Road Closed (34 page)

‘Don’t move!’ Callum shouted. ‘Come here.’ Ian froze. ‘Come over here or I’ll –’ He pointed the knife at Brenda’s eye. ‘I’ll have her eye out.’

Suddenly Brenda became alert to the danger. ‘Cal, what are you doing?’ She stared at the point of the blade, centimetres from her eye. Callum drew the edge of the knife slowly down her cheek leaving a fine line, brilliant red against her pale skin. ‘Cal? What are you doing?’ Brenda’s voice rose in a whine of fear.

‘Sharp as a razor,’ Callum said. ‘Come here.’ Ian took one small step forward. Callum placed the knife at Brenda’s throat again. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Ian couldn’t hear what he said. ‘Come over here or she gets
it,’ Callum repeated. Ian inched closer. He considered taking a sudden leap to catch the bastard off guard, but it was too risky. The blade was pressing into Brenda’s flesh.

Callum’s head jerked up suddenly, staring past Ian’s shoulder at the door. Ian hesitated and glanced in the mirror to his right, taking his eyes off the couple on the bed. In that instant, Callum released Brenda. ‘Now!’ he shouted. He flung himself off the bed towards the sergeant. At the same time Brenda launched herself at his legs.

Ian fell to the floor with a crash.

60

Home

There was a fire at Raymond Barker’s house. He should have died. That would have been just. Tom had perished in fire but Raymond Barker had walked away, alive. The police detective had told Sophie about it. ‘Raymond Barker’s not dead. He’s in hospital, badly injured, but he’s not dead.’

In a frenzy, Sophie drove to the hospital. ‘I’m here to see Raymond Barker,’ she told the woman at reception. The woman didn’t even look up. ‘Raymond Barker,’ Sophie repeated, wondering if the other woman had heard her. It was difficult to control her impatience. ‘I’m here to see Raymond Barker. I need to speak to him.’ She was entitled to that at least.

‘Which ward is he in?’

‘I don’t know.’

The woman on reception tapped at her keyboard. ‘Barker, you said?’

‘Yes. Raymond Barker.’

The woman nodded at her screen. ‘Raymond Barker. He’s in Shannon Ward on the second floor. But he’s –’ Sophie didn’t wait to hear the rest. She followed the signs and made her way up a cold stone staircase to a landing on the second floor where swing doors led to Shannon Ward.

The corridor was empty. Sophie approached the nurse on the desk. ‘I’m looking for Raymond Barker.’ The nurse looked up. Sophie smiled at her. ‘He’s my nephew. I want to see him for myself. My mum’s really upset.’ She held her breath, waiting.

The nurse lowered her eyes. ‘Third door along,’ she said, adding, ‘the one with a police guard on the door.’ Sophie swung round and looked along the corridor. A young policeman in uniform was standing outside one of the rooms. She hesitated before slipping along the corridor, out of sight of the nurse’s desk. She had come so close. The policeman ruined everything.

Sophie counted to a hundred before turning round to scurry back out of the ward. The nurse was talking on the phone and paid no attention to Sophie as she passed by the desk again.

Sophie knew she couldn’t stay at the motel indefinitely, but she couldn’t go home even if she had wanted to. The house was uninhabitable. The doctor had advised her to take a holiday. The police had told her not to go away without letting them know where she was going. It was all so confusing. She sat in her car outside the house that had once been her home, wondering what to do. She hardly recognised it. The windows were boarded up and there were ugly black streaks down the walls. She didn’t dare think what it might look like inside. The key turned in the ignition. The engine revved. A sudden yearning wrenched at her guts. She switched the engine off and slipped out of the car.

Walking up the path, Sophie felt like an intruder. The house was unrecognisable. She had to remind herself it belonged to her. The key turned stiffly in the lock. Inside, she looked around, surprised. The hall was very dark. All the windows had been boarded up. She walked straight past the doorway that led to the dining room and kitchen. She tried not to look but her eyes were drawn to the gaping hole where the door had been. The dining room was smothered in feathery grey soot and ash. A horrible stench of burning assailed her, making her nauseous. She turned away quickly and hurried up the stairs, pinching her nose, trying to block out the smell. It was no use. The scent of death was everywhere.

The landing was a mess of ash and scorch marks. The upstairs of the house was otherwise relatively undamaged. A fine layer of soot lay everywhere but the rooms were familiar, furniture intact and in position, waiting for her and Tom to walk through the door. As if in a dream, she made her way to the bedroom. The room was dark.

Sophie turned on the light. Nothing happened. She sank down on the bed. It felt very soft after the hard mattress at the motel. She felt around for the switch on her bedside lamp. That didn’t work either. The electricity must have been turned off after the fire. No one had thought to switch it on again. Perhaps it was down to her to contact the electricity board. There was no one else to do it. She sat quite still, thinking, for a long time. Then she seized her bag, and emptied it over the bed. Make up, purse, mirror, keys, diary and comb flew out.

Sophie picked up a large box of matches. She swept everything else on to the floor. With her eyes tightly shut, she lay down on the bed, clutching the box of matches to her chest.

61

Arrest

Ian lay on his back, dazed. He was vaguely aware of Brenda kneeling on one of his legs. Her bony knees dug painfully into his shin. She was pummelling his other leg ineffectually with her fists. Tears streaked her cheeks, mingling with blood oozing from the cut on her cheek. She was gabbling loudly. Ian couldn’t make any sense of her gibberish. He felt curiously calm. Brenda kept repeating the same words. It sounded like, ‘Kill the snake, kill the snake.’ Callum was holding one of Ian’s arms down, and kneeling on the other. Ian couldn’t see Callum’s other hand. He could feel the point of a knife, pressing against his throat, the blade contaminated with Brenda’s blood. He hoped it wouldn’t pierce his skin.

The floor beneath them vibrated. Callum turned his head to look round at the door. Ian saw flecks of dandruff in his captor’s hair and smiled. ‘Gotcha,’ he thought. Heavy footsteps pounded along the corridor outside. He heard the DI’s voice barking orders. With a flash of relief, Ian regained full consciousness of where he was. He wasn’t alone. Geraldine would release him from the madwoman whose knees were digging into his leg and the psychopath holding a knife at his throat. Ian swallowed nervously. Despite all his training, he was finding it hard to think clearly. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

‘Back!’ Callum screamed. Ian saw thick white spittle gathered at the corners of his lips and smelt his stale breath. ‘Back or he gets it.’ Ian wrenched his head sharply to one side, away from Martin’s stinking breath. A face was staring
at him, cloudy in the mirror. Distracted by the pain in his leg, it hadn’t occurred to him that he was about to die until that moment. He studied Geraldine’s face, her eyes stretched wide in fear. For him. He felt a thrill of terror. Then Brenda’s knee caught him in the groin, dangerously close to his balls. He winced. He twisted his head until he could see Geraldine’s face in the doorway. She glanced at him then took a slow step forward, her eyes on Callum. Ian kept his gaze fixed on her.

‘Think about what you’re doing, Callum,’ she said. Her voice was calm. Only her eyes betrayed her terror. ‘You don’t want to go down for murdering a police officer in cold blood. There’s no way you could argue this was an accident.’

‘What murder? Who’s a murderer?’ Brenda asked. She sounded panicky. She stopped punching Ian’s legs and sat back on her heels. Ian breathed more freely. He concentrated on Geraldine.

‘Shut it,’ Callum told Brenda. ‘Just shut up, you stupid cow, I need to think.’

‘I need the toilet, Cal,’ Brenda whined. Callum’s eyes flicked at her in annoyance. In that instant, Geraldine shouted. ‘Go!’ Ian kicked out as hard as he could and jerked his head to avoid the knife. Martin’s elbow caught Ian on the side of his head. Geraldine threw herself at Martin who fell across Ian’s legs, pinning him to the floor. Brenda disappeared underneath Martin.

Two uniformed officers rushed in, yanked Callum to his feet and cuffed him, spitting and swearing. Ian pulled himself out from beneath Brenda and crawled to the bed where he hauled himself to his feet. His neck felt sore where he had twisted it violently, his legs were bruised and his shoulders ached from contact with the floor. Catching the expression on Geraldine’s face he looked down. His shirt was soaked with blood. He frowned. Gingerly he felt his chest and abdomen before he registered that Brenda was lying on the floor. She wasn’t moving.

‘It’s Brenda,’ he gasped, ‘Brenda’s blood on my shirt.’ He dropped to his knees beside the wounded woman. The front of Brenda’s blouse was drenched in blood. One of the constables was already on the phone summoning urgent medical assistance. Ian explored Brenda’s injury. Geraldine pulled a sheet from the bed and pressed it, bunched up and grubby, against Brenda’s chest. The wounded woman moaned.

‘You get your hands off her. Leave her alone,’ Callum shouted.

‘They’re trying to save her life,’ one of the constables told him.

‘She’s all right,’ Callum told him. ‘Brenda.’ There was no answer. ‘Bren!’ Brenda stared up at him. Slowly her eyes fixed on him.

Her lips moved. ‘Callum.’ Blood frothed on her lips. ‘Cal… what…’

‘Sharp as a razor,’ Ian said softly.

Geraldine pressed the makeshift wad of material against Brenda’s chest. Ian straightened himself up, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders. Cuffed and shaking, Callum Martin stood staring down at Brenda. ‘Callum Martin, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Evelyn Green, Thomas Cliff, Margaret Palmer, Albert Cartwright and Brenda –’ Ian paused, frowning. ‘What’s her other name?’ Callum didn’t reply. He watched as Geraldine tried to resuscitate Brenda.

‘No pulse, she’s in shock, she’s lost a lot of blood. Where the hell’s the medics?’ Geraldine asked. ‘I think we’re losing her.’

‘She was drugged up to her eyeballs,’ Ian said helplessly. ‘She wouldn’t have felt a thing.’

‘Bren…’ Callum said. His voice broke.

‘Oh take him away, for fuck’s sake,’ Geraldine snapped.

They drove back to the station in silence. Ian did his best not to limp as they entered the building. Embarrassed, he felt the desk sergeant’s eyes on him as he crossed the lobby. He hurried to the toilet and was shocked at his appearance, face streaked with dirt and sweat, hands and cheeks splattered
with blood. Not his own. He washed himself thoroughly, wary of infection. With his face splashed clean with cold water and his hair combed, he didn’t look so bad. He couldn’t bear to put his shirt on again. In any case, it would be needed as evidence. He rummaged in his locker and found a jacket. He looked a mess but, apart from some nasty bruising, he was unhurt. He had suffered worse injuries on the football pitch.

Ryder was waiting for them in his office. His face was taut with anger. No attempt at explanation appeared to satisfy him that Ian hadn’t been rash in exposing herself to Callum Martin’s assault.

‘You let him walk in there, alone –’ he bellowed at Geraldine.

‘I wasn’t alone, sir. The DI was with me.’

‘As I understand it,’ Ryder glanced down at a statement on his desk, ‘Geraldine was co-ordinating a rescue party to get you out of there.’ Geraldine grinned as Ian’s eyebrows shot up in indignation.

‘Is something amusing you, Geraldine?’

‘No, sir.’

‘There is no possible excuse for your conduct,’ the DCI continued. As he spoke, a terrible thought struck Ian. He was going to be disciplined. The DCI was going to recommend he be demoted to constable, or worse, put him back in uniform.

‘Sir,’ he interrupted. ‘Would you at least read my report before reaching any conclusions about how you intend to proceed?’

‘How I intend to proceed?’ the DCI exploded.

‘It’s hardly fair to discipline me before you know what happened.’

‘Discipline you? Why would I discipline you? You weren’t the officer in charge.’

Ian took a deep breath. This was all going horribly wrong. He stepped forward. ‘It was my decision, sir. I went in there
on my own initiative. I wasn’t…’ he paused, ‘I wasn’t acting on instructions from the DI. If there’s any blame…’

‘I was responsible,’ Geraldine interrupted him firmly.

The DCI’s face went red. ‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded. ‘I’m working with a pair of bloody lemmings. And what makes you think you don’t both deserve to be disciplined for putting an officer at risk? As for how I intend to proceed, I’ll tell you exactly what my intentions are, and I don’t need to see your report, or anybody’s bloody report, to help me make up my mind. I intend to see Callum Martin behind bars for the rest of his life and I will need your full reports on my desk before you do anything else, and certainly before you leave today, if it takes you all night. After which, I’m ordering you,’ he pointed at Peterson, ‘to take a week off, and get yourself to the doctor.’ He paused before adding more quietly, ‘on second thoughts, you’d better get those injuries seen to first, before you do anything else, Sergeant. That means now!’

‘Yes sir.’ With a quick glance at Geraldine, Peterson hobbled from the room.

62

Realisation

Over breakfast the following morning Geraldine tried to shut out the horror of the previous day by thinking about Craig. She told herself she wasn’t disappointed about the end of their affair. He was right to call it a day before they became too seriously involved. She had been naïve, allowing herself to hope they might have a future together. She couldn’t blame him for backing out – they’d had a good time, that was all. Craig was the wrong man. They had met at the wrong time. She just hoped she would meet the right man at the right time, whatever that meant. In the meantime, she had her work.