Bjarne Kristiansen was a Norwegian Army Reserve helicopter pilot who, in recent years, had earned his living from flying around the same patch of sky, repeating the same script about local landmarks and places of interest, or ferrying people from A to B like a taxi. He couldn’t complain about the money, but he found it frustrating when his EC120 Colibri was capable of so much more. He was proud of his skills and could make her dance; he just never got the opportunity. Until tonight.
Bjarne tucked Jack’s mobile securely between his thighs, so that he could see the screen, and took off, feeling a surge of adrenaline he hadn’t experienced for a long time. As soon as he was off the ground, he tipped the nose down and accelerated forwards, flying so low that Jack could have sworn his blades were going to decapitate the crowd. Bjarne followed the constant positional updates along the back roads running parallel to the A429.
‘I reckon they’re headed for the M4,’ he said.
‘That’s what we expected. But get a bit higher. I don’t want them to know we’re here,’ Jack told him.
‘Don’t worry, she’s as quiet as a mouse. They won’t know what’s hit them,’ Bjarne reassured him.
Once Betina’s Mercedes hit the M4, CCTV back at the church hall began to receive clearer footage of the car. Jack instructed Bjarne to share his own contact details with Gifford, so that Jack could take his mobile back in order to make a phone call.
Ridley was in one of four unmarked police cars near the westside junctions of the M25. He’d also been getting updates relayed directly to him from Gifford, and although it was currently looking as if the Merc might stay on the M4 all the way to the M25, Ridley certainly wasn’t committing all of his resources to that option until he knew for certain; there were simply too many opportunities for Betina to turn off and disappear. After their brief strategic catch-up, Jack swiftly changed the subject. ‘Do me a favour please, sir . . .’
But Ridley already knew what Jack was going to ask him.
‘DI Mason is in an induced coma. His skull’s fractured – well, shattered really; it’ll need a plate putting in. But he’s stable. They’ll keep him sedated until the swelling on the brain goes down, then they’ll be able to see what’s what. Bevan’s with him. She’s fine.’
*
From the doorway, Lee watched Mason being worked on in resus. Bevan was tucked into the corner, out of the way. An array of machines monitored Mason’s vital signs, one pushing air into his lungs and another keeping him hydrated. His body didn’t have to do anything except heal.
Lee’s anger was impossible to hide. This case had got away from him because he’d been distracted by stupid personality clashes. That was all Jack’s fault because . . . well, if it wasn’t, then it was his own fault and Lee couldn’t live with that. Mason almost dying could not be Lee’s fault.
As a nurse scurried into resus with a portable X-ray machine, Lee spotted Hearst coming down the corridor towards him.
In an instant, Lee was back in professional mode. ‘I’d better get back to the station,’ he said as she approached. Hearst put a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m not here to drag you back. You stay as long as you need to.’
In truth, Lee didn’t want to stay any longer with Mason, because it just made him feel guilty. And angry. He wanted to get back to work. He shook his head.
‘Bevan’s got the bedside vigil thing pretty much covered. I’m sure he’d rather wake up to her face than mine.’
Hearst nodded. ‘OK then.’ As they headed out together, Hearst brought Lee up to date. ‘We have seven vans, each with two full cages, sitting in the car park waiting to be processed. We’re having to double up in the cells, but what the hell. We’ve got a couple of runners, who we’re following towards London. But between us and the Met, we’ll scoop them up.’
‘Who are the runners?’ Lee asked.
‘The Barros,’ Hearst replied. ‘And if I were a suspicious type, I might suspect that they planned it this way.’ Lee’s own suspicions again turned to Jack. His gut instinct simply would not let go of the idea that Jack was on the wrong side, or maybe just playing both sides.
Hearst could practically read Lee’s mind. ‘I check out the pedigree of everyone I let into my station, DI Lee. Including you and DI Mason. Jack Warr is from good stock. But you know how these London boys are: they don’t know the meaning of the word diplomacy. Come on, I need a senior officer to get the ball rolling with these interviews.’
*
Ridley’s rolling update to Jack took a serious turn for the worst. ‘Hang on, Jack, something’s coming through.’ Jack waited, his heartbeat quickening. ‘Jesus Christ. Jack, you there? Just got a report of a hijacked bike. The rider’s dead.’ Jack had never heard Ridley sound so despondent.
Jack let out a breath. ‘That’s Alberto. It has to be.’
‘It’s a sky-blue Ducati Panigale,’ Ridley continued in a subdued tone. ‘We’re looking out for it now.’
‘He’s heading for De Voe,’ Jack said. ‘He knows De Voe’s betrayed him, because I told him.’
‘What about Betina?’ Ridley asked.
‘No, she’s smarter than that. She’ll be . . . she told me when I was at the shop, sir! She said she’s heading for Argentina. If that was the truth, then she’s going to Heathrow! Sir, you stop Betina; I’ll get Alberto.’
On the ground, Ridley now started making his way towards Betina, whilst Bjarne was trying to gain permission to land at the London Helipad in Battersea.
Then another message on the radio: ‘Ducati abandoned near Ealing Broadway Underground station. I repeat, Ducati abandoned near Ealing Broadway.’ Where was the nearest area car? Jack wondered frantically. Was anyone on the ground in Ealing? He knew that as soon as Alberto went underground, they could lose him – CCTV or not.
Jack turned to Bjarne, desperate to get his hands on the man who had tried to kill him. ‘Our target’s going to jump on the District Line and head straight for Chelsea.
Bjarne frowned. ‘Battersea Helipad is the best I can do, mate. That’ll put you a fifteen-minute run away from Battersea Bridge.’
Jack’s heart sank. Of course! He was in a bloody helicopter flying over a metropolis; Bjarne couldn’t just land the helicopter in the middle of a busy street. Jack called Ridley and asked for a car, any car, to meet him at the helipad. He was still closer than any of Ridley’s team, who were now all heading out of London towards Heathrow. Ridley dispatched the nearest patrol car to Battersea, just as Bjarne received his permission to land.
*
Alberto Barro sat on a District Line train, flirting with the stunning Eastern European woman sitting opposite him as she peered over her mobile phone. He slid his feet forwards across the aisle until his toes met hers, then his eyes moved slowly upwards towards her tantalisingly short skirt. Her strikingly long legs were smooth, slender and perfectly tanned.
*
Jack leapt from the helicopter, shouting his thanks to Bjarne as he hit the ground. Bjarne grinned, saluted and shouted back, ‘Go get your man!’ This had definitely been the most exciting day of his civilian life, he thought, as Jack jumped into an unmarked police car that, with blue lights flashing, instantly sped away.
The traffic was light until they got to the south side of Battersea Bridge. Here, they met gridlock. The driver gave two bursts on his siren, but nothing moved. For Jack, however, the noise of the siren seemed to go straight through his skull and agonisingly into his brain. Jack speculated that he’d probably burst an eardrum. He reached back and felt the bandage on his head. It moved so freely that he guessed it wasn’t actually doing anything useful anymore. He pulled the last remaining sticky part away from his split scalp and threw it onto the dashboard. The driver stared at it in silent disgust.
‘Sorry.’ Jack dropped it into the footwell as the radio burst into life with a stream of updates . . .
‘White Mercedes taking the Heathrow turnoff. Still following. Heading for Terminal 5. That’s the terminal for Argentina. Airport security is aware and will help with a stop . . . Approaching Terminal 5. The barrier is down. I can see four, correction, five airport security . . . Mercedes is doing a left, left, left, in an attempt to double back . . . Yeah, she seems to be trying to make her way back onto the road. Can a couple of vehicles hang back, to stop her, please?’
More radios crackled into life and joined in the commentary as cars got into position to block Betina’s escape.
‘Stop, stop, stop . . . Driver running! Driver running! Pursuing on foot.’
Then there was an excruciatingly long pause. Jack opened the passenger door of the unmarked police car and stepped up onto the door frame, trying to assess exactly how far away they were from the Chelsea Emporium. In the distance, almost on the other side of the bridge, a black cab driver stood in the middle of the road arguing with two Community Support officers. They looked to have detained a drunk passenger who Jack guessed was probably refusing to pay. Jack stepped down into the road and listened to the radio. Come on! Come on!
‘Driver in custody.’
Jack slammed the door shut behind him and ran across the bridge towards Chelsea.
Dishevelled, mud-spattered and bloody, Jack got his fair share of strange looks as he sprinted along the footpath. People glanced behind him, expecting to see the police hot on his heels. As his lungs burned, he thought, If someone rugby-tackles me to the ground now, I’m never getting up!
*
De Voe sat behind his half-desk flicking through a car magazine. He seemed particularly interested in the Bentley Continental GT Convertible. In front of him was a small, open black rucksack, with a blue cotton money bag inside it stuffed with bundles of £50 notes.
When the office door opened, De Voe glanced up and the colour immediately drained from his face. Alberto said nothing, waiting for De Voe to regain his composure. ‘Is Betina safe?’ De Voe finally asked.
Alberto shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
He pointed to the money. ‘Was that for her? Is that how much I’m worth? Here’s what I do know, Michael. I know that you lined up a series of robberies to occupy the police whilst Betina did the real job. I don’t know what that was, but I’m guessing it was big enough to be worth the risk of betraying me. Did you actually tip the police off or did you simply assume that they’d be on to us by now?’ Alberto watched De Voe’s face grow pale. ‘Not that it matters now. What matters is that at some point I became expendable.’ He shook his head. ‘And after all I’ve done for you, Michael.’
‘After all you’ve . . .’ De Voe got to his feet, though he was careful to keep the desk in between them. ‘You beat a boy to within an inch of his life!’
‘If he was a boy, he was a fucking big one,’ Alberto smirked. ‘With great taste in pizza, though.’ He smiled to himself. ‘What was I saying? Oh, yes . . . are you shagging my sister? Is that how you convinced her to leave me behind? By the way, if she does manage to escape the police, she will never, ever escape me. And nor will you.’
De Voe’s jaw clenched and his nostrils flared as his breathing quickened. He made a split-second judgement that Alberto wasn’t armed and moved towards the door. Alberto instantly lashed out, punching De Voe in the neck.
The speed of it shocked De Voe, but the lightness of the blow confused him – until he felt the wetness on his chest and saw the blood soaking the front of his shirt. Then he saw the small buckle knife, usually secreted in Alberto’s belt, now clenched in his fist so that the blade protruded between his fingers.
De Voe clamped his hand around his throat and backed away, but Alberto didn’t seem interested in stabbing him again. All Alberto wanted to do was watch the man he hated bleed to death. De Voe was pressing so hard onto his own neck, that his face was going bright red and he could hardly breathe. Alberto watched him stumble backwards, until he reached the door. De Voe grasped the handle and used his weight to push it down. Only then did Alberto move, punching De Voe several more times in rapid succession on the other side of his neck. De Voe clasped both hands to his throat and staggered back into the room, fountains of blood spurting through his fingers. He collapsed onto the floor and in seconds he was dead.
*
By the time Jack arrived at the emporium, he was close to passing out. He could feel his heart beating inside his skull as his head wound throbbed in excruciating pain.
He bypassed the main door and entered the underground car park. He was hoping to find a burly security guard seated in a dark corner somewhere but the car park was empty. Shit! Jack’s only backup was now stuck behind a line of angry drivers on Battersea Bridge. Jack tried the door to the stairwell and found it was open. He paused briefly in a darkened gap between a ticket machine and the grey concrete wall, to get his breath back and to evaluate his options. De Voe’s Ferrari was in its spot. Confused thoughts flashed in and out of Jack’s mind: if Alberto was here, as Jack suspected, and he went in without backup, it’d be two against one. He needed that security guard! But what if he was on De Voe’s payroll? Then it’d be three against one. Jack ventured into the stairwell alone and headed up to the second floor.
Alberto was in the tiny en suite toilet adjoining De Voe’s office. Inside, on hangers, was a selection of fresh white shirts. He removed his own shirt, which was now patterned with arterial spray, and washed his hands and upper body. He then dressed in one of De Voe’s clean shirts and, as he fastened the expensive pearl buttons, he watched a thick, red pool of blood around De Voe’s upper body gradually congeal. Alberto regained his senses, snatched the rucksack of money from the desk and reached for the office door. But then he heard the familiar gentle noise of the shop door opening.
Jack pushed the shop door open just an inch, then reached up to silence the bell before entering. The office door was shut and a thin strip of light shone from beneath it.
Propped against the wall was a retractable metal window pole used for opening the skylight – Jack grabbed it, then opened the door cautiously, slowly revealing De Voe’s body lying in a pool of his own blood. No doubt this was Alberto’s work, but he didn’t imagine that Alberto was still there; he’d surely be long gone, hopefully heading to Heathrow where he’d run straight into the hands of the waiting police.
Still, Jack remained wary as he pushed the office door wide until it was flat against the wall. The room was empty. Jack took a few moments to make certain it was safe to enter, then saw the open safe in the wall behind the desk. He thought he could see the diamond bracelet he’d stolen from the police evidence room and was so relieved at the thought of getting it back, he stepped across the room without even noticing the door to the tiny en suite. He laid the metal pole on the desk, reached into the safe and put the diamond bracelet into his pocket. The safe also contained a black velvet bag, and inside was a handful of large emeralds that Jack presumed to be from the stolen necklace that had once belonged to Barbara Hutton.
As Jack examined the emeralds, Alberto emerged silently from the en suite and stepped towards him, raising his hand with the buckle knife above his head. As Alberto prepared to strike, Jack heard an intake of breath and instinctively grabbed the metal pole, and spun round, swinging the pole at the blurry figure he now saw before him. The pole met thin air, sending Jack off-balance and making him see stars, as a wave of nausea hit him from the sudden movement. He stumbled against a low filing cabinet, catching his ankle painfully, but the throbbing in his head was so intense, he hardly noticed. As he turned to try and focus on his assailant again, he knew that although he’d evaded one attack, he was no match for Alberto in his current state.
Alberto smiled to himself as he took in Jack’s weakened state, stepping forward confidently and aiming a thrust at Jack’s throat. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden flash of the pole as it crashed down onto his forearm, sending him staggering against the desk. But the force of the impact snatched the pole from Jack’s hand, and it went skidding across the floor to the other side of the office.
Pain now added an edge to Alberto’s blood-lust. ‘Come on then, Jack Warr,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s get this over with!’
Time slowed as Alberto charged again. Without a weapon, Jack knew he only had one option left. He raised his left forearm in front of him, hoping that Alberto would take the bait, then felt a searing pain as the knife plunged into the muscle. Ignoring the pain, Jack twisted his arm so Alberto’s grip on the knife loosened, then grabbed it out of his hand before landing a solid punch squarely on the bastard’s jaw. He heard the crack of bone as Alberto fell like a dead weight and Jack immediately knew that he was the kind of cocky, arrogant prick who was great at dishing it out, but no good at taking it. Jack crawled on top of Alberto and punched him again and again as the sound of distant sirens reached his ears.
Jack stopped, more from exhaustion than from any desire to spare Alberto further punishment. He closed his eyes, and the pain from his wounded forearm began to force itself into his consciousness. Suddenly he felt a hand closing around his throat. Alberto was not out for the count after all. He stabbed the knife into Alberto’s shoulder and the pressure around his windpipe slackened, then suddenly his head exploded in pain as Alberto landed a punch on the wound from the crowbar. He felt himself rolling sideways onto the floor as fresh blood pulsed from the wound and a wave of blackness threatened to overwhelm him.
After what seemed like minutes, Jack managed to open his eyes and saw Alberto struggling to his knees. With a huge effort, Jack managed to do the same, until both men, exhausted and in varying degrees of pain, were kneeling on either side of De Voe’s corpse. Alberto’s mouth hung open, allowing blood to drip steadily onto his shirt that was now more red than white. He dragged himself to his feet, scooping up the discarded metal pole from the floor as he did so. Jack painfully followed suit, and the two men stood facing each other, both now armed with each other’s weapons. Alberto raised the metal pole high above his head and charged forwards. Jack tried to raise the buckle knife but his arm didn’t seem to be working. He braced himself for the impact, knowing that one more solid blow to his head would be the end of him . . .
Then Alberto suddenly went as stiff as a board and dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks. Two wires led from Alberto’s shoulder blades to the taser in the hand of Jack’s driver who, thankfully, was no longer stuck on Battersea Bridge.
*
Jack had assumed that Ridley was ensconced at Heathrow Airport, ready to arrest Alberto if he decided to follow his sister’s escape route. In fact, within seven minutes of the ‘all units’, ‘two ambulance’ and ‘coroner’ call going out, Ridley was racing up the emporium stairs towards De Voe’s office.
When he reached the top, Jack was seated on the floor in the corridor holding wads of gauze to the stab wound in his forearm. Beyond him, in the office, De Voe’s body still lay centre stage, his eyes open and one hand still clutched at his throat. ‘Alberto killed him.’ Jack thought he’d clarify that detail straight away, in case Ridley thought that Jack had done it. Jack was white as a sheet, looking as if he might join De Voe at any moment, but he continued with his staccato handover. ‘He’s gone to the hospital. I stabbed him. He stabbed me. I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look bloody fine,’ Ridley growled. ‘Why the hell aren’t you on the way to hospital, too?’
Jack grimaced. ‘You’ll have questions. I thought you . . . I think I . . .’ He suddenly went from white to green. ‘. . . I might be sick.’ Ridley helped Jack to his feet, and, before Ridley could stop him, he stumbled through the office door. ‘There’s a bathroom, where I can . . .’
From the en suite, Jack could hear Ridley shouting to him: ‘I’ll drive you to the hospital. You get checked out and I’ll formally arrest Alberto. I’ll be downstairs.’
Jack leant heavily on the rim of the basin watching the swirling water from the running tap take the contents of his stomach down into the drain. He felt so lightheaded he thought he was going to pass out. He lowered himself onto his haunches, still hanging onto the rim of the basin to stop himself from sliding all the way to the floor. He could feel something in his front trouser pocket pressing into him. Jack knelt on the floor, put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the diamond bracelet. Glancing round, Jack could see a dark shadow inside the shower cubicle. He opened the door and there, tucked into the corner, was the small black rucksack.
*
The conversation on the way to the hospital was one-sided, with Ridley filling Jack in on everything that had happened while he was chasing down Alberto Barro.
‘You were right about all of the burglaries being decoys. The real target was a house belonging to an Emil Borreson and his wife. He’s a bitcoin dealer. A very successful one.’
‘Charlotte . . .’ Jack was so tired that he couldn’t get any more words out. His whole body felt as if he’d been kicked through a hedge and then trampled on, but he was still trying his best not to let the wound in his arm bleed onto Ridley’s pale leather seat.
‘She delivers their fruit and veg. Betina gave up Borreson’s name and address as soon as she realised that we knew everything. She wanted us to know that she’d not hurt anyone, and never would. When Gifford got to Borreson’s house, he was sitting at his desk in a puddle of urine, staring at a camera that wasn’t even turned on, waiting for his wife to walk through the door. He’d been told that if he moved, she’d die. She’s OK. Tied up in a disused barn on a neighbour’s property.’
Jack let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He had so much still to think about.
First and foremost was the fact that with the man he respected most in the world sat next to him, between his feet, part hidden underneath his jacket, he had the small black rucksack with the stolen diamond bracelet in it along with a large amount of cash, although he didn’t yet know how much.
‘We got them all,’ Ridley concluded. ‘You got them all, Jack. Well done. I’ve got a meeting with DCI Hearst tomorrow where I intend to tell her about the protection I promised Charlotte Miles.’
‘You promised?’ Jack said.
Ridley shrugged. ‘It sounds less insubordinate than my DS doing it behind my back.’
Jack didn’t say his next thought out loud: And she likes you, so she’ll forgive you. Instead, he thanked Ridley for trusting him that Charlotte was an unwilling participant.
‘DCI Hearst is a pragmatist, Jack. She’ll be lenient with Charlotte, in the service of the greater good. Gifford will retire on a high, Oxford will get their killer and we . . . well, I’m not sure what we get other than a firm handshake and a warm feeling inside for having done an amazing job. But isn’t that always the way?’
Ridley’s genuine contentment at having done his job was written all over his face. It was admirable. Enviable. Ridley was a copper through and through. Jack started from the same place, had all of the same intentions and relished the wins just as much as Ridley; but he needed more.
Jack squeezed his ankles together, gripping the small black rucksack to make sure that taking it hadn’t been some sort of hallucination brought on by the pain spreading through his body. It hadn’t. The rucksack was definitely there.
Jack hadn’t taken it because it contained a huge amount of money; he’d taken it because the world was wrong in the way it worked. The legal system would take this money and put it on a shelf in a police evidence room for the next God-knows-how-many years. It would probably never be needed as evidence, because they’d nailed everyone on so much else. And when the cash was finally released, it couldn’t be used as victim compensation, because they would all have received their insurance pay-outs. It’d either be returned to the bank to be destroyed or end up in the Met’s bank account and fed back into police services. Jack couldn’t see the justice in any of those options when there were so many people in the world, who worked all the hours that God sent painting other people’s nurseries, and still couldn’t earn enough money to keep their own baby alive.
Life was unfair, and although Ridley would never bend the rules to put any of that right, Jack would. Life was not about settling for the firm handshake and a warm feeling inside; and it certainly wasn’t about sitting back and waiting for your reward in heaven. Jack wanted his rewards now. But only the ones he’d earned.