My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (20 page)

‘Shall I get started, then?’ Tanner asked, waiting for Hawkins’ nod before he retreated towards the far side of the courtyard, mobile pressed to his ear.

Hawkins watched him go, the word ‘protégé’ repeating itself in her mind, hoping she hadn’t just unleashed the man destined to take her DCI badge on his first day in the job.

36

Five pairs of boots hit the dusty road as the men jumped down from the Land Rovers and gathered in the darkness.

Bull spoke first, his voice low. ‘Okay, boys, we just got a fix on the target. Support’s on its way, but they won’t get here for an hour. Till then it’s our job to secure the building and hold these guys till the others arrive.’

No more instructions were required. The others fanned out and began to close on the house, feet tramping quietly as they moved. Bull and Cheshire took the left side of the street, Trey, Collins and Ginger the right.

Bull watched his colleagues, all dressed in black clothing with body armour over the top. They were all armed, with guns that were more than a match for anything their targets would have. But still no guarantee of safety.

They moved within twenty yards of the house. Above them, the darkness was definitely lifting as the early signs of dawn began pushing above the horizon. Already Bull could feel the sweat running down between his shoulder blades. Part of that was nerves, although he was getting more and more used to situations like this.

He also kept an eye on the buildings around them. If this was a trap, any of those windows could be hiding gunmen. But no shots rang out as they reached the house.

Bull gave the signal for the other three to head round the back, then he and Cheshire lined up outside the front. A sliver of brightness bled out between the door and the frame, showing that the lights were on. They waited for the whistle to tell them the others were in place, then Cheshire shot the lock off the door and they charged inside.

The room opened into a lounge with dirty walls and low stools dotted about, mattresses stacked against one wall. The windows had been blacked out from inside, and the place stank. At a table in the centre of the room, their target was playing cards with his mates. They all looked round.

‘Hands up!’ Bull jerked his gun at them.

Everyone obeyed, raising their hands just as the others came in through the untidy kitchen at the back of the room. Trey signalled that the rest of the ground floor was clear.

Bull nodded, watching as the men were hauled to their feet one at a time and patted down before being lined up, sitting with their backs against the wall.

‘Is anyone upstairs?’

No one spoke, so Bull asked again, louder this time.

One of the men looked up. ‘Two women, three kids.’

Bull moved closer. ‘How many rooms?’

‘Err …’ The man hesitated. ‘ … just one.’

Bull signalled for Trey, Collins and Ginger to cover their prisoners while he and Cheshire moved to the stairs and began to climb, sliding their backs along the stained plaster, every step creaking under their weight. There was no noise from the upstairs room, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being set up.

Cheshire was ahead as they reached the single door at the top. He looked at Bull, who nodded for him to go in. The kid’s face was pale.

They both knew the door could be wired to blow.

37

The landlord’s name was Joseph.

He slotted his beige Mini convertible into one of the visitor parking bays and joined Hawkins, Tanner and Maguire outside Mangrove Court, the former council block where Matthew Hayes had rented one of his flats.

Joseph was fortyish, short and well-groomed. He wore a khaki waistcoat over a white shirt and turned-up jeans, with a pair of bright-red plastic-framed glasses and meticulously tailored facial hair. Hawkins produced her warrant card and introduced the others, thanking him for coming at short notice. Joseph said it was no problem; better than paying for a new door, as he had last time the police
investigated
one of his tenants.

He opened the security lock and led them up two flights of functionally decorated stairs to an inner landing, where the three men waited as Hawkins struggled up behind, pretending to be engrossed by some facet of the building’s architecture to explain her slow ascent.

Joseph fumbled with a large bunch of keys outside number twelve. ‘What’s all this about, anyway?’

‘We can’t discuss it just yet,’ she told him, keen not to
taint any information he might provide. ‘For now, we just need to check the flat.’

They’d come straight from the courtyard where Hayes’ body had been found. Even the victim’s wife wouldn’t hear of his death until family liaison officers arrived there later that evening. Till then, information regarding his expiry was classified.

In contrast, Hawkins suspected the case itself would soon be common knowledge. The reporter ejected from the murder scene earlier that afternoon may not have managed to get photos, but the potential reward had obviously outweighed the prospective inconvenience of getting himself arrested. Which meant the media were gearing up for an exposé.

‘I knew this would happen.’ Joseph tried one of the keys. ‘You’ve arrested him, haven’t you?’

No one replied.

‘He’s done time, you know.’ The landlord switched keys and struggled with the lock again. ‘For drunk driving. But here’s good old Joseph, never one to write somebody off. “Hello, Mr Waif,” “Come in, Mr Stray, everyone’s welcome here.” And look where it gets me.’

He found the right key at last, pushing the door open and waving the three detectives by. Hawkins led the way into a compact hall that turned left immediately inside the door, past a grubby bathroom. Straight ahead she found the front room.

And stopped in the doorway.

The small lounge looked like it had been the venue for some sort of degenerate rave. Empty bottles and rubbish were strewn on the table, small sofa and floor, among half-eaten microwave meals and randomly discarded clothes. There were fist-sized dents in various walls and doors, while the television, picture frames and most pieces of furniture were damaged or smashed. The smell was on its way to overpowering.

‘You’re fucking
kidding
me!’ Joseph squeezed past Maguire and Tanner into the room. ‘He’s only been in here two weeks. This place was immaculate. His deposit won’t even
begin
to cover it. I’ll drag that fucker through small-claims court.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Mike said quietly.

Hawkins flashed him a warning stare.

But Joseph hadn’t heard. He was already in the kitchen, making further protest about the state of a flat that had obviously been a furnished let.

Hawkins glanced around at the dead man’s room, strategizing in silence. Her first instinct had been to keep the murders from the public domain for as long as possible. After all, the capital had just emerged from the shadow of one serial killer, only now to find itself under another. But there were differences.

Now, a third victim, just like the first two, had been confirmed as an ex-con: the encouraging news was that this killer clearly had a target group. And the proportion of London’s residents who had been indicted for
murder or manslaughter was mercifully small. So at least this time they had a fighting chance of convincing the public not to freak out.

The downside was that the four-month gap between the first two victims had not been repeated prior to number three. In fact, the hiatus had closed to three days, which meant the killer might strike again at any time. Perhaps they could confidently predict the type of person he would target and the MO he’d use, but the pivotal question remained.

Why?

Hawkins turned back into the room, where Joseph was berating Tanner about how the Met consistently ignored the plight of the domestic landlord. She left them to it, wandering through to the bedroom, finding the same entropy. She looked at the cheap dressing table, its mirror cracked by some kind of impact, realizing just how inept the UK’s penal system was when it came to reforming those in its keep. And she was willing to bet it wasn’t just inebriation that had made Matthew Hayes such an angry man.

She turned to see Mike behind her in the doorway. ‘When will the e-fit be ready?’ she asked.

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

She frowned. ‘Let’s try to speed things up. Put the team on overtime if you have to. I may want that picture on the breakfast news.’

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ Maguire produced his phone and stepped back into the hall.

Hawkins turned back to Hayes’ room, thinking about recent incidents. The e-fit team were already doing the rounds of the houses near where Matt Hayes was killed. The ex-estate agent had been seen by several residents as he wobbled along the main road to the nearest off-licence, where the shopkeeper remembered selling him cheap spirits, and not just on the night of his death. Since moving in, it seemed that Hayes’ excursion to the local offy had been an almost nightly affair, often taking two or three bottles with him on the return leg. Which explained the rapid deterioration of his flat, if not the reason behind the drinking itself.

Fortunately, the locals overlooking the main road had proved to be a nosy lot; a disturbing number of them appeared to lead almost nocturnal lives. So far, they had given consistent descriptions not only of Matt Hayes en route to buy alcohol over the last few nights …

But also, on each occasion, of the man who’d clearly followed him there.

38

They stood together at the top of the narrow staircase.

From below, Bull heard one of the men asking to use the toilet. Collins told him to wait.

Bull turned back just as Cheshire finished checking the door surround for signs of wires. The kid nodded to show it was clear, before he eased the handle down and pushed.

The door grated against the frame, and Bull held his breath as the seal broke. Luckily, nothing happened as Cheshire shoved it open and they stepped inside.

The bedroom was almost pitch black, the only light leaking in from downstairs through the open door. In the dim glow Bull saw what looked like a jumble of duvets. Someone was snoring, but it was impossible to tell how many bodies there were. Cheshire switched on the light.

A bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling came on. It wasn’t bright, but Bull still had to shield his eyes. The room was about three yards square, with cardboard boxes full of clothes in the far corner, opposite another door that must have been a bathroom. As the man said, there were five people: two women and three young kids, all on mattresses on the floor.

The younger of the two women and the children were just coming round, shielding their eyes against the sudden light. The youngest one started to cry. But the older woman was sitting bolt upright on a corner of her mattress. Her eyes were closed, her hands clasped in her lap, as if she’d been praying.

‘Stay calm,’ Bull told them. ‘We won’t hurt you.’

The younger woman sat up and pulled the crying child towards her. She held the girl, glaring at them.

‘Downstairs.’ Bull motioned with his gun.

Nobody moved.

Still the older woman didn’t open her eyes.

Bull looked at Cheshire, who waved at his waist and pointed to the old lady, before spreading the fingers on one hand to mimic a bomb. Bull nodded.

They’d both seen the awkward bulges under her clothes.

‘You’ – Bull stamped his foot – ‘look at me.’

At last the old lady’s eyes opened, and she turned her head towards them.

‘Stand up.’

Slowly, she stood.

‘In there.’ Bull jabbed the barrel towards the bathroom. She didn’t move. There were tears in her eyes.

He glanced at Cheshire. ‘Get the kids downstairs. Now.’

The kid stepped forwards, held out a hand to the nearest child. ‘Come on.’

But, as he moved, the old lady let out a high-pitched scream.

And went for him.

In the split second that followed, Bull knew he should have pulled the trigger, put his target down. But, suddenly, Cheshire moved. He caught the old woman in a bear hug, herding her backwards into the bathroom. The pair tripped as they went through the door, falling further inside.

Bull grabbed the kids, pulling them up one by one and moving them towards Trey, who had appeared in the doorway. The younger woman hurried out of the room after them, as Bull arrived at the bathroom door.

He almost laughed.

Cheshire was kneeling between the old lady’s legs on the bathroom floor. Her nightdress had ridden up, revealing her underwear. She was shouting and battering him with her fists.

She had some sort of corset on over her barrel-like belly. Its edges had stuck through the nightdress like a suicide vest, enough to convince them both she was a threat.

But Cheshire’s bravery would have saved lives. If the old woman had blown at that range, they’d all have died, including the kids. Some belief systems would have encouraged that sacrifice. But Cheshire’s decision to take her out of the room, putting a wall between them, smothering the possible explosion with his body, would have given the rest of them a chance. As it was, he’d still saved the old lady, not that she looked too happy about it. If he hadn’t stopped her, she’d have got a bullet in the face.

If not for his friend, Bull would have been responsible for her death.

And that was something he’d never forget.

39

‘Two serial killers in three months.’ Simon Hunter turned back towards Hawkins from the window. ‘Did you break a mirror, Detective?’