Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (30 page)

Chapter 15

Anders stood behind Jesse and watched the news reports come through. It seemed as if the whole world was on fire. They’d fought hard to get back into the Yard, surrounded as it was by thousands of supporters of Buckland and those who would see him hanged by the same death penalty he was pushing through the House of Lords. They had clashed with each other and the riot police surrounding the building had been helpless to prevent it. They stood in a ring around the building, preventing entry and trying to protect it from the rioters, fires blazing in the street, rocks hurled at the windows and officers. The noise was a deafening wave of anger and rage, a physical force that was barely absorbed by the layers of concrete and steel that separated them and those in the hub.

Three of Jesse’s screens showed Buckland’s website, the drone now focused on Scotland Yard as it hovered high above, the commandeered bus parked at an angle across the entrance, now providing protection to the main entrance. They were effectively locked in, the only escape through the underground car park, which was protected by steel shutters. Helen was tending to Barry’s wounds and Ben fussed around Anders as he stitched up her arm. He was no surgeon and the wound would heal in a crooked scar. Abi had hugged Duncan fiercely as he entered, saying how proud she was of him. He’d held his own and had not faltered.

“The army has been called in. They’ll restore order in a few hours.” The voice came from McDowell who was on one of Jesse’s many screens. “Buckland has wreaked havoc, but he’s achieved nothing more than death and misery. This time tomorrow, everything will be just as it was.” Anders shooed Ben away as he tried to put a bandage round the wound. She stuck a large plaster on it and spoke to McDowell.

“I’ll speak to him anyway, see if we can’t get this damn virus shut down.” McDowell nodded his agreement. There was nothing left to say. Anders took an earpiece from Jesse and put it in her ear.

“Take care,” he said. “He’s one sick son of a bitch. Don’t let him get you all twisted up.” Anders gave him a tired smile. She couldn’t remember when she’d last slept.

“I’ll be fine.” She tapped her earpiece. “Keep me posted.”

Anders walked to the interview room, gathering her thoughts and focusing her mind. Her rib hurt and she could feel it grate every time she moved. She knew she would have to check it out sooner rather than later but pushed her pain away. She was covered in bruises and cuts from the attack on London Bridge, but had suffered worse. Far worse.

She tapped in the code for the interrogation room and entered to find Buckland sitting on the metal seat, cuffed to the table and staring blankly at the wall ahead. As she entered, his eyes focused on her and he gave an insidious smile.

“Miss Anders,” he said. “I’m so glad I killed Mr Weathers and made you the boss. You’re much more interesting.” Anders ignored his taunt and sat opposite him. He continued to speak. “You found me much more quickly than Mr Weathers did. I’m impressed.”

“It was Mal’s work that led me to you. We simply continued with his investigation as he had it,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral. Anger seethed below the surface at what he had done to Mal. She struggled to control herself and it was through sheer force of will that she didn’t attack him where he sat. Buckland smiled and gave her a patronising look, the effect distorting his handsome features.

“You do yourself a disservice. Mr Blackwell should be arriving soon. I believe that I cannot be interviewed without my consent until I have spoken to my attorney.” Anders leaned forward and bared her teeth.

“I spoke with Mr Blackwell earlier. Seems he has declined to represent you. Would you like me to find you another attorney?” Buckland shrugged as if without a care in the world.

“Never mind. How goes my revolution?”

“Habeas Corpus. Why abolish it? Doesn’t that make it easier to throw you in jail?” Anders wanted to keep changing topic, put him off guard.

“I’m sure my trial will be too good an opportunity for the likes of McDowell to pass up.” Anders leaned back in her seat.

“Shame you couldn’t get that capital punishment deal back up and running. I’d love to see you hang for the suffering you’ve caused.” Buckland gave her a steady look.

“Pull the lever yourself no doubt.” Anders flicked some dirt from her nail. Pretended to consider the comment. Deciding he wasn’t going to get an answer, Buckland folded his arms across his broad chest and waited for her to speak.

“It’s just chaos isn’t it?” said Anders eventually. “Take away more rights on one hand, offer them more incentive with the other. Nice little hornets’ nest you’ve stirred up.” Buckland looked pleased with himself as she spoke. In that moment, she saw him for what he was. He wanted to rip and tear and burn. No reason. He cared little for revolution, just pain and suffering and misery.

“Your little revolution will be over by the morning. Army has been drafted in, martial law declared. As it always would. You knew it would never happen, you just wanted some legitimacy, some aspiration to a higher purpose for people to follow you in your sick games.” Anders put her hands on the desk, showing him her bloodied knuckles. “I want to know where your son and your wife are and I’d like to shut down your website before any more innocent people are killed.”

Buckland looked surprised for a split second at the mention of Lady Margaret, before hiding it behind his mask of superiority.

“My ex-wife I believe.” Anders inclined her head at his correction.

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t dump the body?” It took a moment for him to realise that she was talking about his brother.

“Didn’t think you’d find the house and then the safe. Did you have fun chasing me up and down the country? I will admit, I was annoyed at my son for being so careless, but I guess it was fun to see your officer blown into little pieces.” Anders visibly controlled herself with an effort of will, fists clenching on the table. Buckland noticed the reflex and chuckled.

“What is it you say? Walk tall, stand strong, isn’t it? Lucy was a fighter, I’ll give her that.” An icy chill of fear rippled down her spine at his words. She’d only ever said that to Aaron. Buckland saw her look and gave a triumphant smile. “The advantage, Miss Anders, of being on the committee that set up this wonderful taskforce is that I know where everyone lives.” He looked at her with hooded eyes and raised his hands, the noise of the steel chains through the hoop suddenly loud in the room.

“Please remember Miss Anders, that I have a higher purpose,” he said, aping his blog in a mocking tone. “When you do what I do, you become more than an individual with an ideology. You become an entity. And as an entity, I, no, we, are legion.”

Anders shoved her chair back with such force that it clattered off the wall behind her, aghast as he spoke, a snarl spearing his smile. “The Devil wants his share Miss Anders. We’re here to collect on his behalf.”  She tore from the room, Buckland’s cackling following her as she left, and took out her phone. Dialling Aaron as she moved, she cursed when there was no reply. The phone rang ominously. Aaron was proud of his phone. It never left his side.

“Jesse?” she said out loud.

“On it,” came his voice through her earpiece. “Barry is hooking you up with an exit strategy. Got you a bike.” She gave him Aaron’s number.

“Keep trying,” she said, sprinting through the Hub. Abi and Helen give her anxious looks as she passed and grabbed some Aviators from her desk as she headed for the parking lot. Careening down the corridor, she saw Barry, Duncan and Jesse by the entrance. The barricade was down, thick metal doors barring the way. Barry was struggling into a vest, his broken collarbone making the task difficult. She also saw Ben trying to fit himself into a vest and helmet that was clearly too big for him. Anders shook her head.

“Don’t do this Ben,” she said. He gave her a lopsided grin as he buckled the straps to his helmet.

“You may be the only person I’ve met smarter than me, but I’ll be damned if you’re braver.” Anders hugged him briefly, unable to speak.

“Over here,” called Jesse and pointed to a police motorbike resting against a large truck. The top of the vehicle had a hose attached and a large tank filled with water below it. Jesse was settling into the seat behind the hose as Duncan switched on the engine.

Anders sprinted to the bike and gunned the engine. Barry approached and handed her a Glock. She looked at his bandaged arm.

“You don’t need to do this,” she said and he smiled at her.

“Would you do this for me?” he asked. They both knew the answer and she was glad that the Aviators hid her emotions. He gave the signal and the metal doors started to rise, a cacophony of noise reaching them as the chaos from the riots outside poured through. Jesse gave Anders the thumbs up as Barry picked up a riot shield with his good arm and trotted alongside Duncan’s door as he drove the van out, Ben strutting alongside Barry and shielding his weaker side. He looked tiny and petrified, but held his chin high, shouting a battle cry that was soon lost to the noise.

Within moments, a stream of people started to enter the parking lot, gleefully seeing a way in to claim their reward or kill Buckland. Either reason didn’t matter to Anders as they swarmed in. Jesse turned the hose on and sprayed the crowd, knocking them from their feet with the force of the jet. A few tried to duck under the spray and were bashed aside by Barry as he protected Duncan who drove forward, Ben using the huge shield he carried with purpose. Together, they cleared a path out from the building, but the streets were overflowing with a mass of seething humanity.

The van was quickly swamped and the hose could only push so many back. Anders spied a gap in the crowd as Jesse sprayed them and spurred the bike forward, the vehicle responding to her touch with a snarl. The bike roared through the crowd. A few men tried to knock her off but were thrown back by the hose. She burst from the rioters and found herself on the street. Looking in the mirror, she saw the van overrun by the hateful mob and prayed for their safety, guilt at leaving them behind tormenting her.

She pushed the bike hard, leaning in to the corners and hitting the bridge, Parliament blazing behind her as she sped to Richmond, her arm starting to bleed again with every turn of the handle. Panic gripped her and she forced it down, pushing the bike beyond its limits. She wore no helmet, relying on the shades to protect her eyes, hair whipping around her as she passed through red lights and swerved around abandoned cars. The slightest knock and she’d be instantly killed at the speed she was travelling.

In her ear, the headpiece sprang to life, barely audible in the wind.

“It’s Helen,” came the voice. “I’m trying to call Aaron for you, but I’m not getting through. There’s no patrol cars nearby either. I’m sorry.”

“Are they ok? Back at the station?” she yelled, the wind snatching her voice away.

Anders wove through some burnt out cars and an explosion from a petrol station nearly knocked her from the bike. She didn’t hear the reply and a static in her ear told her she’d lost contact with Helen. She was engulfed in a tide of despair, fear clawing at her. She knew the look Buckland had given her in the room. It was the look of a hunter catching his prey, the look of the spiteful practising cruelty. She pushed the bike harder again, not caring for her own safety. Around her she saw looting and destruction on a scale not seen since the Blitz, but she ignored the wanton damage.

A short while later, but what seemed like hours to Anders, she arrived at her block of flats and skidded to a halt, leaping from the bike and reaching for the Glock she’d tucked into her belt. It wasn’t there, having fallen off during the ride. Hoping she wouldn’t need it, she rammed her way through the front door and hurtled up the stairs. At the top, she slammed open the stairwell door to find them in the hallway.

Lawrence Buckland and Lady Margaret stood by the lift, waiting for it to arrive. Anders had moments to take it in. She saw the surprise on their faces, saw the bag Margaret was holding, a bloody sickle poking out from it, saw the spots of blood that freckled their clothing, saw the gun in Lawrence’s hand.

Saw the door to her flat at the end of the corridor.

It was ajar, the lock broken and splintered.

In his shock at seeing Anders, Lawrence wasted precious seconds before raising his gun. Anders wasted no time. She sprinted towards Lawrence, a look of surprise on his face as he saw her coming. He managed to raise his weapon in time to fire one shot, the bullet piercing her shoulder, white hot pain tearing through her swifter than lightening. Rage drove her on and she moved to within lovers touch.

She reached out, grabbed the gun and, with the other hand, slammed his elbow up, cartilage snapping as the joint was smashed the wrong way. He dropped the gun and she caught it, firing her reply, the sound concussive in the narrow corridor.

Lawrence screamed shrilly as the bullet took out his kneecap, the bone shattering in an explosion of pain. The second bullet removed his manhood and he mewed simperingly as he tried to crawl away. A third bullet shattered his spine at the waist.

Lady Margaret, shocked at the speed of the violence, dropped her bag, grabbing the sickle at the same time. With consummate ease, Anders took it from her as she spun around Margaret, one arm taking her neck, the other holding the sickle to her stomach.

“Please,” whimpered Lady Margaret. Anders had stared into the darkness for a long time. She knew it intimately. Her light shone in the dark to protect those in need. A different light shone now. Righteousness. In his madness, Jonathan Sanders had seen it in her and now Lady Margaret saw it as Anders pulled the blade across her torso, the cold steel opening her stomach and spilling her intestines to the floor. She screamed in pain as Anders tossed her aside.