Target (17 page)

Mobile reception in the village was almost non-existent so Bolt found himself shouting into the phone as he walked away from the jumble of emergency services vehicles clustered around the pub. 'I need an armed guard on Robert Fallon. A minimum of three officers. He's currently en route to Wexham Park Hospital in Slough. This is absolutely top priority. He's the only live witness we have to what's been going on here.'

The man Mike Bolt was talking to was Frank Carruthers, the assistant chief constable of Thames Valley Police, currently in charge of the force while his boss was sunning himself on the Algarve, and who up until a few minutes before had been relaxing at home in front of the television. He sounded shell-shocked to find himself suddenly presented with a double murder investigation and absolutely no sign of any suspects.

'It's going to take me time to get a team over there,' explained Carruthers. 'All our ARVs are currently hunting for the gunmen involved in this incident, and we just don't have the resources you lot have got in London.'

'We haven't got time, sir. Mr Fallon was the gunman's target tonight. He managed to get away, but we believe that the gunman is a professional shooter called Michael James Killen, also known as Hook. He's currently wanted for a number of murders, and may well have another go at Fallon.'

'And we're trying to find him now, which is our first priority.'

'Well, you could do worse than try the hospital.'

'There are procedures to follow, Mr Bolt. You know that. I've got to make sure that the area's secure and that there's no immediate threat to members of the public.'

Bolt could have predicted this kind of reaction. Police officers, at senior and junior level, tended to play things far more by the book these days and were discouraged from using their initiative too much. He could sympathize with Carruthers. Everything was target- and procedure-related now, and as one of the brass, if he didn't do everything the right way, he was in trouble.

So he changed tack. 'As I said, Fallon's pretty much the only witness to what happened here tonight. If we do catch Hook and charge him with the murders, we'll need Fallon to give evidence. It's essential he's protected.'

'How serious are his injuries?' asked Carruthers.

'He's hurt, but he's also conscious and talking.'

'And why is he a target exactly?'

'I'm not sure yet, but as soon as I find out anything I'll let you know.'

There was a short silence at the other end. 'OK,' said Carruthers eventually. 'I'll get people over to the hospital as soon as I can.'

Bolt thanked him, knowing he'd done all he could. He wasn't going to leave anything to chance though, and he hurried back to where Mo was leaning against a marked patrol car next to the police cordon, drinking a mug of coffee and talking into his mobile. He still looked shocked, which Bolt could understand. He wasn't feeling it so much himself, partly because he'd been shot at before on more than one occasion, and was better prepared to handle it. Perhaps later, when he was alone, it would hit home. Right now it was something he didn't have time for.

The rain had eased to a light drizzle, and the lane was busy with a mixture of curious onlookers, horrified witnesses and swarms of local uniforms who seemed to have materialized in huge numbers, and SOCO, busy kitting themselves up to begin the fingertip search of the crime scene. Above their heads, a police helicopter circled steadily, although already its presence was obsolete. Hook – and Bolt was now convinced it was him – was long gone.

As Bolt reached him, Mo came off the phone. 'That was Saira,' he said, referring to his wife and the mother of his four children. 'I was telling her not to wait up for me. I didn't have the heart to tell her that someone just tried to shoot us.'

Bolt smiled grimly. 'Probably just as well.'

'You know, boss,' he said, sounding subdued, 'I'll vouch for you that Fallon was in the middle of the road, and you weren't driving erratically when you hit him. In case they bring the IPCC in.'

'Thanks, I appreciate it.' He gave Mo's arm an affectionate pat. 'Right now, though, it's the least of our worries. We need to get over to the hospital. The armed guard's not set up yet and I want to make sure nothing happens to Fallon.'

'How are we going to get over there? We've lost our transport.'

'No we haven't.' He motioned for Mo to follow and set off through the mêlée, conscious of the fact that he had to keep his colleague distracted so that the shock didn't begin to overwhelm him. Right now, he needed Mo.

The Jag was still parked halfway up the bank at the end of the village, temporarily forgotten. A single uniform stood guard over it, since technically it remained part of the crime scene. Pulling out his keys, Bolt flashed his warrant card, said he had permission from Assistant Chief Constable Carruthers to remove the vehicle, and carried on walking.

'I don't think we should do this, boss,' said Mo once they'd climbed in. 'We have the slight problem that we can't actually see anything out of the windscreen.'

Bolt would never have described himself as impulsive, but he took a huge amount of satisfaction from his next move, which was to reach down behind the driver's seat, lift up the Enforcer – the heavy cylindrical tool used for breaking down doors – and smash it through the ruined windscreen. The driver's half disappeared completely as glass flew across the bonnet and on to the grass below. 'We can now,' he said.

He manoeuvred the car back on to the road with a loud bump so that it was facing away from the murder scene, relieved to realize that the vehicle was still in good working order. In his rearview mirror, Bolt saw the uniform staring at him aghast. Bolt had a moment's doubt too, but it didn't stop him from accelerating away, weaving around the Road Closed sign and heading in the direction of Slough.

The room was small, square and empty, save for the heavy office chair Tina Boyd was strapped tight to. She was cold and tired – naked too, apart from her blouse and socks.

He'd removed all her other clothes when they were alone together earlier, slicing them off with a knife before tossing them casually into the corner. Tina had been expecting him to rape her, but strangely he hadn't, preferring to use his hands to stroke and paw her, every so often breaking off and pacing slowly around the chair, taunting her in cruel little whispers.

Are you ready to die yet?

Do you want me to fuck you now, or should I wait for the others?

She'd said nothing, enduring his attention in cold, defiant silence, trying to ignore the way her skin slithered and crawled under his touch, preparing for the inevitable.

But the inevitable had not yet come. It was as if he'd suddenly lost interest, replacing the hood on her head and leaving the room with a final, almost half-hearted taunt.

Later, bitch.

That had been hours back now; since then there'd been nothing but silence. She couldn't even hear anything outside. She was freezing cold and starving hungry, and worst of all she was utterly alone, with no prospect of help.

The thought scared her. Her life had been hard these past four years, and in some ways it had been getting worse, particularly the constant fight with the booze, but she wasn't going to give it up without a fight. In a fit of sudden desperation she struggled against her bonds, howling her frustration from behind the gag as the realization that her efforts were utterly pointless hit her once again. The only part of her body she could move was her head. It was as if she was paralysed from the neck down. Her ankles were tied to the chair's base with ropes, and her hands and elbows were lashed to the arm rests. Several rolls of thick masking tape had been wrapped round and round her chest and stomach, giving her the appearance of a half-dressed mummy. Thankfully, the set of picks in her sock hadn't been discovered. She might not have been able to reach them but they still represented some sort of hope, however faint.

Suddenly she heard something. It was a muffled cry, coming from beyond the wall.

For a second, she thought she'd imagined it. Then it came again. Someone was trying to call out to her but whoever it was was gagged too.

Jenny Brakspear! It had to be her. So she was still alive...

Tina made a noise in return, using her weight to try to force the chair nearer to the wall. But the damn thing wouldn't budge. Someone had removed the wheels, and it was way too heavy. She made more noises, wanting to let Jenny know that she wasn't entirely alone. Relieved herself, that she wasn't the only prisoner here.

Tina waited for a response, but the cries from beyond the wall had stopped. Then she heard something else, much fainter this time. The sound of weeping.

Tina made some supportive noises, hoping this would encourage Jenny to stop, but the weeping continued, then finally it stopped altogether, and the cold silence returned.

She wondered what Jenny had had to put up with from the man who'd kidnapped her, what kinds of torments he'd put her through. She also wondered what it was that was going on here. They'd kidnapped Jenny two days ago and were clearly keeping her alive. They were keeping Tina alive, too.

The burning question was, for how long?

I was feeling groggy, having been given painkillers by a harassed-looking doctor who couldn't have been long out of medical school, and they must have been pretty damn strong because the terrible burning sensation in my right arm had been reduced to a dull throb. I still ached all over, and my mouth was bone dry, but I felt a vague euphoria. I was alive. Against all the odds, I was alive.

My hospital room was small and bright, and I was lying in bed. Outside I could hear voices and people moving about. Comforting sounds. People meant safety. The clock on the wall read ten past midnight.

As I lay there, I remembered with intense clarity digging my own grave in the rain, and watching Maxwell die. I'd never seen someone die before, even though I'd written about death vividly enough in
Conspiracy
. The sight of Ramon sitting lifeless in my bedroom had been awful, but seeing Maxwell actually murdered in front of me had been a whole lot worse. I remembered running through the trees, hearing the men behind me, thinking that this was it, the end; then the headlights, the sound of screeching tyres, and the car slamming me over its bonnet and sending me flying into the dirt.

Jesus. I'd been so damn close to death. For the second time in less than forty-eight hours. It was as if I was involved in an intense, never-ending nightmare that seemed to get worse and worse.

But it looked at last like it might be over.

I was desperately thirsty. I hadn't drunk a thing since the two Peronis at Maxwell's, close to four hours ago now, and no water since the middle of the afternoon. There wasn't a glass on the bedside table so I climbed out of bed, my hospital-issue pyjamas crinkling in time to my movement. My head began to spin and I had to stand still and shut my eyes for a few moments.

When I felt normal again, I opened the door and was surprised to see there was no police guard outside. The guy who'd come to me when I was semi-conscious had said he was police and that I was safe now. So, where were they?

I stepped out into the corridor.

And saw him immediately.

He was about ten yards away, talking to one of the nurses. He was dressed in the black jacket and jeans he'd been wearing back at Maxwell's place earlier, and his boots were still muddy with the soil from Maxwell's vegetable patch, but he was wearing a baseball cap again now, and horn-rimmed glasses.

For a split second I froze, unable to move, then he slowly turned my way and our eyes met. His lips curled in a tight, triumphant smile and, ignoring the nurse now, he put a hand inside his jacket.

And that was it. I ran.

But it was like wading through treacle. The painkillers, my injuries, my pure exhaustion, they were all slowing me down, making each step seem like an incredible achievement. And all the time I could picture him in my mind, raising the gun, aiming, pulling the trigger...

I swung a hard left, narrowly missing a cleaner with his trolley coming the other way. Behind me, I could hear his footfalls as he gave chase. Someone yelled for security. Someone else screamed the words I was dreading: 'He's got a gun!'

In front of me, the corridor stretched for thirty yards. A pair of orderlies were coming the other way, with a patient on a stretcher. Apart from them, it was empty. I was never going to make it. No way.

In one instinctive movement I shoved the cleaner out of the way with my good arm, then, as my pursuer came round the corner, a calm, determined expression on his face, the gun he'd used to kill Maxwell by his side, I kicked the trolley straight at him.

He was caught by surprise and crashed right into it, his momentum sending him sprawling in a heap.

Ignoring the nausea rising up in me, and the throbbing in my head and arm, I kept running. My heart hammering relentlessly.

The two orderlies stared at me aghast, then they both ducked down, using their gurney as cover.

I didn't wait for the bullet. I saw a door coming up on my right and scrambled through it, slamming it shut behind me.

I was in a small ward. A handful of beds were lined up against the opposite wall. But they were all empty. The whole place was empty. Outside, I could hear panicked shouting. More footfalls.

I was trapped. Jesus, I was trapped.

Looking round quickly, I located the light switch, flicked it off and plunged the room into darkness. Then, as quickly as I could, I slipped under one of the beds furthest from the door, and lay there on my back, staring up at the mattress several inches above me, knowing this was no cover at all, trying to calm my breathing. Waiting...

The door opened and shut again, and the lights were switched back on.

I held my breath. Outside, the noise seemed to have died away. Where the hell was everyone?

The footsteps were quiet as the man moved through the room, coming steadily closer. My guts churned, my heart beat furiously in my chest. I tried desperately to think of an escape plan, my mind whirring and leaping but coming up with nothing, because of course there was nothing to come up with.

The footsteps stopped. Right next to the bed. My lungs felt like they were going to burst. I had to breathe soon, had to—

'Mr Fallon?'

I recognized the voice. It was the police officer from earlier, the one who was with me after I'd been hit by the car, before the ambulance came.

'My name's Mike Bolt, and I'm from the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.'

He helped me out from under the bed and I got a proper look at him for the first time. He was tall and well built, with close-cropped silver-blond hair and piercing blue eyes, and there were three small scars on the lean, slightly lined face, one of them a vivid C-shape gouged into his cheek, that gave him an appearance that was close to, but not quite, thuggish. Right then he inspired confidence and I was glad he was on my side.

'You lead a charmed life, Mr Fallon,' he said, leading me out into the corridor, where a number of medical staff had gathered to see what was going on.

'Have you got the guy who was after me?' I asked him.

'We're looking for him now,' he answered as we walked back to my room. 'But there's no need for you to worry. We've got armed officers all over the building.'

I felt like saying that this could be construed as being a bit late, but didn't bother. I was pleased just to be safe, a feeling that was reinforced when I saw the three black-clad Robocop lookalikes standing outside the door of my room, wielding machine guns.

Standing off to one side of them in jeans and check shirt was a short, squat Asian guy with a thick head of hair like a badger's, talking animatedly to the harassed-looking junior doctor who'd examined me earlier.

'This is my colleague, Mo Khan,' said Bolt as the Asian guy turned round. 'We'd like to ask you some questions quickly if that's OK? It's extremely urgent.'

'I don't think this is a good idea,' said the doctor, pushing past Mo Khan. 'This patient needs rest,' he added firmly, addressing Mike Bolt.

'It's OK,' I said, pleased for the opportunity to finally tell my story in full. 'I'll speak to them now.'

A few minutes later I was back in bed with a glass of water in my hand, feeling a little more relaxed as they took seats on either side of the bed.

'OK,' said Bolt as Mo Khan produced a tape recorder, 'we understand you witnessed a kidnapping. Take us through everything from the beginning. And please don't leave anything out.'

So this time I didn't. I told them everything, including what had happened to Ramon, knowing that there was no longer any point in holding anything back. Neither of them seemed fazed by my revelations. Instead they took me through every important detail of the past forty-eight hours, slowly and carefully, asking questions where necessary, but otherwise allowing me to talk.

When I'd finished, I felt numb and spent. I took a big gulp of water and sat back against the pillows, hoping they believed me, but not sure what else I could say.

'You're extremely lucky, Mr Fallon,' said Bolt, leaning forward in his seat. 'The man who's been after you is a professional killer.'

'You know him, then?'

'I know of him. His name's Michael Killen, and he's extremely dangerous.'

Hearing his name took away some of the mystery surrounding him. It had a diminishing effect, making him smaller and pettier, somehow less immortal. 'I know I'm lucky to be alive,' I said, suddenly feeling deflated. 'But does this mean you'll be able to find Jenny now? And Tina? She's still missing, isn't she?'

Bolt nodded, an expression of concern crossing his face. It was clear he knew her. 'Unfortunately she is, yes,' he answered. 'We're in a better position to find both of them now we've talked to you and you've filled in the gaps, but I've got to be honest, we're still short of leads.'

'So, Killen's escaped then?'

'It looks that way. And I've got no doubt he knows where both women are.'

It was Mo Khan who spoke next. 'Is there anything you can think of, Mr Fallon, any clue at all that might help us find them? Something you saw or heard that you haven't yet told us about?'

'I've still got those photos that Tina sent me.'

'We've already seen them,' he said.

I wondered how this could be but didn't say anything. I was too busy racking my brains, but unfortunately to no avail. 'I'm sorry,' I told them at last, 'I can't think of anything.'

They looked disappointed but thanked me for my help and got to their feet. It was clear they were finished with me for now.

'One thing before you go,' I said. 'You turned up out of the blue at Maxwell's place tonight. How did you know I was there?'

'Maxwell – Harvey Hammond – was a police informant of mine for a number of years,' Bolt answered.

That caught me out. 'I was writing a book about him,' I said. 'I thought he was some bigshot criminal.'

'No, he was small-time. He used to know a lot of people on the fringes, and he was good at keeping his ear to the ground, but he was no Ronnie Kray.' He gave me a sympathetic look, seeing that this news represented something of an unpleasant surprise.

In truth, it was one of the biggest shocks I'd had in the last few days. I'd really believed in Maxwell, had been totally taken in by his tales of villainy. To find out that he was nothing but a lowlife snitch made me feel like a gullible prick.

'One thing I've learned in twenty years as a cop,' continued Bolt, 'is that the real bad guys don't tend to talk about what they do, only the wannabes. Look at it this way, though. If it hadn't been for Maxwell calling me to let us know you were at his place, you'd be dead now.'

As they turned to leave, something else occurred to me. 'And how did Killen and his mate manage to track me down to Maxwell's cottage? I'm positive I wasn't followed there and no one knew that was where I was going.'

They exchanged glances again, and it was clear that neither of them had thought about this.

There was a pause of a couple of seconds before a look of realization crossed Mo Khan's face. 'You said Killen gave you back your phone when he came to your place on Monday night, didn't you?'

I nodded.

'Where's the phone now?'

'In my jeans pocket.' I pointed to where my clothes were hanging over a chair in the corner.

He went through them until he found it and then, as I watched, he took off the back and started fiddling round inside. A couple of seconds later he removed a small round object, about half the size of a penny piece. He held it up for me to see. It emitted a tiny flashing red light. 'A GPS tracking device. Simple, yet highly effective.' He gave me a look that might have been sympathetic, or was possibly just pitying. 'It seems, Mr Fallon, that they knew exactly where you were the whole time.'