My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (40 page)

Not evil; just sick.

She had to intervene, but Bishop’s team were zoned in, running a drilled procedure that culminated in one of two outcomes: comply or die. Hawkins forced herself to think over the din from the helicopter and the busy road. If Wells was tuned into his army past, maybe she could broadcast on that frequency instead.

She moved around the front of the car, yelling the only word that might have a chance of reaching him. Still there was no response.

She waved her arms, shouted louder. ‘Bull!’

At last Wells responded, the hammer dropping slightly as he looked towards her, squinting into the searchlight’s glare.

‘Hold your fire!’ Hawkins yelled at Bishop’s men,
turning back to Wells, forming her words carefully to breach the overriding din. ‘You are not at war, Marlon. There’s no enemy here. You’re home.’

Now Cain was looking at Hawkins, too, obviously sensing that her accessory’s attention had been drawn, aware that her window of opportunity was going to close. Tears hung on her cheeks as she turned towards him, begging for death.

Hawkins moved closer, watching the ex-soldier’s face in the light, seeing emotion running riot within. ‘I know what happened to Jim,’ she shouted, ‘but this won’t help either of you.’

Wells blinked once, hard, as if he were being woken up. He took a small step away from Cain.

Hawkins saw it; pressed harder. ‘You’re sick, Marlon, because you were ignored when you needed help. Now you’re trying to help others. I understand, but this isn’t the way. Amanda’s sick, too; she doesn’t deserve to die.’

She stopped shouting, watching the two people in the spotlight. Cain’s expression was a mixture of shock and confusion, but Wells’ was of pure remorse. He half crumpled, stepping back as the hammer dropped from his wavering hand.

‘No!’ Cain screamed, as the three armed officers descended on Wells, kicking his legs out from under him, pinning him down. The doctor stumbled backwards, stunned, clearly not having expected to walk away from her grim pact.

‘Amanda.’ Hawkins moved forwards, still having to
shout over the helicopter’s noise, aware of Mike coming in beside her. They closed to within a few feet. The doctor was still staring at Wells, now being handcuffed by Bishop’s men.

‘It’s okay.’ Hawkins reached for her arm. ‘Let us help –’

But she didn’t finish the sentence. Cain spun, avoiding her.

‘Wait.’ Hawkins tried to grab her coat. Maguire lunged, too, but the doctor moved with surprising speed, dropping out of range, turning away.

They both followed as Cain ran towards the layby. The woman was fast but clearly distraught. Her cry had changed into more of a desperate wail, audible even above the helicopter’s roar. She stumbled, scrambling back into her stride as the two detectives closed in. For a second Hawkins felt relief, expecting the disorientated doctor to try taking one of the abandoned cars, a futile strategy they could easily curb. But as Cain passed between the vehicles, Hawkins realized with horror that she wasn’t heading for either of them.

She was going for the road.

‘Stop her!’ she yelled at Maguire, who had pulled ahead, but he was too late. Cain didn’t hesitate as she passed the X5 and burst into the near carriageway, causing a car to veer into the Armco barrier on the far side, a shower of sparks exploding upwards as contact was made.

But the next car didn’t swerve.

It barely braked before ploughing into Cain, smashing her legs away and flicking her sideways on to the bonnet. Hawkins heard the crack as the doctor’s head hit the windscreen, before she was thrown up and over the car’s roof in a graceful arc, torpid limbs flailing as her body dropped back on to the road.

64

Hawkins eased the interview room door shut, releasing the handle, hearing the mechanism crank into place. Outside, Lavender Hill police station was fortified with security airlocks, coded access panels and endemic CCTV. Some criminals were intimidated by that sort of thing. But others definitely weren’t. Modern legislation meant that if a prisoner didn’t want to talk, there was pretty much bugger all you could do about it, and Hawkins had the distinct feeling her latest subject would be tougher than most.

She turned to see Mike settling into one of the plastic chairs behind the desk set against the right-hand wall.

And, opposite him, the daunting figure of Marlon Wells.

The ex-soldier’s shaved head was bowed, but he looked even stockier in this confined space: not tall, but powerfully set. Hawkins wondered whether the single pair of plastic cuffs currently binding his wrists would be sufficient, should he decide to test their strength.

Twelve hours ago she’d arrested Wells on suspicion of murdering three people – almost four. At the time he’d been forcibly restrained by three armed officers, which made it tricky to judge anyone’s underlying
mood, before being bundled into a meat wagon and brought here to spend a pacifying night in the cells. She didn’t expect him to have slept, especially after last night’s traumatic events, perhaps having now realized the true gravity of his deeds. Unsurprisingly, he looked drained, slouching in the chair with hands clasped in his lap, a vacant stare resting somewhere between his knees and the floor.

Hawkins’ mind alighted briefly on the less serious casualties of their chase: Aaron Sharpe had walked away with nothing more dramatic than bruising to ego and limbs, while Amala Yasir had suffered mild concussion and was still under observation in a hospital bed. Both had been fortunate to escape further injury, considering the expired state Wells’ other recent acquaintances now shared.

Hawkins took her seat, assessing their detainee. The small window set high in the far wall was closed, although, even fully open, it would have had trouble expelling the pungent tang of sweat coming from Wells, suggesting his mind hadn’t been on the present for a while. It could all have been an elaborate front, of course, driving towards a soft mental-health-facility stay rather than a throw-away-the-key jail term, but Hawkins’ instinct said not. Despite killing three people, he’d received substantial help from his complicit victims. The chase, once established, had been over quickly, and he’d made several big mistakes, such as the repeated use of both weapon and MO.

There was no criminal mastermind here.

Which made the outcome of this interview even more critical. It was unlikely that Wells and the ex-convicts could have known about each other without assistance from a third party, so if the ex-soldier hadn’t operated alone, then what would any former accessory do next?

Now it was all about finding any partners in crime. Knowledge of the ex-soldier’s identity made that less of a challenge, but it would still take time. And the public nature of last night’s action meant news of an arrest – and speculation about the reason for it – was already starting to break, which gave any potential accomplices time and warning to fabricate alibis or take off. Soon, anyone with an interest in making themselves scarce would be far, far away. So their best option was to convince Wells to give them a name.

But his apparently ingenuous demeanour was a worry in itself.

Often, the police were the first point of contact for someone in psychological crisis, so Home Office legislation was predictably tight. Thankfully, due to his hammer-wielding antics, Hawkins hadn’t needed to have Wells sectioned under the Mental Health Act in order to bring him in, but if his behaviour proved irrational here she’d be forced to curtail the interview and have him professionally assessed by a mental-health practitioner. In such cases, supposing unfavourable results, the proverbial woodwork immediately began
haemorrhaging social workers, all sorts of time restrictions came into play, and everyone started getting touchy about potential mistreatment of the infirm. And, if they were really unlucky, given Wells’ documented history of PTSD, a forensic medical examiner might declare him unfit for interview.

Typically, it took less than ten minutes to establish if a prisoner was emotionally stable, so unless Wells stayed silent or decided he was in the mood for disclosure, their initial line of questioning was key.

Hawkins nodded at Maguire, who started the recording equipment. She introduced the session and its occupants before directing her first question to Wells, opening cautiously: ‘Can I call you Marlon?’

The ex-soldier’s head lifted slightly in response to his name, but his gaze remained vacant.

She adjusted her approach. ‘Lance Corporal?’

Nothing.

Hawkins drove on, conscious of time. ‘I appreciate you’re military, so I won’t bore you with civilian fluff. You’re here because you murdered Rosa Calano, Samantha Philips and Matthew Hayes. And we narrowly stopped you doing the same to Amanda Cain.’

No response.

‘We found the letters.’

Wells looked at her, the empty stare turning to sharp focus, his head tilting like a dog trying to understand its owner. Or a predator assessing game.

Hawkins maintained eye contact. ‘We know they wanted to die.’

The ex-soldier looked away, his gaze dropping back into space, his expression now approximating remorse. But there was no room for pity yet.

‘What I would like to know,’ Hawkins said, ‘is how they found you … how they knew where to send the letters.’

Silence.

‘Who put you in touch?’ Hawkins pressed, glancing at the clock. They’d already had five minutes. This stand-off couldn’t go on long, but Wells’ first response might be decisive. If he displayed even the smallest sign of feeling under duress or imbalanced it was mental-assessment time, while a request for legal representation would introduce a similar choking complication. So, when they came, his quiet, muttered words were a surprise.

‘Is she okay?’

It took Hawkins a moment to work out he was talking about Cain. Everything had happened so fast once Wells had surrendered that she hadn’t considered the possibility he didn’t know what happened to the doctor afterwards. Obviously, he’d been there when she was hit by the car, but being held face down by three armed officers and then dragged into the back of a van was a fair distraction, evidently sufficient to ensure he had no knowledge of subsequent events.

She paused, watching the minute tremors now
chipping away at his expression. Perhaps the realization that appeared to wash over him the previous night had stuck. His interest wasn’t just curiosity, it was
concern
.

Hawkins spoke gently, aware that his reaction might be detrimental to their investigation. But it could also be the breakthrough she craved. ‘Cain’s dead.’

His brow tightened, and ever so slightly he shook his head. ‘How?’

She explained.

Wells listened until she was finished before looking down at the desk. He closed his eyes. ‘Did she suffer?’

‘Maybe for a second. Our pathologist thinks the impact of her head on the windscreen was instantly fatal. She wouldn’t have felt anything after that.’

Wells exhaled slowly, raising his head again to look at them. ‘What happens now?’

‘Prison. Your case is unusual, but the law says assisted suicide is still murder. You killed three people.’

He nodded. ‘They didn’t feel it. I made sure.’

‘Fair enough’ – Hawkins saw her chance – ‘but how do you know your associate won’t carry on? What if the next person they find to do your job isn’t so humane?’

She didn’t mention that she’d already arranged for Wells’ future mail to be redirected to a psychiatric charity. At least that way any outstanding would-be victims would receive help instead of a fatal blow to the head.

‘Come on, Marlon,’ Maguire joined in. ‘An ex-military
colleague with links to the parole board? A friend in the CPS? Who is it?’

They both shut up, watching Wells wrestle with his conscience, his concern clearly not for himself. The stress-induced detachment that had allowed him to assassinate three people had gone for now, a change emphasized by his capitulation the previous night, but now they were testing his loyalty: a requisite trait in someone drilled to rely absolutely on his peers, and be relied absolutely upon.

Hawkins saw the panic build as the ex-soldier’s head dropped again; his chest began to heave. She glanced at Maguire, checking he was ready for any explosive response. They were rattling a man on the edge. He might clam up, fall apart or attack, none of which helped their cause. But, just maybe, he’d give up his source.

The tension grew as Hawkins watched the clock edge past ten minutes, into the critical zone. She was so focused on what could go wrong that she jumped when Wells spoke two simple words. But when her brain decoded what he’d said, she almost fell off the chair.

Because she recognized the name.

65

‘Wait there, please.’ The secretary stood, her tone rising as Hawkins strode past with Maguire and two uniforms in tow. ‘You can’t just –’

She danced awkwardly around her desk and caught up as the two detectives reached the inner door. But Mike blocked her advance as Hawkins entered, without knocking.

They burst one by one into a large office with thick grey carpet and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with ornaments and books. Subtle down-lighting bathed two leather armchairs and a glass coffee table in its delicate glow. Beyond them, several open folders and an ornamental lamp adorned a heavy wooden desk.

From behind which Pierce Reid looked up.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Reid,’ the secretary announced, ‘I tried to stop them.’

‘It’s all right, Lynn.’ The counsellor rose, pushing his glasses up his nose, calmly closing his laptop. ‘I’m sure the interruption is necessary. Please tell Mrs Williams I’ll be with her as soon as possible.’

The secretary complied, scowling at Hawkins as she backed out of the room. There was silence until the door closed.

‘DCI Hawkins,’ Reid said pensively. ‘And …?’

Maguire nodded. ‘DI Maguire, Constables Grayling and Weir.’

‘Okay.’ The counsellor retook his seat. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Hawkins moved closer, not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘Tell us about Marlon Wells.’

Reid frowned, shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not familiar.’