by Michael Kerr
Sean reluctantly opened the boot and told Lorraine to climb in. To save more pain and because of the threat to Stuart, she complied.
Sitting in the front of the car, Billy took the sling off his arm and rested his bandaged left hand in his lap.
“What now?” Sean said as he got back in behind the wheel.
“We drive to my uncle’s place in Mitcham. He’ll be waiting for a call, getting geared-up to have me dealt with when I show. The last thing he’ll expect is for me to turn up on his doorstep.”
“I’m beginnin’ to wish that I’d stayed at the fuckin’ snooker hall,” Sean said.
Ricky had taken the call from Lorraine in his study, where he had been enjoying a glass of cognac and considering the pros and cons of handling what appeared to be a lucrative human-trafficking deal that an associate in Rumania was putting together. Now, all thoughts of business were set aside as he thought how best to get his daughter back and have Billy taken alive, so that his rogue nephew could live long enough to truly suffer for his actions.
Removing the ziplock bag containing the pistol and silencer from his wall safe, Ricky also withdrew ten banded wedges of money, amounting to fifty thousand pounds in total. He would put them in a holdall, in the unlikely eventuality of at some point having to show Billy that he was playing it straight. He then used a secure, untraceable mobile phone to call Henry Norton.
“Henry?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“We have a problem to deal with. I want you to pick up Sammy and drive out to my house.” He explained the position. Emphasised the point that the safe return of Lorraine was paramount, and that if at all possible he wanted Billy taken alive and transported to a lockup in Lambeth.
Sean drove through a wide gap in a hedgerow and parked the Honda out of sight in the field beyond it.
Outside the car they waited in the darkness. Just a hundred yards up on the other side of the lane was a pair of large, white-painted wooden rail gates which opened onto a wide drive that wound through trees and bushes to far more secure metal gates that were set into a high brick wall that surrounded the house.
“He’ll have called for backup, Sean,” Billy said. “You stay here. I’ll get over there and intercept whoever turns up.”
Sean nodded. He was in too deep to back out now. But he wished that he’d just handed over the car keys and let Billy piss off and do his thing. Within a couple of hours he had been party to a murder and a kidnap, and was beginning to believe that he would end up inside for the rest of his life, or with a bullet in his head. The only other alternative he had was to call the police and tell them the position he was in, and that he had no idea what Billy had intended to do when he had asked for a lift.
There was hardly any traffic on the lane. Billy was crouched down behind one of the brick-built pillars that the gates were fixed to. Within ten minutes a vehicle began to slow as it approached from the north. The headlights were on full beam, and so until it came to almost a stop and began to turn in, he couldn’t make out any detail.
He grinned in the darkness. It was the black Insignia, and he recognised the driver that climbed out to walk in front of the car to open the gates.
Sammy reached out to unlatch the gates, only to be driven into them as a crushing blow to the back of his skull rendered him senseless.
Henry took a second too long to comprehend what had happened and reach for the gun in a shoulder holster under his jacket.
“Do it,” Billy said through the half open passenger window. “Or take it out with your finger and thumb real slow and drop it in the foot well. Your choice.”
Henry dumped the pistol and remained as still as a mountain.
“Good decision,” Billy said. “Climb out of the car nice and easy, grab hold of your sleeping friend by an ankle, drag him over to the ditch next to the gate and roll him into it.”
As Henry did what he was told, Billy shouted, “Sean, get over here.”
Sean sighed and jogged across the lane, angling over to where the vehicle was parked in front of the gates. He had dismissed the idea of phoning the police. Billy was an upright guy, but could always say that they had been in it together. He would have to ride this out and hope that he got through it in one piece.
“There’s a gun in the front passenger foot well. Get it and keep it pointed at this wanker,” Billy said as Henry returned. “If he makes any sudden move, shoot the bastard.”
Sean pointed the gun at the big black man, who reminded him a lot of the guy that had played the part of John Coffey, the giant awaiting execution in the movie The Green Mile.
“Open the gates and then get in the driver’s seat,” Billy said to Henry. “Before you get moving, call Lister and tell him that you’re approaching the house.”
As Henry climbed in the front and Sean got in the rear behind him, Billy went over to where Sammy had been dumped, to step down in the ditch and pulp his skull with the butt of his gun. No point in leaving him alive, to maybe regain his senses and become a problem.
Billy got inside the car next to Henry. “Okay, make the call,” he said.
Ricky opened his phone and accepted the call.
“It’s me boss,” Henry said. “We’re almost there.”
“The gates will be open,” Ricky said. “Drive around to the rear of the house. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Ricky pressed a button on a console on his desk and looked up to a split screen that displayed six CCTV images covering the outside of the property. He watched one and saw the electronically-operated gates swing open. Thirty seconds later the Insignia swept through them. He thumbed the button again and watched the gates shut, and then left his study and walked through the house to the expansive kitchen. His thoughts were channelled on two things; getting his beloved daughter back unharmed, and working on Billy with a blowtorch as he swung from a meat hook in the lockup.
Opening the kitchen door, Ricky saw Henry emerging from the car, and so turned and went over to a counter to switch on the coffeemaker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Another millimetre and he knew that the pressure of his finger would release the firing pin to propel the contents of the cartridge out of the barrel, to blow his brains out of the top of his skull. He took a deep breath, clenched his eyelids shut and began to cry at the thought of having to end his life.
“What’s your name?” Lucy said. “I’m WPC Lucy Knight.”
“Charlie Norris.”
“Okay Charlie, stop up ahead near that road sign. I need to let my boss know where Gibson is.”
Charlie checked his rearview mirror, half expecting to see the killer pounding up the road after them like the Terminator. It was clear, and so he pulled onto the grass and stopped.
Lucy studied the road sign and then phoned her station and relayed her location and what had happened to her Inspector, Mike Wetton.
“Are you okay?” Mike said.
“I’m fine sir, but I have a civilian with a shoulder wound and in need of treatment.”
“Stay where you are if it’s safe to do so, Lucy. Help will be on the way.”
Tom got the call patched through to him. Listened to what the inspector knew, and alerted the search teams, and then phoned Matt.
Even as he took the call and was informed of the current situation, Matt saw a figure in the distance, standing stock-still at the side of the road. It appeared that he was holding something.
“We may be looking at him as we speak,” Matt said to Tom. “I’ll get back to you.”
Pete slowed and came to a stop next to the tree line just thirty yards from the lone figure. “That is definitely Gibson,” he said. “And he’s got a shotgun, boss.”
“It’s a sawn-off,” Matt said. “No range or accuracy. If we keep him in sight we can take him down. He doesn’t have a hostage now, so we don’t have to be subtle.”
Leaving the car, they kept to the edge of the verge that was backed by trees and bracken, to approach the fugitive with the
ir guns drawn.
John saw the car approach and then pull off the road and stop. As the two men climbed out and drew handguns, survival-mode kicked back in. He let go of the trigger and sprinted into the forest, to head northwest, away from the road and the cops that were chasing him.
“Stop where you are, Gibson,” Matt shouted as he and Pete entered the trees, to keep approximately twelve feet apart as they followed the noise of feet crunching on twigs, leaves and pine cones. Their only answer was the blast of the shotgun. They both ducked down, even though they surmised that it was a wild shot fired in panic.
John tripped over one of the many wrist-thick tree roots that snaked above ground and were in the main covered by a layer of detritus, to stagger forward and crash into a tree trunk, causing him to discharge the gun and blow a small crater in the ground as he bounced back to land on his arse and grunt as pine cones were compressed beneath him.
The contents of the long-handled bag that he had looped over his shoulder spilled out. Discarding the bag, he picked up the sickle and began to crawl across to where a large patch of ferns offered concealment.
Hearing water flowing nearby, John followed the sound and came to an incline with a narrow stream running along the gulley at the bottom of it. He stepped into it and followed its course, and after only twenty yards came to the opening of a precast concrete culvert pipe that was partially blocked by branches and assorted litter comprising in the main of plastic bottles and bags, drinks cans and the broken Polystyrene remains of fast food trays. The tunnel was large enough to walk through if he bent down, and on seeing a circle of light in the distance, he carefully stepped over the obstruction and started to move along the tunnel, up to his shins in freezing, tea-coloured water.
The manmade burrow was dark, damp, slimy to the touch, and made him feel claustrophobic. He kept going, trying not to splash as he ignored the noises of what he imagined to be scurrying vermin; just kept his eyes on the bright disc of daylight and watched as it appeared to grow at his approach.
Damn! His left foot snagged on something unseen and he fell full-length into the evil-smelling liquid. He scrabbled up onto his knees and spat out a concoction of what he had no doubt was contaminated water that would at very least give him dysentery or some other awful disease or infection. He still had hold of the sickle as he regained his feet, but the shotgun was gone. Without realising it he had let it go to put out his hand to break his fall. He knelt again and fished around with his fingers, but could not locate the weapon in the thick layer of silt that coated the bottom of the pipe. Time was something he did not have. He reluctantly got up and moved on, and was soon stepping out into daylight. It had begun to rain, and the pitter-patter of droplets soon became almost a deluge, drowning out the sound of all else.
With the sickle transferred to his right hand, he scrabbled up the bank next to the stream. Slipping back on the wet grass he employed the sickle in the way that a mountain climber would use an ice axe to aid him in ascending a glacier, by repeatedly burying the point of the crescent blade into the now damp soil to aid him as he dug the toes of his shoes into the undergrowth and hauled himself upwards.
Matt saw the disturbed foliage and headed for it. Pete followed on, and they quickly came to the stream and edged down to the water, where they saw the entrance to the pipe.
Approaching it from both sides, Matt and Pete took quick looks into it from the sides, aware that if seen they could be faced by a hail of lead.
“I just saw him at the other end,” Matt said.
They climbed back up from the stream to the forest floor, and Matt went to the left and Pete to the right.
Pete followed a deer trail and reached the point where the culvert ended. There was no sign of Matt yet, due to the west side of the stream being more densely packed with bushes, weeds and trees to negotiate.
Slowly, carefully in the now pouring rain, Pete picked his way down the bank. He could see the grass disturbed, partially flattened at the other side, but no sign of Gibson.
It was as Pete stepped into the stream and his foot slipped on an unseen slimy rock or waterlogged branch, that above him in thigh-high vegetation, John also lost his footing and slid down the incline, to twist and roll and gather momentum, with his arms and legs flailing as he attempted unsuccessfully to bring himself to a stop.
Pete saw the blur of a shape cartwheel out of the greenery, but was struck and knocked into the water as he instinctively raised his pistol. His breath was taken away with the weight, and his head was submerged beneath the surface; the back of his skull cushioned by the mud or silt.
John had caught the image of the lone figure a second before he collided with it, and knew that it had to be a cop. He found himself astride him, and immediately grasped him by the throat with his left hand and began to exert as much pressure as he was capable of, as he raised the sickle above his head with the intention of burying the blade in the now half-strangled, drowning man’s head.
Pete could see the thin, cruel face of John Gibson distorted through the swirling water that he was saved from swallowing due to the pressure on his throat. The dark eyes above him appeared to be full of malice, and he was raising something in his other hand that was just a blur. All Pete should have needed to do was aim his gun and pull the trigger, but his arms were pinned by his sides, and his hand was empty. He had lost his grip on the gun as Gibson landed on top of him.
The blade arced down, and in a futile last ditch attempt to thwart certain death, Pete twisted his head to the side and jerked his body up to try and dislodge his would-be killer.
Matt looked down through the flattened grass to see Gibson on top of Pete, about to strike him with what appeared to be a large curved knife. There was no time to take careful aim, he just raised his handgun and snapped off two shots, then dropped on his backside and slid down the slippery bank.
John did not know that he had been shot. The first slug hit him in the arm above the elbow, knocking him sideways as his fingers lost all sense of feeling and the sickle dropped into the water next to him. The second bullet was low, entering his hip and fracturing his pelvis.
Matt reached Pete and grasped him by the hair, lifted his head out of the water and dragged him the few inches to the bank to prop him with his back up against it. He then turned his full attention to Gibson, who was attempting to crawl up the bank and into the bracken, propelling himself along with one arm and one leg like some kind of injured woodland insect.
Matt reached him in two strides, kicked him over onto his back and stood above him, aiming his gun at the man’s head. He could see the fear in the killer’s eyes and said, “I’d love to pull the trigger and bring about a degree of closure for your victims and their loved ones, Gibson. But it would be far too quick. It will be more satisfying to know that you’ll be spending the rest of your worthless life in maximum security prisons.” And then Matt realigned the barrel of his nine-millimetre and put a bullet through Gibson’s right kneecap.
John howled like a whipped dog. The pain from the bullet wounds was mushrooming throughout his whole body. He wanted to be dead, and wished that he had done away with himself earlier, when he had put the muzzles of the sawn-off shotgun’s barrels under his chin.
“You okay?” Matt called out to Pete as he took perverse pleasure from Gibson’s mournful wailing.
“I’ll live, boss,” Pete croaked. “Will Gibson?”
“I sure as hell hope so,” Matt said as he took his phone out to contact Tom. “I’d hate for him to miss out on his trial and the decades of misery I hope he suffers in prison for all that he’s done.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Billy was behind Henry. He lowered the barrel of the Glock, pushed it up tight against the back of the man’s right thigh and pulled the trigger.
Henry uttered an eerie, high-pitched shriek as his right leg was blown forward and he dropped to the Italianate-tiled floor. The sound could have been an impression of that which a peacock makes. The exclam
ation was as loud as the report from the gun.
Ricky spun round to be faced by Billy pointing the weapon at him and grinning.
“Surprise, surprise Uncle Ricky,” Billy said. “I knew that I couldn’t trust you, so thought I’d better make a house call. Oh, and if you’re wondering about the guy who was with this waste of space, he’s out near the road, as dead as the ditchwater he’s lying in.”
“Where’s Lorraine?” Ricky said.
“With a psycho friend of mine. If I don’t call him every five minutes he has instructions to wrap cling film around her head.”
“Think very seriously about what you’re doing, Billy. We can work this out.”
“We are working it out. Give me the gun and the money and you get your daughter back, it’s that simple.”
“It’s in my study.”
“Where’s my beautiful, dumb Auntie Fiona?”
“At a show in Croydon with her sister.”
“Who else is in the house?”
“No one but us, Billy.”
Henry rolled over onto his side and stared at Billy, who lazily pointed the gun at the wounded man’s head and shot him between the eyes. “After you,” he said to Ricky when the deafening blast subsided.
The holdall was on the desk. Billy told Ricky to sit down in a wingback chair in a corner of the room, while he checked the contents. Satisfied, he picked the bag up, intending to transfer the gun and money to the back seat of the Insignia and leave the holdall behind, in case there was a bug sewn into it. Ricky knew all the moves.
“Now what?” Ricky said.
Billy stared long and hard at his uncle and raised the gun. He intended to put a couple of slugs in his chest, but hesitated. Ricky had the look of Billy’s mother, especially the eyes. It was as if she was staring back at him from within her brother. He supposed that the man had meant to do well by his sister, and so he made the decision to let him live. “I wipe the gun and make it vanish,” he said. “And you and I stay away from each other ad infinitum. Okay?”