My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (36 page)

They met outside the house.

Just as Hawkins had specified, nobody spoke. Bishop nodded: a gesture that simultaneously conveyed a greeting and a request for consent.
Good to go?

She nodded back, and the three of them crossed the tiny garden area to the front door. The two gunmen took up positions either side of the entrance with handguns raised, as Bishop pressed a button on a remote device that told his other colleagues to stand by.

He waited for whatever confirmation it gave and nodded at Hawkins again, who knocked firmly on the door and moved aside. If Wells was there, he was keeping the place in darkness for a reason, so any reaction was likely to be sudden, maybe violent.

Seconds passed, but all she heard was the patter of raindrops and the sluggish trickle of water running down the inclining street into a nearby drain. The potential horror of this being the wrong place crossed her mind, but she shook off the thought, dropping to one knee and easing open the letterbox in the tatty wooden door, keeping her body to one side.

‘Mr Wells?’ she called through the gap, trying to mediate her volume so as not to alert the entire street. ‘Met Police. I need you to open this door.’

She waited, peering into the blackness of the hallway, watching for signs of movement that might betray an attack from a trained killer. She repeated her instruction.

No response.

She gave it thirty seconds before allowing the letterbox to creak shut, then stood and turned to Bishop, jerking her head back towards the house.

More nods were exchanged between the armed officers, before the second man holstered his gun and shrugged off a shoulder strap to produce a compact battering ram. He stepped forward, put one foot on the step to steady himself and aligned the ram with the solitary lock visible from the outside. Then he swung the cylinder back and forth once, crashing it into the door, where it met the frame.

The wood must have been older than it looked, because the resulting thud was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of splintering timber as the lock burst. Hawkins glanced around at the road, but still their activities seemed to have gone unnoticed. She turned back as another strike punched the door inwards. The officer shouldered the ram and redrew his gun, as Bishop moved past him into a small sitting room.

‘Armed police!’ he shouted. ‘Stay where you are!’

Hawkins followed the two armed men inside, watching them edge forward with guns raised, their torches like searchlights, probing the darkened room. She hung back as they moved further in, their uniforms emblazoned across the shoulders with bold white letters: ARMED OFFICER.

She closed the damaged door behind them, restoring the appearance of normality from outside, hearing another crunch from the rear of the house as the other gunmen gained entry.

‘Lounge clear,’ somebody reported as Bishop and his partner edged slowly up the staircase along the right-hand wall, while the other two checked what must have been a kitchen, through a side door at the back of the room.

Hawkins waited in the dark, listening to the search being conducted upstairs. Within a couple of minutes the two marksmen returned from the upper floor, declaring the property clear.

She flicked on her torch, taking her first opportunity to scan the restricted space. At best the room was ten feet square, with a single armchair and small folding table taking up most of the floor. Everything appeared to be in good condition, adequately set up for a single occupant, and the air smelled fresh enough for someone to have been here in the recent past. But then it struck her why the place felt odd. She swept the torch around, remembering to keep the beam away from the windows, and confirmed her suspicion. The basics
were there: carpet, curtains, TV. But there was nothing coincidental, no clutter.

No soul.

The house looked vacant, as if nobody had lived there for some time, even though Wells’ driving licence had been registered here for the last six years. There were no pictures on the walls, no piles of unread mail; none of the obligatory clutter found in a regular home. Either Wells was compulsive about tidiness, or his life involved no complication at all, which gave Hawkins even greater hope he was their man. She’d studied this type of behaviour and the people likely to exhibit it. Such myopia had many degrees, but it tended to arise in those with distended concern for their future welfare, as the necessary distractions of everyday life began to shrink and fade in response to whatever psychological malfunction was in control.

A common trait of the insane.

Thirty minutes after first entering Marlon Wells’ home, Hawkins stood defiantly in the darkness of his small front bedroom, resisting the urge to move on. Her anti-contamination suit and gloves weren’t doing much to fend off the cold in a house that appeared to have no heating at all. And common sense said that, after a difficult torch-lit examination, the house was bereft of clues as to where its occupant might be found.

She had grudgingly accepted Mike’s cheerful observation that the cramped property, with its bare surfaces
and almost empty rooms, was at least an easy search. But that also led to an irritating lack of progress in their attempt to confirm whether or not Marlon Wells was the Judge.

Currently, Maguire was across the landing, checking every aspect of Wells’ bedroom for less obvious hints. They had already scoured the lounge and kitchen downstairs, while Sharpe and Yasir still occupied their respective vehicles in front and behind the house, to give them warning in case Wells returned. The armed officers from SCO19 had retreated to their response vehicle, to avoid further contaminating a house that might yet require forensic scrutiny. Hawkins and Maguire had suited up and re-entered the house to look for clues but, as the minutes ticked by without evidence being found, Hawkins had become increasingly tense.

They could place Wells’ vehicle at the address of one of the potential targets, and outside that of one of the previous victims, but not on the day of the attack and without proof he’d been driving at the time. And while he also fitted the description of the man seen following Matt Hayes, using SCO19 to bash their way into his home so they could rifle through his sock drawer now seemed a little extreme.

Having found precisely nothing, her next option was to get SOC in to take DNA samples and conduct a more detailed search, but all the while Steve Tanner was chipping away at his own suspect, potentially opening the fissure through which confession would pour.

Hawkins swallowed her frustration, realigning her torch with what seemed to be the only feature worthy of interest in the place. Admittedly, searching an unfamiliar building in the dark, in case the owner returned to find the lights on and scarpered without being seen, was awkward. Having to keep her torch away from the windows didn’t help, but her main problem was the lack of overview. Every feature had to be examined in near-isolation; within the torch’s narrow beam, which made it possible to miss things that might have been obvious in the light. But if there were answers here, Hawkins’ intuition contended that this room was where they’d be found.

Just like the rest of the somewhat rickety house, this area clearly had a specific purpose. Except, where the rear upstairs room held a bed, plus storage for some rudimentary clothes, and the kitchen had food and equipment to sustain a basic existence for one, this room contained something that constituted expression. Not in the cheap desk and chair near the window, nor in the plain rug in the middle of the floor, nor even in the shelves attached to the back wall.

But in what they held.

Of the four medium-sized planks fixed to the tatty plasterboard, only the highest was empty. The remaining three were filled with small figures carved from some kind of dense, light wood. The level of craftsmanship varied, the sculptor’s apparent dexterity having improved with the practice of creating each
one, but they were meticulously arranged. Fifteen effigies occupied each of the bottom two shelves, with a further nine on the next level up; evidently a growing collection, judging by the half-finished nature of the last one.

Hawkins picked up the delicate figure, turning it over in gloved hands. It was no more than four inches tall and only the section above the waist was complete; its legs were still misshapen and outsize. But it obviously depicted a soldier, from the carefully sculpted clothing to the weapon it held, just like every other figure on the shelves. Their significance was anyone’s guess … perhaps they represented people Wells had known or fought alongside. But something about the arrangement held Hawkins fast, and she stared at the wooden army, trying to fathom its maker’s mind.

Yet, leading a meagre existence and making wooden effigies still didn’t make the man a psychopath.

The abrupt sound of the Airwave handset made Hawkins jump. She flicked off the torch and unzipped her suit to drag the jangling unit out of her pocket. She’d primed herself to see Yasir’s name on the display, expecting to hear that Wells had returned. But the number was unknown, and Amala would have used the radio function, as agreed.

She answered. ‘Hawkins.’

‘Ma’am?’ The Brummie accent belonged to Bill Ames, a young DC at Becke House whom she’d requisitioned to look into Wells’ past. The kid sounded
permanently irate, due more to his burr than actual discontent, but he was trustworthy and precise.

‘Billy. Have you got his military file?’

‘Yes, ma’am, no thanks to bloody out-of-hours MOD. They won’t breathe without clearance, so it took ages for them to track down –’

‘Tell me later,’ Hawkins interrupted. ‘What does Wells’ record say?’

‘Right you are.’ Ames gathered himself, clearing his throat. ‘Marlon Wells, nickname Bull, joined the army in 2005. His first tour of Iraq, running supply trucks between two bases near the green zone, was cut short because of a kidney infection. But ten months later he was back in Basra. That went okay for a year, but then a close mate of his called Jim Wilson got killed by a landmine, taking a few non-essential chunks out of Wells in the process. Wells pulled through, but it looks like he blamed himself for his friend’s death. That’s when the army quack diagnosed post-traumatic-stress disorder and packed him off home for counselling.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Sorry, ma’am, record’s empty after that.’

‘There’s stuff missing?’

‘No, the pages for counsellors’ notes are here, but only the first one’s filled in. Nothing dramatic, just preliminary chat and confirmation of suspected PTSD. After that, the only thing written on them is “non-attend”. Looks like Wells didn’t bother going back.’

‘And what the hell does
that
signify?’ Hawkins’ frustration flared. ‘Did you find Simon Hunter?’

Ames didn’t reply directly, but a few seconds of clanking on the other end of the line preceded another man’s voice. ‘Hello, Detective. How can I be of aid?’

‘Hunter.’ Hawkins breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly, she told him about their discovery of the ex-soldier’s house and the collection of carved figures, before switching the conversation back to his file. ‘Why would they let Wells get away without seeing a therapist? Isn’t it a requirement for repatriated veterans?’

‘Nowadays, yes, but it wasn’t back then. And the counselling practice would have been paid regardless, so they’d have no incentive to complain.’

‘Is it possible he got help from elsewhere?’

‘Perhaps, but if he didn’t show up at the arranged sessions, it’s unlikely he’d seek out support for himself. PTSD manifests itself on many levels, Antonia, I’m sure you of all people understand that. Often, sufferers will do anything to convince everyone, including themselves, that they’re fine.’

Something in his voice made Hawkins pause, as she realized her free hand was scratching at the scars on her chest. She stopped herself, ignoring his apparent inference. ‘So what can we expect from someone with PTSD, who hasn’t received treatment for years?’

Hunter was silent for a few seconds. ‘In some cases, symptoms lie dormant, so the time gap itself isn’t
necessarily a factor. However, if a subject receives no assistance once the effects begin to take hold, it becomes a far more dangerous beast. PTSD tends to feed off the incident that caused it, although I accept that in your soldier’s case there was potential for a lot more than one. A sufferer’s problems can start with feelings of isolation and guilt. They may also have trouble sleeping or concentrating on even the simplest tasks, which will significantly impact on daily life. But the most common indicator is re-experiencing – reliving the trauma through nightmares, although in extreme cases flashbacks can occur while the sufferer is awake, blurring the lines between present and past.’

‘So how would you expect that to play out for Wells?’

‘Unfortunately, Detective, that’s where the boundaries distort. If I had to guess, I’d say the carvings represent fallen comrades, while the elementary lifestyle demonstrates obsessive behaviour, as you say. After that, the manifestations become more personal, and much harder to predict. Considering the potentially unfettered nature of his PTSD, Marlon Wells may no longer be able to distinguish between reality and dreams, which makes it possible for him to think he’s still at war, except there’s no longer a defined enemy for him to attack. It’s pure speculation, but if Wells feels guilty, either for surviving his colleague or for letting him die, he may be attempting to absolve himself by fighting other evils or correcting other wrongs. Basically, selecting enemies for himself.’

Hawkins took over. ‘I suppose it fits. The nearest things a peaceful country has to domestic enemies are the criminals it sends to jail.’

She moved across to the window and eased the curtain aside, peering through the gap. A car slid past in the road below, but it was the wrong colour and make to be Wells’. She glanced at the VW parked on the far side of the darkened street, noting Yasir’s presence in the driver’s seat, and the fact that she appeared alert. The sergeant would let them know if Wells returned.

She addressed Hunter again. ‘So when we do finally catch up with this guy, what can we expect?’