by David Wilson
The first shot slammed into the front door Yale lock leaving a gaping hole, the second shattered the downstairs window and penetrated the wall over the fireplace in the front room, sending out chunks of plaster, the third disintegrated the glass in the upstairs master bedroom, the fourth he angled more to the right and repeated the shot into the bedroom, the fifth went through the middle of the wooden front door just above the letterbox. Five rounds and the magazine was empty. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he mounted the Fireblade and was speeding back the way he came before the two police officers in the car could do anything more than open their doors and watch the marksman disappear in an instant. They immediately radioed for help.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Munro stayed the night at the Belvedere B&B on the Abingdon Road in Oxford, a yellow-brick Georgian guest house. His room was a tiny single in the attic, the bedspread a floral faux-fifties pattern, the television in the corner almost too small to see, the remote control out of batteries or not working. He was kept awake by the traffic on the main road outside his window. His car had been towed away. He’d done the worst thing a lonely man away from home could do and that was scroll through the hundreds of photos on his phone, the majority of which were of Morag as she grew from uncertain teenager to outwardly confident but brittle student. There were holiday snaps, birthday pictures, selfies she’d taken on his phone in a variety of jokey poses. Her facial features grew stronger, self-possession took over, but she smiled less readily with time, each birthday a source of joy and underlying anxiety. Now every image was like a knife to his heart.
Munro left the guest house and headed towards the Folly Bridge along the Abingdon Road. He took a left down Whitehouse Road and joined Marlborough Road walking in the direction of the river. He passed St Matthew’s Church and without thinking entered the small courtyard. The latch on the heavy oak door made a sound like gunshot and the hinges squealed terribly as he pushed open the door. The church was empty. Munro walked down the aisle and took a seat at the end of the front pew. He stared at the gaudy altar with its heavy gold cross. He bowed his head, tried to clear his mind, but he couldn’t silence the voices, erase his morbid imaginings, but eventually he found some words that approximated to his feelings, but they were half formed things, inadequate, mocking, but he said them to himself anyway, “Please do not lose faith, please do not lose faith, please look after my daughter.” He repeated the words over and over until he thought they might make some sense to anyone who might be listening.
He left the church, closing the door as quietly as he could, and continued along Marlborough Road, but when he passed the house he saw the night before with the horseshoe above the front door and the traffic cone in the garden, he stopped again, for no reason that he could fathom. Perhaps it was a faith in the divine constellation of things that made him hesitate and consider why the house’s upper windows were boarded up and the curtains were drawn on the ground floor and all was darkness. But he was sure he saw a flicker of light from below, perhaps from a cellar airbrick for there was no basement window, but his mind was probably playing tricks on him. There was no number to the house but he noted the address from the number next door. He thought about knocking on the door to make some polite enquiries but why would anyone take seriously or want to help a stranger burdened with his kind of anxieties?
He took the path along the river and went east. There was no height that would be effective in a fall, and drowning would be long and hard, but these were calculations he would make in the face of eventualities in the future, or perhaps later, when he would be robbed of rational thought. He crossed the footbridge to Friars Wharf and checked his phone again. There were numerous voicemails and emails from Cleland House that he erased, but no other messages. He reached Morag’s college and looked around for the porter who was apparently in Codrington Library according to an American student who asked if he could help him. The student went off to find the porter and insisted it wasn’t a problem, it would take him just a couple of minutes if that, and the porter turned up and recognized Munro, but he shook his head.
Chapter Fifty
Knight could hear the clock ticking, it was one of those infernal Ikea wall clocks with roman numerals, cheap as chips, everything on a budget nowadays. But it told good time and he watched the hands removing seconds from his life and then a minute and then another.
“Sandel,” he said. “You don’t leave this room until we have the address. I don’t have time to arrest and charge you but that will happen as you’re well aware. This is the endgame pal, I don’t want to hear any more buddy-buddy bullshit, cut yourself loose from him, it’s gone far enough.” Knight slammed his fist on the wooden desk, upending Munro’s photo and dislodging the broken glass. Sandel jerked from his seat and put his hands to his ears.
Knight’s mobile rang. It was Munro. Knight took the call, Munro was agitated.
“Knight, no more pussy-footing, I’m with the porter of Morag’s college. He hasn’t seen Morag, he doesn’t know anyone who has in the past few days, nobody knows where she is, I want a missing person alert put out immediately, the works. Knight do this for me.”
“I’ll do it now.” Knight found himself involuntarily pointing at Sandel as if somehow that would condemn him to hell while he picked up the landline and instructed the station. “Oxford, missing person, name Morag Munro, student, first year.” Munro was still on the mobile, “Munro I need a precise description.” Knight repeated it into the landline. “Munro send the station the most recent photo you have of her right now.” Knight rang off the landline. “There’s been some developments,” he said to Munro.
“What’s been happening,” said Munro, his voice calm.
“The pieces are falling into place and then we’re ready to go.”
“What the fuck are you talking about man, this isn’t something out of Hawaii Five-O.”
“I’ll fill you in later.” There was a call pending on his mobile. “I’ve got another call to take. Munro, it’s going to be all right, I promise.” He rung off and took the incoming.
“The fuck? Casualties? Get the fucking paramedics,” said Knight, and realized his adrenaline was beginning to work like salt in a wound. He apologized, he listened. Then he blasted off again, “You didn’t get a description? You didn’t know what was happening until the perp disappeared? What are you deaf? Ok, black visor, grey helmet, bike? You know about four wheels but not about two, that’s really fucking unhelpful officer,” the PC was clearly very shaken, stumbling over his words. “Keep thinking man, colour, make?” There was an interruption and then the WPC came on the line: “Honda Fireblade, red, gold and black non-standard paintwork,” she said. “’06 plate.” She described it in detail.
“Thanks,” said Knight. “Get the firearms unit out there, twenty-four-hour armed guard for as long as we need them.” He put the mobile down and looked over at Sandel. Knight could feel the dead weight of exhaustion bending his will but he was going to make this right, whatever the cost.
“Sandel, time to light that firecracker in your arse. That was the cop patrol outside Liz’s gaff, Collette and Harriet were in the house, there’s been a shooting, sniper, long-range sights, rifle fitted with a suppressor.”
Sandel was ashen, he started rocking. Knight let him bleed, let the horror show twist and turn. “You give a shit now?”
“They hit?” said Sandel. “Brock the shooter?” the emotion was bleached from his voice.
“Ninety per cent it was Brock, same bike colours as yours, five spent cartridges found at the SOC, he emptied the magazine, patrol thought it was kids throwing stones at the windows at first, Brock shot up the house. Collette and Harriet were in the kitchen at the back, pure luck, the fates didn’t want their lives ended today, they’re suffering from shock, the paramedics are treating them.”
Sandel took a pencil and a scrap of paper from the desk and wrote down the address in Oxford where Brock’s hideaway was located. No number but the num
ber of the house next to it was given. It was in Marlborough Road.
“You think he’s gone there?”
“Yes.”
“Lomas and Morag in there?”
“I don’t know.”
Knight called up for another armed response team, briefed them on a possible hostage situation, and that the hostage-taker was heavily armed.
“You, come with me,” said Knight to Sandel.
Chapter Fifty-One
Brock looked behind him, up and down the street, there were only a few residents’ cars parked. There were wheelie bins in front gardens, two by two, one green one blue, a separate smaller food recycling bin, sometimes a bicycle propped next to them. The area was neat, organized, safe as houses.
He’d parked his Fireblade outside the house, like a flag proclaiming ownership of hostile territory, a marker at the summit of a storm-ravaged mountain. He rattled the door, the locks were heavy and effective. The horseshoe above the door slipped off its hook and clattered loudly onto the concrete pathway. Brock swore under his breath, picked it up and slung it into the garden undergrowth.
“Lomas,” this, his second attempt to gain attention, was louder now. “Get up here, I want in man, I don’t have time to fuck about.” He considered shooting the locks, but the H&K rifle would take too long to set up, too many people easily spooked by firearms nowadays. Who could blame them? Brock rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes, impatience was eating him up and for a moment he felt the hot stab of tears burn his eyes. He knocked his forehead against the doorframe, just hard enough to bruise the skin, but not enough to bleed. He was tiring, his wires unravelling.
One of the bolts slammed against its housing, then another, stiffer, squealed against its metal catch then quickly hammered home. There were two more bolts on the bottom half of the door, and then two keys, a Yale and a deadlock. Brock pushed himself into the house and closed the door. “Lock up,” he said to Lomas, who backed away down the hallway, which was too narrow for the two big men to stand opposite each other.
“Where is she?” said Brock.
Lomas pointed to the cellar hatch on the floor in the hallway.
“What the fuck’s she doing there? I said keep her nice and comfortable, not chained up in a dungeon.”
“She’s safe, you said put her in the cellar, you’re forgetting.”
Brock eyed him as if he’d spat on his shoes.
“Get her out of there, put her in here,” he pointed to what was used as a lounge with a sofa and a single wooden chair in the middle of the room. There was a wardrobe against one wall. The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling had a shade that was decorated with pictures of Postman Pat. He waved gaily with his fixed grin and a parcel under his arm.
Brock took off the heavy gun from his shoulder, unzipped the black bag and set up the rifle, without the suppressor. He extracted a twenty-round magazine from the wardrobe and attached it, chambering a bullet. He leaned it against the wall.
Lomas brought Morag into the room. Her hair was unkempt, her white shirt was turning grey in the musty cellar air, but her jeans were only slightly marked and her Nike Airs still looked immaculate. Her face was pale, skin drained by the lack of sunlight, but her eyes shone true.
“He look after you?” said Brock.
Morag shrugged.
“Sit there,” said Brock pointing to the wooden chair. She did so wondering what the next stage of insanity would entail.
“You going to torture me like in some sicko horror flick?” said Morag.
Brock circled her, considering his options. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said. “You’re loved truly, the most precious gift, don’t make a run for it and end it all here, in this sinkhole of despair.” He touched her cheek.
“Fuck off,” she said. “Don’t touch me.”
“Leave her alone,” said Lomas.
Brock looked at him. “Where’s your weapon?” he said. “She all peace and quiet? Eating out of your hand? Had some good adult chats? Spout some beautiful poetry? You teach her to do some heavy thinking? Being and Nothingness, La Nausee, The Myth of Sisyphus? ‘One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil.’ You like that Lomas, Mr Serial Killer philosopher, you sexy beast? You like that? I can do it, I can do too.”
Brock went to the wardrobe and took out a Glock 19 handgun. He punched in the fifteen-round magazine with the heel of his hand and loaded a bullet.
“Don’t harm her,” said Lomas.
Brock sat on the edge of the sofa and breathed deeply, drawing air from the bottom of his lungs like a weightlifter preparing for a massive lift. He pointed the gun at Lomas, aiming between his eyes.
“Bang, easy, problem solved,” said Brock. “Presence, absence, no arguments, no backbiting, no disproportion, no misconception, no disjuncture between giving and receiving, no more afterthought. You teach therefore I learn, but mostly I make it up as I go along. You know why?” He suddenly looked strained, stunned, as if a light inside was flickering, sending him into momentary blackout. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small plastic bag containing a white powder. He jammed the gun into his belt and sprinkled a line of the powder on the back of his hand and sniffed it like he was savouring the scent of summer roses. He straightaway started to tremble and then curse, clinging onto the sofa. “Ground control,” he said between his grinding teeth. “Not too high, easy there, less propulsion, turn down the volume.” Eventually he settled and his pupils became as black as night, starlight shining behind them.
“The girl, Morag,” said Brock. “Her father’s looking for her. He will look for her to the ends of the earth, he will never stop stumbling through the wilderness bloodied and bowed following every one of her faint footprints, he will die trying to bring home his child. I want to witness that.”
“Please don’t harm the girl,” said Lomas.
“Don’t harm the girl?” said Brock. “What are you the Patron Saint of Lost Souls? This is a strange world we live in where we are so empowered we can travel to the four corners of the globe, even to other planets, but for what? So we can remain seated every day examining our wretchedness? We must act and the most perverse act has the most meaning. Does this make you yearn with nostalgia for your lost youth Lomas? Does this young girl excite you with the promise of new beginnings and instant endings? The two so tightly bound the erotic charge is like electricity, eternal damnation a rare exquisite blue flame, a pink orchid that flowers in the desert but only if it’s drenched in blood? You killed those girls, Lomas, all six of them, brutally and with no more than a moment’s reflection, and now you think your knowledge is complete. But you killed again and no one charged you with that crime, there was no arrest, no trial, no judgement, no jury saying, ‘No you cannot do that, we condemn you.’ The world didn’t tip on its axis and break apart as it did for the boy you destroyed, you got away with that one, you left him bleeding and dying and weeping with injustice. You killed your own son, Lomas.”
“Will,” said Lomas, “it’s a tragedy but no more and no less than all the heartbreak in the world.”
“Who the hell are you?” said Morag to Brock. “How do you know my name? How do you know my father?”
Brock was wandering aimlessly around the room, holding the gun in his hand, stalking invisible shadows.
“It’s a long story, as long as my lifetime,” said Brock. “You tell her,” he said to Lomas.
“I never knew,” said Lomas, “until Will started asking questions, incessantly trying to cleave my skull for clues, configurations, synchronicities, what was purely his and what we shared, and I repulsed you, didn’t I Will? A product of malevolence he called me, and I said then he too possessed those bad spirits, the diseased microbe that began as one is now split into two. He tracked me down, linking the traces and imprints. I met his mother many years ago, at the commune we set up, I thought nothing of it. Why would I remember? It was an act of no consequence, a random, baseless conception, a void th
at was filled momentarily then emptiness reclaimed it, as it always does. He took DNA samples, science confirmed it. I’m his father.”
“So what’s the big deal?” said Morag.
“The big deal is this,” said Brock. He lunged at Lomas and swung his arm around the older man’s neck jabbing the pistol into the small of his back. He marched him forwards and threw him onto the sofa. Brock drew back the slide on the Glock and pressed the barrel of the pistol to the side of Lomas’ head.
“Maybe this is how it ends,” said Brock. “From being to nothingness, it’s inevitable, but in between there is a long journey begun with hope and love and truth, not based on lies. Then suddenly you see what’s under the stone but even so you continue to hope until you realize the worm is part of you, the dreams have vanished. Do you know what it’s like to be abandoned? To be without a father? It is the most terrifying thing of all, a slow death. A parent must prevent that death at all costs.”
Brock pulled out his mobile phone. He scrolled a number, he handed it to Morag. “Call your father,” he said. “Call Governor Munro.”
“No,” said Morag.
“Please do it,” said Brock. “I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you talking to your father, then it can all be over.”
“The call will be traced,” said Lomas. “They’ll be here in an instant.”
“So be it,” said Brock.
Morag pressed the number, there was a moment’s pause before she heard: “Who is this?” It was her father. Morag couldn’t help herself, she wept. “Morag, Morag. Where are you? Where are you?” Munro could hear only faint sobbing.
“I’m sorry dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said. She tried to make sense, to be intelligible, to set in motion a course of events that would make it better for her father, better for all, but nothing came out straight.