by Mark Roberts
‘Cut out the threats and tell me where you are.’
‘The Metropolitan Cathedral, in Lutyens Crypt. Brownlow Hill. At the side of the cathedral itself. The door is unlocked for you.’
‘I know the door you mean. I know the crypt very well. Like the lines on the palms of my hands. That well.’
‘Those other law enforcement officers. In America. How did you know?’
‘How do I know? I know a lot about you. More than you’d like me to know. Kelly-Ann Carter, I know all about her. I’ll be there before you know it.’
A ball of sickness twisted in her stomach and her mouth felt as dry as a brick.
‘I look forward to seeing you.’
110
7.03 am
As Clay drove down Grove Street towards Brownlow Hill, she saw a pair of constables ahead of her, stopping a car on the corner of Abercromby Square. The driver did a neat three-point turn and drove away in the opposite direction.
She listened to Hendricks on her iPhone.
‘All the roads leading into and around the cathedral have been sealed off. The only vehicles in the vicinity are ours and the streets have been evacuated of pedestrians,’ he said. ‘Every available body is on the ground and there are guns on their way over to surround the cathedral as we speak.’
Clay pulled up in front of the constables and showed them her warrant card, feeling the coldest of comforts that no civilians were in the area. The constables waved her through and, as she turned onto Abercromby Square heading for Oxford Street and Brownlow Hill, she pictured Thomas putting Philip to bed and wished she was there.
During the entire journey from Trinity Road Police Station to the Metropolitan Cathedral, her mind was split in two. One half was adrenaline-fuelled, preparing for the battle ahead, while the other was filled with thoughts of her husband and son.
Mile after speedy mile, the conflict sharpened. I’ll call home before I go into the crypt. I’ll call them if I come out alive. Picturing their bewilderment, in the worst-case scenario, that she had gone in without speaking to them, she pulled up on Oxford Road and called home. Within moments, she heard Philip’s voice.
‘Hello?’
‘You sound tired, love.’
‘Mummy? Dad, it’s Mum.’
‘You don’t sound as tired now, Philip.’
‘I’ve been playing with Dixie.’
‘Dixie?’ In the background she heard Thomas skipping down the stairs to the phone in their hall. The light went on inside her. ‘That’s what you’ve called your cricket.’
The irony of Darwin’s gift was bitter: that the armed killer she was about to face had given a gift to her son and that it was in her home turned her cold.
‘I’ve been looking at him in the box. He doesn’t do much but he does make noises. It sounds like teeth grinding against each other.’
‘Listen, Philip. How much do I love you? I need to know.’
‘More than the stars and the moon and all the planets. I love you the same.’
‘That’s right. I’m going to do my best to get home at some point before you leave for school in the morning. How does that sound?’
‘Great, Mum.’
‘Oh Philip, one thing. You mustn’t have Dixie in your bedroom when you’re sleeping. His chirruping might keep you awake. Promise me.’
‘OK, I promise. I’ll leave him downstairs.’
‘Go to bed now, Philip. You know I love you.’
‘I love you back, Mum.’
‘Goodnight, Philip.’
‘Night, Mum.’
She listened to her son run up the stairs and after a few seconds of silence, Thomas asked, ‘Hello, Eve, what’s happening?’
‘I’m picking up a suspect for questioning.’
‘A dangerous suspect?’
‘They’re all dangerous. But he’s a priest. It should be a piece of cake. I called because I wanted to say goodnight to Philip.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ve got great back-up.’
‘Should I be worried? I mean, I worry anyway, but should I be especially worried?’
‘No, don’t worry. Take it easy. I wish I was there, with you and Philip. I love you both very much and I will see you very soon. I’ve got to go.’ She glanced at her watch.
‘What can I say, Eve? We love you back just as much.’
As Thomas spoke the last syllable, he closed down the call, and the half of her brain that belonged to home closed down too. Her whole focus was now on the job in hand.
She headed to the corner of Oxford Road and Brownlow Hill and, looking up at the huge glass spire of the Metropolitan Cathedral, heard Gina Riley’s voice on the wind.
‘Eve?’ Riley walked quickly towards her.
‘Gina, I know the inside of the crypt really well. I’m guessing he’s going to be on or around the altar, in the central part of the chapel. I’ve got areas to the right where I can observe him from when I go in. If he raises his gun, I’ve got a pillar of brickwork to hide behind. The door is really close to where I intend to place myself when I make a risk assessment.’
‘What about the hostage?’
‘If I can save him, of course I will. But I heard the poor man when Bell called me. First time I heard him I figured he was critical. Second time, it sounded like his condition had deteriorated. I’m sorry.’
Riley pointed at Stone on the University of Liverpool’s side of the pavement opposite, standing with a sergeant carrying a black case and a thin sheaf of papers.
‘Karl’s going to ask you if he can go in behind you as back-up.’
‘Nice idea but absolutely not.’
‘The sergeant from firearms has got the Glock you asked for.’
‘Glock the Old Trusty.’
As Clay walked across the road, she heard Riley call, ‘Be safe, be quick and be back out here asap.’
A black unmarked van pulled up a little way down Brownlow Hill and, as the driver jumped out and opened the side door, a stream of firearms officers emerged carrying Heckler and Koch rifles, fanning out quickly in the surrounding space.
She walked towards Stone and the firearms sergeant, glancing at the steps leading down to the crypt chapel, and wondered if she was about to experience a premature burial.
The sergeant handed her a flak jacket.
‘DCI Clay, put this on under your coat and please sign for the firearm you requested.’
111
7.13 pm
As Clay approached the door to the crypt chapel, a prayer of sorts ran through her brain. Please, please don’t creak or make a noise as I open you. She turned the black circle that was the latch and felt the cold metal in her hand. Holding her breath as she lifted it, she pushed the door open with her shoulder.
As soon as the door was open wide enough for her to squeeze through, she heard two distinct noises: the sound of a man in agony, and another voice speaking in a robotic monotone. The natural aroma of the crypt – wax, wood and second-hand incense – was drowned by petrol fumes.
Clay pulled the door shut and focused on the speaking voice. She recognised it as Father Aaron Bell, and estimated that he was around the corner at the far end of the chapel on the altar. His voice travelled through the air at head height but it sounded like the man in agony was on the ground.
There was some light in the chapel, but it was weak and unstable; Clay guessed it was from a multitude of candles somewhere near the altar.
She kicked off her shoes and walked three paces to the edge of an arched pillar and listened.
Aaron was saying the Hail Mary and reaching the final line, ‘Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’ He launched into the opening words of the next prayer. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace...’
Clay looked at the shadows swathing the space beneath the wide vaulted arch at the back of the central aisle, and knew she had the advantage of darkness. She walked to the edge of the arch and took a fleeting look at the wider scene.
‘And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus...’ He prayed on with a gun in his joined hands as the man on the ground, whom she couldn’t see, wept and groaned.
She listened to him praying, heard him repeat the last line of the Hail Mary, and, as he sealed it with Amen, Clay joined in: ‘Hail Mary, full of grace.’ She spoke softly at first but her voice rose in volume with each line.
‘Our Lord is with you. Blessed art thou among women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus!’ She crunched down on the name of Mary’s son and silenced Aaron Bell, her voice rising from the darkness at the back of the chapel.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Clay continued. ‘Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace—’
‘Stop!’ said Aaron, his prayerful hands unfolding and his right hand clasping the semi-automatic Magnum Desert Eagle.
Clay took in the lethal handgun in candlelight and whispered, ‘Jesus...’ under her breath.
‘The Lord is with thee,’ she continued.
‘Stop!’
‘Blessed art thou among women.’ She stepped deeper into the shadows and fell silent. His figure was ghostlike in the candlelight. His head appeared to be almost floating independently in mid-air, the optical illusion created by the black clothes he wore from the neck down.
‘Where are you, Clay?’
She stepped to the centre of the aisle leading away from the back row of the pews and felt something damp at the edge of her right toes. Clay stooped, touched the dampness on the floor and smelled it. Petrol. She stayed down, the shadows running deeper on the ground, and touched the wetness of petrol running down the aisle in a vertical line.
‘I said, Where are you?’
Standing, she moved to the arch to her right.
‘Where... are... you? If you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot my hostage immediately.’
‘Why waste a single bullet when there are dozens and dozens of police officers outside. You can walk out of this and face the consequences of your actions. If you kill him, the next body bag’s got your name on it, Aaron. Or is it, Christopher? He’s going to die anyway.’
‘How do you know that, Clay?’
‘Because I’ve been listening to him suffering. He’s gone downhill in the brief time since I first heard him. I’ve seen and heard many people dying. I am on close terms with death in all its guises. I’ve been at death’s door myself on more than one occasion. Let me see. You poured petrol on him and set him alight. He was no more than a sound effect for you, a bit of background noise to raise the stakes and force my hand to come here and face you.’
‘Come to the altar. Show yourself to me.’
‘No. You step into the darkness. You, show yourself to me.’
‘I am an ordained priest and this is the Lord’s house. I am obedient to him at all times and you must be obedient to me now.’
The dying man’s inarticulate, guttural noises stopped as if he no longer had the strength to make them. His breathing became hoarse, ragged and with no discernible rhythm.
‘I know that sound,’ said Clay. ‘He’s got minutes to live. He’s drowning in thin air. The fumes in here and the severity of his injuries are working against him. His internal organs are damaged, his lungs for sure.’
‘He’s not the only one with minutes to live.’
‘We’ve got Lucy in custody. We’ve got Jack Dare as well.’
‘But you haven’t got me, have you, Clay?’
‘I’ve got something even better than that.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got Marta Ondřej’s hair from the vestry of your church. You left it under the boards in the room you imprisoned her in. You left the other half in the Adamczak brothers’ flat on Picton Road to put us off your scent, to discredit them when they had no voices to defend themselves and to cause terror between different groups of immigrants. You cleaned that space with bleach but you couldn’t bear to part with the second half of her hair.’
With his Magnum pointed in Clay’s direction, Aaron moved sideways off the altar towards the candles. He blew the flames and, within seconds, the whole chapel was plunged into darkness, save for the votive light on the wall above the altar.
That’s all the light I need, thought Clay.
She stepped into the central aisle to the right-hand side of the line of petrol, which she estimated went all the way to the communion rail, and took three steps forward.
‘I did it because God told me to do it. I was being obedient to the will of the Lord.’
Clay estimated he was in front of the altar rail, closer to her than she wanted him to be but, after a lifetime’s practice, her eyes were quick to adjust to darkness.
‘Are you carrying a firearm, Clay?’
‘Of course not. I was obedient to you.’
‘Liar.’
‘No, you’re the liar.’ She took a deep breath and said, ‘You weren’t being obedient to the will of God in taking that child hostage. Listen to what Jesus Christ said on the matter—’
‘Don’t you dare quote Holy Scripture at me!’
‘But if anyone causes these little ones to sin, it would be—’
‘Shut up, heathen!’
‘Is this a little too close to home, maybe? Better for him to have a large millstone tied around his neck and be drowned in the depths of the sea.’
‘How can you quote the word of the Lord when you don’t even acknowledge his existence?’
‘Listen. Can you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Exactly. Silence. I believe your hostage is now dead. It’s just me and you, and you walked into the darkness into which I invited you.’
‘The light gave you an unfair advantage, Clay. I wasn’t following your instruction. I was making this fair for me.’
She heard him coming closer, slowly, and could make out a human form in the darkness. Moving forward, her toes came to another wet line. She explored it. This time the line was horizontal and, as Clay stepped back from it, she worked out that it had been poured in the shape of a cross.
‘Where are you, you godless bitch?’
‘Better to be a godless bitch than a God-fearing paedophile.’
‘What did you just say?’
‘You heard me, paedophile.’
Clay blinked hard, felt the weight of her eyelids as she gazed into the void, his figure becoming clearer. She could see the entire shape of him, the blackened bulk of his head and body and the lightest patch of his forehead.
She felt the weight of his moral outrage at the slur against his character, and she laughed at him in the darkness.
‘How’s your little boy?’
The question made the skin along her spine go cold and she felt as though a bunch of sharp hooks had embedded themselves into her scalp. She could feel his mounting rage hammering in her direction through the shadows.
‘Why are you asking, paedophile?’
‘Does he like his present from Uncle Aaron? And did you know, Clay, it’s not just one new pet he’s got. You think you’re clever, Clay, but you’re not. You think you’re a good mother, but you’re not. You let me into your child’s life with two living creatures disguised as one.’
She stared at his form as it edged closer, saw his arms rise from his side and join together in front of him. ‘I didn’t give it to him. I took it out of the box and placed it on the floor. Then I stood on it, and ground it down into nothing.’ She strained her eyes to get a better view of the man facing her.
‘That doesn’t surprise me, Clay. You know, the worst of Satan’s children aren’t the niggers or the other ethnic subspecies. It’s the godless whites like you. Your sort makes me sick, Clay. You are more of an abomination than the blacks who crawl all over America and the Jews who crucified Jesus and run America from their banks and law firms. I brought you here to tell you, Clay... Where are you, you white trash bitch?’
She ran away to the right, and watched him swing the semi-automatic and aim at the place from which she had just spoken.
‘But you’re not there now, are you?’
She moved three metres to the right and behind the brickwork of an arch.
‘I want you to talk to Kelly-Ann Carter’s lawyer in America. I want you to talk to Kelly-Ann if you can.’ She heard the unravelling of reason in his voice. ‘Tell her I love her. Only you won’t be able to speak to her, you won’t be able to speak to her lawyer, you’re going to die. What am I thinking of?’
‘Let me go and I’ll pass on your message.’
She hid behind the pillar of the arch as his voice advanced towards her. ‘Why don’t you walk out of here in one piece? Tell her yourself. Tell the whole world about the way, the truth and the life?’ She moved inside the arch, heard his slow, laboured breathing, and made her way to the other side of the brick structure.
‘I knew you’d do this or something like it, Clay.’
She saw the sudden beam of a torch stabbing the shadows and felt a weight of sudden fear drop to her core.
‘You won’t be able to move now because I’ll easily find you. You won’t be able to speak and run. See, I know how your mind works.’
His torch hit the brickwork nearest her head. She shrank deeper into the arch and, as the petrol hit the back of her throat, Clay stifled the urge to cough.
‘I’m coming for you, you white pig...’
She felt the weight of the Glock 17 pistol in her right hand, saw his torchlight exploring the floor and walls around her at the front of the arch.
As Clay moved from the centre to the back of the arch, his breath loomed closer and the smell of his wet clothes rose like tragic memories.
She held her breath. He moved along the brickwork at the front of the arch. He stopped, as if alerted by animal instinct that Clay was closer to him now.
‘If only you could tell Kelly-Ann that I loved her with all my heart. And that it was impossible to visit her. Impossible for me to go back to America. America? Riddled with the black parasite that ate it from the inside out. Where are you, Clay?’