Still grinning, Leech stood aside. Across the room, Sinclair had both hands free and his gag hanging limp around his neck. Now visible, his hands were encased in black nitrile gloves. And the harm to his face, Stark realized belatedly, wasn’t fresh.
Slowly he reached down and untwisted the cables around his legs, then stood and stretched theatrically. ‘You really should work on your knots,’ he said to Leech, before turning to Stark with a small smile. ‘Sur-prise …’
For the first time, Stark really saw the serpent Fran had always seen. If he’d felt a fool before, he felt the full weight of his stupidity now, cursing himself for slowness of thought and action. Gone was any vestige of the frailty and PTSD he’d thought he recognized. Feigned, just as Fran had warned – for him; his weak spot, his saviour complex. Sinclair suddenly looked lean, alert and quietly pleased with himself. Harper’s instincts had been spot on – Leech hadn’t been confessing in Sinclair’s hospital room; he’d been conspiring. All murder enquiries began the same – person or persons unknown …
Julian Sinclair, Blake Talbot and Brian Leech – three killers.
Fran was going to be livid. Pity he might not live to see it. ‘Bravo,’ he said, hiding his shock. ‘Now there’s twice the chance they’ll track us down.’
Sinclair shook his head, amused. ‘Half as much, I’d say, with your ramshackle team out chasing their tails elsewhere. Who do you think called in tonight’s anonymous tip-offs? And even if by some miracle they did come knocking here, we’re both accomplished at keeping captives quiet and playing innocent to the police, aren’t we, Brian?’ Saying this, he popped the lid off the cool-box, pulled out two chilled beers, twisted off the caps, passed one to Leech and took a deep drink of his own.
Stark silently cursed them to choke. ‘You’ve been working together all along?’
‘No, Brian joined the party late,’ said Sinclair, ‘but with quite the entrance.’
‘Where’s Kelly?’
‘All in good time …’ Sinclair searched his face. ‘Aren’t you going to say you’ll kill me if I’ve hurt her?’
Stark’s fist balled behind him in impotent rage. ‘I will.’
‘What about her …?’ Sinclair nodded to Leah. ‘Don’t you care about her too? And people say I’m the monster.’
‘Let her go.’
‘Why?’ The blunt truth of the question was chilling. Sinclair studied him. ‘Even if you were free …? You’ve killing in you. You’ve medals to prove it. But always framed in right and wrong – honour and restraint.’ He shook his head as if diagnosing some pitiable disease. ‘Unlike us …’ he raised his bottle to Leech who grinned and drank deep.
Sinclair put his bottle down to pull a small pistol from the holdall. ‘Blake Talbot’s,’ he explained, noting Stark’s interest. ‘Some children shouldn’t be allowed sharp toys. Came in handy persuading him to have a little booze and snooze in his van.’
So Blake had been armed; not with the Glock 19 they’d all hoped would tie the Talbots to the prison and more, but a Glock 26 subcompact. The little brother’s gun to Dean’s penis-extension Desert Eagle and dumb Troy’s knife. A fraternal pecking order in weaponry. ‘You forced his confession. Staged his suicide.’
Sinclair gave a mea-culpa shrug. ‘Least I could do after he tried to pass his little mongrel sister off as my handiwork. And this, obviously,’ he added, indicating his bruised face. ‘I don’t take well to insults.’ He placed the gun on the table in front of Leah’s eyes, indicating he’d taken her previous escape as just that. ‘What’s the matter, Joe? Isn’t this what every detective wants? To know exactly what happened?’ Now fully unmasked, Sinclair’s frown seemed as oil-slick thin as his smile. ‘Well, now you get to watch …’
Stark nodded, took a deep breath and shouted at the top of his lungs. ‘HELP! CALL THE POLICE! HE –’ Leech pulled back an arm and pistol-whipped him across the side of the head, but watching it coming, Stark was able to move with it to ensure the chair toppled once more. Unfortunately, enough of the blow landed to ring his head like a bell, leaving him too stunned to take advantage and try to free his legs, and before he knew it he was upright again, with the gag firmly back in place.
‘Well, that was a waste of bloody time,’ cursed Fran, clutching her coffee for some kind of warmth.
After the armed officers had demanded their nice thick coats back and faded into the night to defend the capital from unseen terrors, the minibus had eventually crawled back to the station somewhat slower and less charged, leaving her tired and chilled to the bone. Not to mention pissed off that Harper had found a scene of crime, sans criminal or victim. She felt sorry for Hammed, stuck out there with him.
Her coffee was cooling quicker than she was warming, and smelled wrong.
Dixon looked like he’d been mainlining intravenous caffeine here, worrying from one foot to the other as he turned to see them return. Movement through the glass in Harper’s office caught Fran’s eye and she was astonished to see Groombridge speaking intently into the phone.
‘Sarge,’ said Dixon gravely. ‘Thank God you’re back.’ He explained quickly and showed them two short videos on his monitor.
Fran stood, flummoxed.
‘He get in the van?’ asked Williams.
‘Inconclusive from these cameras,’ replied Dixon. ‘But I can’t find him on surrounding streets. Cameras on the college might have this angle, but they’re closed till morning.’
‘Got the van’s plates?’
‘Fakes. They match a car registered scrapped. But it’s the same van in both locations.’ Dixon looked about as sick as Fran suddenly felt. ‘I followed it across a few cameras before I lost it both times, but I never saw the driver’s face.’
‘Welcome back,’ said Groombridge ironically, standing in the door to his office like he’d never left.
Fran stared back. ‘Guv? Should you –’
He held up a hand. ‘Let’s worry about that later. Our search just widened from Leah to Stark and Kelly as well. Cameras?’
‘Nothing on ANPR yet, Guv,’ said Dixon, knowing he probably shouldn’t be calling him that. ‘Ptolemy, Peters and Pensol are already widening the traffic camera search to find the van again.’
‘Best go help, then.’
‘Guv.’ Dixon shot to his feet, taking Hammed with him.
‘You lot look like you could use a stiff one,’ announced Maggie, the control room matriarch, face taking no real pleasure in the double-entendre. ‘Thought you should know, we just took a call for DC Stark, from one Clive Baxter, quite rude, lives in the same block of flats as Leah Willoughby. Said Stark gave him a card, and he’d only speak to him.’
Fran set her nasty coffee down on Dixon’s desk. ‘He’s seen Leah Willoughby?’
‘No. But …’