by Scott Hunter
She settled back and shut her eyes. Bad idea. She opened them again fast, blinking to dispel the vivid images of the night’s earlier events. She turned the radio on, listened to the DJ’s chatter. It was company of a sort. Anything to distract her from what had happened.
But she couldn’t escape it. Zoë’s cynical expression haunted her thoughts, the need for reassurance that the girl had tried to hide. It’s OK, Zoë, Charlie had told her, we’re right outside. Any problems, I’ll be there for you. And Zoë’s sarky response: You’d better be, babe...
Charlie swallowed hard. She dared not think of Helen McKellar and Harding. She hadn’t known them long; just long enough to recognise two dedicated people, kind, friendly, maybe in Helen’s case a little insecure. Good coppers. Team players. They would have become firm friends, given time. And Jagdip Ranandan had had them burned alive. What sort of man would do that? How desensitised to the suffering of fellow human beings did you have to be to stoop that low?
Ken Harding had fancied her. He’d asked her out. Now he was dead, his charred remains spread out on some cold pathology lab bench. It wasn’t right that they should be dead. Charlie began to sob, great gulping sobs that would not be suppressed. She rocked back and forth in the seat, her forehead banging on the steering wheel. Why, why, why, why...
After a while she regained control, the sobs becoming more and more infrequent until all she could feel and hear was her erratic breathing and gradually slowing heartbeat. Maybe Airey was right. She should go home. Have a drink, rest – forget.
The car slid into the drive, headlights doused, almost before she was aware of its stealthy approach. Charlie stopped breathing. Jagdip Ranandan got out. He was alone. She watched him walk up the path and enter the house. The front door closed. After a moment the lounge light went on.
Charlie switched off the radio and argued with herself. What could she do? What did she hope to achieve? I want him to know that I know, she realised. I want him to know he’s not going to get away with this...
She stepped out onto the pavement, locked the car and stood silently outside the Ranandans’ house, composing herself. Then she walked briskly to the front door and rang the bell.
The headlights picked out the brown heritage sign that read Beckford’s Tower; confirmation that Moran had reached his destination. He pulled over in front of the gateposts and turned off the engine.
He was still trying to grasp what Charlie had told him; the news that Harding and Helen McKellar were dead had shaken him badly, but he couldn’t afford to dwell on this unexpected disaster. Banner’s cavalry would be here within the hour, and he had only a small window of opportunity to handle things his way before Mike Airey took over. Experience told him that once the ARU were on the scene, casualties were highly likely. And that, Moran vowed, was something he intended to prevent at all costs.
OK, Neads had lost it, was suffering from some kind of trauma-induced schizophrenia. That being the case, a court of law might well decide that the ex-sergeant could not be held responsible for his actions. He needed medical help, a chance to recover not only from his Charnford experiences but also from his brutal beating at the hands of the Ranandans. How could Neads be held responsible after what had happened to him? Yes, he had taken lives, but not rationally, not premeditatively...
No, the responsibility lies with you, Moran. You know it does. This is all happening because you made a bad call, took the wrong decision...
Moran silenced his negative thoughts by getting out of the car and making his way cautiously towards one of the small arches which formed part of the grand entranceway to the Tower gardens. The arch had a wooden door which was ajar, and a sign riveted to the stonework beside it:
Lansdown Burial Ground
Beckford’s Tower and Museum
Emerging from the shadows on the other side of the arch he found himself in a graveyard. Straight ahead, beyond the cemetery’s perimeter wall, he could see the lights of Bath twinkling in the distance. To his right loomed the squat shape of William Beckford’s grand folly with its belvedere-topped tower stretching high above it like a single candle on a tiered birthday cake. The building stood in total darkness, an apparently deserted mausoleum. Moran began to fret. Maybe he’d got it wrong. Maybe they weren’t here after all. But if not here, then where? Worry about that when you’ve proved there’s no one home...
He continued along the graveyard path, senses humming like a radar dish, alert for the first sign of trouble. The moon was almost full, lighting his way between the headstones. If Neads was watching from the tower he couldn’t fail to spot him, but that was OK with Moran. He wanted Neads to let him in, to give him a chance to talk to him.
He exited the graveyard and found himself directly in front of the building. A wide stone stairway led up to the main entrance porch which featured a large central door and two smaller portals to the left and right.
Should he knock? He hesitated for a moment, unsure. But then his next move was decided for him; the door on the left creaked open and Jaseena’s frightened face appeared, silhouetted in the narrow crack of light emanating from the building’s interior.
“Come in, DCI Moran.” Neads’ voice came from behind Jaseena, and Moran saw the glint of a knife at her throat. “It’s been too long.”
Jag answered the door immediately. When he saw Charlie his lips parted in a wide smile.
“Ah. An attractive young woman knocks at my door in the middle of the night. Why is this, I wonder? I can’t recall placing an order.”
Charlie showed her ID. “DI Pepper, Thames Valley Police. Mr Ranandan, I’m investigating an incident near the Zodiac nightclub in the town centre. I have reason to believe you may be able to help us with our enquiries.”
“Do you?” Jag’s expression was one of mild amusement. “And why is that?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Two police officers were killed in a van fire just before midnight. On your orders.”
Jag narrowed his eyes. “That’s a serious accusation, Ms Pepper. I hope you have supporting evidence.”
Charlie’s self-discipline buckled. “You bastard, Ranandan. You murdered my friends in cold blood. And an innocent girl. I know what you are and what you’ve done.” She took a step forward until her face was close to his. “And I’m going to nail you, trust me. You are going down for a very, very long time.”
“Listen, bitch,” Jag spat. “You have nothing on me. On the contrary...”
He disappeared inside the house and came back brandishing an envelope. “Here. Take a look. You’re the sad cow with the explaining to do.”
Charlie snatched the envelope and shook out the contents. A photograph. Moran and herself, in the Ranandans’ front room...
“Breaking and entering, no warrant. I’ll be pressing charges, naturally. Now piss off, before I have you thrown off my property.”
The door slammed in her face, leaving Charlie fuming and tearful on the threshold. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.
She wept as she drove away, hardly aware what she was doing or where she was going. She found a late-night kebab van parked by a parade of shops and stopped for a coffee. It was bitter but hot, and after she’d drunk half of it she was able to quell her emotions a little. Time to go home, Charlie...
She restarted the engine and drove towards her flat in Woodley, trying to work rationally through the events of the last twelve hours. Jag Ranandan had known what was going on at the club. He had been prepared. But how? Nothing had been shared outside the team – all the briefings had been held behind closed doors. Who had been present? Banner, herself, Helen, Harding, Moran. And the DCS, naturally.
Charlie felt her eyes drooping as she turned into her road. Maybe she would sleep, for a while at least.
She grabbed her handbag from the back seat and locked the car. A cat brushed her leg as she fumbled for her door key, making her jump. The cat, alarmed by her reaction, sped off across the neighbour’s garden.
A thought popped
into Charlie’s head. The conversation between Jag Ranandan and Zoë. He had told Zoë that certain police officers were ‘in his pocket’. And he had said something else, a throwaway comment which had struck her as odd at the time. She turned the key in the lock and bent to pick up the pile of letters scattered on her doormat. Then it came back to her. Even the new ones, Jag had said, proudly. Even the new ones…
She froze. How long had Mike Airey been in post? He was new, wasn’t he...?
The blow had been aimed at her head, but the action of bending for the post probably saved her life. Something struck her hard across the shoulders with enough force to send her sprawling. She tried to scream but the pain was so intense she could only gasp. The door was kicked shut and she saw the intruder for the first time – a tall man in his thirties with a goatee and a dark birthmark on his cheek. The face was handsome, East European perhaps, but the expression was cold and compassionless.
His arm went up to strike again, and as it came down Charlie saw the businesslike cosh nestled in his gloved grip. She raised her arm to ward off the attack but instinctively recognised that the cosh was heavy enough to break bone and instead rolled to one side an instant before the cosh descended. Off balance, her attacker stumbled, his arm shooting out to save himself from tumbling forward. Charlie lunged at his legs, using the man’s energy to propel him towards the front door.
The cosh hit the door’s glass panel and the intruder’s arm smashed through, followed by his upper body. On her knees, Charlie grabbed him around the waist and used her weight to drag his torso down onto the stalagmite-like shards of glass poking from the wooden frame. He screamed as the glass penetrated his stomach and tried to pull back, but Charlie hung on, knowing that he would kill her for sure if she let go. Sobbing and shouting she held him until his struggles became weaker and finally stopped.
Charlie scrabbled backwards, her outstretched hands sliding in a pool of blood. There were raised voices now, people crowding her porch, neighbours in dressing gowns and hastily pulled-on pairs of jeans and non-matching tops. She heard someone gasp and swear, and another voice called for someone to call an ambulance.
The door was pushed open and hands gently lifted her. Her knees wobbled and a sudden surge of nausea made her retch until she was violently sick on the floor. She tried to stand unaided but her balance had gone. With a soft moan she felt the blood leaving her brain, and she pitched forward into the supporting arms of her neighbours.
Chapter 31
Charlie regained consciousness slowly, her eyes smarting in the light thrown from the standard lamp she had bought at a local emporium a few weekends back. She blinked. Two uniforms were sitting in her armchairs and her neighbour, Mrs Tredray, whom she had met only briefly on the day she moved in, was sitting beside her on the arm of the sofa with a jug of water and a glass at the ready.
“Drink this, my love, you’ll feel better.”
Charlie held out her hand to receive the water, but it was shaking so badly that Mrs Tredray bent forward and held the glass to her lips.
“Thanks.”
“DI Pepper,” one of the uniforms spoke, “when you’re up to it I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Mrs Tredray frowned and gave the policeman an old-fashioned look, which under normal circumstances would have made Charlie chuckle.
“It’s OK, Mrs Tredray,” Charlie wrapped her fingers around the glass and found that she was able to drink unaided. “I’m all right, really.” Then, with a jolt of realisation Charlie remembered everything that had happened. The van, Jag Ranandan, Moran, Airey… Airey...
She tried to get up, but Mrs Tredray pushed her firmly back into the sofa. “No, no, dear, you’ve had a terrible shock. You need to rest.”
“I know,” Charlie said. “But I need the bathroom.”
“I’ll help you,” Mrs Tredray offered.
“It’s all right. I can walk. Look.” Charlie levered herself into an upright position. “See? I won’t be a minute.”
There was no time for explanation or to share her suspicions with the uniforms. She had to get the proof she needed now. As Charlie made a play of shuffling unsteadily to the downstairs loo she checked for her keys. She prayed she hadn’t left them in the door, hoping that she’d slipped them into her pocket instead. She felt the key ring cold against her groping fingers. Yes...
Locking the bathroom door behind her, she slid back the window bolt and opened the pane. The neighbours had dispersed, the lone police car’s presence the only indication of the earlier drama. Charlie scrambled over the window ledge and hit the ground running. The uniforms could wait for their statement; if she was right, her new guv was in even greater danger than he realised.
“Back again?” Sergeant Denis Robinson’s thick eyebrows arched in surprise as Charlie appeared in reception. “Don’t you lot ever sleep?”
“I could ask the same of you, Sergeant,” Charlie called over her shoulder without waiting for a reply.
The team’s office was in semidarkness. No one around. Good. Charlie fretted that Airey would have locked his private office door, but her fears were unfounded. She hit the light switch, made a beeline for the computer and wheeled Airey’s plush office chair from under the desk as the machine booted up.
Come on...
If anyone challenged her she’d have a lot of explaining to do. She wondered how long it would take the uniforms to figure out where she was.
The monitor flashed at her. Enter password:
Damn.
She tapped her nails on the desk. It would have to be six characters and include at least one number and one upper-case letter. She tried to remember what she’d been told about Airey. Married? No, she thought not. Not kids’ names, then. Sporty? No, not by all accounts.
Workaholic? That was nearer the mark. So, what’s he been involved in? Kestrel, obviously. Charlie puckered her lips in concentration. The upper-case letter was usually the first character. So, K for Kestrel, followed by e s t r e l. The number, almost inevitably, would be the suffix. Hopefully... She typed 1.
Password Incorrect. Number of retries left: 4.
She bit her finger. OK, another obvious one.
Kestrel0.
Password Incorrect. Number of retries left: 3.
In the empty open-plan office a phone rang. Charlie frowned. The IR was closed between eleven at night and eight in the morning. It must be Denis. Frowning, she went quickly to answer it.
“Hello?”
“DI Pepper? Denis here. Chief Superintendent Sheldrake wants a word. I’ve sent him up, OK? Just to let you know.”
“Thanks.” Charlie crashed the phone down and sprinted back into Airey’s office. What was Sheldrake doing out of custody? Someone was pulling strings, big time.
Kestrel10, enter. Please please please...
Password accepted. Please wait.
Charlie heard the whine of the lift as it began its slow ascent. Her fingers fumbled the keys as Windows finished loading. MS Outlook... Sent Items...
She scrolled through the sent mails with no idea what she was looking for. You’d better be right about this, Charlie...
She came to a mail with an attachment. She opened it. Outside, the lift motor continued to whirr. She had only a few seconds, and she still needed to cross the open plan to the back stairs before Sheldrake emerged from the lift. Charlie double-clicked the attachment and simultaneously scanned the contents of the email.
It was brief and to the point. It gave the surveillance van’s registration number and description, and a time. She felt her heart begin to pound.
It is him...
Charlie made a note of the email recipient string and waited until the .jpg had loaded before hitting Ctrl P. She selected the HR printer two floors below, clicked the monitor power off and pelted out of Airey’s office towards the swing door leading to the back stairs. As her hand reached for the door handle the lift pinged, announcing its arrival on her floor. She flung the door open and took the back
stairs three at a time.
As she came out into the HR area she could hear the printer delivering its incriminating evidence. Two minutes later she was back in reception, and she breathed a sigh of relief that Denis’ familiar profile was absent from the reception window; now there was a good chance that Sheldrake would waste time looking for her.
Back in her car she took a few minutes to calm herself. OK, she had the required evidence. But that wouldn’t help Moran in the short-term. She daren’t call the guv in case she compromised his current situation – whatever that might be. The bottom line was that Moran was out on a limb with no back-up. Small wonder Airey had wanted to head up the ARU; Jag Ranandan had sent an assassin for her, and Mike Airey clearly intended to take care of Moran.
She wrestled with her options. Someone else had to know what she had discovered. Who should she tell? Banner was with Airey. Harding and Helen ... she bit her lip savagely.
There was only one official way to go with this, she knew: she should inform the Chief Constable. But would the formidable Sara Stevenson believe her? Would she take immediate action? Was she trustworthy? Charlie grabbed her iPhone and quickly composed an email. She reread it. The whole thing looked utterly fantastic in printed form. She couldn’t risk it. Whether the end result was commendation or crash and burn, she had to go it alone.
No choice, Charlie... None at all...
She saved the email in the drafts folder, ground the car into gear and headed for the M4.
Chapter 32
The interior of Beckford’s folly was lavish, sumptuous even. Moran examined his surroundings as Neads led him through the modern kitchen area into an elegant drawing room.
The first thing he saw was Shona, sitting rigidly in a chair, her mouth covered with gaffer tape, hands tied behind – and to – the back of the chair. Her eyes followed Neads’ every move, mutely expressing her terror as Neads settled Jaseena onto the settee and sat beside her, the knife gently brushing her leg.