Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  It could be Orlando, an Hispanic hit man working out of Florida. He was good at long range, but if it had been him, Verner knew he would have been dead by now.

  So it had to be a second-rater, or someone out to make his spurs. Verner plumped on who it was. Jackson, the British ex-Army guy who had, recently, had a slightly suspect record of achievement. He had missed the last two hits, despite bragging he was a long-range specialist.

  That thought made him feel better.

  He took a chance and raised his head slightly. Four cars were parked on the gravel: Wickson’s Bentley was nearest to him, then parked next to that was the heap of crap Henry Christie had arrived in, then Tara’s Mercedes and then a small black sports car belonging to the late, great Jake Coulton.

  Two down, Verner thought. Wickson and Coulton. If I get the chance to take Henry Christie and Tara Wickson, I’ll be pleased enough. Firstly because they were both witnesses and secondly because he wanted to kill Henry anyway. If I can do that, he thought, I’m sure I’ll be able to outwit the sniper on the hill. But I’m going to have to be quick about it.

  They were in the hall. Charlotte was trying to drag, cajole, push her injured mother towards the front door.

  Henry came into the hall, dishevelled, dirty and desperate in appearance. Charlotte saw him. She opened her mouth to scream.

  ‘It’s me, Henry,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘I’m a bit of a mess.’

  She stifled the scream by clamping both fists over her open mouth.

  Henry knelt down by Tara, who had slithered down the wall into a heap. He inspected her head. Verner had hit her very hard, causing a deep, wide gash. Henry could see the grey of her skull in the split on her scalp. It needed to be treated quickly. Lots of blood was being lost through it. Henry switched on his mobile, but the battery died with a pathetic bleep. He looked around and saw a house phone on the wall, rose and grabbed it, holding it to his ears. Nothing. It was dead. Had Verner cut the wires before entering the house?

  ‘I’ve got my mobile phone upstairs,’ Charlotte volunteered.

  ‘Go get it . . . go on, go,’ he shooed her.

  The youngster dashed upstairs, leaving Henry with Tara. He pondered whether or not to get her to her feet, but decided against it.

  He went to the front door, a big, solid oak thing with one small pane of glass in it, distorting any view outside. He turned the handle and opened the door a fraction, peering out with one eye. The crusher was still churning away hungrily. He looked towards the hill in the distance, but saw nothing. Who the hell was up there? And where was Verner? Had he been driven away? Henry doubted it.

  Immediately outside the house were the cars, parked in a variety of different ways. The black sports car and Tara’s Mercedes faced the house; his Astra and the Bentley, parked almost side by side about ten feet apart, were backed up to the house, so they faced down the driveway.

  He was weighing up whether it was worth trying to get the females out into his car and to get them the hell away from the house, or to do a runner with them into the fields and get them to lie low and wait for the arrival of the cops . . . and where were they? he wondered. Would they ever feel the need to turn up? Henry was thinking like a disgruntled member of the public again.

  Quite simply he did not know what to do for the best.

  A thought struck him like a bolt of lightning.

  Charlotte came flying down the stairs and handed him her mobile phone. He pushed it back into her hand. ‘Call the police – 999.’ She looked shocked at being asked to do such a task, and dropped to her knees beside Tara. Henry squatted down beside them and said urgently, ‘I need to get to my car . . . No, it’s OK,’ he said, halting Charlotte’s intended interruption. ‘I’ll be straight back, then we’re going to lock up the house, sit tight and wait for the cops, OK?’ He nodded enthusiastically. Charlotte nodded back, less enthusiastically. ‘OK, you get the police on the line while I go to the car. I’ll only be gone for seconds.’

  He stood up, knees, as ever, cracking, and went to the door. His car was perhaps fifteen feet away. On the left was the Bentley, which would give him some cover from the hillside if necessary. It would take just seconds, he reiterated to comfort himself. In his mind he process-mapped his task, step by step, visualizing it. He crouched down and pulled the door open. Then he had another thought. What if it all went wrong when he got to the car? Over his shoulder he called, ‘Charlotte, come here, love.’

  Reluctantly she crawled across to him, not wanting to leave Tara.

  ‘When I go out,’ he said in as plain English as he could manage so he would not be misunderstood, ‘you close the door behind me. But stay by the door – don’t go back to your mum, OK? Stay by the door and let me back in when I come running, OK?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Make sure you let me in,’ he said, just to make sure she had got it.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Good lass.’

  He edged out of the door, then sprinted to the back of the Astra.

  Verner found a foothold on a rock from which he could propel himself towards the parked cars. He repositioned slightly until he was in exactly the right position and would not slip. He braced himself, counted down, his muscles coiled. Then he exploded like a greyhound out of the traps.

  The sniper was fractionally late picking him up. He fired three shots – crack, crack, crack – all three bullets marginally behind the running figure of Verner, who flung himself out of sight behind the Bentley. Frustrated, the sniper put another couple of shells into the body of the Bentley.

  Henry had the hatchback of the Astra open. He was crouching down behind the car, delving into the recess where the spare wheel should have been. He heard a noise behind him, went very cold, spun round slowly, keeping his right hand behind his back.

  Knelt down by the back nearside corner of the Bentley was Verner.

  ‘Boo!’

  Verner was in a combat kneel – one knee on the ground, the other drawn up – and had his pistol pointed directly at Henry’s heart.

  ‘Changing the wheel?’ Verner said.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Henry, his lips hardly moving.

  ‘Got ya.’

  Henry gave a gracious nod and sniffed something in the air: petrol.

  ‘Looks like you’re a target too, though.’

  Verner mirrored Henry’s nod. ‘So it seems.’ He relaxed with the gun, letting it waver slightly. ‘I’ll be OK . . . the guy’s not a very good shot.’

  Henry’s right hand came from behind his back, clutching the handgun he had confiscated from Troy Costain. He had no idea if the thing would work, whether it was loaded with blanks, or what. He simply prayed as he leapt to one side and, as he rolled, loosed off two shots at Verner, whom, once again, he had surprised.

  Verner took one in the right shoulder, flinging him back on to the gravel. The other one buried itself in the wall of the house.

  Henry rolled twice, came back on all fours and scuttled behind Tara’s Mercedes.

  Verner struggled back on to his knees, managing to keep hold of the pistol. Intense pain seared through his shoulder, upper chest and neck.

  He looked down at the wound and touched it with his free hand, the tips of his fingers coming away covered in blood. Shock rippled through him. He caught his breath, feeling light-headed and disorientated.

  He slumped against the Bentley in an effort to keep upright as he scoured around for Henry.

  ‘You bastard,’ he cried.

  Henry was prone on the gravel, looking underneath the Mercedes, trying to work out Verner’s position, aiming his gun along the ground. He could not be sure where he was, was not even sure he had hit him.

  Verner could not think straight. He had never been shot before, but had always thought it would be a piece of cake to be wounded. Yet it hurt so much. He touched the wound again, wondering hazily why it was so bad. It was only his shoulder, for God’s sake. His fingers moved over the joint and then, even t
o his slightly befuddled mind, it was clear why it was so awful: the exit wound. The bullet had blown out the whole of the back of his shoulder and shoulder blade. Now he had no feeling down his arm. It was as though it was no longer there. He tried to keep hold of the gun, but his fingers did not work. It dropped with a ‘clink’ on to the ground.

  He hauled himself up to his feet by using the back wing of the Bentley, smearing blood across the shiny bodywork. His head was spinning and the smell of petrol invaded his nostrils as he staggered around the back of the car, clutching at the smooth body to try to stay on his feet, but finding no purchase for his fingertips. He stumbled, not knowing where he was now, his brain seeming to have lost all sense of place, yet he could still smell petrol. He fell to his knees again and with a surge of clarity realized he had fallen into a puddle of petrol which was gushing out of a hole in the side of the car, like beer out of a punctured barrel. He gagged on the fumes which rose around him.

  Verner slumped down on to his hands, so he was on all fours. The brief moment of clarity disappeared from his mind as he fought the intense pain in his wounded shoulder. He remained in that position for a few seconds, then his right arm folded under his him, unable to support his weight. He sank face down in the petrol.

  ‘Need . . . to . . . move,’ he said to himself.

  With a massive force of willpower he pushed himself up to his knees with his left hand and tried to get to his feet by pulling himself up on the side of the Bentley, heaving himself up by using the door handle.

  The next bullet from the sniper was right on target, slamming into Verner’s back, just below his left shoulder blade. It hit him with such force, it pinned him against the car. The next bullet struck him in the lower back. The next one missed completely and hit the centre of the rear wheel, ricocheting off with a ping and producing a tiny spark which ignited the rising petrol vapour with a whoosh. The flames clawed up Verner’s petrol-doused trousers, rising and engulfing him.

  Henry ran to the front door of the house, screaming for Charlotte to open up. Good kid, she responded and Henry threw himself through the gap into the hall. Charlotte slammed the door behind him and locked it. He returned to the door and put his face to the mottled glass pane, trying to see what was happening, even though he knew that he was asking for trouble by doing this.

  His countenance morphed into horror as he saw, though the distorted glass, the burning figure of Verner stomping around next to the Bentley, silent, no screams coming from him, as the flames ate him.

  Henry watched open mouthed, but riveted.

  Then, in a flash, it was all over for Verner.

  The sniper put another bullet into him. This time it went into the side of his head, destroying the brain cortex, and killing him instantly. Verner jumped sideways in a grotesque way, hit the side of the Bentley and dropped to the ground, where he lay unmoving, apart from the flames rising up from his torso.

  A procession of police cars turned into the driveway leading to the house, their blue lights flashing dramatically.

  At last, Henry thought sourly, help had arrived.

  Fifteen

  Henry knew what he had to do, but it was a finely balanced thing. He needed to keep control, to hold people back, and it was damned hard because of one simple fact: he had no power as a cop and no one was obliged to listen to him if they did not wish to do so.

  He insisted that Tara was taken to hospital immediately, accompanied by Charlotte. That, at least, got them off the scene and out of the way of any police questioning, which is what he wanted. He needed to get all the attention on himself so he could keep a grip on proceedings.

  He faced a barrage of questions from Jane Roscoe and a detective superintendent from the SIO team by the name of Anger . . . by name and nature, Henry thought. Henry did not know Anger, but learned he had recently been appointed on transfer from Merseyside Police.

  Henry kept it all as simple as he could, straight to the point, telling them the story he wanted them to hear. When he had had enough of their pressure, he told them he wished to make a statement that he would write himself in his own time.

  That did not go down particularly well. The investigators wanted to take his account of the night, to question and clarify, to dig, as they went along, but he told them to sod off. ‘I’ve been a cop long enough to be able to do my own, thanks,’ he said. ‘OK,’ he shrugged, ‘you’ve got three dead people here, but they aren’t going anywhere. Concentrate on the scene and see if you can find the person who whacked Verner.’

  Anger stared at him hard. ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ he said.

  Henry looked back at him through half-closed lids.

  There was a stand-off.

  ‘OK,’ Anger relented, ‘but you do your statement here and now, no matter how long it takes.’

  ‘Fine,’ Henry said, also giving way, knowing he would not be allowed to go anywhere without giving the police at least something. A PC gave him a few blank witness statement forms and Henry went to sit in John Lloyd Wickson’s study, noticing, as he sat at the desk, the open firearms cabinet on the wall. He considered it through squinted eyes, then quickly began writing. It took about ninety minutes for him to get a draft of the basics which would suffice for the moment. He would flesh it out later, as appropriate.

  He handed it to Jane Roscoe.

  ‘No trace of the marksman, sniper, whatever you want to call him.’

  ‘Didn’t think there would be.’

  Jane glanced through the statement, her brow furrowed as she read. ‘It’s a bit . . . thin, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’ll do for now,’ he said. ‘It’s been a tough night and I need some sleep. Unless I’m a suspect, I’m off.’

  She gave him a very suspicious look. ‘Don’t leave town.’

  ‘Some hope.’

  He jumped into the Astra and drove quickly away, not even daring to look back at the crime scenes: one with a charred, bullet-ridden body, the other with no body at all, just some mush, the other with a virtually headless man.

  He had to get somewhere very quickly.

  Although he had a very pressing task of his own to complete, Henry drove quickly to Blackpool Victoria Hospital and abandoned the Astra near the entrance to the A & E department. He made certain to lock the car and strode into the hospital and was relieved to find someone he knew working behind the reception desk. He was less relieved to see a few uniformed cops hovering around the waiting area, guessing they were here in connection with Tara Wickson. He hoped it would not come to a blagging contest with them.

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ smiled the receptionist. Then she looked at him properly and saw what a state he was in: muddy face, clothes and shoes. Her eyebrows lifted, but to her credit she did not say anything.

  ‘Hi, Jackie.’ He leaned on the counter and smiled back at her, hoping to recreate his usual air of laid-backness when on business at the hospital, which he often was. ‘How’s it going? Busy?’

  ‘As always.’

  ‘I’m dealing with a job out at Poulton. One of the witnesses was brought in here a couple of hours ago by the name of Tara Wickson?’

  Jackie tapped her computer, pointed at the screen with her finger. ‘Let’s see . . . yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Could do with seeing her for a quick chat. It’s pretty urgent.’

  ‘Ooh, is it a murder?’ Jackie asked enthusiastically.

  ‘A most brutal one,’ Henry said without a word of a lie. ‘Hence the appearance.’ He stood back and showed himself.

  ‘Let’s see now . . . She’s been seen . . . head wound . . . X-rayed . . . and admitted. It’s Dr Caunce dealing if you want a word with her.’

  Henry knew Caunce. He knew most of the A & E doctors because so much police business came through the hospital doors and the relationship between cops and doctors was usually pretty good.

  ‘Where can I find her?’

  Jackie was about to pick up a phone when she glanced up past Henry and said, ‘There!
Doctor Caunce,’ she called.

  Henry turned as the good doctor came towards him. She was stereotypical of the harassed doctors of the casualty wards the country over: young, tired, world weary, good-looking, stethoscope hanging around the neck, clipboard in hand.

  ‘Hi, Henry, what can I do for you? God, you look a mess!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘Tara Wickson?’

  ‘Ahh . . . in deep shock . . . bad wound to the head. I’ve admitted her for observation on one of the general wards, but I have some concerns over her mental health at the moment. What exactly happened to her? I haven’t been able to get a straight tale from anyone.’

  ‘She witnessed a murder.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Caunce said again. ‘That explains a lot.’

  ‘Can I see her? Which ward is she on?’

  ‘Not actually been taken to the ward yet. She’s still in a cubicle down there.’ The doctor pointed. ‘She’s sedated, not with it at all. Traumatized.’

  ‘Is her daughter with her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do really need to talk to her.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Caunce, ‘but it won’t be easy.’

  Henry nodded and peeled away down the corridor.

  ‘Henry,’ Caunce called after him before he had gone two steps.

  ‘Yep?’ He turned.

  ‘You still damned-well married?’

  His face looked pained. He and Caunce had, in the past, done a lot of serious flirting which had never gone anywhere, but which had a lot of potential.

  ‘As good as,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, just so you know – I’m between relationships as we speak.’

  ‘Good to know. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  They were in a curtained cubicle. Charlotte was sitting beside the bed, holding her mother’s hand, her head resting on the edge of the bed. Henry slid in through the curtain and observed the scene for a few moments. Tara’s eyes were closed, with deep, recessed black marks around them, reminding Henry of a panda. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. She looked nothing like the glamorous woman he knew she was. The bandage wrapped around her head did not help, either. Henry winced, knowing that to treat the wound, they would have had to shave part of her hair off.