by Michael Kerr
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Matt turned the large metal ring to the left and the latch on the inside rose up. The gates were not locked. He opened one of them a couple of inches and saw the Peugeot parked in a large gravel yard that also had stacks of bricks, paving stones, bags of sand and other building materials in it.
“He’s at the location I gave you,” Matt said to Pete over the phone. “When you arrive, cover the front in case he just walks out onto the main road and vanishes in the crowd.”
“Wait for Tam and me,” Pete said. “We should be there in a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll take it nice and easy,” Matt said. “Is the girl that was with him in custody?”
“Yeah, Tam handed her over to security and told them to hold her.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
Pete was about to strongly advise his boss not to go it alone, but the call was terminated.
“Drive faster, Tam,” Pete said. “Our boss has gone into caped crusader mode. He doesn’t like to hang around when there’s a killer in his sights. He has rep for not following safe procedure.”
Matt switched his phone off, opened the gate just wide enough to slip through, and closed it behind him. Walking around the car, he came to the rear entrance door. Tried the handle, to find the door locked.
A medium-sized paving stone did the job. He threw it at the glass in the top half of the door, to shatter it. Drawing his gun, Matt moved to the side of the door and looked in, keeping a couple of feet from it. There was no sign of anyone, and so he used the barrel of the gun to clear a few fragments of glass that clung to the bottom of the frame, and then climbed in to stand still and listen.
He was met by silence, until he took a step forward and the sole of his shoe crunched on pieces of glass. Not that it mattered; his entrance had been loud enough to wake all but the dead. He didn’t care. Foster had dumped his guns.
Keeping his back to the wall, Matt moved sideways and advanced into the shop area at the front of the building. There was a counter opposite him and a closed door at the side of it. Moving across to the waist-high counter, he rounded it, angling the gun down in case Foster was crouching behind it, undoubtedly armed with some makeshift weapon.
A man was sprawled on the floor, or to be more accurate, the body of what until very recently had been a living, breathing human being. The gaping mouth and open yet unseeing eyes did away with any need for Matt to feel for a pulse. Death had a look all of its own.
Matt went to the internal door and opened it to be faced by stairs leading upwards. “I know that you’re up there, Foster,” he shouted. “I’m Detective Inspector Matt Barnes. There are armed police back and front. Come down the stairs with your hands clasped behind your head. Be aware that if necessary I will shoot you.”
Billy smiled. Nothing lasts forever, he thought. A weight lifted. He found equanimity in knowing that he still had the power to decide how this would end. There was nothing that he really needed to live for, especially now, faced with the prospect of being ridiculed and held to account for actions that he felt no guilt whatsoever for having committed.
“I’m not going to make it easy for you, cop,” he said, walking out onto the landing with the hammer gripped in his hand. “You sad bastards will have to work for it.”
“Do you want to leave here in a body bag?” Matt said, elated to know that his quarry was still here, and had not just killed the man and left by the front door.
“I’m twenty-six,” Billy said. “I could live to be eighty, maybe older. If you were me would you contemplate the possibility of spending over fifty years in prison?”
“Your choice, scumbag,” Matt said. “I’ll be truly happy to save the taxpayers’ the expense of you taking up precious space and having free bed and board.”
Billy felt his acceptance of what might happen to him crumble. A rage against the man that was badmouthing him overcame all else. He walked to the top of the stairs and stood looking down. Matt pointed his gun up at the silhouetted figure, confident that this was the endgame, only to be taken completely by surprise as Foster dived forward into the stairwell, to sail through the air like a skydiver and crash into him, knocking him to the floor and dislodging the gun from his hand. He hadn’t had the time to even think to pull the trigger, and now he was on his back with Foster grinning down at him as he raised a hammer in the air.
Billy brought the hammer down, aiming it at the cop’s head, only for it to graze the man’s temple as he jerked to the side.
Matt didn’t have time to think. He just reacted and swung his clenched fist, relieved to make solid contact, unknowingly cutting his knuckles as Foster’s teeth broke under the impact, causing the jagged stumps to slice through flesh to the bone.
Billy was suddenly on his side, half off the cop, but lashed out with the hammer again, this time with his hand reversed.
Matt felt a sudden piercing pain as the steel claws of the hammerhead penetrated his windcheater and shirt, to sink into his right shoulder. He grunted, but managed to grab hold of Foster’s wrist with his left hand and wrench it sideways, causing him to let go of the hammer’s handle.
More severe pain, but he could handle it. The cop was still on the floor, and his gun was within reach, only three feet away. He turned towards it, stretched his hand out and touched the weapon, but could not grasp the butt. His wrist was badly sprained, and his fingers would not grip it.
Matt reached over the top of Foster’s head, hooked his index and middle finger ends in the man’s nostrils and jerked back with all his force.
Billy made an involuntary shrieking sound and fell back as Matt got to his feet.
Relief coursed through Matt. He stamped on the man’s bandaged hand, and followed up with a vicious kick to his head, totally unconcerned as to whether it knocked him out or killed him.
He picked up his gun and holstered it, then took the cuffs out of the pouch on his belt and hooked Foster up. It was over. He reached into his pocket for his phone, but as he did the front door exploded inwards and he also heard feet on glass from the rear.
Pete took in the scene and lowered his gun, as did Tam as he appeared behind Matt.
“I don’t believe you did that,” Pete said.
Matt tried to shrug, but stopped and winced as the movement made his shoulder smart. “Did what?” he asked.
“Went Eastwood on us and almost got killed.”
“I needed to know that he hadn’t just walked out the front door, Pete. If I’d waited for backup he could have been long gone.”
“Your shoulders bleeding. Did he shoot you?”
“No, just caught me with that claw hammer,” Matt said and inclined his head to where the tool had come to rest at the base of the counter.
“You need an ambulance,” Tam said, already on his phone.
Billy came round and listened to the cops talking. They were paying no attention to him, as if he wasn’t there. Big mistake.
There was no warning. Foster came up off the floor like a whale breaching, to lunge up to his feet and run for the partly open front door, shouldering Pete aside as he somehow disregarded his injuries. The drive to preserve his freedom was far stronger than the messages of pain that his brain was receiving.
Tam was first out onto the pavement, to watch as Foster bolted between two parked cars and then stopped and faced an oncoming 4x4, to grin insanely an instant before the thud of metal hitting flesh and bone caused him to fly back and upwards, to do a backward somersault before crashing down on the asphalt and being run over by the Range Rover, whose driver was braking and spinning the steering wheel, but not in time to avoid crushing the man that had appeared in front of him and stopped, as if he wanted to be run down.
I win, Billy thought in the moment before he was hit and felt bones shatter and organs rupture. The world began to spin around him. He was flying, twisting, and then falling, and felt and thought nothing more as he landed hard and the front nearside wheel hit his body, to r
ide up over it and crush the life from him.
“Shit happens!” Matt said, but with no trace of humour as he witnessed the scene from the door.
Tam walked in front of the now stationary vehicle and knelt down on one knee to check Foster for any sign of life. There was none.
The two wounds from the claws of the hammer had made half inch deep punctures. The junior doctor at the hospital gave Matt a tetanus shot in his backside and an antibiotic shot in his arm as he lay behind a curtain in A & E.
“Looks like a big snake or a vampire sunk its fangs in your shoulder,” Pete said as the doctor cleaned the wounds and the cuts to Matt’s knuckles.
Matt smiled. He was sore, but felt good. They’d had a result. It would have been better if Foster had been taken alive, but in the end he had managed to facilitate the ultimate escape; to ensure that he would not be judged and locked away to be no more than a caged animal. It was embarrassing to have to admit that an injured, handcuffed prisoner had somehow managed to commit suicide in front of them, but as usual the paperwork would cover it. And Matt knew that Foster had not just run blindly out into the road and been hit by accident. He had stopped, turned, and made sure that the Range Rover hit him full on.
“What now, boss?” Pete said.
“We’ll have a word with the young woman that was at the airport with Foster, then drive over to Lewisham and stop for a pint and a bite to eat on the way. I want to personally break the news to Lister that his nephew is dead. But first you can go and buy me a new shirt and windbreaker while the doc finishes patching me up.”
“I’d avoid alcohol for awhile,” the doctor said to Matt as he prepared to apply lint and tape to the wounds. “That was quite a powerful antibiotic I just injected you with.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Matt said. “But if you’d had the fun and games I’ve had so far today, you’d need a drink.”
Suzy was on ice in a holding room at Heathrow. She had been given coffee by a female member of security, and could see that one of the armed police officers that patrolled the terminal was outside the door. No one had told her anything; just informed her that she was being held for questioning.
Pacing up and down the small room, Suzy was feeling frantic. She had no idea why the police had approached them, or why Billy had bolted behind the departures counter, to vanish through the opening that luggage went. She had done nothing, and had demanded to be released, but was ignored. She wanted to know were Billy was; to know what the police thought that he was guilty of. Whatever it was, the dream holiday was over before it had begun. It depressed her to think that she would now have to go back home to nurse a mother whom she now despised.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Pete drove Matt back to Heathrow in the Vectra and parked in an official slot separate from the passengers’ multi-storey opposite the terminal building. Inside, they met with the head of security, Ian Gardener, who was in possession of Suzy Beale’s passport and handed it to Matt, after first checking his and Pete’s warrant cards.
“What can you tell me?” Ian said.
“That this woman was with a man wanted for multiple murders,” Matt said. “We need to know whether she was aware of his crimes.”
“This way,” Ian said, leading them towards the end of the building and then along a corridor to a door signed SECURITY and fitted with a card-operated lock. They followed him through into a large area with at least a dozen doors that were in the main used for searching and interview purposes. “Anything else you need?”
“Coffee would be good,” Matt said.
“I’ll arrange it.” Ian said. “The woman is in number eight, the room with the armed officer outside it.”
Matt and Pete entered the room and once again showed their IDs. “Take a seat Ms. Beale, we need to talk,” Matt said.
“Fuck you,” Suzy said. “I’ve been locked up in this room for hours, and I’ve done nothing wrong. I want to go home, now.”
There was a knock at the door, and then it was opened by the police officer, and a member of security entered carrying two mugs of coffee that had come from Ian Gardener’s office, not a vending machine.
“Thanks,” Pete said, taking them off the young guy as Matt waited for him to leave before resuming the interview.
“These are your options, Suzy,” Matt said, deciding to be informal and use her Christian name. “You talk to us here and now, or we take you in and probably lock you in a holding cell overnight before we get round to interviewing you again. Make a decision.”
Suzy sat down hard on the chair. Her face was red and there were tears in her eyes. “I haven’t done anything,” she said again, but in a very small voice.
“So tell us about William,” Matt said.
Suzy frowned. “You mean Billy?”
“Okay, Billy Foster.”
“Where is he?” Suzy said. “Did you catch him?”
“Just answer the questions,” Pete said as he assumed the role of ‘bad cop’.
“What do you want to know about him?” Suzy asked.
Matt said, “Everything.”
“I’ve been going out with him for about six months. He’s nice, and he treats me well. He’s a bit of a loner, with only one friend that I know of.”
“Who would that be?”
“Sean Worsley.”
“Do you know his address?”
“No. But he spends a lot of time at the Empress Snooker Club.”
“Billy is unemployed, Suzy,” Matt said. “Where does he get his money?”
“He told me that he wins a lot at the dogs. He’s a gambler, I suppose.”
“Have you heard about the Housekeeper Killer?” Pete said.
“Er, yes, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Billy murdered those people,” Matt said. “That’s where he got his money.”
Matt and Pete watched as Suzy’s face became ashen and she began to shake her head slowly from side to side. She swallowed hard two or three times and then said, “That’s a lie. Billy isn’t violent. He’s quiet and gentle.”
“Why do you think he ran away from us?”
Suzy said nothing.
“Where were you planning to fly to?” Pete said.
“Paris, and then to America. Billy said we’d be going for a few weeks.”
“He was on the run, Suzy,” Matt said. “I doubt that he intended to come back to the UK.”
Suzy stood up so suddenly that the chair was knocked over. “I don’t believe any of this crap,” she screamed at the top of her voice. “You’re lying about him.”
“He’s dead,” Pete said. “He wounded a police officer and then ran in front of a car. And it wasn’t an accident. He said that he had no intention of spending the rest of his life in prison, and found a way to make sure that he didn’t.”
Suzy felt faint. Her mind was spinning with what she was being told. The crushing sense of loss combined with shock over the police’s claims overwhelmed her and she collapsed onto the hard vinyl-covered floor.
Matt went to her while Pete left the room to get a glass of water. When she regained her senses she began to cry like a baby and couldn’t stop. Everything about her life was shitty. Billy had been the only good thing to come her way, and now he was gone.
Matt was certain that Suzy had no knowledge of what Foster had done. He was like many psychopaths, able to mask the dark side of his personality and lead a Jekyll and Hyde existence, although he was acutely aware of his actions.
“We’ll need a full, official statement from you,” Matt said to Suzy. “But that can wait. I’ll arrange for you to be taken home.”
“You believe her?” Pete said as they drove away from the airport in the direction of Lewisham.
Matt nodded. “She was duped, Pete. You can’t fake shock and disbelief like that. I believe he was a lone killer, but have a couple of the squad track Sean Worsley down. We need to talk to him.”
Pete phoned Tam – who was back in the squad ro
om, up to his neck in bookwork over what had happened – and gave him what they had on Worsley.
Pete parked at the rear of the recently refurbished Ladywell Tavern. Matt ordered a large scotch for himself and a pint of bitter for Pete. They both plumped for ham and cheese sandwiches, and found a quiet corner table to sit at and discuss the recent chase and its outcome as they ate.
“You really think that Foster got himself run down intentionally?” Pete said.
Matt nodded. “Positive,” he said. “I saw the expression on his face as he stopped and turned to face the oncoming vehicle. There was no shock surprise, just the beginning of a smile. He’ll have died believing that he beat the system.”
“He did everyone a favour,” Pete said. “And he beat nothing, just met a violent end, which was unfortunately far too quick for the bastard.”
Ricky was a little worried. He’d kept trying to contact Marlon without success. There was nothing he could do but hope that there was a good reason for the hitman’s continued silence.
He looked up from his computer screen, through the window, to see Barnes and his sidekick walking across the yard towards the door. They both looked unconcerned, and hadn’t come mob handed, so it was probably just another digging exercise, that he would not help them with.
Matt entered the office and smiled at Ricky.
“Am I on your route home or something?” Ricky said. “You’re beginning to turn up too often, like a couple of bad pennies.”
“We just thought we’d drop by for coffee and a chat.”
“Just say what’s on your mind and then piss off, Barnes.”
“Billy’s on my mind,” Matt said, walking over to the coffeemaker on top of the file cabinet, to pull a couple of the plastic cups from a stack and fill them. “You heard the news?”