“In that case, you may proceed with the operation.”
Lindleman nodded, realised he was on a radio, said “yes sir,” and turned to look up the road. Not only were there the MCU parked up, but there was an honest to god armed response team.
Lindleman walked back towards them. “Okay people, you’ve got full permission to go in there and arrest the target. As we discussed, he will be prepared to use knives against you. No hint of guns, but we’d put him down as a fully emergent psychopath.”
“We can take it from here Detective,” an officer said wearing helmet to boot specialist equipment and with a semi-automatic weapon slung around him.
Lindleman nodded and went back with his MCU colleagues, as the specialists really did take it from there. They fanned out, to close off the road, to cover front and rear, and then a group of officers with weapons up went to the front door.
“I’ve always wanted to smash a door down,” Grayling noted as a specialist raised a large red tool designed to be swung and in turn crush a door open. “Oh, hey Inspector, are you ok?”
Sharma had hung back, sent Lindleman on to deal with the armed officers. “Yeah, I’ve done my fair share of kicking doors while holding rifles and seeing it still gives me the chills. Of course, Shaver hasn’t put an IED on his path and a sniper in his window, but I can very much live without it.”
Lindleman nudged Sharma’s arm out of genuine concern and she nodded and smiled, and they understood each other. No jokes.
The hammer was swung back and then it splintered a lock open. Guns up, the firearms team ran into the house, leaving everyone outside hoping if not actually praying for a complete lack of gunshots. No one, genuinely no one, wanted the suspect killed. But then there was a series of obscenities shouted, and a man was dragged outside. His hands had been cuffed behind him, he was stripped to the waist whereupon sweatpants started, and he was definitely Harry Shaver, apprehended with the minimum of fuss and damage.
“Well that is a good start,” Sharma noted, beginning to relax and put her past back into its box. “Lindleman and I will return with him and interview, you lot search the house. We want a murder weapon and as close to a contract signed by Quince agreeing to a series of murders as you can get. Sound good to everyone?”
“Yes boss.”
Quince was trying to calm himself. He was no use when panicking, so he had to remain cool and collected. He was an elder, he ran his own church, he was not going to go running about like a lunatic. Karen did that, she reacted badly, but no he was not. He did not have panic attacks, even if he had a few drinks to calm those nerves of his. Oh, they were playing up today, but if he just breathed and focused, he could zero in on the problem and the solution he needed to take.
So, problem: Karen probably knew he’d had people killed, had panicked at the mere sight of him, and was related to the journalist investigating him. Okay Quince, stay calm, he thought. It was, however, rather problematic. That was not a ‘talk off the ledge’ summary; this is bad.
The solution: Karen must die.
He’d moved beyond the point of common sense, of rational, of the last shreds of morality. He saw things differently to the average person now and not in a creative, free-wheeling way. He saw a solution and it was only more death, but it pleased him.
The question was, how to get rid of Karen?
He picked his phone up and rang Shaver. Really, he ought to go around to the man and speak in person but there might not be time; who knew what Karen was doing.
He rang but there was no answer. He rang again and got no further. He kept ringing and nothing. What a fucking awful time to be having a shower or asleep Quince thought, so he stopped ringing and put the phone to his mouth. What to do? What to do?
He now dialled a number he found on the computer. There was no way this was going to work.
It worked.
“Hello,” came a frightened voice from the other end.
“Don’t cut me off Karen,” Quince said.
“You know, I know, don’t you?” she said softly.
“Yes. I want to talk with you about this.”
“What is there to say?” she asked.
Quince looked at the screen, at the description of Karen’s illness, and he went in.
“Do you know how small you are Karen? How insignificant. How worthless. What will happen if you tell the police? Oh, that a respected church elder had two people killed, there’s a regular serial killer around. Do you think they’ll listen? To you? A woman who’s been locked up. Heard voices? You’re nothing Karen, you know what you should do? Kill yourself. Do it. You should have done it ages ago. Do it, commit finally, end your worthless life because if you don’t, I will ruin you and have you back inside for even thinking of attacking me. How does that sound Karen, how does that sound?”
“I… I…”
The phone went dead, and Quince ran the last part back in his head. The way she said “I…” did that mean she actually, was going to do it?
“Are we ready to begin the interview?” Sharma asked the room. It was a small space, just enough to fit a wooden table with metal legs in, have two sets of wooden chairs either side and the recording apparatus spread throughout the room. Everything spoken, as well as video footage, would be recorded onto discs and kept for the case, and hopefully a prosecution.
“Don’t bother me.” The man who said this was thickset, with a face like someone had beaten him with a pan. He was looking around, seemingly at things that weren’t there.
His lawyer said, “yes.”
Sharma ran through the official text, then she and Lindleman got down to business.
“You are Harry Shaver?”
“He is,” said the lawyer, “and he would like to submit a prepared statement.”
Lindleman opened his mouth to say, ‘I assume you have prepared something in actual Queen’s English and not the doggerel this man comes out with but go on’ but instead said “okay.”
“My client believes he has been arrested in connection with two murders, of a man and a woman. My client states he was at home at the time of both murders, has nothing to do with them, and his criminal record shows he would never hurt a woman. He believes you are profiling him because he has a criminal past and he will sue you for it.”
“And he said that did he?” Sharma asked, “just like that.”
“What’s your point?”
“Okay, then I have a few questions based on that statement. Firstly, we retrieved a knife from your property. A very unusual knife, please see the photo; where did you get it from?”
“Shop,” said Shaver.
“Which shop?”
“Online.”
“Okay, because in your house we found a credit card which had been stolen and used to purchase this knife from a local shop.”
“Danna know what ya mean. Na illegal to buy a knife.”
“Forensics are examining the knife, but there is blood on it.”
“I cut maself, tricky.”
“So, you reject the idea the knife is stained with the blood of either Mr Webb or Mrs Cook?”
“Yeah.”
“You had a roll of notes in your flat Harry, thousands of pounds in twenty-pound notes.”
“That’s not illegal.”
“Anyone paying you for anything?”
“Nah.”
“Also, your fingerprints, which have been taken before and were just taken, match fingerprints found on rubber gloves discarded near the scene of Mrs Cook’s killing. The gloves are covered in blood which matches Mrs Cook’s.”
“Sorry?” the lawyer said.
“We have his fingerprints basically on her blood.”
“Oh,” said the lawyer. “Can I have a word with my client please?”
“Am I in trouble?” Shaver asked everyone in the room.
“We need to tal…”
“Well I think we have enough to charge you,” Sharma said, “so if there’s anything you’d like to voluntee
r to us it might get better in a court situation.”
“Yeah, yeah I got summit. This ain’t my idea. I did it right, I ain’t stupid, you got me fingers and the blood, I did it, but it ain’t my idea. I was paid to do it, right, I was paid.”
“And who paid you?”
“Edward Quince.”
Quince stood up. This was silly, he had no way of knowing if that girl would kill herself, and as confidant as he was in his abilities as a charismatic, messianic figure he had to be sure that girl was dead. Which, he said to himself as he left the room, meant he had to do it himself. Shaver wasn’t answering his phone, so Edward Quince would have to step into his destiny and do the right thing; kill Karen with his own hands.
Well, not with his own hands, let’s be realistic about this. There was no way he was going to stab someone, that felt far too common, he would do it a noble way, he would shoot her. Of course, that meant he’d need a gun, and they didn’t come in packets of five in your local Asda. So, where did a man of influence get a gun from?
He was aware that Britain had a vast criminal underworld full of the things, but he didn’t have enough time to make those contacts. Shaver was off, Stuart would take too long, if Karen wasn’t slitting her wrists she could be talking to her sister. He needed a gun and he needed it right now. So, the question was, again, where could he get a gun from?
Farmers. Farmers had guns, for animal reasons. Shooting foxes and stuff, right? And the church had more than a few farmers in attendance, so he sat down at his computer and started going through the personnel files. Who did they have who owed him and from whom he could wrangle a gun? Now his abilities as a charismatic, messianic figure would come in handy.
“I think we deserve a coffee,” Grayling said as she crossed the Bunker to get one.
“Aye,” Maruma replied as he laid back on the sofa. It wasn’t that he was tired, he could survive on four hours of sleep easily, and could press with much less, but it was just a calming thing to do, rest back and wait for the interview to be finished.
“Aye? What dialect are you trying to use?”
“Just, aye, yunno, yes, aye, it’s universal.”
“Right, so we’re not culturally appropriating pirates?”
“They stole stuff all the time, fair’s fair,” and he started laughing so she did too.
“Yes, they culturally appropriated the booty.”
“I feel Lindleman would make an on-point cultural reference now, so we’ll have to make do with imagining.”
“Indeed. Right, was that a yes to coffee?”
“Yes, it’s a yes.”
“Good. Hang on, what’s this?”
“A coffee machine”
“It’s a new kind of pod. For a chai. What’s a chai?”
“Oh, Susan left those I think, some kind of new-fangled thing.”
“Does it have caffeine in it?”
“I have no idea. Try one.”
“There is only so much time in life and I will not waste it on coffee substitutes that do not have caffeine.”
“I’m sure you could just do a line of coke. I think the drugs unit raided some yesterday.”
“The drugs unit… I bet they drink chai. Google chai and tell me what it is,” she said.
Maruma held the phone above his face and typed with his thumb. “Right, wiki says Masala chai is a flavoured tea beverage made by brewing black tea with a mixture of aromatic spices and herbs. Originating in the Indian subcontinent.”
“Wiki?” Grayling said with the tone of someone who’d just sat on a hedgehog.
“It’s for finding out what tea is, I’m not citing it in court.”
“Oh, right. Fair point.”
“So black tea, does it have caffeine in?”
“Why don’t you just try it. Make a cup and we’ll both give it a go.”
“Deal. I love a good suicide pact.”
“Well Susan’s not exactly on heroin so it’ll be fine.”
The door flew open and Susan appeared. “We were just…” but Grayling stopped as she saw the look of utter panic on the journalists face. “What is it?”
“There was a note, at home, a fucking note,” and she held a piece of paper up with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Maruma and Grayling ran over, took it and read it.
‘I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. I’m going to end it. The church is rotten. Evil. Elder Quince has had two people murdered. Paid a thug to kill them. The church killed people! It’s all I had; it’s all I loved, it’s what accepted me, and it’s evil. I’m going, I’m going. You were right sis. I’m so sorry. Karen’.
“Okay, Susan, sit down, you’re hyperventilating or panicking or something.”
“I just, I…she’s out there, oh god she’s out there.”
“Sit down Susan, sit down and breathe.”
“What do we do?” Susan gasped.
“Simple,” Grayling replied, “we go and find her, we stop her, we talk to her, we’re the police we have managed to scrape enough money to keep a counsellor on board for victims of crimes, witnesses and all that. Besides, Wick’s got a contact at a genuinely nice church ready to provide spiritual support. It’s going to be fine.”
“But I’ve no idea where she is!”
Grayling nodded, “well that is a very good point.”
“So how do we find her?” Susan said again.
“She has a mobile phone, we can request its location,” Grayling said grabbing a phone to make a call.
“How long will that take? We need to be moving now!”
Grayling nodded at Susan and turned to Maruma. “Okay, play the game, where will she be?”
Maruma smiled that calm, detached grin that some people found so scary. “Her current reality just got destroyed. She’ll return to where she last tried to kill herself and finish the job.”
“Then we go there right now while we wait for the phone data.”
It had once been a car park, but the collapse of the high street meant traffic declined and there was no point in keeping it open. Not that you could easily shutter such a place, and the chain fence around it had been opened at multiple points, the walls had been covered in graffiti ranging from amateur to deserving of an award, small fires had been lit which stained the walls and roof in black soot, and people came here for a private place to take their drugs. The ground underfoot could contain smashed glass, piss and needles, and someone, at some strange point, had even dragged an armchair which sat inside and gave lice to anyone deciding to sit on it.
Karen walked through this training ground for the apocalypse, finding no comfort in the brutal concrete or the sites of degradation. She walked on through until she came to the third floor, a small corner of the huge structure which looked out over a park. Ironically, as a young woman she was probably safer in this car park with visions of her own death than walking in that park, in which corrupted souls had edged out happy families. This was the dark heart of Morthern, and Karen sat down ready to take a deep drink from its cup.
She had a knife in her hand. You could walk into any supermarket and buy the perfect implement for killing someone, including yourself. It just took determination.
She sat down, by a patch of crimson on the ground which was surely her own blood from last time, and she regarded the scar on her arm. Easy enough to open that, so she took the knife and…
“Wait!” came a voice she didn’t recognise, which made her turn.
Three figures were advancing at speed toward her. A tall black man, a tall but terribly pale woman, and her own sister. Karen’s eyes widened and she looked down at her wrist. This was new, this was different, but was it different enough. No, no it wasn’t…
“All of you stop.”
A voice everyone recognised. The voice which had access to the complete profile of Karen, and who had played the game as well as Maruma. Edward Quince stepped out of the darkness, where he had been watching Karen, and he came with a double-barrelled shotgun raise
d up at them all.
Karen was sat on the ground, the knife now hanging by her side. Susan had stepped between Karen and Quince, and had her fists balled. In turn Grayling was between Susan and the elder, her baton out, and Maruma was just a step behind at her right.
“Now, what are we going to do with all of you?” Quince said, trying to work out who to shoot. He had two barrels and four people, and not much chance to reload.
Maruma looked at Quince. He looked at the stance, of his legs and the gun, he looked at his head, the expression on his face and the tone in his voice, he thought about everything he knew, and he turned to Grayling. “He won’t shoot.”
Grayling nodded and with utter confidence in her partner, utter disregard for the rules, and the darkness within which Maruma normally worked to keep shuttered, she surged forward, took a hold of the shotgun and pushed it to the floor, and then she whacked Quince in the head with the baton. When he fell, as he cried like a child who’d just been hit by a parent, she cuffed him. “Edward Quince, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
“You can’t do that,” he squealed.
“That was… stupid….” Karen said looking up.
“People hesitate,” Grayling replied, “doesn’t mean if you stand-off enough they won’t change their minds.” It was a poor attempt at an excuse for a woman currently resisting the temptation to beat Quince senseless.
“I meant you,” Karen said to Susan. “Shielding me.”
“Of course, I did,” Susan replied. “You’re my sister.”
“Even with everything I’ve said?”
“Especially with everything you said.” Susan held out a hand and pulled Karen upright. “So, are you ready to come back with us and be a star witness in a murder trial?”
“Yes, yes I am. What’ll happen to New Hope Church?”
Susan grinned, “the press will crucify it.”
Quince sat in an interview room. A very expensive lawyer sat to one side of him, while Sharma and Lindleman sat opposite.
Power and Control Page 24