Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  He had shouted ‘hello’ but heard or saw nothing until he was whacked on the back of his right knee with what he guessed now was something like a pick-axe handle, the blow delivered with the speed, accuracy and force of a professional baseball player.

  Whatever hit him, he had dropped.

  His dad was right; you can’t fight if you can’t stand up.

  Powerful hands had forced his head into the concrete floor and black-out darkness descended as the hood was dragged over his head. Other hands had searched his pockets for his mobile.

  Seconds later he was in a vehicle.

  Now he scrunched his eyes shut and willed the van – he knew instinctively it was a van – to go faster, willed fresh air to rush through the gaps in the sliding side door he had heard yanked open and slammed shut.

  Every time the van stopped and the engine idled…traffic lights?...the lack of air and the sweat smell increased the feeling of a claustrophobic tomb.

  His hands were numb, drained of blood. The ratchet handcuffs dangling from the metal pole overhead dug deep into the wrists of his outstretched arms. The ball and socket joints in his shoulders were on fire, like a prisoner being ripped apart on the rack in some medieval torture chamber.

  He sucked in short breaths and shuffled on the wooden bench crudely fitted across the width of the van, trying to restore some feeling into his backside.

  His thighs, burning like a cyclist’s on an Alpine climb from the effort of balancing on the makeshift seat, threw more pain into his right knee.

  Did they know his weakness there? Or was it just chance they had hit the one that had finished a promising rugby career.

  His breathing was shallow and rapid, his heart rate off the scale. He had an idea who had snatched him but no idea where he was going. It wouldn’t be a happy place and if his captors had their way, it wouldn’t end well.

  He forced himself to take deep breaths, slow down his breathing, control his pounding chest and concentrate, to focus on the direction of travel.

  He knew Seaton St George and knew his start point, but with so many left and right turns and changes in speed he had soon become disorientated. Liam Neeson might have been able to retrace his kidnappers’ route through Istanbul in Taken 2, but that was Hollywood not Seaton St George.

  Scott was convinced, though, he was still in a built-up area; too many stop-starts to be on an arterial road.

  He felt the van slow to take a tight right turn then pull up a short, steep incline.

  Another tight right turn, another incline.

  Now he had his Neeson moment. He knew where he was.

  The roll of panic and his rocketing heart rate was only confirmation.

  Tight right turn, incline.

  He frantically tried to remember how many levels were on Seaton St George’s only multi-storey car park.

  Tight right and another climb.

  Was the rooftop Level 11?

  Scott counted as the van continued skywards, rubber squealing at every turn.

  He felt it slow at last to a standstill and heard the engine stop.

  He had been wrong about the number of levels.

  He had counted 12.

  Scott knew instinctively he was on the roof and that could mean only one thing.

  He fought the jabbing agony in his knee, the burning in his arms, the fast-flowing river of sweat stinging like acid in his eyes, and the dread that was driving his heart rate to cardiac arrest territory.

  Deep breaths. Stop panicking. Search for positives because positives aid survival.

  Scott closed his eyes and concentrated.

  They no longer had the element of surprise and it had to be only two against one. He was sure nobody was with him in the back of the van.

  Not great odds but not the worst and a fighting chance that was much better than the alternative.

  Scott had learned many things in his 33 years but flapping his arms and flying wasn’t one of them.

  He heard the driver’s door open and slam shut, then footsteps.

  The sliding side door shook as it rattled across its runners and Scott’s nostrils twitched at the sudden sickly-sweet smell of aftershave as the hood was yanked off.

  A blast of blinding white from the beam of a powerful flashlight flooded his eyes and like an actor staring out from the stage, Scott could only see the hazy shape of a figure in front of him.

  The matter-of-fact voice though, when it came, he recognised.

  ‘Let’s make this nice and quick Taffy.’

  Scott blinked rapidly, kept his eyes away from the beam and took in as much as he could of what was around him. He was right about the van and saw it was parked close to a high, concrete wall.

  The handcuffs were unlocked and his aching arms flopped, blood raced into them as he raised his hands and rubbed his eyes. Strong fingers grabbed his wrist in a tight grip and pulled him up from the bench seat.

  The van was so close to the wall there was only room for one of them to be alongside the sliding door.

  That was their first mistake.

  The second was that the passenger door had been left open and touching the wall. Scott realised his other captor had to be at the rear of the van.

  He knew this was the moment. Just one chance. Take the height advantage that standing in the van gave him and use it now.

  Scott rocked back on his heels, tilted backwards and tensed his throbbing thighs, ignoring the pain in his knee.

  Do it now!

  Suddenly he drove his right foot hard at the small tattooed head perched on shoulders wider than a shed. The searing jolt in Scott’s knee as his leather-soled Chelsea boot smashed into the man’s nose was excruciating.

  But the blow would have felled a prize-fighter, the sickening impact smashing the back of his head into the concrete wall in a spray of crimson blood. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  Leaping out of the van, Scott ducked his shoulder and charged towards the ski-masked driver, another barrel-chest Scott’s granny would have described as being built ‘like a brick shit-house’.

  The man had two choices – side-step the charge and take his chances in a foot chase or stand his ground.

  He stood his ground and was sent flying as Scott sprinted away.

  A lifetime ago he had been a promising fly-half. The career-ending knee injury and a 40-a-day self-pity habit had steadily killed off his fitness, but he still fancied his chances of outrunning the stocky ‘shit house’ struggling back to his feet.

  Scott dashed to the yellow exit door, yanked the metal handle and glanced over his shoulder. The driver was running after him now, arms firing like pistons.

  Level 12.

  He counted as he descended...five stairs to the half-landing, another five to the next level.

  Level 11.

  Nothing.

  Level 10.

  He heard a door above him slam. Was he two levels in front?

  His chest rose and fell in short, quick spasms, his breathing fighting against the fear. He grabbed the rail with one sweaty palm and leapt the last three stairs, deliberately landing on his left leg.

  He howled when he had to put pressure on his right knee.

  Somewhere above him, ‘shit house’ was snorting like a pursuit dog, feet pounding into the steps so loudly Scott imagined the concrete cracking.

  Level 8.

  The footsteps were louder. He was gaining. Was he jumping the steps five at a time?

  Scott silently cursed. Where was everybody? Why did the place have to be deserted? He wondered whether his knee could cope with leaping five stairs. Three was bad enough.

  He glanced down through the huge square hole in the wall, a window without glass. The people he could see on the street below were getting larger with every step but they were still too far away to help. And if ‘shit house’ hurled him through the hole what could they do? Catch him?

  Level 6.

  Scott’s mistake was looking up. ‘Shit house’ was chargi
ng after him, gaining ground, and he knew once he passed Level 1, at the halfway landing, he would leap the banister and land in front of him.

  Scott counted again. Identical. Five steps. He could do it. He had to do it.

  Level 1.

  ‘Shit house’s breathing was so loud and so close Scott felt he would reach out and grab him. Blood sped through his veins and his head felt like it would burst, but it was his right knee he feared. He knew it could collapse at any moment.

  He grabbed the rail with both hands, clenched his teeth and braced for the impact as he vaulted over the side, his cry so high-pitched only dogs heard it. Behind, and still gaining, ‘shit house’ did the same.

  Scott lurched forward, head dropping so low he almost stumbled to the ground. He knew once he was there he wouldn’t be getting back up. Instead, he straightened like a sprinter at the start of a ten second dash, slammed both hands down against the long black plastic door handle and launched himself into streetlamp-illuminated drizzle.

  Still running, he hurdled a child’s buggy that was suddenly blocking his way, chest heaving and lungs burning on empty, the pain in his knee now something alive and vicious.

  Behind him he heard a woman’s piercing cry and glanced raggedly over his shoulder. He saw the buggy was on its side, wheels spinning with a red-faced toddler screaming and ‘shit house’ now face down on the pavement.

  Scott hoped the child was okay but let a smile spread across his sweat-streaked face, another look behind showing ‘shit house’ still on the ground.

  Scott was still smiling when he ran into the road.

  Accident investigators would later establish the liveried blue double-decker that hit him was travelling at a safe 27.5mph. The blameless driver, two weeks off retirement, had never even had time to touch his brakes. Even if he had, the collision would have been inevitable.

  From the car park entrance ‘shit house’ had pushed himself up, his own grin as wide as his shoulders. He stood still, head down and let the rising thrum of gasps and ‘oh Gods’ from the shocked eye-witnesses wash over him before he walked back into the multi-storey.

  He didn’t need to look at the body. Nobody could have survived that argument with a double-decker.

  But something, maybe instinct, made him stop and turn around.

  The old guy outside the newsagent was staring straight at him through the gathering rain.

  Chapter 3

  Ed Whelan was sat in front of the television watching the closing minutes of Gillette Soccer Saturday, pleased with finishing on time for once.

  Telling Sue, his wife, that he’d got an ‘early dart’ hadn’t done him any favours though. She had still gone ballistic, screaming that finishing at 4pm when he’d been at the office before 8am didn’t equate to an early finish in her world. Not on a Saturday. Not when he should have been off.

  Ed put his outstretched legs on the footstool, closed his eyes and considered the wisdom of swapping his on-call negotiator rota.

  He could have gone to watch United at St. James’ and had a drink. Getting home after six, stinking of beer, would probably have been unwise given Sue’s mood, but at least he wouldn’t have been on call.

  When his mobile rang, he was imagining Sue simmering upstairs, reading her latest classic and filling her head with perfect heroes Ed could never match, yet another stick to beat him with.

  ‘Ed Whelan,’ he said, plucking the mobile from the sofa before the second ring.

  On the end of the line, Inspector Waites at the control room requested his urgent attendance at the scene of a shooting on Malvern Close.

  Today, Ed was the number 1 negotiator, tomorrow he would be number 2, but in the world of negotiators, rank didn’t exist. The number 1 might be a constable, the number 2 an inspector, but there were always two on call and number 1 was in charge.

  Ed requested the second negotiator be called out, ended the call and pressed the off button on his Sky remote.

  He trudged upstairs, cursing himself for getting changed into his tracksuit bottoms as soon as he had walked through the door. Now he had to go back into the bedroom, to Sue and more shit.

  Doubtless the likes of Mr Darcy, with their olde-worlde manners, would never abandon their lady on a Saturday evening. Still, Ed doubted Fitzwilliam Darcy had ever been an on-call negotiator.

  Sue remained on her back and put the open book face down on the bed, her voice a snarl.

  ‘If you’ve come to apologise, don’t bother.’

  Ed opened the wardrobe.

  ‘Called out. Nego-’

  He ducked as the book crashed into the wardrobe at head height, Sue off the bed and moving quickly his way.

  ‘You’ve just bloody well got in,’ she screamed, sending the wardrobe’s sliding mirrored door hurtling along its runner like a runaway train.

  Ed’s fingers tightened into fists, his reflection shaking in tandem with the glass.

  ‘Like it’s my fault some fucker’s shooting innocent people,’ he shouted.

  He yanked open the door, snatched a pair of thick blue cords from a hanger, and grabbed a black wool sweater from the shelf.

  It would get cold later and for reasons he could never fathom, cords not only kept him warm, they always seemed to calm him. Maybe they brought back memories of his grandfather, one of nature’s true gentlemen.

  The woollen hat in his ‘Go Bag’ would protect his shaved head.

  ‘Fine,’ Sue told him. ‘Go save the world. See if I care.’

  She waved her hand in the air, spun round and walked back to the bed.

  Ed hopped into the trousers one leg at a time, wary eyes fixed on his wife in the mirror.

  Sue was muttering with the book obscuring her face.

  Ed felt a jab of sadness. Jane Austen couldn’t piss her off. That was his specialty.

  Detective Chief Inspector Sam Parker was on her way to Malvern Close at Assistant Chief Constable Monica Teal’s behest. The ACC wanted a Senior Investigating Officer – a SIO – at the scene.

  Sam rarely had anything to rush home for no matter the day. Halloween, even with the bowl of cheap trick-or-treat sweets she already had waiting by the front door, was no different.

  Acting Chief Inspector Mick Wright, universally known as ‘Never’ to the CID, was already heading to the scene as Silver Command.

  The police and other emergency services used the generic command structure Gold, Silver and Bronze to cover strategic, tactical and operational responsibilities when a major incident kicked off.

  Sam knew Ed Whelan, her right-hand man, was also en route as on-call number 1 negotiator.

  ‘You on hands-free?’ she asked when Ed answered her speed-dial.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound great. Three shots fired. Two men shot, possibly dead. I hope Paul’s alright.’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Ed said. ‘He’ll love being Forward Commander. You know what he’s like. He’ll do a good job, keep people out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Jesus, I hope you’re right. Guns always give me the willies and he’s not long been married.’

  Sam glanced in the nearside wing mirror and moved back into the inside lane. ‘What was he doing there anyway? I thought he’d gone home. Wife’s birthday or something.’

  Ed bit his lip and shook his head. Sam Parker didn’t miss a trick, a mind much brighter than the modern street lamps that gave off less light than Darcy’s candle.

  ‘You still there?’ Sam said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Shaking my head at these pathetic streetlights. Much bloody use as an ashtray on a motorbike.’

  ‘Cost-cutting and reducing carbon footprint,’ Sam could picture his scowl.

  Ed shook his head.

  ‘See what shit flies about when a young kid gets knocked down and killed. These lights aren’t just useless, they’re bloody dangerous. Climate protestors won’t be happy until we’re all back in the dark ages.’

  Not for the first time, Sam wondered what fired Ed’s e
ndless rants and rages. No shortage of power there.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what Paul was doing?’ she said now, sensing even over the phone that Ed was keeping something back.

  Ed sighed. It would come out anyway he thought to himself.

  ‘You’re right, it was his wife’s birthday.’ Ed paused, finally deciding. ‘But I suspect he took a detour. He’s seeing a lass in Malvern Close. Been seeing her for a few months.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  Ed waited for what he knew was coming.

  ‘Great,’ Sam shouted down the phone. ‘Absolutely bloody marvellous. All I need…’

  She leaned forward, thumped the black plastic dashboard with her left fist, and sneezed twice as a cloud of dust rushed her nostrils.

  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘The dust in these cars.’

  ‘Lot better years ago when the Sunday morning shift had to clean them all,’ Ed said.

  But sneezes and a clumsy move to change the conversation weren’t going to stop Sam on her track.

  ‘Forget the bloody cars,’ she shouted. ‘He better have a good excuse for being there and not expecting me or the Job to lie for him. Who knew?’

  ‘Only me as far as I know.’

  Finally Sam took a pull on her anger and lowered her voice.

  ‘What he does in his own time is a matter for him, not that I condone his behaviour, but I’m not compromising my integrity to cover for him.’

  Ed concentrated on the rush-hour traffic and said nothing.

  ‘Never’s Silver,’ Sam said, breaking the silence.

  Ed shook his head again. ‘Why need Britain tremble?’

  Sam nodded in agreement. ‘Air Support are making their way to the scene. They’ll provide a live feed into control room.’

  They both fell silent thinking about what the live feed might show, what they were going into. Not that there was any likelihood of them getting shot. They would be well back with an inner and outer cordon in place, firearms personnel inbetween them and the shooter’s location. But there were already casualties, probably fatalities.

  Sam shivered as the thought of a temporary mortuary flashed through her mind.