Vicki had hummed and hawed for the best part of an hour before deciding yes, she’d drive across and keep Frank company for an hour or so. But not stay. Back in her bed before the witching hour and enjoying all the benefits of a good night’s sleep.
His car wasn’t parked in the usual place and she wondered if maybe he’d taken it into his head to go off somewhere without letting her know. The door to the cottage was open though, left ajar, so she assumed he was still home.
Stepping inside, she switched on the light.
The first thing she saw was Elder, stretched out, face down, on the floor. Her immediate thought, he’d fallen, knocked himself unconscious. Or that he’d had a heart attack, a stroke.
And then she saw the blood.
Kneeling, hands trembling, she turned him over as best she could. When she lowered her face to his, she could just feel the slightest breath, faint against her cheek. One of his eyes flickered momentarily and a tight gargling sound came from his mouth as if he were trying to speak.
‘Keach,’ he managed, the word just audible, her ear pressed close against his mouth, a bubble of blood breaking on her skin.
Standing quickly and stepping past him, she reached for the phone and dialled 999.
The ambulance was there within fifteen minutes, the first of the police not long after. Cordon found Vicki, ashen-faced, in the garden, unable to go back inside.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘He’ll be okay.’
She let her head fall against his chest and cried.
Paramedics carried Elder out past them on a stretcher.
‘Did you touch anything?’ Cordon asked. ‘Inside. Anything at all?’
Vicki nodded. ‘I turned him over. Just to see . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ Cordon said. ‘Don’t worry . . .’ A woman PC appeared at his shoulder and he released Vicki’s grip on his arm and stepped away. ‘Later, when you’re up to it, the officer will take your statement. But now there are things I have to do.’
‘Frank’s car . . .’ Vicki said.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s not here.’
No mobile signal, Cordon was forced to use the landline. He was patched through to the Operations Support Commander at headquarters and within minutes the Firearms Unit of the Force Support Group had been dispatched and the police helicopter was in the air.
The assumption was twofold. Either Keach would seek to avoid capture by sticking to the side roads, travelling under the cover of night, or he would take the most direct route east, the A30, driving as far and fast as he could.
After very little time, the helicopter picked up Elder’s car heading towards the Oakhampton bypass on the northern edge of the Dartmoor National Park. A decision was taken to set up a roadblock on the eastern section of the bypass and force Keach to take the B road that would lead him into the park in the direction of Coombe Head Farm. There it would be easier to position armed officers and execute a hard stop. Less danger of civilians being involved.
Even as he sped down there, Keach must have known.
A tractor partly blocked the road ahead of him, three police cars closing fast behind; the leader sweeping past him and then swerving sharply inwards, forcing him to brake.
As he skidded to a halt, armed officers ran fast towards both sides of the car, shouting instructions, headlights illuminating the scene.
‘Armed police! Armed police! Get out of the vehicle. Put your hands on your head.’
‘Get out of the vehicle. Put your hands on your head.’
When Keach pushed open the door on the driver’s side and started to get out there was a knife in his hand.
‘Drop the knife! Drop the knife now! Drop the knife!’
The armed officers moved closer on all sides.
‘If you don’t drop the knife we will shoot.’
Keach smiled.
And, smiling, took a step forward, still brandishing the knife.
Oh, fuck! the officer in charge thought, he wants us to do it. That’s what he wants. Suicide by fucking cop!
‘Drop the knife! Drop it! Now!’
Keach lunged at the nearest officer and in that instant three others opened fire.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
‘Bastard,’ the lead officer said quietly and shook his head. Already he was thinking about the debrief with the Chief Superintendent, the written reports his team would have to make, the photographs, the video, the inevitable investigation by the IPCC. And for what? Looking down at Keach, he cleared his throat and, not wishing to contaminate the scene, swallowed hard.
Vicki had been sitting in the corridor outside Intensive Care for several hours; if she’d been asked how many it’s doubtful she’d have known. One of the nursing auxiliaries had brought her a cup of tea and it sat beside her feet untouched. Trevor Cordon, concerned, had been there and gone, work to do, promising to return. Elder’s ex-wife and daughter were on their way.
When one of the doctors came out, walking briskly, she intercepted him and asked about Elder’s condition. Was he conscious? Was he going to be all right? Was he in a lot of pain?
‘All I can tell you right now,’ the doctor said, ‘we’re doing everything we can.’ He avoided looking her straight in the eye.