No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (53 page)

He knew that his plans for the girl were ruined, but he still had over twenty thousand pounds in cash and a pocket full of shotgun shells. He’d have to ditch the delivery van — a shame, it was a ruse that had served him well; those bright red vans, a true British icon, really were invisible. That wasn’t a problem; parked half a mile away, concealed by a dense copse of trees, was an old white Transit van, almost as unnoticed by the general public as the post van. He’d paid cash for it a week ago and as long as the building firm the cloned licence plates belonged to kept the tax and insurance up to date and he didn’t get pulled over or flashed by speed cameras, the diversion should work.

The police officers had called him by name. He was certain they couldn’t recognise him under his mask, which meant they’d figured out his true identity. A pity — he’d enjoyed the news stories blaming his father for his misdeeds. Poetic justice really — after all, it was his father’s fault that he was the way he was. Something passed down in his genes or maybe he’d been infected by him directly, like a virus, when the bastard had made his fumbling, drunken advances all those years ago.

It wasn’t his fault. He knew that; he’d come to terms with that a long time ago and it had been confirmed by that kind, loving Reverend Harding. For the past week the two men had sat up late, the priest confirming that in modern interpretations of scripture the sins of the father would not be visited on the child. As long as he truly repented then Jesus would forgive him and would not hold him accountable for that which he had no control over. Of course, the well-meaning vicar had no idea that Stockley was speaking, not in the abstract, but in literal terms. That he had in effect become his father. That journey had been completed two weeks ago when he’d sunk the wooden hand axe into the back of the old man’s skull and pushed him into the freshly dug pit in the farthest field on the farm.

Regardless, he had no intention of stopping now. He had the resources to continue what he was doing, fulfilling the desires passed on to him by his father indefinitely. And if and when the time came for him to answer for his crimes — well, he had the shotgun and, failing that, the bottle in his pocket. He’d answer directly to God and ask for forgiveness for himself and his father. There was no way he would stand before a jury of his peers, to be locked in a cell for the rest of his life.

He carried on stepping towards the car. He didn’t know which police officer he was about to kill first; he presumed that the pair were those two damned detectives, Jones and Sutton. He looked forward to killing them, remembering the smug look on Jones’ face as they’d stared each other down during that first encounter at the farmhouse. He’d backed down then, unable to afford to be arrested for resisting arrest. Then there was that small, pig of a man, DI Sutton, who’d sneered contemptuously during each encounter. It didn’t matter which one he shot first; they both needed to die.

The chloroform was making his head fairly buzz now, and he took shallow breaths. One more step. He stumbled slightly, but corrected himself. He started to lift the shotgun.

* * *

Crouching behind the driver’s door, Tony Sutton watched helplessly as the man advanced towards the passenger side of the car; it was clear that he intended to shoot Jones, then continue around the car and finish him off also.

Two cartridges. He’d fired one already. Sutton had caught a glimpse of the gun before he’d thrown himself behind the car — it looked like a double-barrelled shotgun. That meant he had one left then he had to reload. How long would that take? The problem was that unless he was a lousy shot, that one bullet would almost certainly kill Jones. Even if Sutton disarmed him afterwards, it would be cold comfort. He glanced over at Jones, who raised a single finger. One. He’d done the same calculation.

Sutton turned his attention back to the approaching figure, stumbling slightly in the snow and weaving from side to side. His voice had sounded slurred. Was he drunk? High on drugs? Either way it was their only advantage.

The two detectives had only known each other since the summer; had really only become friends in the past few months, but their minds were working as one tonight. A single nod from Warren was all it took.

Sutton leaned forward to the central console. The car was fitted with standard police lights, complete with a choice of sirens. The one Sutton chose was a deafening blare, designed to move cars out of the way by basically scaring the shit out of their drivers.

It had the desired effect, the shotgun discharging harmlessly into the trees as Stockley leapt in surprise.

That was Warren’s cue. He burst from behind the door, throwing himself forward. Immediately he realised his mistake. Both his mistakes, in fact. First, he wasn’t as quick over the snow-covered underbrush as he thought he would be. Second, a skilled shooter like Stockley could reload a shotgun very, very fast, especially when he already had the cartridge in his free hand and only bothered to load one barrel. And with Warren at such close range and getting closer, he wasn’t even going to need to aim. Warren was still the better part of ten feet away when Stockley snapped the breech closed and started to raise the weapon one-handed.

The snowball wasn’t particularly good, but, as anybody who had been ambushed would tell you, the surprise factor was what really counted. Sutton’s snowball hit Stockley squarely on the side of the cheek. Instinctively he spun to his left, from where the projectile had come.

Warren dived forward, more of a stumble than a rugby tackle if he was honest, and slammed his head into Stockley’s midriff. The two men crashed backwards in an ungainly heap. Warren immediately grabbed at the arm holding the shotgun, rolling on top of it. He felt the barrel digging into his ribs and prayed that Stockley’s finger was nowhere near the trigger. Using his free arm, he punched the inside of Stockley’s elbow. The man grunted in pain and Warren felt the arm go loose.

If he thought that was the end of it, he was sorely mistaken. With a guttural shout Stockley swung his free hand around in a wild haymaker, connecting soundly with Warren’s left ear. Warren rolled onto his back, stunned.

Stockley knew he had no choice; the gun was gone. Letting go, he pulled his numbed arm from underneath Jones’ insensate form and scrambled to his feet. Before leaving, he delivered a final kick to the man’s ribcage before turning and stumbling off into the woods.

* * *

Lying on his back, Warren sent a prayer of thanks to Felicity and Jeff for their thoughtfulness. The thick padding on the coat had turned a potentially bone-crunching kick into something less.

“Guv!” Tony Sutton skidded to a halt next to Warren.

“I’m fine, Tony. Check out Jemima. Get an ambulance down here and let the armed response units know the score.”

Sutton nodded and scrambled back to his feet, jogging over to the slumped body next to the delivery van. Taking one last deep breath, Warren rolled to his feet. He looked longingly at the shotgun, but left it where it was. Tempting as it was, he wasn’t a licensed firearms officer and he’d find himself on a murder charge if he used it.

As he’d wrestled with Stockley on the ground Warren had caught the sweetly pungent odour of the chloroform that he’d spilled down his front. After Professor Jordan’s initial suggestion that some sort of sedative, perhaps chloroform, had been used to subdue his victims, Warren had looked up the chemical on Wikipedia. It was extremely volatile, meaning it evaporated really quickly. That was why it was so good as an inhalant. It also meant that over time it would evaporate away. Warren remembered from school that evaporation happened faster at higher temperatures, but he had no idea what effect the evening’s freezing temperatures would have on the evaporation of chloroform.

Regardless, it was an advantage that he intended to exploit. Stockley had sounded slurred and seemed slightly uncoordinated. Was it the effects of the chemical? Would that last until the armed response units arrived? Or would it wear off enough for him to implement the back-up plan that Warren was sure he must have? The man was clearly deranged, an evil sexual predator controlled by his urges. If he escaped their net, how long would it be until he struck again?

Ignoring Sutton’s shouts, Warren headed into the woods.

* * *

Stockley crashed through the trees, his breath labouring and his head spinning. It was like being drunk. He stumbled again, falling to his knees. He wobbled as he stood up and had to hold onto a tree branch to regain his balance. Somehow he reoriented himself and started again.

Up ahead he heard a rushing noise. It took a moment for his befuddled brain to fully comprehend what he was hearing, and then he felt a surge of relief. It was the river, his pathway to the small grove where he’d concealed the Transit van. All he had to do was get to the bank, turn left and follow it for about three hundred yards until he came across the dirty old coat he’d found in the back of the van and hung from a branch as a marker.

Emerging from the trees, he saw the glint of water. The noise was much louder than he remembered from a week ago, the recent rain and snow having increased the flow substantially. The river was ancient and had cut a deep channel into the land, the banks as high as fifteen feet in places. It wouldn’t do to fall into it and he didn’t trust his balance, so he kept away from the edge.

Turn left, he remembered dimly. His legs seemed to be working on their own now, disconnected from his brain as he placed one foot in front of the other. Suddenly he felt his stomach lurch and he stumbled to his knees throwing up violently. Nausea came over him in waves. Nevertheless he pushed himself to his feet. Look for the coat, he commanded himself, look for the coat.

The coat. What was so significant about a coat? He stumbled again, face first into a pile of snow. The sudden shock of the cold startled his brain into alertness. The coat. Of course, he’d spilled chloroform down it. No wonder he was feeling so ill. His fingers were numb, their co-ordination all gone, but somehow he managed to unzip the front of the jacket. Squirming on the ground, like a snake shedding its skin, he worked his way out of it and rolled over. He gasped at the fresh air, before grabbing another handful of snow and rubbing it into his face.

Already his head was clearing, the cold air and freezing snow chasing away the cobwebs. He scrambled to his feet, shivering. The coat was an expensive, all-weather sort and so he’d only worn a light sweater underneath. His head was covered in a thin bather’s cap to stop any hair getting on his victim and he wore latex gloves — neither of these provided any warmth and he knew that he had to get to the van as soon as possible. He prayed the warm-air blowers worked.

Turning to the left again, he resumed his trek.

* * *

Following Stockley hadn’t been hard. He’d left a trail of destruction and footprints visible to even the poorest of trackers. Warren picked his way rapidly through the trees, following the trail, pausing every few paces to listen for signs of an ambush. Away from the glow of the vehicle lights, Warren’s eyes had soon adjusted to the dim moonlight and he could see reasonably clearly.

Just how badly affected by the chloroform was Stockley? Breathing in the fumes from his soaked jacket had clearly had some effect, but how long would it last? Would it get worse with time, or would it wear off? Had the man still got the presence of mind to remove the coat? If he had, how long until he overcame the effects?

Warren paused again, leaning against the trunk of a tree. His hands were so numb with cold that he couldn’t tell if the tree had the roughness of an oak, or the smooth papery bark of a silver birch. His new jacket was fantastic, but he’d forgotten the gloves and woolly hat that he kept in his old one.

After a few more paces, he stopped again, listening carefully. In the background he heard a dull roar — there was a river running through this part of the woods, he recalled from the map book. But what sort? The book hadn’t really given any indication; it could be a small, meandering brook, a rapidly flowing stream, or a gushing river for all he knew. It sounded as if there was a substantial amount of water rushing along, but he acknowledged that alone in a darkened forest, on the trail of a murderous rapist who’d demonstrated that he had no compunction against killing police officers, his mind could be exaggerating the sound.

He resumed his careful passage, the sound of the river getting louder. Up ahead, the light filtering through the trees started to take on a different quality, brightening and then, almost without warning, Warren found himself in the open.

The rush of the river had become a dull roar. Looking to his left, Warren spotted a lone figure, picking his way carefully along the narrow border between the river bank and the tree-line. He didn’t appear to be wearing his coat any more, but still seemed to be wobbling a bit.

How long would it take him to recover fully? Warren didn’t know, but he knew he couldn’t let that happen. He had to take his chances whilst the man was still off balance and not thinking clearly.

Ducking back into the tree-line and hoping that the noise of the river would mask his approach, Warren moved as quickly as he could, travelling parallel to the river. Stockley seemed to be moving with a definite purpose now; he looked like a man with a clear destination in mind. Moving a little further into the woods, Warren drew alongside the man. Suddenly Stockley stopped and turned, looking into the woods. Warren froze. Stockley reached up and started tugging at something hanging in the trees. He clearly hadn’t spotted Warren.

Then, to Warren’s puzzlement, Stockley started to
put on
what he’d pulled from the tree. A coat? What on earth was a coat doing hanging from a tree? There was no way the man could have foreseen what was going to happen to the coat he was wearing, so why was one hanging there. Coincidence? Warren couldn’t accept that. What then?

A marker, Warren realised. Some way of knowing when he’d walked far enough along the river bank. Moving slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, Warren turned on the spot, searching. Finally he saw it, moonlight reflecting off the mirrors in its headlamps. Stockley’s means of escape.