by Michael Kerr
This was weird. The man was now rocking backwards and forwards, and the groaning was now louder and seemed to be that of someone in extreme pain.
Judy had to do something. Her wrists and ankles were secured again with tape, and there was a strip of it across her mouth.
She rolled away from the wall, out onto the hard floor – that was littered with pieces of brick and other debris – unmindful of the pain it caused.
Pete swung his pistol away from the masked man and almost fired. He somehow stayed his finger as the figure came into sight. It was a girl, and he could see that she was bound and not a threat.
Matt knew that they had been duped. He edged around the fire, reached out and pulled the mask up to reveal the ashen face of a semiconscious teenage boy.
Was Harris still here, lurking in the gloom and pointing a gun at them? “Get down, Pete,” he shouted as he dived back away from the glow of the fire.
Nothing. There was no response. But if Harris had been here, how the hell had he got out of the basement?
Pete stayed low and went to the girl, pulled the tape from her mouth and said, “Where is he?”
Judy pointed into the darkness at the other end of the long, crypt-like room and said, “He shot Alfie.”
Matt heard what the girl said. Went back to the boy and checked his wound. It was serious. “Stay with them,” he said to Pete. “Phone for an ambulance and backup, and see if you can stop the boy from bleeding out.”
“But―”
“Just do it. I’ll see if I can find him.”
“He has the keys to Alfie’s car,” Judy said. “It’s a Mazda, and we left it on a track at the edge of the wood not far from here. But he went off to move it.”
“Which direction?” Matt asked.
Judy nodded her head to the north as Pete used a penknife to cut through the tape at her wrists. He then freed her ankles.
Matt walked to the end of the room. There was a recess to the left of it with half a dozen stone steps leading up to what was no more than a small hatch of rotting planks. Throwing the cover back, he cautiously emerged to find that long grass and a plethora of brown, dead nettles and weeds hid the only other access to the basement. The weeds were parted where Harris had made a trail as he pushed through them. Matt followed in the direction that he had to assume the killer had gone.
Gabriel had quickly trussed up the teenagers again, and then heard the grate of steel on stone and knew that someone was at the top of the steps. He pulled the boy up into a sitting position, placed the blanket around his shoulders and fixed the mask to his face, before making his way to where he knew there was another way out of the subterranean room.
He closed the hatch behind him and headed through the woods to where he had parked the Mazda.
After having jogged for no more than a hundred yards, he had to stop. His chest felt as though something was attempting to eat its way out of it, like the penis-shaped creature with a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth that had erupted from John Hurt’s chest in Alien. And there was more blood in his mouth. He leaned against a tree for support and spat out clots of the coppery, salty tasting liquid. He should have grabbed his backpack, but had panicked, imagining that police were surrounding the chapel. Now all he had was a set of car keys, his wallet, the gun, and a hunting knife in a sheath that was fastened to his belt. At that moment he would have traded all three items for a large swig of the pink painkiller. He took deep breaths, dug deep into an inner well of resilience and found the strength to keep going. There was no sight or sound of the police searching the woods. All was quiet, save for the sporadic hoots of an owl. Maybe it had just been a fucking tramp making his way down to the basement to spend the night under cover.
He stopped again, due to severe stomach cramps that made it impossible to walk. Should he go back? It obviously wasn’t the police. They had no idea where he was. Nobody did.
The blood was now seeping out of his parted lips and running down his chin. It struck him that it was almost over. It didn’t matter whether he went back, reached the car and drove away, or just laid down on the trail and waited for the end.
Hearing the sound of movement drawing nearer invigorated him. Someone was following him, of that he was sure. Twigs and cones and dry leaves snapped, crackled and popped like Rice Krispies underfoot. He slid behind a tree and waited. He found that he still had the will to live; to squeeze every last second from life. He was dying, but would do it on his terms, not those made by anyone else.
Matt heard a wet, phlegm-filled cough from up ahead. He stopped and listened to the night. A cold, stiff breeze made tree branches shudder, and an owl hooted, but there were no sounds that he associated with human movement. He carried on, slowly, though he had the urge to rush, not wanting Harris to reach the car and drive away.
There was no time to take evasive action. The figure stepped out from behind a tree trunk less than thirty feet from him and fired twice. The first shot burned past his right temple, but the second hit him full in the chest and he fell to the ground.
Gabriel waited for thirty seconds; saw the left leg of the fallen man twitch violently two or three times before becoming still.
He walked back along the trail and looked down into the open, staring eyes of the cop that he recognised as being Matt Barnes. No one else came. He could now take it nice and easy to reach the car and be on his way. Killing Barnes had not been in his game plan. But not many plans or schemes worked out as you envisaged they would. And it didn’t matter. He recalled a quote, but not the name of who had penned it: Death embraces each and every being, to render us one and the same, finally finished with all diverse ideology, dissimilar cultures, pretension and pettiness. It is the final truth that is greater than our previous humanity or lack of it. We are but leaves carried on a fast-flowing river, on a journey that leads to nowhere but the depths of anonymity and unawareness.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
PETE worked his phone, made the calls, and left the mobile on so that it could be homed-in on by GPS. He then went to the young man, who was still alive, moaning and shaking all over. His girlfriend was hugging him, but that wouldn’t keep him alive. He was going into shock. All Pete could do was gently move the girl to one side and check the gunshot wound. It was through and through, and blood was seeping from the gaping exit wound in his shoulder. At least it wasn’t spurting out, so no arteries had been compromised.
Using his penknife, Pete cut a roughly two feet square piece out of the blanket, wadded it up and pressed it hard against the hole in the lad’s shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Pete said to the girl.
“Judy,” she whispered. “Is Alfie going to be okay?”
“Let’s hope so, Judy. Help is on the way. I want you to hold this piece of blanket for me, and press hard to keep the pressure on and slow the bleeding.”
Judy did as Pete asked.
There was nothing more he could do, apart from drape the blanket back over Alfie. “I need to go now,” Pete said. “You’ll be safe here. Did the man mention anywhere that he might go?”
Judy shook her head.
Pete went back up the steps that they had entered by, climbed out of the nearest window and jogged off in the direction that Judy had said they had left the car. Anything could have gone down during the minutes that had elapsed, but Matt had not fired his gun, or he would have heard it.
Pete determined to shoot Harris on sight. The man was armed and had to their knowledge murdered several people. This was not someone that he would give a chance to. If he came across the maniac known as The Clown, then he would shoot first and worry about the consequences later.
He lowered the gun and held it loosely by his side. He was almost spent as he turned away from the body and began to trudge off along the trail.
Matt blinked a few times and took a long, deep breath. Playing dead was no easy feat. The low light and shadows had helped. And Harris was not a professional killer. Had he been, then he would have
kept the gun pointed at him as he approached, and then made sure of the kill with a head shot. Holding his breath, keeping still after feigning death throes by jerking a leg, and somehow staring up at the treetops and moonlit sky above them had worked. Not acknowledging the pain in his chest had been the hardest part. The bullet had slammed into the Kevlar vest and flattened out, but the impact had been like being struck full force by a hammer. Only the fact that he had suffered what he considered to be a lot more than his fair share of pain so far in life had given him the resilience to absorb it and not react to it. He would have deep bruising, but that was of minor concern. Had he not been wearing the vest he would be dead.
Sitting up, Matt took careful aim at the receding figure and said, “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot you, Harris.”
Gabriel stopped in mid stride. Knew that he’d been tricked, but wasn’t finished yet. It was a gamble, but that didn’t matter, for he had nothing to lose but his life, and that was very nearly at an end. Without turning, rightly believing that Barnes would not shoot him in the back, he dived sideways into the undergrowth and rolled down an incline into a hollow.
Like sharp, black thorns or fast-growing bamboo shoots growing unchecked, the pain blossomed in his lungs and his back and stomach. The fucking cancer was eating him alive like some carnivorous beast. He crawled a few yards and then stopped and knew that he could go no further. Strange. His mind was as clear as a bell. His brain was functioning just fine, but his disease-ridden body had become no more than a deadly enemy that he could not defeat: an enemy without any vestige of intelligence, or it would have known that in destroying him, it too would perish.
Sitting with his back up against the incline that was a dozen feet below the trail, he held the gun to his head and waited.
Matt moved unhurriedly down the slope, between trees, and when he reached the bottom he saw the dark shape of Harris a few yards away from him, just sitting, unmoving.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked the man who had just attempted to shoot him dead.
Gabriel was doing nothing, apart from contemplating non-existence; mentally making ready to face eternity. Hs trousers were sopping wet. He looked down at the spreading stain and realised that he was pissing blood. And it was also dripping from his mouth and nostrils. He had become like a dam that could not contain the water and was being split and overwhelmed by the pressure.
“I’m dying, Barnes,” he slurred.
“Put the gun down,” Matt said.
Gabriel chuckled. “And if I don’t, what will you do, shoot me?” he said.
“If I have to.”
“Then do it, because I’m finding it difficult to end it myself. My finger seems to be frozen on the trigger.”
“Why the killings?” Matt said.
“It got out of hand, I suppose,” Gabriel replied. “I had to kill Connolly because of what he’d done to Josie, and then I just came to the conclusion that the planet would be a far better place to be part of with some of the scum on it eradicated. Problem being, like shooting rats, there are too many of them, and taking a few out doesn’t make any real difference.”
“What was so special about Josie?”
“Ah, that would be telling, Barnes. You’d have to put that question to her mother. My lips are sealed.”
“And the masks?”
“They have always enthralled me. They prevent you from seeing the person behind them, and that is what most people do, present you with false expressions and a greater or lesser degree of insincerity.”
“Why―?”
“Enough pointless questions,” Gabriel said. “Do whatever you think is right, in the knowledge that I don’t give a fuck anymore. I have no further argument with life. It’s almost done with me, and I’m done with it.”
There was no more to say. Matt was content to wait for reinforcements. Soon after, a voice from the trail above him said, “Boss, it’s me, Pete,” and his DS came down to stand next to him. “What’s he doing?”
“He told me that he’s dying.”
“From what?”
“We didn’t go into detail.”
“Do we just wait him out?”
“Why not, he’s just sitting there pointing a gun at his own head. If he gets up and attempts to leave, we’ll deal with him. How’s the lad?”
“I think he’ll make it. There’s an ambulance on the way. Paramedics should be able to stabilise him. I only do basic first aid.”
Matt had not taken his eyes off Harris. He saw the man lower his arm, so took up the fraction of slack on the trigger of his pistol. “Toss the weapon away from you,” he said, but there was no response and so he took a few steps towards the man. Something was wrong. Harris was not acting like a fugitive.
Pete moved quickly to Matt’s left until he had a clear view of Harris. “Drop the gun,” he said, “Do it now.”
Again, no reaction at all. Matt threw caution to the wind; a habit that he had tried to break, unsuccessfully, for years.
The Clown Killer was no longer a threat to anyone. He was as inert as the ground around him. Matt advanced, kicked the pistol away from Harris’s limp hand and put two fingers to the man’s neck. There was no pulse. Hunkering down, he looked into the face of the now dead serial killer. The eyes were rolled back to show the whites, and the mouth was gaping open. Blood dripped from the still lips. He saw that there was a lot of it, but didn’t know the cause of death. That would be determined by the pathologist.
“He’s dead,” Matt said, holstering his gun as Pete moved in and stood next to him.
“How?”
“Beats me, Pete, I didn’t shoot him. The upside is that the case is closed. The downside is that the bastard shot me in the chest and it bloody hurts. They need to make more user-friendly bullet-proof vests. And I need a cup of coffee, so I don’t plan on hanging about when the troops arrive.”
EPILOGUE
It was three days after the events that had taken place at the ruins of the chapel in Hockley Woods that the full picture emerged. Gabriel Harris had been suffering from terminal cancer, and they also found out other incongruities to the man: he had made toys for charity, and by all accounts had appeared to be a mild-mannered and somewhat reclusive individual. The fact that he had lost his wife and then lived alone for several years had obviously brought about a change in him.
“Perhaps his loss ‒ and the knowledge that he was dying ‒ allowed his darker side to take over and commit crimes that he would previously only have fantasised about,” Beth said to Matt as they sat in the nook at home and discussed Harris.
“There’s another far deeper underlying reason,” Matt said. “Before he died, during a standoff between us, we talked a little. I asked him why he’d started killing, and he said that Neil Connolly had to be punished for what he’d done to Josie Madsen. When I asked him what was so special about the girl, he said I would have to ask her mother.”
Beth took a sip of her tea, then set the cup down and asked, “What do you think that the murder of the girl implies?”
“That there has to be a connection that I’m missing.”
“What kind of connection?”
“A strong one. I don’t believe that Harris murdered Connolly because he’d killed a workmate’s daughter. He was more involved.”
“In what way?”
“Closer to Nancy Madsen then we know.”
“What will you do?”
“You know me, Beth, I hate loose ends.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
“Yeah. I think that she knew what Harris had done, but by keeping quiet about it she was partly to blame for the other murders.”
“Do you think that she paid him to kill Connolly?”
“No, I believe it was more personal than that.”
“So let’s go and find out. You won’t let go of this and relax until you know.”
Beth drove. Matt’s chest still hurt, a lot, and so he was happy to just sit back and enjoy the ride over to
Romford. It wasn’t the first time that Kevlar had saved his life, but he hoped that it would be the last time he would need its protection.
Nancy came to the door. Matt introduced Beth as the woman asked them in, led them through to the lounge and told them that David was working late.
“That’s okay,” Matt said. “It’s you that I need to talk to, not your husband.”
Nancy frowned. “About what? I watch the TV; you’ve solved your case.”
“We like to dot i’s and cross t’s, Mrs Madsen. I want to know why you asked Gabriel Harris to murder Neil Connolly. Before he died, he talked to me.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Nancy said. “I want you both to leave.”
“I understand that your daughter was buried, Mrs Madsen,” Beth said.
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“DNA,” Beth said, and let the acronym sink in.
Nancy frowned. “And what would that prove? Apart from the fact that Gabriel was most likely Josie’s father.”
“It would make it more than probable that you and Gabriel discussed Connolly’s release from prison, and that his subsequent death was something that you planned together.”
A small smile appeared fleetingly on Nancy’s face, and something approaching a mischievous twinkle lit her eyes. “That’s a great supposition,” she said. “A good plot for a Patterson book. But it’s preposterous. And it isn’t something that you could ever prove, even if you were right.”
“That may be true,” Matt said. “But I’ll get a great deal of satisfaction in talking it through with your husband. He may be interested to know that you are an accomplice to murder, and that his daughter was actually someone else’s.”
Nancy’s face flushed. She stepped forward and attempted to slap Matt across the face.
Beth was standing to the side, slightly in front of Matt, and did no more than turn slightly, to stick her leg out as Matt took a step back.
Nancy tripped over Beth’s ankle and fell to the ground.