Saxon (33 page)

‘Don’t!’ yelled Saxon. ‘Don’t fucking move, Richard.’

Clarke stopped dead, mid-stride, but still held the chair leg over his head. He seemed to relax for a second, lowering his arm to his side. He dropped the leg to the floor and backed away a step.

‘You don’t seriously think you can stop me with that, thing, do you? There are forces at work here that you can’t possibly comprehend…I can’t die, Paul. You won’t understand this but I am protected from death – until I’ve completed my mission…By all means, shoot if you wish, but it will do you no good, because my time has not come yet. I’ll know when that time comes – and then I will take care of that little task.’

Saxon hauled himself up. He felt dizzy and lurched sideways to lean on the back of an armchair. The room appeared to be moving in circles. He knew that if Clarke rushed him he wouldn’t stand a chance at the moment.
Play for time to get your head clear
. The feeling slowly started to return to his right arm. He kept his gun firmly pointed at Clarke, who walked over to one of the windows. He looked out over the square towards the sea.

He looked back at Saxon. ‘I suppose that idiot lackey of yours, Detective Sergeant Parker, is out there somewhere waiting for you to call for help. But that’s going to be difficult, as I’ve disconnected your telephone – and when I decide to kill you, there will be no time for you to use your mobile phone.’ Saxon thought he saw Clarke smiling – he couldn’t be sure because of the latex distorting his face.

Saxon felt his pockets for his mobile, realising swiftly that it was not there. A quick look around the floor told him that it must be either in the car or that he’d left it his office. What was he to do? His possible options raced through his mind. He had an injured right arm, no means of communication with Parker, or anyone in fact, and he was faced with a man who was physically fit and four inches taller than he.

If only he’d kept a pair of handcuffs in his apartment. He looked around with the chance that he may have something he could tie Clarke up with, but there was nothing. He’d just have to hope Clarke would see reason and just give up. Though, he knew that wouldn’t happen.

Unknown to Saxon, Clarke had taken a carving knife from the kitchen while he lay in wait for Saxon to return. That knife was hidden behind the curtain a few inches from his hand, which was slowly but surely, moving towards it.

Suddenly, Clarke went for it. Saxon, in his concussed state was taken by surprise and was slow to respond. It was an automatic reflex that fired the gun causing his aim to go off centre. The bullet entered Clarke’s right chest just below his collarbone. For a
moment he stood, his eyes staring with disbelief as the blood travelled over his skin, but under the latex. As it spread down towards his waist, he quickly took the knife in his left hand and threw it at Saxon who dived out of the way. In the second it took Saxon to get to his feet, Clarke had disappeared through the door.

Saxon ran after him as fast as the pain in his back would permit. Considering he was running at one speed and Brighton at that moment was moving at a completely different one, he didn’t do too badly, but Clarke was too fast for him. When Saxon burst through the front door and then down the steps and into the square he caught a glimpse of Clarke aggressively pushing some people out of his way. He then climbed into a large estate car and reversed out of the square into the main flow of traffic on the seafront. The wheels screamed – sending clouds of smoke into the air as a van careered into the back of Clarke’s car.

Saxon hesitated to be sure of Clarke’s direction of travel. Then he rushed to his Land Rover and found his mobile.

Parker drove past the entrance to Clarke’s house. He continued along the lane until he found Honeysett’s van. It had to be the right one. It could be a very small hippy commune, or it could be a police surveillance vehicle in disguise. Whoever was inside, Parker needed to know quickly, so he banged his hand on the side. Honeysett poked his head out through the window looking just a bit annoyed.

‘Sergeant, next time please take the time to phone me – rather than give me a sodding heart attack. Now, get your arse in here and take a look at the screen.’

‘Sorry, Inspector,’ he said peering at the monitor. ‘I can see that there is a light on – have you actually seen anyone moving about in the house, or is that it…just a light?’

‘That’s it, but it stands to reason there must be someone in there,’ said Honeysett as if it were the most obvious thing in the
world.

‘Not necessarily,’ muttered Parker. ‘But I’d better take a look.’ Honeysett gave him a pair of night-vision goggles and slipped his own on. ‘Follow me,’ he said, after he locked the van and started to jog off down the lane. He took the same route as on his last visit, with Parker following behind. Soon they were at the side of the house.

The room with the light was the one where Saxon had broken a small pane to let him in. Parker removed his goggles and carefully looked in. When he was satisfied that there was nobody home, he quietly opened the window for a better look. Then he saw what he had suspected. A standard lamp in the far corner – it was the only light burning, and was plugged into a timer switch.

‘Shit,’ said Parker. ‘I had a funny feeling things weren’t going to go smoothly tonight. Did you manage to get Commander Saxon on the phone?’

‘No, I didn’t. All I got was voicemail, and his landline just kept ringing.’

Parker raised his voice. ‘With respect, sir, why the fuck didn’t you call me? And how long, and how many times did you ring him?’

‘Don’t use that tone with me, Sergeant – just remember your rank,’ he said sternly.

‘Fuck my rank – just tell me for Christ’s sake,’ Parker shot back.

‘Well, if you must know, I rang six or seven times over a period of about forty minutes.’

Parker looked up to the stars. ‘And you didn’t think that maybe that’s rather a long time for anyone to take a shower?’ he shouted back as he ran off to his car.

Parker was speeding along the coast road, back to Brighton, with his lights flashing but no siren, when he noticed the car travelling in the opposite direction. The driver had switched his
lights to full-beam and as far as Parker could tell, was veering from one lane to another. He could identify some cars at night by their headlights, and he was sure that it was a Volvo. Traffic could sort that one out. Then he noticed another car close behind it, and he recognised the way the lights were flashing, alternating with the sidelights.

The pit of his stomach churned…could it be…Then his mobile rang.

‘Parker, at last – where are you?’

Relief. Saxon was okay. ‘I’m on the coast road heading back to Brighton.’ He could hear the sound of Saxon’s car in the background. ‘Is that you going the other way – chasing what I thought was a Volvo?’

‘Yes, it’s Clarke – he must have hired it and dumped his own car somewhere. I don’t think there’s much chance of him stopping for us – so let’s stick with him…I think he’s going home.’

Parker found a gap in the central reservation and swung onto the opposite carriageway. Saxon filled him in on the events of the evening as they sped along. Saxon called the control room and asked for backup. He told them not to try to stop the suspect – at least if they let him get to his house, he would have nowhere else to go.

Clarke didn’t stop to open his gates – he crashed through them, sending them flying along the gravel drive. He drove on, too fast for the bends up to the house, ending up skidding across the grass sideways and eventually slowing to a halt at the foot of the steps by the main door.

He fell out of the car – weakened by the loss of blood. Almost every part of his skin underneath the latex was now covered in it. The only place it hadn’t seeped was his left arm. He had no key because they were in his clothes, which he’d left in Saxon’s apartment.

In his rage, he felt no pain; taking a few steps back from the
door, he launched himself at it with all his strength. It took two attempts before the door surrendered with a loud cracking sound and he fell into the hallway. The pain from the gunshot made itself known, causing him to wince as he half crawled across the floor. The hall was big – the door he wanted to get to appeared to move further and further out of reach. He knew he would make it, though…he had to.

Saxon didn’t bother to use the driveway. As his Land Rover was designed to go off-road occasionally, why not make the most of it?

Inspector Honeysett appeared out of nowhere…an action, which could have caused his head to be blown off, if Saxon and Parker had drawn their guns at that moment.

‘Sorry, Commander, I heard what was going on via the radio but by the time I managed to get up here he’d already managed to get inside the house – otherwise I’d have grabbed him.’

They all turned and looked back towards Brighton. From where they stood, they could just make out the flashing blue lights in the distance.

‘Backup’s a good few minutes away yet – it could be too late if we wait for them – let’s go and get him. Believe me, he won’t negotiate,’ said Saxon.

Guns drawn, they walked in through the door. The lights in the hall were off. The only light source available was coming from the headlights of their cars shining through the doorway. To their right, a closed door showed light creeping underneath.

‘That’s the room with the timer switch,’ whispered Honeysett, ‘but that one over there wasn’t lit earlier.’

Straight ahead was the door to the piano room. Saxon and Parker ran forward and stopped either side of the doorway. Honeysett moved forward and gently turned the crystal handle – moving out of the way as the door was allowed to swing open. Saxon cautiously looked into the room, which was dimly lit by a small table lamp on the piano.

The first thing that struck all three of them, as the door opened, was the smell. The smell that greets you every time you stop at a garage for a top-up. Petrol. The floor was flooded with it.

Clarke sat at the piano. He was dripping with petrol. In his hand, he held a lighter, and with his other hand, he was turning all the photographs of his late wife towards the three policemen. He lifted his head slowly and looked at them, barely able to speak through the massive loss of blood. His voice rasped. ‘This is why I did it – to get Helen back…He promised I would have her back, if I sent him enough dirty souls. Do you think I sent enough, Paul?’

Saxon started to move Parker and Honeysett back through the door, and shouted, ‘Down on the floor!’

Clarke flicked the lighter and turned the room into hell – the flash blowing out the windows and a pall of flame shooting through the door and into the hallway. Fortunately, Saxon and his colleagues were well out of the line of fire. When the initial blast had subsided sufficiently, Saxon took a brief look into the room before following the other two out of the house. He couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that Clarke was still sitting at the piano. He appeared to be melting.

Saxon waited around until daylight, as did Parker. The fire brigade did a good job of controlling the fire in time to save vital evidence. Not that there was anyone to arrest. The forensics people started digging up the bodies from the cellar – there were five. They were all identified eventually. All of them were intravenous drug users, who lived rough on the streets of London. All of them were HIV positive – two girls, and three young men.

Parker drove home to his wife and children with a story that he wouldn’t be able to tell the kids, until they were a lot older.

Saxon went home to clean himself up and then dropped into the police station to see Francesca. He woke her up with a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge, causing a great deal of laughter from
the custody sergeant.

She looked up at him, still drowsy, but very pleased to see him.

‘You have a bruise on the side of your face,’ she said, touching his face gently. ’Have you had an interesting night?’

Saxon smiled. ‘You could say that.’

Emma still hadn’t bothered to phone…But what the hell.

A Taste of the next book

GONE

A small crowd had gathered on the beach. They couldn’t see a thing from where they stood. Commander Paul Saxon couldn’t help but wonder why they would want to be there in the first place. Why force yourself to gaze at something so gruesome? It didn’t seem to matter how many policemen over the years repeated the words, “Move along, there’s nothing to see.” They always did want to see. No matter how awful the sight was, they always had to try and see.

Maybe these people had the kind of vision that vultures had – the dead-flesh-seeking kind. Maybe they saw a plume in the sky from miles away, which made them want to circle the prey and then with a bit of luck, maybe even get a peck at it.

The people stood in a tight huddle, like sheep that had been rounded up by dogs. None of them able to think for themselves, just a quick dash forward periodically for a quick peek, a visual peck, because they were nervous of being barked at and sent back behind the invisible line marked out by the policeman’s arms.

Saxon had parked his Land Rover on the boat slipway of Downderry Village, on the south coast of Cornwall, and was more than halfway through the long walk along the beach. It was high tide, which made walking tiresome; at least he would have had some hard sand to walk on if the tide had been out, instead of one-step-forward, half-a-step-back shingle.

Black Headed Gulls screamed overhead as if trying to frighten the people below away, so they could hack away at the corpse. After all, they probably saw it first – and anything washed up on the beach was lunch as far as they were concerned.

It took almost ten minutes to reach Bass Rock, but there was not much point in complaining – the sea isn’t fussy where she
gives up her dead and certainly not helpful to policemen. Saxon had to climb over Bass Rock and down the other side into a deceptively large bay. From his vantage point on the rock, the bay appeared small but that was an illusion caused by the vast cliffs towering over the beach. Two hundred yards further on stood the two small crowds of people. One crowd standing around a body, and the other crowd trying to get closer to the body.

Saxon approached the person who seemed to be in charge and started to take out his warrant card. The man didn’t give him a chance to speak.

‘Please, sir, just go away and stand over there with the other ghouls. We are a bit busy in case you hadn’t noticed.’ The man turned to one of the uniforms and told him to get rid of the intruder. Saxon held his ID in the face of the constable, who stopped dead. ‘Inspector Warrender, I think you had better take a look at this gentleman’s, I mean, commander’s warrant card.’

The magic words “warrant card” and “commander” had the usual effect. Warrender turned abruptly. ‘Who are you then?’ he said as he read the card. ‘Oh, sorry, Commander, I didn’t realise – my superintendent never told me you’d be coming.’

Saxon smiled, ‘Superintendents can be a pain sometimes.’

He took a closer look at Saxon’s ID, as he shook hands with him. ‘I’ve heard of the Serial Crimes Unit. I guess the name speaks for itself.’

‘Yes, we’re based in New Scotland Yard; we keep our eyes peeled for any suspicious deaths nationwide that could be linked. Most of our time is spent looking at computer screens – until we find a case that interests us of course.’ Saxon paused to take in the scenery, then he continued, ‘I understand that this is the fourth body you’ve had washed up around here in the last two months. You could say, that whoever’s doing it, could be developing a taste for his hobby – wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?’

‘I have to agree, it’s starting to look that way. But I have a question for you, Commander…why can’t they leave it to us to
sort out? It’s a bit demeaning to have you people appearing out of nowhere to give us a hand – with respect, sir, I think we can cope quite well on our own…No offence intended,’ he added nervously.

‘None taken, Inspector. Tell me – how many serial killers have you or your squad traced, or even come into contact with in the last ten years?’

Warrender hesitated, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, none actually.’

‘Okay, case rested – can we take a look at the body now?’

Inspector Charles Warrender was a tall, dark-haired man, in his mid-thirties with a wind-dried face and a year-round tan. He wore a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, which gave him more the appearance of a schoolmaster rather than a police inspector.

He led the way to the body, which had been dragged a short distance up the beach and covered with plastic. He nodded to one of the uniforms to pull back the sheet.

‘Brace yourself, Commander – he’s not very pretty.’

Saxon put on a pair of rubber gloves and knelt down beside the body. Warrender was right. The man was bloated and wouldn’t have been recognisable to his own mother. His mouth was open, making it obvious that his teeth had been pulled out. A patch of skin had been neatly cut from his right forearm. His hands were missing. He was trussed up like a pig for the BBQ, but his ties had come loose and he had popped to the surface.

Warrender crouched down next to Saxon. ‘The others were in the same sort of condition. We’ve still got the bodies in the morgue, and if you think he looks bad – wait until you see the others. All of them have a severe wound to the back of the head.’

‘Shot?’

‘No, the pathologist reckons…’