by Nick Oldham
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was here with her daughter, Ginny.’
‘I don’t know where she is,’ the doctor said. ‘I think she’d gone.’
‘Is Henry Christie all right?’
‘Yes … he’s in the critical-care unit.’
‘Good, good … So where is Ginny?’
Rik’s headache was phenomenal.
He was sitting with a pen and pad in front of him, struggling to write a single word of his new and ongoing investigative strategy. He was in a conference room at police HQ. Several high-ranking detectives were due to join him in half an hour and with them he was going to map out the way forward.
But just at the moment he had nothing. In local parlance he was having a shed collapse, his brain in meltdown, not working.
He placed down his pen and interlocked his fingers.
‘I didn’t protect her,’ he said out loud. ‘Fuck,’ he sighed and rubbed his forehead, then drew his hands down his face, stretching and distorting his features.
The image of Alison’s mutilated body was stuck in his brain and the horrific, sordid way she had died. In a fucking toilet cubicle. Throat severed, hacked open, exposing the muscle, gristle of the larynx.
He was in a rage, furious that the police presence he had ordered, expected, at the hospital had not even shown up. There had been an oversight, he’d been told by some snivelling, shithead of a patrol sergeant – whose head would roll, Rik had decided.
He swore again.
It was almost midnight, but Rik did not care any more.
From now on this was going to be a twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week investigation until that bastard was caught and nailed to the wall, whoever he was.
Jake Niven had taken over the vigil at Henry’s bedside from Karl Donaldson.
They had decided on six-hour shifts, so one of them, someone he knew, would be there the moment he woke up from what the doctors were calling a mild coma. All his vital signs were good. The skull fracture was hairline, almost non-existent, but was there. There was now no bleeding, no excess fluids on the brain, and after four days the swellings were reducing bit by bit.
He seemed to have gone on standby mode, self-repair, and would switch back on when his body was good and ready.
It was possible to jerk him out of it with drugs, the doctors said, but no one wanted to do this. It had … complications.
Best to let nature run its course.
Until that happened, all the people around him would take their turn to be with him.
Karl Donaldson had gone straight back to work alongside Rik Dean on the investigation. The American’s attachment was now official, sanctioned for the time being by the FBI and the US Embassy.
Jake stood at the foot of Henry’s bed, hands in pockets, looking at the patient.
He had so much to be grateful to Henry for, someone he had not even really known until quite recently, but who had become a close, dear friend.
Jake’s face creased with emotion, and not for the first time whilst standing at the bed.
‘Come on, you old warhorse,’ he whispered.
Then he stopped speaking and thought forlornly, what would be there for Henry when he did wake up? If he wasn’t brain damaged (which wasn’t a certainty), then found out Alison had been murdered, Ginny was still missing, maybe also murdered. Even if this killer was captured, that would not bring Alison back. Henry’s planned future as a good husband (Henry had confessed some terrible things about his past and not having been the husband he should have been to his late wife, something he wanted to rectify with Alison) and ‘mine host’ at the Tawny Owl was effectively over. Jake conjectured if Henry would be able to deal with it.
He had his doubts.
He walked around the bed, located in a single room in the CCU, and sat in the armchair that had been imported from somewhere.
The uniformed cop on duty outside the room opened the door and poked his head through. Rik had now insisted on a twenty-four-hour guard for Henry following the debacle with Alison, although even he did not have the muscle to make it an armed guard, which he would have preferred.
‘Mind if I get a coffee and sarnie? I’ll be back in five,’ the officer requested.
‘No probs, I’m not going anywhere.’
Jake settled comfortably, wondered how it would all pan out, these live changing, life-ending events over the last few days.
He knew the murder investigation – now triple (plus dog) – was one of those all hands to the tiller kind of things, but also that not much progress was being made. It was approaching the critical seventy-two hours stage where if there was no breakthrough, then it could be a very long slog, a fact that related to all murder enquiries.
Extensive searches had taken place over some sections of moorland without success, as clearly the killer had moved on using a van he had stolen from Thornwell, then somehow followed Alison and Ginny to RPH where he had butchered Alison and kidnapped Ginny, whose fate still remained unknown.
The police knew she had been kidnapped because the event had been captured by a security camera scanning the East Drive car park and had shown her being taken by a man wearing a baseball cap to cover his face and using the stolen van, the registered number of which had been clearly caught on camera.
The vehicle had since been found abandoned and burnt out in a field near a council estate in Preston.
And there the investigation had run into a cul-de-sac.
Jake knew there were aspects of it he was not privy to – such as why what looked like an SAS team assisted with the search; and at a couple of briefings he had managed to attend, why there were some unidentified, faceless guys hanging around in the background. He’d also heard some cryptic murmurings between Rik and Donaldson that he didn’t understand. Neither man was happy about something that was going on, but obviously Jake didn’t need to know what.
And then there was Henry – almost forgotten because of everything else.
He could have died, probably would have if Dr Lott hadn’t been going brown-trouting that morning and seen the hole in the wall.
Jake seemed to have been given what became known as the ‘Henry thing’ on his lap to sort, clearly a very serious occurrence, but because it had been so far impossible to ascertain exactly what had happened it had all taken second place, gone into limbo, which he kind of understood.
But he did know some things for certain.
Henry had been shot at.
Henry had been run off the road, tupped by another vehicle, a black one from the paint samples, with a damaged front light.
Henry had then been shot at from the road and somehow he had clambered or been thrown out of the Navara and despite his injuries, maybe spurred on by the primitive urge of self-preservation, he had scrambled away from the wreck, probably under fire, and taken refuge upstream behind a large rock.
Jake glanced at Henry. ‘How the hell did you pull that off, mate?’ he asked him out loud.
Jake believed that Dr Lott’s appearance had saved Henry’s life. Although the doctor had not seen anything, Henry’s assailants must have seen or heard his approach, slapped a quick reverse in and managed to leave the scene. Jake, however, could not work out where they had gone; possibly off-road to escape.
He still had not been able to contact Lord Chalmers about Henry’s visit that morning. It seemed the good lord had gone on an extended holiday, supposedly incognito on a yacht in the Indian Ocean and was uncontactable … another thing that did not sit easy with Jake. The only route to and from Brown Syke was via the road, so surely he would have seen the crashed car, or had he just ignored it, or had he left by plane from his little airstrip?
Jake shook his head with frustration. Too many things unanswered, but he was determined to get to the bottom of it all.
At least there was some good scientific evidence.
The empty shells by the roadside were all 9mm, and being analysed by the ballistics people at the lab
in Huntingdon. He was waiting the result of forensics on the paint and glass samples from the Navara and those he’d found on the road and was hopeful he would find out what make and model of vehicle they were from.
Jake looked quickly at Henry.
Had he just moved?
Did his eyelids flutter?
Jake relaxed. Maybe not.
‘I’ll tell you what you can do,’ Rik Dean said into the face of the man with no face – Jenkins, the mystery man from London. ‘You can fuck right off. You clearly know who the murderer is and you want me to play your stupid games just so you don’t end up with egg all over your pin-striped shoulders.’
‘You should understand our position, which, as I have stressed previously, is one of national security,’ Jenkins said blandly. He still had not been formally introduced to Rik, nor had the other mystery guy, Smith, who hovered around like a bodyguard. ‘I am more than happy to furnish you with details … of a man … so you can reassure the general public that the offender has been identified and is being hunted down.’ He paused. ‘And when you catch him, we will have him back, thank you.’
Rik had two sheets of paper in his hand, containing details of a man called David Jones and a grainy passport-sized photograph in the top corner.
He knew he was looking at details, sparse ones at that, of an undercover alias, a legend, and that quite possibly the photograph wasn’t even the correct one.
‘I am not playing a game with the public or anyone else,’ Rik said. He waved the papers in front of Jenkins, then screwed them up and threw them into a litter bin.
The three men were in the first-floor function room of the Tawny Owl, the one in which Rik’s marriage to Lisa had taken place only a few days earlier but felt much longer. In under an hour he was due to deliver a press conference at this location and various members of the media were beginning to arrive and set up.
The room had been arranged by Anna, Jake’s wife, who had effectively taken over the day-to-day running of the pub for the time being, although how long that could continue was open to question. Not long, was the likely answer. There were rows of chairs and a table on the stage at the front of the room for Rik and the chief constable.
‘You will not divulge anything you might have learned in the last few days,’ Jenkins warned him.
‘You mean about government-sponsored hit squads and mad assassins on the loose?’
Jenkins jerked his head. ‘If you do’ – he slipped a fat finger across his throat in a gesture that did not even register in its irony with him – ‘your career is finito, and that’s a promise.’
Rik glowered at him, then moved aside as a BBC news crew came through the door to set up their cameras.
‘I’ll tell you what I will do,’ Rik said.
Jenkins waited.
‘I will make no reference to you or this shit’ – he pointed to the waste basket – ‘and I’ll tell the world that we have no idea who we are chasing, that fingerprint and DNA have not assisted, and that we will simply have to catch this brutal, dangerous offender by good old-fashioned detective work and when I hunt this man down, which I will, I will display him for all to see, and if that fucks you up, so be it.’
He resisted the temptation to flick Jenkins’ nose.
Jake was eager to attend the press conference. He was replaced by Lisa at Henry’s bedside. She looked as jaded as anyone and when she sat by the bed, immediately closed her eyes.
Jake headed up the motorway, joining the M6 at the Broughton interchange, heading north, coming off at junction 34 before veering off the A583 after the village of Caton and heading towards Kendleton. Unusually, and obviously because of the press conference, the narrow roads were much busier than normal.
He settled his not very quick Land Rover behind an equally sluggish TV truck, happy to chug along.
Suddenly two black Range Rovers appeared in his rear-view mirror, right up close to his back bumper and not backing off despite the police livery. They seemed to be occupied by the large, dark shapes of men.
The roads were twisty-turny but there was just one section where there was a decently long straight stretch just before the drop down into Kendleton, but because the road was narrow with quite deep drainage dykes on either side, few overtakes were ever attempted.
Not something that seemed to bother the drivers of the Range Rovers. Both veered out and with their offside wheels mounting the narrow grass verges and their horns sounding, they forced their way past Jake, then the TV truck, then they were gone.
‘Gonna have words with you guys,’ Jake said softly.
When he reached the village, the Tawny Owl car park was crammed with cop cars, media-liveried vehicles, trucks with satellite dishes on their roofs and a lot of people milling about, some reporters already speaking to camera.
The Range Rovers had been abandoned illegally on the grass verge outside the car park and one was parked at such a jaunty angle that other cars had to mount the kerb opposite to pass.
Jake parked further down the village in front of the butcher’s shop.
He was immediately accosted by the butcher, Don Singleton, a good friend of Dr Lott, a Tawny Owl regular and friend of Henry and Alison. He supplied the pub with all its superb meat.
‘Jake,’ he called.
‘Hiya, Don.’
The red-faced man, the epitome of a country butcher, came out of the shop wiping his hands on a blood-stained apron. ‘You been t’see Henry?’ Jake nodded. ‘Anything?’ the butcher asked hopefully. Jake shook his head sadly. ‘You know, the whole village is devastated by all this. We really took Alison and Ginny, and then Henry to our hearts. They’re part of the community. She didn’t deserve this, she was a good person.’
‘I know, Don, she was.’ He patted the butcher on the shoulder, then walked towards the Owl, passing the two Range Rovers, wondering who they belonged to. Inside, folk were being directed up to the function room. Jake shouted across everyone’s heads. ‘Excuse me, people, I need to know who owns the black Range Rovers outside. They’re causing an obstruction and I’m afraid if they aren’t moved immediately, I’ll tow them away.’
Two hard-faced men shouldered their way against the flow of people.
Jake eyed them.
Instantly he knew the type. Men who lived by violence. He could sense it in their movements and expressions.
‘You the owners?’ he asked.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?’ the first one said. He was muscled, but lithe, like a proper athlete.
‘I’m just keeping the traffic flowing … doing my job, in other words. Busy day in town today.’
‘Arsehole,’ the man said. They split around Jake, going outside. He followed.
They went to their vehicles and though only one was really causing a problem, they moved further down the road.
‘Thanks, guys, much appreciated,’ Jake said as they re-entered the pub.
They eyed him disrespectfully but said nothing as they bypassed him. Jake watched them for a moment, then strolled down to the Range Rovers and called in the registration numbers for a PNC check.
The comms operator asked him to reconfirm the numbers which he did, then was told, ‘Both vehicles blocked on PNC, Jake. You should phone me for details, I have a number you need to ring.’
‘Roger,’ Jake said. It wasn’t totally unusual to check cars that were blocked – all police undercover cars were, as well as some military vehicles. But with what, admittedly little, Jake knew about some of the shady characters knocking about around this investigation like they had bad smells under their noses, maybe these guys were connected. He shrugged mentally: none of his business. But as he walked away, something on one of the cars caught his eye.
He stopped, took out his penknife and unfolded it.
By the time he had finished he just about managed to edge into the function room where the briefing was about to start.
Rik Dean was on stage sitting alongside the chief constable.<
br />
He adjusted the microphone in front of him. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he began. ‘I know this is off the beaten track and it may be inconvenient to you, but I felt that having a press conference out here would serve to tell you all exactly what the investigation of Alison Marsh and the abduction of her daughter, Ginny, means to this community … These events have torn a huge hole in the heart in this village …’
‘My God, he’s actually pretty good,’ Jake said to himself. Rik looked tired but ultra-determined and Jake thought this enquiry was in pretty good hands. Rik seemed to have stepped up to the bar with this one.
FIFTEEN
The press briefing, including the many questions that followed, lasted almost an hour. The assembled media folk began to disperse.
Jake stood aside as they filtered out and watched for the drivers of the Range Rovers to leave. They had spent the briefing in the back corner of the room with the other two individuals Jake had seen knocking about before.
He followed them out as they shouldered their way through the crowd. When they emerged into sunlight, each slid on very cool-looking aviator-style sunglasses, hiding their eye, their identities.
‘Gents,’ he called.
Neither acknowledged him, but headed down the steps towards their cars. Jake hurried after them and caught up as they stopped for a chat amongst themselves.
‘Gents,’ he said.
This time they looked but did not speak.
‘I need a few details, I’m afraid,’ he said.
The one he had first spoken to, the one lithe and muscular, said, ‘What do you mean, officer?’
‘I need to see your driving licences or failing that I’ll give you both a producer and you can take all your documents into a police station of your own choice within five days. Either way.’ Jake smiled.
‘Why?’
‘Because you are the drivers of motor vehicles on a public road and under the Road Traffic Act I have the power to see and check such documents and I’m now exercising that power.’ Jake kept smiling.
‘I don’t think so,’ the man said.
‘I do think so,’ Jake continued pleasantly. ‘And if you refuse to furnish your details I’ll arrest you. Simple.’