Lies That Blind
Tony Hutchinson
Cheshire Cat Books ltd
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgments
‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.’
Roger ‘Verbal’ Kint
From the film, ‘The Usual Suspects’.
Chapter 1
Saturday 31st October 2015
Shattered glass fell like hail on his head and shoulders, the sharp tang of cordite invading his nostrils and rushing down his throat, so strong he could taste it.
The single shot had brought the noise of the battleground to a residential street…shocking, unexpected, disorientating.
Police officer or not, nothing prepares for you that sudden sensory overload…for the sickening fear.
Not when it happens behind you and without warning.
Not when you’ve just closed the front door and are walking back to your car, the sweat of stolen sex still drying on your skin.
For Paul Adams, self-preservation launched itself on a jet-blast of pure adrenaline, the animal instinct to run, to save his own skin, to let someone else be the hero.
He sprinted down the path, away from where every cell in his scrambled brain was telling him the shot had come, diving head first across the dirty, dusty bonnet of his parallel parked car, dropping onto the Tarmac by the passenger door.
The second shot, when it came, seemed even louder.
Paul realised it was true…gunfire really did sound like an exhaust backfiring.
He crawled into a sitting position, pressed his back against the passenger door, tucked his knees under his chin, and pulled the left side of his jacket away from his chest to fumble inside for his mobile.
His thumping heart thrust panic and concern through his veins in equal measures, the twin emotions colliding in a toxic mix.
Now his sweat ran free and stank of fear.
Was he going to die?
Who was the shooter?
And there, coiling like a knot in his stomach, a different fear…how to explain why he was at Malvern Close when his wife asked the inevitable question.
He doubted she would believe he was at the home of a younger, single woman for professional reasons.
And he doubted his boss, Sam Parker, would cover for him.
Cowering behind the car, Paul bit his lip and berated himself.
He was a police officer. He needed to do his job.
But as irrational as it was, concern was still running fear a close second.
He knew he would be in the shit if this got out.
He should have gone straight home, flowers in one hand, chocolates in the other, and a restaurant booked for his wife’s 32nd birthday.
Instead, he’d ignored her calls whilst he’d been with Tara.
Why had he ever listened to her? What could be so important?
Tara had text him the same message three times in less than an hour:
Please, please I need to see you. I can’t discuss it on the phone. It’s really important. Please I’m begging you. Come as soon as you get this.
Other than rushing him upstairs, what had she needed? Nothing.
But Paul hadn’t asked and he hadn’t said ‘no’.
He never did.
Even then he could have been safely away before all this madness kicked off, driving home with no need for explanations or comebacks.
But hadn’t Tara gone and phoned him as soon as he left the house. Christ he was hardly two steps from the door.
‘Stand still,’ she said, her voice warm, throaty. ‘Don’t turn around. I’m at the upstairs window watching you. I want to think of you on top of me for a little longer. Don’t move.’
She had groaned into the phone as he stood listening. He liked the thought of her watching him, touching herself, her soft moans taking him back.
Those few moments had put him in this shit storm.
Get a grip Paul. Time to do what you’re paid to do.
He inched towards the back of the car and dipped below the windows, below the line of a headshot.
At the back wheel, he lay flat on his stomach and slithered forward like a commando until the street opened up in front of him.
The car was facing the cul-de-sac entrance and from his sniper-like position he could see most of the street.
A tall, athletic-looking man, early twenties Paul guessed, with wide shoulders, a small waist, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt to show off his physique not counter the cold, was lying prostrate in the middle of the road.
Was he hit by the first shot? The second? Both?
The slap of rapid, heavy footsteps boomed through Paul’s ears and twisting his head, he looked under the car and saw the blur of white trainers.
Don’t run into the road you daft twat!
Joey ‘Fatty’ Sanderson, jogging bottoms and sweatshirt worn for comfort not cardio, was running fast for someone tipping 29 stone and fuelled by a lifetime of lager, cigarettes and takeaways.
Paul, stunned by Sanderson’s unlikely speed, had heard fear could do that; give superhuman strength to the weak and now the pace of a sprinter to the morbidly obese.
It also seemed to be stealing, in Sanderson’s case, the ability for logical thinking. Why else would he run across the street giving the shooter a target? Why not run up the cul-de-sac on the same side of the street as the gun, each step making the angle of the shot more difficult?
Paul shouted: ‘Fatty! Police! Get back here.’
Joey ‘Fatty’ Sanderson had spent over 50 years avoiding Her Majesty’s constabulary. He spoke to them only when absolutely necessary, occasionally providing reluctant information when his own liberty was on the line.
The last time he had bartered ‘intelligence’ was the high-profile investigation into a missing Asian girl and he still feared the stigma of being outed as a ‘grass’.
So whoever was shouting at him now, Sanderson wasn’t listening.
Paul pushed himself forward on his stomach until he could peer under the back bumper and see towards th
e shooter’s window.
He watched the thin net curtain dance around the barrel of a rifle as Sanderson launched himself, chubby arms outstretched, towards a privet hedge that topped the brick wall of No. 15.
When the third shot crackled, Paul’s body jerked upwards so quickly his head hit the underside of the car.
He hadn’t seen Sanderson land like a sack in the garden; no groan, no whimper, just a thud as he hit the ground.
Paul rubbed his eyes and focused on the privet, where small pieces of brain matter dangled from the tightly-knit brown branches.
He blew out air, shifted his eyes downward and acknowledged two things: one, Sanderson was dead and two, whoever was pulling the trigger had to be some shot. Even with his limited knowledge of firearms, he guessed that hitting an airborne human target in the head – even a whale like Sanderson – took real skill.
Had he been able to move closer, Paul would have seen the hole in the back of Sanderson’s head. The entry wound may have been small but the exit wound in his forehead was the size of a clenched fist.
Paul’s mind was racing. Was Sanderson a target? Was he a wrong place-wrong time random victim?
The security firm Sanderson owned was in essence a small-scale protection racket. Had one of his ‘customers’ had enough?
Paul’s ears felt as if they had been stuffed with Carnauba wax. He had seen movies where soldiers were temporarily deafened after explosions. Now he knew how they felt.
Think Paul, think.
He stared at the window and saw that the rifle had gone.
He waited.
Seconds passed in the silence, a cloak of serenity fluttering and falling over the cul-de-sac and the two bodies, a Halloween Night tableau turned real.
With the weapon no longer in sight, Paul realised a new fear had been set loose.
Would the shooter leave the house and go on a mobile rampage, firing at whoever or whatever crossed their path?
The street was empty and well lit. The fuzzy glow of a television was visible through some windows, the residents inside oblivious to the nightmare unfolding outside.
Whatever was happening in No. 2 hadn’t disturbed them. Not yet.
Bonfire night just round the corner. Probably thought the shots were fireworks.
Paul’s mind was racing. He knew he had to do something instead of cowering like a whipped dog.
You’re not paid to hide. There is an expectation. You are there to protect.
He remembered the number of the direct line and jabbed at his mobile.
‘Inspector Waites,’ a clipped voice answered.
Paul Adams took a breath and briefed the Control Room Inspector. He spoke clearly and slowly so future listeners didn’t think he was engulfed in panic.
The call would be recorded and played back countless times to senior officers, investigators, the coroner, and if anybody went to trial, a judge and jury. Some of it may even be released to the media.
This was the time to demonstrate a cool head and Paul silently acknowledged the fact that he had even thought about his words being replayed at least showed he was still functioning under extreme pressure.
He gave the shooter’s last known location as 2 Malvern Close; said he himself had been visiting No.1 and that the houses in the cul-de-sac went in sequential order from 1 to 17; he had heard three gunshots; the barrel of a rifle-type gun had been sticking out of the upstairs window; an unknown man was in the middle of the street, probably dead; Joey ‘Fatty’ Sanderson, protection racketeer, was in the garden of No. 15, probably dead; Paul was behind his car with a visual on the shooter’s upstairs front window; there were no other upstairs windows at the front, only one downstairs..
‘Keep this line open, Paul. Armed Response is en route. You are the forward commander until relieved and told otherwise.’
Every cloud, Paul thought. A chance for glory, an opportunity to get his name in lights and a promotion board talking point.
Yes, I can take command sir; yes, I can remain calm under pressure ma’am; yes, I can make time-critical decisions in major incidents. I demonstrated all those qualities at the Malvern Close shootings.
He still needed to come up with an excuse to satisfy his wife, but that would have to wait.
‘I want you to provide a running commentary of what you see but also try to keep people off the street,’ the inspector told him.
‘Will do.’
‘And keep yourself safe. Now, quickly. Do you know anything about the occupants of the house where the active shooter is?’
Paul thought fast, thought clearly.
‘Not too much. Male. Early twenties. Zac something or other. Girlfriend called Lucy.’
‘Children?’
‘Young lad. About four years old. The child doesn’t live with him.’
The smashing of breaking glass.
‘Hang on…’
Paul shuffled his body to get a better view.
‘I can see the barrel of the rifle again. Pointing through the downstairs window now.’
Something moved in his peripheral vision and Paul dragged his eyes away from the gun to look up the cul-de-sac.
Batman and Spiderman.
Only in miniature.
The two youngsters were carrying small plastic, orange buckets in their hands, the kind that make sandcastles. A couple of excited children dressed up and giggling now, doing trick-or-treat for sweets from door to door.
Shit. Shit.
‘Any convictions or known associates?’
‘Don’t know,’ Paul said, breathing more heavily.
The two superheroes were making their way towards him. He estimated another four houses and they would be in the firing line.
That gave him maybe five minutes tops if everybody opened the door.
He tried to work out whose children they were; to remember if he had seen them on earlier calls to Tara’s, but the combination of costumes and pressure wasn’t helping.
All that mattered was getting to them before they knocked at No. 2. He couldn’t let that happen. The best-case scenario, the shooter taking them hostage, didn’t bear thinking about. The worst…
Paul concentrated on speaking slowly into the mobile.
‘Two children, probably no more than six years old, doing ‘trick or treat’ walking towards me. I need to move,’ Paul told the inspector. ‘I’ve got to get them away.’
‘You’re the forward commander. Don’t do anything to jeopardise your safety. ARV ETA 5 minutes.’
Armed Response Vehicle.
Estimate Time of Arrival.
Five minutes.
A lot can happen in five minutes. I haven’t got five minutes.
‘Roger.’
Paul hung up, despite being told not to, and looked out from underneath the car towards Tara’s front door.
Eyes wide with shock, he saw her standing in the doorway.
‘Get back inside,’ he shouted, pushing himself onto his knees and scrambling towards the front of the car, peering over the bonnet.
His right arm moved back and forth in a blur, a ‘get-back-inside’ warning, while he hit her speed dial number.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Tara asked, answering before he even heard her phone ring.
He dropped back down and rested his back against the front wheel.
‘Go into the kitchen and sit tight.’ He kept his speech slower than his heart rate. ‘Don’t leave the house until I know the score.’
‘What’s happening?’
He wanted to scream, ‘how the fuck do I know’, but he knew that wouldn’t help.
‘I don’t know,’ he said calmly. ‘Just stay inside. I’ll come and get you when it’s safe.’
‘Are Zac and Lucy okay?’
He took a deep breath.
‘I don’t know. Just sit tight. I’ll get you when this is all over.’
Paul watched Tara quickly turn inside and close the door then crawled to the back of the car and lay flat on his
stomach.
His phone rang. Control Room Inspector.
‘You okay Paul?’
‘Yes, sorry boss. Had to warn the occupant of No.1 to go back inside. Any update re ARV?’
‘Just a couple of minutes away Paul. Keep relaying the information. You’re doing a great job.’
The drifting voices of the children were getting louder and closer. Paul watched as they knocked at No. 4.
He scanned the street. No. 3 was in darkness – the occupants either out or playing ‘not in’.
He didn’t have much time. He knew he had to make his move.
Like a sprinter in the starting blocks he crouched behind the boot, took a deep breath and raised himself into the ‘set’ position.
He gripped the phone in one hand, the line still open.
He had less time than he thought.
Chapter 2
Every breath increased Scott Green’s nausea. The stench of human sweat impregnated the coarse black material of the hangman’s hood over his head, a thick, musty sweat mixing with the dried blood caked around his mouth.
Perspiration bubbled on his forehead, more a reaction to the pounding pain from his knee than the stifling lack of air inside the hood.
He had walked into the backstreet garage in response to a text message but he should have been more careful. It wasn’t that long since he had escaped off the boat.
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