Henry and Diane ran through the patio doors on to a wide, paved area and came to a skidding halt. They were having a very hurried back-and-forth conversation on the hoof, working out tactics between them as they ran.
‘Do we leave the body?’ Diane asked.
‘He isn’t going anywhere fast,’ Henry said.
‘Might be another suspect in the house.’
‘A chance we’ll have to take – but it’s your shot, you’re the real cop.’
No thought: ‘Go after the guy.’
‘Where’s your PR?’ Henry asked.
‘In the freakin’ car.’
‘He’s probably gone that way,’ Henry said. ‘We need to get some backup.’
They sprinted around the perimeter of the house, circling to the front driveway, even though the gunman could just as easily have dived into the thick trees and bushes in the garden and escaped that way.
‘Helicopter, roadblocks,’ Diane panted, thinking out loud.
‘Feet on the ground,’ Henry added to the wish list.
‘You’ll be bloody lucky.’
They ran past Carter’s Jaguar and out on to Shore Close. Diane went to her car for her personal radio, but Henry jogged on, only now aware he had twisted his right knee when he’d leapt sideways in order not to take a bullet, and now it was hurting.
He ran to the junction with Shore Road and stopped, looking both ways – right towards the shore itself which formed part of the northern edge of Morecambe Bay, and left up towards the T-junction in the general direction of Silverdale village centre. Henry tried to put himself in the gunman’s shoes: if he did have transport, where would be the most advantageous place to wait unobtrusively for Jack Carter to return home? It was only a hypothesis, but it seemed the most likely scenario at the moment: Henry guessed a car on the main road.
Diane caught up with him, transmitting urgent instructions over the radio, calmly and precisely.
As she spoke, Henry gestured that he was going up the road away from the shore towards the junction with Lindeth Road, from which he could either turn towards the village or away from it.
Diane kept up with him, still on the radio.
At the junction, Henry stopped, looking both ways along what was a very pretty country road, tree-lined, nice stone cottages and a few cars parked by the roadside.
‘Bugger,’ he said, frustrated, then winced as pain engulfed his knee.
Diane finished the dialogue with the comms room operator.
‘They’re putting up the helicopter, and mobile patrols are en route from Morecambe and Lancaster, including an ARV. Cumbria have been alerted, too,’ she added, naming the adjoining police force, the boundary between it and Lancashire only a mile away.
‘OK.’ Henry kept his eyes roving for movement. The road was still and quiet, but he knew this was probably the best place for the gunman to have lain in wait in relative comfort in a car, maybe; unless he’d come on foot, this was the only access to Shore Road and Shore Close, and Carter must have used this route to drive home.
A car sped past from the direction of the village. A woman and two kids. Then it was gone.
‘What’re you thinking, Henry?’
‘Maybe he was too fast for us, maybe he’s gone …’ Then he heard a car engine fire up down the road to his right. He tensed up and bent low to pick up a stone from the grass verge, about the size of half a house brick, one of a series of stones placed on the edge of the grass to discourage parking. ‘Or possibly not.’
In a line of three cars on the opposite side of the road, all facing him, the nose of the middle car, an oldish blue Ford Mondeo, edged out.
Henry looked at Diane. She too had noticed the car.
‘Could be,’ Henry said. Henry hefted the stone in the palm of his hand and saw that Diane now had her extendable baton in her hand. She flicked it with a whip-crack sound and it opened to its full length.
The two detectives took a few cautionary steps towards the slowly emerging car.
A man at the wheel.
With a ski mask pulled down over his face.
Without hesitation, their cop instinct kicking in – the one where running at a problem is the only way to go – Henry and Diane rushed towards the car. The engine revved harshly and it lurched out of its parking space.
Henry and Diane were now in the middle of the road, still approaching it, though their run had dropped down a gear to a fast walk.
Suddenly, at an angle, the car lurched to a stop and the driver leaned out of the window, gun in hand, and fired two shots at them.
Henry and Diane split low again.
The car revved, the driver released the clutch and, screaming in first gear, the Mondeo gathered speed very quickly and drove at them.
Henry spun sideways to take cover in front of another parked car while Diane went into a defensive crouch on the opposite side of the road.
The car deliberately drove towards Henry, scraping along the car he was sheltering behind, grating side against side, smashing the wing mirrors off as Henry took another step back out of the way and pivoted, preparing to hurl the stone.
The driver twisted and fired at Henry as the car passed him. A hurried shot and it missed, but Henry already had his right arm drawn back, and with as much power as he could gather, he pitched the stone at the car. It bounced in through the window off the centre point – the upright between the front and rear door – ricocheted off that and caught the back of the driver’s head.
By the time it connected with the man’s skull, Henry knew the stone had lost some of its power, but it had the desired effect of making the driver swerve and lose control. The car veered across the narrow road, missing Diane but ploughing on at an angle into the back of a car parked on the other side of the road, fifty yards away.
The engine still revved and the gears crunched as the driver responded, found reverse and extracted the Mondeo from the crumpled mess while Henry and Diane ran towards it. As the car seemed to wrest itself free from the wreckage, the driver must have seen them coming, put his foot down and accelerated dangerously backwards at them, making them leap apart again.
‘Stall it, you bastard,’ Henry chuntered under his breath.
But that did not happen.
Somehow the driver slammed into first gear and the damaged car began to roll forward again just as Henry got his finger under the lip of the flip-up door handle. He couldn’t quite make it count and the forward momentum of the car made him pirouette awkwardly away, grinding his knee again.
He swore and hopped as he watched the Mondeo drive up towards the village.
Across the road he heard Diane updating comms.
The Mondeo had left behind a trail of mangled metal and oily debris from its underside. Henry was surprised it was still actually moving – but it was – dragging something unrecognizable underneath it, which scraped the road surface, leaving a trail of sparks flying as the metal was dragged along.
It did not get far.
The narrow road wound sharply right uphill and an oncoming vehicle, with the driver blissfully unaware of the mayhem ahead, came far too quickly around the bend, took it wide, straddling the centre line and collided head-on with the Mondeo, stopping both vehicles abruptly. The gunman was thrown against the steering wheel and the driver of the other car, a man in his late fifties, who was not wearing a seat belt, was hurled against his windscreen.
Henry and Diane kept running towards the collision.
The gunman rolled unsteadily out of the Mondeo with his left arm clutching his chest. He picked himself up, brought up the handgun and fired two more rounds at Henry and Diane. He then spun away, seemingly having found his balance, and fired two bullets through the windscreen of the car that had caused the collision into the already injured driver, then he set off running towards Silverdale, leaving the scene of carnage behind him, only to be faced by another car coming round the corner – this time on the correct side of the road, travelling slowly, a Mini Cooper driven by a young woman.
She slammed on the brakes, petrified by the sight of an armed, masked man running towards her.
She stalled the car in her panic and watched in horrific disbelief as the man pointed the gun at her and screamed for her to get out of the Mini, making it seem all the worse because the ski mask did not have a mouth opening and all she could see were his blazing eyes and the line of his jaw moving as he shouted.
He yanked the door open and dragged her out by the hair when she did not respond instantly. She screamed as he flung her on to the road and shot her twice in the legs, then leapt into the Mini, found reverse and executed a sweeping backwards 180-degree spin and gunned the car away up the hill as Diane and Henry reached the wounded woman who was now screaming uncontrollably in agony and terror as she sat up and looked down at the blood streaming out of the gunshot wounds in her lower legs.
Diane reached the woman just ahead of Henry. She knelt down, looking horror-struck at the blood pulsing out of the woman’s lower legs in thick gouts.
‘Jesus, Henry, we can’t go after him now,’ Diane shouted.
‘I know, I know.’ He took in the woman, then turned back towards the driver of the car that had collided with the Mondeo. He was still in the driver’s seat, slumped forwards over the wheel. Henry saw the cracked crater the guy’s forehead had made on the inside of the windscreen and also the two bullet holes in the glass. ‘I need to check this guy,’ he said with trepidation and limped over to the wrecked cars. Other people were starting to emerge, and in a few moments the woman from the Mini was being cared for by two other women who knew her, using a first-aid kit from another car, keeping compression on the wounds as the injured woman faded in and out of consciousness.
Henry opened the door of the other vehicle just as the man came to and stared at him with unfocused eyes and a huge circular spider-web wound on his forehead where it had smashed into the glass. Henry was relieved to see that neither of the bullets fired through the windscreen had struck him.
‘It’ll be fine, mate,’ Henry reassured him. ‘You’ll be OK.’
The man said something unintelligible, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, fluttered closed and he slumped sideways into Henry’s arms. Henry managed to take his weight and eased him back up into the seat.
Already in the distance he could hear sirens and, not too far away, the sound of the police helicopter approaching.
As a senior investigating officer on FMIT in the not-too-distant past, Henry Christie had worked long hours investigating murders and other serious crimes. It was a regular part of the job, especially in the early stages of an inquiry when time was of the essence and jobs were being fast-tracked and all manner of resources were being thrown at catching offenders quickly.
So it came as no surprise to him that it was almost midnight when he and Diane pulled up outside The Tawny Owl. It had been a very long day, well into the evening before they had even thought about eating properly, though they had been caffeine-fuelled throughout the day by one of Jack Carter’s neighbours who kept coffee, tea and toast coming for all the cops who turned up.
The most difficult thing for Henry, however, was for him to take a step back and let others take charge, particularly when the ‘main’ other was Detective Superintendent Rik Dean, who was also Henry’s brother-in-law. Many years ago, Henry had handpicked Rik from the ranks of uniformed PCs and facilitated his transfer on to CID. Rik’s promotions since then had been of his own doing and he had eventually stepped into Henry’s shoes when he retired, something that slightly grated with Henry, though he had tried to let it slide.
The police went through the motions, first by ensuring that the two drivers of the other cars involved were looked after and taken to hospital; both, it seemed, were doing as well as could be expected.
Once this had been done, a huge search was undertaken for the gunman, combining the helicopter with cruising vehicles and checkpoints, but he wasn’t apprehended. However, the Mini Cooper he had commandeered was found abandoned on a small car park next to a popular public footpath just outside Silverdale, suggesting that a second vehicle, and maybe a driver, had been waiting for him. The Mondeo he had been using had been seized and conveyed to a secure police compound at force headquarters in order for scene-of-crime and forensic experts to comb it for evidence. Henry had glanced into it before the recovery truck arrived and saw that the chunk of stone he had chucked at the gunman had bounced into the back seat after hitting him. He hoped it might have some blood on it if it had managed to cut through the fabric of the ski mask.
Wearing latex gloves, he had done a quick rummage through the glove compartment, but it was empty. However, he noticed that the registration number etched into the windows of the car for security was different to the actual number displayed on the car. He wasn’t surprised.
Diane checked the discrepancy on the Police National Computer and found that the number on the glass referred to a stolen Mondeo from London and the number on the car itself also referred to a Ford Mondeo, not stolen, but again from London. The car’s owner had apparently reported the number plates stolen several months before. Although this was obviously a good start, it suggested to Henry that this car was a product of the stolen vehicle industry and it was likely that all enquiries would lead to a dead end.
Beyond this, as an almost detached observer, Henry pretty much sat back and watched real cops in action at the scene of Jack Carter’s murder and the car crashes.
It was all well managed by Rik, then subsequently delegated to an experienced detective inspector whom Henry knew. The guy took over responsibility for scene management.
Diane tried to keep Henry in the loop, but it was a struggle and he understood that. The truth was, he had become an outsider and, if he was honest with himself, it hurt a little.
Support unit officers were brought in – experts at searching and covering vital but more mundane jobs at murder scenes – and, briefed by another DI, they began a fingertip search of the gardens surrounding Jack Carter’s house, then moved on to the road, which was sealed off, and then house-to-house enquiries.
‘Thoughts?’ Rik Dean had asked Henry at one stage.
He did not take a cynical look at his watch, though he guessed it was around eight p.m., a long time having passed since he and Diane had sauntered blindly into almost being killed. And, other than for an occasional nod in his direction, this was the first time Rik had deigned to ask his opinion about anything.
Rik raised his eyebrows to encourage a response from Henry.
‘Cleaning up,’ he said eventually.
‘Meaning?’
‘Jack Carter knew John and Isobel York, probably knew about the funny money coming into their possession, may have been part of it even. It’s a possibility that Carter might have been killed because of what he knew.’
Rik nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘Thanks for that insight. This might not even have anything to do with that.’
‘One hell of a coincidence if it isn’t,’ Henry retorted. ‘And you know what I think about coincidences.’
‘Yeah, I know what you think.’
Four hours later, after much standing around on his part, Diane drove Henry home. On the way, he had called ahead to Th’Owl and asked Ginny to ensure there was some supper for him and Diane, though he didn’t ask Diane if she wanted to come in until they pulled up outside.
Henry’s little finger rested over the inner door handle.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.
‘Well, it’s been a busy day,’ she said, turning squarely on her seat and looking him in the eye. ‘Not had time to think about anything. Stuff happens; you just get on with it.’
‘One of the freshest murders you’ll ever attend.’
‘That bit’s true … also, it’s surprising how quickly you can move when a guy’s pointing a gun at you.’
Henry’s face twitched. ‘I’ve hurt my knee.’
‘I saw you limping. I’m sorry, but I didn’t have a lot of spare time to inquire and rub it better.’
‘Way it goes … Look, I know it’s late and you don’t have a change of clothing, but there’s food on the stove if you’re hungry – I know I’m ravenous – and if you want to, you can crash out in the spare bedroom in the accommodation.’
‘Actually, I do have a change of clothing in the boot. My new mantra: dib dib dib, be prepared and all that. And I desperately need a hot shower.’
‘Good. The full briefing’s at ten tomorrow, so maybe we could have a quick sift through the murder files you brought with you in order to lure me back into the field. I may be knackered but I’m still buzzing.’
‘Me, too.’
They ate in the living room of the owner’s section at the back of the pub. Ginny had left a vegetarian moussaka warming in an earthenware dish in the oven, and they tucked into it with relish, both famished, but now feeling fresher after their showers and a change of clothing, which for Diane included pyjamas and slippers from the stash in the boot of her car. Henry held back from commenting when he saw her, but he was a bit thunderstruck by her appearance and had to swallow.
‘Vegetarian?’ she said about the food. ‘It’s as if you knew I’d be staying.’
‘Not necessarily staying, but hopefully eating.’ Henry already knew she was trying to eat less meat; he himself still ate like a lion but was actually quite impressed by the moussaka.
‘Anyway, don’t ask me too much about today’s events,’ she told him. ‘Still processing them, but I think I’m OK.’
‘No probs … me, I was terrified.’
‘Uh, yeah, me too, actually.’
They were drinking a nice bottle of Rioja that Henry had snaffled from the wine rack in the restaurant.
Diane picked up her glass with a slightly dithering hand.
Henry’s was pretty shaky too, but they clinked glasses and Henry toasted, ‘To dodging bullets.’
‘May it be a skill we keep for life,’ she added.
They sipped the wine, then Diane said, ‘Joking apart, what kind of a person are we dealing with here? What kind of people are we dealing with?’
Henry inhaled and took another thoughtful sip. ‘People we need to be very wary of.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ She was about to chink glasses again but was interrupted by the ringing of her work mobile which was on the coffee table.
‘DS Daniels,’ she answered and listened intently to what was being said, her eyes on Henry. He watched her expression change several times until she finally hung up. ‘Thanks for that.’ She placed the phone down. ‘Comms,’ she said. ‘The driver of the car who our offender crashed into … he had a brain haemorrhage. He died,’ she concluded simply.
Henry handed her a whisky and sat next to her on the sofa. The news of the death of the driver, the man whose head had smashed into the windscreen, hit them both hard.
‘This makes it all the more imperative to catch this man, not that it wasn’t imperative anyway.’
Diane sipped the spirit. ‘I know.’
‘Which means that, whether we like it or not, we should have a quick sift through those files you brought, because I guarantee we won’t get a chance in the morning.’
She nodded. Henry walked over to the dining table. Diane followed and they sat next to each other.
‘So we start off with me discovering the bodies of John and Isobel York, and they have a ton of money being bagged up in their kitchen. The offenders are members of the travelling community …’
‘Who also happen to be members of a sophisticated organized crime group using that community to hide their activities.’
‘Yep. Anyway, they get arrested, having also helped themselves to the money in the kitchen which we subsequently recover when we make the arrests. Now I don’t think – but I might be wrong – that they have any connection with Beth York’s murder, or Jack Carter’s murder, or the murders of the two young men we found in the garage wall, or that they knew anything about the huge amount of money and the firearms we found there either.’
‘But they must have had a reason for killing John and Isobel – which, of course, they won’t reveal because every interview is a “no comment”.’
‘So while there will be some connection along the way, the deaths of Beth York and Jack Carter don’t fit in with the way John and Isobel died.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Find out how they lived,’ Henry began.
‘Find out why they died.’ Diane finished the age-old manhunter mantra for Henry.
‘Except for maybe Beth York.’
‘Collateral damage?’ Diane suggested.
‘I’m thinking so.’ Henry’s lips twisted out of shape as he pondered. He was actually enjoying this in a strange sort of way: the kicking back and forth of theories, the bread and butter of any detective, something he hadn’t realized was one of the things he missed. He said, ‘She was running away.’
‘Straight into her killer’s arms.’
‘Which poses the question …’
‘Who is he – obviously – but also what was he doing at Hawkshead Farm that night?’ Diane said.
They looked into each other’s eyes.
‘How do you fancy a walk in the country tomorrow morning before the briefing?’ Henry asked her. ‘And after that, we go to the prison?’
Henry did a last walk-through around the pub, checking doors and windows, plus a quick check of the ladies’ and gents’ toilets to see if anyone was hiding there, then re-entered the owner’s accommodation and set the alarms. He walked past the bedroom in which Diane was staying for the night, forced himself not to pause outside the door, and went into his own room along the hallway. He removed his clothes and pulled on a pair of sleeping shorts.
His right knee was extremely painful, throbbing angrily, and he wondered if he had torn the cartilage when he’d spun out of the way of the gunman. He’d had a previous operation on the other knee more than ten years before and recalled that the pain in that was similar to what he was experiencing now.
In the en-suite bathroom, he snaffled a couple of paracetamols and found a crumpled tube of Deep Heat in the cupboard under the wash basin which he took back into the bedroom. He perched on the edge of the bed and began to apply the cream, massaging it in carefully.
He looked up at the tap on the door, hearing his name being called softly.
‘It’s unlocked.’
The door opened slightly and he could see a sliver of Diane Daniels in the crack. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Um, yeah, sure.’
She stepped into the room, then closed the door behind her.