Bad Blood

by Nick Oldham

  They came in time, led by Donaldson. The sniper also knew the other male cop, Rik Dean, the man who had taken over Henry Christie’s role on FMIT, but he did not know the woman cop, who he assumed was a detective, or the CSI guy in the white suit.

  Blood seeped through the dressing from the wound in his side and he knew that if dogs were sent in after him, they would home straight in on the scent of blood.

  But there would be more killings before that.

  TEN

  Jake balanced on the narrow bank of the river and looked both ways along Wellbeck Gulley, trying to work out where Henry could be – if, of course, he had been in the Navara when it sailed over the edge in the first place. He was standing close to the back of the car where the bumper wrapped around the side panel.

  His eyes kept returning to two things.

  Firstly to the bumper itself.

  Jake knew Alison had only recently bought the car from new and it was her current pride and joy. She doted on the beast like it was her pet. She cleaned it, fed it, protected it. Jake knew she would have been devastated if it got scratched or had a bump with another car (and on that musing, he knew she would be in hysterics to see it in its present state). He was fairly certain that if it had been in a bumper-to-bumper collision with another car, he would have known about it. His eyes settled on that rear bumper again and he bent down to inspect the damage he had noticed, which was not caused by flipping over a cliff. He knew a rear-end shunt when he saw one. Someone had either crashed into the Navara, or vice versa. It could be there was no connection with the damage he was looking at and why the car was at the bottom of a cliff. He was keeping an open mind about it, though the question nagged: had Henry been forced off the road?

  The second problem for him was the rear window.

  All of the other windows were smashed, except for the front windscreen which, Jake saw, had come out from its frame in one piece and was lying on the river bank.

  The rear window was not even broken, as such, and was still, incredibly, in place.

  Problem with it was there were two holes in it.

  Jake inspected them closely, and as sure as he knew what a rear-end shunt looked like, he also knew a bullet hole or two when he saw them.

  Whilst his hypothesis went ‘Henry’s been shot at and forced off the road’, his mind went, ‘Eh?’

  Jake’s buttocks clenched tightly as he then shimmied along the side of the car and peered inside and had a good, proper look.

  The roof was badly caved in, the steering wheel mangled – and there was blood splatter on the dashboard.

  The next addition to his hypothesis: Henry had been shot.

  He went through it all in his head, chunk by chunk, trying to see if this conclusion was just ridiculous speculation.

  It wasn’t.

  He stepped back from the car, called Makin on the radio, made sure the others were listening, and reported his assessment of the crash scene, which was met by stony silence.

  After this he kept his promise to Alison and called her via his PR using the telephone facility that was integral to all personal radios in Lancashire Constabulary.

  He was upfront with her and she took the news badly, but he did not spend too much time talking to her because he knew he had urgent work to do. The first part was to radio the control room and ask them to turn out the police helicopter to the scene and also ensure the air ambulance was on standby at Blackpool airport, where it was based.

  He might just need both.

  He knew from experience that he would rather look stupid by turning out the troops now rather than underplay the situation and not alert anyone, only to then find he needed urgent help. Facial egg he could handle. Dead friends he couldn’t.

  When he looked back up towards the road, he was relieved to see the blue lights of a traffic car. Something told him he was going to need a bit of help on this.

  Rik, Donaldson, Jess Makin and the CSI stood in a loose cluster back at the American’s Jeep, having back-tracked from the bodies.

  Rik was doling out instructions, thinking on the hoof.

  He asked Makin to set up a rendezvous point back where the tarmac road petered out, then start to deal with the arrival of the specialists and other staff as they landed. He was already trying to think ahead and prepare for what might be needed and cover all those bases. A crime scene in the woods made for its own peculiar set of problems, not least in terms of access and communication and, of course, the weather. At the moment it was good, but he knew from experience it could change rapidly in this area and therefore protecting the scene and the access to it was high on his priority list. Then he had to think about who he had to call, inform and maybe turn out beyond the usual as at the forefront of his mind was that there was still a killer on the loose and every second not trying to find him was a second wasted.

  Makin took it all in as Rik ran through his requirements as all the time his mind was thinking concurrently about basic investigatory principles, such as the 5WH: Who, What, Where, When, Why, How.

  Also, what was the link between location, victim, murderer?

  Was the horrible, brutal killing of this seemingly innocent lad just unfortunate and tragic or was Tod Rawstron not as innocent as he appeared to be?

  Rik’s gut told him that Tod had stumbled across something and had paid the ultimate price, but he knew he had to keep an open mind. When he’d finished his list of requirements, Makin kept looking at him, expecting more, and he had to shoo her away.

  Then he turned to Donaldson, who was not under his jurisdiction in any way but whom Rik would like to keep close, as his experience could prove invaluable.

  ‘I don’t want to spoil any evidence, Karl, but I wouldn’t mind a closer look at that VW. It could give us some fast-track clues about who and what we’re dealing with. If some evidence gets spoiled, but it means we get a lead on this guy, then so be it.’

  ‘I agree,’ Donaldson said. ‘He didn’t expect to be found so there could be something in the van … maybe like his name and address.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’ Rik looked at the CSI, a man called Ray Bower. ‘Suit and boot us, Ray.’

  Less than ten metres away, the sniper listened to every word.

  He watched Dean and Donaldson kit themselves out in forensic suits, both looking completely ridiculous in the one-piece outfits that looked more like romper suits for adults.

  He smiled dangerously, then winced at the pain in his side.

  It was true what the detective superintendent had said. There would be evidence in the VW camper van that would lead them to him.

  He smiled again because he knew they would never find it.

  Both men, plus the CSI, walked straight past where he was secreted, laid out full length, and their elasticated shoes were at his eye level.

  When they had gone past, he wriggled backwards to put some distance between himself and the event that was about to happen.

  Donaldson stopped and held an arm across Rik’s chest, halting the superintendent.

  ‘What is it?’ Rik said, wanting to push on.

  Donaldson’s face turned slowly to him, then he pulled Rik towards him so he could speak into his ear and covered his mouth with his hand.

  ‘What do we know about this guy?’ the American whispered hoarsely.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say … if this is the man the gamekeeper spotted flitting through the trees a couple of times, armed with a rifle not a shotgun, he could be the one in the sniper’s nest with a view down to Alison and Henry’s pub … and if he was the one who tried to abduct Ginny … yeah?’

  Rik nodded. Both men knew it was one and the same guy really.

  ‘He’s been hiding out in the woods, so he knows survival and concealment skills. He’s hidden a vehicle. He kills ruthlessly and he doesn’t want to be found or caught … He has access to firearms and used a Browning to kill the kid …’

  ‘How do you know that?
’ Rik interrupted.

  ‘I just do, trust me … All that, plus I had to leave the scene of the crime to get you back to it … and I say again, he does not want to be caught, so I think he’s military, or was, and military scares me.’

  Though the sniper could see the whispered conversation he could not hear a word or even see Donaldson’s lips moving.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ he demanded of himself. ‘What’s he fucking saying?

  In his heart he knew. Donaldson was no fool.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Rik asked.

  ‘I’m saying that if I was him and I had the resources, I’d make shit sure there would be a little surprise present for the next person to go anywhere near my car.’

  Although Jake Niven had never been a traffic cop, he had attended a good many accidents in his time, often arriving first on the scene and covering before the arrival of the road-policing unit. He had been to several where cars had left the road and although it wasn’t a common occurrence, there were instances of drivers and/or passengers being thrown from their vehicles by the forces of physics as they plummeted and overturned and rolled, such as Henry’s car had obviously done on this occasion.

  It looked as if he had been thrown out, probably via the front windscreen.

  If so, Jake expected to be able to see him somewhere close by.

  That was not the case here.

  One way or the other Henry had left the vehicle – willingly or otherwise – survived, then somehow scrambled away from the scene, probably badly injured from the accident itself and possibly wounded from being shot.

  Jake scanned the gulley.

  It was very steep from the edge of the road, less so on the opposite side, which was not a stony scree but a less rocky and grassy incline.

  ‘Jake, you receiving?’ his PR interrupted his observations. ‘Look up, if so … it’s me, by the way,’ the voice on the radio said, ‘Jim Taylor.’

  Jake shaded his eyes and looked up to the road where the traffic officer who had just arrived was waving at him. Jake acknowledged him and over his PR said, ‘Hi, Jim, glad you’re here, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, looks a bad one. You found the driver yet? I heard your transmission to Jess Makin.’

  ‘Negative, just looking now. Not in the car, must’ve been thrown out, but I can’t see him, must have managed to get away somehow.’

  ‘Yeah, can’t see anything from up here, either,’ the traffic man said. ‘Just one thing, though, and I don’t know if this is connected or not.’ He held up something between his finger and thumb for Jake to see, though from where he was he could not actually make out what Taylor was showing him. It looked like a pencil stub.

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ Jake told him over the PR.

  ‘Several spent shell casings. Looks like someone’s been firing a gun or guns from up here. Nine-mill, I think.’

  ‘Booby-trapped?’ Rik Dean said.

  Donaldson shrugged. ‘Who knows? Just putting myself into his head.’

  ‘Mm, you’re too good at that sort of thing,’ Rik commented.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Rik said, bowing to Donaldson’s extensive knowledge of dealing with terrorists of all kinds and putting together dangerous operations combining military and law-enforcement agencies, many of which entailed raiding premises occupied by suspects which were often rigged to catch out the unwary and blast them to fuck and back.

  Still conversing at a whisper and with a hand over his mouth, Donaldson went on, ‘OK, I know there wasn’t a tripwire around it earlier,’ he said of the VW, ‘but he has had time to rig a basic one and there could also be something else.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Rik rolled his eyes in mock-irritation.

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ Donaldson said, ‘but I’m going down on my hands and knees and I’m crawling the rest of the way.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The American sank down and began to seriously use his eyes to see if any sort of tripwire had been strung at shin height, which would be harder to see if he had been on his feet. It would be as fine as a fishing line and maybe coloured green to match the background.

  He started to move at a snail’s pace towards the van, not feeling remotely stupid.

  Rik and the CSI watched from a respectful distance.

  Donaldson took the same route to the vehicle as he had done previously – and found a wire immediately, stretched taut between two slender trees, maybe nine inches from the ground.

  He held up a hand and pointed to indicate his discovery.

  ‘Shit,’ Rik said.

  Donaldson stayed down and carefully followed the line to one side and found it to be coiled around the tree trunk. Leaving that end untouched, he worked back in the opposite direction.

  It might have been hastily put together, but it was dangerous nonetheless.

  A hand grenade had been fixed by gaffer tape to the tree trunk and the wire had been looped through the pin in such a way that if anyone had walked into the wire, the pin would have been pulled out and the device would have exploded.

  It might not have been fatal but at the very least would have caused serious injury to the lower part of the body, maybe even blowing off limbs.

  Donaldson knelt upright and scrutinized the grenade. It was pretty standard military issue, nothing fancy, just effective.

  ‘What is it?’ Rik called.

  Donaldson explained over his shoulder.

  ‘Do we need bomb disposal?’

  ‘No,’ Donaldson said with certainty.

  Looking closely, he saw the pin had been partially extracted so that only a tiny tug of the tripwire would jerk it out. Donaldson simply pushed the pin back into place with his thumb and the device was safe. He unthreaded the wire and stood up stiffly, sweating heavily in the forensic suit.

  ‘We’re all right here,’ he announced, ‘but I firmly believe in the old adage taught to me by my driving instructor about vehicles and junctions.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Where there’s one, you can bet your ass there’ll be another.’

  Jake Niven scrambled part-way up the less steep banking and began to move along it to look for any signs of Henry Christie, although he could not be sure which way Henry might have gone if he had got out of the Navara in one piece, which he must have done, Jake thought – unless something else had happened entirely, something Jake did not even want to speculate about. That maybe whoever had been shooting at him had taken him.

  ‘Gotta be bollocks,’ Jake grunted as he scaled a large rock, then perched on top of it and surveyed the landscape around him.

  His mobile phone rang: Alison’s number showed on the display.

  ‘I thought there was no frickin’ signal around here,’ he said, then answered it, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Any news, Jake?’ she demanded shakily.

  ‘No, no update, sorry. Just searching the scene now.’

  ‘OK, OK … what the hell? How come he drove off the road?’ she said weepily.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m trying to work it all out.’

  ‘But you haven’t found him yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Sorry. But I’m trying.’

  ‘I know you are … but not finding him, that’s got to be good news?’ Alison said hopefully.

  ‘Yes, gotta be.’ Jake tried to sound positive.

  Donaldson was as sure as he could be that the tripwire to the grenade was the only booby trap around the outside of the camper van. Once he had disarmed it, leaving the grenade in situ strapped to the tree, he went on to approach and circle the VW just as cautiously, still on all fours, and found nothing else before rising to his full height and turning back to Rik and the CSI.

  ‘All clear up to this point, but I would advise we use the same route in and out all the time from now.’

  Rik and the CSI joined him, all three now perspiring heavily in their forensic suits
and from the tension.

  ‘That’s not to say the vehicle itself isn’t booby-trapped,’ Donaldson warned. ‘Still need to be cautious. I think the only plus point is that he will have done this in a hurry, but that doesn’t mean it won’t blow your face off.’

  ‘Maybe we should wait, get the bomb-disposal guys on to it,’ Rik said.

  ‘Your call.’

  ‘Love it when you do that,’ Rik said. ‘That shifting-responsibility thing.’

  ‘What you get paid for,’ Donaldson pointed out.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Rik’s dilemma was the possibility of getting quick information as opposed to the delay and the risk. To get bomb disposal to this location, he knew, would take at least two hours. ‘Could we open a door, do you think?’ His face was tight as he asked the question. ‘Passenger side so we can lean in, check the glove box, look under seats?’

  ‘We could try.’

  ‘Let’s do it, if you’re up for it.’

  Donaldson looked blandly at him. ‘I love it when you do that, y’know, that shifting-responsibility thing.’

  ‘You’re good at this, mate,’ Rik said.

  ‘OK … let’s check out the front passenger door.’

  Donaldson turned to inspect it. On the face of it, it looked safe enough. There was nothing under the handle and peering through the windows it looked as if the inner skin had not been tampered with in any way, although there was a blind spot where the bottom third of the door closed against the front bench seat and it was impossible to see down that gap.

  Donaldson’s mouth twitched. The door might even be locked, in which case this was all academic, but he knew it would not be a hard job to wedge another grenade down there, between seat and door which, if the pin was removed, would simply ping open and explode when the door was opened. Simple and effective, just the kind of thing a quick-thinking, practical military man might do when the enemy was bearing down on him.

  ‘Get ready to run,’ Donaldson warned. He gripped the door handle.

  Rik and the CSI trembled anxiously.

  The door was unlocked. Donaldson opened it just a crack but kept his body weight against it so it would not swing open. He contorted and peered into the space between the slightly open door and the seat. He could not see anything amiss, certainly no sign of anything wedged down there. He checked the hinges and felt along the bottom edge of the door with his fingers and found nothing.