Gone Too Soon

by Scott Hunter

  Brass plate. No. 4 Butterfield.

  The door was closed. Moran applied pressure.

  Unlocked, unlatched. It swung open.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice was flat, muffled by the lavish Persian pile.

  What little light there was came from an adjoining room – a bedroom, perhaps, or a study? The main body of the apartment was cast in shadow.

  ‘Police.’

  No response.

  He went in fast, checked left and right for any threat lurking on either side of the door. There was no one.

  Wait.

  A slight noise, the faintest rustle… the bedroom.

  ‘Tess?’

  The building vibrated as a train thundered by. The apartments backed onto the main London line – one of the reasons Butterfield had given for choosing the apartment. Easy access.

  Easy access. Damn.

  Moran went through to the room with the light source, the master bedroom. A window yawned, curtains fluttered in the funnel of moving air formed by the rushing express. He leaned out.

  Fire escape.

  He looked down. Access steps led from the apartments’ rear car park to the railway embankment. It was, what, a few hundred metres to the platform?

  He shut the window, returned to the living room, casting this way and that for a light switch. Probably one of those internet gadgets, somewhere. Alexa, turn the bloody lights on, or some such nonsense …

  And then he saw her, seated by the enormous plate glass window. Motionless.

  Tess…

  The moon found a gap in the cloud, bathed the room with a pale, silver tint. He went to her, felt for a pulse.

  Thank God. It was there, slow, but regular. The moon slipped behind another cloud and the room was plunged into darkness.

  Where is the bloody light?

  He found his mobile, called up the torch app, propped it on a nearby table.

  Saw the gun.

  How…?

  Then he remembered the boathouse. She hadn’t signed the weapon in. How had he missed that?

  Your fault, Moran.

  He checked for blood, found none. Her face was serene, untroubled, the eyes partially open.

  ‘Tess? Can you hear me? Can you speak?’

  She made a soft noise in the back of her throat. Her head moved a fraction.

  His feet crunched on something…

  He bent, picked it up.

  An ampoule, used. He sniffed it, recoiled.

  Call for help. Now.

  He had two missed calls – George. He’d have to wait.

  Ambulance first.

  Moran gave the details to the operator. ‘I don’t know. A drug, yes, something. There’s a pulse …no, I have no idea. Wait … pupils are slightly dilated. I can’t see very well. No, I can’t turn the damn light on … yes, sorry. OK, thanks.’

  He signed off.

  ‘Tess, help’ll be here soon. Any time. Hold on.’

  He framed her face gently, supportively. ‘Tess, what happened here? Can you tell me?’

  What was she wearing? A tattered dress, stained, torn. Bare feet, hands demurely clasped on her lap.

  A pile of clothes on the floor beside her. He pushed them aside with his foot and something slid from her discarded coat pocket. Her mobile.

  He held it up to his own phone’s wash of electronic illumination. Voice memo. Still running. He hit pause.

  Stop.

  Play.

  Listened, with a growing sense of horror and disbelief, as Tess’ soft voice encouraged Erjon to talk.

  Gill. They were always an item. Never split up. They did this to Michelle, together.

  Yes, yes, that is so. But listen…

  A confession. She’s only got a confession on audio…

  You are her image, Erjon was saying.

  He shook his head. This was his fault, but how could he have known? The first encounter, in the pawn shop. Something had clicked between the two. He hadn’t seen it, hadn’t twigged…

  You have friends who will care for you. Be at peace. Erjon sounded assured, reasonable. He heard Tess’ soft gasp as the needle went in, then silence.

  Moran was so absorbed that he was slow to pick up a subtle change in the atmosphere. The faintest click, like a fingernail tapping on a tabletop, nudged him a reminder of his vulnerability.

  He froze.

  Paused the recording.

  But Erjon was long gone, had made his way up the track to the platform. Probably half-way to London by now.

  Probably.

  Open window, curtains blowing. Oldest trick in the book, Brendan…

  Whoever had entered the apartment was faced with the same problem as Moran: no lights. Level playing field if he kept still, Moran reasoned. The ambulance would arrive anytime. So, provided the moon did the decent thing he had a sporting chance.

  Unless the new arrival was wearing infrared headgear, or had waited in the dark for so long that his night vision was superior to Moran’s. In which case…

  In which case he already knew Moran was here.

  Moran’s back twitched in anticipation of knife or bullet.

  Keep still…

  ‘You’ve broken into my apartment,’ the newcomer said. ‘Which makes you a burglar.’

  Butterfield. Moran relaxed a fraction. Better him than Erjon …

  ‘The door was already open.’

  ‘It’s still trespassing.’

  ‘No, not under the circumstances.’

  ‘So, I could just shoot you. Get rid of that recording you’ve got there.’

  He has a gun.

  Moran twisted slowly around. He could see Butterfield’s outline, but not in any detail. The guy could be bluffing, but somehow Moran didn’t think so. A man able to carry out a premeditated murder the way Butterfield had done wouldn’t baulk at using a firearm, especially if he thought he’d a chance of pleading self-defence.

  Sirens in the distance.

  ‘I have an injured police officer here. Paramedics are on the way. It’s over, Mr Butterfield.’

  ‘No way.’

  A slight hesitation. Moran picked it up. ‘What’s the plan after you’ve shot me? Catch a train? You won’t get far.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Come on Mr Butterfield. We have your accomplice in custody. It’s only a matter of time before she tells all.’

  ‘I’ll be long gone, mate.’

  ‘We’ll find you. Famous face like yours,’ Moran said. ‘Big rock star. Where’re you going to hide?’

  ‘Where you lot won’t be looking,’ Butterfield said.

  ‘Abroad? South America?’ Keep talking… ‘Even Ronnie Biggs couldn’t hide forever.’

  ‘He was a thick bastard, though, wasn’t he?’ Butterfield’s voice was all contempt.

  ‘And you’re smarter? No. I think Gill’s the brains in this relationship, isn’t she Mr Butterfield? This whole thing was her idea, wasn’t it?’

  ‘She couldn’t have fixed it up without me.’

  ‘You betrayed Michelle – in the worst possible way,’ Moran said. ‘You made her think you loved her, but you just wanted her money. And Gill wanted rid of her little adopted sister. Apart from you, Michelle’s only other failing was knowing too much about what Gill was up to.’

  ‘Her name’s Giselle.’

  ‘Oh, right. I should have known. Nothing about that woman is what it seems.’

  ‘We’re together. You don’t say stuff like that about Giselle.’

  A click.

  That was a firearm, no mistake.

  Moran tried to estimate the distance between where he was standing and the table. Couple of feet, maybe? A stretch. But was Tess’ gun loaded? Was the safety on? He’d lose precious seconds checking, by which point Butterfield would have begun firing randomly in his general direction.

  Although the dim light had helped to begin with, it was now his biggest problem. Moran thought he knew where he was in relation to the table, and therefore to the gun.
But he couldn’t be a hundred percent on it.

  He had to be a hundred percent.

  ‘Bye, policeman.’

  Duck, or move left, or right?

  A millisecond passed.

  Then came a familiar sound, a descending three note tannoy, a rumbling on the road. Moran remembered the BMW’s engine note, the way he’d had to screw his eyes half-shut against its glare …Any second now. He tensed, waited for the right moment …

  The Beamer emerged from under the railway bridge and its powerful HID headlamps lit the apartment from top to bottom in a blinding blaze of blue. Moran went for the gun.

  Pain zapped through his leg, and he stumbled. Butterfield’s first shot ripped through Moran’s coat, tore into the wall nearby.

  Moran’s fist closed around the automatic’s knurled grip. He levelled it, aimed low.

  The bullet struck Butterfield in the thigh. He went down, the gun clattered on the parquet, spun away to Moran’s left.

  More lights, a paler blue this time, flashing…

  Footsteps on the staircase.

  Moran opened the automatic’s magazine. Empty. He dropped the automatic on the table, picked up Butterfield’s revolver.

  The paramedics were at the apartment door. The first squatted down next to Butterfield, got a mouthful of abuse for his trouble.

  ‘Leave him,’ Moran advised. ‘He can afford to bleed for a bit. See to this officer first, would you?’

  The paramedics lifted Tess gently into the ambulance. Hi-vis clad uniforms managed the road as forensics, assisted by other officers scoured the apartment exterior, front and back. A car pulled up, skidded to a halt. George McConnell emerged, banged the door behind him.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Moran, making allowances for George’s lapse of etiquette, pointed him towards the first ambulance.

  He waited for the DC to reappear, which he did a few minutes later, white-faced, eyes downcast.

  ‘What did he give her?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Moran shook his head. ‘The paras reckon it might be some kind of anaesthetic, a strong one. But it’s not something they’ve seen before.’

  ‘She’ll be OK, though, right?’

  ‘I hope so, George.’ Moran dissembled. He didn’t want to admit what he really thought: that the drug’s effect would most likely be permanent, that it looked to him like some kind of memory-eraser, a drug used in espionage scenarios. This was the realm of his old friends in MI6; they would know. Besides, if the journalist’s condition was anything to go by…

  No, it was kinder to distract George, keep him occupied…

  ‘Any joy with our surgical friend?’ He made his voice deliberately matter-of-fact, businesslike. It had the desired effect. George didn’t exactly snap to attention, but his focus shifted to address Moran’s question.

  ‘Possibly, guv.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘We sneaked a look in his garden. There’s nothing there, nothing that would fit the bill. Greenhouse, shed, the usual. So we figured he probably uses some remote location – somewhere miles from Reading, the RBH, well away from his usual patch.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ Moran stepped aside to make way for a forensics officer. To the rear of the apartment, powerful floodlights illuminated the grounds. Would they find traces of Erjon? He doubted it.

  ‘So, it was a question of maybe getting a tail on the guy, until he led us to the right location.’

  ‘He’d be pretty jumpy by now, I’ll warrant.’ Moran shifted his centre of balance from left to right. It still hurt. ‘He’ll know we’ve got Gill Crossley-Holland in custody – and it’s Giselle, by the way – and Dr Gordon will no doubt have spoken to her mother, so–’

  ‘Yes, right,’ George nodded. Tess’ ambulance engine coughed into life. The blue lights came on and the sirens began their mournful wail. George’s face clouded momentarily before he returned his attention to Moran. ‘So, no news’d be no news, except our friend DC Odunsi had a thought.’

  ‘Wonders never cease,’ Moran said. ‘A redeeming thought, hopefully?’

  ‘Random checks. There was a van – a big one, plumbers – outside King’s gaff when we first went round. He had a word with the driver.’

  ‘And–?’

  ‘And Bola decided to check the website. Guess what?’

  ‘No such website.’ Of course. Easy to hide, relocate at will. ‘Mobile operating theatre.’

  ‘Yup. We reckon,’ George said.

  ‘ANPR?’

  ‘Collingworth’s on it,’ George said. ‘And Swinhoe,’ he added, a little more optimistically.

  ‘Good work,’ Moran nodded. ‘But if they figure we’re onto them, they’ll go to ground – if I were them, I’d be wanting to strip the vehicle out, dispose of the contents. It’ll be all about covering tracks now.’

  ‘That’ll take time,’ George said. ‘I don’t plan to give them any.’

  ‘Good. That’s the way.’

  George hovered, looking uncertain. Moran read him like an open book. ‘Go on, George. Go to her. And let me know if there’s any change.’

  George looked relieved. ‘Drop you home, guv?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll walk. I’m ten minutes down the road.’

  ‘Right. If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’ll stay around for a bit, see what they turn up. Then I’m turning in. I’m knackered.’

  ‘Fair play. See you in the morning, then.’

  ‘Bright and early.’

  ‘Always.’ George turned, hurried back to his car.

  ‘DCI Moran?’ A forensics office appeared from the gardens. ‘You’ll want to see this.’

  Moran followed the officer along the side of the building. ‘Found this by the service gate to the railway line, sir, in a shallow hole.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ Moran said, accepting the proffered Tupperware container. He prised off the lid. Inside were just two items. A mobile phone, and a CD in a transparent plastic case. It was annotated in red marker pen: Master copy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It was after three by the time Moran retraced his steps under the bridge and along the village’s damp pavements. Butterfield’s apartment had yielded nothing of further interest, but the mobile phone had been checked over and confirmed as Michelle’s, while the CD had been assigned to Moran’s boffin in the audio lab for analysis. There was no doubt in his mind, though, that this was the copy intended for Michelle’s grave, passed on to Butterfield, in all likelihood by the elusive Luca on his way to London.

  It was clear, the chain of supply and demand. The mobile theatre was the final piece of the puzzle, and an important one to confirm for the CPS. Moran turned his collar up against a fresh bout of gusty rain, nursing the image of his warm, comfortable bedroom as he passed Nino’s Trattoria and the Costa coffee shop.

  Tess was weighing heavily on his mind. He wanted to call the hospital, ask them how she was doing. Didn’t want to hear their reply.

  Catatonic. Not responding.

  He’d have to contact her parents in the morning. The thought filled him with dread.

  That’s another day, Brendan. Finish this one first…

  A black cat scurried across Moran’s path as he approached his house, the only sign of life in the sleeping street.

  As he shut the door behind him, the lingering scent of perfume did little to improve his state of mind. He threw his coat onto a chair, went to the kitchen, poured a large whiskey.

  Bad idea, but…

  The whiskey warmed his throat, spread its influence all the way down to his stomach. After a couple of minutes it had got to work where it mattered, whispering the familiar lie that all was well. And, in a sense, it was. He’d been lucky. Butterfield would have killed him, for sure. Whatever gods were watching over him were still hard at work. The trick was to stop yourself worrying that their benevolence would one day run dry.

  He finished his whiskey, resisted the temptation to pour another, and made his way upstair
s, where he collapsed wearily into bed. He covered himself with the duvet, closed his eyes.

  Sleep came immediately, but it was a disturbed rest filled with disjointed images, weird permutations of recent events. The boathouse, the graveyard, a yawning hole in the earth … four besuited pallbearers walking towards him. He fled along dark tunnels, over bridges, eventually into open country. They followed, somehow always able to keep up, just a short way behind. One pointed ahead. Moran looked, saw an impassable wall, thirty or forty metres high, stretching up into the clouds. A voice of thunder called out to him. He looked up, terrified.

  His eyes flicked open. The house rocked on its foundations, and an orange flare lit the curtains from behind as if the sun had risen early. He clutched the bed frame.

  What the hell…?

  He was up in an instant, pulled the curtains aside, looked out.

  Was that real?

  Somewhere near the main road, behind the row of shops, a red glow dappled the night sky. He could see pieces of debris floating on the breeze, falling to earth like fiery drones. He couldn’t make sense of it.

  Thirty, perhaps forty seconds passed. A siren’s discordant note began its ascending and descending wail, followed by another and then another. By the time he’d pulled his clothes on and staggered downstairs, an explanation was dawning on him.

  Idiot, Brendan. You’re half-asleep in more ways than one.

  The main road had taken on the appearance of a war zone. Residents had come out of their houses, shivering in dressing gowns, huddled together, shaking their heads in disbelief. Jagged shards of metal and masonry were scattered around the fuel station, and to Moran’s horror he saw that the explosion had claimed the south wing of the adjacent retirement apartments; its exterior wall had gone, and all that remained was a blackened interior, where flames still licked hungrily in the void.

  Two fire engines had arrived, and three squad cars were parked at a safe distance, creating a barrier across the road. As Moran watched, a trio of fire hoses belched into life, sending pressurised jets of water across the retirement block. The fuel station itself was flattened, a ruin of shattered glass, metal and brick.