by Ellis, Tim
He made them both a coffee, comfortable with his place in the universe. There were no feelings of inadequacy, being put on, or taken for granted.
‘Okay,’ DS Sue Vella said, ending the call she’d just made. ‘I rang the station . . . You could have said that the Black Mountains were in Wales.’
‘You could have asked. Where did you think they were?’
‘Germany.’
‘Germany?’
‘Well, that’s where they’ve got the Black Forest. I thought the Black Mountains might be next to it.’
He laughed. ‘Sandwiched between the Black Forest and the Gateau?’
‘I could still lock you up, you know. Anyway, I finally got through to someone at Powys Police Station in Dyfedd, and after a while I spoke to an Inspector Jones . . .’
‘Did you get his warrant number?’
‘Why?’
‘Do you know how many people called Jones live in Wales?’
‘So, I spoke to this Inspector Jones and told him about how the O’Connors might be hiding in Carreg Cennen Barn in the Black Mountains . . .’
‘Good, so they’re sending someone out there?’
‘And I told them that there might be some people coming there to kill the O’Connors and . . . Well basically, he wanted to know if the O’Connors were definitely staying at Carreg Cennen Barn. I said we weren’t sure. He wanted to know who these people were that were coming to kill them . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I said I didn’t know, but . . . Anyway, he wanted to know whether these people were definitely on their way. I said I didn’t really know. So he asked me if I knew what the weather was like in the Black Mountains at this time of year. I guessed it might be snowing. He said damned right, and did I know where Carreg Cennen Barn was located? I said, not a clue . . . Well, that was it really.’
‘That was it? That was what?’
‘They’re not sending anybody to Carreg Cennen Barn.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said? We can’t verify that the O’Connors are even there; we can’t confirm that anybody is going there to kill them if they are there; it’s snowing and would be a major problem getting anyone out there . . . Oh, and I didn’t mention the Army.’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re on manoeuvres all week.’
‘We’ll have to go there ourselves.’
‘It’ll take us days to get there. And even if we do get there . . . Have you not been paying attention? It’s snowing, the army are on manoeuvres, there’s no guarantee the O’Connors are there, we don’t even know who we’re looking for . . .’
‘I’ll get a helicopter.’
‘WHAT?’
‘I’ll organise a helicopter to fly us there. I have a bit of money, but I can probably charge it to expenses anyway. We’ll get to Carreg Cennen Barn ourselves and go from there.’
‘What about the snow?’
‘Snow’s snow.’
‘Very helpful. What about the Army?’
‘We’ll carry a white flag.’
‘You don’t even know where this barn is.’
‘We’ll buy a map, maybe hire a guide.’
‘My boss was right – you are a crazy bastard.’
He began ringing round. After five minutes he’d chartered an Agusta Power helicopter. ‘We have to get to Battersea Heliport by five-thirty. There’s a chopper waiting to fly us to Wales.’
Vella checked her watch. ‘Fifty-five minutes. We’ll never make it in time. It’s rush hour as well.’ She jumped up. ‘I have an idea.’ She went outside and spoke to the uniform on the door. ‘Can you drive?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘I’m a Sergeant not a Ma’am. I want you to drive us to Seven Sisters, and then take my car back to the station and put it in the car park. Can you do that?’
‘What about guarding the crime scene?’
‘Forget about it.’
‘When you’re ready, Ma’am.’
Randall was already walking down the path to the car. He had the photograph of the four people outside Carreg Cennen Barn in the inside pocket of his donkey jacket.
They reached Seven Sisters tube station at quarter to five and rushed headlong towards the ticket barrier.
‘You’ve got an Oyster?’ Vella asked.
‘No. I keep meaning to . . .’
‘Shit.’ She moved to a gate by the side of the barrier, flashed her warrant card at the official and pushed Randall through.
‘What’s the quickest way to Battersea Heliport?’ she asked the ticket collector.
‘Hmmm! Yeah! Probably . . . No. Get the Victoria Line – southbound platform – to Victoria, switch to the District Line – southbound again towards Wimbledon – switch to the . . . No! The problem is the river . . .’
They ran.
The train to Victoria was waiting for them. They squeezed in among the unwashed masses.
‘I need to get to Battersea Heliport,’ Vella shouted. ‘Anybody got a tube map?’
‘Here,’ a man said, and a tube map passed through a dozen hands to reach her.
‘The ticket inspector was right. Getting over the river is the problem. There’s no tube station near the heliport. Clapham Junction is the closest. We’ll have to get a taxi from there. Okay, it’s the best we’ve got. We change to the Northern Line at King’s Cross. No . . . Fuck!’
‘If I may?’ The same man who had passed her the tube map wriggled through to them. ‘If you want to go to the heliport, my suggestion is to stay on this train to Vauxhall. From there you can hop in a taxi along the A3205 to the heliport.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ Randall said.
‘My pleasure. I used to collect train numbers, you know. Of course, that was before . . .’
They were just leaving Victoria station – just Pimlico and then Vauxhall. It was five past five.
At Vauxhall, Vella led the way: ‘POLICE. SHIFT. MOVE. GET OUT OF THE WAY. SORRY. WATCH OUT.’ Gradually, a gap opened up before them and resembled the parting of the Red Sea.
She barged a man out of the taxi queue and sequestered his taxi in the name of the law.
‘Hey!’
‘Do you want to be arrested?’
‘No.’
‘Well, fuck off then.’
‘Where to?’ the driver asked as they dived into the back seat.
‘Heliport,’ she said, flashing her warrant card and breathing hard. ‘And we need to get there by half-past.’
He let out a laugh. ‘You do know what time it is?’
‘Time I charged you with obstructing a police investigation?’
‘Half past, you say?’ He skidded out of the taxi rank. ‘Let’s see if there really are miracles.’
As he made his way along Wandsworth Road he called the cab office on the radio. ‘Louie, you there?’
‘Hey, Latka. How’s it hanging?’ came back over the radio.
‘I’ve got the police commissioner in my cab, Louie. Matter of life and death. I need to get to the heliport by half past. You know I could do it through trial and error like the back of my hand, but you’ve got the latest traffic news. What’s Nine Elms like?’
‘Life and death, you say? Okay, let’s show ‘em what London Cabs can do in life and death situations. Forget Nine Elms – there’s a snarl-up at Kirtling Street. Stay on the Wandsworth Road . . .’
‘That’s taking us away from . . .’
‘Trust me, Latka. Have I ever let you down?’
‘I can’t count that high.’
‘Yeah well, I’ll get you to the church on time this time, Clementine. Turn right into Belmore Street – just after Lambeth College. Take another right up Thessaly Road. Go all the way and join the A3205, but come off at the roundabout onto the Prince of Wales Drive . . . Are you there yet?’
‘You sound like my missus.’
‘Yeah, but I’m better looking.’
‘That’s true. Okay, I’m on the future king�
��s drive.’
‘Keep going into Surrey Lane, but turn second left into Orbel Street. At Shuttleworth Road turn right, a left down Battersea High Street, right up Gwynne Road to Lombard Road and you’ll see the signs for the heliport . . . There you go – twenty-nine minutes past. Give the police commissioner my regards, and tell him I’d like to discuss the outstanding warrant he has on me for indecent exposure when he’s not rushing through Battersea on life and death missions.’
‘They’re going to bring back hanging just for you, Louie.’
He switched off the radio, turned his head and said, ‘That’ll be . . .’
Randall stuffed two fifty pound notes in his hand. ‘Good job, Latka. Keep the change.’
‘Hey, thanks. Good luck with the life and death situation.’
In the helipad office he paid £2,500 on his card for a one-way trip.
‘You must have more money than sense,’ Vella said.
‘That’s probably true,’ he agreed.
‘Just in time,’ a tall man with silver hair said. He wore a WWII brown leather flying jacket with fur trim and “460 Squadron – Bomber Command” embroidered over his heart. He offered his hand. ‘Liam Morrow – I’m your pilot for the trip.’
They shook his hand. ‘Good to meet you,’ Randall said. ‘Cole Randall, and this is Detective Sergeant Sue Vella from Fishmongers Arms in Haringey.’
‘Any luggage?’
‘No, but there’s another passenger.’
Sue looked at him. ‘I haven’t authorised . . .’
Just then, John Crabbe stuck his head in through the door and said, ‘Car parking?’
‘Round the back,’ the tattooed receptionist said. ‘Make sure we’ve got the details before you leave.’
Crabbe nodded and ducked out.
‘He’ll need a chopper just for himself,’ Sue said. ‘Who is he?’
‘Insurance,’ Randall said.
‘Ready?’ Liam asked.
They followed him out onto the helipad.
It had began snowing and the wind picked up.
He was glad that the chopper was idle. He hated trying to dodge the rotor blades trying to get into the damned contraptions. Not that he’d done a lot of dodging, but he had visions of losing his head – or at least the top of it – and not even noticing until brain juice dribbled down his face and into his mouth.
He shivered, and he didn’t know whether it was the cold, or something else.
John Crabbe arrived, threw a heavy bag on the floor and then climbed into the front seat. ‘Only just, boss,’ he said.
They all put the earphones and throat mikes on.
‘Okay, here we go,’ the pilot said. The chopper began to shake, rattle and roll. Then, it lifted off and was soon being swallowed up by the swirling snow over the Thames and disappeared into the darkness.
Randall took off his earphones, found his antiquated mobile and rang Kiri.
‘I’m in a helicopter on the way to Wales.’
‘Have a nice time. Bring me back one of those love spoons to hang in the cafe.’
‘I’ll try. See you tomorrow.’
‘I have some news for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘When you get back.’
The call ended.
He stared at the phone as if it contained the secret to eternal life – and maybe it did.
‘Problem?’ Sue asked.
‘Not now, but I have the feeling there will be in the not too distant future.’
Sue made a call next and put it on loudspeaker.
‘I’m in a chopper on the way to Wales, lover.’
‘What the . . . ? What am I going to do tonight?’
‘You might like to have sex with your wife.’
‘I tried that once – didn’t like it. So, is this a joy ride, or are you still on the case?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘You’re not going to have sex with him, are you?’
‘Depends if he asks.’
‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you?’
She ended the call and smiled.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The flight time was an hour and fifty-five minutes. The chaotic weather conditions had added over an hour onto the journey.
‘I’ll have to land at Sennybridge,’ the pilot told them.
Even though there was no need to, because they were both speaking into the throat mikes and listening via the earphones, Randall shuffled forward in the seat to speak to Morrow.
‘I was hoping to get a bit closer to Carreg Cennen Barn,’ he shouted.
Morrow grimaced and shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. I’ve had word that the Army are using live ammunition, and there’s a white-out in the mountains. My suggestion is that you book into a hotel for the night and open up the mini-bar – that’s what I’m going to do. There’s no way I’m flying back to London in this.’
He sat back. Now what? Beverley Jenkins’ killers had at least a twelve-hour head start on them. How did they get here? If they’d done the journey by car, then that would probably reduce the head start they’d had down to eight hours – possibly six in view of the lousy weather. Still, six hours was probably enough time to get to the barn, kill the O’Connors and have a barbeque on the way back. Unless . . . they were stuck in traffic, or they’d had to abandon their car . . . Anything could have happened. The only thing he should worry about was what he had the power to control, and that wasn’t much at the moment.
What he did know was that he couldn’t sit around in a hotel keeping warm and emptying the mini-bar while there was still a chance he could save the O’Connors. Could he? Were the O’Connors even in danger? There was only one way to find out – go out there. It was all he had. If he’d guessed wrong and they weren’t even here in Wales. . . Well, he’d have to retrace his steps and see where he’d swerved off the straight and narrow.
Carreg Cennen Barn was located on the banks of the Llyn y Fan Fawr lake, which was nestled at the foot of the Fan Brycheiniog mountain peak. Under normal conditions – it was a walk of about a mile across the moor from Trecastle to the Glyntawe road. They were in Sennybridge, and Trecastle was about a mile and a half to the west along the A40 – which had become impassable. They might have been able to drive south down the A4067 to Cray Reservoir and crossed the moor from there, but nobody was driving anything except a tank down the A4067 – snowdrifts in some places were at least six feet high.
‘We’ll have to ask the Army for help,’ he said to Sue.
‘We’re not on the meter, you know.’
What she meant was that they weren’t on an official investigation. Not only that, none of them was dressed or equipped to start traipsing across the moor in the middle of the night. Also, he had a good idea what John had in his bag – and that wasn’t official either.
‘You’ll have to blag it.’
‘That’s all right for you to say – you’re a civilian. I could lose my job.’
‘Then it’s been a wasted journey. We can’t head off across the moor on our own. We’re not dressed for these conditions, we haven’t got any equipment, we’d get totally lost out there, we have no idea where the live firing is taking place . . . Need I go on?’
‘I think you’ve made your point. What’s your friend got in his bag?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I thought so.’
Morrow landed on the primary school playing field, left the chopper where it was and headed through the snow towards the Usk Railway Inn across the High Street that seemed to exude a welcoming glow for weary travellers. The Inn was wedged in the triangle between the A40 and a back road leading to the Army Camp. Cars had been abandoned all over the High Street, the wind was swirling and gusting, and the snow didn’t know which way to go.
It would have been perfect to join Morrow in the Usk Railway Inn, to prop up the bar with the locals until the small hours and spin tall tales with a roaring fire in the hearth, but he’d never be able
to look himself in the eyes again if he later found out that he could have saved the O’Connors, but preferred a nice warm bed instead.
After watching Morrow disappear through the welcoming doors of the pub, they followed the signs – pointing up the left-hand road – to the Army Camp, and knocked on the door.
They were escorted up to the guard room by a helmeted snowman carrying an SA80 rifle, and had to wait fifteen minutes for the duty officer to peel herself away from the officer’s mess bar.
Eventually, a fresh-faced young woman with sleepy eyes, a turned-up nose and freckles arrived. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Lieutenant Jeanette Carter. How can I help?’
Sue showed her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Sue Vella from Fishmongers Arms in Haringey.’ She pointed to Randall and Crabbe. ‘These two are civilian consultants who are helping me . . .’
Randall smiled. ‘I used to be a Detective Inspector at Hammersmith . . .’
‘Anyway,’ Sue interrupted him. ‘We need to get to Carreg Cennen Barn, which is . . .’
‘. . . In the middle of the fucking infantry warfare training exercise,’ Lieutenant Carter finished for her.
‘We think there are a man and his wife staying at the barn and some people have come up here to kill them.’
‘If there are two people staying at the barn, the infantry will have probably killed them by now anyway. What the hell are they doing out there? There are only certain times in the year that the barn can be booked, and this isn’t one of those times.’
‘They’ve stayed there before, and we think they’re using it now to hide from the people who are trying to kill them.’
‘Shit! That’s all we need. And you want to go out there tonight?’
‘The sooner the better.’
‘Are you sure? You’re hardly dressed for it.’
‘No, I know. We didn’t realise the weather was so bad, and by the time we knew what was going on it was all a bit of mad rush to get here.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘Chopper.’
‘Everything has been grounded.’
‘I’m not surprised. The pilot landed on the primary school playing field and is staying at the Railway Inn tonight.’
‘Which is where you want to go.’