Identity Crisis (17 page)

Before he started work on the pipe, he opened the double-glazed oven door. He sealed the gap at the bottom with sellotape before filling the cavity with the contents of a bag he’d removed from his rucksack. The purchase had been made at the local ironmongery a couple of days previously. The shrapnel effect of a large quantity of three-inch nails at high velocity would be lethal. Added to the blast itself, nobody inside that room, or the flat itself, would stand much chance of survival.

Having filled the cavity, Tony closed the oven door. All he had to do now was introduce a controlled leak into the gas pipe leading to the oven. Then, as soon as he knew Nash was on his way back to the flat, he would set the automatic timer on the oven. When the oven switched itself on, the flame would ignite the gas. When that happened, Nash would be history.

The next part was the trickiest. The inaccessible position of the inlet pipe didn’t help. Tony worked slowly, taking great care. The slightest spark at this stage would result in him becoming the victim of his own device. He glanced at his watch. The work had
taken longer than he anticipated, but eventually it was done, and not a moment too soon. As he was replacing all the screws, his mobile rang. ‘Nash is just paying the bill,’ the watcher told him.

Tony checked his watch. Only ten minutes left. Working quickly now, he replaced the rings and grids on the hob and stuffed his tools back in his rucksack. He checked his watch again; six minutes. He made sure the clock on the oven was working and switched the automatic timer to ignite in ten minutes time. That should be ample, he thought. He switched the kitchen light off, exited the flat and shut the front door behind him. He’d taken no more than a dozen strides when he remembered the coffee machine was still on the kitchen table. He checked his watch, no time to go back.

Nash returned home. Having drunk only one glass of wine with his meal, he refused Gino’s offer of coffee, aware he still had half a pot in his machine. He had time for some before he relieved Viv, and headed straight for the kitchen. He knew something was wrong immediately. His gaze travelled from the coffee machine to the cooker. To the glowing red light, indicating the automatic timer was on. To the glass door that was obscured by something. As these facts jelled, Nash realized their significance.

He turned, at that precise second he heard a sound. For a sickening moment, he thought it was the oven timer. Then realized it was the front doorbell. He ran and opened it wide. ‘Get out of the way!’ Nash screamed as he lunged forward.

Clara opened her mouth to answer, then she heard a noise. It sounded like a huge sigh. At the same time, she felt a hot draught of wind rush past her, followed by a huge detonation. Her eardrums felt as if they were on the point of bursting.

Nash was almost out of the door, pushing her to one side, when the shock wave hit him. At the same time something struck his arm and the back of his head. He thought he could hear a buzzing sound in the distance. Then his vision went black as consciousness left him.

Clara raised herself, her face contorted with horror. Nash was lying across the threshold, half-in, half-out of the doorway. The shattered
remnants of the heavy wooden door were lying across his upper body. Behind him, through the dust created by the blast, she could see flames already shooting upwards. She fought against panic. That wouldn’t help. She scrabbled swiftly across to Nash. There was blood on the back of his head. She reached down, her fingers going instinctively to his neck for a pulse.

A phone. That was what she needed. She dragged her mobile from her pocket and dialled the control room. As she was pressing the keys, she heard the sound of a motorbike. She thought momentarily of trying to flag the rider down for help, then dismissed the idea as the emergency operator answered. She fought to remain calm. She knew not to move an injured person. No time to worry about that with fire already taking hold of the building. As soon as she ended the call, she began moving the debris from him, glancing up every few seconds to see how close the inferno was.

David Sutton was relaxing in front of the TV. The phone rang as the news summary was ending. David reached over and plucked the handset from the cradle. He listened for a moment. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said.

He reached Nash’s street in minutes, but the road was blocked by emergency vehicles. He abandoned his car rather than parking it. Ahead, he saw a couple of police cars, an ambulance and two fire engines, the crews deploying their hoses. The air was thick with smoke, flames licking from the windows. He noticed a motorbike pull away from the kerb at the far end of the street. I’d have been better with one of those, David thought fleetingly.

Two paramedics came into view, wheeling a stretcher. The blanket covering the victim only reached as far as his shoulders. Sutton heaved a sigh of relief. It was Nash; at least he was alive. As he watched, he saw a woman walking alongside the stretcher. Her face covered in grime, with twin tracks down her cheeks where tears had flowed.

Despite the dirt, David had no difficulty recognizing his fiancée. ‘Clara,’ he called out. She looked round, unsure where the sound had come from. ‘Clara,’ Sutton called again. She located him, and pointed to the ambulance. Sutton nodded and signalled that he would follow her. Sutton watched the lights recede into the distance, the sirens blaring their strident warning.

The fire crew began to tackle the blaze as the police officers moved onlookers away and cordoned the area. Inside the ambulance, Clara took out her phone and called Netherdale station. She told the officer in the control room to get Fleming on the phone and ask her to ring her back. The officer agreed. After
Clara ended the call, the man wondered why the normally quietly spoken sergeant had been shouting.

Jackie Fleming had left her hotel details with the station control room. Within minutes, the superintendent rang Clara back from her room at the Golden Bear. Fleming reacted with predictable horror to Clara’s news. Once she’d ascertained that Clara was unhurt, and that Nash’s injuries didn’t appear to be life-threatening, she told her, ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital. I’ll let Pearce know what’s happened, and warn him he’s going to be on surveillance longer than planned. I’ll let the chief know too, then I’d better head for the crime scene. Who’s in charge of the fire crews?’

Clara had seen a familiar figure climbing out of a fire service car before she got into the ambulance. ‘The CFO is Doug Curran. He’d just arrived when we left.’

Tony parked his bike round the corner from the end of Nash’s street and walked back until he reached the high brick wall surrounding the garden of the last house. From there he could watch what was happening without being seen. He took out his mobile. ‘Everything set?’

‘Ready to go,’ Jerry answered. ‘We’re just waiting for the word.’

‘Start right now. The police are going to have their hands full here. The building’s well alight. Nash has been carted off in an ambulance, but I couldn’t get near enough to tell what condition he was in. By the look of the way the place is burning, they’ll have to evacuate residents from the surrounding properties, so that should give you ample time. I’ll stay here a bit longer to make sure nobody leaves in a hurry. You don’t want to be rudely interrupted.’

After the ambulance containing Nash and Mironova left, Sergeant Binns arrived in the street outside Nash’s flat. He sought out Curran. ‘Thank God you’re here, Jack,’ the fire officer said. ‘We’re going to need help getting everyone out of the rest of the terrace. How many men have you got?’

Binns gestured to the quartet of uniformed officers whose official task thus far had been to keep the street clear of onlookers
and vehicles that might block access. ‘What you see is what you get.’

Curran grimaced. ‘My men will have to concentrate on the fire, I can’t spare anyone. Will you get your chaps working on getting residents out? We’ll have to chance blocking the road.’

Binns issued instructions and watched as the four moved off in pairs to start work. He could tell they were meeting with some success as a trickle of people in a wide variety of garments began to appear on the pavement. Binns herded them clear of the fire engines to a distance, safe behind the cordon. As he was moving the last of them, he saw Fleming striding down the street towards him. ‘Any news from the hospital?’

‘I’ve alerted the chief. She thought you’d need all the help you can get so she told me to head here. She’s gone to check up on Nash. What’s the situation?’ She gestured towards the burning building. ‘They could be a long time getting that under control.’

‘Curran reckons it’ll take until morning, at least. And that’s as long as the fire doesn’t spread to other buildings. Although the gas has been shut off at the mains, there’s all the residue in the pipes. Luckily, the rest of the building was holiday lets, so there was no one in them. Nash’s flat was the only one occupied.’

‘That’s something, I suppose. I’ll go and introduce myself to Curran. The chief was going to organize backup but they’re short-staffed at Netherdale, so we can’t count on much help.’

Binns and Fleming were trying to calm the residents, most of whom were milling about at the end of the street, when the superintendent’s mobile rang. She listened in silence as the control room officer passed her the message from his screen. ‘Have you got any patrol cars free?’ she asked. ‘If so, raise the key-holder and get him to meet them there. It’s probably frost in the mechanism, or something equally trivial. The chances of it being anything other than a false alarm are minimal.’

Although she had dismissed the alert, Fleming told Binns about the development. She had just passed on the information when she got another call, this time from the chief constable. Fleming put it on speaker so Binns could hear what she had to say.

‘Nash is all right,’ O’Donnell began. ‘When I say that, I mean he isn’t seriously hurt. He’s got a broken arm, a cut to the back of his head and a load of scratches on his face, but he’s conscious and fairly lucid. I only had a moment to talk to him. They’ve stitched him up and wheeled him off to X-ray, that’s where he is now. The doctor says their main concern is the possibility of concussion. From what Nash told me, there was some sort of a device rigged to make his gas cooker blow up. He was very lucky. The bomber was careless and Nash knew someone had been in the flat. He spotted the device, seconds before it blew. Clara’s just a bit shaken up and has a couple of scratches and a bruise or two. At the moment she’s being comforted by her fiancé.’

‘I’m glad they’re both all right; we’ve more than enough to contend with. On top of everything, we’ve just had a message from the control room. Apparently, the alarm has gone off at a bank here in Helmsdale. Probably a short circuit or something, but it’s bad timing when we’re already overstretched.’

‘Bloody cutbacks,’ the chief muttered. ‘They wanted me to trim the establishment even further, but this will show the Authority we can’t cut any more. I’ll stay here to talk to Nash.’

O’Donnell had been about to ask how long it would be before Nash returned from X-ray, when her mobile rang. Ignoring the disapproving frown of the nurse at the reception desk, she answered it. As she was listening, she glanced across the waiting room. ‘I’ll be there ASAP,’ she told the caller.

As O’Donnell looked around for someone to inform that she would have to leave, she saw a nurse heading towards her.

‘Aren’t you the chief constable?’ the nurse asked. ‘I’m Lianne Ford. I’m Viv’s, I mean, DC Pearce’s girlfriend. Viv phoned to tell me what had happened. I came straight down from the ward. I’m on nights this week,’ she offered by way of explanation.

‘I’m sorry Viv’s stuck out there, he must feel out of it,’ O’Donnell sympathized. ‘But the job he’s doing is very important.’

‘I think he’d rather be out there and bored, than where Mr Nash is,’ Lianne pointed out.

‘Yes, I’m sure. And the way things are kicking off, we can’t spare anyone to relieve him. I’ve to go back. Things are so desperate;
even I’m having to lend a hand. Will you explain to DI Nash why I couldn’t stay? Tell him thieves have broken into one of the banks in Helmsdale. They got in via the basement of the shop next door.’

‘Good Heavens!’ Lianne exclaimed. ‘Is it the one below the accountants’ offices?’

‘Yes, do you know them?’

‘I had a Saturday job in one of the shops downstairs before I left school,’ Lianne told her.

As she was listening, O’Donnell glanced at the clock. ‘How long does an X-ray take?’

‘I’ll nip down and find out how long they’ll be,’ Lianne offered. ‘I know the staff.’

She returned within a couple of minutes. ‘They had to raise a radiographer, which is why there’s a delay. It should be done in half an hour or so.’

‘I’d better go. Please be sure to pass on my message.’

Lianne had been hanging around for what seemed an age. She had just started across the tiled floor to return to the ward, when the doors to her right opened and an odd trio emerged. A man she assumed to be Nash, appeared in a wheelchair which was being pushed by a tall man, who looked to be the only one who wasn’t the worse for wear. The man was also supporting a woman whom Lianne guessed to be Sergeant Mironova.

Nash’s face looked as if he’d suffered a delayed attack of teenage acne. Close inspection revealed it to be a myriad of tiny cuts inflicted by the exploding granules of glass from the outer door of the building.

His companion was in better shape, as she had escaped the blast itself, protected by the outer wall of the building, the inner door and Nash’s body. Nevertheless, her white blouse would never be white again, the combination of dust, soot and blood from Nash’s injuries rendering it fit only for the waste bin. Her slacks were similarly stained. Her hair was tousled, her face besmirched with dust and her normally immaculate hands were blackened, the nails grimy as a gardener’s.

‘I wish you’d let me walk, there’s nothing wrong with my legs,’ Nash grumbled.

‘No, it’s your head that’s the problem,’ Clara retorted tartly, ‘your brain in particular.’

Lianne hurried over. ‘Are you Mr Nash?’ She introduced herself. ‘How are you?’

‘He’s got a broken arm, a possible broken collar bone, possible concussion and a terribly bad temper,’ Clara smiled at her. ‘I’m Clara. DS Mironova.’

‘The chief constable was here,’ Lianne told them. ‘She asked me to tell you she had to go.’

‘Has something else happened?’ Nash asked.

‘The bank in the High Street in Helmsdale has been broken into. The robbers got in via the basement of the place next door. You know, below where the accountants, Armstrong and Gill have their offices.’

Nash nodded agreement, then wished he hadn’t. ‘I ought to get out of here. See if I can help.’

‘You mustn’t do that,’ Lianne told him. ‘Not if there’s the chance of concussion.’

Before Nash could argue the point, which he showed every sign of doing, another nurse appeared and took firm hold of the wheelchair. She swung it none too gently round and marched Nash towards one of the cubicles. ‘Doctor wants to examine you again now we’ve got the X-rays back,’ she told him in that bright, no-nonsense tone that nurses adopt for patients who behave like unruly five-year-olds.

‘I don’t think there’s much I can do here,’ Lianne told him. ‘Just do what you’re told, Mr Nash.’

After a further ten minutes, a doctor appeared from behind the curtain shielding the cubicle. He approached Clara and Sutton. ‘I’ve sedated Mr Nash,’ he told them. ‘He’s going to be fairly doped-up for a few hours. The good news is that there seems to be no trace of concussion. On the downside, his arm is broken, but it is a clean break; his collarbone is also cracked, both of which are causing him a lot of pain. The problem with collarbone injuries is that too much movement creates pressure on the bone, which causes even more discomfort. He won’t be able to drive for some time, I’m afraid, but apart from that he seems fine, and we should be in a position to
let him go home after the ward round in the morning.’ He smiled brightly and turned away.

Nash was dreaming. In his dream he was confronted by two faceless men. Men he knew to be responsible for all that had happened. They were the men behind Vanda Dawson’s abduction, behind the security van robbery, the bomb that had destroyed his home and the break-in at the bank.

The curious thing about his dream was that, although he couldn’t see their faces, he knew their names. He knew them, because he’d recently been told them. Had he been told? Or had he read it somewhere? He must concentrate … He had been told it, he was sure, but why would he think he’d read it? Read it where? On a poster? No, that was ridiculous. But he knew things about them. Where could he have learned of them? Knew about their weird lifestyle. Well, you’d have to call it weird, wouldn’t you, living underground all the time.

He wanted to ask them about this, wanted to question them about lots of things in fact, but whenever he tried to, either he fell asleep or they vanished. He wished they wouldn’t do that, it was so disconcerting. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d any idea where they went to when they disappeared. Did they go underground? Was that where they were keeping Vanda Dawson? If so, he ought to know where that underground place was. After all he’d been told about it, hadn’t he? Well, more than told about it. He’d been made to learn it, hadn’t he? All because cricket was cancelled. Anyway, perhaps that wasn’t where they went to. Perhaps they went somewhere else. Somewhere he didn’t know about….

After a brief inspection of the crime scene, O’Donnell called a meeting at Helmsdale police station.

Much to Sutton’s annoyance, on leaving the hospital, Clara had insisted on going back on duty. Having dropped her at the station, he headed back to Netherdale General. ‘If I can’t persuade you otherwise, I suppose I’d better make sure Nash is OK,’ he grumbled. ‘At least I can stop him trying to do anything stupid.’
He softened the anger by kissing her gently. ‘Just you take care. No heroics, understand?’

‘That comes well from you, Major Sutton.’ Clara remarked as she got out of the car. ‘Honestly, I’m fine, now that my hearing has come back.’