Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (16 page)

Chapter 8

De La Cruz looked shattered. He sat groggily in front of Barco and Molina, Anders and Mal leaning on the wall to one side. He was a squat figure with dark hair that had receded to a sharp widow’s peak. His eyes were deep set and dark from lack of sleep. He had thick, muscular arms that lay on the table, cuffed with a chain to a hoop set into the metal of the table top. A light blinked on above the door to indicate that the interview was now being filmed.

“Devonte De La Cruz,” said Barco, her Spanish accent thick, yet clear. “You have been arrested for the murder of…” De La Cruz spoke rapidly and angrily, cutting off Barco with a stream of expletives, questioning his rights to be deported to Britain.

“
Soy nativo de España. Y no puedo ser interrogado en este país.”

Anders answered him in Spanish, reminding him that he’d murdered his brother for a prize offered by a British citizen. She finished by reminding him to speak in English. He glowered at her sullenly as Molina leant forward. He’d transformed in the interrogation room and no longer looked surly and dour. He spoke with intensity and anger.

“She’s right. You chopped the head off your own brother and his dog, then stitched the dog’s head to your brother’s torso.” He laid out the pictures on the table in front of him, horrific images of his work, a human, dog hybrid like some modern day Chimera of myth. He then laid out several sheets of paper, all the assiduously collected evidence. “We have prints, we have witnesses putting you at the scene of the crime and we have your own weapon at the site.” He put one last piece of paper on the table. His bank records.

“And we have a deposit of almost seven million Euro’s in your account.” Mal gave a mirthless chuckle.

“And you went straight to a Ferrari dealer to buy a new car. You really are stupid.” De La Cruz glared angrily at him, his dark eyes full of hatred.

“I hated my brother. Why not make some profit from his death?”

“Well that money now belongs to Spain,” said Barco and De La Cruz paled, visibly deflating in his chair. “We need to know how you received your winnings. Did Lord Buckland contact you in any way?

De La Cruz was a reluctant witness, refusing to give many details, but that was mainly because he knew very little. He’d posted his picture and description on the Fifty Two Weeks of Murder site and found the money deposited straight into his account.

“How did he get your bank details?” asked Molina. De La Cruz gave an apathetic look.

“I never gave them. The money just turned up.”

The questioning continued for an hour, but De La Cruz had nothing to offer. They wrapped up the interview and Mal brought them back to the Hub, signing the papers to keep him in London in case something of use could be obtained in the future. He looked dejected at the lack of evidence De La Cruz had provided but wished them farewell and safe journey.

Barco turned to Anders and gave her a hug, speaking rapidly in Spanish as she did so. Mal felt his sour mood lift slightly at this display of hero worship that was making Anders so awkward. She returned the hug, leaning forward to embrace Barco and responding in Spanish, her tone clearly glad to be saying farewell. Molina gave her a limp handshake and set off for the lift, muttering as he left, obviously annoyed at Barco and unimpressed with Anders.

Ignoring Molina, Barco took Mal’s hand and bade him farewell. As they returned to the lift, Jesse waving at Barco as the doors closed and miming a “call me” sign, Lucy and Duncan approached Mal.

“Blood Eagle case in Liverpool?” said Lucy. “We’ve got some good news. Debrief?” Mal grunted an affirmation, worry etching his face.

“Good news would be most welcome.” Duncan bade Jesse switch on the projector and the team sat on chairs and leaned on desks as it whirred to life. There was a companionable silence and Mal could see that the group was becoming close. He’d seen pressure break several teams in his career, but these guys were the best in their areas and he realised that McDowell had selected well. As the projector shone on the wall, the crime scene photo’s flashed up. Abi gave a gentle sigh.

“This case is giving me nightmares. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.” The photographs showed a woman who had once been beautiful in life. Her eyes were closed and her face almost peaceful. Her naked body was curled up in a fetal position, head resting on her hands, arms covering her breasts. Her back, however, was a bloody mess and the image made Anders’ own twitch, every scar pulsing in sympathy. The victim’s front was clean and pure, the back bloody. Chunks of gore had splashed out, spilling to the concrete floor on which she lay, her ribs torn and shredded, sticking out in visceral white against cloying darkness. Her lungs were splayed behind her, artfully layering the superior, middle and inferior lobes like feathery wings. The picture was fascinating and beguiling, appalling and horrific all at once.

On the wall above her, written in blood, someone had written words to chill the team.

“I set you free so you may fly.”

Lucy spoke as Jesse slid through the photographs. Sarah Baldwin had been a secretary in a small law firm. Lived at home. Parents had reported her missing the night before. Call had come in the next day from a dog walker who had found the body in the park, displayed on the concrete basketball pitch. On site, Duncan had noticed a tracking camera.

“One of those ones naturalists like to use. They come on at night when they sense movement. Films foxes and badgers, stuff like that.” Lucy flicked through her notes.

“We traced the camera back to a retired couple a few streets down. They hadn’t collected it yet, so gave us permission to download the footage. Caught everything. A Johnathan Sanders. Known to the police for stalking women but always considered harmless.”

“Every stalker should be given a full assessment before that decision is made,” said Abi sadly, pointing to the Blood Eagle effigy on the wall. Lucy grimaced and turned to Mal.

“We’ve put a warrant out for his arrest. Should be any time now.”

“Cancel the warrant,” said Anders and everyone turned to her. Barry saw her plan quickly and nodded his agreement.

“She’s right. That picture there? That’s a winner. We keep our distance, see if he wins and check if Buckland makes contact.” Abi shook her head, lifting a wagging finger and speaking quickly.

“No, no, no. That poor girl’s family deserve closure. We cannot do that to them.” Duncan chipped in.

“I think it’s a good idea. I’m not sure it’ll fly in court though. Mal?” All eyes turned to Mal and Abi used his pause to carry her argument.

“We don’t get to make decisions like this. The suffering of one for the good of all? We uphold the law and that’s clear in its morality. No judge or magistrate would allow this.” Mal stared at Anders. He’d made his decision as soon as she’d spoken, but he needed to be clear with himself whether he was making a decision based upon the idea itself or who had suggested it. He turned to Abi and gave her an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry Abi. I’ll speak to McDowell and if he clears it, I’ll have him tailed.” Abi threw her hands up in frustration.

“De La Cruz yielded nothing. You said yourself he was a dead end.”

“Buckland is in Britain. That much we do know based upon Boyle’s death. He’s stuck here unless he swims the channel himself. We don’t know whether he gave De La Cruz the money straight to his account because he couldn’t meet him personally. We traced the wire that deposited the money. It’s a dead end. We have very few choices left to us.” Abi stood and spoke fiercely yet quietly.

“There’s always a choice. We have chosen to inflict pain and misery on her family and you can’t tell me they’d be okay with what you are doing.” She walked elegantly from the room to her office, closing the door firmly behind her. A thoughtful silence descended as everyone focused on Mal. He seemed to be reconsidering his choice. Eventually he nodded.

“Lucy, contact Liverpool. Tell them Duncan is on the way up to coordinate a sting.” They both got up to leave and Mal turned to Jesse. “Pull up the last Interpol report.” Jesse did so, overlaying the reports onto a world map. Last week, there had been a few red spots where entries to the competition had taken place. They were only a couple of days into week two and the number had increased tenfold. Red spots glared angrily over poor, deprived areas, affluent places of influence and many more in between. There’s no demographic when five million pounds are on the table. Barry spoke softly as Jesse added more and more spots to the map.

“You think he can do it?” Anders gave him a sidelong look and put a gentle hand on his arm. They’d formed a strong kinship in a short space of time.

“Destabilise societies to the extent that chaos takes over? No, not at all. But he is creating enough havoc to make it seem as if he will. We have the largest manhunt ever conducted in the UK underway and a big reward for any information. We’ll catch him.” Mal stood up and walked to the map, arms folded across his chest as he spoke.

“McDowell is under a lot of pressure. The press, the government, agencies from every country affected. All of them are putting sustained pressure on him to deliver. He’s doing well to shield us from it, but he can only do so much. If we don’t find Buckland soon, things are going to get much tougher. Our operational independence will be rescinded and our ranks demoted so that SCO can direct operations.” Lucy returned, having spoken to the Force in Liverpool and caught his last words. She sat next to Barry and looked at the map in shock.

“We could do with more men,” she said. “It’s all very well giving us power to employ local officers to our needs, but we need more in the Hub. Helen and Ben have more evidence than they can handle and if you have Anders working with them, it’s one less working with us.”

“You’re right,” agreed Mal. “We do need more people.” Jesse’s phone rang loudly, puncturing the solemn atmosphere. He answered it, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper as he talked and abruptly hanging up.

“Got a tip folks. Buckland’s been seen entering a building near Soho. Five minutes ago.” Mal shot forward and grabbed the paper.

“Barry, get a van. Anders, firearms. Let’s move!” Spurred to action, Barry sprinted to the car depot, Mal and Lucy following. Anders ran to the firearms cabinet and tapped in a code, unlocking the cage and taking two Glock’s and two Heckler & Koch’s with spare magazines.

As she sprinted past Jesse, Abi came from her office, the sudden noise piquing her interest.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Buckland’s been sighted,” shouted Anders as she ran past, following Lucy and Mal to the car depot. She reckoned they could be at the building in ten minutes and prayed that Buckland would be there so they could put a stop to his madness. She should have known better than to hope that Fifty Two Weeks of Murder would finish after only two.

Chapter 9

Barry sped through the streets, siren blaring from the police van as he covered the short distance to Soho in minutes. Slowing down, he switched off the siren and Lucy put Jesse on loudspeaker.

“Ok folks,” he said. “Shop keeper on Greek Street just off Soho Square called this in. Claims he saw Buckland making his way into the building next to the Prince Edward Theatre. Barry, stop by Soho Square at the other end of the street and make your way down.”

“Who owns the building?” asked Mal. There was a pause and the sound of tapping as Jesse searched the borough records. He muttered under his breath and Mal gave an impatient sigh. Anders shot him a calming look as she fitted a Kevlar vest round her waist and holstered her Glock, checking the Heckler & Koch for Barry once she was done. Eventually Jesse spoke.

“I can’t find any records of the building actually existing.”

“What the Hell does that mean?” asked Mal.

“It means I can find every building on Greek Street but there’s a gap where number three should be. It’s like it’s been wiped.” Lucy spoke, clearly nervous in the tense atmosphere.

“This why we can’t find Buckland? He’s hiding in a building that doesn’t exist?” Mal gave a thoughtful look.

“Could be. He’s shown enough skill with a computer so far. Jesse, you’ll need to start matching up physical records with IT ones, find out where the gaps are. Could be there’s more than one.”

Barry parked the van, Mal sliding the door open before it had stopped and leaping out. Lucy called after him, struggling to get her vest on as Duncan tried to put one over his bandaged arm.

“Wait,” she said. Mal pulled up impatiently, turning to her aggressively. “We’re not equipped for this. We need to wait for the tactical response unit.” Mal gestured to Barry who was wrapping the strap of the Heckler & Koch round his forearm and extending the stock to fit his large frame.

“That’s why we have Barry and Anders. They’re our tactical unit.”

“There’s two of them.”

“And one of him,” cut in Duncan, clearly nervous as well.

“That we know of. He’s forming a cult pretty quick. We’ve no idea if it’s even him and if he’s alone. I’m not trained for this and neither are you two.” Mal turned to Barry, expecting his support. He responded with an easy shrug.

“You’re the boss Mal, but she’s right. This isn’t America. We’re not the FBI. You, Lucy, Duncan, you’re detectives by training and practise, not soldiers. I’ll take Anders in and we’ll sweep the building. Call the tactical response unit and they can back us up when they get here. You guys can cordon off the street in the meantime.”

They stood on the road by Soho Gardens where people lazily watched them as they enjoyed the midday sun on the grass. A few had taken out their phones to film the Police Officers arguing in a semi-circle as Anders helped Lucy to put her vest on properly. A cold breeze tousled her hair and she pulled it back in a tight pony tail to stop it getting in her face. She lifted her wrist slightly to check the time. Fifteen minutes since the call. Mal stared down the street, frustration twisting his features.

“I’ll call back up, but we’re going in now. Lucy, Duncan you stay here.” Lucy glanced at Anders, seeing how calm and collected she was. She remembered the conversation in the bathroom they’d had and knew that she needed to do this.

“I’m in, but it’s a bad idea.” Mal nodded, clearly pleased. He looked at Duncan who sighed heavily then gave a begrudging nod. Mal clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder.

“Stay behind us,” he said. “Theatre is at the very end of the street on the right, about eight hundred yards. We’ll stick to the sides, try and remain out of sight.” Barry spoke then, his voice low and firm.

“You three listen to Anders and me. We’re in charge now. We clear?” Mal nodded and bade them lead the way.

Keeping their weapons holstered, they scrambled quickly down the street. The sun shone brightly on the opposite side, but they were in the shade as they passed a bank of cash machines and a few trendy clothes stores. The theatre was a large brick affair that stretched higher than the other buildings on the street, dominating the view. When people stepped out onto the street, they quickly rushed back into the shops at the sight of the five police officers storming towards an old, nondescript building that seemed to grow out of the theatre, almost as if it had been tacked on as an afterthought.

There were few windows on the building and one entrance, an old wooden door, painted a dull grey that now flaked to show a bright red undercoat.

Anders nodded to Barry and she drew her gun in one smooth movement as he knelt down by the door and picked the lock. Mal waited behind impatiently, Duncan gesturing to passers-by to clear the area. Eventually Barry had the lock picked and he turned to Anders. She stepped forward as he opened the door, sliding to the side to let her through. The interior was dark and Anders was lost from sight as the gloom engulfed her. Barry followed without hesitation and Lucy felt a ripple of fear tremor through her. Not only at what she may encounter inside, but at the way Anders and Barry moved. Sinuous and with a grace that reminded her of a lion stalking its prey. In that moment, they both scared her.

Mal, impatience making him jittery, gave them seconds before following in himself. Duncan gave Lucy a supportive look and slunk through the doorway, leaving her alone on the street with her fears. She’d entered countless buildings, been at the front line when doors were smashed in, but this was something different. She’d entered a new world and felt out of her depth, not realising that Duncan and Mal both had the same fears. They were just better at hiding it. Steeling herself, she glanced nervously around the street and scurried into the building.

She found herself in a decrepit old shop, long abandoned. A thick layer of dust carpeted both the floor and rows of tatty shelves. Footprints could be seen tracing a path from the door to the staircase and then to a room off to one side, both sets smudged by the team ahead of her. Mal and Duncan were immediately ahead, waiting on Anders and Barry, the atmosphere tense, the light dim and foreboding. Barry was at the foot of the staircase and nodded to her as she entered the building. Anders came from the side room and skirted the shop floor to Barry, her footsteps a whisper on the old wooden floor. They conversed with hand signals that she couldn’t decipher, so Lucy, assuming the side room was clear, made her way into what looked like an old storage room. 

She saw a battered table and matching chair in the centre, a laptop nestled on the surface. Scratch marks on the floor showed where the furniture had been dragged from; a cluttered pile of shelving, stools and tables in the corner. The room looked empty apart from that. The laptop glowered at her and she moved towards it, hoping that Jesse would be able to access it remotely and shut down the website. As she reached out to the laptop, she heard a creaking noise above them.

Looking through the doorway, she saw Mal sprint across the shop floor, his footsteps suddenly loud in the confined space. Anders looked to him, raising her hand to stop Mal, when she saw Lucy from the corner of her eye. Her eyes widened in sudden realisation, but it was too late. She knew the pile of junk was too staged and called her warning, surprised to see Lucy in the storage room and reaching for the laptop. She gave the computer the faintest of touches but it was enough.

Her touch cut a razor thin wire that held in place a chair in the pile of junk. It slipped a fraction of an inch and hit the charge on an M18A1 mine. The claymore detonated, ravaging the pile of junk and sending out hundreds of steel balls and splintered wood in a sixty degree arc. Lucy knew none of this. Her world was filled with sudden, agonising and tormenting pain that lasted seconds, but felt like hours, as her body bore the brunt of the explosion. She didn’t hear the concussive noise as she gratefully embraced oblivion.

The detonation knocked Anders from her feet, sending her skidding across the foyer as a broiling wave of heat erupted from the side room. She dimly registered Mal and Duncan being tossed across the space with her before they were enveloped in dust, heat and a deafening noise. Air was forced from her lungs and she struggled for breath in the dust and rubble. Glass shattered with a shrieking wail, blasting onto the street. Getting to her knees, Anders forced herself to her feet, gagging and choking, the world ringing and stars fugging her vision.

“Report!” she yelled, her throat hoarse and acrid. Barry was the first to respond, followed by Mal.

“I’m okay.”

“Me too.” Anders tried to see through the dust to where she’d last seen Lucy but could only see shadow. A hand reached to her and she pulled it towards herself, gun raising to the target. It was Mal. His face was covered in grime, eyes streaked with tears and red raw. She passed her gun to him.

“Upstairs now. Barry?”

“On it,” he called and stormed up the stairs, all pretence at quiet gone. Mal, coughing wildly, followed, holding the gun as if for the first time.

“Duncan?” called Anders. She was greeted with a groan as he stumbled from the smoke, clutching his wounded arm that had started to bleed again. She dragged him into the side room and was greeted with a horrific sight. Lucy lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The mine that had been hidden in the pile of junk had sent needles of wood, metal and plastic flying towards Lucy and her arm was a ragged stump from just above the elbow. Shards of debris and steel balls had peppered her vest and it had borne the brunt of the battering stoically, with only a few jagged pieces piercing the Kevlar. The explosion had still caused terrible damage and she was bleeding profusely.

Anders rushed to Lucy, quickly assessing the carnage. Blood was pouring from her severed brachial artery and she knew that Lucy had moments to live. Mercifully, she was unconscious, which would make her task easier.

“Duncan,” she called, trying not to cough as she knelt beside Lucy, her own body bruised and sore. Getting no reply, she tried again, her voice cracking with the effort.

“Yes?” he replied, still dazed. Anders took a knife from her belt and lifted Lucy’s ruined arm onto her lap. A sickening shard of bone stuck out from a loose flap of skin and shredded muscle stuck to her trousers.

“I need water and get Jesse on the phone. Get me the first aid kit from the van and some tubing. Fast. You hear me?” She didn’t turn to him, focused on what she was about to do. The brachial artery, once severed had sunk back into the flesh, the elastic tissue springing back with the sudden release of tension. Using her knife, Anders sliced upwards, quickly exposing more flesh. Digging her fingers in, Lucy rushed back to consciousness with an ear splitting scream.

She struggled as Anders burrowed her fingers further into the muscle, trying to find the severed artery.

“It’s ok,” she called soothingly, laying one hand on Lucy’s chest. She could feel her heart beating rapidly, the action pumping more blood from the artery. Anders had seconds to find the vessel and she could feel Lucy weakening as she bled out.

“I’ve got you, you’re gonna be ok, keep listening to my voice,” she said reassuringly, finally grabbing the artery and squeezing the end tightly, her fist still embedded within Lucy’s arm. With her other hand, she took Lucy’s remaining hand and gripped it, talking softly, not really saying much as she tried to stem the flow of blood.