The Last 10 Seconds (27 page)

Fifty-five

There was no pain, just a thick, dull sense of shock. A numbness, from my thighs to my chest. I’d been hit twice that I could see, both times in the initial burst of fire. One round had struck me in the thigh, the second in the gut. The thigh wound was bleeding less which told me that it hadn’t severed any of the major blood vessels, and there was an exit wound just above the back of my knee. The gut wound, though, was bad, the exit wound the size of a golf ball, and spilling a lot of blood on to the dusty concrete.

I’d managed to prop myself up against the wall and, amazingly, still had hold of the gun. Opposite me across the room, lying on his belly, was Tommy. I’d caught him in the face or head with my last shot, I wasn’t entirely sure which, whereas he’d missed me with his, so we were evens now. For a while he’d made weird rasping noises, coupled with low moans of pain, and had even tried and failed to get up, but he’d stopped moving completely now, and I could no longer hear his breathing.

So there I was, trapped in this cavernous hellhole that would very likely become my grave. I couldn’t move properly and no one would have been able to hear my cries even if I’d had the strength to make them. There were no sirens, so it seemed no one had even heard the gunshots.

I had a terrible thirst and I was shivering like a wet dog, but incredibly I wasn’t panicking. I was too exhausted for that, and, even after everything that had happened, I felt this weird sense of achievement. I’d gone out alone to avenge my brother’s murder, and I’d managed it. The gang responsible for leaving him dead on that street were now dead themselves, and by ridding the world of Andrew Kent I felt I’d done humanity a favour. And if it was my parting gift, then so be it.

But as I sat there, wounded and helpless, wondering how I’d got myself into this terrible tomb-like place, I could hear death’s steady, inevitable approach and knew there was no escape. That was the hardest thing to accept, the fact that my life was finally coming to an end, and I wondered briefly in those last few seconds, as the pain and the shock squeezed at my insides, whether there was anyone left to mourn my passing. Whether I’d even be remembered in ten years’ time.

Then I heard it. A sound directly outside the door. The scrape of a foot on the floor.

Jesus. Was this nightmare still not over? Was there a final act to come?

I clenched my teeth and slowly raised my gun arm, just as a dark-haired woman in casual clothes appeared in the doorway, a warrant card in one outstretched hand and what looked like a can of pepper spray in the other.

‘Police!’ she shouted. And then, as she took in the chaotic scene before her and her eyes alighted on me, ‘Sean?’

‘Hello, Tina.’

‘What the hell’s happened?’

Which was the moment when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tommy lurch upwards from his position, the pistol in his hand, his face and neck a mask of blood, and start shooting, his bullets pinging angrily round the room.

With a yelp of fear, Tina leaped out of the way, hitting the deck with a thud as she tried to belly-crawl out of the door.

Tommy swung the gun round in my direction, while I took aim, concentrating all my efforts on keeping my gun hand steady, knowing that I had only one bullet left and this time I had to finish the bastard, and allow my brother finally to rest in peace.

He fired first, but missed, the round chipping the wall beside my shoulder before ricocheting away in a cloud of brick dust. He fired again, but this time nothing happened. He’d run out of bullets, and I saw his eyes widen as he realized he’d failed.

And then I pulled the trigger and blew the top of his head off.

Fifty-six

Tina leaned against the bonnet of the hire car and lit a cigarette with shaking hands as another of the ambulances drove out of the building site through the open gates with an angry wail of sirens. Squad cars and SOCO vehicles were turning up at the scene in numbers now, and a perimeter had already been set up at both ends of the street, behind which the first of the onlookers had gathered.

She took a long drag, feeling completely detached from all the activity going on, as if none of it had anything to do with her. She’d seen three people die in front of her that morning, and had only narrowly missed being the fourth victim herself. It was the third time in her life she’d been shot at, yet she felt as if on this occasion she’d come the closest to death. She’d actually felt the warm draught of air as a bullet whistled past her ear. Six inches to one side and it would have killed her. Just like that. Alive and functioning one second, gone for ever the next.

She couldn’t keep risking her neck like this. It had been utter madness running into an abandoned building alone and unarmed, trying to locate the source of gunshots, yet she hadn’t been able to stop herself. It was as if, deep down, she had some kind of death wish, and if it hadn’t been for Egan killing the shooter with what turned out to be his last bullet, she would surely never have made it out of there alive. She wasn’t sure how serious Egan’s injuries were, but he’d been in a bad way when the ambulance had arrived a few minutes earlier. She’d held his hand the whole time as he’d slipped in and out of consciousness, thanking him for what he’d done, but she wasn’t sure that he’d really heard her. She’d make sure she thanked him properly in person as soon as he was well enough. She also needed to find out from him what had happened in there, whether the man he’d shot had been the fixer, and what part her boss, Dougie MacLeod, had played in all this. When she’d seen MacLeod lying there dead on the floor she’d felt a pang of terrible sadness. He’d been a good man to her, but she couldn’t help wondering whether he’d been involved in this whole thing. There were still a lot of questions, but before she went looking for the answers, she had her work cut out trying to save her career.

A car pulled up at the edge of the perimeter, and two men got out from the rear passenger seats. One of them was Dan Grier, but it took a couple of seconds to identify the shorter, older man with him as DCS Frank Mendelson, the famously pugnacious head of Homicide and Serious Crime Command, and Tina’s ultimate boss.

Mendelson seemed to zone in on her straight away, and he marched over, his face like thunder, with Grier slowly bringing up the rear, dragging his heels like a naughty schoolboy.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded, stopping in front of her, his eyes blazing with a barely suppressed rage.

‘Solving a murder,’ she told him calmly, meeting his gaze.

‘Well, you haven’t solved it, have you? All we appear to have is a string of dead bodies, and you nowhere to be seen whenever you’re needed. You’re a witness to the murder of a government minister, for God’s sake! You can’t just leave the crime scene.’ He shook his head angrily. ‘The Met can’t afford to have unstable mavericks on board, and that’s exactly what you are.’

Tina felt like reminding him that was not what he’d said when she joined Dougie MacLeod’s CMIT. Then, he’d called her the type of go-getting officer the Met sorely needed. But she didn’t bother, preferring to let him talk until he wore himself out, while trying to avoid looking at Grier, who stood further back staring at the ground.

‘That’s why I’m suspending you until further notice,’ continued Mendelson. ‘You’re also required to go immediately to Notting Hill police station where you’re to give a statement to CID about what happened at Anthony Gore’s home. I understand you recorded his confession.’ He put undue emphasis on this last word, his tone sceptical, as if he thought there was something inherently false about it. ‘If that’s the case, I need to have the tape now.’ He put out a hand.

‘You’re mistaken,’ she said, without looking at Grier. ‘There’s no tape.’

‘Are you sure?’ He frowned, then looked back over his shoulder. ‘DC Grier, I thought you said DI Boyd made a tape of your interview with Mr Gore?’

‘I said I wasn’t sure, sir,’ he answered. ‘I thought she might have done, but if she says she didn’t . . .’

Mendelson didn’t look convinced. ‘If you’re lying to me . . .’ he growled at Tina.

‘I’m not.’

‘I could have you searched, you know. I’d be quite within my rights under the circumstances.’

She gave him a look of utter contempt. ‘Go on then.’

‘I don’t like your attitude,
Miss
Boyd.’

‘I couldn’t give a shit,
Mr
Mendelson.’

The DCS’s face grew so red she thought he might explode. He was literally shaking with anger. Finally, he seemed to bring himself under control. ‘You’re finished,’ he said at last, a thin smile forming on his lips. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Fuck you,’ she answered, but her words were drowned out by the siren from another ambulance as it left the building site, and anyway, Mendelson had already turned on his heel and was marching away.

She watched him go, then stubbed the cigarette underfoot and, leaving the hire car where it was, walked off in the opposite direction without looking back, feeling a strange yet exhilarating sense of freedom.

Part Three

NINE DAYS LATER

Fifty-seven

Tina Boyd was surprised to see how healthy Sean Egan looked, given all he’d been through. He was propped up in his bed reading a book when she knocked and walked into his private hospital room, carrying a box of chocolates and a bottle of decent Scotch she’d picked up en route. She’d wanted to come before but for the first week of his stay he’d been effectively in police custody, and under armed guard, with visits strictly limited.

He grinned when he saw her and put down the book. ‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘I came to say thanks for saving my life,’ she said, putting the chocolates and booze on his bedside table, and taking a seat.

‘Tommy wasn’t much of a shot. I think you’d have been OK.’

‘He managed to hit you twice.’

‘He just got lucky,’ he said, giving her a weary smile. ‘Anyway, if you hadn’t turned up, I’d have bled to death, so I guess we’re quits. Maybe we should share the bottle.’

Tina had deliberately chosen Scotch because she disliked it. ‘No, you keep it for when you’re feeling better.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, ‘but at least tell me how you ended up in that building at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. I’ve been answering a lot of questions these past few days, but no one’s been giving me any information.’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Long stories are what keep me going in this place.’

So she told him everything.

‘Jesus,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘After all you did, and they end up suspending you?’

‘I didn’t follow the rules, and they don’t like that these days.’

He laughed. ‘I know the feeling. And if it’s any consolation, I’ve been suspended as well. But at the moment I’m just thankful I haven’t been charged with anything.’

‘I think there’d have been a public outcry if they’d charged you with anything. You’ve read the papers. You must have seen the coverage you’ve been getting. The
Sun
’s even nicknamed you Robocop.’

Not surprisingly, there’d been a media frenzy over the kidnapping of Andrew Kent and the revelations surrounding Anthony Gore and his connection to it, and the story had rarely been off the front pages. With the stock of mainstream politicians at one of its lowest ebbs in history thanks to the ongoing expenses scandal, the allegations of murder weren’t considered as unbelievable as they might otherwise have been. In fact, they were treated as still more evidence of the corrupt nature of the ruling classes, who it now seemed were capable of almost anything.

Most people – if you believed the tabloid headlines, at least – thought that both Andrew Kent and Anthony Gore had got what they deserved, and although the full extent of Gore’s involvement wasn’t yet public knowledge, there was a groundswell of support for Sean Egan. In tabloid eyes, he was the brave undercover cop, eager to avenge the long-ago murder of his brother, whose only crime was getting in too deep, but who’d redeemed himself by ridding the world of a sadistic killer.

Nobody, therefore, wanted to be the person to charge him with anything, even though the CPS could probably have created a file against him longer than the Bible.

‘Did they ever find the missing footage that Kent took of Gore killing Roisín O’Neill?’ he asked.

Tina shook her head. ‘It sounds like Kent only kept the one copy, and that was the one that was destroyed.’

‘And you think Tommy killed her father as well?’

‘He must have done. The car he was using, the one that led me to him and you, was filmed in Roisín’s father’s cul-de-sac on the night he died. It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be related.’

‘But why kill him? Particularly then.’

It was a question that Tina had been thinking about a lot. ‘Gore must have been concerned that Roisín had told her father about their relationship. That wasn’t a problem while her murder was being treated as one of the Night Creeper’s. But when Kent was arrested in possession of information that implicated Gore in her murder, they must have decided it was best to get her father out of the way.’ She shrugged. ‘I think it was just a case of damage limitation.’

Egan sighed. ‘Jesus. He didn’t care who he killed, did he? But I still don’t understand who was organizing all this. Tommy said he was working for someone called Alpha.’

‘We think he was referring to Paul Wise, a gangster and thug based out of Northern Cyprus. He initiated everything on behalf of Anthony Gore – not that he got anywhere near the action himself. He used Tommy and Wolfe’s gang for that.’

A number of newspapers had mentioned the possibility of a shadowy businessman linked to Anthony Gore who may have helped him in his cover-up, but no one had dared accuse Wise by name, because the evidence against him was still so scant. Tina knew he’d be feeling the heat of his involvement, now that things had blown up so spectacularly, but it wasn’t enough for her. She still wanted justice.

Egan frowned. ‘And what’s going to happen to him? Is he going to get off scot-free?’

‘No,’ said Tina firmly. ‘Paul Wise’s days are numbered, and I’ve got the evidence that’s going to make sure of that. I taped our interview with Anthony Gore, the one in which he confesses his role in the whole thing, and it implicates Wise completely.’

‘I didn’t read anything about that in the papers.’

‘The papers don’t know about it. Yet. Neither do any of my colleagues. I wanted to make sure it didn’t conveniently disappear. Paul Wise has got contacts everywhere, and if anyone’s capable of getting rid of evidence, he is.’

‘Would it be admissible in court, with Anthony Gore dead?’

Tina shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a meeting with a journalist from the
Guardian
tomorrow – someone I’ve checked out, who’s squeaky clean – and I’m going to give him the tape on the proviso he publishes it. If that happens, I think the CPS, the police, the government, all of them, will have no choice but to push to get Wise back from Cyprus to face charges.’

‘Won’t he sue?’

‘On what grounds? It’s a taped confession from a government minister. He could sue Gore’s estate, I suppose, but I can’t see that he’ll take on the paper. My journalist source doesn’t seem too worried about it anyway.’

Egan gave her an admiring look. ‘Jesus, you don’t mess around, do you? I’m glad I’m not on the wrong side of you.’

‘Paul Wise has done me a lot of harm over the years. I just hope I get a chance to tell him face to face about my part in his downfall.’

‘I get the feeling you will.’

‘We’ll see,’ she said, and stood up. ‘I’d better get going. Enjoy the booze and the choccies.’

There was an awkward moment when Tina wasn’t sure whether she should shake his hand, peck his cheek, or simply keep a reserved distance. She finally settled for the peck on the cheek, but wasn’t entirely surprised when one of his arms encircled her waist.

‘Will I see you again, Tina Boyd?’ he whispered in her ear.

Egan was a good-looking guy, the kind it would be far too easy to fall for. And perhaps she would have done, too, but her attention was still focused on another man.

‘You never know,’ she answered, and gently moved away.

When she was back outside the hospital, she lit a cigarette and walked down Gower Street in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. In truth, she didn’t know if what she was about to do with Gore’s confession tape would finally bring Wise down, and releasing it to the media when she’d previously denied knowledge of its existence would certainly scupper any chances of her resuming her career, but even so, she was smiling as she went down the steps into Tottenham Court Road tube station.

Because she knew that she was finally becoming a real thorn in Wise’s side.