The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  Hollingsworth told Evans to sit. ‘So, you’re saying you don’t know who your cousin is, and he’s not living here. We have reliable information that he’s here. I suppose you realise that harbouring a wanted criminal can get you up to five years?’

  Evans looked worried. He kept glancing down the hall towards the front door. His eyes darted from there back to Baxter. Evans’s face had coloured, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  Tanner’s shoulder radio suddenly came alive. He went into the hall to answer it.

  A moment later, Baxter’s mobile buzzed like an angry bee. He looked at the number, then put it up to his ear. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. The expression on his face suddenly changed. ‘Shit… right. We're on our way.’

  Tanner’s head came around the door. ‘Sir, there’s a…’

  ‘Armed robbery. Yes, got it.’ He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Best had also heard the message and came hurrying down the passage.

  Baxter turned and spoke to Hollingsworth. ‘There's been an armed holdup over at the service station on Shaw Street. Luke, you stay here with Tanner. I’ll take Constable Best with me. Other units are already on their way. He’s on foot, so there’s a good chance he’s still in the area. Here,’ he tossed him the keys. ‘Best and I will take his car.’ He turned to Best.

  ‘Right lad, let’s go.’ The two moved quickly down the passage and out through the front door and up the garden path.

  As the siren faded away down the road, Hollingsworth pulled a chair out from under the table and sat on it. ‘We’re in no hurry, we can wait all day. Where is he, Clarence? Where's Wilson?’

  ‘I keep telling you. Wilson has not been here. I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘When we came banging on your door, you were yelling out about a lost key. So, just who was it who had lost keys? Don’t take me for an idiot, old son. It’s Wilson, isn't it? I reckon he must be out somewhere, yes? Gone out to get a morning paper or for a jog, maybe? Come on Clarence, stop pissing me around. Where the fuck is he?’

  The man’s eyes again turned toward the front door. Hollingsworth followed his gaze down the passage.

  ‘You’re expecting him to walk through that door at any moment, aren’t you?’

  Evans’s eyes flickered nervously. ‘Bert. Get up to the front bedroom and keep an eye out. Turn off the light. We don’t want the bastard seeing you,’ ordered Hollingsworth.

  ****

  PC Tony Best braked hard and, pulling off the road, came to a screeching halt on the forecourt of the all-night fuel station. Near the front of the building, with its hazard lights flashing, stood an ambulance. Parked behind that was PC Andy Miller’s car, its blue lights illuminating the pre-dawn gloom. Miller was standing by the open rear doors of the ambulance, talking to one of the green-uniformed paramedics. Miller’s partner, Mike Cotton, had positioned himself on the forecourt entrance and was spreading out traffic cones to stop any motorist from entering.

  Seeing Baxter climb out of the car, Miller left the paramedic and hurried over to meet him.

  ‘Morning, sir. It’s bloody Superman again. He hit the place about thirty minutes ago. He’s taken three hundred quid, assaulted the male attendant and made off on foot. The attendant was opening up. He’s over there in the ambulance. He’s not too badly injured. May need a couple of stitches in his head. Shock more than anything.’

  ‘How did he get the injury?’ asked Baxter.

  ‘There was a bit of a struggle. He got hit on the head.’

  ‘We were only three streets away. I don't think he would have gone too far in that time,’ Baxter said.

  ‘PC Stanton’s out driving around the streets now, sir.’

  ‘Right. Let’s have a word with the attendant. What’s his name?’

  ‘Carl, sir. Carl Rigby.’

  ****

  The sun had started to rise. It was cold and pale. It threw weak rays of light through the dirty kitchen windows of number 34 Kitchener Terrace.

  ‘Why don't you make us a nice cup of tea while we’re waiting,’ Hollingsworth said. ‘I know PC Tanner would love one. Make sure you sterilise the cups first.’

  Evans snorted. ‘We’re not pigs, you know.’ He stood up and shuffled slowly over to the sink. He filled the kettle, lit the gas, and set it to boil. The word we’re that had just escaped from Clarence Evans’s lips left Hollingsworth in no doubt that Wilson was close by.

  Evans reached up into the cupboard and took out some cups and a rather ornate teapot. In a kitchen like this, the teapot looked out of place. Its design reminded Hollingsworth of the ones his grandma used to collect. Everywhere in her house, there were teapots. Tall teapots, little teapots, large teapots, and thin teapots. There were teapots in the shape of dogs, cats, birds, horses, pigs, bears and even people. As a small child visiting the house, there was one that scared him. It was clown teapot sitting all alone in the corner of her sitting room. It had big swollen lips that stretched unnaturally across its white face and had protruding teeth. Even its nose was an unrealistic size.

  Evans said something. Hollingsworth lifted his gaze from the teapot, dismissing the thoughts. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m cold.’ he said. ‘I need to go upstairs and get some clothes on.’ He ran his hands up and down his bony arms trying to rub in warmth.

  Hollingsworth looked at the shivering figure. ‘Okay.’

  As they walked along the upstairs landing, he looked in on Tanner who sat at the front bedroom window, staring out through the net curtains.

  While Evans was getting dressed, Hollingsworth went looking into the other back bedroom. Between the two was the bathroom. He went in and rifled through the cabinet. He came out and stood in the doorway of the second bedroom looking in. The bed was unmade. A pair of trousers lay draped over the back of a chair. He went inside and started pulling out drawers and then searched through the wardrobe. Hanging up was a suit. He went through pockets of the jacket and found a railway timetable. He thumbed through. The corner of one of the pages had been folded in. It was the page with train times between Derby to London.

  On the floor lay an overnight bag. He opened it and, finding nothing, kicked it to one side.

  Evans was pulling on the bottoms of his tracksuit when he walked back into the room.

  ‘You ought to tell this cousin of yours — you know — the one who’s not here, to make his bed in the morning,’ he said. He went over to the window and looked out onto the back garden. He turned and said to Evans, ‘Come on. That kettle should have boiled by now.’

  As the pair were about to move onto the landing, the back door opened, slammed shut and a voice yelled out. ‘I'm back. Where are you?’

  They all froze. Hollingsworth looked over at Tanner, who was still looking out of the window. He turned and, with a look of surprise on his face, whispered, ‘He must have come over the bloody back fence.’

  Hollingsworth grabbed Evans by the lapel of his tracksuit and whispered loudly, ‘Answer him. Tell him you’re just coming. And say nothing else. You understand?’ To add emphasis, he tightened his grip. Evans, wide-eyed, nodded.

  They moved out onto the landing. Evans yelled out, ‘I’m just coming down. Make some tea. The kettle should be boiling by now.’

  Hollingsworth suddenly remembered the cups. Shit. He glared at Evans. Would it give them away? Would Wilson notice?

  Thinking it might give him some more time and still holding onto his lapel, he pulled Evans silently into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He took out his handcuffs, slipped one end around the man’s wrist and the other he attached to the water pipe. He pointed his finger at him quietly saying, ‘You keep that bloody mouth of yours shut. You stay absolutely silent. Got it?’ Evans obediently nodded his head and sat down on the lid of the toilet.

  Hollingsworth came out onto the landing, saying quietly to Tanner, ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  ***

  ‘Carl. I’m Detective Inspector Ted Baxter. How are you feeling?’

 
; ‘The medics say I’ll need a stitch or two, but I’ll survive.’

  Baxter stood next to the bunk. ‘Good. Carl, can you tell me just exactly what happened? Take your time, there’s no rush.’

  ‘I’d just opened up. I went back behind the counter and was about to fill up the till when this bloke comes in wearing a Superman costume. I’d thought first he’d just come from some all-night party, but then I saw there was no car at the pumps. Well, all of a sudden, he rushes up to me at the counter and starts waving this sack at me, yelling he had a gun in it and to hand over all the money in the till.’

  ‘Did you see this gun? Did he take it out?’

  ‘No, he never took it out, but I did see both ends of the barrels sticking out.’

  ‘Barrels. You sure they were barrels?’

  ‘Positive. I'm dead sure it was a shotgun.’ He gingerly touched the dressing on his forehead. ‘It was with that, that he bloody well hit me. I tried to bluff it out and showed him the empty register. Told him I was waiting for the boss to bring in the money. It’s then he saw the cash box. He came charging around the counter. I don’t mind telling you I was scared. He pushed me out of the way and hit me with the gun. I fell on the floor and played dead. The moment I heard the door bang, I got up and called you people.’

  ‘Did you notice which way he ran?’

  ‘No. Sorry, I was feeling a bit groggy. It was a bit dark. When I looked out of the window, I saw the man running across the road. I didn't see where he went from there. I'll need to contact my boss; let him know.’

  PC Miller was standing by the open door. ‘Tell everyone to concentrate the search between here and London Road. He has to be in that area somewhere,’ instructed Baxter. ‘He was a real ugly bugger. He shouldn't be too hard to spot. Had a big bloody scar down the side of his face.’

  ‘What? You mean you saw his face? He wasn’t wearing a mask?’ exclaimed Baxter.

  The attendant nodded slowly, blinked and swayed. ‘The mask only covered his eyes.’ The attendant looked as if he was about to pass out.

  The medic standing next to the bunk, moved in quickly and checked the heart rate monitor then shone a penlight into his eyes. ‘He has a mild concussion.’ He called to his mate. ‘Okay, let’s get mobile.’

  Baxter took a photo from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to Rigby. ‘Is this the man who attacked you?’

  ‘Bloody ‘ell. Yes, shit. That’s the one that held me up.’

  Baxter walked out of the ambulance. ‘Holy shit.’ He put Wilson’s photo back into his pocket. His immediate thoughts went to Hollingsworth and Tanner who were back at the Evans house waiting for Wilson to return. The man was armed and dangerous. He reached for his phone and speed dialled Hollingsworth. He drummed his fingers on the side of the ambulance waiting for it to connect. After a few seconds, it started to ring. Ring, ring, and ring.

  ‘For god’s sake, Luke, answer the bloody thing.’ He shouted so loud that the medic, thinking something was wrong, came out and looked at him. ‘It’s fine,’ Baxter said, holding up his hand. ‘It's fine.’

  Hollingsworth’s phone kept ringing and ringing and then suddenly it went silent. ‘Oh. Holy mother of God.’ He yelled over for PC Best and started to run across the forecourt towards the car. As he ran, he called to Miller, ‘Follow us over to Sevastopol Terrace, blues and twos. Wilson is heading to Evans’s place. He’s armed. Cotton, you stay here. Radio Tanner, alert him. Call for armed back-up.’

  ****

  Hollingsworth walked silently along the passage and stood in the open doorway of the kitchen and peered in. Before coming down the stairs, and so as not to alert Wilson, Hollingsworth had told Tanner to turn off his radio. He now stood behind him with his baton drawn. James Wilson was standing by the kitchen bench with his back to them. He was pouring tea into two mugs.

  Hollingsworth stared at him. What was he wearing? He then stepped further into the room, followed by PC Tanner.

  ‘Two sugars for me,’ he held up his ID. ‘Police.’

  What happened next, they were unprepared for, and took them completely off guard. Everything happened so fast. Seeing their reflections in the mirror above the sink, Wilson, firstly, with lightning speed, turned and flung the teapot towards them. Hollingsworth managed to duck in time, but it glanced off the side of Tanner’s head, smashing up against the wall and sending a stream of hot brown liquid running down it. Tanner momentarily stumbled backwards into the door, knocking Hollingsworth off balance.

  Wilsons next move was swift and precise. He reached across the table, scooped up the shopping bag and pointed it towards the two men.

  When he managed to regain his balance and straighten up, Hollingsworth was in for another surprise. He saw what Wilson was wearing. Under the gabardine raincoat was an ill-fitting blue Superman costume with a red cape. It was a size too small for him because his blue jump suit finished well above his ankles. On the table stood an open cash box. Lying beside it were notes and coins. Keeping his eye on the two of them, Wilson gathered up the cash with one hand and stuffed it into the box.

  ‘If you want to keep those heads of yours on your shoulders, don’t do anything stupid, right? At that moment, Hollingsworth’s phone started to ring. ‘Take it out and slide it across the table to me. Come on,’ Wilson shouted. ‘Now.’

  Hollingsworth said, ‘And what will you do if I don’t. Shoot us both with a carrot or a stick of celery?’ He looked at Tanner who was still rubbing the side of his head and said. ‘PC Tanner, any guesses as to what’s in the bag this time. A banana maybe?’

  Wilson looked strangely at Hollingsworth. His expression showed bewilderment for only a second. He then made a face, half smiled, and pointed the bag upwards. All of a sudden, there was a deafening roar. Both Hollingsworth and Tanner found themselves showered with lumps of ceiling board and plaster. It cascaded down, falling on their heads and shoulders. The whole room smelt of cordite. Hollingsworth’s bowels suddenly churned. A scream came from somewhere above them. When Hollingsworth looked up, the blast from the shotgun had ripped an enormous hole in the ceiling. It was directly under the bathroom where Clarence Evans sat handcuffed to the toilet.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Hollingsworth, holding up both hands. ‘Let’s calm down.’ He fished out the phone and pushed it across the table. It was still ringing. Wilson threw it to the floor and stamped on it. It stopped ringing.

  Tanner brushed bits of plaster from his shoulder and gave Hollingsworth a worried look.

  ‘What have you done with Clarence? Where is he?’ asked Wilson.

  Hollingsworth directed his gaze to the jagged hole in the ceiling. ‘He’s in the bathroom. I think you’ve just shot him,’

  He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh fuck. Clarence! Clarence! Are you okay? Are you all right up there?’ hollered Wilson through the hole in the plasterboard.

  The reply came back. ‘You’re a stupid bloody git. What the fuck are you doing down there? You could have killed me. It’s just as well I'm sitting on the toilet because I just come very close to shitting myself.’

  Hollingsworth held out his hand. It trembled slightly. ‘Come on, James. Don’t be stupid. Give me the gun before you hurt someone.’

  Wilson pulled the shotgun from the bag and waved it at them. ‘Sit on the floor and don’t move.’

  In the distance came the sound of police sirens.

  ‘Give it up, James. It’s over. They’ll be here in a minute. Let’s not make it any worse. Please, give me the gun.’

  ‘Sit,’ he shouted. They did as they were told and sat with their backs against the wall. The sirens were getting closer.

  Hollingsworth again tried to reason with him. ‘If this is who I think it is, James, they’ll be armed. If they see you with that… well…’ The rest of the sentence went unsaid. ‘Is all this worth risking your life for? Please. Put the gun down,’ he pleaded.

  The sirens could be heard getting closer. They were coming up the street. The sirens stopped, and then
the sound of doors slamming.

  Hollingsworth pleaded once again. ‘For god’s sake, man, please put down the gun. We don’t want anybody getting hurt.’

  The front door crashed open. From out in the hallway, came shouts of, ‘ARMED POLICE, DO NOT MOVE. STAY WHERE YOU ARE.’

  At that same instant, both kitchen windows shattered as two armed officers aimed their weapon at and called out to him. ‘Stay where you are. Drop your weapon, drop your weapon. Do it, do it now. Get down on the floor and put both hands on your head.’

  Wilson, realising the hopelessness of it, let the shotgun drop to the floor and, putting his hands on his head, went down on his knees. With their faces covered with balaclavas and pistols drawn, two response officers came racing in from the hall into the kitchen. They shouted at Wilson not to move. Two more came bursting in through the back door. Everyone was yelling at once.

  With Wilson kneeling on the floor, one of the officers came over and kicked the shotgun across the room, out of reach. Another grabbed hold of Wilson’s arms, pinned them behind his back, cuffed him, then unceremoniously dragged him to his feet. They patted him down, then hustled him out of the kitchen.

  One of the team came in, saying to Hollingsworth, ‘Who’s that handcuffed to the upstairs loo?’

  ‘His name’s Evans. Clarence Evans. He’s the householder. You can add him to your collection.’ The officer turned back up the hallway, calling instructions to the other team members as he went.