by Scott Hunter
‘My pleasure. But now, you have a philosophical choice to make.’ He indicated the waiting automatic.
Tess shook her head. ‘You’re not going to let me shoot you. This is some sick game. Well, I’m not playing. Do what you want.’
‘You do not know what I want.’
‘But, I do. You want to be a faceless avenger, to do your work and disappear. Well, go on. Do it and get it over.’
Since Tess had been imprisoned, no sound had come to her except her own cries of despair, her laboured breathing during bouts of fitful half-sleep, and the short exchanges between herself and her captor. Perhaps it was her imagination, but now it seemed to her exhausted mind, that some background murmur had begun, almost imperceptible at first but slowly increasing in volume. The sound of something familiar, but to her befuddled senses, oddly intangible.
‘You are my little dilemma,’ he said, retrieving the automatic. ‘My assignment dictates that you will die. And yet…’ He flicked a catch, dropped the magazine into his palm, checked its contents, clicked it back into place. ‘It is your eyes. They speak to me, as did hers. So, what shall I do?’ He placed the gun carefully back on the table, looked up, cocked his head.
Tess met his gaze, locked onto those deep-set eyes. The noise she had perceived was getting louder. She didn’t know what it meant, but in an instant knew exactly what it was:
Water.
A lot of water.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘I’ll handle this, if that’s all right with you?’
Bill Barraclough was a no-nonsense Midlander, six feet two inches of all-action, local club rugby number eight, muscle and energy. Moran liked him. He was good at his job, which made the night’s failure stand out even more starkly against Goring’s grey, autumnal prospect, which the village wore with resignation like a familiar but uncared-for cloak.
It was raining hard, mirroring Moran’s mood. His body was tense with nervous energy, his mouth acrid from lack of sleep, his exhausted mind rallying for an all-out effort to snatch DC Tess Martin, like a burning brand, from the flames.
‘She’s my officer, Bill. I need to be here.’
‘Understood, but I give the orders, OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your lot answer to me, OK?’
‘Yes, fine.’
They were standing outside St Thomas’ church. To the left there was a service track which led downwards, in a gentle slope, to the towpath. Barraclough’s team were standing at the ready, armoured up, prepared for action.
Barraclough gave the order, and the team moved swiftly away from the road and turned left along the river bank. Moran followed, collar turned up against the rain – now a driving, stinging downpour starring the river like tracer salvos from some unseen hostile aircraft. He paused under an overhanging cluster of branches, drew out his mobile, dialled HQ and waited impatiently for a response. ‘Get me DC Collingworth, would you?’ he told the operator.
‘One moment, please.’
Moran pressed on, sheltering the device under his coat lapels as best he could in a clumsy attempt to keep it dry. Barraclough’s unit were shadowy shapes up ahead, moving more cautiously now as they approached the area that Moran’s brief research had shown to be the boathouse’s location. He bent his ear to the phone.
‘Hello? Collingworth? I’d like you and Swinhoe to do a little job for me. Got a pencil? Good. This is the address.’ When he was satisfied that Collingworth understood, Moran pocketed the phone and picked up his pace, swishing at obstructive clumps of nettles with his stick as he slipped and stumbled his way along the waterlogged towpath.
This had better be right, Brendan…
Someone was behind him – he could hear the slapping of fast-moving feet, the rustle of impatiently bulldozed flora. He half-turned, raised his stick, ready to make a defence, but let it drop as he recognised one of the team, an athletic twenty-something he’d selected to accompany him with the specific purpose of doing a quick recce around Goring’s side streets. ‘Guv! Hold up!’
‘All right, Delaney. What is it?’
The DC stopped short, arms on hips, taking in lungfuls of air. His hair was plastered across his forehead. ‘Found it, guv,’ he said between gasps. ‘It’s parked up behind the station.’
Moran’s heart thudded with renewed optimism. ‘You’ve reported that? Good. Forensics can come and have a sniff around while we’re keeping him busy. Come on then, son, we’ll see this through together.’
‘Guv.’
The boathouse materialised through the murk, the ARU team surrounding the frontage like a family of dark beetles. Moran made a thorough inspection. Semi-derelict on the outside – a casual walker would pass it by without a second glance. Perfect, in other words, for Erjon’s purposes.
Mrs Gordon had spoken of a basement. But where was the entrance? Barraclough’s team had fanned out, surrounding the building in a U-shaped formation. Barraclough himself stepped forward, testing the ground.
The woodwork was ill-maintained, river and rain slapping against its sides in equal measure. No boat, but Moran hadn’t expected there to be; The Spirit of Adventure had been sold a long time ago. He watched Barraclough move around the boathouse’s inner perimeter, studying the floor and the area beneath the boarding. There was a shallow staircase leading up to an elevated door – the rear entrance. Ground level was higher at the back of the building.
Barraclough paused on the third step, bent, peered under the platform, came down the steps, stepped gingerly across the narrow area between the water and the base of the staircase, and began to examine the area immediately beneath it. He probed the wall with gloved fingers, stopped, tested again, and then made a signal to his number two, who joined him by the staircase.
From where he was standing, Moran could discern a faint rectangular outline on the wall, weather-worn and hard to spot. On either side of the outline two narrow slits had been cut into the brickwork. Moran frowned, but as he tried to figure out their purpose, the rising water, having reached the level of the sloping boardwalk, provided an immediate and practical answer: instead of flooding the boardwalk, it began instead to gurgle and swirl into the cut gaps.
Drainage. Which meant…
Basement.
The gun was still there. Solid, available. Within reach.
‘Make the choice.’
‘You don’t think I’m capable, do you?’
He spread his hands. ‘Your morality will restrain you. But if that fails, my insurance is your hope. Hope that you will escape, that you will live, despite what I have told you.’ His eyes were caves of darkness. ‘Kill me and your fate is sealed. Perhaps we will meet in the next life, although I doubt that such a life exists.’
‘Someone may miss you, come looking.’
‘No. I do not reveal my whereabouts. This part of the job, they leave to me.’
Tess’ tongue felt like a sheet of sandpaper. Was this some kind of perverse test? Did he really expect her to go for the gun?
He’s playing with me, that’s all. Like a cat with a helpless mouse.
Not so helpless. Not now. Not anymore. No more a victim.
The decision made her hands sweat. She tried to swallow, but there was no saliva, coughed instead, cleared her throat. The sound of water was growing louder by the minute, a fact which seemed not to faze him, but she wanted him to hear this, so she raised her voice above the racket.
‘You’re making an assumption.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’ She had to shout.
‘What kind of assumption–?’
She lunged for the automatic before he could finish his sentence, felt its coldness in her sweaty hand, almost dropped it, pointed it directly at his chest. Her hand was shaking badly, but he was an unmissable target, surely, at this range?
‘You’re assuming I want to go on living,’ she spat the harsh, bitter words.
At that precise moment, the lights went out.
She sq
ueezed the trigger. The gun kicked in her hand and, for a split second, his shape was picked out by the muzzle flash, moving low, ducking.
Getting away…
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Barraclough had dispersed his team to the front, rear and sides of the boathouse, apart from five officers who had joined him by the sealed opening.
Delaney wiped rain from his forehead. ‘D’you think they’re down there, guv? Looks like it hasn’t been in use for donkeys’.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, if he is down there, we’ve got him like a rat in a trap.’
‘Maybe,’ Moran nodded. He leaned on his stick, tried to feel positive.
Maybe not…
Question was, what would Erjon do to Tess, in extremis?
If she’s still alive…
Barraclough had the aperture open, poking his head through the gap. Dim, electric lighting yellowed the damp walls of a stone stairwell.
‘Hello. Someone’s at home,’ Delaney whispered.
They watched as first Barraclough, then, in single file, his five officers ducked their helmeted heads and disappeared into the gap in the wall.
Behind them on the rain-lashed river a motor cruiser slid by, its wake rolling wide ripples to the bank, spilling over the boardwalk, sloshing into the storm drains.
Moran held his breath.
Tess tore at the flex binding her legs to the chair. She could feel her nails splintering, but all she could think of was freeing herself; if she was going to die, at least she’d die standing, not trussed like some battery hen. She panted with exertion, pulling, tugging, heaving, until eventually the wire fell away. She tried to stand, wobbled on unsteady legs. It was pitch black; she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The noise of the water was a constant susurration. Where was it coming from? Was she under some well, or reservoir? What did it mean? Could it breach the room?
Erjon.
Where is he?
For thirty seconds or so she’d forgotten him.
Maybe I did hit him…?
The gun. She made a search, scrabbling on the floor. Found it. Pocketed it.
She felt her way forward, arms outstretched, shuffling steps on rebellious legs.
Why had the lights gone out? Some electrical failure, or maybe the water had something to do with it?
Her hands came into contact with something soft. She reached down, ran her hands over the obstacle.
Screamed.
Tracy Jones’ face was warm, unresponsive to her touch.
Tess stepped back, every muscle in her body shaking, teeth chattering.
Now a noise, not water…
A catch, or lock, clicking into place, or being undone?
How?
‘Where are you?’ Her voice returned to her, loud and hollow against the constant shhhh of running water. Her back was against a wall. She clung to it, like a fly to a window.
Safe, safe, safe…
Moments passed.
How many? How long?
Then: ‘DC Martin?’
Oh, God. Impossible.
Again: ‘Hello? DC Martin? Are you there? Please respond.’
Tess rested her head against the wall, opened her mouth.
‘I shot him.’ It was funny.
She started to laugh.
A loud thump.
The lights came on.
Dark figures entered, shouting. It made no sense to her.
Nothing made any sense, not even her laughter.
She slid down the wall, and her chin rested against her chest.
‘Are you sure?’ Moran’s eyes were kindly. ‘Take your time.’
‘I’m sure, yes.’
They were sitting in the lounge bar of the Miller of Mansfield, a small hotel opposite St Thomas’ Church. A fire was burning in the grate, and on the table before her was a large glass of brandy and an even larger mug of coffee.
‘We recovered a spent bullet,’ Moran was saying. ‘Forensics will tell us more about blood matches in due course.’ He paused. ‘But I’m afraid Erjon gave us the slip.’
‘What?’ Tess halted the brandy glass in mid-air. ‘How?’
Moran sighed. ‘There was a tunnel. An emergency exit, I suppose you could call it. It ran for two hundred metres along the line of the towpath. There was a mooring point, a boat.’
‘He escaped in a boat.’ Tess put the brandy glass to her lips. ‘A boat. Christ.’
‘We’ll get him.’
She swallowed the burning liquid.
Remembered.
‘The reporter. Jones. She–’
Moran hushed her with a look, a shake of his head. ‘She’s being attended to.’
‘But she was, was… oh…’
The glass tipped, fell. Moran made a grab for it. Too late. It shattered on the floorboards.
‘And … my parents.’ Tess had stood up. ‘He’s going to kill them.’
Moran was on his feet, too, making calming motions with his hands.
She needed him to understand. ‘He’ll kill them, do you understand?’
‘Tess, Tess. We’ll sort it. Sit down, please.’
‘Now. You have to do it now.’
‘Yes. All right. Please. Sit down, Tess. Drink your coffee.’ Moran indicated her chair. ‘I’m arranging that, right now. A moment.’
She sat down as she was bidden, drank some coffee. She could hear Moran talking to DC Delaney. Nice guy. Girlfriend was a solicitor. Or something.
Moran was back. ‘It’s done.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m not going to ask you anything else for now, Tess. And I’m not going to allow anyone else to, either. We need to get you checked over.’
‘No hospital.’ She shook her head. Vehemently.
Moran sat back in his chair.
God, he looks knackered…
A barman was crouched beside them, scraping the brandy glass remnants into a dustpan. He gave her a sympathetic smile.
I don’t need sympathy.
‘No, I understand that,’ Moran said, and she realised she had spoken aloud.
‘But,’ he went on in that maddeningly reasonable Irish voice of his, ‘you do need the medics to check you over. Then I’m signing you off for a break.’
‘No.’
‘Tess–’
She leaned over the table. ‘Look, guv. I want in on this. I just nearly got killed. But I’m alive, and I want this bastard nailed. I want to know what the hell’s been going on while I’ve been …while I … oh shit.’ She sank her head into her hands as the tears came out of nowhere, uncontrollable.
Breathe, breathe…
No good.
She filled the bar with her weeping – terrible retching sounds, erupting from deep within, so deep, right inside her, her soul. She couldn’t stop.
Moran’s arms were around her. ‘Tess. Tess. Are you listening to me? I’m asking you to listen, OK?’ He found her chin, tilted it up. ‘It’s all right. You’re OK. Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to take care of you. I promise.’
She nodded, wanting to believe it, buried her head in his shoulder.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘You have her? Well, how is she? Is she–’
‘She’s all right, George. As well as can be expected.’
Moran’s voice was easy, no hesitation. No procrastination. He sounded relieved. Exhausted.
She’s OK…
Bola was making questioning signals. George waved his hand. Give me a minute, would you?
‘She’s in hospital?’
‘No.’
George could hear the background patter of conversation. Phones ringing, printers buzzing. The guv was calling from the IR?
George tried to keep incredulity out of his voice, failed. ‘She’s at work?’
Moran was quick to respond. ‘George, it’s my decision. It’s not ideal, but she wanted to be here. To find out what’s going on. She has a right, after what’s happened.’
‘Is she injured?’
‘The paramedics checked her over. She has abrasions on her wrist and ankles, where she was tied. It could have been a whole lot worse, George, believe me.’
‘Erjon?’
A hesitation.
George groaned. ‘He got away? How?’
Moran told him.
Bola was shifting in his seat, impatient for news.
‘Tess shot him,’ Moran was saying. ‘But he was wearing a vest. We found the bullet embedded in the basement wall. Hit the vest and bounced at an angle.’
‘She shot him? How the–? I’m going after him,’ George said. He meant it.
‘No, George, you’re not. I need you right where you are. Crisis over for the moment. Concentrate on the job in hand. I’ll keep an eye on Tess, rest assured.’
‘Tell her I’m asking after her.’
‘I will. Of course. What’s happening at your end?’
‘No sign of the great man. What exactly are we expecting here?’
‘This is Thursday, his day off – a regular day off. Same day each week.’
‘Nothing sinister about that.’
‘Maybe not. We’ll see.’
George’s attention was caught by an approaching van. Big Mercedes, white, the kind you see around all the time. He looked away, returned his attention to Moran. ‘All right, guv. I’ll get back to you if anything’s going down.’
‘Thanks, George. By the way, can you see into King’s garden?’
‘Nope. It’s high-walled.’
‘We may need an excuse to call in, have a look around.’
‘You’re thinking garden outhouse? Doubling as an operating theatre? Want me to pop in, talk to the wife?’
A few seconds went by as Moran considered this.
‘I don’t think that’s advisable, George. I don’t want to rattle him. Just observe, for the time being.’
‘Sure. I’ll be in touch if anything changes.’
George signed off. The sense of relief was like a parting of the clouds. She was safe. And yet…
‘So?’ Bola’s eyes were wide with unanswered questions.