by Michael Kerr
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Matt was first to arrive, so got a fresh pot of coffee going. Errol showed up soon after, and within twenty minutes it was a full house. Half the team were concentrating on the Housekeeper Killer case, the other half on the rapist murderer, John Gibson. Matt spent his time between the two groups, hoping that some scraps of evidence would give them a lead on one or preferably both of the cases.
It was ten-thirty a.m. when Matt got the call. A DI overseeing the search in Epping Forest was on the line. They knew each other from way back, when both had been uniformed PCs.
“Hi, Matt,” Nick Wade said. “We think we got an Immediate Priority radio call from an officer doing a sweep of properties in the search area.”
“Think?”
“Yeah. He gave his location, and said it was clear, and that he would be proceeding to the next address. The controller in the incident vehicle believes that it was made under duress, due to the fact that the sergeant in question used his Christian name, which is not protocol. He also said that the woman of the house was making a cup of tea for him and the officer with him. Again, not something that would be transmitted.”
“Give me your location,” Matt said.
Pete drove as if he was attempting to emulate Lewis Hamilton as he endeavoured to break the land speed record at the wheel of a high-performance Mondeo, and on roads that were heavy with traffic.
Matt sat next to him and hoped that the airbag was functional. Tam and Marci followed on behind in a pool Audi. Tam was at the wheel but had no intention of trying to keep up with Pete. He just hoped that no pedestrian walked out without first checking and seeing that a car was hurtling along like a bullet from a gun.
Pete arrived, slowed down and pulled into the lay-by, to park at the end of a line of vehicles that included five patrol cars, a black transit van that was an armed response unit, and a MICV (mobile incident command vehicle).
A uniform checked their warrant cards when they climbed out of the car. It was a couple of minutes later that Tam and Marci arrived to join them.
Matt went on board the incident room on wheels and shook hands with Nick Wade.
“The ARU is at the property now with a hostage negotiator,” Nick said, pouring coffee into a Polystyrene cup and handing it to Matt. “No news yet. They’re assessing the situation. There are three vehicles parked outside the cottage; a Jeep, Micra, and the police patrol car. The OIC informed me that they have not seen anyone, and that there is no answer to the house phone. The two missing officers are not responding to radio messages.”
“What else do we know?” Matt asked.
“We have a plan of the cottage, aerial photographs courtesy of Google, and know that the occupiers are a married couple, Douglas and Ruth Porter. There is no known connection between them and Gibson. Our current view is that Gibson is holding the couple and the officers in the cottage or the large woodshed nearby. There’s a chopper en route with heat-seeking equipment, so we should know more in a few minutes.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it nailed down, Nick.”
“It’s contained, but until he’s…incapacitated, there’s a high risk of loss of life. We have to assume that he’s mentally unstable, and that he may not be capable of making rational decisions.”
“I want to be at the cottage,” Matt said.
“It’s your case, Matt. Whatever you want.”
“What I want is for the hostages to survive. So if the ARU get a clear shot, have them given the green light to take him out.”
“He may not be armed.”
“I’ll choose to believe that if he wasn’t, then the officers he is apparently holding would have dealt with him.”
Nick picked up a handset and spoke with the officer in charge of the response unit to relay what Matt had authorised.
Inspector Vin Conley asked Nick to repeat the authorisation, said “Okay,” and then broke contact and spoke into his lip mike to the other unit members. The property was covered, and one of the officers was high up in a tree with a clear view of the frontage. He raised his scoped 0.308 sniper rifle and slowly scanned all the windows. The curtains at each one had been drawn, and so he had no view of the interior.
Nick drove Matt and the others along the track in an SUV, stopping a hundred yards from the cottage. A figure in black protective clothing appeared from the trees and approached them as they got out of the car.
Nick introduced Matt to Vin.
“It’s as quiet as the grave,” Vin said. “No movement and no response to the negotiator. The phone is live but we don’t get an answer. How do you want us to proceed?”
“Slow and easy,” Matt said. “It would be nice to resolve this with a maximum of one casualty.”
John lowered the shotgun. Killing all of them or none of them wouldn’t help him to get away. And he now felt very unsafe. Other police would come. He had bought a little time by having the cop call in and say that everything was okay, but he needed to be somewhere else, and as quickly as possible.
He considered his options, made a decision and told the female cop to lay face down. He then used the scythe to cut through the plastic ties that bound her. “What’s your first name?” he said.
“Lucy.”
“Well, Lucy, you and I are going on a hike together, after Dougie tells us where he keeps his duct tape and you’ve gagged everyone.”
He took the time to have Lucy not only gag them, but to unlock the pair of cuffs between Doug’s and Ruth’s ankles and link Rob to them. And to prevent them from attempting to break out of the shed, he told Lucy to use more of the still almost full reel of tape to bind them tightly together, and then to one of the thick legs of the heavy workbench.
He was careful. Made Lucy lie down again before securing her wrists behind her back, before instructing her to get up and walk in front of him.
With the door to the woodshed locked, John told Lucy to go into the cottage. He took two small plastic bottles full of water from the fridge and put them inside a hessian bag, along with a packet of biscuits, the box of cartridges and the hand sickle.
“Let’s go,” he said to Lucy. “I want you to head north and lead me to a main road outside the search area.”
They followed the track at the rear of the cottage, skirted the marshy pool in which the now late Gillian Nelson’s car lay submerged, and followed deer trails, staying within the thickest parts of the forest.
He had a plan. When they reached a B road that was far enough away from where the police appeared to be concentrating their hunt for him, he would untie Lucy and get her to wave down a car. Law-abiding people stopped for coppers. She could then take off her uniform jacket and drive them to wherever he decided to go. A couple in a car would not arouse suspicion.
The helicopter came in low over the treetops – buffeting them and sending detritus from the forest floor in all directions from the powerful downdraft that the rotors produced – to then hover over Forest View Cottage and its immediate surroundings.
The pilot contacted the mobile incident vehicle, and Nick got a call seconds later.
It was a cool day, and the LEO II thermal-imaging device under the nose of the craft had picked up the warmer, glowing representation of three bodies.
“Three people in the woodshed, not moving,” Nick shouted to Matt, leaning in to be heard over the chop of the rotors and engine noise above them.
The helicopter moved away, to hang in the air at three hundred feet with the crew watching to see if anyone left the outbuilding.
“How do you want to do this?” Nick said.
“There should be the Porter couple, two police officers and Gibson,” Matt said. “If there are only three people in there, then I reckon Gibson has taken a hostage and left. But let’s proceed with caution.”
The sniper stayed in position as the other members of the ARU approached the woodshed using hand signals to coordinate their advance. Matt moved up from the rear, his handgun drawn, to stop at the side of
the door and shout, “John Gibson, if you are in there, come out unarmed with your hands clasped on top of your head.”
There was a muffled noise from within, and Matt knew that Gibson had gone. Who else would have locked the shed door from the outside? He backed off and nodded to the team leader, who moved to the side of the door and shot parallel to the front of the building, taking out the padlock. Officers entered as the lock dropped to the ground.
With the tape removed from his mouth, Sergeant Rob Baxter gave a concise summary of what had happened, and informed them that Gibson had left the area armed with a sawn-off shotgun and probably a hand sickle, and was holding WPC Lucy Knight as a human shield.
“Did he say anything that would help us know where he planned to go?” Matt said.
Rob shook his head, and as he, Doug and Ruth were freed, Nick directed the helicopter to adopt a search pattern for Gibson and Lucy. With all vehicles accounted for it was believed that they could not have travelled far on foot.
“What do you think, boss?” Pete said to Matt. “Where do you suppose he’d go?”
Matt looked at Pete, Marci and Tam in turn. “What would you do if you were Gibson?” he said to them.
“He’s running scared,” Tam said. “If it was me I’d stay close by, hide, and wait it out before I made a move.”
“I think he’ll head for a road,” Marci said. “He needs to be mobile, and he’ll think that the more miles he can put between us and him, the better his chances of getting away.”
“He has the WPC,” Pete said. “Why take her, it’ll only slow him down? He must know that if we find him, it’s over. Holding a gun to her head won’t buy him much time.”
“The guy is basically a furtive rapist, not a career criminal,” Matt said. “He lost the plot and led a double life. Now that it’s gone pear-shaped he isn’t thinking straight, just relying on instinct. He obviously feels safer with a hostage.”
Between them, Doug and Ruth told Matt all they could about Gibson, and that he had murdered Gill and forced Doug to bury the body under where the workbench stood, and that the florist’s car was in a bog not far away.
“Get me a map of the district,” Matt said to Tam. “I need to get a picture of the area in my mind.”
Doug overheard them talking. “I’ve got an ordnance survey map of the forest in my Jeep if that will help,” he said.
“Perfect,” Matt said.
With the map opened up and spread across the bonnet of Doug’s Jeep, Matt concentrated on the locale, and although at a now busy major crime scene that incorporated all the associated movement of personnel and the noise they made, he was able to mentally draw back from his surroundings as he attempted to think his way into the desperate fugitive’s mind. Had it been him on the run, then he would not head back south in the direction from where he had dumped his car in the reservoir. Nor would he strike east towards the M11, that he would assume many police vehicles would be approaching from. That left a choice of west or north. Matt would head north, along what was in essence a wooded funnel narrowing between the A104 and A121. He would then stop a vehicle and would be able to join the M25 within minutes, or just stay on B roads and be quickly clear of the search area.
Matt told the others his take on the situation.
“I’ll arrange for unmarked units to patrol those two roads,” Pete said.
“We’ll be part of it,” Matt said. “Pete and I will cover the A104. Marci, Tam, work the north end of the A121.”
They walked back to their cars feeling cautiously positive. Gibson was fleeing through an area with armed officers now tracking him. And the roads that he would come to would now be monitored. There was no way that he should be able to escape.
Only half a mile away, John was finding the going slow and hard. The terrain in this area was full of gullies, streams, slippery rocks and thick undergrowth. Waist-high ferns hid unseen pitfalls of tree roots and uneven ground.
Lucy slipped, lost her footing and fell over to roll into the trunk of a large tree. She was shaken, slightly winded but uninjured, and quickly realised that she could turn the fall to her advantage. Sitting up, she cried out to fake pain, and grimaced.
John could feel full-blown paranoia infiltrating his mind, threatening to stop him thinking rationally. The police would in all probability be now spreading out from the cottage and searching for him. He could hear a helicopter, and it sounded close by.
“Get up and move,” he said to Lucy.
“I’ve sprained my ankle,” Lucy said. “And how can I bloody well keep my balance in this shit with my arms tied behind my back?”
He aimed the shotgun at her, but without any real intention of firing it. He needed her to get him transport, if they ever came to a road.
Sometimes you had to take a chance. He shucked the bag from his shoulder and withdrew the sickle. “Turn round,” he said, and as she did he sliced through the plastic tie. “Better?”
“Thanks,” Lucy said, massaging her wrists.
“Don’t thank me,” John said. “You don’t mean it, and I expect you to try and get away. I’ll be keeping four paces behind you with my finger on the trigger. Being a cop, you’ll know what a mess a shotgun blast can make.”
“I don’t need to do anything, John,” Lucy said. “You’ll be caught soon enough, and then the only choice you’ll have is whether to give up or be gunned down.”
He was tempted to strike out in anger, but didn’t. The bitch was probably right. Everything seemed to be against him, but he would not surrender. It was daunting to know that he would either get away Scot-free or meet his maker, and the outcome would most likely be sooner rather than later. His life was hanging in the balance. He imagined hundreds of police drawing closer to him like a colony of ants following a trail. And if the chopper he could still faintly hear flew overhead, then it would probably have thermal imaging to pick up body heat through the cover of the trees.
“Hurry,” he said to Lucy. “Let’s go.”
They moved off again, and Lucy affected a limp to slow them down as she hoped and prayed that she would survive this ordeal and see her husband and two-year old son again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Billy needed wheels. He was becoming totally fixated on getting back at the guy who’d hurt him and stolen his gun and money. Commonsense dictated that he wait until his hand healed up, but that would take weeks, and he hadn’t got the patience.
He prowled around the house. Suzy had got up early and gone home to tend to her mother. If she had been able to stay, then they may have gone out somewhere together; maybe to the park to feed the ducks, and then to a pub for lunch. As it was he had nothing to distract him from murderous thoughts, and so as, with great difficulty, he made the bed that he had enjoyed sex in with Suzy the previous night, he wondered how best to take care of the big guy, whom he knew he would find across the river in Lewisham.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Sean Mulloy said as Billy walked up to the table and waited till Sean had potted a long red. Sean was just practising, dreaming of being as good as Rocket Ronnie O’Sullivan in the not too distant future. He was an excellent snooker player, but didn’t know that he hadn’t got what it took to play under pressure. He would never be a pro.
“I got mugged, Sean,” Billy said. “The bastard jumped on my hand and broke a couple of fingers.”
Sean put his cue down on the worn green baize. “Did you get a good look at him?” he asked.
“Just a glimpse, but it was enough. I don’t know his name, but I know where to find him.”
“You wanna beer?” Sean said, picking up his cue and heading for the small bar.
“A Coke,” Billy replied.
“So what are you gonna do?” Sean said when they had settled at a small table at the dimly lit end of the long room.
“I’m going to take him out.”
“You mean top him?”
“Hell no, Sean. Just put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life
. I need to borrow your car.”
“With your arm in a fuckin’ sling? Bad idea. It’s not an automatic.”
“I’ll need you to drive me, then. I’ll give you a hundred quid for your time.”
“No need, pal. Just put some petrol in it.”
They finished their drinks and left the snooker hall. Sean’s car was an uninsured Honda that belched out almost black fumes from the exhaust and had a hundred and sixty thousand miles on the clock. It was noisy, uncomfortable, full of empty fast-food cartons, and stank of cigarette smoke that had filmed the interior in a dull, ivory-yellow patina.
“You sure that this old banger will make it across the river?” Billy said.
Sean grinned. “Looks can be deceivin’,” he said. “She runs like clockwork, but gets through a lot of oil. When she starts playin’ up I’ll torch her and nick somethin’ a little classier.”
Billy gave Sean directions and they were soon in Lewisham, parked in a row of vehicles across the road from the entrance to Lister’s Transport. They made small talk for an hour, and Billy mentioned that he and Suzy were serious, and that perhaps they would set up home together.
“That sounds great,” Sean said. “She’s a real looker.”
“True, but that’s not what it’s about. She has a heart of gold, Sean. I got to thinking that she’s a keeper.”
“All I seem to get off with are scrubbers,” Sean said. “One-nighters that everyone I know has screwed. Most of them will drop ‘em for a few gin and tonics.”
“Once you start earning a few bob on the circuit and upgrade your motor you’ll do fine,” Billy said, before going quiet and staring intently at a black Insignia that stopped outside the open gates of Lister’s to let an eighteen-wheeler pull out.
“What?” Sean said.
“That’s the creep that mugged me,” Billy said. “The one in the passenger seat.”
They watched as the Insignia parked next to a late model silver Merc. Two big guys got out and went into what Billy knew to be Ricky Lister’s office.