by Iain Cameron
‘Ha bloody, ha, you’re such a comedian.’
‘Yeah but what’s even funnier, smartarse detective,’ he sneered, ‘it ain’t two, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’ He said, his face betraying the alarm he felt.
‘There’s...oh, let me think: four or maybe six back home and two or three over here? I can’t remember, lost count, ye see but that’s for you the detective to find out. Oh sorry, I forgot,’ that grin again, ‘my gun is pointing right at your fucking head and I’m gonna kill you, so you can’t.’
Suddenly, there was a strange noise and Cope, instantly alert pointed the gun at the space between the rocks. He hoped to God it wasn’t Hobbs as he would be worse than useless in his debilitated condition. The air suddenly filled with sound, echoing and reverberating off the steep, wooded canyon and the mountain across from the clearing and seconds later, a Portuguese police helicopter rose up into the air and hovered to examine them from about fifty feet away.
Cope spun round and opened fire on the helicopter. In an instant, the pilot tipped the machine on its side to protect the vulnerable Perspex cabin. Bullets pinged off the landing tracks as it buzzed away.
Seizing his chance when the big man was distracted, Henderson leapt forward and rugby tackled Cope. It was like crashing into a locked barn door as he was easily five or six stone heavier but he knew from his days in the school rugby team that size didn’t matter as long as accuracy and timing were right. Unfortunately, his lunge wasn’t quite right and instead of knocking him to the ground, they both tumbled onto the floor, the gun scuttling off into the dust.
Henderson recovered first and bashed his ugly mug with the hardest punch he could manage but it was like hitting brick and Cope hardly flinched. He pushed Henderson away, stood up and responded with a volley of punches to Henderson’s chest and stomach, which felt like being hit by sledgehammers.
Henderson scrambled backwards, fighting for breath but like an angry bull, Cope immediately charged him and pinned him against a rock. Big fists punched at his face as he fell to the ground and he knew if he didn’t do something quickly, he would die there. His hands felt around for something, anything. He grabbed a handful of dust and threw it in Cope’s face. In an instant the blows stopped as Cope coughed and wheezed like an old man with emphysema.
Henderson forced himself to stand up. His nose and mouth were streaming with blood but he staggered across the plateau, scouring the ground for the gun.
‘Looking for this copper?’
He turned. With one hand Cope was wiping his face of brown dust and grime and with the other, pointing the gun. He walked towards him. ‘I was going to beat you to death copper ‘cause that’s what I like to do but you’re a sneaky bastard and I’m just going to have to do it the easy way.’ He lifted the gun and pointed it between his eyes. His finger curled slowly around the trigger.
Bang!
The gun fired but he felt nothing. No bright lights, no heraldic singing, no visions of a childhood in Fort William, his early police service in Glasgow, Rachel’s face or anything else flashed before his eyes and amazingly he felt no pain.
He looked up. Cope was on all fours and groaning as he clutched his right hip. Only then did he see the gun in the hand of the injured Portuguese police officer. The shot was fired from a slouched position as he was injured in some way and so it wasn’t such a good shot, evidenced by the fact that Cope wasn’t dead and slowly getting to his feet.
‘You fucking Portuguese scum,’ Cope said as he turned and pointed an accusing finger at the Portuguese cop, ‘you’re gonna die.’
The officer was still holding the weapon but with no energy to lift it, aim it or fire it again, it sat uselessly in his hand like a lump of unformed metal.
‘Where’s my fucking gun?’ Cope said to himself as he scanned the plateau for it.
Henderson spotted it first and made a move to go there but Cope did the same and in two big strides, he was over it and covered it with his foot. Slowly he reached down to pick it up but winced in pain as the bullet wound reminded him of its menacing presence.
‘Senhor!’
Henderson turned. The Portuguese cop, with energy he found from God-knows where, lifted his hand and skidded his gun towards him. In his peripheral vision, Cope was bending down, his fingers almost touching the ground, almost touching the weapon.
Henderson dived towards the gun, grabbed it, swung round and pointed it at Cope.
‘Stop or I’ll fire!’ He shouted.
Cope grinned as he lifted his gun in a slow arc.
Henderson fired two shots in quick succession. A small hole appeared at the top of Cope’s head and another at his throat and his mouth forming a circle as if in surprise. He staggered backwards, stopped and seemed to regain his balance before lifting the gun and firing a low shot that zinged off a rock and into the dust. He swayed as if drunk and then fell backwards over the cliff.
FORTY-SIX
What the other guests made of the two men sitting on the sun terrace outside the Hotel Vau in Portimão was anyone’s guess. One man’s face was covered with bruises, his nose taped and obviously broken, and his left arm bore a long, red wound while the other was in a cast. The other man looked to be in better shape with only his left leg covered in a thick bandage but his face was an extraordinarily shade of red from a lifetime of alcohol abuse or too much sun.
‘What did Harris say?’ Hobbs said as he sipped from yet another cup of freshly brewed coffee. It was brought to them by Maria, a waitress at the hotel who was treating them like celebrities with numerous refills and a plate full of biscuits, not because of their injuries or the fact their faces were all over local newspapers, but the girl found in the boot of Cope’s car was one of her former schoolmates.
‘He was anxious when I first told him that it was me that shot and killed Cope as he probably saw the spectre of a couple of lawsuits for police negligence or the misuse of firearms passing before his eyes but he calmed down and positively cheered up when he heard the whole story.’
‘He’s probably relieved to discover it was a Portuguese copper that shot him first as he can put a better spin on the story, international cooperation and all that.’
‘You’re such a cynic, Hobbs. I went on to tell him about the extent of our injuries and how it would make travelling difficult, hence our decision to stay a few days longer. He made a couple of sympathetic noises before resorting to his old Scrooge self and I got another lesson in budgetary control and the misuse of public funds.’
‘He’s got a bloody cheek. I think we’ve earned some R&R. Don’t you?’
‘We have mate, don’t worry about it and anyway, the Portuguese officer’s funeral is not until the day after tomorrow and there’s no way we’re missing that.’
The local English language newspaper was lying on Hobbs’s leg, a leg that was resting on a spare chair. Henderson nodded towards it. ‘Anything new in there?’
‘No, not really, other than Cope’s body is being flown back to the UK today and the two cops that Cope shot are both up for bravery awards.’
‘Quite right, in my opinion. The one that shot Cope and threw me the gun deserves all the credit in my book, without that, he would have killed us all.’
‘Did you speak to Carol?’
‘Yeah, I told her what happened and asked her to set up a small team to examine if any students from other universities and colleges in the area have gone missing. Cope said there was another two or four but maybe that was all bluster.’
‘Maybe but the Portuguese are taking it seriously enough.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It says in there,’ he said nodding at the newspaper, ‘that Inspector Giraldes has set up a task force to investigate the Canyon Killer’s claims.’
‘Is that what they’re calling him? Good for the Inspector. I don’t think that’s the last we’ll hear of our saviour.’
‘Me neither. So, that’s it, we can relax now, can we, all the ba
ses are covered?’
‘Not quite. I spoke to Rachel.’
‘Oh, I forgot about her. How did she take it?’
‘Not well at first but I’m not beating myself up over it as there’s plenty food in the house and she won’t starve.’
‘Even still, if wasn’t for that shot to the hip by the Portuguese cop and your expertise on the firing range, you wouldn’t be going home at all.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Iain Cameron was born in Glasgow and has been a business accountant, nursery goods retailer and a management consultant. He lives in Sussex with his wife, two children and a dog called Lottie and yes, the dog is female too.
COMING SOON
The Dark Side of the Road
Car thieves with expensive tastes are targeting the Sussex area, bashing in doors and taking away the owner’s pride and joy, usually a Ferrari, Porsche or Aston Martin. They are becoming increasingly violent and DI Angus Henderson is convinced it is only matter of time before they kill someone.
His prediction comes true when Sir Mathew Markham, a well-known Brighton businessman is killed. He is Chairman of one of the UK’s most successful microelectronic design companies but Henderson is convinced his death was connected with the Company’s new invention and not the car thieves.
He’s got a tough job proving it as two killers are trying to stop him.
Available Winter 2014
For more information about this book and the author, take a look at my website:
www.iain-cameron.com