Lies That Blind
Page 7
‘No.’
Ed slid down his chair, leaned back, stretched out his legs and looked up at the motorhome roof.
‘So, I’ve done quite a lot for you and I’ve never lied. Why would I lie now?’
‘Because you want all this to stop.’
‘Me lying to you won’t make this stop will it?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘This will stop when you’re ready for it to be stopped. I’m happy to sit and talk to you until you’re ready.’
The line went dead.
‘But you can’t remember his surname,’ Sam asked.
‘No. I think he might have had two surnames; you know like posh buggers do,’ Jean said.
‘Did Lucy send you any photographs of them together?’
‘She might have done. I can check my phone as you leave, it’s in the hall.’
Sam smiled. ‘Great. Well thanks anyway Jean.’
She pushed herself out of the armchair. ‘The officer will stay with you. As soon as we hear anything, we’ll let you know.’
Jean was on her feet as well. ‘Can I not go down there Sam?’
‘It won’t help anybody Jean, least of all you. As soon as we hear anything, I’ll let you know and I promise we’ll keep looking for Lucy.’
‘She’ll be okay Sam, won’t she?’
Sam wanted to say yes, but she was getting a bad feeling about where this was going.
‘Let’s hope so.’
There was a small table in the tiny hall. Sam hadn’t given it a second glance on the way in. She picked up Jean’s phone and handed it to her.
Jean scrolled through the iPhone. ‘Here.’
She passed the phone back to Sam who stared at the picture of Lucy and Marcus in the Porsche. A young couple, all white teeth and laughter.
‘Can I send this to my phone?’ asked Sam.
‘Sure.’
Sam’s fingers danced over the screen and she heard her own phone ping as it received the photograph.
She hit the screen lock on Jean’s phone and was putting it back on the table when her eyes went wide.
Sam stared at the image on the Home screen, her pulse quickening the longer she looked.
She turned the phone to face Jean.
‘Who’s in the photograph?’
‘Our Lucy.’
‘I can bloody see that,’ Sam snapped, her impatience obvious to the nervous young PC hovering in the background.
‘Don’t you have a go at me,’ Jean said, cheeks reddening at the rebuke.
‘Sorry.’
Jean took hold of the phone, looked at the photograph.
‘Gorgeous isn’t she? That was a great outfit, fancy dress party last New Year at the next door neighbour’s. Wonder Woman. Got the figure for it don’t you think?’
Count to ten Samantha.
‘Definitely. Who’s that next to her?’
Sam leaned across and pointed at the screen where Lucy Spragg had her tattooed left arm draped across the white rabbit’s shoulder.
‘Who do you think? Zac. I can’t stand the thought of him being on my phone but it’s such a good photo of our Lucy, and you can’t see his face so I can put up with it. He could be anybody.’
‘Can I borrow your phone Jean. Take it away. I’ll only have it for a few days.’
‘What if our Lucy rings?’
‘We’ll let you know.’
‘Will it help?’
‘It might Jean, it might. What’s the story about Zac’s fancy dress?’
Jean tutted, glanced upwards for dramatic effect.
‘All idiots them Williams’. I knew his father… and his grandfather. His father was mad on that film. Zac too. Zac’s named after the film.’
‘There’s a film called Zac?’
‘His middle name stupid. Harvey. His middle name’s Harvey, after the Jimmy Stewart film.’
Sam face was blank. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Zac’s kid’s named Elwood after the character Jimmy Stewart played in that film. Elwood Dowd. Harvey was a white rabbit.’
Chapter 10
Swan answered the phone. Marshall, who he’d christened Staples, sat in the passenger seat alongside him. They were parked up in a non-descript Ford Mondeo that had been bought for cash in Scotland a few weeks earlier in a no questions asked deal where Swan had provided a false name and address. He wasn’t interested in receiving a DVLA log book and hadn’t bothered with tax.
The Man wanted a car that wouldn’t attract attention, a cheap car that could be burned when the job was done.
Swan held the phone to his ear, waited, didn’t speak.
‘What went wrong?’
No ‘hello’, no ‘how are you?’ Straight into it, the tone tight with accusation.
‘You okay speaking on the phone?’ Swan asked.
‘Let me worry about the phones. You start worrying about the content of your text message…the package was destroyed but not as planned?’
Swan gulped, explained everything from the kidnapping to the target making a run for it and being splattered by the bus.
The response was short, quiet and aggressive. ‘Wankers.’
Swan felt the venom. Best not to respond.
‘Were you spotted?’
Swan frantically searched for an answer. Getting the plan wrong was one thing. Admitting there may be a witness was a totally different proposition, one that could see him ‘rubbed out’ as The Man liked to say.
‘Well?’ the question wasn’t going away. ‘Were you spotted or not?’
He couldn’t rely on Marshall’s discretion. He was responsible for the deceased making a run for it, but if he could deflect any blame he would.
‘I had to have a word with the old guy at the newsagent. I knew he’d seen me.’
Swan heard the intake of breath, braced himself for the onslaught.
‘Fucking brilliant. This was meant to be in and out. Nobody to know we were even here. Now you may as well have put an advert in the Seaton bloody Post.’
Swan waited for the temper to subside.
‘This newsagent,’ the voice back under control. ‘Will he talk?’
Swan knew the ice beneath him was wafer thin. He didn’t want to be thrown off a multi-storey car park…or even a yacht for that matter.
‘He was terrified. He won’t say fuck all.’
Swan wished he were as confident as he sounded.
Marshall turned his head and stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Swan could drop them both in the shit if he wasn’t careful.
‘Which cops were there?’
‘Just uniform.’
‘No CID?’
‘No. Why would there be? It was just a road accident.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way. If the likes of that Parker bird starts putting her nose in then things might take a turn for the worse.’
Swan swallowed hard. Sam Parker was well known in their circles. She’d got the Skinners charged, something that an army of cops had failed to do for years, a proper blow against organised crime.
The Man continued: ‘Right, I’ll be done in a few hours. Get ready to pick me up. Make sure there’s food on board. I don’t want to be stopping and getting picked up on some service station CCTV.’
Alright for me to get picked up on some supermarket cameras though, Swan thought. Not that he would say that. Better to pull a hat down low, turn his collar up and do what he was told.
‘Anything in particular you want?’
‘Surprise me. And get some coke. Diet.’
Thanks a lot. When I buy the wrong stuff, you can have another go at me.
‘Wait for my call.’
The phone was disconnected.
‘Well?’ Marshall asked, licking his lips, shuffling in his seat, wishing he was anywhere but here.
‘You heard,’ Swan said. ‘He’s not happy, and just when you think it can’t get any worse, you need to think about what you’re getting the fussy twat to eat.’
Jean Spragg was watching, head pushed through the curtains.
Sam scrolled through the contacts in her phone. She needed to make two calls.
‘Dick, it’s Sam. Just a quick one.’
Dick Donaldson confirmed the Porsche Boxster was still in the cul-de-sac and arranged for an immediate check on PNC – the Police National Computer.
‘Comes back to Marcus Worthington-Hotspur.’
‘That’s him,’ Sam said. ‘He’s been seeing Lucy Spragg.’
‘Don’t tell me this all comes from a bloody domestic?’
‘Do we ever know what starts these, what tips people over the edge?’
Sam reached into the centre console and took a Marlboro out of the packet. ‘It’s nearly 30 years since Michael Ryan …’
‘Don’t even go there Sam,’ Donaldson interrupted.
In August 1987, Michael Ryan fatally shot sixteen people and wounded another fifteen at various locations in Hungerford, in what was one of the deadliest firearms incidents in British history.
‘No, I’m just saying, it’s nearly thirty years and we still don’t know what really triggered it. Plenty of opinions, but…’
‘Well we’ve got this fucker contained and that’s how I want it to stay.’
Sam took the unlit cigarette out of her mouth. ‘Back to Marcus. I’ll forward a photo of him. He could be the other male lying in the street. You might be able to get an ID from the live feed.’
‘Thanks Sam.’
‘I’ll get the Intelligence Cell to do some background checks.’
‘Appreciate it.’
Sam considered her next words carefully. The wrong sentence could prove fatal to her reputation. Hunches that were unsubstantiated and turned out to be wrong were fodder for finger pointers, but sometimes you just had to go with your gut.
‘I think Lucy’s inside.’
‘Go on.’
Sam lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply before continuing.
‘Marcus might have gone there to confront Zac, but I feel it’s more likely he’s gone to see Lucy, or she’s somehow been coerced into luring him there.’
Donaldson said nothing.
Sam continued: ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that he’s there at this time and I just can’t see him being there without Lucy. If that’s the case, where is she?’
‘Possibly,’ Donaldson spoke at last. ‘But then again.’
‘I know, I just think you need to be mindful if things escalate.’
‘Will do, Sam. But in this case, I really hope you’re wrong.’
Me too.
‘And Dick, between you and me, keep an eye on Ed. He’s not getting any younger and it’s not that long since he’s blacked out and been stabbed. I suggested he gave up the negotiator role but he wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Donaldson hung up.
Sam inhaled again, opened the driver’s window a little and blew the smoke out of the gap. She scrolled through her phone again.
Just go home Sam.
It wasn’t an option, not with her overwhelming sense of right and wrong.
‘Mick, its Sam Parker.’
Acting Chief Inspector Wright was as surly as ever.
‘Yeah.’
‘Just ringing to see how you getting on. Wondering if you need a hand with staff?’
‘All boxed off. Suicide note in his pocket. PM tomorrow.’
‘Who’s doing the post mortem?’
Sam looked at the house. Jean had moved from the window.
‘Jim Melia. A few statements needed: passengers on the bus, a couple of pedestrians, and the poor driver who is in a hell of a state. After that it’s just a report for the coroner.’
‘You got him identified yet?’
Sam turned down the fan.
‘Well there’s that as well. Only a matter of time.’
‘What about Fred Thompson?’
‘Misguided old man. Imagining monsters and bogeymen. God, I hope I’m not like that at his age.’
Sam didn’t think Wright heard her low growl but she didn’t care if he did. As far as she was concerned, he had one of those faces her arms would never tire of punching.
‘He’s sharp as a tack usually,’ she said. ‘You checking CCTV?’
‘What for?’
She inhaled long and deep, deliberately letting Wright’s question hang.
‘Corroborate or discount Fred’s version.’
Wright’s response was agitated, bordering on aggressive, a sure sign of rising stress levels.
‘There’s a suicide note in his pocket. What more corroboration do you want?’
Sam knew she was wasting her time. She’d pick this up tomorrow, but she still had time to throw one metaphorical hand grenade in Never’s direction.
‘Just trying to help Mick. The last death you investigated, the one on the yacht, is splattered over the front page of tonight’s Seaton Post.’
Chapter 11
Dick Donaldson was pleased that every neighbour, with the exception of those in the adjoining semi to Zac Williams’, had been quietly and safely evacuated, mostly via their back gardens.
The evacuation plan had been drawn up in conjunction with another firearms tactical adviser and a uniform inspector from the Emergency Planning Unit.
Inquiries were still being made to find out who lived in No.1 Malvern Close and whether they could be contacted by phone.
Assistant Chief Constable Monica Teal, sitting as Gold Commander, was chairing strategy meetings with the Police and Crime Commissioner, representatives from the local authority, health, and the fire service. She had already been in contact with appropriate government ministers who were keeping a watching brief.
She had yet to stand in front of the ever-increasing press pack who were waiting impatiently outside the gates of Police HQ.
The Police and Crime Commissioner was holding meetings with Harvey Slattery, the local Member of Parliament.
The Salvation Army was at the church hall, the evacuation point, providing tea and sandwiches. Whether camp beds and sleeping bags would be needed would be dictated by how long the incident would go on, but people were working on the logistics.
Dick Donaldson wanted nothing more than a peaceful resolution. Time was not an issue, only the end result.
Ed hit speed dial.
‘That you Zac?’
‘Yeah.’ His voice was shaking.
Charles held up a piece of paper upon which he’d written, ‘AGITATED.’
Ed nodded.
Jules, whose other role was acting as the bridge between the negotiators and Silver Command left the office to make sure Dick Donaldson was listening in.
Word quickly spread amongst the firearm team that Williams sounded stoked up.
‘It’s all his fault this,’ Williams was shouting into the phone.
‘Whose fault?’ Ed asked, voice by contrast calm and quiet.
‘Him in the road. Who do you fucking think?’
‘Which one Zac? More than one person is injured.’
Silence.
‘You still there Zac?’
Silence.
‘Zac?’
‘Fucking flash bastard,’ Williams’ sobs gave way to a screaming tirade. ‘Wouldn’t keep away from Lucy. Thought he could take whatever he wanted. Filled her head full of shit. Wanker. Posh car, posh voice, posh twat.’
Ed needed to slow him down, calm him down, bring him back from the edge.
‘Okay Zac. Let’s talk about it. What’s his name?’
Ed feared he was losing him, feared the loud, excited voice was ignoring him, feared whatever rationality was left in the house was rushing out of the broken window
‘Tell the guns to move away. I might come out then.’
Slow him down Ed.
‘They won’t allow that to happen Zac. Not while
you’re in there with a gun.’
Another loud, fast-fired demand. ‘Bring Elwood here then.’
Slow him down Ed.
‘I’ve explained why that can’t happen Zac.’
‘So,’ Williams was raging. ‘I can’t see my son and you won’t take the guns away. Where does that leave me? Fuck this.’
For the first time Ed’s voice sharpened to mirror the urgency of the situation.
‘No Zac. Stay where you are, think of Elwood. Zac stay where you are.’
‘Boss, it’s Sgt Willings, Road Policing Unit.’
Sam was driving home, mobile on speakerphone between her knees.
‘Hi Russell.’
She knew Russell Willings, a well-respected member of the Collision Investigation Unit, who was nearing retirement.
‘I’m dealing with the fatal on the High Street.’
‘The man and the bus?’
‘Yeah. There’s a couple of things I wanted to mention. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Course not. Just hang on a minute.’
Sam swung into a retail park and pulled into the first available bay. Whatever Russell Willings was going to say, and it must be important for him to be ringing, she didn’t want to be distracted by driving.
‘Go on Russell.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but…’
Sam watched a young mother, face drawn, shoulders slouched, battling with three carrier bags, a toddler and the back door of her car.
Would I have been a good mother?
Something was clearly bothering Russell Willings. He’d gone to the trouble of ringing her, but at the same time he was wrestling with his conscience in a way that Sam knew could only mean one thing; he was going to speak out about a senior officer.
‘Russell whatever you’re going to say is between us. You’ve known me long enough and well enough. What’s the problem?’
The slight pause and the deep breath were like those of a prisoner getting ready to make an admission.
‘There’s more to this than meets the eye boss. I’ve got a witness who says the deceased was being chased.’
Sam’s response was immediate, her voice just a little too excited. ‘Fred Thompson?’
‘Who?’