The Last 10 Seconds: A Novel

by Simon Kernick

  Jesus, John, I miss you. I miss you so fucking much.

  The door opened and I felt a surge of anger as I saw Wolfe standing there with the Sig in one hand and a filthy-looking pillow in the other, the looming, demonic figure of Haddock at his shoulder. I could hear him breathing and his whole body was shaking with adrenalin as he psyched himself up for the kill.

  I tensed, moving into a position where I could spring up at him and make a grab for the gun.

  But I was too late. Wolfe lunged at me suddenly, dropping his knee into my stomach and driving the wind right out of me. As I tried to recover, he sat astride me, pinning my arms by my side, then everything turned to darkness as he pushed the pillow against my face, and I felt the metal of the gun barrel hard against my cheek.

  Clenching my teeth against the impact of the bullet I knew was coming at any second, I struggled beneath him. But it was useless. He was a strong guy with all the momentum, and I was still battered and dazed.

  ‘Go on, Ty, take him,’ I heard Haddock hiss in the darkness.

  Oh God. This was it.

  All over.

  ‘Jesus,’ Wolfe cursed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The gun. The fucking thing’s jammed.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure.’

  I felt the pressure lift on my face and the pillow slipped sideways. The next second, Wolfe was getting to his feet.

  ‘Are you just going to leave him?’ Haddock growled.

  ‘I’m not putting a knife in him. You don’t do that in business. Don’t worry, he’s not getting out of here.’

  The door closed and I heard the bolt being moved across, then their voices faded as they moved away.

  For a good few seconds I didn’t move. I was too shocked. To have come so close to death and then be spared was almost more than my already shredded nerves could bear.

  But it wasn’t that that was occupying my mind as I lay on the hard wooden floor. It was the fact that Tyrone Wolfe had deliberately spared my life. He might have told Haddock that the gun was jammed but there was no way he could have known for sure.

  Because he hadn’t tried to pull the trigger.

  Thirty-one

  Kevin O’Neill had been a self-made man. One of seven children from a village in County Cork, he’d left school at sixteen and come to England to make his fortune, building up a construction and property development company from nothing. He hadn’t been immensely rich, according to what Grier had told Tina, but he’d made enough to send his children to private school and live in a big detached house on a secluded private road in the north-west London suburb of Rickmansworth.

  It was ten past eleven and starting to spit with warm summer rain when the two police officers pulled up outside the security gates at the front of the property. Tina waited while Grier got out and pressed the buzzer, noticing the CCTV camera attached to the gatepost above his head. It wasn’t uncommon to have this level of security in London, even out here in the suburbs, but Tina knew that, although it might have acted as a deterrent against opportunistic burglars, the more determined and organized intruders would always get through, simply by bypassing the gate and going over the eight-foot-high wooden fence that bordered the grounds.

  Although she wasn’t convinced that someone had killed Kevin O’Neill, the timing of his death was worryingly coincidental, given that his daughter’s murder was the only one of the five supposedly committed by the Night Creeper that stood out.

  Grier had been less enthusiastic about coming, telling her as they’d driven through the dark, silent streets that he thought his death was exactly what it looked like, a coincidence. He’d also given her some compelling reasons, the most important of which was the lack of any obvious motive. On the night O’Neill died, Roisín had already been dead eight months, so why would anyone choose to murder him then?

  It was a question Tina couldn’t answer.

  The gates opened automatically as Grier got back in the car, and they drove down the short driveway that led to the main house, an imposing whitewashed building done in a faux Georgian style.

  Derval O’Neill, Roisín’s sister, was at the door when they pulled up outside, dressed in jeans and a halter top, her feet bare. She was a physically striking woman in her early thirties, tall and willowy, with long auburn hair and narrow, delicate features. Grier had told Tina that the name Derval meant ‘true desire’ in Celtic, and even in grief, it was a description that fitted her easily.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Miss O’Neill,’ said Tina, after Grier had introduced her. ‘We’re both very sorry for your loss.’

  Derval’s expression seemed to wobble. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, her face pale, and close up she looked thin rather than willowy. ‘He never got over Roisín’s death,’ she said quietly, fixing Tina with a look of surprising intensity. ‘It finished him. So now that bastard’s got himself another victim.’ She sighed. ‘Come inside. Would you like a drink of something?’

  Tina fought down the urge to ask for a glass of decent red wine and requested water, as did Grier.

  They followed Derval through a spacious hallway and into a tastefully furnished lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on to the back garden. Tina and Grier sat down at opposite ends of a three-person sofa and waited while Derval went to get their drinks.

  ‘This was where we interviewed her dad,’ said Grier quietly, gazing slowly round the room. ‘He was sat on that sofa opposite, this huge guy with massive hands, and he was just sobbing quietly with his head down. He couldn’t even look us in the eye. All he wanted to know was whether Roisín had suffered or not.’ Grier sighed deeply, looking at Tina with a troubled expression on his face. ‘We had to tell him the truth. We couldn’t lie to him – he’d only have found out the truth from the media. So we had to tell him that his daughter had been raped and beaten to death with a blunt instrument. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. That’s why I don’t even want to begin to think that we arrested the wrong man for it.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Neither do I.’ But the problem was, she knew they had.

  Derval returned with their drinks and took a seat opposite them. Tina saw that she had a full glass of white wine. She tried not to stare at it as Derval took a large gulp, before running a finger delicately over her lips.

  ‘I was just here sorting out Dad’s affairs before the funeral,’ she told them, as if her presence at the house needed explaining. ‘It’s set for next Thursday. It’s going to be at home in Cork. That was Dad’s request.’

  Tina felt a twinge of regret. If any evidence of foul play did emerge then there was no way her father’s body would be released for burial. And if it wasn’t, her own actions would be prolonging the grief and pain this family was having to bear.

  ‘Are you managing OK?’ asked Grier, leaning forward in his seat. ‘Do you have any other relatives who can help?’

  ‘I’m doing fine,’ Derval answered, her expression wobbling once again. ‘But why have you both come here at this time of night? Has something happened with the man you’ve arrested for Roisín’s murder? The liaison officer said his name was Andrew Kent.’

  ‘That’s right. And yes, it has,’ answered Tina. She told Derval about Kent’s abduction. ‘There’s a major manhunt under way now, but so far we haven’t located him.’

  Derval looked shocked. ‘Oh my God. How did that happen? Who took him?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘Well, whoever it is, I hope they kill him. He’s destroyed my whole family. He killed my father, just like he killed my sister. He deserves everything he gets.’ She stared at the two police officers defiantly, as if daring them to disagree.

  Tina knew exactly how she felt. ‘Was your father here in this house when he died?’ she asked.

  Derval nodded. ‘Yes. It must have been some time last night. The cleaner found him this morning when she came. He was in his stu
dy at the desk. She said he looked very peaceful.’

  Tina managed a small, reassuring smile. ‘That’s one blessing at least. And the cleaner called the doctor, did she?’

  ‘Yes. He was certified dead at the scene. The doctor said it was a massive heart attack.’

  ‘Did he have any history of heart trouble?’ asked Grier.

  The implication of his question was obvious, and Derval picked up on it straight away. ‘He had a triple heart bypass six years ago, but since then he’d given up smoking and started exercising and watching what he ate. He was looking the fittest I’d ever seen him in the months before Roisín was murdered. But what’s my dad’s death got to do with any of this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Grier, glancing at Tina as if to say, ‘See? He had a history of heart trouble. It’s just a coincidence. What the hell are we here for?’

  Tina suddenly felt very tired. It had been a long day and she was desperate to finish it by unwinding with a drink. Maybe she was simply seeing conspiracies where none existed. ‘Were you very close to Roisín?’ she asked, knowing she was going to have to tread carefully.

  ‘What does any of this, or my dad, have to do with what’s happened to Andrew Kent?’ Derval’s voice was suddenly laced with suspicion.

  ‘It’s just routine, Miss O’Neill,’ put in Grier. ‘It helps us to build up a picture in advance of the trial.’

  Grier’s explanation sounded utterly lame, and Tina knew she was going to have to be honest with Derval. ‘There’ve been some developments in your sister’s case,’ she said firmly. ‘The evidence still points to Andrew Kent as being the killer but, strictly off the record, there are one or two areas of doubt, and we need to look at them again.’

  ‘You’re saying Kent may not have murdered my sister?’ Derval looked utterly shocked. ‘My God, I didn’t think things could get any worse.’

  ‘It’s almost certain he did,’ said Grier soothingly, which Tina knew was bullshit since Kent had a cast-iron alibi. ‘We just want to make sure, that’s all.’

  Derval took another generous gulp of the wine and flicked back her long hair. ‘Yes, I was close to Roisín. I lived on the other side of London from her but we still got together now and again for drinks in the West End. Not as often as I’d have liked . . . you know how busy everything gets in London. But yeah, we were friends.’

  Tina had a theory. It was vague and full of holes, but it was all she had to go on. ‘I understand from the interviews with friends and family that Roisín was single when she died, but had she been in any serious relationships at any time in the immediate run-up to her death?’

  ‘The only serious boyfriend Roisín had since university was Max.’ The way Derval spoke his name suggested she hadn’t entirely approved of him. ‘She went out with him for a long time – three, four years, something like that.’

  ‘And when did it finish?’

  ‘About a year ago. He was seeing an Australian girl on the side and they ended up disappearing off to Oz. As far as I know, that’s where they still are. He didn’t even bother making contact after Roisín’s murder.’ She sighed. ‘I never liked him, but I can’t help thinking that if they were still together, she’d still be alive.’

  Tina sighed. Her theory of the killer being a boyfriend with inside knowledge of the police investigation was looking pretty dead in the water. ‘Roisín was a very attractive woman. Was she seeing anyone else? Having any flings in those last few months?’

  ‘What are you trying to imply? That some irate ex-boyfriend killed her? Andrew Kent was the man who fitted the alarm in her apartment, the same as with the other victims. If he didn’t kill Roisín, then presumably he didn’t kill the other girls either. Is that what you’re trying to tell me? That Kent’s innocent? That there is no Night Creeper?’ She was slurring her words slightly, and Tina realized this wasn’t her first glass of wine of the evening.

  ‘I’m just trying to make sure we’ve got the right man, that’s all. Now I know how you must be suffering, Derval—’

  ‘No you don’t. You don’t have a fucking clue. Has anyone you know ever been murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word came out louder than Tina had intended. ‘I know exactly what it feels like. I think about it every day.’

  Derval looked stricken. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to shout.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Tina, feeling a wave of compassion for the woman in front of her. She got to her feet, went over and sat beside her, putting her arms round Derval’s shoulders, hugging her to her chest.

  As she held her, her eyes met Grier’s and he mouthed the words ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ before turning away, an expression of disgust on his face.

  A few seconds passed, then Derval gently pulled away and wiped her eyes with a well-used tissue, while Tina returned to her seat.

  Derval picked up her wine and drank most of the remainder, letting out a long, satisfied sigh that was utterly familiar to Tina.

  ‘There was someone else.’

  Tina snapped back to reality, the urge for a drink temporarily forgotten.

  Derval stared into space as she spoke. ‘Roisín never actually came out and said she was seeing someone, but I knew she was. We went out a couple of times and she’d just give off telltale signs. It was the way she smiled over her texts, and disappeared off to make phone calls. I asked her about it, but she just said it was friends.’ She looked at Tina. ‘But I knew. And I’m guessing he must have been married. She would have known that I wouldn’t have approved. I had an affair once myself and got my fingers burned very badly, and Dad . . . Well, he’d have hated it.’

  ‘So you have no idea who it might have been?’

  Derval shook her head. ‘No, but I’m absolutely certain there was someone.’

  ‘Are you sure Roisín wouldn’t have talked to your father about it?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Derval answered cautiously. ‘They were close, after all.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t honestly think that someone killed Dad to protect a secret lover of Roisín’s, do you? That’s just unbelievable.’

  That was the problem. It was. But then so much of what had happened that day had been unbelievable, and that hadn’t stopped it happening. ‘We’re just following up every avenue of inquiry,’ said Tina, aware how hollow her answer sounded.

  Derval looked at them both in turn. ‘I want some closure here. I want to know that justice is being done for my sister and my father, and I want to know, most of all, that the right man has been arrested for the crime, and that you’re going to get him back.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can,’ said Grier.

  ‘You keep saying that. But are you? Look, I’m suffering enough as it is without you talking in riddles.’ Her voice was getting louder, and she looked like she might burst into tears at any moment.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Tina saw Grier getting to his feet. She rose too, walked over to Derval and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. ‘I promise you justice will be done, Derval. I will personally keep you informed of everything that happens with regard to Andrew Kent, and this whole inquiry. You have my word on that.’

  ‘Do you suspect that my father’s death was suspicious?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a possibility,’ she said reluctantly.

  Derval’s expression tightened, giving her cheeks a sunken, hollow look. ‘Oh God. After everything else . . .’

  ‘It might not be, Derval, remember that. It’s just we’re keeping an open mind. Now, I need to see the CCTV tapes from the camera at the front of the property. I don’t suppose they’ll give us anything, but we need to take a look.’

  Derval nodded, and led them through to her father’s study where she booted up his PC and located the camera’s digital footage for the previous day. But Tina was right. The footage didn’t show anything suspicious, although that was to be expected. If anyone had killed Kevin O’Neill in his own home, they wouldn’t have allowed themselv
es to be caught on camera.

  Unfortunately, it also left them with nothing. They thanked Derval for her time, Tina reiterating her promise to keep her informed of developments, as well as taking the number of the doctor who’d certified her father dead.

  As they drove out of the gates of the O’Neill property, Grier asked if they were finished for the night.

  ‘Soon.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? What else are we going to do?’

  ‘First of all, I want to call the doctor. We need a time of death for Kevin O’Neill. Then we’ll have something to work with.’

  As they reached the bottom of the road, where it joined the A404 heading back into London, Tina stopped the car. She was feeling frustrated. They were still fumbling about in the dark, and she knew that Grier was rapidly losing interest in her theories, if he’d ever had any at all.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked as she opened the car door.

  She pointed up to a CCTV camera on top of a metal pole, partially obscured by one of the oak trees that lined both sides of the road, which she’d spotted on the way in. It covered the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and any vehicle that came in or out of it would have to pass under its gaze. Beneath the camera was a sign advertising the twenty-four-hour security company that operated it. ‘Maybe the operator saw something,’ she said, walking over to take down the company’s number.

  The drizzling rain had stopped now and the night was warm.

  ‘Listen, ma’am.’ Grier had also got out of the car, and walked up beside her. ‘I think we could be wasting time here.’

  She pulled out a cigarette. ‘I know. You’ve made that clear.’

  ‘O’Neill died of a heart attack. Not a bullet to the head. He was a big guy in his late fifties who’d had heart trouble before, and who’d been under a lot of pressure since his daughter’s death. This could just be the culmination of it.’