My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (35 page)

Bull held on to his pack. Inside was the deck of cards he and Cheshire used to play Blackjack on slow afternoons at the base; his only reminder of the nearest thing he had to a brother.

Outside, the scream from the jets went up and the plane began to roll. His leg ached like hell. He’d refused drugs for the pain, even though the bullet had shattered the bone. He wanted to feel his wounds.

Parts of his shins were missing and there was shrapnel in his neck and thighs. If not for the body armour, he wouldn’t have lived.

Just like the kid.

Suddenly, he was back on the dirt track, telling Cheshire to run. He’d known at the time how risky it was, sprinting across land that was probably mined. But there had been no better option, so he’d taken a shot at saving them both.

The kid had been his best friend, at home or in Iraq. All he could see when he closed his eyes was that stupid grin. Over the months, they’d laughed together, kept each other sane, saved each other’s lives. But not this time.

The kid had stepped full bore on a mine: a big one, although perhaps that was for the best. There was nothing left of him when the other soldiers came back to find Bull on his back in the dirt, an hour from bleeding out.

The kid had taken the full force of the blast, partly protecting Bull, who had been far enough behind that his injuries weren’t fatal. The insurgents must have decided it wasn’t worth risking their lives crossing a minefield to make sure Bull was dead.

That had been ten days ago.

Since then he’d been in the field hospital, being assessed twice a day. He thought he was doing all right, until his section commander came to tell him they were sending him home.

Within hours he was packed and ready to fly, even though it made no difference to the question still going round and round in his head.

Was he to blame?

For the death of an innocent man.

60

Headlights entered the terraced street from the south end, scything through the darkness, dipped beams highlighting patches of the rain that continued to fall in delicate sheets.

Hawkins watched them approach in the wing mirror of their unmarked Volkswagen Golf, trying to work out whether they belonged to a Vectra. Seconds later, light from the vehicle’s headlamps crept through their car, flicking watery shadows left to right across the dashboard. Hawkins and Yasir sank low in their seats, watching it pass.

It wasn’t their man.

They both straightened as the car, a red Citroën, eased into a space further along the road, from where the driver unloaded two kids and herded them into one of the houses. Darkness returned to the poorly lit street, drawing in like evil closing them down.

‘Everyone relax,’ Hawkins said into her Airwave handset. ‘It isn’t him.’

The speaker buzzed. ‘Roger. Standing by
.
’

The voice was Maguire’s. Along with Aaron Sharpe, whom Hawkins had bumped into at Becke House and managed to segregate from Tanner’s herd, he
occupied an equally inconspicuous Ford Focus parked in the next road over, in case their suspect chose to cut between the houses and enter through his own back yard. Granted it was unlikely, but she wanted all the angles covered. Mike’s reply was followed by an acknowledgement from the other members of their impromptu squad.

‘Understood
.
’ That was DI Pete Bishop, in command of a team from SCO19, the Met’s armed-response unit. The four firearms officers were in the black BMW X5 parked diagonally opposite, also unmarked.

They’d arrived half an hour ago, just as daylight had gone, after Mike’s phone call to the DVLA had confirmed that the Vauxhall Vectra with the broken brake light was registered to this address. If Hawkins’ theory about its owner being the killer was correct, the case might be closed before bedtime, with the Judge behind bars, various parolees out of danger, and Hawkins’ reputation restored.

She also knew better than to count on any of that, at least until the last few elements dropped into place, especially considering recent news from enemy camp. She’d managed to isolate Aaron Sharpe and enlist him in their hopeful acquisition of a suspect, but Steve Tanner and Frank Todd were still making determined headway of their own. When pressed, Sharpe revealed that Tanner had hauled in another member of the family of Amanda Cain’s victim for questioning. Apparently an in-law on John Travis’ father’s side, the woman now
being interrogated by the rogue DI tag-team worked as a GP’s assistant in Ealing. Her job warranted subsidiary access to classified information on the medical records, release dates and forwarding addresses of just about every high-stakes prisoner in London.

The theory was obviously that, whereas families afflicted by loss through the negligence of others often ended up campaigning peacefully to prevent such a thing happening again, the Travis dynasty may have taken the more direct preventive approach. According to Simon Hunter, it was plausible that a family racked by grief would find it hard to wait nine months in order to exact their own style of justice on a relative’s killer. So it was also possible that the interim period might be utilized to ‘help’ others in similar situations, almost certainly uninvited to do so, effectively staying their hunger for reprisal in the round. In effect, Calano, Philips and Hayes became precursors to the main event, when Cain would pay for her past indiscretion with her life.

Unlike Hawkins’ contender, the fifty-year-old woman wasn’t a direct suspect, but at least Tanner had been able to
find
her. In contrast, it could conceivably take days’ worth of resource-hungry chasing around the country for Hawkins to apprehend her target, after which he could still be unconnected to the case, perhaps proving to be no more than a delivery driver unlucky enough to pass the homes of two of the victims in recent days. Such diversion would give Tanner scope to investigate at will, potentially delivering the killer
while she wasted precious man hours on an extensive but ultimately wild-goose chase. If that happened, he and Hawkins were likely to swap ranks pretty fast.

She quickly reassured herself she could also be right. Though a clue either way would have been welcome hours ago.

Since the police team’s arrival, filtering into the road one vehicle at a time with five-minute gaps to avoid announcing their affiliation, there had been no sign of the Vectra. It wasn’t parked anywhere in this road or those bordering it; Mike had driven round to check. Neither had it passed through this street.

It was still possible the owner had parked elsewhere, or that someone else was using the car. They had already logged it with the number-plate-recognition network, which would flag the vehicle at any of their cameras if it passed. Neither had it been reported stolen, although it might have been borrowed or sold in recent weeks. But the fastest way to answer any of those questions was to ask the person who lived at number thirty-nine.

Except that, for now at least, it looked like there was nobody home. The shabby terraced house slumped between two better kept residences, as if it might collapse without their support. Paint peeled from the window frames, mucky glass betraying no signs of life from inside. That, and the absence of the only vehicle registered to the address, had prompted Hawkins’ decision to wait. The only risk involved was that the longer they paused, the more opportunity they gave the killer
to strike again. But all the potential targets were under observation, whether they knew it or not, and all the previous attacks had been well after midnight, which gave them a good few hours to play with yet.

She had opted not to approach the property. Apart from the fact that the place looked deserted, and considering their target’s potential for violent behaviour, it would be wise to take at least one armed officer with them if and when they went to the door. But that also meant revealing their intentions to anyone who happened to be watching. Should their suspect be elsewhere, it only took one of the neighbours to tip him off and the element of surprise might conceivably be turned into a head start for a fleeing killer – even though, if he had a mobile phone, it wasn’t registered via contract to this address. So, for now, it made sense to wait.

Hawkins turned her attention back to the file in her lap, switching on the small reading light clipped to the top of the folder, reacquainting herself with the face of the man she hoped would soon be identified as the Judge.

A young, angular face stared back at her from the page. Marlon Wells had blue eyes, a shaved head and a thick neck suggesting a build stocky enough to agree with his modest height and generous weight statistics. The file wasn’t a criminal record, because Wells had never been arrested or charged with an offence, but enough of his history was available to give Hawkins hope that he was their man.

Responding
to Mike’s inquiry earlier in the day, the DVLA said they had no record of Wells’ current occupation, although he’d registered the Vectra as ‘off the road’ for an apparent tour of duty in late 2006. That information led them straight to the national archives, where twenty-nine-year-old Wells was registered as an ex-army lance corporal who had returned from his second stint in Iraq in 2007. They were still waiting for the Ministry of Defence to provide information on the classified parts of Wells’ file, such as why he’d been released from his contract twelve months early, and what he’d been doing since then. But Wells’ appearance, which fitted the description of the man seen following Matt Hayes, the combat training he would have received in the forces, plus the fact his car had recently been at two separate addresses pertinent to the case, were enough for them to legally question him, at least.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a delicate groan from the driver’s seat. She looked across to see Amala staring down at her mobile.

‘Trouble in paradise?’ she asked without thinking, rebuking herself for opening a conversation her colleague probably wouldn’t welcome, as well as subject matter that could potentially distract them both.

‘Not really,’ Yasir replied, although the pursed lips through which her answer came suggested otherwise. ‘It’s probably my imagination playing tricks.’

Hawkins felt a pang of concern. It was unusual for
Amala to express anxiety about anything private at all, let alone the intimacies of her relationship. Things must be serious. But she’d already shown too much interest simply to withdraw.

She spoke softly. ‘Try me. I’m better with advice than people think.’

There were a few seconds of silence before Amala drew a long breath. ‘It’s Christian.’

‘Go on.’ Hawkins watched in the wing mirror as two cars skimmed past the end of the road before turning back to her sergeant.

‘He’s fed up with the hours I work, says he never sees me. He has a point, obviously; you know what it’s been like since November. I’ve tried spending more time with him, but he’s never been one to wait around. He just texted to say he’s out with friends, ones he never used to see that much, which is fine, but now I’m petrified there’s somebody else.’

‘I see.’ Hawkins tried to picture Yasir’s boyfriend, whom she’d met only once at a drinks evening organized for the whole of Becke House by an exiting chief constable. As far as she remembered, Christian was good-looking and fit, courtesy of his job as a martial arts instructor. But he was also self-assured and had flirted too forcefully for Hawkins’ liking throughout their brief chat.

She watched another car enter the road ahead, failing to conjure consolatory words. All she managed as the old Mercedes passed was, ‘I’m sure he appreciates you.’

But
her thoughts were already focused elsewhere. Something about Christian’s latent infidelity offered fresh perspective on their current situation, changing her mind. Murder represented the ultimate compulsion, and those who succeeded in perpetrating it repeatedly had to be both resourceful and cold. Ruthless efficiency was a prerequisite, which mostly led murderers to kill as soon as circumstances allowed.

Which meant Hawkins’ improvised team weren’t biding their time here; they were wasting it.

Every minute they spent outside Wells’ house was one he could be using to line up future prey. And if there was evidence inside that could help to track him down, it was her duty to find it and put it to use.

‘Sorry, Amala.’ She reached for the Airwave handset. ‘Can we finish this chat another day?’ She caught Yasir’s questioning glance, adding:

‘We’re going in.’

61

Hawkins eased the car door closed, scanning the windows of the houses around her for curtains being disturbed. Seeing no sign that she was being watched, she turned and casually began crossing the street, thankful that the poor light from widely spaced streetlamps helped to mask her approach.

She glanced back, catching sight of Yasir in the driver’s seat of their unmarked Volkswagen, where she’d been instructed to wait. Whether their target was home or not, Hawkins wanted to keep their arrival discreet, thereby minimizing the potential of anyone nursing sympathy for the local murderer to warn Wells. Their first wave comprised the two armed officers currently approaching the rear of Wells’ house and two more, plus Hawkins, now approaching the front.

Yasir was on lookout duty this side, while the other car, containing Maguire and Sharpe, was in the road behind, in case Wells returned and parked up at the back. The plan was to get into the house regardless of whether their target was home. If he was out, they’d look inside for something to help locate him. Or, better still, he’d return while they were still there, at which
point they’d arrest him and be done. That was the theory, at least.

Hawkins passed between two parallel parked cars to reach the pavement, watching the pair of armed SCO19 officers approaching Wells’ house from the opposite direction, their black bodysuits and headgear hard to pick out in the darkness among the deluge of slow, heavy raindrops that continued to fall.