by Aaron Fisher
Richard swore to himself that if he ever made it out of this godforsaken place he’d make it up to jade and the kids. It was only a matter of weeks now until their third child was due. A girl they had told him, although Jade had made him promise not to tell her. That had been the only scan he had made during the whole pregnancy. Richard prayed he would be around to see her born.
Lost in his own thoughts, Richard suddenly realised that somebody was shouting. It was Giacometti’s voice and he sounded pissed off.
“I’m sorry, but you need to know what I’ve found out!” Dean insisted. “The Gillespie brothers aren’t who they say they are! They’re coppers!”
Silence. Richard fought the urge to turn and look.
Slow, deliberate footsteps approached him, and a shadow blocked out the yellow light. “Is this true, Richard?” Giacometti asked quietly.
Richard looked up but didn’t answer. Giacometti was stripped to the waist. His body was covered in a thin film of sweat and his breathes were heavy. Under any other circumstances Richard might have thought that Dean had walked in on Giacometti having sex. It would explain his annoyance at being disturbed. Did he have yet another victim locked away in that back room? Another helpless, young girl he was mutilating and molesting before finally killing her?
His wandering mind must have reflected on his face because Giacometti’s face reddened and the veins in his neck rose. He kicked Richard hard in the ribs and screamed, “Answer me!”
Richard took the blow and breathed deep, accepting the pain and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Just let Paul escape. Please, just let him get away.
His brother had been through more than his fair share of Hell already and it was only due to his deep loyalty to Richard that he was even involved in all this.
Please, let him be alright.
Paul would look after Jade and the kids if anything happened to Richard. He would guard them with his life if he had to. A horrible thought entered Richard’s head. What if they knew where he lived? Dean had recited Richard’s entire service history in mock bravado as he dragged him through the warehouse to this slaughter room. How much more did he know? Would they rest at killing him, or would they go after his family as well?
Another stab of pain shot down his torso as Giacometti kicked him. Richard realised he was still being shouted at. “ANSWER ME!!!”
Richard blinked Giacometti’s spit out of his eyes but kept his mouth shut.
Giacometti snatched the Beretta from Dean’s hand. “You betrayed me, Richard.” He parked the sights on Richard’s forehead. “This is how I respond to disloyalty.”
“You still need me!” Richard blurted out.
“Cardiff is a juvenile city but I’m sure it has more than one capable computer expert. Perhaps even one who isn’t a Policeman.”
“You’ll never find anyone in time!” Richard shouted quickly. “Thomas said you need access to the server by twelve. You really think you’re going to track down a replacement and have him hack a system that advanced in under two hours?”
Giacometti’s jaw twitched as his brow deepened.
The hesitation frustrated Dean. “Just shoot him, boss. He’s fucking filth!”
“You need me,” Richard repeated.
Giacometti rolled his tongue round the inside of his mouth and licked his teeth. “So it would seem.”
“Boss!”
“Dean. Escort the policeman back to his work station. Have Thomas monitor everything he does.”
“But-”
Giacometti raised his hand. “I want you to personally watch over him. Any further betrayal from him will be his last.” He turned back to Richard. “Do you understand?”
Richard nodded slowly.
“Good.” Giacometti handed the Beretta back to Dean. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an urgent phone call I need to make.”
A4232, Grangetown Link
The Prison lockdown had forced Gary and the others to take a detour round half of Cardiff but even then they had still doubled back on themselves before heading towards Giacometti’s warehouse.
Evading the A.R.U. officers had been relatively easy. Their primary concern was the Prison and not the Magistrates Court which fell just outside their perimeter. After the group had made their way through the building and secured a new vehicle, it had just been a case of taking the scenic route around the centre of the city, away from the Police checkpoints.
They were driving east bound down the dual carriageway that would take them back into the bay in a silver Land Rover. Gary was sat in the front passenger seat whilst Whitman drove. Their prisoner was sat in the back with Mullet Man Baldwin on the left and Paul behind the driver.
Gary considered getting Whitman to pull over so they could restrain the old man. He was happy and more chatty than the four of them could stand and nagging Gary to tell him who it was who arranged for his escape.
“Come on! You said you would tell me on the outside!” the old man said in a thick Italian accent. “It’s not like I’m going to go tell the guards, is it? I just want know who I have to thank.”
“You can thank him when you see him,” Gary told the man, only bothering to turn enough to look at him in the rear-view mirror.
The old man’s nostrils flared and the slow twitch of sudden realisation ran from one side of his face to the other. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“Just sit tight,” Gary said.
“Who is it? Who?!”
“I said, sit tight. We’ll be there soon.”
“Yeah, sit tight and for fucks sake, shut up,” Mullet Man chimed in.
The old man quietened down but the look of fear remained in his eyes.
Gary was just about to tell Whitman to pull over as soon they crossed the bridge so they could tie the prisoner up when his mobile started to vibrate in his pocket. Nobody was supposed to call him whilst out on operations unless it was an emergency. He quickly retrieved the phone from his trouser pocket and recognising the number as one of the ones Giacometti used, answered immediately.
“Boss,” he said.
“Where are you?” Giacometti asked. There was an unusual suddenness to his voice.
“We’re on en route, there was a problem at the prison but we sorted-”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” Giacometti interrupted quickly. “Listen to me. Paul is a policeman.”
“What?”
“Paul is a policeman!”
He can’t be! He killed a man! He didn’t even know he was, he just shot him dead!
“Gary? Gary! Gary, are you still there?”
Gary fought to regain his composure, his eyes quickly flicked to the rear view mirror. Paul caught his gaze and looked back at him. Gary turned to focus out of his own window. “Yeah, I’m here,” he answered.
“Did you hear me? Paul’s a policeman. Him and his brother.”
Gary rubbed his brow and closed his eyes, “Yeah, I heard you.”
“Do it before you get here,” Giacometti said, ending the call.
Gary snapped his phone shut. “Pull over once we’ve crossed the bridge,” he told Whitman, his eyes still closed.
“Who was that?” the old man asked. “Was it him? Was it the man who freed me?”
“Yeah, it was him,” Gary said, looking out at the passing scenery, absently. He could feel Paul’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. If Gary turned around now he would see the look on his face and know something was up.
This is so fucked up. How can Paul be a copper? He helped us escape! He shot a guy for Christ’s sake!
“Who is he? How do I know him? Who is he?” the old man ranted.
“He’s an old friend,” Gary said inattentively.
“Ha! I have no old friends! Only old enemies!” the old man spat.
Mullet Man did his best to make eye contact in the passenger side mirror but Gary looked away.
This is so fucked.
“You think I’m fucking stup
id? You’re going to kill me! You’re going to kill me, you murdering bastards!” the old man shouted, lunging forward.
Gary didn’t even have enough time to register the movement in the corner of his eye before the car suddenly swung hard to the left and crashed through the barriers into the dark water below.
Paul heard a muffled moan and the sound of scraping metal. Gary melted out of the darkness, pushing an old wheelchair in front of him. A man struggled in the chair, his wrists tied to its arms and his legs bound to the foot rest. His mouth was gagged with a cloth tied behind the back of his head and his clothes were tailored with the same gory splendour as the rest of the room.
Gary parked the beaten man in the centre of the room under the hanging light bulb. The man was panting heavily and he jerked violently to break free from his bonds. Gary clipped him across the head once and told him to shut up. He pulled out a handgun from inside his jacket, a very nice Colt M1911, Paul noted, and walked back. He pulled back the slide, inserting a round into the chamber and ejected the magazine cartridge. He offered the Colt to Paul. “Shoot him.”
Paul gripped the Colt with both hands. One wrapped around the grip and the other from underneath; just like he had been trained. He raised the weapon level with the man’s head, making eye contact for the first time.
The details of the man’s face sunk into Paul’s brain like water to a sponge. He had blue eyes. Wide with unimaginable fear. Dark hair. Brown. Cut short on the sides and back. His nose was broken in two places. Zigzagging across like a-
No. It wasn’t the same man anymore. It wasn’t his face. It was the face of a man he had shot in Afghanistan. The man whose arms and legs Paul had blown off with a grenade. It was the face of his old Sergeant. It was his best friend, Baker. It was his mother, his father. It was Richard. Every time he tried to focus the face would change until finally it was only his own face staring back at him, pleading.
Paul squeezed the trigger and the back of his head exploded in a fury of blood, skull and brain.
Consciousness hit Paul like a sharp kick to the guts. He couldn’t have been out for much longer than a few seconds but already the car was beginning to fill with water.
His vision was shaky but it soon steadied itself and as his eyes cleared he realised that the prisoner and the driver had both gone head first through the windscreen. Their bloody carcasses had pretty much plugged the same hole they had created in the glass, but water was still fast pouring in through the space around the doors and windows.
The car was tilted diagonally as it continued to sink, and although the weight of the water was already starting to even that out the back of the car still had a good four feet left before it was completely full.
Paul was suddenly aware of Mullet Man screaming next to him. He turned his head, feeling every beat of his heart throb at the back of his skull.
Mullet Man Baldwin was franticly trying to free himself from his seatbelt. He clawed at the buckle like a mad cat. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Paul looked down at his own seatbelt. It had saved him from the same fate as Whitman and the old man but if he didn’t undo it quickly it would drag him down to a wet grave.
“Fuck! Fuck!”The water was already past The Mullet’s waist, leaving the seat belt lock below the surface.
Paul did his best to shut Mullet Man’s repeated obscenities out as he focused on trying to unfasten his own seatbelt. The catch refused to budge and Paul knew that trying to tear it out would be pointless.
Paul looked around and spotted Gary head down in the water, motionless. He hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt and the right side of his face was turning the water around him a misty red.
The water was half way up Paul’s chest already. He leant over as far as he could go and snatched Mullet Man’s gun from his hand.
“What the fuck?! It won’t work! I already tried! It’s too wet!” Mullet Man insisted.
Paul ignored him and twisted in his seat as much as the tight belt would let him. He gripped the pistol by the barrel and hit the socket behind him that the diagonal strap ran through as hard as he could. It shifted but didn’t give. Paul hit it again and the catch broke away. The diagonal strip fell slack and whilst the horizontal belt around his waist was still tight, it gave him enough room to manoeuvre free.
“Hey! Give me the gun! Give me it!” Mullet Man shouted, the water now around his shoulders.
Paul pushed through the rising water and dragged Gary into the back of the car. He had no idea how long he had been face down in the water. Hell, for all he knew, the wound on his head seeping blood everywhere might have been fatal. Without hesitating he wrapped Gary’s left arm around his neck and shoulder and held onto his left hand with his own, whilst still clutching the pistol is his right. Positioning Gary and himself under the glass sunroof, Paul raised the gun back behind his head.
“For fucks sake!” screamed Mullet Man, the water around his neck. “You can’t just leave me here!”
“Yes I can,” Paul said, and smashed the glass.
M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch
It had been nearly an hour since they had received the message hidden away in a computer virus from Richard. The last one had promised more to come but they were still yet to receive anything. What frustrated Colgan the most was that Richard had already given them his location. It was only because of the procrastinating bureaucrat, Zeddemore, that they hadn’t yet launched a rescue assault.
He had paced the floor in his office until the tiles were painted black with the soles from his shoes. He had argued his case to send in the A.R.U. until his throat bled. Zeddemore wouldn’t budge. Not until they knew more. He wasn’t going to act on a tip retrieved from a computer virus.
The air was growing thin in his office and Colgan needed to get himself away from his superior before he found Zeddemores lifeless body hanging from the neck between his fingers. A short walk down the corridor did nothing to ease his mind but perhaps caffeine would do better. Colgan slotted in a couple of coins. The machine whirred and gurgled and opened its revolving door. Colgan picked up the paper cup and gave it a little blow before sipping. It was hot and tasted like mud.
“Boss!”
Colgan looked up from his coffee. Craig Hughes was running down the corridor towards him, his arms wind-milling and a wide grin across his face. Behind him, Tony Horton followed, more deliberate and restrained.
“Boss!” Craig repeated excitedly, as he reached the coffee machine.
“You!” Colgan shouted, stepping past Craig as if he wasn’t there. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Tony! Where the hell have you been the last few hours?!”
“I was following a hunch, sir,” Tony answered, matter-of-fact.
Colgan shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You disappear, and suddenly Zeddemore’s breathing down my neck, coming down on me like a pile of bricks over Richard and his brother being undercover. Coincidence?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Tony said. “I was simply following a lead.”
“You knew! I don’t know how you did it, but you found out! And then you went straight to Zeddemore. Over my head!”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you think I have done. If you’ve broken procedural regulations then that’s your business. I was merely following a lead of my own.”
“Yeah? Then where did it lead you?”
“The same place as me actually, boss,” Craig said, stepping forward at last. “Gary Ashcroft’s house. Our lead suspect in the Blind Lover murders.”
Colgan could feel his blood burning inside his face and made a conscious effort to calm down. Shouting at Tony wasn’t going to help Richard and Paul. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly and precisely, “And have you found anything?”
“A lot of used needles,” Tony told him. “We bagged a couple. Got the lab on identifying the substance Ashcroft is abusing as we speak. At first glance could be anything from Heroin to Plug.”
Colgan nodded, “That makes sense. Soldier. Drug problem. Just the kind of person Giacometti could exploit.”
“With all due respect, sir. Craig’s brought me up to speed on events, and I have to say I’m not convinced with Richard’s theory on the murders being linked to this Giacometti man,” Tony said.
Colgan’s eyebrows rose as he folded his arms, “You’re not?”
“No, sir. Drug lords and serial murder-rapists, are usually two very different breeds of animal.”
Colgan shook his head, “There’s not been anything usual about this case since day one, Tony! Richard found the link. This Giacometti, whoever he is, is dealing out a drug that was used in the murder of a girl twenty-eight years ago in Italy. Now all of a sudden girls are popping up all over Cardiff, slaughtered in the exact same way as that poor girl and there’s a man here, making that very drug in our own back garden!”
“All circumstantial.”
“Circumstantial?” Colgan tossed his coffee aside and jabbed his finger at Tony, spittle spraying from his teeth. “For Christ’s sake wake up, Tony! Before I end up stapling your fucking eyelashes to your forehead!”
“What’s going on here?”
Colgan whirled round at the sound of Zeddemore’s voice. His fists bunched at his sides and his shoulders erect with quivering rage.
Zeddemore peered over the top of his glasses at the three men, waiting for someone to respond. When nobody did, he nodded his head towards the door to Colgan’s office. “Inside. Now.”
Tony, Colgan and Craig all walked in to the office in silence. They remained that way as Zeddemore closed the door behind them and made himself comfortable behind Colgan’s office. Sharon glanced up from her computer screen once, but a quick look at Colgan’s face sent her back to work.
“Now, will one of you please tell me the reason for three of my officers engaging in a slanging match in the middle of our corridors?” he asked.