by David Wilson
“Morag, I’m in Oxford, I can come and get you, stay safe, I’m coming to get you, I’m coming to bring you home, don’t hang up the phone, don’t lose the connection. I love you.”
“Speak to him,” said Brock. “Tell him.”
“It’s all right dad, it’s all ok, I love you dad, I’ll always love you dad.”
Brock lowered the gun as his face creased into an ugly mask of grief. He stared at Morag, taking in her tears, the redness around her eyes, her halo of unruly hair, her translucent skin. He wanted to kneel down beside her, touch her soul, he wanted what she had. He let her hold the phone in her hand, making the link inviolable, the coordinates intersecting, creating a definable constellation between a father and his child.
“He’s coming to get me,” she said to Brock. “My father’s coming to take me home.”
“That is how it should be,” said Brock.
Chapter Fifty-Two
A low rumble cut through the placid countryside around Marlow and High Wycombe as the yellow and blue EC145 police air support unit helicopter banked towards south Oxford. The sky was cloudy at medium altitude, but lower down the air was clearer and the sound reverberated off buildings and residential housing making people on the ground look up and remark on the speed of the chopper pursuing another emergency in someone else’s life.
The helicopter came in from the east, Observer 2 leaning out of the door holding a camera. It would be a few hours until darkness and then they’d switch to the on-board thermal image sensors to track any fugitive movements. The helicopter flew low over Christ Church Meadow, hovered around the river Thames and edged towards Marlborough Road. It was at this point that Observer 1 deployed the ball camera turret to scope the area of operations.
Below were stationed four BMW X5 armed response vehicles and an APU Range Rover, each with an asterisk on their roofs and a yellow dot sticker on the body of the vehicle to identify them as carrying weapons. Authorized firearms officers and specialist firearms officers were spread out along the street behind the ARVs forming an inner cordon. Further down the street were the unarmed police of the outer cordon holding back members of the public and preventing traffic from entering the street. The inner and outer police cordons were repeated at the back of the house. The residents for half a mile around the incident area had been evacuated. Each AFO and SFO was wearing body armour and armed with a Glock 17 pistol and a Heckler & Koch MP5; some were issued with baton guns and X26 Tasers. Four houses directly opposite the target residence were occupied by police marksmen in the upper rooms, their rifles trained on the door and windows of the house enabling a high velocity shot in a downward trajectory should the hostage-taker exit the front door. There were two ambulances stationed down the far end of the street, a paramedic vehicle and an emergency response motorcycle.
Knight was liaising with Chief Inspector Ian Harvey, a Mancunian who Knight knew well, who was the police bronze commander directing operations at the scene. Kate was crouched nearby ready to act as negotiator and Munro had arrived, a little out of breath. All were wearing body armour and were unarmed. Sandel was handcuffed in the back of the Range Rover.
The police helicopter circled slowly, thump-thumping its menacing drone, alert for movement and in radio contact with CI Harvey. For the time being it was a waiting game.
Earlier Knight had made mobile phone contact with Brock. He had described the weapons he had at his disposal, the Heckler and Koch with two spare twenty-round magazines, the Glock 19 and various knives, a potentially lethal wall of resistance.
“What do you want?” said Knight.
“I’m making up my mind,” said Brock.
“Release the hostages unharmed.”
“Might as well put a bullet through my head.”
“We won’t stop you. Are the hostages harmed? We have medical assistance.”
“I’ll leave you to work that out, it’s your game Sherlock, what do you think I’d do? Think about it, next move, random or strategic? We have provisions for a week so settle down man, sit it out. I’ll call you when it’s time to negotiate.”
Harvey was listening in on the conversation though earphones. The usual hostage resolution tactic was to mount an assault, sooner rather than later, before the hostage-taker could make increasingly onerous demands and place the hostages in further danger. CS gas canisters would be fired into the house to stun the occupants prior to the assault which would be led by a shield officer carrying a ballistic shield followed by a method-of-entry specialist armed with a Remington shotgun to destroy the door hinges. It was high risk, short and sharp, a quick fix and then everyone could go home.
“We don’t know the status of the hostages,” said Knight, “or where they are in the house, that’s if they’re still alive. If we mount an assault they could get killed.”
“We don’t have any options,” said Harvey. “We plan to resolve this before nightfall. Everyone is in place, ready to go.”
“Wait,” said Knight. “Give me more time.” He waved Kate and Munro over to him. “Kate, what do you think Brock’s doing, what’s he want?”
Kate felt exhausted, her flak jacket was heavy, her stomach was churning with nerves. Her career had taken a drastic wrong turn somewhere along the way. She thought back to her sessions with Bobby Lomas, the meticulous nurturing, building confidences, the reckless intimacies and she was stunned by her naivety. Such small gentle gestures and now Lomas could end up with a bullet to the head, and Munro’s daughter was in serious danger of the same happening to her. Why? There was too much she didn’t know about human nature.
“He’s exercising power,” she said, gathering herself. “It doesn’t make any sense that Brock’s killed Morag and Lomas, not yet, not at this stage. That’s much too simplistic, his narrative has too many loose ends, he’s going to want to tie them up.”
“But what is his narrative?” said Knight, despairingly. “He’s a fucking nutcase, if it wasn’t for Morag, I’d say start shooting, wipe the board clean, Lomas too. Munro, what was Morag’s state of mind when you spoke to her?”
“She was in shock obviously,” said Munro, “but not hysterical, there was a resolve, she’s a tough girl under all that, she wasn’t broken.”
“That suggests dialogue,” said Kate. “The three are interacting, I don’t think Brock’s hurt them, yet. That may come later, but Brock doesn’t have a particular grudge against you does he?”
“I don’t think so,” said Munro. “I hardly knew him, he only recently came to Greenbank. He did a few jobs for me, he was thorough, a pro, I was impressed, I told him so. Why has he taken Morag? None of it makes any sense. If he harms a hair on her head, I swear I won’t hesitate to kill him.” Munro gripped the door handle of one of the ARV vehicles and lowered his head. He took great gulps of air to slow his frantic heartbeat and gradually felt the old familiar resolve return, the steel in his veins that was going to see him through this.
“Sandel gave me details about a ‘soft stunt’ when I interviewed him,” said Knight. “He said Brock intended to release Morag unharmed, it was just to give you a scare, tighten up the prison system, keep you all vigilant. Totally fucking psycho. There must be more to it, I don’t buy that, something else is going on.”
“Maybe Sandel’s holding back,” said Kate. “What does he know that he’s not telling us?”
“Get him over here,” said Knight.
*
Brock had put Plasticuffs on Lomas’ wrists and seated him on the sofa. He’d also cuffed Morag and secured her to the chair. He’d moved her to the far wall, away from the bay window.
“I don’t want flying glass cutting your beautiful face,” said Brock. He lifted a corner of the window blind with the barrel of his pistol and looked out. The marksmen in the houses opposite quickly moved into position. One of them talked into a shoulder radio. People ducked down behind the police cars.
“What a show,” said Brock. “The whole nine yards; it’s going to get hot out there
sometime soon.” The police helicopter drifted into view, training its camera on the window. For a moment Brock’s imagination leapt forward to the firefight that would surely ensue and he saw himself in the centre of a ball of flames, burning forever. He grimaced. He knew enough about police operations in hostage situations to know that the police would storm their target, try to catch him unawares, negotiations would be minimal. “You ever see that movie Slow West where the bounty hunters attack the homestead shouting ‘Kill the house’? The bounty hunters don’t make it, everyone gets killed except the bad guy. What are the chances of that?” He laughed to himself. At least they hadn’t touched his bike which was still on its prop stand two metres along from the house. He’d filled the petrol tank to the brim in readiness for a long journey. The paintwork gleamed, the chrome was mirror sharp.
“Your father’s here,” said Brock, looking over at Morag. “I spy him behind an ARV. Let’s see if he can make the final push, and whether it’s all going to be worthwhile.” Brock knew that if he fired his pistol it would set off the police assault. He needed more time.
*
A police officer, crouching down, led Sandel to where Knight was standing with Kate and Munro. The officer took the handcuffs off Sandel who rubbed his wrists and lit a cigarette.
“What’s Brock up to?” said Knight.
“I don’t know,” said Sandel. “He said Morag’s not a target, he’d let her go unharmed. I told you he has a thing about Lomas, some sort of fixation.”
“I think Brock sees himself in Lomas, perhaps he feared he was capable of the same atrocities,” said Kate. “A doppelganger syndrome, and since he went over the edge he’s acting out everything that’s terrifying him the most.”
“Why won’t he release Morag?” said Munro. “He knows I’m here, he’s made his point.”
“I don’t think he understands why himself,” said Kate. “He’s holding on, he doesn’t want to let her go.” She turned aside and whispered, so Munro couldn’t hear, “He could be about to perform his last act of revenge, killing Morag in front of Lomas, it would debase him to the lowest possible level, blood punished with blood.”
“I’m going in,” said Sandel. “I know him better than anybody does, I’m not going to let anything happen to Morag. I can talk him out of it, I can bring them out safely.”
“Under no circumstances,” said Knight.
“I’ll go,” said Munro.
“No.” said Sandel. “It’s got to be me. Brock’s more likely to open up, come clean, I can bring him out of whatever nightmare he’s inhabiting. Munro, with respect, you’ll send him into orbit with guilt.”
“I’ll need to clear it with the bronze commander,” said Knight.
“There’s no time,” said Sandel. “I’m going in anyway, tell them to shoot me in the back if you want to stop me.”
Sandel stood up, rounded the back of the ARV and started walking across the street towards the house. Harvey shouted over, “What’s going on, bring him back.” He waved his men into position, radios crackled, there was a hum of intense anticipation in the air. Sandel wasn’t wearing body armour. He was carrying nothing but a packet of Marlboro Lights and a cigarette lighter in his pocket.
*
Brock heard the shouting and looked under the window blind. “Well fuck me, they’re sending in the Lone Ranger. Lomas, do I trust him or do I shoot my buddy in the head? Answer me!”
“Let him in,” said Lomas. “And then let’s end this.”
“Will,” shouted Sandel at the door. “I’m unarmed.”
Brock knew he was losing the initiative, this wasn’t meant to be happening. Sandel started kicking the door. “I’ll break it down,” he shouted.
Brock calculated that a 9mm round from the Glock through the front door would ricochet off target, and he wouldn’t be able to reach the H&K rifle quickly enough. He unbolted the locks, dragged Sandel into the hallway and relocked the door.
“You’re fucking crazy, brother in arms. You on my side or theirs?” said Brock. He slammed him against the wall and pushed the barrel of the Glock under Sandel’s chin. He patted him down. “You wired?”
“No,” said Sandel. “I’ve only got these.” He handed him the cigarettes.
“Man, no blow, speed, Jim Beam? Some bring-your-own?”
“Just a flying visit,” said Sandel.
“Come and join the party,” said Brock, lighting a cigarette.
Sandel went and checked over Morag, he loosened her ties. He ignored Lomas who seemed to be in a trance.
“Leave her alone,” said Brock. “This is my show, no interfering with the fucking props.”
“It’s over,” said Sandel. “Time to go home, you’ve done your thing. Don’t touch this girl.” He could see Brock was dangerously strung out, the speed was chewing at his nerves.
“Go and stand over there,” said Brock. “Get away from her.” He waved the pistol at Sandel, shooing him into the corner of the room by the sofa. “Don’t move.”
“It’s not over until the last act,” said Brock, moving towards the wardrobe. “Great writers and directors want to create a crescendo of emotion, tragedies involve the death of the key participants, tears must be shed, the best dramas must evoke the deepest feelings of dread and heartache and loss, a ravishment of the soul. You remember Lomas? How you tricked those girls into playing their part in your sick pantomime? Justifying those murders with your bogus philosophising? By then you’d got a taste for it, bloodlust and killing was addictive, it’s as simple and disgusting as that.”
Brock put the Glock into his waistband. “Lomas, stand in the middle of the room, centre stage, it’s your last act of contrition, make it your best ever performance.” Lomas was dazed, he’d shut down, his movements were shambolic. He walked to the middle of the room, his hands were secured behind his back.
“On your knees,” said Brock. Lomas dropped down, hanging his head, exposing the back of his neck.
Brock pulled out a scarf from the wardrobe. “You know what this is don’t you Lomas? I couldn’t find the exact one you used all those years ago obviously so I took a wild guess. It’s a Cambridge college scarf, I don’t know which college, I chose it because I liked the colours.”
He moved over to Lomas and wrapped the scarf around his neck. “You know how it feels don’t you.” Brock jerked the scarf as tight as he could. Lomas kicked wildly, grabbing at his neck. “A naughty little game you’d play at Greenbank, with McCabe, Wooldridge, anyone who wanted to join in, erotic asphyxiation, kind of dirty but harmless if you trust your partner. Did the girls trust you Lomas? Maybe you pulled too tight and for too long, like this.” Lomas groaned, his face was turning purple. “And then release.” Brock relaxed his hands, Lomas collapsed to the floor. “Good isn’t it, a good feeling, you’re so close to death you get a hard on, and then it starts all over again.” Brock tightened the scarf like he was trying to break Lomas’ neck. He did it several times, flooding his victim with the ecstasy of hope, then shattering the elation with unbearable pain which pushed the victim closer and closer to the edge. It was a bravura performance, an epic dance of death.
“You liked sweet gentle girls with romantic dreams back then, didn’t you,” said Brock, whispering into Lomas’ ear. “And you were just a boy, weren’t you, a wanton boy, you killed them for your sport.” Brock gave a mighty heave and felt Lomas’ windpipe crushing beneath the pressure, his breath became shorter, his eyes took on a ghastly unnatural hue, almost popping out of his skull. Brock sensed the man’s soul begin its exit, he felt keenly the life slipping away, he was ushering his spirit into the underworld, to the fires of hell where he would burn for evermore, always in agony. Lomas slumped to the ground, his body no longer spasming. Brock knelt and felt his neck for a pulse but the flesh was already beginning to cool.
Suddenly Brock was pitched onto his side by a kick to the head as if a demon had emerged from the inferno, wanting to claim him too. He almost lost consciousness but he grabb
ed the Glock and saw that it was Sandel who stood over him with his fists clenched.
“That’s a very undignified way to die,” said Sandel.
“It’s the only way for a son to kill his father,” said Brock. “With his own hand, with brute strength, without fear or reflection, for conscience makes cowards of us all.”
“Lomas was your father?” Sandel felt his world come apart, each critical component falling in on itself as the foundations listed. He was chilled to the bone. “You’ve known all along haven’t you? You’ve kept it from me, your darkest secret, stringing me along with your grand plans, your schemes for revenge, your false anger at other people’s injustice, at Liz’s son’s murder, it’s all bogus isn’t it?”
It was then that Brock knew he had lost, that the sound and fury signified nothing. He was alone on the stage, the script had been torn apart; it had never even been written. A darkness enveloped him, a terrible weight was pressing on his shoulders for he knew he would carry the burden of his father’s legacy forever, that his father’s soul had entered his own and his crimes had multiplied like malignant cancers bloated with their insatiable appetite to cut off life. It was time to twist, to chance a glimpse of light before the end.
Brock aimed the Glock at Sandel, the single dot front sight and squared-off U of the rear sight aligned between his eyes. He pulled the trigger and a sudden hole appeared in Sandel’s forehead and just as suddenly he crumpled to the ground, a fountain of blood emerging from the back of his head, spraying the walls of the room and raining down on Lomas’ body.
Morag had closed her eyes when she saw Brock raise his pistol and she was spared the sight of another murder, but the sounds and smells of death would take a long time to erase, but Brock knew she had that time, that she had all the time in the world if he got this last act right.
He thrust the pistol into his belt and picked up the Heckler and Koch rifle. He knew he had too little time before the police would storm the house after the gunshot that killed Sandel. It took him an instant to reach the window, smash the glass with the barrel of the H&K and aim the rifle into the street. His Honda Fireblade was so close that he didn’t need to sight up and he quickly fired two rounds into the petrol tank that sent the bike spinning onto its side, sparks flying as it crabbed along the tarmac of the street, gouts of petrol splashing, and then with an ear splitting explosion the bike was engulfed in a ball of flames that sent a mushroom of acrid black smoke and fumes into the air obscuring everyone’s vision and knocking two policemen onto the ground who were then caught in the flames. Fire extinguishers were pumped on and foam spray dampened the flames as the police desperately tried to bring the situation back under control. Harvey, who had been blown onto his back, lifted himself up and attempted to regroup the police in the inner assault cordon, but the smoke was too thick to coordinate effectively. He radioed the marksmen in the houses behind him to await his orders.