Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) (23 page)

Chapter Forty-Nine: When the Man Comes Around

The walk from his mam’s to Amy’s was brisk and chilly, wet leaves on the pavement and frost in the air. His broken arm hung uselessly under his jacket, fingers changing from white to blue, and Jason figured it was time to invest in some gloves.

He touched the gun in his jacket pocket, the metal cold enough to burn. He hoped the weather didn’t affect the mechanism. His dad would never forgive him for letting the weapon go like this, unoiled and unloved. Then again, his dad probably wouldn’t have approved of him carrying it through the streets either.

Jason stopped for milk and bread on the way back, wondering if they were running out of tea. It was nice to buy groceries again, not just take what the prison guard gave you or what his mam deemed was good and proper for him to eat. He could get used to this. He juggled the bag, easing it onto his forearm, and clumsily tucked his change into his pocket.

When he was about two streets away, a text came through from Amy. With numb fingers, he struggled to get to his phone to read it. It made no sense.
DONT GO 2 JOB CENTRE. THER

It ended abruptly without her usual
@
, and he guessed she’d sent it by accident. He waited for the rest of the message to come through, dodging left and right to get a better signal, to no gain.

Anyway, he was only five minutes away now. If she needed him to fetch something, he could always go back out—after he’d had a cup of tea and some toast. Wishing he could stuff his freezing hands in his pockets, he continued on his way, whistling “Eye of the Tiger” under his breath. He needed to watch those movies again—they’d been his dad’s favourites. Maybe he could talk Amy into a marathon? Though she might make him watch some shit like
AI
or
Gattaca
and those did not have nearly enough explosions or fight scenes for his taste.

As he approached Amy’s house, the door remained closed. She obviously hadn’t moved from the sofa since he’d left. He’d have to give her the thrombosis lecture again. Jason spoke gibberish at the intercom, waiting for it to recognise his voice, and the door clicked open.

The lift doors opened and Jason started planning lunch in his head. Maybe sandwiches? He was sure he’d got some cheese in—

There was blood in the hallway.

Jason paused, every nerve in his body screaming at how wrong the sight was. His mind flashed back to Laurie and Gina’s house, the dead girl stretched out on the bed, staring eyes and dripping blood. He abandoned the groceries, and the gun slid into his hand like it belonged there, his unsteady left hand suddenly sure.

He inched down the corridor to the first patch of blood, inky dark. It seemed someone had staggered down the hallway to the very end, retreating into the darkness. Suppressing his instinct to follow the blood, Jason edged closer to the living room doorway and peered round.

The office chair was on its side on the floor, blood spattered on the wall, and the end table upended on the sofa. He crept through the living room, his heartbeat steady, his breathing quiet. He had stalked people on the street for money. He could do it again for Amy.

Jason studied the kitchen from his vantage point by the sofa. No breathing carried through, no motion disturbed the air. He looked inside—empty, untouched. He turned and retreated back the way he came, finally able to follow the blood trail through Amy’s flat. He both hoped and feared to find her at the end of it.

As he got closer, he could see that the blood led to the concealed lift, red smears on the wall that made up its hiding place. Had she made it inside? Was the lack of body in the corridor due to the fact that she had escaped in the lift? Had she shut the killer on the outside? And, more important, was he still here, waiting to finish her?

The bathroom door was closed. Bracing himself beside the door frame, he counted to three and then kicked it open. Clear. The sound echoed, loud and sharp, and Jason was aware he’d given away his position. Shit, this wasn’t
Call of Duty.
People could die if he fucked this up. There were no bonus lives. There were no second chances.

Only the bedroom door remained before he ventured towards the lift. It was slightly ajar and, as Jason inched closer, he noticed a smear of blood on the door handle. It didn’t make sense. If she’d run for the lift, why hadn’t she used it? If he’d caught her there, he would’ve cornered her—there would’ve been no escape. It made no sense for there to be blood on the bedroom door handle.

He didn’t have time for a logic puzzle. He only had time for Amy, to find her and get them both out alive. Jason stepped forward, raising the gun to head height and pushing open the door with the back of his hand.

The bed was in its usual disarray, but the heavy curtains were flung open, daylight streaming into the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The low wintery sun was blinding and Jason squinted against the light. He belatedly realised that they weren’t windows at all but doors, flung wide to the tiny balcony beyond.

A rope was tied to the balcony rail. There was blood on the tile. Jason could only think the worst, a vision of Amy sprawled on the ground below, neck at an impossible angle. Like that photograph of Melody, forever seared into his mind.

He hurried forward, crossing the room with great strides until he reached the edge of the balcony, and dared to look down. No Amy. Just a rope tied to the balcony, hanging to the ground. She wasn’t dead. “Thank fuck—”

A savage blow against his back sent him crashing forward into the railings, his ribs and shattered arm screeching their agonised protest at the impact. Jason twisted and tried to get the gun up, but it was knocked out of his hand, skittering across the tile. He met his attacker face-to-face and, for a split second, froze completely. But he knew this man. He’d seen him only this morning—at the Job Centre.

“Martin?” he said, disbelieving, before ducking a punch, pulled back into the struggle for his life. The man clawed at his neck, trying to strangle him, but Jason shouldered him back, giving himself some space. If he could stop Martin from herding him against the rails, he had a chance. If Amy had called the police, he might survive this.

But where was Amy? The thought distracted him enough for Martin to grab his broken arm and twist. Jason screamed, fire and lightning tearing through his arm and shoulder. He wrenched his arm away from the man’s death grip and kicking out at his shin.

Martin was faster, smarter, and wrapped his arm around Jason’s neck, wringing the life from him. Jason kicked out, but his efforts were futile, the agony from his arm rendering him useless. He was going to be victim number five. Dead body number four. His struggles were weakening, his vision greying as his windpipe fought to suck in air past the pressure of Martin’s arm.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw her. Her pale, pyjama-clad figure hovered by the open door, blinking into the sunlight as if she’d never seen it before. Jason wanted to tell her to run, to get the hell out, but she was in a trance, one foot in front of the other like a tightrope walker until her last step hovered over the door frame.

Jason wanted to cheer her on, but he could barely hold his own weight. His eyes focussed on the arch of her foot, the long slender line as the ball sank down onto the tile, and Amy took her first step outside for ten years.

She released a long, slow breath. She stretched out her arm and picked up the gun.

Martin saw her. “What are you doing?” he said softly, menacing. “Put it down. You’ll only hurt him, won’t you?” But she held it steady, pointing it levelly at Martin’s head. He loosened his grip, nervously readjusting his hold enough for Jason to hook his fingers over the arm and give himself a centimetre to breathe.

Jason studied the line of Amy’s body, surveying the fragile tension, deciding how likely it was he was about to get a bullet in his skull.

“You don’t know how to use that,” Martin said. “You can’t shoot me. Put it away.”

Amy showed no sign of moving, as still as a sentry marine, waiting.

Jason wouldn’t let her wait any longer. He jumped, hanging off Martin’s arm with his full weight, a bolt of agony through his broken arm. The killer cried out as he bowed forward, before yanking his arm out of Jason’s grip and holding his hand up to strike.

A gunshot sliced through the air and Martin, surprise painted on his face, tipped over the balcony. There came the crash of metal and breaking glass. Jason struggled to his feet to peer over.

Martin lay dazed in Amy’s skip, blood blossoming over his left shoulder. Jason watched him struggle feebly for a moment before he passed out. With an expression of grim satisfaction, Jason turned back to Amy.

She held the gun at arm’s length, staring at it like it was possessed, and slowly slid down to the patio tile. “I shot him,” she whispered. “I shot him.”

Jason stumbled over to kneel on the ground before her, holding out his hand. “Amy, I need you to give me the gun.” His voice was a rasp, as if he’d been gargling with knives, and he felt the burn in his throat from where Martin had gripped him.

Amy handed over the gun mutely, obedient like a child, and Jason wiped it on his T-shirt before setting it carefully on the tile away from them. The tremor in her hand spread to her arm and soon she was shaking, body racked with silent sobs, the enormity of what had just occurred hitting her all at once.

Jason drew her close with his left arm, and she tucked her face into his neck, trembling against him, clinging. “Outside, outside...no...please...” she muttered to him, but he shushed her, letting go for a minute to fish out his phone.

“Bryn, the killer’s at Amy’s.” He took a breath. “I shot him.”

Chapter Fifty: Nothing But the Truth

Bryn arrived at the scene of the crime and, for the first time, hated his job.

The cordon around the house had already drawn gawkers from the general public and press alike, and the ambulance stationed outside with its muted flashing light didn’t help. As he passed the back of the ambulance, he saw a protesting figure on the trolley, connected to a drip on one side and handcuffs the other, with two uniforms on the door.
Alive
,
then.
More’s the pity.

He approached the door wearily. He should be thrilled with this arrest, the end to so much heartache, but all he could think about were the implications for a young man he’d grown fond of. Ex-cons who shot people went down for a very long time. Could they make an argument for self-defence? Shooting anyone who wasn’t waving a rocket launcher was considered disproportionate these days. And who exactly brought an illegal handgun to the party?

Bryn didn’t even want to consider what this would do to Amy. He had finally started to see a change in her, letting someone in to take care of those things she just couldn’t keep hold of, like cleaning her clothes and eating regular meals. If Jason went back to prison...

Amy’s flat was crawling with police officers, evidence markers highlighting a trail of blood down the corridor. As he entered, Bryn heard the unmistakeable sound of Jason’s raised voice and sighed. He’d hoped to avoid this kind of confrontation.

“She’s not going anywhere! I don’t care if it’s a crime scene. She’s going to stay here and drink her bloody tea,” Jason growled at the poor uniformed officers over his shoulder, his left hand wearing a metal bracelet and the officer dithering over what to do with its right counterpart.

“He’s not going to do a runner.” Bryn drew all eyes in the room. “Are you?”

Jason raised his chin, defiant to the last—and revealing the red raw scrapes and developing bruises tattooing his neck.
Self-defence then.

“Amy isn’t going anywhere,” Jason rasped, voice broken but fierce in its intensity. “She wasn’t even there!”

He jerked his head towards the sofa and Bryn finally noticed her there, ensconced in a nest of blankets with a mug of tea in her hands.

She was staring into space, a fine tremor running through her. But then she looked up at him, eyes wide as she reached out a hand to cling to the hem of Jason’s shirt. “Don’t take him. It was—”

“A struggle. On the balcony. The gun went off.”

The words were short and clipped, and every good policeman’s instinct in Bryn’s body flared, telling him the boy was a liar. But then he saw the way Amy looked at him, lost and yet painfully grateful, and Bryn understood. He understood all too well what lengths Jason would go to for Amy, and confronting a serial killer was barely the start of it.

“You need to come down the station to answer a few questions,” Bryn said reluctantly.

“Amy stays,” Jason said, hard steel in his voice that reminded Bryn that this boy had run with a gang, done time, taken down a murderer with a broken arm—whether he’d struck the final blow or not.

“She’ll need to give a statement.” Bryn was unwilling to relent on that, at least. If they did this by the book, they would all be above scrutiny. But that would mean psychiatrists and assessments and the disruption of this fragile shell of a life that was all that was holding Amy together.

Amy looked up at him with imploring eyes. “You will take care of him.”

Bryn hesitated. But Jason saved him, suddenly switching to calm, even tones to soothe the wounded animal on the sofa. “Amy, I’m under arrest. I’ve gotta go explain myself, haven’t I?”

She slowly nodded but continued to stare at Bryn as if he’d just taken a hammer to her beloved computer.

“When you’re done with your questions, he’s coming back here,” she said, apparently oblivious to the potential consequences of being arrested. Jason merely smiled. Bryn nodded to the uniform officer, who awkwardly removed the handcuffs and shuffled round to look up at Jason.

“Jason Carr, you are under arrest for illegal possession of a firearm, illegal discharge of a firearm, and unlawfully and maliciously inflicting grievous bodily harm.” The charges were drawn from the officer’s lips like the solution to a particularly challenging puzzle. It wasn’t every day you arrested a man for shooting a serial killer in Cardiff.

However, as he moved on to the familiar right to remain silent, he picked up speed and confidence. “You do not have to say anything. But you may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” At the end of his spiel, the officer looked at Bryn like a child ready for a lollipop. Bryn shot him a withering look.

But Jason was smiling at him, despite his bruises and the way he gingerly held his right arm, with lines of tension through his body. Bryn should get him to A&E sooner rather than later, though he’d be damned before he let him share an ambulance with the bastard outside.

“Go on,” Jason said, grinning. “I know you want to.”

It took Bryn a moment to work out what the kid was saying, before he rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh.

“Take him away, boys.”

* * *

Jason was the most-photographed man in Wales. While the Job Centre Creep hid behind the ambulance doors, Jason had to face a dozen flashbulbs outside Amy’s house and again at the cop shop.

At least he didn’t have to wait long for his interview. Owain entered the room, a man beside him who Jason didn’t know. Jason was immediately uneasy—where was Bryn? Despite his strained relationship with the older detective, he’d been relying on his level head when dealing with this situation. And Bryn knew Amy, knew she had to be kept away from the world of cells and interview rooms and grim unsmiling detectives.

The unfamiliar man sat across from Jason, Owain leaning forward to start the recording device against the wall. No tapes—Amy would be impressed. No doubt she’d have acquired the file before he got home.

“Interview commenced at 19:40 on 25th November 2013 Detective Superintendent Roger Ebbings and Detective Sergeant Owain Jenkins present,” Owain rattled off. A super? Jason was moving up in the world.

“You’ve waived your right to counsel, son—is that right?” Roger had a soft Swansea accent, but there was a hard edge lurking beneath. Jason shrugged his left shoulder.

“Don’t need it, do I?” he said easily, but his heart started to beat a tattoo in his chest. Shit, was he being a moron here? Or did demanding a lawyer look suspicious? He couldn’t afford his own, and he never entirely trusted appointed lawyers to be on his side. Bored jobsworths, most of them.

Roger nodded. “Your choice. Tell us what happened.”

Jason carefully laid out how he’d come to Amy’s house, how he’d followed the trail of blood and how he’d been jumped on the balcony.

“And then he pulled a gun,” he said, voice steady. “I tried to grab for it. It went off, see. And then he fell over the edge.”

“Why would he start using a gun now?” Owain said, sounding more curious than concerned. Jason resisted the urge to jump across the table and shake him.

“I don’t know,” Jason said, with a touch of hostility. But then he thought of Amy, curled up in his arms and shaking, because she’d dared to cross a line to save his miserable life.

Jason took a breath. “Maybe he knew we were after him. Maybe he got desperate.”

Owain leaned forward, poised to ask another, when Roger interrupted. “We might never know,” Roger said, and Jason resisted the urge to laugh in relief.

They believed him. Thank fuck, they believed him.