by Scott Hunter
“Please. Have a seat, Brendan.” Neads indicated a high backed antique rocker. “What do you think?” He made an all-encompassing gesture. “The scarlet drawing room. Appropriate, don’t you think?”
Moran nodded and settled himself against the worn contours of the rocker. The atmosphere was humid and stuffy. Moran took in his surroundings. The windows were securely fastened, no external doors led directly from the drawing room, and the only way out was via the kitchen. He didn’t recall Neads locking the front door behind them, although he had made a play of placing a bunch of keys on the mantelpiece beneath a gilt-framed portrait that Moran assumed to be a representation of the great eccentric himself, William Beckford.
Neads fell silent, distracted by some thought or notion he chose not to share with the company. Moran watched his ex-sergeant carefully; he knew he had to somehow get inside Neads’ mind, find a way of probing beyond the torn curtain of mental illness.
He glanced at Shona and found a tight smile of encouragement as he waited for Neads to speak.
“So,” Neads began, and paused again, apparently struck by another thought. Then he shook his head and chuckled quietly to himself as if listening to some private conversation. “No, no,” he muttered under his breath. “That won’t do at all.” After a moment he looked up and went on.
“Have you noticed how often people begin their conversation with the word ‘so’ these days, Brendan? Especially the youngsters. I imagine your new DI speaks like that. Anyway–” he rapped the settee’s armrest with the butt of the knife, making Jaseena flinch. “Here we are, and here you are. With these charming young ladies,” he added, smiling at Shona and Jaseena in turn.
“What are you looking for, Gregory?” Moran asked gently. “I’d like to help, if I can.”
“Looking for?” Neads toyed with the knife, twirling the point on the armrest. “Ah, no. my looking days are over, Brendan. I’ve found what I was looking for, you see.”
“Which is?”
Neads leaned forward suddenly, his mouth twisting in a dismissive sneer. “A reason. A purpose. The answer. Call it what you like.”
“And the answer is murder?” Moran kept his body language as unthreatening as he could, relaxing into the rocking chair, fingers entwined casually in his lap, as though chatting with an elderly aunt over afternoon tea.
“Cleansing, Brendan, not murder. There’s a difference.”
Moran nodded. “Who are you?”
The question appeared to confuse Neads. A flicker of panic clouded his eyes for a moment and then his face broke into a wide grin. “Ah ah, Brendan, I know what you’re up to.” He waved the knife mock-threateningly. “You’re psyching me out, right?”
Moran shrugged. “It’s a simple question.”
“Well, it might be a simple question, Brendan, but the answer may not be as simple as you think.” Neads’ voice had risen in volume, crackling with emotion. He sprang to his feet and covered the distance between them in three long strides. The knife was at Moran’s throat.
Moran didn’t move. With an effort he kept his expression neutral.
“Don’t play with me, Brendan.” Neads’ breath wafted in Moran’s face, minty and warm. “I’m finished with games. This is real now, Detective Chief Inspector. More real than you can understand.” He let the knife drop and backtracked to the sofa, keeping Moran in view. Jaseena’s eyes met Moran’s in an unspoken question. Shall I jump him? Moran warned her off with a slight shake of his head.
“We should begin, shouldn’t we?” Neads announced. “You’ll see what I’m about once we begin, Brendan.” He stood behind Shona’s chair, tossing the knife from hand to hand. Shona’s eyes bulged, tears of terror tracking down her cheeks. She wriggled and tried to turn her head to second-guess Neads’ intentions, but she was securely tied and could only sob in frustration. Moran’s heart banged against his chest. What could he say to stall Neads?
“So, a knife, then. Or this perhaps?” Neads reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a sleek looking handgun. Jaseena gasped and pressed herself against further into the sofa.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Neads held the revolver up for inspection. “Oh, don’t worry, Brendan, I know what you’re thinking; but my fingers are still strong enough to pull a trigger. Your generous employers gave me this little beauty a while back. Firearms Training issue, but they never missed it. Sloppy, don’t you think?”
“Very. I didn’t know you’d trained, Gregory. When was this? Before you transferred to TVP, or afterwards?” Moran wanted to capitalise on Neads’ current state of mind – while he was able to recall his past life as a police officer Neads’ murderous alter ego had to take a back seat, which was exactly where Moran wanted to keep him.
“Before. In the Met,” Neads replied. He aligned the barrel with Shona’s right ear.
Moran held out his hand, palm up. “Greg, how about you sign it back in now? We can talk this through.”
Once again Neads seemed wrong-footed. He dropped his hand and held the revolver loosely at his side. Shona was shaking, a low note of terror humming in her throat.
Neads touched her shoulder. “Shut up.”
Shona flinched.
“I said shut up.” Neads gripped her neck and jammed the revolver into her shoulder.
“Gregory–” Moran began.
“Not Gregory.” The voice had changed subtly. “Gregory was a failure. I am the success.”
“You weren’t a failure, Gregory. You were a victim. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Neads shrugged. “I choose the victims now. The past is of no consequence.”
“This is all about the past, Gregory. About Charnford, about your suffering. Is that why you killed Father Jeffries?”
“Yes, Gregory killed him,” Neads said. He had moved slightly away from Shona, although the revolver was still held purposefully in his right hand.
“Gregory? Not you? Who are you?”
“The other – the other...” Neads stammered, squared his shoulders and gathered himself. “I am the Kafir.”
“The Kafir?”
“Yes. They hate me. Tried to kill me. So I hate them.”
“I don’t hate you, Simon,” Jaseena said, quietly. “The man I know was kind. He was in trouble, yes; he was hurting, yes – but in his heart he is a good man. You told me you loved me. Don’t you remember? Why did you lie to me? Why did you pretend to be someone else?”
“Simon?” Neads turned towards Jaseena, puzzled. “Yes. I remember him, too. Gregory’s policewoman friend introduced him to you, didn’t she? Told him you would help his pain?”
Jaseena nodded in a mixture of sorrow and despair. “That’s right, you remember. Sharron Flynn was her name, the detective sergeant. Look, Gregory, Simon, whoever you are. I still love you. Do you understand? I can’t help what my brothers did. I can’t help what happened to you before. But I will try to understand, I promise you. Please, give the gun and the knife to DCI Moran. You don’t have to harm anyone any more. We want to help you, can’t you see that?”
Neads appeared to consider the entreaty carefully. The room seemed to hold its breath as the competing personalities inside his head struggled for supremacy.
Moran was still processing the information that Sharron Flynn had brought Neads and Jaseena together. Is that how Neads had been able to keep tabs on everything so easily, how he had known where DC Hill had been imprisoned? Not cyber networking then, as Moran had surmised, just good old fashioned social networking. He wondered if Flynn had also thought to inform Neads that the woman who had interrupted his first killing had been a policewoman? Moran’s suppositions were curtailed as he noticed with alarm that Shona had worked an arm loose from the strip of tape securing her to the chair. Moran watched helplessly as, taking advantage of Neads’ preoccupation, she gradually eased it free. He wanted to tell her to stop, to warn her that any attempt at escape would probably end in bloodshed, but he could see the desperation and panic in her eyes
.
Jaseena baulked as Neads went to her side and stroked her hair. “You were very important to Simon,” he told her. “You helped to heal his body. But things have changed.”
While Neads’ back was turned Shona wrenched at the bindings holding her left arm. Her eyes darted this way and that, always returning to the half-open door of the drawing room. Moran shook his head frantically as he watched her weighing her options.
Don’t...
Neads bent and gently kissed Jaseena’s forehead. “Simon doesn’t want to hurt you, Jaseena. But your brother must be taught a lesson.”
At that moment Shona ripped the tape from her mouth, propelled herself from the chair and half-hobbled, half-staggered towards the kitchen. Moran could see what was going to happen, and a second later it did: inevitably, her circulation-starved legs let her down and she collapsed, sprawling onto the kitchen floor.
Neads moved fast, but Jaseena grabbed his shirt and hung on. He brought his arm down in a vicious swipe and she fell back, stunned. Taking a step forward Neads gripped the revolver awkwardly in his clawed fingers, levelled it at Shona and squeezed the trigger.
The noise of the report was deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet buried itself in the skirting board by Shona’s feet, throwing up splinters; Shona yelled – whether in pain or fear Moran couldn’t tell – and rolled to the left, away from Neads’ line of fire. She scrambled to her feet and disappeared through the kitchen, Neads following hard on her heels.
Ears ringing, Moran cast about for some weapon, realising belatedly that he’d left his stick in the car. Good planning, Brendan...
He reached the front door to find that Shona had somehow managed to wrench it open. He watched her lurch into the gap as Neads drew a bead and fired again. Shona tumbled to the right and rolled down the entrance steps into the car park.
Moran hit Neads at knee level, the impetus propelling them both out of the building into the porch. Moran landed on top of Neads, the breath driven from his body as the butt of the gun caught him in the solar plexus. Neads grunted and dropped the revolver which clattered away, spinning on its axis, into the shadows.
Moran writhed in pain, fighting for air. A second later the porch was illuminated by an intense white light and the metallic harshness of a loudhailer split the silence.
This is the police. Lie still with your hands on your head.
Moran wasn’t in a position to comply – he was fully occupied trying to fill his lungs, far less being able to move his arms in any given direction. The next few moments passed in a kind of sluggish slow motion as he fought for air.
After what seemed an eternity Moran’s chest began to rise and fall sporadically. He breathed again. The loudhailer repeated its warning. Moran’s intuition told him that Neads would ignore the instruction. He was right: Cursing and groaning Neads levered himself to his haunches and prepared to dive for the cover of the balustrade on the far side of the porch. Moran opened his mouth but could only croak an inarticulate warning.
No! They’ll kill you ... stay still...
As Neads sprang forward Moran summoned his remaining strength and went for another tackle. He heard the flat crack of a rifle, something punched him hard on the shoulder and Neads gave a pained cry of surprise. Then they were behind the balustrade, Moran on his back, Neads crumpled against the tower door. The light remained on, and all was still.
Moran moved his arm experimentally and a bolt of pain fizzed through his upper body. He tried again, and although he felt something warm and sticky trickling down his back, this time the pain was bearable.
Do not move again or we will shoot to kill.
“Still there, Brendan?” Neads’ voice was a whisper of pain.
“I’m here.”
“I wanted to show you the belvedere,” Neads rasped. “You would have understood then.”
“The belvedere?”
“The top of the tower. You can see the world for what it is up there.”
“Gregory, let me call them in. You need a doctor.” Moran raised his head cautiously, making sure he was still in the shadow of the balustrade. Neads had propped himself up, his back against the woodwork. He still had the knife, which he held pressed to his own flesh.
“Call them in and I’ll cut my throat. You know I’ll do it.”
“I’ll make sure you get help,” Moran insisted. “You have to trust me.”
Neads laughed, a throaty gurgle. “Trust you, Brendan? I trusted you before, against my better judgement. And what happened?”
Moran could see a spreading stain on Neads’ chest. The bullet had torn through his own shoulder and into Neads’ torso. If he didn’t get help soon Neads would bleed to death. And, for that matter, so would he.
“I understand why you killed those boys, Gregory. They were members of Jag Ranandan’s family. The first – he was an illegal, wasn’t he? That’s why we couldn’t ID him.”
“Yes. Anoop. He hated me. They all did.”
“And you thought they’d taken Jaseena away, sent her back to India?”
“Yes.”
Neads’ unbalanced alter ego – the Kafir, had he called himself? – had gone, at least for the moment. This was just plain Gregory Neads. Moran changed position and grimaced. His shoulder was throbbing but he didn’t think the bullet had hit anything vital. Then with a start he remembered Shona. He twisted, but he could only make out a vague crumpled shape at the foot of the steps.
Keep talking to him, Brendan…
“Gregory, why didn’t you tell us where DC Hill was?”
For a while Moran didn’t think Neads had heard. Then the ex-sergeant spoke in a rasping, strained whisper:
“I didn’t think they’d kill him, Brendan. Sharron was a mate. She had a nice little thing going. Who was I to spoil it for her?”
“Four serving officers are dead, Gregory. It didn’t have to be that way.”
“I didn’t know she was a copper. She ran after me. Had to kill her,” Neads’ voice was weakening.
“Let me help you, Gregory. Please.” Moran dragged himself forward a few inches.
“One more move like that, Brendan, and I’ll do it,” Neads warned. The knife glinted in the harsh glare of the police lights as he brandished it in front of his face.
Moran’s mobile bleeped. “Can I answer it?” he asked Neads.
Neads weakly waved an affirmative.
“Moran.”
“This is Mike Airey, Brendan. What’s the situation?”
“I have a wounded man here, sir, but he won’t let me near. I recommend extreme caution.”
“Am I on loudspeaker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I intend to bring a paramedic to tend to the woman,” Airey’s voice said. “And I will come to you, unarmed. Is that clear?”
Neads hissed through his teeth.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir, at present. Just the medic might be OK. Gregory?”
Neads nodded. “All right. Just the medic.”
“I only want to talk to you, Neads,” Airey said. “There’s no harm in that, surely?”
“So talk.”
“Better face to face,” Airey said. “Don’t you think?”
“Sir–” Moran began.
“Just me. On my own. I’ll show you my hands.”
Moran was rigid with tension. Don’t push it, Airey...
“I’m walking to you now.” Airey rang off.
“It’s all right, Gregory. He’s trustworthy.” Moran said. “No one’s going to hurt you.” But Neads was drifting into unconsciousness. Any longer and it might be too late. Maybe Airey was right; they had to pre-empt matters, move things on somehow...
Moran heard a scuffle of feet, the mutter of a low voice. The medic had reached Shona.
A shadow fell over the porch. Mike Airey appeared, empty hands raised. He saw Neads’ unconscious body and dropped his hands to his side. “Are you hurt, Brendan?”
“Not badly. Be careful, sir – if he
sees you–”
Airey stepped over Moran and stood over Neads’ inert body. He reached in his pocket, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and retrieved the knife. Moran admired his coolness.
“I’m sorry, Brendan,” Airey said, stooping down. “I really didn’t want it to come to this. But, you see, I haven’t much choice.”
“Sorry?” Moran head was fuzzy. He couldn’t make sense of what Airey was saying.
Airey crouched low and hefted the knife. Then Moran understood. He tried to shift away from the deadly point but his brain was fuzzy and his body wasn’t responding.
Blood loss...
He raised his arm and the pain in his shoulder made him gag. Airey’s face was a blur, the knife a slice of descending silver. Moran closed his eyes.
Chapter 33
Pick up Banner, pick up... Charlie stabbed her finger at the red ‘End’ bar displayed on her iPhone and refocused her attention on the motorway. A pair of HGVs loomed in the distance, playing a racing game in the slow and middle lanes. Charlie pulled into the fast lane and sped past them. She clicked Banner’s number again with the same result: straight to voicemail.
She screamed in frustration. According to the satnav Beckford’s Tower was still thirty-two minutes away; thirty-two minutes she didn’t have. The speedo reached a ton. She willed the car on.
By the time she got within visual distance of the tower Charlie could pick out the police incident lighting silhouetting the entrance archway and the trees beyond. She screeched to a halt beside two parked police vehicles, flung herself out of the car and hurried along the verge towards the light where she found a knot of officers gathered in the driveway. Banner saw her coming and raised a warning hand. She wondered briefly at the absence of the Avon and Somerset constabulary before it dawned on her that Airey had probably never made that call. He was winging it, and Charlie knew why.