I had to get down and I hurt my leg and couldn’t get up again and the rats was stealing everything but then Mummy did come and she rescued me.’
Mr Myers choked back a sob, turning to the doctor for an explanation.
‘She’s slightly delirious – it’s possible she picked up Weil’s disease from drinking contaminated water,’ she said. ‘Does Lauren have any allergies to antibiotics?’
He shook his head and the doctor gave instructions to the nurse.
Simms sidled towards the door, and Lauren began to breathe fast and shallow. ‘No, Mummy, don’t go.’ She held out her arms. ‘Stay, Mummy, stay, Mummy, pleeeeease.’
Mr Myers turned, a look of horror, mingled with heart-wrenching hope on his face. Seeing Simms, his face contorted for a brief moment, the hope dislodged by pain. Simms could see the physical effort it took to hold himself together.
‘You’re the one who—?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Simms,’ she said, holding out her hand, gripping his tightly and willing some of her strength into him. ‘She’s just confused, sir,’ she added quietly. ‘She’ll be better soon.’
When Lauren was medicated and calm, Simms slipped outside to take a call from her contact at Police Scotland.
‘Bad news,’ he said.
A smiling DCI Ingrams was heading towards her, his hand outstretched. Simms raised a finger, asking for a moment, and the smile froze on his face.
‘There’s been a double shooting on a country road six miles north-west of Aberdeen,’ the sergeant went on.
‘Josh?’ she said.
‘Aye. We found him in a ditch a mile up the road from a crashed Toyota Corolla. There was a body in the boot of the car – answers the description of your carjack killer.’
45
If you have the bad luck to get murdered, try not to survive as far as the hospital.
A TRADITIONAL SAYING OF
PATHOLOGISTS AND CSIS
Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, Thursday Night
Fennimore stared down at Josh’s still form. When Simms phoned to say they had found the girl safe, it felt like a rock had been lifted off his chest. Now an entire mountain had crashed down on him.
Detective Chief Inspector Gordon, the SIO in charge of the case, stood by Fennimore’s side in a treatment bay at the hospital. Fennimore gazed at the carnage of blood-soaked pads and other detritus scattered on the floor.
‘Why is he still here?’ he asked. He had taken the first flight back and grabbed a taxi straight from the airport, but even so, it had taken three hours in all to reach the hospital.
‘They worked on him for an hour at the roadside before they could risk moving him,’ Gordon said.
Fennimore took in the tube, draining fluid from Josh’s side, a catheter delivering straw-coloured liquid into a bag below the trolley, a line carrying blood into a vein on the back of his hand. He couldn’t bear to watch the steady drip of blood in the IV delivery chamber, and switched his attention instead to the multi-coloured traces on the electronic monitor that confirmed – despite all appearances – that Josh had survived the shooting.
‘What’s the damage?’ he asked.
‘Two bullet wounds – one to the back of the head, one to the chest.’
‘Professional hit,’ Fennimore said.
Gordon tilted his head. ‘Maybe not. They botched it. The first bullet nicked his heart and damaged his left lung, but just missed the aorta.’
‘The head wound?’ Fennimore said.
‘The bullet’s still in there, lodged behind the left brow-bone. There’s a chance they can get to it, but they want to wait until he’s more stable. Josh’s heart stopped just as they wheeled him in here; they got it going again, but couldn’t get his BP up – he was bleeding internally – it took them a while to find the source.’
A doctor stood a few feet distant, talking rapidly into a phone, and with some force, but too quietly for Fennimore to get the gist.
‘They’re trying to find an ICU bed,’ the cop said.
Fennimore resisted the urge to wrest the phone from the doctor’s hand and threaten physical harm on the bureaucrat at the other end of the line. ‘You know Josh’s family has a contract out on him?’ he said.
The chief inspector glanced sharply at Fennimore. ‘I’m surprised you do.’
‘Lazko recognized him.’
‘The journalist who was just murdered?’
Fennimore nodded. ‘He handed me a file on Josh – and his family.’
‘So Lazko exposed Josh?’
Fennimore chose not to answer that one.
‘Did you catch the shooter?’ he asked.
DCI Gordon seemed to be debating whether to answer, and Fennimore said, ‘Come on, Chief Inspector – you know me.’
Gordon ran his tongue around his front teeth. ‘Aye, all right,’ he said at last. ‘We sent out a nationwide alert for a BMW involved in an RTC near Josh’s place,’ he went on, coming at the answer crab-wise. ‘Pretty soon we were getting calls about near-misses from th
e west of Aberdeen city.’
‘The upshot?’ Fennimore said, unable to curb his impatience.
‘We arrested three men trying to board a plane at Aberdeen airport an hour ago,’ the cop said. ‘Josh’s two brothers and a cousin. They’d dumped their car down a farm road on the east side of the river and hoofed it from there.’
‘Tremain was found in the boot of a Toyota – so that was Josh’s car?’
A slight dip of the head. ‘It’s registered to a low-level criminal in Leeds – he claims it was stolen.’
‘Josh covering his tracks,’ Fennimore said. ‘It means the brothers dumped Tremain and moved Josh in their car …’
‘Obviously.’
Fennimore scrutinized Josh’s hands and wrists, thinking of that first night Lazko had come to him about the case, looming out of the fog like a half-pint troll. Josh, fast and ruthless in neutralizing the threat, as he saw it.
‘What?’ Gordon said.
‘No sign of ligature marks on his wrists,’ Fennimore said. ‘And his hands … Look at them – they’re clean, no bruising, no scrapes. I can’t believe he didn’t put up a fight.’
‘Hard to argue with a gun,’ Gordon countered. ‘And he’d already taken a blow to the head – probably in the crash.’ He frowned. ‘That said … the younger brother has got a cut to the bridge of his nose and both eyes are blackened …’
Good, Fennimore thought. ‘The gun?’
‘They must have tossed it – but the two brothers did test positive for gunshot residue. They’re claiming they lost Josh after the collision with the Mini Cooper near his apartment; they were just heading for home when the police stopped them. It’s bollocks of course – Josh was found barely a mile and a half from where they dumped the Beamer. And the BMW is badly damaged – we’re confident that paint transfer will confirm it was the vehicle that collided with both the Mini and the Toyota.’
‘You need to examine the BMW very carefully.’
The cop gave him a solid look. ‘Really?’ he said.
Fennimore passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry – you know that. It’s just—’
Truth Will Out Page 24