by Ellis, Tim
He wandered off to see if he could find Jerry’s car. If he was being honest, he’d expected it to be parked outside the front door, and was surprised when it wasn’t there. Had she somehow escaped and driven off? Did she have Leanne Pettigrew with her? Was Tug Muleford bluffing? If that was the case, why hadn’t she been in contact with him? Had one of Tug Muleford’s colleagues hidden her car? He tried Jerry’s number again – it diverted to voicemail, but he didn’t bother leaving another message. He phoned home.
‘Are the kids okay?’ he asked Gladys – Jerry’s mum – also known as Genghis Khan’s ugly older sister.
‘The kids are fine. You worry about Jerry. We’ve got the news on. Tell me you’re not at the house where that man is holding his girlfriend and baby at gunpoint.’
‘That’s exactly where I am.’
‘Oh God. You don’t think Jerry . . . ?’
‘Let’s wait and see, shall we? At the moment I’m not sure of anything. What I can say is that her car isn’t here, which may very well mean that she isn’t either.’
‘Where is she then?’
If he’d known the answer to that question he would have gone and got her. ‘She’s not rung?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, I’ll ring again later.’
He ended the call, phoned Inspector Carla Morgan in the Traffic Department at the station and asked her to put Jerry’s car on the list of suspect vehicles.
‘You’ll owe me,’ she said.
‘I’m already living beyond my means.’
‘Lunch won’t put you in debtors’ prison.’
‘I’ll call.’
‘I’m waiting.’
***
‘Hello, Miss Altamirano – did you miss me?’ I apologise for being slightly later than I anticipated, but as you very well know – a surgeon’s life is a busy one.’
‘Surprise? Oh yes, don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about the little surprise I promised you. First though, we need to top up your Rocuronium Bromide – we wouldn’t want you moving about – that would spoil the surprise.
Viktor injected ten milligrams of the paralytic drug into the injection port on the Venflon cannula, and then began preparing his instruments.
‘Yes, I can see that you are like a little child eager to open your presents on Christmas day. Well, the gift I am going to give you is a transorbital lobotomy.’ He brandished a long thin stainless steel orbitoclast that looked just like an ice pick. ‘As you can see, I have the original instrument that was developed by Walter Freeman in 1945.’ He placed the instrument down on the stainless steel trolley. ‘Did you know, that he originally used an ice pick from his own kitchen to practise on grapefruits and cadavers?’ He licked his lips. ‘I like grapefruits. Do you like grapefruits, Sweet Marie?’
‘I shall explain the procedure to you now because, as you are well aware, there won’t be much left of your cognitive abilities after the procedure. You’ll probably suffer from incontinence and have the mental age of a foetus. I’m going to insert this orbitoclast through your right eye socket first and then the left one between the upper lid and the eye at an angle of fifteen degrees aiming for the interhemispherical fissure. When I reach the thin layer of bone at the back of your eye, I’m going to hit the end of the instrument with a mallet . . .’ He waved a wooden mallet through her field of vision. ‘This isn’t a special mallet, any old mallet can be used. Anyway . . . I’m going to hammer the orbitoclast through the bone a full two inches into your pre-frontal cortex . . . Yes, don’t worry, Miss Altamirano, you’ll still be fully aware of what is happening to you at this stage. However, once I start pivoting the orbitoclast through forty degrees to transect the white fibrous matter connecting the cortical tissue of the anterior part of your frontal lobe to the thalamus. Well . . . things will start to get a bit hazy I’m afraid.’
He smiled. ‘Of course, as you know, this is a blind operation, so I won’t know for certain that I’ve severed the nerves between the frontal lobe and the thalamus, so I’ll need to swing the orbitoclast medially and laterally, and just for you . . . I’m going to perform the additional swing upwards – deep into the lobe, and hope the instrument doesn’t snap inside your brain.’
‘After that, well . . . I’ll swivel the orbitoclast around two or three times just to make sure that I’ve severed all the nerve, and then I’ll start on the left side. Have you got any last-minute questions? Is there anything you don’t understand? No – I didn’t think so, I’ve explained everything as fully as I can.’
He picked up the orbitoclast, lifted up Marie’s right eyelid with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and manoeuvred the instrument into the orbit of her right eye. He’d never actually performed a transorbital lobotomy before, but he’d done his research and everything was going swimmingly.
He felt the resistance of the bone and picked up the mallet. ‘Ready or not here it comes, Miss Altamirano.’ He hit the end of the instrument – probably a bit too hard – but it was his first time, after all.
The whole procedure took him less than forty-five minutes. There was no need to give her the rest of the lethal injection – Sweet Marie wasn’t going to be telling anybody who he was anytime soon. After cleaning up and switching the lights off, he bundled her into the back of his car. Although he wasn’t on duty until the afternoon, he was tired. Soon, he’d need to think about his next victim – Arthur Winchell.
He dropped the half-naked Marie Altamirano off at the bus stop on Monkham’s Lane in Woodford Green and drove home.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, April 13
He was growing impatient. Nothing seemed to be happening. No decisions were being taken. Forward momentum had ceased since the Met’s top negotiator – Lindsey Hillyard – had arrived with her incident truck.
Tug Muleford wasn’t going to negotiate – didn’t the stupid bitch know that? There were some people who were amenable to deals and bribes, but Muleford wasn’t one of them. The bastard wanted his fifteen minutes of fame and to take as many of them with him as he could.
God only knew what was happening in that house, to Leanne Pettigrew and her baby, to the woman whose house it was – Carole Craighead and her two children, to his wife Jerry. He hadn’t realised he had such an active imagination. If Muleford had done even a fraction of what Kowalski had imagined, then there would be nowhere in the world he could hide.
He barged into the incident truck. ‘Well, what the hell’s happening?’
‘I thought you were just watching?’ Hillyard said.
‘I’ve done that. Now I’m in here asking why there’s nothing for me to watch.’
‘The phone is off the hook, or the line has been pulled out of the wall.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve tried the megaphone without a response.’
‘I heard that. And?’
‘Well, now it’s just a waiting game. In these situations . . .’
‘Waiting game? He’s got fucking hostages in there. God knows what he’s doing to those hostages.’
‘I’m well aware that he has hostages, and what he might be doing to them, but you’re more concerned with what he’s doing to your wife.’
He leaned down, so that his face was only inches from hers, and said, ‘Yes, I am. Something you don’t seem to be too concerned about.’
‘We have to be patient . . .’
‘For how long?’
‘For as long as it takes.’
‘As long as what takes? Have you even got a plan?’
‘We wait.’
‘And when do you take action?’
‘When the time is right, but that isn’t now.’
‘So, your plan is to wait?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘Sir?’ It was Frosty. ‘I think you should leave.’
‘Leave? No, I don’t think so. I’m taking over.’
Frosty’s eyes opened wide. ‘You can’t do that, Sir.’
‘Can’t do it! I already have. Go and tell Inspector McCann to come and speak to me.’
Frosty didn’t move.
‘Are you refusing to obey an order, Inspector Frost?’
Behind her eyes, he could see she was weighing up the pros and cons of her situation. In the end, she chose to follow the order, turned and left the truck.
‘Your career will be finished, you know that, Sir,’ Hillyard said.
‘I’d rather have no career than no wife. If you’re not going to help me, then stay out of my way.’
She picked up the phone. ‘I’d better let the Assistant Commissioner know what’s going on.’
‘You do that. By the time you’ve finished talking to him, it’ll all be over.’
Inspector McCann stepped into the truck. ‘Sir?’
‘Are you ready to go in?’
He looked around at the faces in the truck. ‘I thought negotiations were in progress.’
‘You thought wrong. There’s no telephone connection and no other dialogue taking place.’
‘Are you in charge now, Sir?’
‘Yes. Is that a problem?’
‘No, Sir. We’re ready to go in.’
‘Good. Now listen, McCann, I don’t want you or any of your men getting killed. We’re very familiar with Tug Muleford at Hoddesdon. He won’t listen to reason, so there’s no point in attempting to talk him down or negotiate with him. Now that he’s been cornered, he’ll try to take as many with him as possible – men, women and children – and go out in a blaze of glory. If you launch CS pellets and smoke grenades through the windows, he’ll know you’re on your way and take appropriate action. You’re going to have to go in cold – shoot first and ask questions later. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir, but there’s a couple of problems.’
‘Go on.’
‘The TV people. Muleford will be able to watch us coming in on his television. I need a news blackout.’
‘And?’
‘The lights in the house. If we can cut the power seconds before we go in, then we’ll have the advantage.’
‘Okay. Inspector Frost . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘I want you to find me an electrician.’
‘Where . . . ?’
‘There must be upwards of two hundred people out there, surely there’s one electrician among them.’
She nodded and hurried out.
‘I’ll go and brief my men,’ McCann said and left.
Inspector Hillyard held out the phone towards him. ‘The Assistant Commissioner would like to speak to you.’
If he spoke to the AC and the AC gave him a direct order to back off, he’d have to disobey it. His career would then be over for sure. He stumbled forward, ripped the telephone line from the console as he reached out his hands to stop himself falling, and said, ‘Oops!’
‘That won’t help you, Sir,’ Hillyard said.
‘No, but you can. How are we going to stop the TV cameras from filming CO19 moving towards the house?’
‘You don’t think I’m going to . . . ?’
‘Do you want people to die on a matter of principle?’
She picked up the phone. ‘Oh! I’d make a call, but it doesn’t work anymore.’
‘You’re an Inspector – improvise.’
Frost returned. ‘I’ve found an electrician, Sir.’
‘Bring him in.’
‘It’s a she – Sue Jenner.’
He shook the squat woman’s hand. She had a grip like a gladiator and matched him pound for pound. Under different circumstances he would have enjoyed arm-wrestling her into submission, but now was not the time – he let her win. ‘Have you been told what we want?’
‘The electricity cut to that house?’
‘Yes.’
‘The simplest way would be to switch off the three megawatt substation along the road. The whole estate will be effected, but it is half one in the morning, so shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Okay. How would I do that?’
‘You wouldn’t. I’ll ring the night grid manager and get him to flick the switch.’
‘It’s that easy?’
‘Yeah, that’s what we do when there’s a good film on – yank the switch just before the end. You gotta get your laughs any which way.’
‘I was wondering about that. Take a seat, and thanks for your help.’
‘No problem.’
‘Wouldn’t that cut the power to the TV cameras as well?’ Frost asked.
‘No,’ Hillyard chipped in. ‘They have their own power in those trucks they drive, otherwise they’d never be able to move about. Okay, phone calls are being made to the TV stations as we speak. We’re aiming for quarter to two – thirteen minutes from now. They’re going to switch from the live feed to a recording. The television people here won’t know anything about the switch. They’ll just carry on as if nothing has happened.’
He looked at Jenner. ‘Can your grid manager switch that substation off at quarter to?’
‘I don’t see a problem.’
Hillyard passed her a mobile to make the call.
Kowalski walked outside.
McCann was walking towards him. ‘Ready when you are, Sir.’
‘The lights and the TV cameras are going off at exactly quarter to.’
‘I’ll take it from here then, Sir.’
‘Good luck, McCann.’
McCann nodded.
At exactly quarter to two the lights in the neighbourhood and Carole Craighead’s house went out.
McCann and his team smashed the doors down – front and back – simultaneously, and entered the house wearing night goggles.
Only one shot was fired.
There were already five dead people in the house.
Tug Muleford had killed Carole Craighead and her two children – Billy and Annie; Leanne Pettigrew and their son – Damien, but the bastard didn’t have the bottle to shoot himself, so McCann obliged.
There was no sign of Jerry Kowalski.
Inspector McCann and his team withdrew once they’d made sure there was no further danger to anyone.
Doc Riley arrived within the hour, and said that the women and children had probably been shot between the hours of eight and ten o’clock the previous evening. That was, of course, subject to confirmation by post mortem.
The forensic team arrived and sealed off the house while they undertook the grizzly task of determining exactly what had happened.
‘So much for negotiation,’ Kowalski said.
Hillyard stood up. ‘It doesn’t change anything, Sir. I’m sure the AC will be in contact with you in the near future. Now, if you’d be so kind, I’d like to go home to bed.’
He made his way out of the truck. ‘Good working with you, Hillyard.’
‘And you, Sir. I’m sure we’ll meet again at your disciplinary hearing.’
‘I’m already looking forward to it,’ he said over his shoulder. Outside, he found Inspector Frost and said, ‘You’re in charge, Frost. I’m going home.’
‘Are you sure, Sir? I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your plan for world domination.’
‘Sarcastic insubordination doesn’t suit you, Frosty.’
‘Sorry, Sir. Still no idea where your wife is?’
‘None. This was where she was coming. I don’t understand why she isn’t lying dead in that house.’
She touched his arm. ‘You should be glad she never made it this far, Sir.’
‘Yes.’ He should be, but he had a bad feeling that whatever or whoever had prevented Jerry from coming to Leanne Pettigrew’s rescue, was probably a lot worse than death.
***
She opened her eyes, but she couldn’t see anything – it was completely black. There was something – a bag – over her head. She could feel the coarse material on her skin. Her mouth was as moisture-free as the Atacama Desert. Where was she? What had happened to her? She remembered reaching Chigwell train station, walking to
wards her car . . . then . . . . then . . . nothing.
‘Hello?’ she called. She didn’t shout or scream – what would be the point?
She needed to pee. She was thirsty and she clanked when she moved. Not that she could move very far. There were metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles, which were connected to heavy chains, and those chains were secured to the wall behind her and the floor – somebody had imprisoned her. Why? But she didn’t really want to think about that question, because the answers jumping around inside her head filled her with dread.
Was this Tug Muleford’s work? It seemed a bit elaborate for him. But if not him – then who?
A variety of smells filtered through the material covering her face and invaded her nostrils. The place felt damp, and she guessed that mildew was part of the potpourri of smells, which meant she was probably in a cellar.
She wished that her hearing wasn’t so acute, because she could hear tiny feet pitter-pattering across the floor, swishing tails and sniffing snouts – there were rats in there with her. Oh God! She hated rats – anything but rats.
‘Hello?’
Above the shuffling of the rats, she could hear another noise – coming towards her.
A door opened.
Tiny specks of light filtered through the material.
She heard feet walking down steps towards her.
‘Hello?’
The bag was yanked from her head.
‘Julie!’
A water bottle was pushed against her lips.
‘Drink.’
She gulped the water down. It spilled over onto the front of her top, but she didn’t care.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why am I here? What have you done?’
‘I want you to be my friend.’
‘I am your friend.’
The corner of Julie’s mouth went up. ‘Yes, you are now. And we’ll have so much fun together.’
‘You have me chained up in a cellar, Julie – a friend doesn’t do that to another friend.’
‘I had to make you see that we were meant to be friends. I had no other choice. You said some hurtful things to me. Jerry.’