by T S O'Rourke
Every uniformed officer on the beat that night was on the look-out for a blue BMW and anyone even remotely similar to the photo-fit with which they had all been issued. Colin Nash wasn’t exactly a pretty picture, but then, as Samantha, his last victim had said to herself, he wasn’t all that bad either. Or at least that was what she thought before he began to strangle her.
With three area cars doing the rounds that night, DCI Jones was sure that they would come up with something before the end of their tour of duty. With so many trained eyes on the look-out they had to find something. And according to Carroll and Grant, Nash would probably go to ground like the SAS had taught him. Only this time he wouldn’t be out in the desert, nor would he be in the wilds of Northern Ireland, where he could hide in the undergrowth. No, Colin Nash was stuck in the middle of London, surrounded by over 10 million people – most of whom were thinking about an ex-SAS killer wandering their streets with a weapon in his hands.
Even though London is a huge city, Carroll had told DCI Jones he firmly believed that Nash would stay in the area that he knew. It was, after all, his hunting ground. And if Carroll was right, then he knew it very well indeed. Nash was probably holed up in some deserted building or on waste ground, hiding in some empty warehouse or factory. If he still had the car, then he’d probably want to park it away from prying eyes, but if he didn’t, then he could be anywhere. The natural thing for him to do, Grant thought, would be to travel by night, avoiding the suspicious glances of the general public and the Metropolitan Police. So, if Nash was moving around the area in search of a new hiding place, it was probably during the hours of darkness, when the area was quiet, that he would make his move.
By the time News at Ten had been broadcast, it was almost certain that over 15 million people would’ve seen Nash’s face. Coupled with what was bound to come in the morning newspapers, Colin Nash wouldn’t be able to show his face anywhere on the mainland without somebody screaming blue bloody murder. And that’s exactly what Carroll had hoped for.
By the time Grant got to his family home all of the lights were out – all, that is, except the lights in the living room.
Detective Constable Samuel Grant of the Metropolitan Police, sitting in his car, almost afraid to enter his own house. Ridiculous, he thought, taking a deep breath of air and turning off the engine.
Police matters were one thing, he thought, quickly looking at himself in the rear view mirror, but matters of the heart were a completely different kettle of fish, whatever the hell that meant....
Entering the house, Grant saw a shadow move from the kitchen area and come towards him. It was Vicky.
‘I thought you might have come home a little earlier on account of what I said to you,’ Vicky said, looking slightly disappointed.
‘There was no way I could’ve gotten back any sooner – I’m sorry,’ Sam replied, taking off his coat.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, seeing as you’re here, does it?’
‘You said there was something you wanted to talk about – it sounded important. Is everything okay?’
‘Everything is fine, I suppose. But there’s something that I want to ask you. That’s why I wanted you to come over....’
‘Well, what’s the matter?’ Sam inquired, growing ever more curious.
‘Come into the living room and sit down. Would you like a glass of wine or a drink?’ Vicky asked, in an attempt to make her husband feel more relaxed.
‘I’ll have a beer, if you have any,’ Sam replied.
‘Since when have you been drinking beer?’
‘Oh, it’s probably something to do with my new partner – he drinks like a fish, and I’ve been out with him once or twice. I’ve developed a bit of a taste for it....’
‘Well, we haven’t got any – but you can have a glass of red wine....’
‘No. It doesn’t matter,’ Sam said, wanting to keep a clear head.
‘So, I guess you’re wondering what all the fuss is about, aren’t you? It’s nothing bad, so you can relax. You remember I told you that I’ve stopped seeing other men?’ Grant nodded, hoping that he was about to hear good news, and not that she was now going out with them again. ‘Well, I haven’t seen anyone for nearly four weeks now, and I thought that we might perhaps give it another try. You and me and the kids. All we need to do is pay a little more attention to each other, and be a little more considerate, that’s all....’ Vicky said, feeling quite vulnerable.
‘Are you saying that you want me to move back in?’
‘Well, yes – if you want to, that is....’
‘You know that I want to. I never wanted to leave in the first place....’
‘Let’s not get into recriminations now, okay. So, do you want to come back?’
‘I’d love to,’ Sam said, reaching out to his wife.
‘There’s something else that you should know. And before you say anything, let me tell you that I love you, and that I want us to be together from now on....’
‘What is it? You’re not sick or anything, are you?’
‘Not exactly. I’m pregnant.’
Sam sat back on the sofa and rubbed his jaw in disbelief. The question that came immediately to his mind had to have an answer before he could consider how he felt about the situation.
‘Is it mine?’
‘Yes. I haven’t slept with anyone else since you moved out,’ Vicky said, hoping that her husband would believe her.
‘So it’s mine, I mean ours?’ Sam asked, trying to come to terms with the idea of becoming a father again.
‘Yes, Sammy, it’s all ours....’
Sam reached out and pulled his wife close to him and hugged her tightly. It was more than he could have ever dreamed of. The prospect of a fourth child ran screaming through Grant’s mind as he held his wife in his arms. This, he thought, will bring us back together – back to the way we used to be. Back to being a family. Detective Constable Samuel Grant was coming home to stay.
Chapter 27
PC Williams was the first to spot the blue BMW in the rail yards behind St. Pancras station. It was around nine in the morning, and the early patrol was just beginning its rounds of the area when Williams and his partner located the car.
Pulling up a short distance from the vehicle, the first thing PC Williams did was radio back to base. Upon hearing that they had found the BMW, DCI Jones had informed the two officers on the scene that they were to keep the area secure, but not to approach the car. Given that they were dealing with an ex-SAS man, nothing could be taken for granted. Anything from booby-traps to possible sniper fire could await their prying eyes, Jones had warned. And besides, it was a job for CID and the Special Operations boys.
Wheeler and Thompson were the first detectives on the scene, with Carroll and Grant hot on their heels.
Although unarmed, Wheeler and Thompson decided to go and have a look at the suspect vehicle in an effort to establish if Nash was still in the car, and if not, where he might have gone. Back-up, they were told, would be on the scene as soon as was humanly possible, and Jones had told them to stay out of harm’s way in the meantime.
The car, with its broken rear driver’s side window, stood silently in a quiet but oily corner of the freight yard, surrounded by empty freight coaches and unused train tracks.
Huge tracts of land in the area looked as if they had been deserted by all living things. Only the carcasses of trains left to rot in the dreary London air broke up the emptiness of the area. No one, not even British Rail employees, visited the place. The only humans ever to be found in the area were usually homeless old men with a love of whiskey and a hatred of company.
There was no visible damage to the car, other than the broken side window. Wheeler studied the car from a distance, before slowly approaching.
‘We’d best make sure there’s nothing underneath – you never know what that psycho might have rigged up under the car,’ Thompson said.
Wheeler lowered himself to the ground and looked unde
r the car. There didn’t seem to be anything out of place. His hands were now covered in oil. Thompson, following his partner’s lead, checked the wheel-arches and found nothing.
Carroll and Grant arrived in their car, followed by a squad car containing two more uniformed officers.
‘What’s the score,’ Dan asked, as he got out of the car.
‘PC Williams found the car about fifteen minutes ago. No sign of our man, though. He could be anywhere by now,’ Thompson replied.
‘Well, if he’s around we’ll find him,’ Dan said, turning to Grant. ‘Get Jones on the blower and tell him to organise a check with every security guard in the area. If anything turns up we can go and have a look. If he’s in the area, the chances are that he’s in a train carriage or a deserted building,’ Carroll said, looking around the freight yard and then at the oil-covered ground beneath his feet.
If he left the car here he’ll have oil on his shoes, Carroll thought, looking around him. There were two large pools of oil that had been spilled in the immediate vicinity, one leading to the train sheds and the other back out onto the road. Carroll lit a cigarette and inhaled a lung full of smoke before addressing the detectives stood before him.
‘If he’s around here we should be able to trace his steps – the oil will be all over his shoes. Keep the uniforms away from the car. Wheeler, Thompson, take a look over toward the train sheds and see if there are any tracks leading that way. We’ll check over by the road, okay?’
Wheeler nodded and walked off, followed by Thompson, whose eyes searched desperately for footprints. Carroll and Grant headed back toward the road on foot, but found nothing.
Within two minutes Wheeler had spotted what he thought to be the tracks of running shoes heading through the old train sheds. He called for Carroll and Grant, who made their way back across the yard.
There, indelibly marked on the concrete floor of the sheds, were oily footprints. The only problem was that the footprints disappeared after about thirty metres.
At least we know which direction he went, Carroll thought, looking off in the general direction of the footprints. If Nash had continued on his original trajectory, he’d have ended up at the back of St. Pancras Station.
‘He could’ve headed back out onto the road last night,’ Grant said as the four detectives looked around the train shed.
‘Well, if that’s the case he’s long gone,’ Dan replied. ‘But I think he’s still around here. I can feel it in my gut, and my gut is seldom wrong. I’d say he headed over towards St. Pancras last night and maybe got into the old hotel building there.’
‘It’s worth a look, I suppose,’ Grant conceded, unable to come up with anything else to say.
‘Did you have a late night last night or something?’ Carroll asked his partner.
‘Yeah,’ Grant replied curtly, indicating that he wanted the conversation to end right there. He wasn’t in the mood for talking. His mind was preoccupied with the news that Vicky had given him the night before.
‘Well, wake the fuck up, man. We’re dealing with a fuckin’ psychopath here – you’ll need your wits about you!’
Grant smiled at his partner, turned around and headed for the car.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ Carroll asked.
‘St. Pancras, Sherlock. And I suggest that you and those other two sleuths get your collective arses in gear,’ Grant said, matter-of-factly.
Carroll shook his head and looked at Wheeler and Thompson, who laughed.
Once back in the car, Carroll rang DCI Jones on his mobile and told him they were going over to the old St. Pancras Hotel to have a look around. Jones said he’d divert some of the Special Operations Squad so that they’d have some back-up, and ensure that the stolen car was looked after.
The huge, gothic exterior of St. Pancras Station was a sight to behold. No matter how many times he passed the building, its decaying magnificence left Carroll awe-struck. An enormous red-bricked building with towers and extravagant brick-work just rising up out of the Euston Road. It seemed almost alien amongst its neighbours. On one side, just up the road, was the new British Library, which had taken many years and many millions of pounds to complete. On the other side was the dreary shape of King’s Cross Station – a veritable magnet for low-life.
The upper floors of the St. Pancras building were unoccupied, and had been for years. Once the home of a rather good hotel, it had been left to go to rack and ruin over the past twenty years and now contained nothing other than a few small businesses on the ground floor. That left hundreds of rooms unoccupied on the upper floors. It was perfect for what Nash would want. No one ever went upstairs in the building – mostly because it was deemed unsafe in parts, but also because the stairwells were blocked off. Nash could, Carroll thought, easily force an entry and stay there without attracting the glare of Joe Public. Only he hadn’t counted on the oil in the freight yard. When Nash had abandoned the BMW it was dark, and he hadn’t noticed the pools of old oil. It was a simple mistake to make, but it was one that was leading the cops to his new-found home.
Carroll and Grant went looking for the security guard on duty, whilst Wheeler and Thompson began looking for signs of forced entry on the blocked-up stairwells.
The security guard was an Indian man of around forty five, sporting a beard and a purple turban. A Sikh, Carroll thought, introducing himself.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Carroll, and this is DC Grant. You might be able to help us....’ Carroll began.
The security guard smiled in a friendly sort of way.
‘Your station phoned me a little earlier. They said they were looking for signs of forced entry on the buildings in the area. I’ve only just begun my shift, and the man who was on last night didn’t report anything – so I presume everything is okay. I haven’t had a chance to do my rounds yet,’ the security guard said.
Grant interjected in an effort to speed the process up a little.
‘Where would be the easiest place to gain access to the upper floors of the building?’
‘That would be through the door to the left of the building, or up the fire escape to the rear. But the fire escape has been covered in barbed-wire, and we haven’t had any break-ins recently,’ the security guard said, as if to justify his job.
‘Can you show us where you mean?’ Carroll asked.
‘Just follow me,’ the guard replied, walking around through the front door.
Carroll looked around him at the high-ceilinged rooms that led off from the corridor down which they were walking. It was a long corridor, with many doors. It reminded him of the offices at the MOD, where he had met the young secretary in the old woollen suit.
The guard walked ahead of them to an emergency exit, which was padlocked.
‘You do know it’s against fire regulations to have your emergency exits locked like that, don’t you?’ Grant said.
Carroll looked at his partner sourly, as the guard removed the lock and opened the door.
By now, Wheeler and Thompson had already gained access to the upper floors through a stairwell in the west wing of the building. Some metal sheeting, which had been put in place to restrict access to the upper floors, had been pulled back into place. But it was obvious that someone had used the spot to get in. There were even some oily marks on the steps, leaving Wheeler and Thompson in no doubt that their man had gained entry to the top floors at this point.
Thompson pulled back the sheeting and attempted to get through the barrier. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed with a little difficulty. Wheeler followed him gingerly and with a little more ease. Thompson was a good ten kilos heavier, after all.
The stairs seemed to go on forever.
‘There must be at least eleven floors in the building,’ Thompson exclaimed, looking up the stairwell shaft.
‘This is going to take all bloody day!’ Wheeler sighed as they began climbing to the first floor.
There was dust and cobwebs everywhere. It looked as though the u
pper floors hadn’t been used for years. A rather large flock of pigeons had made their home in the building, and there were pigeon droppings all over the floor.
‘God, it stinks up here!’ Thompson exclaimed.
‘Pigeons. There must be hundreds of the buggers up here,’ Wheeler replied.
They began their systematic search of the rooms. There were at least a hundred on each floor, and Wheeler’s assumption that it would take all day to search the building wasn’t far off the mark.
Slowly pushing back each door, the two detectives continued down the corridor, wondering where the hell Carroll and Grant had got to, and questioning whether they should wait for them. After all, Carroll and Grant were armed.