by Devon De'Ath
“It’s all over the floor.” Vicky picked up her feet one at a time. She twisted to observe the footprints they’d made on entry, like evidence of those first souls to cross a smattering of sleet.
Bill’s jugular pumped against his collar. “Shit. It’s a fit-up.” He rummaged around in Tony’s jacket pockets.
Vicky peered over the desk, eyes strained. “What are you doing?”
“Checking to see if he’s still got the printouts. No. Too much to ask. They took them.”
“How did they get in, Bill? The office was locked. So was the building.”
Bill stood and backed away from the corpse of the faithful detective. “Who knows? Connections with my landlord? Influence over the locksmith who refitted the place after the break-in?” He tugged open his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a small, red cash box.
Vicky paled. “What are we going to do? Won’t we look guilty if we run?”
Bill stuffed wedges of twenty-pound notes into various pockets. “Do you expect to get a fair trial? Use your head, Vicky. They were onto Tony. I’d say three steps ahead. Someone planned this to get us out of the way. Look at the bloody drugs, for fuck’s sake. They must have laid a trail all the way to the door before locking it again.”
Vicky gulped. “I’m at a loss.”
Bill grabbed her arm and marched out into the upstairs corridor. He flicked off the overhead light, tugged the door shut and locked it.
Vicky flexed tightening fingers to keep from shaking. “Why are you doing that?”
Bill hurried towards the staircase at double-time. “I’m operating under the assumption officers answering a tip-off they’re about to get, won’t be carrying keys. Any delay before they break-in to find their slain colleague buys us time. Even a few minutes.”
Vicky gripped the dark wooden banister to stop herself tumbling into Bill during their rapid descent. “Where will we go? How do you hide from the law?”
Bill yanked open the front door, then checked both ways outside. The street remained quiet and free of obvious witnesses. He pulled Vicky out behind him, then secured the building. “I have an idea for starters. We’ll stop by yours on the way. I need you to chuck some clothes and toiletries in a bag. Enough for a few days. Something warm for sleeping outdoors. Can you do that?”
Vicky pushed down a tremor in her voice. “I’ve still got a backpack from my gap year at uni. What about you?”
Bill unlocked the Skoda and jumped in, Vicky close behind. “I keep a go-bag in the boot at all times. You never know where a surveillance job will lead, or for how long.” He started the engine, threw the car into reverse and executed a rapid turn to bring them round facing the correct way out of the tiny road. “We’ll have minutes, Vicky. You can bet whoever did this, knew what time we were meeting Tony.”
Vicky pressed fingernails into either side of the passenger seat. “Do you think they’ll know I was also meeting him?”
Bill clenched his jaw and floored it down the next street. “Would you like me to leave you at home, in case they’re oblivious to your involvement? What does your heart tell you?”
Vicky looked away. “That they’re gunning for both of us.”
Blue strobes reflected off buildings ahead. Bill tucked the Skoda into a tight gap between two parked vehicles and nixed his lights. He thrust a flat palm on top of Vicky’s head, bringing them both down beneath the dashboard. Two police cars roared past in the opposite direction. The moment they were clear, Bill pulled out and drove as fast as he dared without drawing undue attention, toward Allington. “Take the battery out of your phone.”
“What?”
“Your mobile.” He pulled out his own, then tossed it in her lap. “Remove both our phone batteries.”
“Can they track us?”
“If they’re not already, they soon will be. Once that lot find Tony, I’d give it less than an hour before they’ve arranged a RIPA live trace with our CSP’s. Since we’re being set up, I’d bet on sooner. Police investigation data from Hirsig House and our report may have been expunged, but I’ll guarantee somebody, somewhere will have retained our phone numbers.”
“What’s a CSP?” Vicky fumbled with the mobile phone battery covers.
“Communications Service Provider. They’ll drip-feed real-time comms data to the police. Every phone mast we activate, with its date, time and azimuth. Any numbers we call or text. The IP addresses of computers we connect to, such as e-mail servers.”
“What about that thing where they triangulate your position from mast signals? Won’t they find us if they’re already looking?”
Bill shook his head. “That’s television. It doesn’t work like that in the real world. The best they’ll get is a general area of several square miles. From there it’s intelligent guesswork.” He slowed and turned down a side street as another police car barrelled past in the opposite direction. "Unless we post public social media messages. Stuff including our location info. Many posts append geodata, regardless of whether it's displayed on-screen.”
Vicky tugged both batteries clear. “Done. So we mustn’t power-up the phones. Got it. What about your car?”
Bill swung into Vicky’s road. “We’ll get to that. Jump out while I turn around. Don’t be long. If you hear me honk the horn, grab whatever is in your hands and run for the door.”
Vicky skidded up her garden path, dropping a set of house keys halfway. She scooped them up in shaking hands, then made three attempts before opening her front door. Inside, she thudded upstairs to the master bedroom. In a curious repetition of her burglar's actions, she yanked drawers out and dumped their contents atop the mattress. On the floor at the back of her wardrobe, a robust green backpack sat almost empty, bar basic camping kit. It had enjoyed some action during her student travels, but not seen the light of day since. Thank God this is still in good condition. She stuffed underwear, t-shirts, spare trousers and any other basics that sprang to her terrified mind down into the copious carrying receptacle. She stumbled into the bathroom. Creams and sprays clattered into the sink as she pulled out her wall cabinet contents in a quest for bath and body shower gel, deodorant, toothpaste and a brush. Two hand-towels followed them into the bag. Vicky clicked off the upstairs lights, then raced back down to the hallway. Thin-strapped, open sandals with impractical heels flew over her shoulder as she rummaged for a pair of waxed walking boots in the hall cupboard. She sat on the bottom stair to tug them on, leaving the laces undone until she was back in the car. For one heady and sickening moment Vicky glanced around her comfortable house; the last legacy of Emma and Charlie’s love. Would she ever come back to it? A waterproof, hooded parka came away from behind a lighter jacket on her coat rack. She grabbed the pack in the other hand, then slammed the front door behind her.
Bill watched her hobble down the path, unfastened laces flying in all directions. He recognised her choice not to linger and tie them while still inside. Shoulders pressed back into his driver’s seat, a certain respect swept over him as Vicky tugged open a rear door to dump her backpack inside. This was the girl who’d escaped that cult in hot pursuit as a child. A feast for the eyes she might be, but Victoria Lambert was no shrinking violet nor helpless damsel in distress. Maybe they had a chance after all?
“Go.” Vicky tugged the front passenger door shut. She clicked her seatbelt home, heart pounding in her ears. Bill gunned the engine. He tore down the A20, peeling through roundabouts into a quiet residential street two miles northwest at Ditton. Vicky glanced about in a panic. “That’s it?” Her face darkened. “They’ll find us here in no time.”
Bill got out of the car. “Grab your bag. The guy who lives here owes me a favour.”
Vicky decamped and wrestled her backpack free of the rear seat. “Does that extend to assisting fugitives?”
Bill opened the boot to retrieve his own backpack and a holdall. “Terry runs a business with a chequered legal history. He hates the filth. I once did a job exposing a professional acquaintance who s
tole from him. He’ll play ball. I guarantee it.” He clicked the boot shut and locked the car.
“Bill Rutherford. Now there’s a blast from the past.” A short, stocky, balding man with twinkling eyes and the archetypal roguish half-smile peered out as he opened his front door. The stub of a fading cigarette glowed between two yellowed fingers of his right hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure, me ole mucker?” He clocked Vicky. “And I do say ‘pleasure.’ My goodness, who is this tasty bit of crumpet?”
Vicky swallowed her pride, resisting the urge to bite back as she would under normal circumstances. This was no time to antagonise someone from whom they needed urgent help.
Bill looked round. “Vicky Lambert, meet Terry Coulter. Terry, Vicky. Listen, Mate, I need to call in that favour.”
Terry stamped the cigarette out on his doorstep, then flexed his fingers. “You’d best come inside.”
They crossed the threshold. Vicky kept her eyes lowered while Terry Coulter’s roamed all over her curves. He shut the door, blocking off any hope of allowing fresh air into a nicotine clouded atmosphere. “Beer?”
Bill shook his head. “We’re in trouble with the law.”
Terry motioned for them to sit on his sofa, while he turned off the TV and sunk down in an armchair. “Blimey, there’s a turnout for the books. What did the pair of you do?”
Bill ran one tense hand through his hair. “It’s a fit-up, Terry. We stumbled upon something during an investigation. One that certain people in prominent places would like to keep quiet. They’ve killed a copper at my office and planted a shit pile of drugs there. We arrived around ten for a meeting with the guy they murdered. Barely got away by the skin of our teeth, before the troops showed up.”
Terry leaned forwards, eyes widening. “Bugger me. Who have you upset this time?”
Vicky piped up. “Bad people.”
Terry eyed her. “Bad people depend on your point of view in my game, Love.”
Vicky shivered. “These hurt innocents. Children, homeless people, even animals. They’re violent and insane.”
Terry took a lengthy breath. “Well that puts a unique spin on things.” He nodded at Bill. “What do you need from me?”
“When they find the dead detective in my office, my Skoda’s gonna get red-flagged on ANPR pretty damn quick. We can’t take the chance of a random mobile unit stopping us, or of the car hitting the top spot on an intercept list.”
“I can tuck it away in my garage until you get righteous again. I assume that’s what you’re looking to do?”
Bill shrugged. “Or die trying.”
Terry went on. “I don’t have a spare car for you, and I need my work van.”
Bill shook his head. “It’s okay. Cars are too much of a risk. We’ll drop off the grid. Trains for transport. Even then, we won’t travel together. But we need a ride to London for starters.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Mate? London’s got more cams than anywhere.”
“There’s some stuff I need to fetch. Plus we’ve got multiple direction choices to fan out from there, depending how things progress. Tonight we’ll doss down in Greenwich Park. It’s too much of a coincidence if we show up at a homeless shelter right away. Murphy’s Law says the date will stick in somebody’s memory. Gotta disrupt any neat breadcrumb trails. The problem is, if we catch a train from Maidstone - assuming plod aren’t already watching local stations - there’ll be a lead to follow up once they check the camera feeds. We should disappear and pop up somewhere else. Somewhere they can’t connect the dots back here.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to kip at mine, tonight? Ange won’t mind.”
“Too risky. We need a head start out of town before this incident hits the news. Once tomorrow’s early police shifts get briefed about us…”
Terry hopped up. “Say no more. No time to lose. Have you and the bird eaten?”
Bill stood. “Uh-huh. Right before we went to my office. We’ve nothing for the morning, but I know a few smaller charities from my days on the streets. Their staff won’t ask too many questions. We can get a shower and some hot food at one of them.”
“Okay.” Terry disappeared into his kitchen. He returned two minutes later with a supermarket carrier bag filled with half a loaf of bread, some crisps, peanuts, apples, fun-size chocolate bars and a two litre bottle of mineral water. “Don’t let word get around about the mineral water, it’ll ruin my rep. The missus buys it.”
Bill grinned. “Where is Angela?”
Terry passed the bag to Vicky. “Over at her bridge club. Fuck me, I thought I'd enjoy a few beers in front of the snooker tonight. Ah well. Needs must.”
Bill tossed Terry his car keys. “Thanks.”
Terry chucked them back. “You drive it into the garage while I fire up the van. The pair of you better keep low in the back and pray we’re not stopped.”
Five more minutes saw Bill’s Skoda concealed at the rear of a double-length garage. Vicky and Bill climbed into the back of Terry’s beaten-up, red Vauxhall work van with their luggage. They wedged themselves between bags of tools and wooden offcuts, enough to avoid sliding around or lurching every time Terry applied his squealing brakes.
A short while later, the shoddy Vauxhall commercial vehicle pulled off a slip road onto the London-bound M20.
9
Temple Church
Bill held up a hand to wave. He lingered beneath a lamppost on a lonely backstreet near King William Walk, outside Greenwich Park. Vicky stood beside him, pack hitched over one shoulder, bag of snacks in the other. Her eyes remained downcast.
Terry Coulter flashed the lights of his red van once, then slipped off towards the quiet, leafy ascent of Crooms Hill and Blackheath.
Vicky zipped her parka, glad they weren't forced to go on the run during winter.
Bill shouldered his pack and picked up the holdall. “Come on. I know a place we can slip inside the park unnoticed. There are plenty of trees for concealment. As long as we keep quiet, stick to the shadows and steer clear of the observatory, we’ll be okay.” He adjusted the distributed weight of his burden, then set off for a secluded entry point remembered from days gone by. “I hope they haven’t changed it.”
The pair were in luck. Within thirty minutes, Bill had led Vicky to a nondescript patch of trees and undergrowth.
Vicky reached into her parka pocket. “I’ve got a torch.” She clicked on a bright beam.
“Whoa. Turn it off,” Bill called in an agitated whisper.
The sound of crisp shoes clipping along a tarmac path in the still night air caused them both to freeze. Static and garbled transmissions crackled from a two-way radio. The rich voice of a West Indian man replied to the jumble of sounds. “Okay, I’ll head over and look. Kids playing by the fountain again, I expect. Out.” He released the radio’s PTT button and stormed away. A faint muttering of “Could have sworn I saw a light,” drifted into the damp ether.
Vicky breathed again. She spoke in subdued tones. “Sorry, Bill.” Her eyes adjusted to the low light conditions enough to make out Bill unfolding something from a toggle bag.
“Don’t worry about it. I can do this blindfolded. It’s a dome tent. Enough to keep us dry and semi-warm. I hope you don’t mind bedding down with a cheapskate gumshoe. Unless you’ve a canvas version of ‘The Ritz’ tucked away in that pack of yours?”
“No such luck. I’ve got a sleeping bag and bedroll.”
Bill secured the tent in place. “That’ll do for now.” Bill opened the flaps. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to drop.”
Vicky set down her bedroll and sleeping bag inside, mostly by feel. Bill followed suit, and they zipped themselves in for a few hours rest.
In the quiet of the dark tent, disturbed only by the occasional rumble of planes overhead, Vicky replayed the whirl of events that led them here. “Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“How old was DS Quarry?”
Bill sighed. “Early forties. He told me once th
at he joined the job at twenty. Why?”
“He must have been a new starter when my family were murdered.”
“That sounds about right. Are you wondering why nobody at the police recalled the incident from your childhood?”
“My adoptive mother showed me a local paper article she’d saved about it. You’d think a story like that would provoke national scandal. Even then the media were warned against speculating about the murders. The incident disappeared, as if from memory and record.”
Bill stared at the fabric roof above them. “So the cult got it all shut down, then continued their activities elsewhere. How many people have paid the ultimate price for their depravity and mental illness now?” Bill grimaced at the term ‘mental illness.’ However mad the group’s travelling, hooded vandal was, he evidenced power beyond rational explanation. They were dealing with more than random nutters.
Vicky allowed his rhetorical question to float above them for a moment. “Why are we in London, Bill? I realise we needed to get out of Maidstone, but don’t our answers lie in Kent? Do you intend us to sneak back on the train, once this has blown over?”
“How long would that be? No. I grabbed five hundred quid in cash from my emergency office fund. I’m amazed it was left when they nabbed my laptop. But if we end up travelling here, there and everywhere, the money won’t last long. I own a locker at a quiet gym on the outskirts of the city. From time to time, clients with cash flow problems opt to pay with minor items of jewellery and sundry valuables. Stuff I could pawn in a pinch.”
“What’s that got to do with London?”
“Call me a doom-monger, but I’ve long been of the opinion society was skating on a knife edge. If global finance collapses, people will turn to items of tangible value to barter with. I always figured my best starting point during such a crisis would be the city. Besides, the gym owner was a peer from my homeless days. He got off the streets and did well for himself. Sold the business and retired early. My lifetime membership - including the locker - was a gift. A way to thank me for saving his arse from muggers on the streets of Catford, back in the day.”