Backlash

by Lynda La Plante

  It turned out that Barolli was out of surgery and was being monitored in intensive care. They had a long discussion with the surgeon, who said that the luck of the gods must have been on Barolli’s side. The bullet to his shoulder had narrowly missed any arteries; if it had been a fraction closer to his neck it could have been fatal. The injuries to his abdomen had not affected any vital organ, but the bullet, which had perforated his stomach wall, had lodged in tissue within a fraction of his spinal cord, amazingly without causing any lasting damage. He would need to remain in hospital for at least two to three weeks, but he would most likely make a full recovery.

  Barolli was still very groggy from the anaesthetic and had an oxygen mask to help his breathing. His face had a yellowish pallor unlike his usual ruddy hue. He didn’t appear to be aware of any visitors; his eyes remained closed.

  ‘Have his family been contacted?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Yes, they were down in Wales and local CID brought them up overnight,’ Langton said. ‘I told the detective to book them in at a nearby hotel and we’d foot the bill. Nurse said they sat with him for hours and left just before we got here.’

  Langton leaned over the bed and gently touched Barolli’s hand.

  ‘Have you back with us in no time, son.’

  Barolli gave no reaction. Langton straightened up, knowing of old just how long it could take; the trauma of being seriously wounded was not only physically but mentally very hard to get over.

  Langton announced he was eager to get home and sleep and would visit Barolli’s parents at the hotel in the morning.

  ‘How’s your knee holding up?’ Anna asked as she bleeped open her Mini in the hospital car park.

  ‘I’m fine, be a lot better when we pick that bastard up.’ She watched him in her rear-view mirror as he got into his Rover, noticing how he winced as he bent to get into the driving seat. Both cars were covered in chalk dust and clay clung to their wheels and bumpers; mud had sprayed over the doors and even the windows. Anna drove out after Langton, and decided that she’d go straight to a twenty-four-hour car wash and valet service in Waterloo.

  Sitting in the garage’s small waiting area, Anna read newspapers left on a small table for the customers. She yawned and tossed aside one paper after another. It took three quarters of an hour for her Mini to be returned polished and buffed, its interior hoovered and wiped down. By this time it was after nine and she picked up a takeaway Chinese, stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of wine.

  The Chinese noodles were soggy, so she ate little, but drank two large glasses of wine. After taking a shower and blow-drying her hair, she watched the TV news as it covered the escape and the ongoing search for Henry Oates. Aerial shots of the quarry appeared, showing the massive search the Met had organized, and although the media were not yet privy to how many bodies had been uncovered or their identities, it was stated that Henry Oates was a serial killer on the run. They repeated clips of the news conference, stressing that an officer remained on the critical list after being shot by Henry Oates. Anna, feeling depressed, couldn’t be bothered to watch any more so she turned off the TV by remote, switched off her bedside light and snuggled down under her duvet.

  In the darkness she let her mind wander over the events of the case, recalling that Eileen Oates had said that her husband had attempted to join the Army, but had been kicked out. She wondered if he’d had enough time to learn how to use a gun. He had certainly fired off enough rounds, but she doubted he had intended to shoot Barolli. But then again, maybe he had.

  Anna didn’t give a moment’s notice to how lacking in emotion she was. Of course she felt bad for Barolli; everyone did. There was also the depression they all felt at the escape, which would, she knew, have repercussions within the team. It was normal procedure for the Met’s Department of Professional Standards to investigate the type of incident that had occurred, and she had no doubt the Independent Police Complaints Commission would be all over it as well. Every single moment of the entire operation would eventually come under scrutiny and be investigated. She was satisfied that nothing she had done could be held against her as unprofessional. On the contrary, if her part in the enquiry was to be reviewed she was satisfied she had handled herself with integrity at all times. She thought that Mike would probably be the scapegoat – someone had to take the blame, and not only within the Met. The public would want to know how a serial killer like Oates could have managed to not only get away but also with a police officer’s gun. One by one she went through the incidents that had culminated in Oates’s escape.

  The relentless storm followed by the crashing down of the arc lamps, the mayhem and confusion that had ensued, Kumar blowing his car horn, the howling of the sniffer dogs and the sudden discovery that there were bodies in the woods. All of it combined together, followed by a brief few seconds of such chaos that Oates had used the opportunity to make a run for it. Barolli, although attempting to stop Oates, had left the patrol car with the keys in the ignition, and it was parked literally within yards of the top of the quarry, ready to head for the woods.

  Anna yawned again and curled up on her side, confident that no blame could be cast in her direction. The selfish clinical appraisal made her realize how different she had become. The protective shield was in place: her only concern was for her own career position. The Anna who had been unable to hide her distress at a victim’s injuries earlier in her career was buried deep. Her feelings were now totally under control, her vulnerability would be difficult to detect. She had been consumed by the loss of her beloved fiancé Ken Hudson, she had suffered such lacerating pain that she was determined to never allow the possibility of it ever happening again.

  The press were surrounding the station waiting for news, so Anna muttered ‘No comment’ as she hurried inside, to where Mike was waiting for everyone to gather. He looked terrible; his eyes were red-rimmed as if he hadn’t slept. Anna, coffee in hand, looked refreshed by contrast and was wearing one of her smarter black suits with a ruffled white shirt beneath it. As she had washed her hair the previous night she wore it loose and had even put on some make-up.

  Mike told everyone that Barolli was on the road to recovery and was very fortunate that the two bullets had missed vital organs.

  ‘Not hit his head then?’ someone joked.

  Mike smiled and suggested they have a whip-round to send him some flowers and then it was on to business.

  They were waiting for the post mortem report on Rebekka Jordan and the four other bodies that had been recovered. The pathologist was finishing off the examination of Rebekka’s body and would start on the other victims later that morning but to complete all the post mortems would take at least two days and he would need another week to write up his report.

  Top priority was the hunt for Oates. Officers had been put on surveillance outside Oates’s squat in case he turned up. Mike went through the possible areas Oates might run to, commenting that it was possible he’d try and contact his wife in Scotland.

  ‘What we know is he has no money so he’s got to steal, burgle some place, and with his face plastered over every newspaper we’ll maybe get lucky and someone will recognize him. To date we have had twenty sightings, believe it or not, but none have proved valid, so it is basically a case of following every lead we get.’

  Joan signalled to Mike that there was a call for him.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Area Commander.’

  ‘I’ll take it in my office. Anna, you want to take over for a minute?’

  Mike hurried into his office as Anna stood up.

  ‘He’s very used to living off the streets, but I think the locations we should check are those of the two known associates, Ira Zacks and his other boxing pal, Timmy Bradford. They appear to be the only two friends he has had any contact with in the last five to six years. I doubt he would get much help from his ex-wife – he would also have to travel some distance to get to her with no money for train or coach. He could thumb a lif
t, but again, as Mike says, his photograph is plastered everywhere and there’s been a lot of TV coverage. He’s also desperate, so as we have surveillance on his basement, double-check with the neighbours as he could be holding them hostage.’

  Anna moved to the board to indicate the address of Ira’s flat close to Hammersmith Bridge. ‘We know the bird has already flown from there along with his girlfriend, so that would mean it’s empty. He maybe could have broken in. They found the police car Oates stole abandoned in Hammersmith by the flyover. Sad as it may seem, we need to check on the Jordans and Markhams; again this is all down to where we know he knows. The other location is Kingston, the housing estate were Timmy Bradford lives with his mother. There are also numerous empty flats there that are being done up to be sold. Double-check the health club he used, any place we know Oates frequented.’

  Anna hesitated and crossed to the large section of the board with the quarry pictures.

  ‘He knows this area, quote, like the back of my hand – who knows, he might return there. There’s also the gypsy camp – I don’t know whether or not they’d allow him to hide out, but he’s doing just that, he is hiding out. Oates can’t risk going out amongst the public so he will probably move about at night. We need reports of any house break-ins in London. Prioritize the night ones, particularly where food, cash or clothing is stolen. He worked for Andrew Markham, so check the Cobham area as well. There are barns and outhouses, stables, lot of places to lie low. Mrs Markham had a greenhouse. We get as much manpower as we can to cover the known possibilities.’

  Mike had been given clearance for a huge team of officers to coordinate and carry out the searches. Anna went into his office to ask if he wanted to join up with any of the crews, but he shook his head. Orchestrating the search would be very much down to her. He himself had been kept busy with Scotland Yard and the press office, not to mention that the incident room was being virtually deluged with potential sightings. Hundreds of phone calls were coming in, most from idiots, but every one of them had to be investigated and cleared. Four more clerical workers had been brought in to handle the calls and record the details of the alleged sightings on the HOLMES computers. Everyone was working flat out, but they were beginning to flag as one possible sighting after another proved unproductive.

  Anna went through the list of all the locations that had been checked without any success. They had even had teams of officers from the Home Counties police forces searching woodland, farm buildings and outhouses outside London but no visible trace of Oates had been found.

  Mike shook his head with frustration. He was under huge pressure, having to fend off not only the press but also the Area Commander. ‘She’s asked me to give her a detailed review of the operation, so obviously it’s a total failure,’ he told Anna.

  ‘It wasn’t a failure. For God’s sake, we uncovered five victims and under horrendous circumstances. Don’t let them wear you down, Mike, you have to speak up for yourself.’

  He sighed and then put his head in his hands.

  ‘Where the bloody hell is he?’

  ‘He’ll surface, he has to, and there is no way he can get far. Pump out more press on him, they’ve been screwing it up for us at the quarry. Turn it around on them.’

  Mike looked up, frowning.

  ‘That bloody press helicopter was screwing it up, make them know it,’ Anna insisted. ‘Put a portion of the blame on them, we want as much coverage as is possible. Oates’s ego will blow up in his face.’

  Mike sat back.

  ‘Yeah. I guess I’m just tired out.’

  ‘Then go home and get some sleep. I’ll stay on here until late and you’ll feel a whole lot better in the morning.’

  ‘How come you look so good?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘I had a full night’s sleep.’

  The calls were like persistent gnats all night, buzzing and often anonymous, but they kept on coming. It was intensely frustrating to have so many leads and all of them false. Every call had to be recorded and logged and Anna, along with Joan, Barbara and the extra clerical workers, were kept busy until at ten o’clock Anna said the night staff could take over. Joan had a large bunch of flowers she was going to deliver to Barolli with a card signed by all the team close to the enquiry.

  ‘You’d better get them over there, Joan, they’re wilting.’

  Anna was packing up ready to leave when Langton arrived.

  ‘I was just going home.’

  ‘Come and have a drink with me.’

  She didn’t really feel like going to a pub, but he gestured to Mike’s office and tapped his coat pocket.

  Langton opened the drawers until he found a glass and poured a heavy measure of Scotch into it.

  ‘Here you go. I’ll use the bottle.’

  ‘I can get a glass from the canteen.’

  ‘It’s closed.’

  She looked at the Scotch and sipped; it hit the back of her throat like fire.

  ‘My God. I need some water in this.’

  She opened a bottle of water left on Mike’s desk.

  ‘I’ve been to the mortuary – the Rebekka Jordan report will be in tomorrow morning. You got a cigarette?’

  ‘Yes I do actually; hang on, I’ll get them.’

  Anna returned to the incident room and picked up her briefcase. The phones were still ringing nonstop.

  Langton was drinking from the bottle of Scotch as she took out the packet of Silk Cut and tossed it onto the desk. He lit up and then opened the office window. She also took one, and he leaned forwards to light it.

  ‘I looked in on the other victims. They’re mostly skeletons and a couple may have had animals at them. All lined up and laid out, just makes your heart sink to think that that piece of shit is still out there.’

  She took another sip of her watered-down Scotch. They were using a dirty half-filled coffee beaker as an ashtray.

  ‘What did the pathologist say about Rebekka?’

  ‘Jawbone broken and fractures to the skull, all occurred before death and consistent with being punched repeatedly, so looks like Oates was telling the truth when he said he hit her. Only problem is, because her body was so badly decomposed he can’t give a definitive cause of death or say if he sexually assaulted her.’

  ‘So he will probably offer a plea of manslaughter, saying he didn’t mean to kill her, just shut her up?’

  ‘He won’t get away with that, not with the similar evidence on the girls he’s admitted raping and murdering so far.’

  ‘Well that’s something it’s better they don’t know.’

  ‘The parents?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Like the Flynns they want to see their daughter,’ Langton groaned. ‘I’ve asked if they can do something with the remains. If I was them I wouldn’t, it’s no longer their daughter, she’s long gone apart from that hair; lovely hair. It’s been cleaned.’

  He took a long gulp of Scotch out of the bottle, and then put it down on the desk.

  ‘Listen, Mike is going to be torn to shreds. I’ve spoken with the Commander, tried to make it less of a fuck-up, but it’s hard, and no matter what excuses I make about the fucking arc lights blowing and toppling, somebody still has to be the fall guy. Then we’ve got fucking Barolli leaving the keys in the ignition of the unmarked car, and the biggest screw-up is that Oates had his handcuffs removed and took an armed officer’s gun.’

  ‘But you gave the order for that.’

  His head snapped up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You gave the clearance for the cuffs to be removed the second time. Oates was back in the wagon, Mike told you he wanted to call it a day but you overruled him. You told him to get Oates out again.’

  Langton stubbed out his cigarette. She could see his tight-lipped anger.

  ‘Didn’t you tell the Commander there was no way he could have climbed into the pit and up the other side with the cuffs on? We succeeded in recovering Rebekka Jordan’s remains because of him being u
p on the ledge. If we hadn’t used Oates we might never have found her.’

  Langton flipped the packet of cigarettes up and down, saying nothing. It was clear he had tried to offload the blame onto Mike and, incensed by what he’d done, she decided to stand up to him.

  ‘You were there, the events that occurred to enable Oates to escape were not down to Mike’s incompetence, but . . .’

  ‘As you so tartly said, Travis, I was there, I am aware of exactly what happened.’

  ‘Paul Barolli tried to stop Oates by using the car door, and then got out to try and rugby-tackle an armed man and ended up getting shot for his troubles. It may have slipped your mind but the cadaver dogs had found something and YOU told Paul, NOT Mike, to go over to the woods and that was why he was in the car!’

  ‘I know that, I bloody know that.’

  ‘Then you have to know that the blame cannot be pinned on anyone in particular.’

  ‘The top brass don’t see it as an act of God, so someone’s got to take the blame.’

  ‘Why? You were there, I was there . . .’

  ‘I have no intention of taking the flak for this, Travis, you hear me? I haven’t come this far to get rubbed out just when I am about to be recommended for . . .’

  ‘Another promotion board, is it! You’ve missed out on Commander how many times now?’

  ‘Yes it fucking is, and this case was in Mike Lewis’s hands.’

  ‘Not entirely. We did have Hedges, but you pissed him off so much he wasn’t interested. Since Rebekka Jordan’s name came into it you’ve been on Mike’s back so—’

  He interrupted. ‘You want to step forwards? You’re the DCI on the Rebekka Jordan enquiry, you want to put yourself forwards? Do you? NO, bet your sweet arse you don’t want to. The reason I’m here tonight is so we can discuss—’