Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “Cool.”

  “How much are you taking tonight?” Jag asked matter-of-factly.

  “Usual.”

  “Good. I’ll see to it.”

  Come on, girl, keep going. Charlie ransacked her mind for another angle she could feed through to keep the conversation going, but Zoë had it all under control.

  “I might need more than usual next weekend,” she said.

  “Oh? That’s good.” Jag sounded both puzzled and pleased. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve made a couple of new contacts. Thing is, they want a mixed bag.”

  “What exactly?” Jag’s voice was edged with curiosity – and something else. Greed.

  Zoë lowered her voice so that Charlie had to strain to make out the words. “Couple of bricks. Some smack.”

  “No problem.”

  “And some GHB. You know, the stuff you got for Flynn.”

  “Why?”

  “Comes in handy when I need to make a quick exit. Know what I mean?”

  “You’re evil, Zoë,” Jag laughed. “That’s why I like you. Listen, not so easy to get the GHB. It took a little time before.”

  “Did the job though, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. Bloody good thing, too – that copper was going to blow the trumpet, that’s for sure. Anyways, Atul will deal with it. No worries.”

  “Can he get it OK?”

  “Yah, yah. Just a bit tricky, that’s all. Give me a few days.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be waiting, big man,” Zoë trilled.

  Harding swivelled in his chair and made elated thumbs-up signs to Charlie. She sat back, relieved. They’d got all the evidence they needed. She high-fived Harding.

  “No excuse to turn that drink down now, right?” he beamed.

  “Drink later. Food now,” Charlie said firmly. Having missed out on supper yet again, her stomach was rumbling. “There’s a late chippie around the corner. Interested?”

  “Am I ever?” Harding enthused, “And you’d better get something for Helen, too. She eats like a horse.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be delighted with that observation, DC Harding,” Charlie chuckled. “Fish supper coming up.”

  Charlie slipped out of her seat and slid open the door catch. As she walked briskly along the street she reflected on her first few days in TVP. All in all, not a bad start, Charlie. DCI Rawlings, her old guv’nor, would have been proud of her. She made a mental note to give him a call in the morning.

  She thought of Harding’s invitation and smiled to herself. He wasn’t bad looking, but her rule was to keep the job well separate from her private life. She’d seen too many relationships founder under the spotlight of the incident room.

  Charlie followed her nose into the chip shop and noted with satisfaction that the owner was in the process of laying out a fresh batch of newly-fried cod. Her mouth began to water at the delicious smells, but then she guiltily remembered Moran. She might have got a result tonight, but Moran had the tougher task. As she waited to be served she wondered how her new DCI was getting on.

  Moran gripped the steering wheel and tried to stick to the speed limit. It wasn’t easy. His satnav display read: Bath: 51 miles. What would he do when he got there? What appeal could he make to Neads’ malfunctioning mind? The call he’d made to Bagri half an hour before he left had raised more questions than it had provided answers.

  “I am no expert in psychiatric conditions, Detective Inspector Moran,” Bagri had admitted. “But it sounds to me, from what your young chiropractic receptionist has told you, as though your fellow could be suffering from what is known as dissociative identity disorder.”

  “Go on,” Moran had prompted.

  “I am having to remember carefully; it is a long time since I studied these things. Now, yes, dissociative identity disorder is characterised by the presence of two or more distinct or split identities or personality states that continually have power over the person's behaviour. Your Mr Neads may have difficulty recalling key personal information. He may have memory variations which fluctuate with his split personalities. All the different identities will have their own age, sex or race, each with his or her own postures, gestures and very distinctive way of talking. Each personality controls the poor man’s behaviour and thoughts. I am thinking it is called ‘switching’. Now, this switching can take seconds, or minutes, or days. He may have headaches, amnesia, time loss, all sorts of bad mental disruptions. Maybe even he will begin to self-persecute. Maybe he will be violent. Detective Chief Inspector,” Bagri had warned solemnly, “I am thinking you must be most careful.”

  Despite Bagri’s analysis of Neads’ possible condition, Moran didn’t believe he would hurt Jaseena – by the girl’s own testimony he had professed to love her only weeks before. No, he wanted Jaseena on board to get back at Jag. On the other hand, Moran fretted, Shona was a different matter; the ex-sergeant was plainly aware of Moran’s close attachment to the pretty physiotherapist, a fact that Moran was sure Neads would have no hesitation in exploiting.

  His thoughts returned to Charnford, where it had all started. If only he had kept Neads with him that night instead of sending him to interview a suspect, none of this would be happening. If only... No good, Moran, no good thinking that...

  He checked the mileage again. Sod it, he thought, and put his foot to the floor.

  Harding turned at the sound of the rap on the van door. It wasn’t quite the signal they’d prearranged, but he imagined Charlie juggling packets of hot chips and reached for the lock with a grin of anticipation.

  As the door slid open the first thing he saw was Helen’s blank expression. Before he had time to register alarm she had been pushed, sprawling, into the body of the van beside him, followed by Zoë, yelling and cursing at the top of her voice. Her cries were abruptly cut off as an arm reached in and struck her on the head. Zoë collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

  All this happened in seconds. Before Harding was able to react the door had closed and he heard a heavy bang as something smashed into the lock. Harding swore and heaved at the handle, but the mechanism had been effectively disabled. He turned to Helen who was nursing a bruised forehead.

  “Are you OK? What’s going down?” He tried to keep panic out of his voice. Calm, Ken, calm… Charlie’ll be back any time, it’s cool... He shook Helen by the shoulders. “Helen?”

  But Helen was groggy and clearly unwell; she sank to the floor, retching and moaning. Zoë was out cold. Harding squeezed past her prone body into the driving cab. What he saw next froze the blood in his veins.

  Two guys outside were sloshing liquid all over the van from plastic canisters. Petrol. Harding banged on the windscreen, pulled at the door handle. A face looked in at him, a man in his thirties with a goatee and a mole on his cheek. His face was expressionless. God, they can’t, they wouldn’t...

  Harding threw his weight on the passenger door, but it was solid, reinforced and customised for police work. He banged on the windows, frantically scanning the pavement for passers by but the streets were quiet. Either everyone had gone home for the night or they were continuing their evening in the clubs. Where was Charlie?

  The goatee man stood back and his accomplice, hooded and half-masked across his mouth, flicked a Zippo. The bluish yellow flame flickered as he brought the lighter towards the Vauxhall Movano’s bonnet. Oh God, oh God…

  Harding felt a hot gush between his legs as a sheet of flame leaped skywards and enveloped the cab. The flames quickly spread to the roof and found their way into the engine compartment. Harding screamed and covered his face with his hands.

  As Charlie turned the corner she heard the crump of the explosion before she saw the fire. A gust of petrol-laden wind ruffled her hair and she staggered back, dropping the bundles of hot fish. She clung to the wall of the corner shop in horror, unable to believe what her eyes and ears were telling her. Harding... Oh my God, Harding...

  She broke
into a wobbling run, calling for help as she stumbled towards the conflagration. She couldn’t get within five metres; the van was burning like a funeral pyre, shooting flames and acrid black smoke high into the atmosphere. Charlie shrieked and tried to move closer, shielding her face, feeling her skin starting to sting in the intense heat. She became aware of hands trying to restrain her; people had appeared from nowhere, drawn by the noise of the exploding petrol tank. She shrugged the hands off.

  “Someone’s in there. My friend is in there.” Charlie dropped her hands to her side and fell to her knees as she realised it was all futile. If Harding was still in the van he had no chance. Sirens ululated, the sound drawing closer. Soon two police cars swerved into view.

  Charlie allowed herself to be led towards the first uniformed officer to emerge from his patrol car. She couldn’t understand why everybody seemed to be moving in slow motion. When the uniform asked her who she was and what had happened, she could barely speak her name.

  Chapter 29

  Charlie cradled the hot mug of tea in her hands. The shaking had stopped, at least for the time being, and all she felt now was a numbing paralysis. The shock had been bad enough at the time, but then she had been told that three bodies had been recovered from the Movano’s charred wreckage. Two had already been identified as DCs Helen McKellar and Kenneth Harding. The third, in all probability, was Zoë Turner. Helen sipped her tea without tasting it and tried again to understand what had happened.

  A tactful cough reminded her that she was still sitting at Superintendent Mike Airey’s desk, and that the DCS was waiting for a response.

  “Sorry, sir. What did you ask me?” Her voice sounded slurred and distant. Charlie supposed that the mild sedative the paramedics had administered a few hours ago was still doing the rounds in her bloodstream.

  “That’s quite all right, DI Pepper. You’ve had a ghastly shock. Ghastly.” Airey shook his head. “As have we all.”

  “Sir.”

  “Tell me again what you saw. Was anyone walking away from the van, or maybe watching from the other side of the street?”

  Charlie tried to think. She lifted the mug to her lips but the shaking had started again. She slid it onto the corner of Airey’s desk where it deposited a watery half-circle of tea.

  “Take your time.”

  “I got to the corner. That’s when I heard the bang. I looked up. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. For a moment I thought it was some other vehicle, that Ken had moved the van. It couldn’t be our van, not with Ken inside and...” Charlie broke off as her voice began to quaver. She didn’t want to break down completely in front of the Chief. She was supposed to be an experienced DI, for God’s sake...

  Airey, hands folded in his lap, was staring at his blotter, but he nodded supportively. “No one running from the scene?”

  She shook her head. “No. This is Jagdip Ranandan’s doing, sir,” she blurted. “He must have sussed Zoë. He knew where we were.”

  “He didn’t know you’d left the vehicle.”

  “I was lucky.” Charlie wiped a hand across her forehead and absently wiped soot and grime onto her jeans. “God, listen to me. Lucky.” She looked at Airey. “I should have died with Ken and Helen. And Zoë. That poor girl. I persuaded her to help us. She trusted me.”

  “We’ll get him, don’t worry, DI Pepper – Charlie,” he added, a touch awkwardly.

  “Will we?” Charlie felt her eyes sting with unshed tears. “How? The evidence has gone.”

  “Nevertheless,” Airey stood up and folded his arms behind his back, “justice will be done. I trust Brendan Moran. He’ll find a way forward.” Airey sat on the edge of his desk and looked at Charlie with a paternal smile. “And you must support him in every way. Keep busy. That’s my advice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. By the way, where is DCI Moran?”

  Charlie frowned. She had no idea where Moran was.

  There was a sharp rap on the door and Banner appeared. He looked flushed and excited. “Sir? Can I have a word? It’s urgent.”

  “Come in, DS Banner.” Airey waved his arm informally.

  “It’s DCI Moran, sir. He’s gone off on his own, to Bath.”

  “Explain.”

  Banner outlined Moran’s discoveries regarding Neads and Jaseena. “I’ve just spoken to Sergeant Phelps, sir. The guv’nor – I mean DCI Moran – went to see him tonight. They worked out between them that Neads is holed up in this gaff called Beckford’s Tower. And get this.” Banner lowered his voice to a gruff whisper. “He has two hostages. And I’m afraid he also has a gun. We checked the Firearms Training log. Neads never signed his weapon back in.”

  “What the hell does Moran think he’s doing?” Airey flushed with anger. “Get the ARU on the phone. We’ll need at least two Rifle Officers.”

  “Shall I call Avon and Somerset?” Banner’s eyes were gleaming.

  “I’ll handle the liaison, Banner. And save me a car, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unmarked cars, Banner, not the Smaxes. We approach with stealth and caution. One of our own will be in there with Neads. Remember that.”

  Banner looked like a child who’d just been given the keys to a chocolate factory. Charlie tried to summon the energy to get up, but her muscles were limp and rebellious.

  “You sit this one out, DI Pepper,” Airey said, pulling his jacket on. “You’ve been through enough for one day. Go home. Get some rest.” He strode out leaving Charlie alone with her thoughts.

  She knew why Moran had gone out on a limb; it was because he felt responsible. To him, Neads was still his protégé, someone Moran felt he had let down badly. He wanted to reason with Neads, help him. But it seemed as if Neads was beyond help, certainly the sort of help Moran – or any other police officer for that matter – could provide.

  Charlie got up and went to her desk. What should she do? Moran was walking into a death trap. She had lost two colleagues already. Banner had invoked an armed response unit; this could only end badly. She picked up her mobile. The least she could do was warn the guv what was heading his way. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to three in the morning.

  Charlie drove slowly out of the station car park. Home and sleep seemed an irresponsible destination, at least while Jag Ranandan still walked the streets. Charlie felt a surge of hatred.

  She stopped at a set of lights, right indicator clicking. The lights held her there a long time, and as she waited she wrestled with her conscience. Yes, she muttered under her breath. Yes. She cancelled the indicator and drove straight on instead. She was pretty sure she could remember the way to the Ranandans’ house. Follow signs for the M4 and Earley...

  “Why have you brought us here, Simon?” Jaseena’s voice was calm and soothing. The Kafir wasn’t fooled. He’d anticipated that the women would try to soft-soap him.

  They were sitting in the plush living room of Beckford’s Tower. It felt opulent, fit for purpose. A portrait of the eccentric William Beckford looked down from the wall, his impassive features faithfully preserved on the canvas. The Kafir admired Beckford; shunned by society, the maverick had built this grand folly to store his priceless collection of objets d’art. The Kafir understood. He got it. The tower itself was something he strongly identified with. It was an eyrie above the masses, aloft and isolated. Superior.

  The Kafir regarded the two females huddled together on the antique settee. “Why? Because I want you both to understand.”

  “Understand what, Simon?” Shona Kempster wasn’t quite as adept at hiding her fear. Her voice caught as she spoke, a slight tremor giving her away.

  “Firstly, what I have become. Secondly, what I must do to continue my work.”

  “Your work?” Shona’s mouth twisted. “You murdered a policewoman and two young men. How is that work?”

  “Religion is the opium of the people,” the Kafir replied. “Do you know who said that?”

  “Marx,” Shona muttered under h
er breath.

  “Yes. He spoke of dulled minds, oblivious to the corrupting power of fundamentalism,” the Kafir spat. He toyed with the knife, twirling it between his fingers. “Marx was right. He knew. He was a visionary.”

  “Religious freedom is part of the fabric of a free democracy,” Shona said firmly. “You’re free to practice atheism if you wish, or any world religion of your choice.”

  The Kafir crouched beside her and placed the knife against her cheek. “But a day is coming when it will be imposed on you, can’t you see that? Islam is gaining in strength, slowly but surely, creeping into the fabric of your democracy. How long before Sharia law is practised legally in the UK? Very soon, you’ll see.”

  “So what will you do? Kill all the Muslims?” Jaseena’s voice was trembling now.

  “Someone has to take the lead, before it’s too late.” The Kafir removed the knife from Shona’s cheek, leaving a white indentation on her skin. “And your brothers? You know what they’re like.” He sat on the arm of the settee next to Jaseena and put his mouth by her ear. “You know what they did to me,” he whispered.

  “I am Muslim. Will you kill me too, Simon?” Jaseena said softly, and moved to touch his hand.

  The Kafir felt a stab of some old emotion as Jaseena’s fingers brushed against his flesh. No. He snatched his hand away. “I am not Simon any more. I have a new name now, one you cannot utter. You may not address me by it, or by any other name.”

  “You need help,” Jaseena said. “You are ill.”

  “Not so,” the Kafir smiled. “I need nothing.”

  He stood back and looked at each woman in turn, enjoying the feeling of power. Moran would arrive soon, and then the circle would be complete.

  Chapter 30

  Charlie parked in a dark spot a few metres from the lamp post outside the Ranandans’ house. She looked at the clock and doused her lights. Six minutes past three. The Ranandans were mostly nocturnal, she reckoned, so her vigil might take a while.