by Chris Simms
Sean scrambled on to all fours, ready to dive at Cahill. Each time the man’s elbow came back, an arc of blood followed it. Was there a weapon in Cahill’s fist?
Mark’s arms fell away, allowing Cahill to raise himself to his knees. His head swivelled. Flecks of red covered his face and neck and the whites of his eyes seemed too bright. Time seemed to slow down as Sean stared back. From Mark’s mouth came the sound of a bath draining dry.
A voice, from the open window above. ‘Get him!’
Cahill’s eyes lifted and a stubby screwdriver with a sharpened point fell from his grip.
‘Get him! Move!’
As Cahill started sprinting towards the open gate, Sean jumped to his feet. He took a step forward but the sight of Mark Wheeler stopped him. The skin of his colleague’s face was like greaseproof paper. His eyes had rolled up into his head and the spurts of blood coming from the side of his neck were rapidly losing strength.
A compress. He needed a compress. Something to cover all the wounds at once. He began tugging the Velcro straps at the waist of his stab-proof vest. Beneath it he was wearing a cotton sweatshirt. That would have to do.
He felt himself being shoved aside as DS Fuller’s voice rang out. ‘Paramedics, paramedics, we need paramedics!’
FOUR
Just before nine thirty in the morning: the perfect time to pay someone a visit. Those with jobs were confined to their workplaces, children were shut away in school, retired folk had yet to venture out. The streets were quiet and, more importantly, there was room to park.
He swung his white Peugeot van into a space further down the road from flat 54a. On the passenger seat beside him was a package, complete with label, which he’d prepared the night before. Once he knew her address, finding her name on the internet had taken no time at all.
After checking the pavement was free of people, he pulled the baseball cap low on his head, picked up the package and his console from the passenger seat and climbed out of the van.
Yesterday, when he’d followed the woman home from the bus, he’d been able to get a good look at where she lived. A ground-floor flat of a semi-detached house. A huge caravan occupied every inch of one neighbour’s drive. The other was screened off by a laurel hedge at least eight foot high. The chances of being observed were minimal.
He walked with purpose; a man with a schedule to keep. Head down, he marched up to the front door and pressed the bell. Waiting for an answer, he contemplated her behaviour the previous day on the bus.
Her screeching voice and the foul language she’d flung around. No better than an ape soiling its cage. He felt his grip tightening on the package and had to relax his fingers before he damaged it. Come on! Drag your lazy carcass out of bed. He pressed the bell again. Women who thought they could talk to men like that. How he loathed them. He thought about the crude, raucous females who’d started to attend his classes at the academy.
They weren’t interested in learning how to be electricians. To them, his classes were just an opportunity for idle chat, flirting and playing on their phones. The moment his hand struck the feisty little blonde’s face was still crystal clear in his mind. Her look of utter shock, a sweet moment of silence – then chaos.
‘Oh my God!’
‘No way!’
‘You cannot do that!’
‘Did he just hit Shelley?’
‘Get her away from her, man!’
‘You are bang out of order!’
‘Shelley, are you OK?’
‘A slap? You are in deep shit.’
‘He actually hit her?’
‘I said get away from her!’
‘I can’t believe this!’
‘Come on, Shelley, we’re getting out of here.’
The clatter of plastic wheels approached along the pavement behind him. He kept his back to the street, bowed his head and remained very still. The adoring murmurs of a mum as she passed the end of the drive, a buggy pushed before her. If she had seen him on the front step, all she’d have clocked was a dark blue uniform.
He pressed the bell a third time and kept his finger on it.
A shadow shifted beyond the frosted glass. A pinkish blur materialized from the gloom and he heard the shuffle of her feet. ‘Yes, all right! Stop the fucking ringing!’
He lowered his finger and waited.
Her voice, ragged and irritated, came through the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Signed-for package. Julie Roe?’
The lock rattled and the door swung open. She was in a hideous dressing gown the colour of bubble-gum, bare feet and ankles in view. Her eyes were puffy and that absurd maroon hair stuck out at one side. If she remembered him from the bus, it certainly didn’t show on her face.
One hand was pinching the sides of her dressing gown tight at the base of her throat. Her other hand held a mobile phone. Even as she spoke, she couldn’t help checking its screen. ‘A package?’
Christ, he thought. Conscious for less than a minute and already glued to the bloody thing.
‘That’s correct. It’s signed-for. If I could just get a signature from you, here?’
She wrenched her eyes from her phone, blinked a couple of times and then coughed. He tasted her stale breath in his mouth. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘No idea. I just require a signature on the console.’
‘Had to come on my day off,’ she murmured. ‘Fucking typical.’ She held a hand out.
‘Thank you.’ He slid the stylus from its clip.
FIVE
The handset gave his mum’s voice a plastic buzz. He sighed, eyes fixed on the ceiling above his bed. He’d been awake for hours.
‘Sean?’
He let his head fall to the side. The little walkie-talkie on the bedside table made it easy for her to get his attention, wherever either of them was in the house. At times like these, he wished he’d never had the idea of getting them. He wished he was asleep. He wished he could turn over and pretend the previous day had never happened. Why did he even try and become a detective so early in his career? But he knew the answer to that.
‘Sean?’
He’d been so close to getting his stab-proof vest off.
‘Sean, it’s after nine o’clock. You can’t still be—’
‘Morning, Mum.’ He was up on one elbow, handset held before his face.
‘Good morning to you. There’s a cup of tea for you down here, and I’m doing some eggs.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
He dropped the handset on the duvet and leaned his head back. The images refused to fade: blood bubbling from Mark Wheeler’s parted lips. Miniature geysers spurting from his neck. Four or five. The wet hiss each eruption had made. When DS Fuller had looked up to shout, Sean saw that Mark’s blood had hit him in the face. A dribble on his chin had made Fuller look like he’d been feeding on the stricken officer.
The journey back to the station had been oddly silent, even though everyone in the car had been speaking. Then he’d been led up the stairs to a small meeting room. Ransford spoke to him briefly before making way for two other men. Forms were laid out in front of him. A drink appeared. Hot chocolate, like he was a child. Eventually, Ransford came back.
He was carrying two written statements. One from the TAU officer who’d shouted down from the bedroom window and one from DS Fuller. The TAU officer had stated that, when he looked into the back garden, Sean had been partly under the trampoline. It appeared he was trying to avoid tackling Cahill, who had leaped down from the first-floor window.
‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘That’s not right. I was trying to drag it out into the garden. I saw Cahill coming out of the first-floor window and was trying to cut off his escape route.’
‘And when he attacked DC Wheeler, you failed to act because …?’
‘Failed to act? It happened so fast. Cahill let go of the window ledge. From my position on the grass, I saw the underside of the trampoline stretch down. Next thing—’
�
��You were beneath the trampoline?’
‘Partly. I fell back as I was trying to pull it away from the wall.’
Ransford didn’t look impressed. ‘Carry on.’
‘Next thing, they’re both beside me on the grass. I thought it was his fist connecting with Mark’s neck area. It was only when I saw blood—’
‘The TAU officer stated that, even after Cahill dropped the implement, he had to instruct you to prevent his escape.’
‘I … well … I was about to.’
‘But only after he’d shouted at you?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Sean could hear his voice starting to waver. ‘I mean, I was getting to my feet, about to give chase.’
‘But then you stopped.’
‘When I saw the extent of Mark’s injuries, yes.’
Ransford shuffled the sheets of paper in his hand. ‘DS Fuller states that, when he entered the back garden from the side area of the property, there was no sign of Cahill and you were, I quote, “frozen”. Looking down at Wheeler – nothing more.’
‘No, that’s not right, either. I knew the flow of blood had to be stemmed. But there were multiple puncture wounds, all close together. Pressing down on one would only widen the adjacent ones. That’s exactly what happened when DS Fuller applied his hands to the wounds. I was attempting to remove my stab-proof vest so I could create a compress with the sweatshirt I had on underneath. At that point, a TAU officer arrived with a first-aid kit.’
‘This was when DC Wheeler entered cardiac arrest?’
Sean nodded.
Ransford was silent for a few seconds. ‘I see.’
Sean watched him as he reread what was on the sheets of paper in his hand. ‘I think we need to hear from Mark Wheeler. He’s the only person who can clear this up properly, and that’s obviously not … listen, this hasn’t been easy for anyone. I think it’s best you head home, have some time to get your head straight. I’ll contact you tomorrow.’
The walk to his desk felt like he was wading through treacle. Everyone was engrossed in their tasks: on phones, studying screens, consulting with colleagues. Eyes flicked to him for a second, then moved away.
Only the woman – Dragmar? – had come across. She’d placed a hand on his shoulder, asked how he was. As he’d made his way to the main doors, he noticed Fuller was at his desk. The man kept his eyes averted. So did DCs Morris and Moor.
The walkie-talkie clicked. ‘Sean?’
He retrieved the handset. ‘Coming.’
‘Have you got the radio on up there?’
‘No.’
‘There’s just been an announcement about Mark Wheeler. He’s not dead. Critical, but he’s alive.’
Sean sat up properly. ‘He is?’
‘They just said so. On BBC Radio Manchester.’
‘He’s alive? They said that?’
‘Yes!’
Sean bowed his head in thanks.
SIX
She lay on the floor like a shop dummy, arms and legs still vibrating from the charge. Funny how they did that, he thought, closing the front door behind him.
Knowing her muscles would cease to spasm in another few seconds, he hooded her then drew the string tight about her throat. He preferred an opaque bag: see-through ones allowed eye contact, which wasn’t pleasant.
A moment of welcome silence, as if she was thinking. Then the thin polythene began to crater across her mouth as she tried to drag in air. The crinkly noise sped up and he held her arms tight at her sides. Next, the legs started to thrash, heels hammering against the carpet.
Not long now.
He took the opportunity for a look around. The lounge was immediately to his right. Big telly and fat sofa. No sign of any books, as expected. A framed photo on the wall at the base of the stairs. Her and a female friend sipping from cocktails in a neon-lit bar. A closed door to his left with a cheap plastic plaque.
Salle de Bains.
He didn’t think she’d have spoken French. Probably just a memento from a holiday. Maybe the Danny she’d mentioned on the bus had treated her to a city break. An EasyJet flight to Paris, or Nice, or maybe that place over on the east coast. The one popular with lots of British.
The thump of her feet was growing less insistent.
Nantes, that was it. Convenient for getting to the coast. There was an island you could get a ferry to. Pleasant place, though a bit crowded. Very nice beaches.
She became still, at last.
As he’d walked up to her front door, he’d noticed the front room curtains were drawn. So he rose to his feet and, humming to himself, wandered in. On the table before the telly was an empty bottle of wine and four – no, five – cans of vodka and cranberry. Two were lying on their sides. An ashtray crowded with butts.
As he’d thought, not a single book in the place. All the shelving unit in the corner contained were DVDs. Friends. League of Gentlemen. Twilight. Pretty Woman. Mean Girls. All the signs of a slovenly lifestyle.
The armchair was ideal, though. High backed and with wide armrests. Getting her in a good position would be easy.
He went back into the hallway, loosened the string and slid the bag off her head. Not got much to say now, have you? Miniscule blossoms of blood, fragile as snowflakes, dotted her eyeballs. Sadly, they’d soon lose definition to become ugly smears.
He reached into the pocket of the dressing gown to remove her phone. It was long and narrow. Even though her mouth could accommodate it quite comfortably, he’d already made the decision about taking their tongues.
The sight of them, in their jars on the shelf in his garage, was something he liked to … he searched for the appropriate word. Savour? He almost smiled. Very droll. His first attempt had been clumsy. For a start, he’d only realized it would be necessary to cut it out after he’d propped her in the chair. He’d not come equipped with a knife, so had ended up searching through her kitchen and she didn’t have one with a serrated edge.
As with everything in life, he said to himself, you could improve. That was something he always told his students. He removed the side of the console and laid the panel on the floor. Taped to its inner surface was a wooden-handled fold-out knife. He liked its design, especially the small, crescent-shaped groove on one side of the blade. He inserted the nail of his thumb into it and pulled the six-inch length of metal clear. A row of tiny teeth ran along its lower edge.
SEVEN
His mum was at the cooker, slowly circling a wooden spatula in a shallow pan. Scrambled eggs. Something she always did when she felt he needed pepping up.
Her left forearm was resting across the top of her walking frame and her right hip was jutting out. He wondered how long she’d been on her feet; too much standing and her lower back would be making her wince by lunchtime.
‘I can do that, Mum.’
She spoke over her shoulder. ‘The toast’s about to pop up. You can be in charge of that.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, this is almost ready.’
A brief clank from the toaster proved her timing was spot-on. They both worked in silence for a while as the radio played a tune. Once the toast was buttered, he laid the slices on a plate and took a seat. At the scrape of his chair, she turned the gas off and lifted the pan from the hob. A well-oiled routine. The kitchen was small enough for her to be able to place the pan on the table without taking a step.
‘Cheers, Mum.’ He tipped the pan up and the scrambled eggs slid onto his toast. After taking a sip of tea, he reached for the pepper.
‘Tracksuit?’
He glanced up to see her manoeuvring herself down opposite him. ‘No point in getting dressed properly. They told me to take some time off.’
‘Some?’
‘I’m not sure. He said he’d be in touch.’
‘And do you feel the need to be at home?’
He hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m certainly not feeling one hundred per cent. Not after what happened.’
‘I’m sure the rest of the team isn
’t, either. They will have been working until god-knows-when. And they’ll be back in there now, you can be sure of that.’
It occurred to him that, as he’d left the office, DS Fuller had been at his desk. DCs Morris and Moor were at theirs, too. They’d all been busily working. Playing their part. Was he the only one who Ransford had sent home?
She tipped her head towards the radio. ‘Your colleague survived. That weight is lifted.’
‘Yeah, but …’ He shook his head. ‘We went over all this yesterday.’
‘We did – and what happened in that back garden was not your fault.’
‘You might think that.’
‘And if you suspect people on your team think differently, that’s all the more reason to be in. You have to get things straight with Ransford, and fast. Fight your corner, Sean!’
He took a gulp of tea. She was right. She was always bloody right.
‘Sean, you had a shocker of a first day. I know that. But what they’ll be looking for now? A willingness to get stuck in, believe me. And you’re not showing that by sitting here …’
‘Feeling sorry for myself. Right?’
She pursed her lips. ‘I didn’t say that. We all have set backs, we all have things go wrong. But it’s how—’
‘We deal with them that counts.’ Number two from Mum’s list of favourite speeches, he thought. The prospect of stepping back into the incident room turned his stomach. He gave up sawing through his toast and took another gulp of tea instead.
‘Think about it this way, then,’ she announced. ‘The bastard tried to kill one of yours. Everyone – and I mean everyone, Sean – now has one thing on their mind: catching him.’
His mind turned to what had happened to his mum. The incident that had ended her career in the police had very nearly killed her. As a teenager, he’d spent far too much time imagining scenarios where he got revenge on the driver. If she was deliberately trying to stir up those memories, it had certainly worked. He pushed his breakfast aside. ‘I’m going back.’