by Paul Gitsham
The evidence of Bixby’s hunt was all around them and Warren felt a chill at its obvious ferocity. It wasn’t the cool, collected, methodical examination of a police forensic team, rather the madness of somebody desperate.
“That was when Dennis hit him with that vase.” Bernice’s tone was reproving, nonetheless she took her husband’s hand and squeezed it.
“For all the good it did us,” Dennis muttered thickly, his tongue exploring his swollen mouth.
“Did he say where he was taking her? When did they leave?” The couple were clearly disoriented and Warren needed them focused. Seconds could matter now.
“They’ve been gone about fifteen minutes, I think.” Dennis had been facing the clock.
“After he tied us up he pulled her upstairs.” Bernice’s voice shook. “We could hear them crashing about and he kept on shouting at Susan. When he came back down he took her out the front door.”
“Did you see which way he went?” Warren had his mobile phone out, navigating through the contacts to find the station’s main switchboard, figuring it would be quicker than trying to work his way through 999. His hands shook and he hit the wrong contact, why didn’t he put the station on speed dial?
The middle-aged couple both shook their heads. “I can’t see out the window from down here,” responded Bernice.
The phone rang in Warren’s hand and he nearly dropped it in surprise. The Caller ID flashed up on the screen. The photograph had been automatically updated from Facebook. Susan.
* * *
The noises on the line had been muffled and it took a few seconds for Warren to realise that the phone had dialled him accidentally. No, not accidentally he soon realised, as he heard Susan’s voice distorted by whatever material lay between her and the phone that she had somehow used to call him. She probably has me on speed dial, he thought with a brief flash of shame.
Why hadn’t Bixby checked her for her phone, Warren asked himself even as he sprinted for the car? The answer was probably more worrying than reassuring. It suggested that Bixby wasn’t thinking clearly—and that made him even more dangerous.
After realising that Susan had triggered the phone covertly, Warren had immediately muted his own handset, worried that any noise from his end of the line would alert her kidnapper. He prayed that her screen had already darkened to save the battery. Who knew what Bixby might do if he discovered the subterfuge? Not for the first time, Warren marvelled at his wife’s presence of mind.
The three of them had stood gathered around the smartphone, listening for clues to Susan’s whereabouts. The sounds in the background suggested that they were in a car, travelling quickly judging by the wind noise. But where were they going? Fifteen minutes had passed. At high speed that could put them ten or even twenty miles away from Middlesbury in at least a half-dozen directions.
“Why are we going to Hertford?” Susan’s voice was muffled but clear.
“So we won’t be disturbed. Now shut it. I’m thinking.” The man’s voice still retained some of his Coventry upbringing. Definitely Bixby.
“Good girl,” Warren had breathed as he comprehended what Susan was doing.
Spinning on his heel, he’d started issuing orders, trying to cut through the dazed fog that still blanketed the older couple. “Dennis, I need you to phone Middlesbury CID and tell them what has happened. Give them Susan’s number and tell them to get onto the phone company to track the handset and tap into the call.” He’d scribbled the main switchboard number on a piece of paper.
“Ask for a DI Tony Sutton if you can. I can’t remember Susan’s number off the top of my head, so you need to look it up, Bernice. I daren’t risk breaking the contact.”
“Where are you going?” Bernice had asked, clearly afraid of being left alone in the house again.
“Hertford. They’re heading in that direction.”
“But where in Hertford?” she’d called out as he raced out the door.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure that out on the way.”
* * *
The A10 was relatively quiet, but Warren spent a frightening amount of time on the wrong side of the road, overtaking slower-moving vehicles. Without blue lights and sirens to aid his passage he had to rely on his horn, hazard lights and flashing the headlamps to clear a path.
The final stretch of road towards Hertford was dual carriageway and Warren eased the car to over a hundred, undertaking where necessary. His fear for Susan was greater than his fear of crashing.
Why had Bixby taken her? As a bargaining chip? Bixby wanted something from him. Something that he thought Warren was keeping in his house. When he hadn’t found it and Susan hadn’t been able to tell him where it was, he’d taken her to force him to comply.
But what could he be after? What could Warren have that Bixby wanted so badly? His father’s autopsy report? It was almost certainly Bixby who had staged the break-in at the Liebig’s house, not realising that the late coroner had kept his papers in a safety deposit box. Was that what this was all about? A murder committed twenty-four years ago and made to look like a suicide? But the autopsy report contained nothing that gave any clues to who had committed the murder. Why such a panic about suppressing it? The case was cold. The odds of it being solved even if it was reopened were slim to negligible. Warren had seen the evidence that had been collected from the scene, read the witness reports. The autopsy might be enough to overturn the original inquest verdict, but it wasn’t going to point the spotlight at Bixby. And Warren was convinced it was Bixby who had killed his father. Whatever skills he had learnt during those six years in the SAS—doing who knew what, who knew where—had been used to kill his father and successfully hide it for almost a quarter of a century. Those same skills had been employed to kill Zachary Eddleston, Anton Liebig and Reggie Williamson. There must be something else that he was after. Warren didn’t believe that Bixby was doing all this just to tie off a few loose ends.
A green road sign flashed past. The exit for Hertford was in three miles. He needed to figure out where they were going pretty soon. The junction for Hertford led to a large roundabout that could be used to access Hertford, Ware and any one of a dozen different towns and villages—and that was assuming Bixby had used that exit because it was the closest to his final destination.
Warren felt the despair wash over him. There had been no more clues from Susan, the phone sitting in its dashboard cradle, speakerphone on, was transmitting nothing more than the sound of a moving car. It had changed pitch recently and he’d heard the repeated sounds of gear changing. Wherever Bixby was, he was now off the main road, probably driving in an urban environment.
But where? It seemed logical that Bixby was taking Susan somewhere quiet where he wouldn’t be disturbed. Warren wracked his brain. Delmarno’s house? The wrong direction. If he wanted to take her there he should have turned off some time ago, well before the junction for Hertford. The same was true for the golf club. Assuming that Bixby hadn’t noticed Susan’s phone was switched on, it seemed unlikely that he would be driving aimlessly around to confuse any followers. Quite the opposite in fact. He’d want Susan tucked away out of sight as quickly as possible; the longer they were exposed, the more likely it was that they would be tracked down and captured.
A deserted lock-up? The back room of one of the many businesses Delmarno’s little empire ran? Warren struggled to remember the list that Gary Hastings had printed out. Most of the cafés and cab firms that Delmarno owned were to the north of the county, in small towns like Middlesbury, Baldock, Letchworth or Bishop’s Stortford where there was less local competition and business rates were cheaper. He’d steered clear of the bigger towns and cities such as Hertford and Stevenage.
The engine noise from the mobile phone stopped. There was a ratcheting noise that Warren identified as a handbrake being applied. They’d stopped moving.
“Why are we stopping here? It’s a building site,” Susan was still trying to give Warren clues. Don’t be too obvious;
don’t raise his suspicions, he prayed silently as took the turn-off at high speed. The blare of horns behind him reminded him that his indicators didn’t work if the hazard lights were already flashing.
“Quiet. Try and run and I’ll have the gun out and a bullet in your back before you make two steps.” Bixby’s voice was low, hissing.
A building site. That narrowed it down a bit, but not much. Even in the depths of the recession there was still plenty of construction taking place around the county. Warren steered one handed up the slip road, fiddling with the satnav as he jumped the red lights. Even if he didn’t know where he was going, he could at least use the map function to identify his location.
From the phone came the sound of a car door slamming and then the scrunch of gravel. A building site in the Hertford area. He needed to call it in, but he couldn’t use his phone for fear of losing the connection with Susan. He should have taken Dennis or Bernice’s as well as his own, he realised belatedly. Speaking of which, had they managed to get through to CID? Were the mobile phone companies playing ball, tracking Susan’s phone? Were there armed response units on the way or was he still on his own? Warren felt as if he was in a bubble, sealed off from the outside world.
And then he remembered the last item on Gary’s list. Of course, Delmarno owned a block of flats in Hertford. Warren wracked his brain, trying to recall the details. Weren’t they still being built—still a building site? The perfect place—empty, quiet and deserted. But where were they?
He tried to remember the address.
South Street. Was that it? The roundabout had a BP filling station and a McDonald’s takeaway and he swung across two lanes of traffic, entering the complex at high speed. Ignoring the shouts of an angry van driver queuing patiently for the pumps he cut in front of the line, bringing the car to a juddering halt in front of the cash machine outside the kiosk. The satnav had now booted up and had found enough orbiting satellites to locate itself. Warren held his breath. The mapping software was last year’s update but if the flats were on a newly built estate the street name might not be on the system yet. The gadget thought for a second before announcing that no match had been found, delivering a list of similar-named streets. The postcodes were almost identical he noted, only the last letter changing. Did that mean that they were all close together? Close enough that if he just headed that way he could hope to spot the building site? He selected one at random.
A white Transit van had moved behind him, blocking his exit. The same van he’d cut in front of, he saw. The driver was brawny and tattooed and clearly in the mood for a fight as he clambered out of the seat and walked around to Warren’s window. He hammered on the glass.
Susan’s voice was coming from the phone again. Now it sounded hollow, echoey. “What are we doing here?”
The van driver continued banging on the window.
“If you want me to go upstairs, you’ll have to carry me. You hurt my ankle.” Susan’s voice was shaky but clear. Bixby’s response was drowned out by the van driver, who had now opened the door.
“What’s your problem, mate? Think you’re too fucking important to queue?”
Warren spun in his seat.
“Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones. Shut the fuck up and move your van before I arrest you for obstruction,” he screamed at the startled man.
The driver stepped back, but it was too late. The phone was silent again.
Warren strained his ears to catch any sounds, any more clues.
The line crackled, distorted. Please don’t lose the signal, he prayed.
A faint ding, then a sliding noise and the signal became clearer again.
The delivery driver had clambered back into his cab and was reversing backwards.
Warren crunched the car into gear and pealed out of the garage, one eye on the satnav screen. The driver waved a finger at him as he passed. He should have commandeered his phone, but it was too late to go back as he entered the fast-moving traffic again.
There was a forty miles per hour limit on the main road into Hertford, but Warren ignored it as he navigated the roundabouts at closer to sixty. The satnav pinged repeatedly, warning him of mobile speed cameras but a speeding ticket was the last thing on his mind as he followed the flashing arrow.
Scratching noises were coming from the phone. A key in a lock?
Warren concentrated hard on the sounds even as he navigated the unfamiliar roads. He’d visited Hertford a few times but mostly to go to the theatre or visit the local police station. His lack of local knowledge gnawed at him.
“Sit down.” Bixby’s voice was rough and there was a scraping noise—a chair on a bare floor? Without more clues he was guessing.
“What do you want me to do?” Susan’s voice was more scared now and Warren felt his gut tighten even more. Four minutes to destination, the satnav predicted. Warren was travelling well above the speed limit and ignoring red lights, which would shorten that time considerably—assuming that he had the right address. He swerved to avoid a slow-moving bus. And assuming that he survived that long.
* * *
Susan could feel what little control she had over the situation slipping away. In the car she had felt safer, since Bixby couldn’t do much with her whilst he was driving. The last person she had called on her phone had been Warren and so he was top of the call log. The problem was that the phone had a touchscreen, making it impossible to navigate blindly.
Mobile phones were the scourge of teachers and Susan’s school had a zero-tolerance approach to students using them in class. Nevertheless, some children persisted in trying to text their friends under the desk, risking confiscation and detention. The trick was not to look at the screen too much or sit with both hands in your lap. That was like a red flag to an eagle-eyed teacher.
With that in mind, Susan had fished the phone out of her back pocket and held it down by her side, between her leg and the car door. One quick glance had told her that she’d oriented it correctly in her palm and so she’d raised her right hand to her head, rubbing her aching cheek where Bixby had slapped her, whilst she swiped her left thumb in the unlock pattern. It had taken three attempts, before a peek told her that she’d succeeded. She’d thanked her stars that she routinely set the phone’s ringtone to silent, before remembering to reduce the call volume as well. The last thing she wanted was Warren’s tinny voice coming over the phone’s speakers.
Bixby continued concentrating on his driving, using his indicators correctly, staying within the speed limit and trying not to attract attention. Should she try to attract attention? She’d dismissed the idea as soon as it formed, a dozen reasons that it would be a bad idea springing immediately to mind, not least the handgun sitting on the dashboard, hidden from casual viewers by a newspaper.
Briefly looking down again, she’d moved her thumb to the phone icon, before closing her eyes and trying to recall the layout of the screen. The default was the past call log and Warren’s number would be at the top of the list. Pressing where she thought it was, she’d risked another quick glance to see if she’d succeeded.
Moving her thumb to the dial icon on the contact screen, she’d pressed again.
* * *
The map on the satnav showed a maze of streets with names similar to the half-remembered address. Warren was right in the middle of them, the satnav proudly announcing that he’d reached his destination. He hadn’t. The street he was on was a tidy, well-maintained collection of terraced and semi-detached houses, clearly not a partially built block of flats.
A young woman walking her dog eyed him suspiciously and stopped to cross the road. Warren pulled alongside her and climbed out of the car. “Excuse me,” he started. The woman pulled on the dog’s lead as if encouraging it to move closer for protection. Hardly surprising, Warren thought. A wild-eyed, slightly dishevelled stranger pulls over and tries to engage you in conversation on a deserted street—he’d encourage Susan to do the same.
“Madam, I am a police officer and
I need your assistance.” The woman stopped tugging at the dog’s lead and squinted at him. Somewhat appeased, she inclined her head slightly.
“Is there a construction site near here? A block of flats, perhaps?”
The twist of her lip told him she knew of them.
“Two streets over, South Close at the end of the cul-de-sac. They’re a bloody eyesore; they’ve been standing empty for months. If they’re going to rip up the only piece of green space for miles around, they could at least finish them.” It looked like she was only just getting started and so Warren made his thanks and climbed quickly back into the car.
There were voices coming from the phone.
Warren’s blood ran cold.
* * *
“Ring your husband.”
Susan was sitting on a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the bare and undecorated room. The lifts had worked, so the building clearly had electricity, but there were no plug sockets above the non-existent skirting boards and the hole in the ceiling didn’t even have wires poking out for the light fittings.
The man with the gun was pacing around, a ball of tension and nervous energy. Susan watched him warily, her mind racing. The connection to Warren was still open and she didn’t dare let him see that she had been transmitting the details of their flight to him.
“I don’t have his number.” It was all she could think of.
The man brought his face close up; his breath smelt of stale coffee and his sweat had soaked through the thin shirt he was wearing.
“Then look it up.” His voice was tight, clipped. How far could she push him before he snapped? The man placed the gun against her right temple.
“I don’t have my phone with me.” Susan’s mouth was dry, her voice scratchy.
The man snorted, his words and tone of voice more amused than his eyes. “Just my luck to get the only person in the western hemisphere under the age of forty without a mobile phone on them.” A metallic click told her that the safety had been released. “Why don’t you have another think about that?”