The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  Sarah sighed. ‘Fair enough,’ she said, dropping the pretence. ‘There are several people I can call. Failing that, I’ll book into a hotel under an assumed name. I’ll vary my journey to work. And I’ll let them know what’s going on. The place is a fortress, cameras everywhere, and I’m sure NCA Command will come up with something if he’s still on the loose tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said Jo. ‘And there is one more precaution that we can take.’

  Sarah picked up on Jo’s hesitation. ‘Why do I get the impression that I’m not going to like this?’ she said.

  Jo explained about the vaccination. Sarah listened without comment, eyebrows raised throughout.

  ‘And how often has this miracle vaccine been used on humans?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jo admitted.

  ‘But it has been rigorously tested?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Have you taken it?’

  The question took Jo by surprise. ‘I’m not one of his targets. Not part of his mission.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘You’ve met him. He’s aware that you’re heading the investigation. Who’s to say who he’ll add to his list?’

  ‘But . . .’

  Sarah was now on the edge of her seat, her questions relentless. ‘He’ll do whatever it takes to complete his mission. That’s what you said?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘And right now, you stand in his way.’

  ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘No suppose about it. So, are you going to take this vaccine?’

  ‘I . . . I haven’t considered it.’

  ‘Consider it now.’

  Jo found it impossible to hide her uncertainty and confusion.

  Sarah sat back and slowly shook her head in disbelief. ‘So when you said “precautions we can take”, you actually meant “precautions you can take” . . .’

  Jo was out of answers. ‘It’s your decision, Sarah,’ she said.

  ‘This antidote they gave Heather Rand. You said it seems to have worked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Sarah, ‘stuff the vaccine. Back home I’m never more than twenty minutes from the best hospitals in the UK. I can walk to Guy’s and St Thomas’s from work in less than ten minutes. You get some of the antidote to one of those, and I’ll take my chances. Even better, why don’t you give me some to take back with me?’

  ‘It’ll probably need to be refrigerated,’ said Jo.

  ‘They’ve been using picnic coolers filled with ice bags for organ transplants – pop it in one of those.’

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ said Jo.

  Sarah stood up. ‘Damn right I am,’ she said. ‘Now, are you going to make that call?’

  Chapter 65

  As Jo drove into the Nexus House parking lot, she saw Nick walking towards the glass-fronted entrance. She called out to him and he waited for her. He looked uncharacteristically glum and somehow drained, like a deflated balloon. They went into the building together.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

  He pulled a face. ‘I tracked Mwamba down to his local church. He’s doing some lay preaching now he’s retired.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He took it surprisingly well – too well. He told me, “God will provide, young man, God will provide.” ’

  ‘What did you say to that?’

  ‘I was tempted to point out that God hadn’t done a brilliant job for Ronnie O’Neill, Morris Grimshaw, and Tony Dewlay.’

  Jo pushed open the fire door. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Course I didn’t. I merely suggested that it wouldn’t do any harm to give God a helping hand.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘He laughed.’

  ‘You told him about the vaccine?’

  ‘He didn’t want to know. Said if it came to it, he’d get himself along to the Royal and place himself in their hands, and God’s. How about you? How did Sarah react?’

  ‘Much the same, but without the God bit. How did Mwamba respond to the standard advice about keeping himself safe?’

  ‘He nodded sagely, but I had the distinct impression it was going in one ear and out of the other.’

  Jo held her pass up to the pad on the door to the incident room.

  ‘We’ve done our best,’ she said.

  ‘Covered our backs, you mean,’ he replied gloomily.

  Jo pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  ‘Ma’am!’

  Jimmy Hulme and Carly Whittle were leaning over the desk of one of the DCs who had been drafted in to strengthen the squad. Hulme was waving them over. His excitement was encouraging.

  ‘We think we’ve found out where he stashes his car,’ he said, pointing at the screen: a row of identical lock-up garages stood beside a broad unmetalled track.

  ‘Where is this?’ Jo asked.

  The detective constable zoomed out. Jo could see the rail track behind the garages, substantial residential properties, and the Abraham Moss Academy and Leisure Centre. Three virtual pinboard pins had been inserted on the map as place markers.

  ‘Crumpsall,’ said Carly Whittle, ‘between Moss Bank and Crescent Road, immediately north of Abraham Moss.’

  ‘That’s some way from where he lives,’ said Nick.

  ‘Four miles,’ said the detective. ‘Less than ten minutes if he uses the motorways.’

  ‘One way only,’ Carter pointed out. ‘He’d have to use his mountain bike on the way back.’

  ‘My guess is he avoids the motorways altogether,’ said Jo. ‘Too many cameras. We’d have picked him up long before this if he didn’t. How do we know this is the place?’

  The DC used his cursor to move from place marker to place marker.

  ‘These are where a Nissan Micra car matching the details of the one licensed to Jordan Springer was pinged, Ma’am. I tracked it back towards the suspect’s address in Walkden and found these.’

  He zoomed out a fraction. A further three place markers appeared.

  ‘When were the most recent sightings?’ Jo asked.

  The DC split the screen in two. On the right-hand side was a three-column table of matched coordinates, dates, and times. ‘As you can see, Ma’am,’ he said, ‘the most recent were yesterday morning, here and here.’

  The cursor moved across the map picking out one place marker two miles west of the lock-ups, and one on Moss Road a few hundred yards away.

  Jo checked the table and turned to Nick Carter.

  ‘That was shortly after we left him,’ she said. ‘He’ll have just had time to grab what he needed, clean the place up, and get out of there. The trouble is it looks as though he’s left the car there. Which means he must have another vehicle.’

  ‘Unless he’s still inside that lock-up?’ said Jimmy Hulme.

  ‘Get real,’ said Nick. ‘He’ll be long gone.’

  ‘He could have strapped his mountain bike to the Nissan and then used that?’ said Carly Whittle.

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Jo. ‘Check for live footage from those cameras. See what that gives us. Nick, you stay here and see if we can spot him on any of the passive data from around that area. We need to know if he has alternative transport. And I want a drive-by surveillance on Henry Mwamba. It’s not personal protection, but it’s the next best thing. And see if you can find out who owns these lock-ups. They look like rentals to me. Oh, and tell Jack to have a Forensics unit on standby. Jimmy, Carly, you’re with me.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Nick. But she was already halfway to the door.

  Chapter 66

  ‘Where do we start?’ asked Jimmy Hulme.

  It was a good question. The rough unsurfaced road was deserted. Twelve identical lock-up garages. What looked like brand-new roofs and up-and-over doors. Much larger than they had appeared on the satellite image. Small native deciduous trees and shrubs crowded the bank above the railroad cut
ting. A dark grey sheet of cloud advanced across the Cheshire plain. Where the sunlight broke through, showers could be seen over Warrington and Wigan. A train rumbled past as they stood there wondering what to do next.

  ‘We’d better start knocking on doors,’ said Jo. ‘Someone in one of these houses may have seen the Micra outside one of the garages. They might even be renting one right next door to our suspect.’

  ‘We could do with a few more bodies, Ma’am,’ said Carly.

  ‘Let’s see how we get on,’ she said. ‘You start at the bottom end, Jimmy, you take the top end, Carly, and I’ll start in the middle.’

  They were ten minutes in when Jo’s phone rang. It was Nick.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘They were built as a unit by a rental business. The landlord is on the way out to you.’

  ‘Any idea how long?’

  ‘They’re in Middleton, so fifteen minutes tops.’

  Ten minutes later a black Porsche Cayenne rounded the corner and bumped its way slowly towards them.

  ‘I know what I’m going to do when I retire,’ said Jimmy. ‘Rent out garages.’

  ‘He’s probably got it on one of these rental deals, just like his garages,’ said Carly.

  ‘She,’ said Jo.

  The Porsche pulled up ten yards away, just short of a particularly nasty pothole. A large bottle blonde in a red leather biker jacket – part apprentice sumo wrestler, part drag act – climbed out and walked unsteadily towards them on six-inch heels.

  ‘Person,’ muttered Jimmy Hulme, playing the gender-neutral card. He saw Jo’s expression and immediately regretted it.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Jo, ‘just so long as that’s a key she’s holding.’

  ‘You’se the police?’ said the woman in a strong Mancunian accent.

  ‘No, we’re having a picnic,’ said Jimmy Hulme.

  Jo showed her ID. ‘And you are?’ she said.

  ‘Sharon Osborne.’

  ‘Really?’ said Hulme.

  She glared at him. ‘Yeah! Really. Different spellin’, if you must know.’

  ‘Thank you for responding so quickly,’ said Jo. ‘We really appreciate it.’

  Osborne dangled the keys just out of reach. ‘Have you’se gotta warrant?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t have time,’ said Jo. ‘But under the circumstances, which I’m not at liberty to share with you, the alternative is that we break into each of these garages in turn until we find the one that we’re looking for.’

  The woman scowled. ‘No need for that. I was just askin’.’ She handed over the key. ‘Number 11,’ she said. ‘Down the end.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jo.

  Osborne followed them as they hurried towards the garage in question. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ said Jo.

  ‘The guy on the telly. The one you’re looking for. Darren somethin’?’

  ‘Darren Clements,’ said Jo. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I recognised him. It was me that give him the keys.’

  Jo stopped and stared at her. ‘So why didn’t you ring the police straight away?’

  ‘Because that wasn’t the name he give me, was it?’

  Jimmy Hulme rolled his eyes. The three of them carried on walking.

  ‘It wasn’t the name on the direct debits either,’ she added, as though that made any difference.

  ‘What name did he give you?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Springer – like the dog. Jordan Springer.’

  They stopped outside number 11. Jo hesitated. What if it was booby-trapped? Why the hell hadn’t she thought of that before – a small explosive device, airborne ricin. Perhaps that was what Nick Carter had meant when he’d told her to be careful.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ said Jimmy. ‘That he might have booby-trapped it?’

  Osborne’s hand flew to her face. ‘Booby trap! Fuckin’ hell! I’m out of here.’

  Jo turned on her. ‘Pull yourself together, Sharon,’ she said. ‘Go and sit in your car. And don’t you dare move till I tell you to.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ said Carly as they watched her totter off.

  ‘I can’t see him having had time to put it all together,’ she said, ‘given Clements left straight after we’d been to see him.’

  ‘But he could have had everything he needed right here,’ said Carly. ‘There was nothing in the house. Odds-on, this doubled as his workshop.’

  ‘Carly’s right,’ said Jo. ‘If we thought someone was trapped inside and their life was at risk, I might chance it. But no one is going to accept a risk assessment based on little more than wishful thinking.’

  It began to rain. She pulled up her hood, turned her back to the wind and called Nick Carter.

  Chapter 67

  ‘They didn’t waste any time,’ said Carly Whittle, nodding towards the cameras.

  ‘Hardly surprising, is it?’ Jimmy Hulme responded. ‘A circus like this? And you can bet it was on every social media channel going before they even arrived.’

  Both ends of the road had been taped off and blocked by police vans. Beyond them, press and paparazzi jostled for the best pitches. In every other second bedroom window of the houses opposite the garages at least one person stood with a phone trained on number 11.

  ‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ said Jo. ‘I can think of better ways to spend a soggy October afternoon.’

  Right on cue Jack Benson turned and gave a thumbs up. The three of them walked towards him, passing the two dog handlers and their charges heading back to their van.

  ‘Thank you, guys,’ said Jo.

  ‘Our pleasure, Ma’am,’ said the older one. Raindrops dripped from his helmet like slow-motion bullets.

  It reminded Jo fleetingly of Deer Tick’s ‘Twenty Miles’.

  The dog handler grinned. ‘Beats chasing villains over broken glass.’

  Jack Benson was waiting beside the transparent polytunnel now surrounding the open door of garage number 11.

  ‘I didn’t ask for Bomb Disposal,’ Jo said. ‘I assumed you’d wait until the dogs had done their work?’

  ‘Not our call, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘One mention of ricin and device in the same sentence and this is what you get.’

  ‘What about all these Armed Response officers?’

  He shrugged. ‘They come as a package.’

  ‘Tell them they can go home, dry off, and get some rest,’ she said. ‘We may need them again when we catch up with Darren Clements.’ She peered inside the tunnel. ‘Is it okay to go in?’

  ‘Yes. But remember, you can look but you can’t touch. Just make sure you kit up. It’s the full Hazguard suit, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  He nodded grimly. ‘You’ll see. There are only two respirators. You’ll have to decide who stays out here.’

  She turned to Jimmy Hulme. ‘Knocking on random doors didn’t get us anywhere. I need you to find out from Sharon Osborne if any of the residents around here rent these garages. If so, show them the pictures of Clements and the Micra. Do they recall seeing him with a different vehicle? It’s a Saturday. Some of them are bound to be home.’

  ‘If they’re not at the Etihad watching the City v Burnley game,’ he replied.

  ‘You’d better hope they’re not,’ she told him, ‘or you’ll be back here again this evening.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ He cut a forlorn figure as he set off through the slanting rain.

  Jo helped Carly Whittle suit and boot, and then the roles were reversed. She hated the protective goggles, the N95 respirator, and the second pair of high-risk gloves. In a bizarre way, they heightened her sense of vulnerability. They also made her feel claustrophobic. To make matters worse, her headache had returned.

  She lifted the rear flap of the polytunnel and the two of them stepped inside the garage. The red Nissan Micra was immediately in front of them. The trunk was open, as were all four doors.

 
; ‘The sniffer dogs?’ said Carly, her voice muffled by the respirator.

  Jo nodded. ‘I’ll take the trunk, you check the insides.’

  A wheel brace and a carjack lay in the trunk. A spare can of engine oil in a protective jacket had been Velcroed to a side panel. Jo lifted them out and raised the false floor panel. In the well were three environmentally friendly bags from the supermarket. The first contained an Apple Mac Pro laptop computer, a USB lead, and a charger unit. The other two contained notebooks and three phones.

  Carly appeared at her side. ‘Either he didn’t expect us to find this place,’ she said, ‘or he isn’t bothered if we do.’

  Jo nodded. ‘My thoughts entirely. Did you find anything?’

  ‘No, Ma’am, but you should come and see what’s down the other end.’

  The bottom half of the garage had been turned into a workshop. A full-width workbench, complete with electrical sockets, held a vertical drill clamped to the wall, two vices, a variety of boxed power drill sets, a large granite mortar and pestle, and a kettle. Along one wall was fixed metal shelving. The shelves were empty. Against the other wall stood two floor-to-ceiling metal lockers, like the ones used in GMP staff changing rooms. Jo tried the doors. The first was locked. The second opened. An all-in-one white biohazard suit, not dissimilar to the one that Jo was wearing, hung from a hook.

  ‘It is him, isn’t it, Ma’am?’ said Carly excitedly.

  Jo had given up believing in coincidence years ago. But the time for excitement was when he was in custody and not before. She turned her attention to what was under the workbench. A grey fireproof safe, a foot wide and eight or nine inches deep. She knelt and tried the lid. It was locked. As she shifted her weight to stand up, she felt something dig into her knee. It was an oval object, less than half an inch, or around a centimetre long, the colour of grey marble mottled with brown markings. A protuberance at one end gave it the appearance of a harlequin ladybird. With some difficulty, she picked it up between thumb and forefinger and examined it.

  ‘What is it, Ma’am?’ said Carly.

  Jo held it up for her to see. ‘Ricinus communis,’ she said. ‘This is what a castor bean looks like. If you chew five and then swallow them, they’ll likely kill you. But then, how are you going to get your victim to do that? They’re far more versatile in the powdered form our unsub favours.’