Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2)

by Will Patching

  ‘Send a car to Doc Powers address right away, and have them bring him to HQ. I’ll call him and let him know they’re on their way. DO IT NOW, Sarge!’

  ***

  The sirens, reminiscent of the ones that signified Hitler had sent his Luftwaffe planes or rocket propelled V series flying bombs to devastate homes and factories in the south east of England, split the pre-dawn stillness of the patchwork quilt of green, yellow and brown fields and woods surrounding Broadmoor Secure Psychiatric Hospital. The distinctive howling was plenty loud enough to serve as an early wake up call for the residents in the nearby villages of Crowthorne, Sandhurst, Bracknell, Bagshot, Camberley and Wokingham.

  These thirteen satellite sirens were tested every Monday morning at ten o’clock, along with the one in the hospital grounds, so the locals were familiar with the warning signal, despite Hitler having faded into the history books decades before Broadmoor’s klaxons wrenched them from their slumbers early this morning. Protocols were in place for local schools and other vulnerable institutions in the event of an inmate escape, and each of the relevant police establishments in the area automatically went to high alert the moment the sirens sounded.

  The last time Broadmoor’s alarm system had been used, other than for the regular weekly test, was in 1993 and that fugitive inmate was captured soon after, not far from the perimeter wall.

  Today would be different.

  Some thirty minutes before the sirens began their wailing, a state of the art Whisper-Lift drone, designed and built by the Chinese military for clandestine operations, and hence equipped with four rotors that were barely audible unless the listener was within ten metres or less, had flown over the Broadmoor fences under cover of darkness, dropped to the ground and deposited its three and a half kilogram payload adjacent to the wall of the accommodation block housing the most dangerous patients.

  A skeleton staff of just two security guards idly chatted while sitting swilling coffee in front of a bank of screens showing random video feeds from the hundreds of CCTV cameras monitoring the hospital complex, and so failed to spot the flight. The stealth drone lifted off vertically until it was once again sufficiently high to be above the cameras and out of earshot of the few guards stationed along the perimeter fence and returned to the SUV parked almost a kilometre from the hospital where the pilot was sitting guiding the device.

  A few minutes later, once again laden, the drone repeated its flight, only this time it deposited a much smaller payload some thirty metres further along the wall of the same block. Similarly unobserved and unheard, it returned to the pilot, another packet was attached, and the machine made its third brief flight. This time it dropped between the perimeter walls directly opposite the block it had just visited. The inner wall, a solid red brick structure, some four metres in height and almost a half metre thick, was the inner line of defence, positioned behind a metal barricade that also extended around the hospital grounds, with a land moat of some three metres between the two walls.

  After jettisoning its third cargo right at the base of the brick wall, the Whisper-Lift obediently flew back to its master, still unnoticed by any Broadmoor staff, and began its final journey, eventually dropping to the ground by a hedge beside the footpath between the accommodation block it had visited earlier and the perimeter wall. Then its rotors shut down.

  The black SUV, equipped with a steel reinforced battering ram disguised as a giant bull bar at the front end, was harbouring a stage two engine conversion beneath the modified bonnet. The air intakes that sprouted from the top of the engine bay fed a specialist supercharger, now whistling gently as the Ford began meandering down the lane towards the hospital entrance.

  The driver kept the headlights off as he crept along the unlit tarmac, dark coniferous woods on either side shielding his approach until he was less than three hundred metres from the hospital, just at the edge of the cleared area around his target. He stopped the car, left the engine purring softly, checked his watch then flicked a switch on his remote control panel to ‘ARM’. All three of the devices he had deposited in the hospital grounds were now active, on a sequenced timer, so nothing happened immediately, but he did not have to wait long to feel the effects.

  The flash of the first explosion lit up the side of the accommodation block, clearly visible to the driver, his car creaking a little on its springs from the change in air pressure from the shock of the blast. The state of the art plastic explosive, a compound of HMX and CL20 designed by the US military for maximum effect, demolished a large section of the exterior wall of the accommodation block and destroyed several of the inmate rooms inside. Although the IED had been placed at the base of its target rather than attached to it, the effective blast radius extended some ten metres. Immediately after the detonation the building resembled something from a war zone.

  The flash from the first blast faded and a fire alarm started ringing, then, several seconds later, a smaller detonation rumbled through the air. The second explosive parcel had been designed with far less power, enough to smash through the wall of the accommodation block without creating the degree of devastation to the interior of the building that accompanied the first.

  The driver was unable to directly view the effects of his actions until the third blast lit up the perimeter wall some fifty metres from the main gate, almost directly at the end of the lane where he waited. Two metal panels of the external barrier had been blown outwards, though were still standing, uprooted and now at a precarious angle, leaning inwards, still partially attached to the adjacent sections. They were also held in place by the six rows of razor wire atop them, like freshly laundered sheets pegged to a washing line.

  This section of wall would only need one final powerful thrust to flatten it.

  The driver checked the feed from the Whisper-Lift video camera, and manipulated the lens to view where the second explosion had punched through the inmates’ block. This was the critical moment, and he leaned forward, eyes squinting, trying to determine if his objective had been achieved, or whether this was a wasted journey.

  The floodlights suddenly blazed and the entire hospital was illuminated with stark phosphorescent light. In the harsh glare, a figure appeared, clambering over the remnants of wall scattered outside his room. He stumbled and swayed, his gait unsteady, as if dazed, then scrambled across the lawns, making his way to the drone that was silently waiting with the fourth package.

  The driver continued watching as a face filled his monitor. The drone’s on-board camera presented a close up view as the man inside the hospital compound gathered his special delivery. The driver recognised his quarry’s ferret like grin, still distinctive enough despite the dusting of grey powder and streaks of blood masking the man’s lopsided features.

  Satisfied, he floored the accelerator and aimed his five hundred horsepower, two ton battering ram at the weakened section of outer wall.

  ***

  Harding had not slept. Excitement at his imminent departure left him awash with adrenaline, the anticipation of what was to come keeping every cell in his frame energized, on high alert.

  The nursing staff kept to their usual routine as they patrolled the corridors, checking on his room through the night, and immediately after their seventh and most recent visit to his door he got dressed in his casual clothes, including his prized leather jacket. With his senses working at peak capacity, even without a watch or a clock, he knew the time for his departure was imminent and pressed his ear to the reinforced glass window of his room.

  It took a while, but then he heard it, the almost imperceptible buzzing of the drone as it deposited its load directly beneath the window. He reckoned he had about five minutes before the chaos would begin, so stripped the mattress, blankets and pillows from his bed, squeezed into his tiny bathroom, then sat in the corner furthest from the external wall. After tucking this makeshift protective padding all around his body, finally tugging the blankets over his head, he was confident he would survive the upcoming dem
olition.

  In his heightened state of awareness, time stretched with an agonising sluggishness, as if the world had slowed its rotation, time and space had expanded, and everything was happening at a fraction of its normal pace. After what felt like ten minutes had passed, he began to wonder if something was wrong, but did not dare get out of his protective nest, even though he desperately wanted to put his ear to the window again.

  To compromise, he pulled back the cover to listen, and was immediately rewarded by a percussive blast battering his eardrums.

  The detonation sent lumps of plaster from the wall and ceiling cascading on to his head and he was shocked at the power of the device, had a moment of panic, thinking they had mistakenly positioned the wrong package outside his room. Despite having foreknowledge of the upcoming events, the experience was mind-numbing, and his brain reeled as he coughed and spluttered in the dusty atmosphere now engulfing him.

  Rubbing his scalp and shaking powdery lumps of wall from his hair diverted him for several seconds and a thought flashed through his mind at the precise moment a second blast rocked him backwards, taking him to the edge of consciousness as the back of his skull whacked the tiled wall.

  The thought:

  The second bomb…

  But he was too slow.

  Despite being battered in the face and chest by sharp pieces of brick and glass when his room’s external wall imploded, Harding knew he needed to move — and fast. He got to his feet, steadied himself and tried to take stock of his surroundings. It was dark, the air full of dust, choking him, blinding him, and he almost collapsed as he tried to head where he assumed there would be a gaping hole leading to the hospital grounds. As his body responded reluctantly, listless and apathetic, a reaction to the shock of the blasts and the disorienting nature of his newly modified surroundings, the staff at Broadmoor came to his aid.

  The floodlights lit up the entire compound and he stumbled towards the light, through the opening, now clearly visible despite his grit filled eyes and the tears streaming down dust caked cheeks. He squeezed his eyelids shut, the sharp bite of sand tearing at his corneas, but he was able to half focus when he reopened them.

  With his one good eye he could just see the drone where they had said it would be, its shadowy black outline partially tucked under a bush almost halfway to the perimeter fence. He started jogging towards it, the ringing in his ears matching the fire alarm bell, almost drowning out the shouts of the nursing staff and guards, their panic evident from their high pitched yelling, the chaos complete.

  Harding reached the drone and fumbled with its payload, then heard the squeal of tyres and the roar of a powerful engine being gunned. He checked the Glock nine millimetre lightweight pistol, and, satisfied it was loaded, grabbed the other small items he’d been sent, then jogged across the lawn to the destroyed section of perimeter wall. It looked as though a giant had taken a bite out of the brickwork then spat out the indigestible meal, so Harding headed for the breach just in time to see the front of a black SUV smash the external metal barrier almost flat. The top of the fence came to rest on the pile of broken bricks, creating a ramp bridging the land moat and inviting Harding to freedom.

  Then things started to go wrong.

  The engine roared again but the vehicle was stuck. Its front wheels had become entangled in razor wire during the assault, and now dangled over the top of the flattened metal panels, unable to regain purchase as the SUV tried to reverse back on to the street. Harding watched as the tyres spun and smoked, rubber squealing against metal, then the engine died.

  ‘Shit! Now what?’

  He cursed aloud, hoping his getaway vehicle was not disabled — that would be a disaster. He turned in time to see two staff running towards him, both in riot gear, ready to take him down with Mace and truncheons.

  With no military training, no experience of the Russian F1 anti-personnel grenades delivered to him by drone — along with his gun — Harding pulled the pin on one of the weapons and immediately lobbed it at the oncoming threat. It was a bungled throw and fell well short, not even halfway between him and his objective.

  The guards seemed oblivious, perhaps thinking he had chucked a piece of brick at them and continued charging towards him.

  Harding was disappointed when nothing happened. It seemed to him that several seconds had passed so he assumed the ancient grenade had failed. He spun round and made a dash for the hole in the wall, started scrambling over the razor wire to the metal ramp, when he heard the driver of the SUV scream at him.

  ‘TAKE COVER YOU IDIOT!’

  His potential saviour was cowering behind his vehicle, and Harding, finally realising he too was exposed to the device he had somehow managed to position almost perfectly at the oncoming guards’ feet, threw himself to the base of the mound of rubble as the final explosion of the morning hammered his tympanic membranes.

  It took him a moment to reorientate himself, but his brain was still fuggy. He scrambled on to the ramp, ignoring the recognisable remnants of human flesh littering the area, then grabbed the SUV passenger door, ready to enter the cockpit.

  The driver yelled at him for a second time.

  ‘Leave it. The car’s stuck. Let’s go!’

  The stranger sprinted off in the direction his vehicle had come and Harding, ever loath to follow orders and keen to cause yet more havoc in this place that had tormented him for so long, turned back, about to lob the second grenade as he’d been instructed, to create yet more confusion, but something in his head whispered to him.

  Nah! Keep it…

  Instead, he took aim at another guard closing in on him and fired four shots. It was enough.

  Although he was out of practice and his good eye was still sore and fuzzy, he had been an excellent shot in his heyday, working as an enforcer for the Adkins crime family, so felt immense satisfaction as his last bullet hit home. Harding watched as his victim tumbled to the ground and nosedived into the crater that marked where two other Broadmoor staff members had just been blown away.

  It felt fabulous, his brain fully functioning again, hyped up by the surge of adrenaline that accompanied the thrill of the kill. He took one last look at the scene, savouring his superiority over normal mortals, then began legging it after his rescuer.

  He was in pretty good shape but the other guy was still sprinting, and well ahead by now. Harding’s vision was recovering too, the grit cleared by streaming tears, but he could barely make out the man’s silhouette in the pre-dawn twilight. One minute he was just visible, the next he was gone, absorbed into the darkness of the surrounding woodland.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  He panted as he ran, trying to put as much space between himself and Broadmoor as possible. With a parting glance back, he grinned, certain none of the guards had the balls to follow him after he’d topped three of the bastards. It also occurred to him that a number of unsuspecting inmates had died or been injured in the first blast — the staff would have their hands full with the nightmare scenario in the accommodation block.

  ‘Fuckin brilliant!’

  But now he had a problem too. Where should he run to?

  His joy was short-lived as he realised he was on his own and the Thames Valley Police would be on the hunt within minutes, probably had a chopper getting airborne right now. He had no car, and there was no other source of transport within miles, no houses in sight, nowhere he could nick a vehicle. The escape had disgorged him onto the barely populated south eastern quadrant surrounding the hospital complex, so he would have to double back to Crowthorne to be sure of finding a car, and that was not at all appealing.

  Insults crowded into his head as he started mentally cursing the coward who had abandoned him at the fence and then fucked off down this deserted road. Then he yelled at the darkness:

  ‘You stupid prat! Where are ya?’

  No reply.

  The idiot should have known the perimeter of a secure hospital would have barriers designed to prevent exactly thi
s scenario.

  More malevolent thoughts circulated in his skull before he heard the raucous roar of a motorcycle engine bursting to life somewhere in the woods to his left. Harding was about to follow the noise when a powerful headlight dazzled him and the bike rocketed out of the trees then slid to a halt beside him.

  ‘Here, put this on and jump on the back. Hold on tight, this’ll get very bumpy. We’re going cross-country. When I lean into a corner you lean with me or we’ll come off. The pigs’ll be swarming all over the local towns and they’ll have road blocks on these access routes in minutes, but it’ll be rush hour soon enough and that’ll fuck ’em up… So get a bleedin move on!’

  Harding grabbed the full face helmet and yanked it over his head, simultaneously straddling the rear of the motorcycle, noting the fluorescent green logo informing him it was a KTM Super Adventure. He had no idea about these machines, was unaware that the 1300cc engine was one found on many superbikes, or that this model was dual purpose, built for both tarmac roads and dirt tracks. It was just a dull looking bike, and other than the logo’s tiny splash of colour on the top of the fuel tank, their getaway vehicle was suitably painted in grey camouflage livery.

  The rider was impatient to be away, almost unseating his passenger as he opened the throttle and revved the machine’s overpowered engine before slamming the bike into gear.

  ‘Jesus fuckin wept!’

  Harding scrabbled for a handhold, grabbing the rider’s waist to maintain his balance. He had never felt acceleration like it. The screaming engine drowned out his blasphemous oath as the bike reached sixty miles an hour in less time than it took for him to utter the words.

  Just a few minutes had elapsed since the four explosions had ruptured the rural peace of local residents, and now the crackling roar and whine of a high powered motorcycle once again shattered the silence of the surrounding Berkshire countryside, just as all fourteen Broadmoor sirens wound up to full volume, the antique wailing wrenching even the deepest of sleepers from their dreams.