The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Somewhere over there, I think they said they were going,’ said Chris, pointing off to a mist-shrouded rocky incline over by the horizon.

  Foley looked where indicated then closed his eyes, breathed deeply down to his diaphragm. Exhaled. The air was cold, harsh, with a trace of damp. But so much sweeter than the foul stuff that came from prison. That mixture of sweat, cleaning products, bad food, cheap aftershave, bad breath and infrequently washed bodies. He would take the cold anytime.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it, Baz? The fresh air, the open countryside . . . You forget, don’t you? Cooped up in there all the time, you lose sight of things. Forget what really matters.’

  Baz looked like it was anything but wonderful. His expression was miserable, his body language turned in on himself. Like he was counting the seconds until they could get back inside. Like he couldn’t function anywhere else. Foley smiled to himself. That was what he had suspected about him. It was interesting. All helping him to make up his mind, come to a decision.

  He turned to Chris. ‘How do I get to talk to Killgannon?’

  Chris shook his head. ‘Going to be risky. We can’t just walk up to them, tell him you want a word. Not with all those coppers there.’

  ‘So what do we do? You realise this may be my last chance to talk to the man before he disappears again.’

  Chris pretended to look concerned. ‘Let’s get nearer to them. I’ll see what I can do. Depends who they’ve sent to look after him. Hopefully someone I can talk to.’ He nodded, remembering how much Foley was paying him, impressing on him his importance.

  ‘Right,’ said Foley. ‘Let’s do it then.’ He pointed to the rocky outcrop. ‘Just over there, you say?’

  Chris nodded.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Foley set off walking.

  ‘Can’t we take the car?’ asked Baz.

  Foley turned, looked at him. He seemed to have shrunk since coming outside, his whole frame diminished. Probably more than that: his identity. He could no longer cope anywhere but inside. And to think I used to hold you in such high regard, thought Foley. Pathetic, what you’ve come to.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Chris. ‘Might as well. Looks like rain.’

  He got behind the wheel of the Audi. Baz scurried onto the back seat, grateful not to be outside anymore. Foley waited until they were both settled then slowly curled into the back of the car, like Chris was his chauffeur. Even if he did have to shut his own door.

  ‘Right,’ Foley said. ‘Let’s get going.’

  He sat back, smiled. Tried to enjoy the journey.

  53

  Night rolled over Blackmoor in a series of heavier shades of grey.

  Tom felt as though a mist was rolling in, making him squint to see clearly, but it was just the darkening clouds. Like they were too heavy for the sky and were coming in to rest on land. He had spent the whole day on the moor and found the environment unwelcoming. Unnerving, even. Like the place was almost sentient and didn’t want anyone to walk on it, only suffered those who came onto it if they departed quickly. Rocky outcrops loomed over them like menacing ancient gods as the darkness thickened. The woods and forests thrust spiked leafless branches against the sky while their dark, black hearts were ready to absorb any unwary travellers and never let them go.

  He shivered from more than just cold.

  Then shook his head. He was imagining things. He had been penned in for so long, the open space was in danger of making him agoraphobic. Considering his claustrophobia he might have found that amusing. But not right now.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ said the first officer, who Tom had discovered was called Ray. ‘Aren’t they back yet?’

  ‘Coming down now,’ said the second, who had revealed himself to be called Tony. ‘Look, over there. You can see the torches.’

  On the rocky hill ahead of them Cunningham and his party were returning. Cunningham, Tom noticed, was at the back of the pack now. Dragging his feet like the reluctant kid on the school trip.

  With nothing else to do, they watched the party until they were there in front of them.

  Ray crossed to the lead detective. ‘Any luck?’

  The detective shook her head. ‘Nah. A few false alarms, but he’s having trouble remembering anything.’ A roll of the eyes to accompany her words told them what she thought of the whole enterprise. ‘It all looks different now, apparently.’

  ‘What, this all used to be fields?’ said Tony, laughing at his own joke in case no one else did.

  The detective smiled politely. ‘Forensics took some readings, a couple of maybes but nothing positive. Going to be a long haul.’ She looked between the two of them to Tom. ‘Think of the overtime.’

  Tom said nothing. There were things he wanted to ask her, one professional to another, but he refrained. He knew how it would have sounded. And knew she wouldn’t have answered him.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Ray. ‘Back inside for you.’

  ‘And his mate,’ said Tony. ‘Here he comes now.’

  Cunningham was escorted over to the two officers. He was beaming, almost manic. Buzzing with excitement.

  ‘You had fun?’ asked Tom, deadpan.

  Cunningham nodded.

  ‘Found anything?’

  ‘Not yet, but it’s just good to be back out here. Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it? Like it’s speaking to you, telling you secrets.’ He nodded to himself, hearing something no one else was. ‘I’ll find them tomorrow. Tomorrow. The moor’ll not let me go without them. It wants to help.’

  Tom didn’t look at the two officers. He didn’t need to, to know what they would be thinking.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Tony, ‘sooner we can get you two back, sooner we can knock off.’

  Cunningham and Tom climbed into the back of the minibus. Ray took his position behind the steering wheel, Tony next to him. He started the engine, the radio blaring at the same time. Kiss FM.

  ‘Few bangers to make the trip go better,’ said Ray and drove off.

  Tom closed his eyes.

  And opened them pretty soon. There was some kind of commotion going on.

  Ray and Tony were shouting, swearing. Tom saw headlights outside the bus, coming up alongside. Looked like a motorbike. Whichever way they went, the bike was still there.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ said Tony.

  Tom knew immediately what was happening. They were being attacked. He jumped forwards in his seat. ‘Keep driving,’ he shouted. ‘Put your foot down.’

  Tony turned back to him, fear at the situation mixed with anger at Tom’s interference. ‘Just fucking sit down, you. We’ll deal with this.’

  ‘You haven’t even got a gun,’ said Tom.

  The biker had come alongside them. Ray had tried to shake him off but he was keeping pace with them.

  As Tom looked out of the window, the biker drew alongside the driver and, holding the speeding bike with one hand, produced a handgun, an automatic.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ he shouted, but to no effect.

  The biker fired. Glass shattered and the top of Ray’s head decorated the ceiling of the bus. Tony just stared, too scared to move.

  The bus sped up, began to weave all over the road.

  ‘Get his foot off the accelerator!’ Tom shouted.

  Tony didn’t move.

  ‘Get his . . .’

  Tom leaned forwards over the front seat, ignored the blood and pulled Ray’s body back. He took the dead man’s hands off the steering wheel, replaced them with his own. Tried to wrestle the bus back under control.

  ‘Get your foot on the brake,’ Tom shouted at Tony but the guard didn’t respond. ‘Get your foot on the brake!’ Still no response.

  Tom looked ahead through the windscreen. Away from the direct illumination of the bus’s beams everything else was pitch black. He didn’t know if he was on flat land or on the blind brow of a hill with an oncoming vehicle out of sight. But he would have to take a chance.

  Keeping his right hand on th
e wheel he reached down for the handbrake with his left, pulled it as hard as he could.

  Tyres squealing, the bus skidded into a turn. Tom held on to the steering wheel with both hands. Concentrated. Ignored the smoke, the smell of burning rubber and electrics. Just held on tight as the bus gradually came to rest in the opposite direction it had been heading.

  He sat back, breathed a sigh of relief.

  But it was shortlived. Headlights outside told him the biker was back.

  ‘Get out,’ he shouted to Tony, but again the man didn’t move.

  He looked at Cunningham who had curled up into a foetal ball and was reciting a prayer to himself.

  The biker pulled to a standstill, got off the bike, leaving the engine turning over. He came round to the back of the bus, ready to open the doors.

  Tom got there before him. He slammed open the door, knocking the gun from the biker’s hand, smashing his knuckles in the process. He didn’t stop to think, just fell back into his training.

  He had the element of surprise but, he knew, not for long. He kicked at the biker, aiming for his face, but only connecting with his helmet. The kick jarred him though, knocked him off balance. Tom pressed on, punching him in the stomach – once – twice – then another kick to his groin. The biker folded.

  Tom looked quickly round. Assessed the situation as fast as he could.

  He should find out who his assailant was, get that helmet off him. But that would slow him down. And he might get the better of him this time.

  So as the biker began to come round again, search for his gun, Tom noticed his bike was standing there, still running. He made straight for it, hauled himself onto it and, without thinking or looking back, roared away into the night.

  54

  Blake drove her Dacia Duster over the moor, headlights full on. She was breathing so hard it felt like she was running the distance, not driving. Quint’s call had just come through: Killgannon’s gone, taken my bike. He had left her GPS coordinates. A good job she was already on the way.

  Everything was unravelling. She couldn’t stand it. Her whole plan suddenly falling apart. She had to keep herself together. Plot. Plan. Don’t give in to panic, to despair. Keep calm. Think.

  It had been going so well. She had managed to keep a degree of a grip on the investigation into Sheridan’s death, even from a distance. The little extras she had managed to put onto his computer pointed to a completely different kind of copper than he had appeared to be, one that had shaken plenty of her colleagues. So the team had gone off in that direction, investigating things that had no bearing on him when he was alive, never mind in death. And, with subtle – and sometimes not so subtle – suggestions as to where to look, who to talk to, it would be months before they exhausted those erroneous possibilities. If they ever did. By which time she – and the money she was convinced Killgannon had been hoarding – would be long gone.

  She floored the accelerator of the Duster, jumping forwards in her seat as if that would make it go faster. A Dacia Duster. She was embarrassed to own it but she had wanted a four by four. An SUV. A prestige car that put her – physically if nothing else – higher than the other drivers on the road. She had dreamed of a BMW or Porsche, or even a Lexus or a Jaguar at a push. But this was all she could afford. A Dacia. The budget brand. But even if she couldn’t yet afford the thing she wanted – accent on the yet – then at least she could prepare herself for it by driving this thing.

  She slammed on the brakes. Lost in her own thoughts, she nearly didn’t see the figure in the road standing before her, waving both arms. Quint.

  She pulled up before making contact. He ran round to the side of the car, threw his helmet on to the backseat, jumped in. She looked at him. He looked dreadful. Tired, dirty, his expensive jacket scuffed and abraded. Like his bike had been riding him, not the other way round.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Killgannon got away.’

  ‘You said. How did it happen?’

  ‘He . . .’ Quint sighed. It was obvious from his usual demeanour that he wasn’t used to failure in his work. He clearly didn’t take it well. ‘He overpowered me.’ Said quickly, the sooner the words were out there, the sooner they would be gone. ‘I forced the bus off the road, he . . . took my bike. Went off.’

  ‘Was he the only one in the bus?’

  ‘Another prisoner, Cunningham. And an officer. I took the driver out.’

  Blake sighed. She felt like headbutting the steering wheel, punching Quint. Anything to get rid of this desperate, hopeless aggression building within her.

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Looked it. Half his head was missing.’

  Blake stared at him.

  ‘Hey, lady, you hired me for this job. You know the way I work. You know what it is I do. You’ve been happy with what I’ve done so far. Don’t start with any of that fucking princess bullshit now or I’ll just take the rest of my money and be off.’

  Blake dropped her head, sighed once more. A mess. Nothing but a mess. But she would dig her way out of it, salvage something. She had to. Just keep her nerve.

  ‘You’re right. It’s what I hired you for. I’m sure you had to do it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.’

  ‘So where are they now? Cunningham and the other officer?’

  ‘Don’t know. I didn’t hang around to find out. When Killgannon took my bike I just got out of there. There’ll be police, prison staff, all sorts there by now.’ He could barely contain his rage at failing at his job.

  Panic entered Blake’s voice. ‘But that must be just round here. You can’t have run that—’

  ‘I know what I’m doing. My career’s been made living in terrain like this. I got away from them. They won’t find me here. That’s why I told you to meet me here and not nearer to where it happened.’

  Blake relaxed slightly. ‘Right.’ She checked her watch. This was it, the time to come up with a plan that would get everything back on track. Get her the money, get her out of here.

  She looked at Quint. ‘You need transport.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want you to get back to Killgannon’s house and tear it apart. No need to be nice anymore. We’re way past that.’

  ‘What about the women there?’

  Blake shrugged. ‘As you say, it’s what I’m paying you for.’

  ‘Right. So any ideas on getting transport?’

  She checked her phone. Received another text. Smiled.

  ‘Might have just the thing.’

  Things might be falling back into place again

  55

  Tom Killgannon was lost.

  He had roared off on the stolen motorbike, all attempts at location and direction gone in the adrenaline rush of the attack. He didn’t know which way he was heading, he only knew that he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the bus, the rest of the hunting police force, and most importantly, the prison as he could. So he kept going in what he hoped was a straight line, off the roads, bumping over stone, splashing through mud, gorse and bramble tearing the denim of his jeans, catching his legs at high speed. He didn’t stop. Just kept riding on into darkness.

  As he rode he thought. Tried to order what had happened, what was happening. Formulate the best way to get out of all this. The most obvious thing to do would be to head home. That was also the most obvious thing from any pursuer’s point of view. So it was the last place he could go.

  Also, he had to try and think who was after him. Blake. That, he believed, was a given. And whoever owned the motorbike he had taken. Who else? Foley? That didn’t make any sense. He had agreed to a meeting in prison. And when Tom’s job was finished he would honour that. He couldn’t think of anyone else. Not with an immediate grudge against him.

  He went through his options. Find a nearby town or village, stay there the night. Too risky. That would be the second place they would look, plus he didn’t have any money to pay for a
room. And he wasn’t going to steal some. He almost smiled at the next thought. Break in somewhere that looked deserted, keep his head down, stay there. Just like Lila had thought she was doing, all those months ago. If he did that, he hoped she would, at some point, appreciate the irony. No. That wasn’t a good enough option either.

  So, by process of elimination, he knew what he had to do. Find somewhere on the moor, bed down there as best he could, find out where he was in the morning, plan from there.

  That was what he would have to do.

  He felt the ground rising, knowing that the higher he climbed the more he could see of the surrounding area, the sooner he would know that someone had reached him. But not yet. He was quite alone.

  The bike’s beams alighted on a tall, rocky outcrop before him, the kind, he thought, that sheep would shelter under during winter storms. That would have to do. He pulled the bike up alongside it, cut the engine. Wheeled it under the rock. Looked to see where he was.

  On a distant horizon he could see lights. He didn’t know if that was the prison, a town, a village or even a city. Could be a band of villagers with flaming pitchforks, even, searching for him. He watched. The lights were unmoving. A settlement of some kind. Far enough away not to be a problem.

  The moor itself was even bleaker in darkness. He had mistrusted it earlier in what daylight there was, now it seemed positively treacherous. Like there was something with him in the darkness, just waiting for him to make a mistake, to claim him for its own.

  He tried to put thoughts like that from his mind. Walked about, swung his arms against his body. Tried to revel in his sudden freedom. All he could think was this: he was cold. Very cold. The temperature had dropped significantly since he had first got on the bike and it had been cold before that. He looked round for twigs, branches, anything he could use to make a fire. No. He couldn’t do that. Might attract attention. He would just have to huddle up in his parka, get as near to the bike’s engine as possible until it cooled, try to get some sleep if he could. Hope that hypothermia didn’t set in by morning.