by Iain Cameron
‘Slow down sarg,’ Bentley said, his voice a strange, shaky warble as his hand held a firm grip on the upper handrail, ‘you’ll knock something else off the car, or my bloody fillings out.’
They could still see the Land Rover as it ascended a small hill, the police patrol car some way behind but the space between them widening.
‘I hope to God,’ she said through gritted teeth, not so much the result of dogged determination as violent vibration, ‘Lewes are sending some 4x4s and not another Mondeo as the one up ahead seems to be having the same trouble we are.’
‘Do you think we’ll get the ‘copter because if we don’t close the gap on him soon, he’ll disappear.’
‘I hope so but we’ve only got one and if it’s being used for something else, we’re stuffed.’
‘Yeah?’
‘One thing bothers me though.’
‘What?’
‘Did you clock the guy driving the Land Rover?’
‘You mean when I was diving into the nettles to avoid being flattened? Not bloody likely.’
‘I only caught a glimpse myself, but he looks nothing like Archer. It’s not just the hair but the build, and he looks younger.’
‘I dunno. I didn’t get a good look.’
Halfway up the small hill, The Defender suddenly lurched to the right. It leaned further over before completely tipping over and rolling down the slope before coming to a juddering halt at the bottom.
‘Did you see that?’ Bentley said, his voice incredulous. ‘Did that really happen or am I dreaming?’
‘You’re hallucinating from having your brain rattled around so much in this field,’ Walters replied, but she had trouble believing it herself. Each time she looked out over the bleak, vibrating landscape, the blue Land Rover lay on its side, the driver’s door facing skywards.
The cops in the patrol car were aiming for a position to the Land Rover’s left and it would be stupid, not to mention embarrassing, if they were to collide out here in a vast, empty field and so she guided the Golf over to the opposite side.
The driver’s door of the Land Rover opened and a man climbed out but it wasn’t Henderson. He stood for a few seconds doing nothing, as if trying to clear his head and regain his balance, or trying to comprehend what had happened, when he dipped back into the upturned vehicle and pulled out a rifle.
‘Fucking hell, sarg he’s got a gun!’
‘I know son, I know.’
‘Slow down, no stop! He’s got a bloody assault rifle. He could shoot us from there.’
‘No, we’re going to stop this bastard.’
She kept going, her eyes fixed on the gun. Her car and the patrol car were in easy range, sitting ducks in a fairground attraction. She once won a teddy bear at a fairground, pop, pop, pop, pop, knocked down four ducks in rapid succession with an air rifle. Maybe she should have joined the firearms unit and been given the chance of shooting armed evil bastards like this one.
He shouldered the rifle and fired a rapid burst at the Mondeo. If he’d aimed for the windscreen, the driver and his passenger would be dead by now, but he fired lower, and immediately afterwards a plume of steam shot out from the radiator and the Mondeo slowed to a halt.
Like the poor fairground duck, they were next. She tried to blot out the anxious bleating of the quivering heap of blubber in the passenger seat, tensing all her muscles and trying hard not to pee herself. She was ready to swing the car to the side and duck, although a 0.6mm Golf body panel wouldn’t do much to stop a rifle bullet, but with no rocks or woods to hide behind, she couldn’t think of doing anything else at the moment. She kept going with a gritty determination that came from God knows where because if they were in the firing line, where did that leave Henderson?
He raised the rifle, about to shoulder it again when he looked up to the sky. They could barely hear it with all the rattling going on inside the car, but it would be the police helicopter. She felt happy they’d responded to her request but how irrational was that? It was an unarmed, MD Explorer civilian helicopter and not a Longbow Apache equipped with a chain gun and Hellfire missiles. It could track suspects but not shoot them, leaving the crew in as much danger from a gunman with an assault rifle as those on the ground.
The clatter of the rotor blades seemed to change the mind of the gunman and he forgot all about shooting them and took a kneeling position ready to aim at the helicopter, still out of range.
She tried to cajole Bentley into calling Lewes Control and asking them to send a warning to the helicopter crew but his hands were shaking so much, at the sight of the gun and not the movement of the car, he couldn’t grip the handset and she couldn’t as she was doing all she could to keep the car going in the direction she wanted. She could see no sign of Henderson, he was either incapacitated or bloody useless at getting out of upturned cars.
She imagined the gunman would pull his hostage from the car and try to make their escape on foot, but he started shouting something at Henderson and his body language suggested he was angry at something as he raised the weapon. The going was faster now as the ground was flatter with less teeth-shaking furrows and the distance between them was closing fast.
Henderson appeared to be giving as good as he got and they seemed to be arguing like an old married couple and, strange in the circumstances, thoughts of her ex-husband, Gary, popped into her head. Thirty yards. The gunman turned and spotted them and made to raise the rifle but turned back to face the upturned vehicle, to respond to something Henderson must have said.
Ten yards away, she floored the accelerator. The gunman turned again, but became distracted by the helicopter and a suicidal copper in the Mondeo, exhorting him through a loud hailer to throw down his weapon. He raised his rifle into the air.
The Golf smacked him hard in the lower midriff and he crashed against the windscreen, the rifle flying over the roof of the car. She stopped the car and got out. It felt surreal, standing there and looking at the scene, an upturned Land Rover, a helicopter clattering overhead and a man lying lifeless on the grass; but one she would remember forever.
FORTY-THREE
Soft pillows were being plumped up by a pretty young nurse with short black hair and flat shoes that did nothing to detract from long, slender legs, tantalisingly encased in black nylon. DI Henderson relished the inconvenience.
‘There you are now, Angus,’ she said in a sweet Irish voice. ‘You’re all ready to receive your visitors.’
‘I don’t need any visitors when I’ve got you Mary. Two hours with you messing about with my pillows would suit me just fine.’
‘Away with you, you smooth talking Scotsman,’ she said, turning to go. ‘Don’t forget I’ve seen you naked and if I get any more cheek from you, your bath night will appear as a video on YouTube,’ she said with a wink as she walked away.
Deflated for a moment by her departure, the sight of DS Walters striding towards his bed and bearing gifts lifted his spirits again.
‘Good afternoon, Angus,’ she said, a wide grin on her face. She leaned over and hugged him.
It was the day after the ‘Siege of Hillcrest Copse’ as the newspapers were calling it, but as yet he’d not had a spare moment to mull over the events of that eventful morning, as no sooner did he arrive in hospital, than he was rushed into theatre for an operation to set his broken bones. He still felt groggy from the anaesthetic, and it was only now, seeing Walters, that the memories came flooding back.
She put a half bottle of Glenmorangie in a drawer and placed a box of Roses chocolates on top of the unit before throwing a copy of The Argus on the bed.
He bent forward and gingerly and picked up the paper. The headline read, ‘Hero Cop Stops Sussex Serial Killer.’
‘Well done, Carol,’ he said. ‘Fame at last.’
She shook her head. ‘No way, Angus. The story is about you.’
Henderson looked at the paper and as he did so, tears welled. He wasn’t tearful at all the praise being heaped on him for being
a hero, or the suggestion he would be commended by the Chief Constable, if not promoted, but by the profiles of each of the killer’s five victims. The Forensics team found DVDs in a second flat he owned in Horsham with recordings of all the women he’d once held captive. The thought that he and his colleagues might have done more to catch him sooner, was one he couldn’t shake.
‘Those poor women,’ he said.
‘Don’t be so down Angus, Martin Swift or Max Baris as he is more commonly known, left enough clues. We should be able find out where he buried the bodies and give them a proper funeral.’
‘Make it a priority.’
‘Already in motion.’
‘Is James Archer still around or did he scarper?’
‘I think he’s still around.’
‘Good. Bring him in before he decides to make a run for it. I think he knows more about Baris’ activities than we thought.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The secret room where he kept the women was a clever piece of carpentry. I’m betting Archer was involved in making it.’
‘I’m forgetting your dad worked as a carpenter, some of it must have rubbed off on you, but consider it done. Something is still bothering me. Why did the Land Rover overturn? The paper’s are saying you hit a log or something.’
‘We went over a slope at quite a steep angle and I grabbed the steering wheel and turned it down hill. The weight of the two of us leaning to one side and the lack of traction on the other side of the car did the rest.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘Not really. In the Highlands, I’ve seen many tourists do it by accident, those labouring under the false assumption their 4x4s can go anywhere. How is Baris? Is he here? I’d like to talk to him?’
She shook her head. ‘He didn’t make it. After my car hit him, he fell back and smacked his head on a rock. Died where he fell. I didn’t mean to kill him, obviously, but I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone.’
‘Has any flak come your way?’
‘Nope. The ACC is robust in my defence and telling all who ask that I stopped him killing a police officer, namely you, and prevented him shooting down a police helicopter.’
‘Excellent. You did a marvellous job. It’s you who should be getting a commendation, not me and I will be saying as much to Lisa Edwards when I see her.’
‘Thank you. One last thing and I saved the best for last.’
‘There’s more? I don’t think I can take anything else.’
‘You’ll like this. You saved a woman called Elaine Chivers.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘The woman being held captive in Baris’ barn.’
‘The one I saw before I fell off the roof? Is she all right? I mean, he didn’t harm her, did he?’
‘No, she’s fine. She’s a strong lady, a survivor if ever I saw one. Says she’s coming here to thank you personally.’
Henderson sat up and reached unsteadily for the side cabinet. Walters put a hand out to stop him. ‘What do want Angus? You only need to ask and I’ll get it for you.’
‘I’m after the bottle of hooch you put in the drawer. You can use the water glasses,’ he said, as he lay back on the bed. ‘For the first time in this investigation, I think we’ve now got something to celebrate.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Iain Cameron was born in Glasgow and moved to Brighton in the early eighties. He has worked as a management accountant, business consultant and a nursery goods retailer. He is now a full-time writer and lives in a village outside Horsham in West Sussex with his wife, two daughters and a lively Collie dog.
His two previous books, One Last Lesson and Driving into Darkness also feature DI Angus Henderson of Sussex Police, the Scottish detective with the calm demeanour and hidden ruthless streak.
To find out more about the author, visit the website:
www.iain-cameron.com
ALSO BY IAIN CAMERON
Driving into Darkness
They Don’t Take ‘No’ For An Answer
Vicious car-thieves are smashing their way into rural properties and stealing expensive cars. Their violence is escalating and detectives at Sussex Police are fearful they will eventually kill someone.
Their fears are realised when Sir Mathew Markham is killed. Everyone assumes his murder was the work of the gang but DI Angus Henderson is not so sure.
He tenaciously pursues his own theory, bringing him face to face with two killers…one who will stop at nothing to avoid going to jail, and the other equally determined to wreak his own brand of vengeance.
One Last Lesson
University has just become a dangerous place
The serenity of a rural golf course is shattered when a popular university student is found murdered.
There are few clues, leaving DI Angus Henderson of Sussex Police frustrated and angry, until he finds out the victim was a model on an adult web site, run by two of her lecturers.
It is a difficult case for the DI and brings him into confrontation with two dangerous animals - but only one of them is human.