I SEE YOU
17
New Scotland Yard
Pierce leaned back in the driver’s seat of his black VW Jetta and took a long drag from his cigarette. Smoking on the property was forbidden, but smoking in your own vehicle on the property was merely frowned upon. He glanced around at the other vehicles in the parking ramp, mostly economy cars, motorbikes and family-oriented SUVs, with the exception of the small cluster of vehicles on the opposite side. Drug Squad detectives always had nice cars, expensive cars even, though fuck knows how they were able to afford it. Well, actually, one could venture to guess how they could, but Pierce still felt charitably enough towards his fellow officers in general, and to two Drug Squad detectives in particular, and to banish the thought of ill-gotten gains from his mind.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly seven o’clock already. He should be home, watching the football highlights, heating up day-old takeaway, but paperwork needed to be filed on the incident with Dempsey. Incident, thought Pierce ruefully. Incident was too kind a word for it. And certainly the last thing the Unit, and the Yard, needed right now. Last thing I need, too. He sighed and took another drag off his cigarette. He really should quit, but it did its job when it came to stress, and it was a much better choice than…
A movement caught his eye and jarred Pierce from his thoughts. He turned toward the entrance to the ramp and saw Paul Owens cycling in. Funny… Paul should have gone home hours ago.
Pierce rolled down his window. “Constable? Shouldn’t you be at home?”
Owens pulled up quickly on his bicycle, a move that would certainly have been an accident for a less-skilled cyclist. Pierce realized that the younger man’s face was darkened with a frown, a worried frown that quickly brightened as he recognized Pierce and hurried over.
“Thank God!” Owens exclaimed. “I thought I might have to try and reach you at hospital.” Pierce quickly assessed his constable’s tone and demeanor; something was very wrong.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Owens swallowed hard, hesitating. “It is a bit difficult to explain.”
Pierce frowned. “Just say it, Paul. What’s going on?”
“Miss Gardener came in this evening… with information about the Regent’s Park murder.”
“Miss Gardener?” Pierce’s frown deepened. “What kind of information?”
Owens swallowed hard again, his voice soft as he replied. “The murderer.”
Pierce nearly dropped his cigarette in his lap. The murderer? Kate found the murderer? “How —”
“There isn’t time, sergeant. He knows that she knows.”
“He who?” Pierce asked.
Owens took a deep breath before answering. “Neville Crane.”
Holy shit! Pierce quickly stubbed out his cigarette in the vehicle ashtray and popped the boot open. “Put your bicycle in the back. You can fill me in on the way. Was she going home?”
Owens nodded. “I think so.” He wheeled the bicycle to the back and carefully lifted it into the back of Pierce’s car, securing it firmly before shutting the door, then running around to the passenger side and jumping in.
Pierce was already on his mobile. The phone rang and rang. C’mon, Kate, answer… Please answer… As the call went to voicemail, Pierce hung up, then promptly dialed another number.
Pierce glanced at Owens. “She’s not answering her mobile. She lives in Southwark. See if you can find the address.” Owens quickly turned to his own mobile, his head lowered as he started typing rapidly.
“Rick?” Pierce could hear the layers of question and concern in Hagen’s greeting.
Pierce took a deep breath before speaking into the phone. “Sir, we have a situation.”
“A situation?”
“Kate Gardener has discovered the identity of the Regent’s Park killer. Sir, it’s… Neville Crane.”
“Neville Crane? My God!”
“There’s more. He knows that she’s on to him, and I can’t get an answer on her mobile.”
The phone line went quiet for what seemed an eternity to Pierce. Then Hagen spoke.
“All right. I’ll have a team go to Crane’s flat. You go to Miss Gardener’s home, make sure she is safe and sound. Is Paul still at the Yard?”
Pierce glanced at the detective constable beside him. “Here with me.”
“Good. Rick? I want you both to be careful. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The call ended, and Pierce lowered his phone.
Owens glanced up briefly from his mobile. “I have her address. And a friend of mine is tracing her mobile, and Crane’s as well. What did the superintendent say?”
Pierce frowned thoughtfully. “He said for both of us to be careful.”
Owens took a deep breath and blew it out with a whoosh. “I’ll call for Armed Response to both addresses.”
Pierce nodded his assent. “I’ll be right back.” He quickly got out of the car and ran into the building. Eschewing the lift, Pierce ran up the emergency stairs, floor after floor, until he reached the seventh floor. He roughly pulled open the door and entered the hallway, covering the length to the Murder Squad Unit in seconds.
Pierce slowed as he entered the room and fiddled with his keys, singling out a small key nestled between his car key and the key to his flat. He stopped in front of a large metal locker at the far end of the room and, after a moment’s hesitation, inserted the key in the lock and gave it a turn.
The door swung open and Pierce’s gaze quickly swept over the contents of the Weapons Locker. A variety of handguns, rifles and shotguns were stored in the locker. His gaze fell on the SIG P226 service pistols on the second shelf and he took one, along with a box of ammunition.
Pierce set the ammunition on a nearby table and quickly loaded the weapon. He could feel the eyes of the detectives and police constables in the room as they watched him. With the exception of the police units in Northern Ireland, police throughout the United Kingdom did not carry firearms, and the vast majority of police officers were comfortable with that. Pierce was one of the exceptions. Perhaps it was all those years in the military, but he always felt more fully dressed when he had a gun on him. He could understand their rationale for not changing a policy that was more than a hundred years old, tradition and the belief that the public was more confident in and comfortable with a well-disarmed peacekeeping force. At least until they were in danger, or until officers were killed in the line of duty. Pierce frowned. Line-of-duty deaths were becoming more and more frequent, spurring many to urge for changes to the policy, allowing officers to carry guns as they do in so many other countries.
Pierce moved back to the locker and searched around for a holster. Finding a shoulder holster hanging on the right-hand side, he quickly took off his jacket and slipped it on, snapping it into place. Pierce slipped the loaded gun into the holster, securing it with a snap, then adjusted the shoulder straps for comfort. He grabbed his key from the locker door, allowing it to swing shut, the lock clicking as it did so.
Pierce felt the adrenaline that had been pounding through him since Owens first spoke beginning to ebb as he hurried down the stairs and out into the parking ramp. He jogged to the car, and was inside and driving away in a matter of seconds. Owens had queued up the GPS with Kate’s address. Armed Response was being deployed to both locations. Pierce moved his arm slightly, feeling the cool of the gun against his chest, and his adrenaline settled into a low steady pulse of energy. He recognized the feeling, after years of military patrols and police work, and he knew he was ready for whatever came. He knew he was ready, yet hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
All hopes were dashed, however, as Owens hung up his mobile, his expression grim.
“My friend traced the mobiles. Crane’s mobile appears to be at Lambeth. I phoned Jimi Khan and she is checking to see if he is, in fact, on-site.” Owens paused, hesitating.
Pierce glanced at him. “And Kate?”
“Her mobile is located at Glouces
ter Place, Baker Street.”
“That’s near Regent’s Park,” Pierce began, then paused for a moment, his frown deepening. “Paul, where does Crane live?”
Owens swallowed hard. “Gloucester Place, Baker Street.”
“How fast can we get there?”
Owens turned on his mobile. “Twelve minutes, barring traffic.”
Pierce took the next left and headed towards Park Lane. He hoped that evening traffic would be unusually sparse. He hoped that Crane was really at Lambeth. He hoped that Kate would have the sense to get out of that flat right now.
Ten minutes. A brief eternity, Pierce thought as he sped north along Park Lane. Most of all, he hoped it would be enough time.
18
Crane’s Flat, Gloucester Place, Baker Street
Kate held her breath as she stood in the living room of the Gloucester Place flat. Crane’s flat was as neat as she remembered, everything perfectly, almost obsessively, positioned. Not a speck of dust on the dark wood furniture, not a speck of lint on the rugs. It was extraordinarily quiet. Not even the refrigerator in the kitchen was humming at the moment, and she used the incredible silence as an opportunity to listen, and think.
She had been in Crane’s apartment before, when she first arrived in London. He had made dinner, they drank too much wine, and laughed until their sides ached. Kate felt a pang in her gut at the memory, and wished for the hundredth time that she didn’t remember everything so damn clearly. Oh, to forget! People simply didn’t know how lucky they were in their faulty memories, that they didn’t feel everything.
Focus! You have to find those photos! Kate shook herself out of her reverie and looked around the room. Crane had the photos, without a doubt, but where were they? Kate’s eyes settled on the desktop in the corner of the room. The computer was a possibility, but something told her Neville Crane didn’t spend his evenings gazing at the screen, reliving the glory of his crimes. No, he would want something more… tactile.
Kate quickly turned and headed for the bedroom. She glanced at the mantle clock… 7:30 already. Damn! She pulled out her mobile, dialing as she walked. After Jimi called her to report that Crane had arrived at Lambeth and settled into his office, Kate had put Jimi on stakeout with orders to call the second Crane prepared to leave. Now it was approaching eight o’clock and still no word.
Kate hung up the unanswered mobile as she entered the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat, dark wood was prevalent and everything was in its place. Kate resisted the urge to bounce a coin off the tightly pulled blankets on the bed and turned her attention to the drawers. One after the other, she pulled open dresser drawers and carefully leafed through the contents, taking great care to return everything to its place. And one after the other, she came up empty-handed.
Kate knelt down in front of the nightstand and pulled open the top drawer. Nothing. She pulled open the bottom drawer – and froze.
The drawer was nearly empty, save for three items. Kate grabbed the familiar manila envelope first. It was familiar because she had handled it before, when she packed it full of crime scene photographs, supposedly for Superintendent Hagen. Kate carefully unfastened the clip on the back and pulled the batch of photos out, the first shot of the crime scene jarring her with its gruesome detail.
“Keep it together, man,” she muttered as she sealed the photos back in the envelope. Her stomach was starting to churn again. The stress of all of this was finally beginning to take its toll. Terrible timing, of course, since now more than ever she needed to be on her toes. She couldn’t have an attack, couldn’t freeze-up now.
Kate looked back into the drawer. The second item didn’t need closer examination, as she’d seen it several times before. Kate looked back into the eyes of Helen Flynn, multiple viewing doing nothing to diminish her timeless beauty. Boy, you sure caused a lot of trouble, girl, Kate thought as she reached into her pocket searching for something to use to pick up the third item.
Pulling out a piece of tissue, Kate reached into the drawer and carefully picked up the third item, positioning the tissue so as not to mar it with her own fingerprints. She held it up, the dim light reaching her from the nearby window enough to read the bold lettering on the label: pancuronium bromide.
Kate tipped the vial from side to side, watching the few CCs of medication rolling around inside until the tears filling her eyes blinded her. Jesus, Neville, how could you do it? How could you be so stupid? How could you be—?
“A monster.”
Kate whirled around, the momentum propelling her backward into the side rail of the bed. That’s going to leave a mark. She clutched the vial to her chest with one hand while the other struggled to banish the welling-up of tears from her eyes. She needed clear vision, and a clear head, if she was going to get out of this one. She swallowed hard.
Neville Crane leaned casually in the doorway, looking at her with an expression of… Kate couldn’t figure out what. Sadness? Regret?
“What are you doing, Katie?” Crane asked softly. Kate started to get up. “Stay there… and answer me.” Crane’s voice had changed its tone, and immediately tension was visible in his jaw.
Kate knew she had two choices: she could bullshit him, which probably wouldn’t work and would just irritate him, or she could just be… Kate. She smiled. “I’m getting Superintendent Hagen’s photos for him. I guess you forgot to ship them over, huh?”
Crane’s mouth twitched, a smile struggling to make its way there. The smile lost out, but the struggle gave Kate some hope that she might be able to get out of this one still breathing. Still, she found herself wishing that the cast was still on his arm.
“Then you’ve found me out completely?”
Kate stared back at the man who had wined and dined her in New York, begging her to come to London, to work for FSS, to make a difference. The thought that it had all been a ploy to get her here for this passed through her mind, irritating her. If there was one thing Kate hated, it was being snowballed.
“You knew I would.”
Now the smile flashed and Crane nodded his head. “Yes, I think I did.” He stood up and walked slowly into the room. “Although, I think I also hoped… that you weren’t as good at seeing people as you are.” Kate could feel her body tensing up as he approached. He stopped beside her. “Put the vial back in the drawer and get up.”
Kate hesitated for only a few seconds, but it was enough to catalyze a change in Crane. The softness that she had glimpsed only moments before was instantly gone. He moved fast, batting the vial away with one hand while the other hand wrenched her away from the bed and to her feet.
“Where are we going?” Kate asked as she was dragged along toward the front door.
Crane smiled tightly. “Always curious. Well, you know what they say about curiosity, Katie?” He pulled open the front door and pulled her close as they stepped out of the flat. “It kills.”
Crane pulled her into step beside him, and Kate felt that the likelihood of her getting out of this still breathing had diminished considerably and more rapidly than she had anticipated. She prided herself on her street smarts, her skills, her ability to get out of bad situations. She’d done it hundreds of times in the past but, as they stepped out into the twilight and started walking, Kate had to admit that she may have over-reached on this one. And, as they entered Regent’s Park, and continued north-east at a steady pace toward the zoo and St. Mark’s Gate, Kate acknowledge what she’d known the minute that she heard Neville Crane’s voice in the flat… The Regent’s Park murderer was going to end another life tonight.
19
St. Mark’s Gate, Regent’s Park
Kate winced slightly as she walked along briskly beside Crane. Her right leg was starting to cramp and she would have given anything to stop for a few moments and massage it. She glanced at Crane, noting the determined stare, the tension in his jaw, and concluded it was not a good time to ask to stop and take a little rest. He was a man on a mission, clearly, though the ultimate
climax of that mission remained to be seen.
Twilight was enveloping the park. They had been walking down the path for what seemed like forever. Kate glanced around, trying to find something familiar about the area. Each step they took brought them closer to the Norton crime scene and that couldn’t be good.
“You’re very quiet, Katie.”
Keep it light, girl… Don’t let him know you’re afraid. “Not much for the chitty-chat right now. Sorry, Neville.”
“Why haven’t you asked me?”
Kate pulled up short, causing Crane to stumble to a stop. “I think I already know, but since you seem to be so eager to share with the class, I’ll humor you. Why did you do it?”
“Helen Flynn was the best person I’ve ever known.” Crane hesitated, a struggle of emotions washing over his face. “I loved her, Katie, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, or anything, in my entire life. And she loved me. That’s why…” Crane’s voice caught, as if his grief were actually choking the breath out of him. He swallowed hard and another emotion came to the forefront. Anger… “She died because of me. I owed her some measure of justice.”
“I see… In the interest of justice, you suffocated and castrated two men.”
“Actually, I castrated them first.” Crane reached into his pockets and pulled out a small vial and a syringe. He removed the cover from the needle and plunged through the foil cover on the vial.
“Okay, was it necessary to share that gruesomely gruesome detail? I could have lived without it!” Kate watched as Crane slowly drew-up the white milky contents of the vial. Keep him distracted…Keep him talking… Buy some time… “So, why did you wait for so long?”
“Just because it needed to be done doesn’t mean I… I am not a monster, Katie. I’m not. I gave them every opportunity, ten years of opportunities, to make it right.” Crane took a deep breath, his gaze falling on the site where Norton’s body had been found. “So I found the proof of what they did, how they pulled it off. And then…”
The Memory of Trees (Kate Gardener mysteries Book 1) Page 10