Hurt (The Hurt Series) (39 page)

She didn’t want to know any of these things.

This was why she had flown here, so as to escape the bastard’s choke hold on her life. Yet in the stark reflection in the mirror, she watched a woman she used to recognise bringing the phone to her ear and greeting her ex-colleague with a voice as sombre as the news she was about to receive.

‘Where are you?’ Mason yelled.

‘Not close,’ she mumbled.

‘Are you near a TV?’

‘Why?’

‘Just answer the damn question!’

Never before had she heard Mason raise his voice, and hearing it now scared her more than she thought it would. ‘Wait a second.’ She grabbed her handbag and strode out of the toilets back into the bar. And stopped cold.

Where a moment ago the hotel bar had entertained easy conversation and light laughter from its elderly guests and the two teenage girls propped at the bar, now it had fallen into a deathly silence. It was as if time had stopped, freezing everyone in a state of bewilderment as each and every one of them stared open mouthed at the TV above the bar.

‘Boss?’ Mason’s urgent voice reverberated in her ear. ‘You there?’

She approached the bar, slipping past the statues of her fellow guests toward the two girls.

‘Turn the volume up,’ came a voice from within the small gathering.

The barman, himself in a state of hypnosis, complied.

She, however, did not want to hear what was going on. Neither did she want to see what
would
happen next.

Because not twenty-four hours ago, she’d had a chance of preventing it using the very gun the figure on the TV was pointing at the camera.

‘How the hell did he get into the stadium with the gun?’ she hissed into the phone.

‘He had a hostage, apparently,’Mason answered. ‘A fucking kid, who he let go once he was inside. He then warned a steward if the TV channels stop broadcasting he was going to unload into the crowd.’

She heard Mason but her attention was glued to the solitary figure walking across the football pitch wearing the same black jacket and jeans he’d worn yesterday. The players stood well back, all aware of what the intruder was holding.

‘Mum?’

She was ambushed by Chloe, who flung her arms around her waist and held her tight. ’What’s he doing?’

Into the phone, she asked Mason, ‘How will he know if the stations cut the feed?’

‘Look closely. He has an earpiece. He told the steward he’s in contact with someone watching.’

‘He’s bluffing. Chambers has no one.’

‘We know that, but is it a chance you want to take?’

‘Not my call, Scott.’

‘Yeah, it’s mine and I’m not taking the risk.’

‘Good,’ she whispered as Chambers reached the centre of the field.

‘What the hell do you think he’s playing at?’ Mason pushed.

It was the question everybody watching wanted answering. She scanned the stadium, packed to its 32,000 capacity. Chelsea drew a crowd from all around the world, especially when pitted against an underdog and potential title contender on Boxing Day. Hell, she was 2000 miles away in another country and the game had drawn a crowd of avid fans even before Chambers had ambushed the match.

‘Oh Christ…’ she breathed.

Chloe pulled away and looked her mother hard in the eyes. ‘What?’

Her question was echoed in Jessop’s ear by Mason. ‘Boss?’

She watched Chambers ease to the grass on the centre spot and cross his legs. The gun was in his left fist, rested in his lap. Just like yesterday in the house, his head was bowed as if in penance.

To Mason, she barked, ‘Have you contacted Daniels and his team?’

‘They’re on route. Ten minutes out.’

‘Not enough time.’

‘For what?’

‘To save him.

‘Who?’

It was then Chambers finally looked up from his lap and stared directly into the camera. His eyes had changed. Where yesterday they were empty, now they brimmed with sorrow and remorse.

She knew why.

Among the hundreds of thousands of Chelsea and Reading football fans watching the game around the world, there was one Reading fan in particular whose attention Chambers wanted to attract.

Her name was Beth, and according to Lance Corporal Paul Edwards, she had not missed one of Reading’s games since the day she was born.

‘
Scott, when did Reading beat Man United 5-1?’

‘What?’

She repeated the question.

‘2003. Boxing Da… Oh shit!’

122603. The tenth number on the list, when converted, 26/12/03. Not only the anniversary of the Iran earthquake, and Reading FC’s famous victory, but Bethany Chambers’ birthday. And despite living half way around the world, no way was she going to miss this match against one of the best teams in the world.

Jessop recalled Chambers’ words catching in his throat yesterday when he had briefly mentioned his daughter. Edwards had said Chambers had been a devoted father and had not stopped bragging about little Beth from his Camp Bastion hospital bed. Every parent wanted the best for the children, and the best, according to Chambers, was to experience the deepest possible grief in order to experience the ultimate happiness in life.

Little Bethany was about to learn that lesson by watching her father kill himself live on TV. This was his tenth birthday present to his little girl, hence why she had been tenth on the list. Jessop only hoped her mother had switched off the moment she had recognised her estranged husband walk onto the pitch.

‘Oh God, no!’ came a scream from behind her as Chambers raised the gun to his head.

She hugged Chloe tight and reached for Vicky, who was mesmerised by the unfolding events. This, she thought, could be good for the girl. And even if it wasn’t, it was too late to stop her watching now. Because Chambers had closed his eyes and had the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple.

And then his lips moved as if reciting a silent prayer. And then they were still once again. And then, in the blink of an eye and a deafening crack, Chambers was still, never to hurt again.

Chapter
One-hundred and nine

Jessop took a pull on her cigarette and watched the blinking lights of an approaching airplane in the ink black sky above. She dug her bare feet into the cool sand and wriggled her toes. It was a feeling she had not experienced since childhood. The last time she had been to the beach was with her parents and sister. A week in Bournemouth had to her felt like a month in the Bahamas. The weather had been scorching; a proper summer like they used to be back then.

They had spent the week on the beach doing the things kids were expected to do on the beach: making sandcastles, burying dad in the sand, eating ice creams and fish and chips on the pier − all very cliché, but all very nice.

In the evenings they would stroll through the gardens after dinner and usually end up at the amusements on the pier. She, her mother and her sister favoured the push-penny machines, whilst dad fed five and ten pence pieces into the fruit machines between cursing his bad luck. After, they would adjourn back to the beach, where the tide would be out and they could run barefoot through the cold, damp sand. This was her favourite part of the day, for there were few others on the beach at that time, and it felt as if she and her family were the only ones alive on this magical planet of dark water and glistening wet sand.

Such innocent indulgences were essential in childhood. The first feeling of warm sand between your toes; that first lick of an ice cream melted by the sun; that fist whiff of fish and chips and salt and vinegar from the pier; that first grimace from licking salty sea water from your lips. Every child should experience these moments, for these were the memories that stayed with you throughout your life. For poor little Bethany, her childhood would forever be blighted by her father’s act. Any good memories she had of him would be forgotten as quickly as the bullet had entered his skull. Nothing before that moment mattered any more. Her life as she had known it so far had been wiped clean with one twitch of a finger.

Chambers had been wrong. The hurt he had spoken of from the grief and heartache he had inflicted could not and should not be taught. It, like all of life’s experiences good and bad, should be discovered along the course of your destiny and not forced upon a person. The twisted irony was that Chambers was proof that what he was teaching did not work. He had watched a close friend die and had experienced the deepest grief. Yet in the two years since, he had not found the ultimate happiness he’d preached about. Of course, he might have argued the point, but then he was psychotic.

She considered the hundreds of thousands of people who had witnessed Chambers’ lesson to his daughter. None would understand. None other than herself and her team and anyone who had been watching with the ability to lip read.

This was the first instruction she had given Mason after they had witnessed Chambers’ suicide: ‘Find a lip reader and find out what the bastard muttered before he pulled the trigger.’ To most watching, it appeared Chambers had said a silent prayer. She knew this not to be true after he had confessed to her yesterday to not believing in God. She suspected it was a message to his daughter, who, according to her mother when Jessop had called Hannah earlier, had been taught to lip read by her father.

Mason had called back some time later with the answer she had been expecting. ‘Brooke found two lip readers. Both agree with one another. Chambers’ last words were: “Only in death can we embrace life. Happy Birthday, Bethany. I love you.”’ She’d hung up then. There was nothing more she needed to know.

She
sighed into the cool sea breeze. Watched the lights from another approaching airplane blink in the blackness above. More holiday makers arriving to see in the New Year in warmth and comfort.

She wondered if the news about Chambers had reached them. In this day and age, with media phones, wireless laptops and youtube, she had no doubt the talk on the plane centredaround only one subject. A subject which would be on their lips and minds throughout their stay and long after they were back in their lives.

Hannah had pulled Bethany away from the match before her daddy could convey his message, but it was only a matter of time before the girl would see the footage for herself via the internet.

Chambers had made damn sure his daughter got her birthday present and would learn from it.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the lazy swish and slosh of the breaking waves, willing them to wash away any memory of Corporal Phillip Chambers. From behind, she heard the soft crunch of sand, and caught the sweet, familiar scent of Chloe’s perfume.

She did not look round as her daughter fell to the sand beside her and snaked an arm around her waist.

‘You okay?’ Chloe asked.

‘Uh-huh. Where’s Vicky?’

‘In our room. She wanted to be alone for a bit.’

‘How is she?’

‘My diagnosis, relieved.’

She took an absent drag on her cigarette and exhaled lazily. Vicky had never wanted Chambers to be caught and tried, just as she had never wanted Malcolm Hoyt to rot in prison for the rest of his miserable life. Chambers had killed what was most precious in the world to Vicky, and therefore should pay the ultimate penalty. In the eyes of a bereaved loved one, it was that simple. That was why she had gone after Hoyt, despite being a dedicated and respected law enforcer.

Twist it around and chew it over all you want, monsters like Hoyt and Chambers deserved to die. Only then can the bereaved find some solace and begin to rebuild their lives.

Maybe there was something in what Chambers preached about finding happiness in death, she mused. Of course, that depended on who died.

She pulled Chloe close and tight. They sat that way until her eyes stung from the salt air and her eyelids flickered from tiredness.

‘Mum?’ Chloe said. ‘What’re you going to do when we get back home?’

Find out who sent me that fucking text, she thought. ‘Probably unpack and load up the washing machine, why?’

‘I’m serious. You’re unemployed.’

‘Guess I am.’

‘So?’

‘So I haven’t given it much thought yet. But when I do think of something, you’ll be the first to know.’

Chloe’s grip around her waist tightened. ‘This is nice,’ she said leaning her head against her mother’s shoulder.

Jessop echoed the sentiment and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. This
was
nice, just her and her daughter sitting here, happy and comfortable in each other’s company for the first time in years. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so content. And to think, not four weeks ago she had been locked away in that hotel room watching herself slowly die, just as
Vicky
and the others had watched their loved ones die. It had been the lowest point of her adult life, as Chambers had known and anticipated.

Amazing how trauma can sometimes spawn such happiness, she pondered to the serene silver moon above.

A sudden shiver wracked her body. Yet it was not provoked from the cool sea breeze, but from infinitely colder words whispered by Chambers yesterday.

‘And I promise you, soon you’ll thank me, just as all the others will.’