Nicholson had telephoned the Frenchmen immediately after he’d got a visit from Denton CID. He was seething with anger, even throwing the phone receiver to the floor mid-conversation. After enduring a full minute of ranting, cursing and phone abuse Charles had the gist of the argument: Nicholson could not understand why the police were on to Palmer’s disappearance so soon, and the only explanation was that someone had ratted on him, him in particular. In short, he believed Charles and Gaston had put the police on his trail.
Charles had asked what the police had actually said, which triggered another string of expletives, from which he deduced that one detective had been black and the other female, although these weren’t quite the terms Nicholson had used. His suspicions were aroused because the policeman didn’t say why he wanted Palmer, just that he was wanted in connection with their enquiries. Nicholson kept mentioning some fellow called Baskin, who Charles recalled vaguely from the conversation over supper on Saturday night, and another called Game (the latter Charles had never heard of). Thinking of the dinner party, Charles then suggested tentatively it might be in connection with Daley’s arrest. This was news to Nicholson, and the villain burst into frightening and seemingly uncontrollable laughter. Anyway, the deal was off; Nicholson was going to drop the murder weapons in the centre of town, and wished them both luck. It was at this moment Charles’s decision was made to leave the country. They were driving out of Denton and heading west with the Stubbs painting, removed from its frame, hidden above the Citroën’s roof lining.
Gaston asked for the umpteenth time, ‘What was it he said again?’
Charles sighed. ‘He said: “Miss Daley, yes. Well, she may be guilty of many things, stupidity being one of them. But she won’t be the one Denton police will be after for Marty. See you soon, boys!” Then he hung up.’
‘Can’t you drive this crapheap any faster?’ Gaston urged anxiously.
‘Yes, yes … Fear not, they won’t come this way looking for us – they’ll expect us to head for the South Coast and France.’
‘I curse the day we ever came to this piss-drenched excuse for a country,’ Gaston muttered, frowning at the road atlas on his lap. ‘What on earth is this place – Fishguard?’
France was out of the question for now. It would be the first place the police would go looking. It was a ferry from Wales and then a spell in Ireland for them, staying with Charles’s sister. Ireland. Charles sighed. It might be a bleak godforsaken bogland peopled with half-drunk peasants gabbling away in a peculiar, impenetrable dialect, but at least they were to be lauded for their fierce hatred of the English.
Tuesday (5)
Frost poked his head gingerly round the trees.
‘That’s Nicholson’s motor, all right,’ he said, having spied a black Mercedes alongside a white van.
‘It’s a bit out of the way,’ Clarke said, concerned. She should know, the amount of time she’d spent out here, just her and a bored technical surveillance officer. ‘Don’t you think we should call for back-up?’
‘Probably.’ She might be right. Frost was surprised to find Nicholson here – Waters had described him as cocky to the point of insulting, which Frost recognized as the manner of one who considered himself above suspicion. However, perhaps his bravado was a bluff, even the pointed reference to Kelsey. If Nicholson was guilty of Game’s disappearance and he knew the police had discovered he was missing, of course he’d scarper down to clear the warehouse. Frost saw he’d been foolish to think he could just casually mosey on down here – the solicitor’s this morning must’ve scrambled his thinking. Everything pointed to this being one dangerous individual; Frost felt very uneasy.
A woman appeared, bustling backwards out of a side door with a stack of white cardboard boxes. She was about thirty feet away from where they stood behind the trees. She made for the Mercedes.
‘Who’s that?’ Clarke whispered.
‘No idea.’
‘Are you sure that’s Nicholson’s car?’
‘A black Mercedes is a black Mercedes,’ he replied quietly. Judging from the printed labels, the boxes contained VCRs. The woman loaded them into the car and opened the driver’s door.
‘Might as well make a move, before she drives off.’
‘Wait!’ Frost hissed as Clarke moved forward and into the woman’s view. She had not got into the car, but instead had retrieved something from the door pocket. She pushed the car door to, and confronted Clarke as she pulled her badge from her sheepskin. Frost hesitated, wondering whether to reveal himself, then stepped back as the woman called out to someone behind her.
A tall man appeared from behind the white van, dusting off his hands. Nicholson. Frost could see Clarke flinch. Don’t look for me, he mouthed. She didn’t. The man approached Clarke slowly, all the while scrutinizing the surroundings, looking for her partner. Frost hunkered down in the undergrowth. Nicholson stopped only inches from Clarke – she held her badge high, but he ignored the ID and instead gripped her wrist and twisted her arm tightly behind her back. Clarke buckled and fell to the ground. Frost winced and turned away, his cheek touching cold grass. Think, think, he urged himself. If he rushed in he might never find out the pair’s intentions – and possibly put Clarke and himself in more danger.
He looked up; the woman was now standing over Clarke holding a pistol. Nicholson had disappeared from view. This was serious – Frost was unarmed and Clarke’s life was now at risk. Frost pulled himself to his feet, but remained behind the trees, cautious. Could he reason with them? He doubted it – they had the advantage, being at this remote location. The Sierra was sixty feet behind him; could he make a dash for it? But what could he really do? They were, as Sue said, miles from anywhere. Nicholson reappeared from behind the transit, carrying two jerrycans. Frost’s pulse raced as the woman shoved Clarke with the butt of the gun towards the warehouse door. He could see in an instant what was about to happen; he scrambled in a panic for the Sierra.
As Frost, on hands and knees, recited the Mercedes registration and their location into the police radio, he prayed he had enough time.
Waters halted, half out of the Vauxhall, at the visitors’ entrance to Denton Woods. He’d just caught the tail end of an alert from Eagle Lane and turned to tug the radio cord. ‘Control, give me that again.’
‘Inspector Frost called an all-cars to pull over a black Mercedes last seen leaving Fir Tree Lane out by the village of Rainham. And for the fire service to attend a warehouse off Fir Tree Lane.’
‘And Jack himself?’ Waters watched the Forensics men carry large plastic containers through the trees towards the crime scene and winced. ‘Don’t move anything!’ he hollered after them. ‘Control – are you sure he’s all right?’
‘He didn’t say. He just gave an alert to stop a car. Registration: Tango November Tango three five four X-ray. Exercise extreme caution, suspect is armed.’
For Frost to put in a call like that, and not tackle the culprits himself – he hated using uniform – was strange. Had something happened? ‘Unusual,’ he said, unintentionally aloud.
‘Yes. Superintendent Mullett was jumpy at the mention of firearms,’ answered the voice at Eagle Lane. ‘He wanted more details, but the inspector has gone off air.’
‘Come on, Sergeant!’ the Forensics officer in overalls called out, standing amongst the trees with an empty plastic container, poised for action. Waters was concerned, but there was nothing he could do out here. He figured Frost was big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself. He chucked the handset on the seat and jogged over to the two Forensics men.
Not far from the path were several coal sacks, wrapped in plastic. One of them had been torn.
‘Fox, probably,’ the young Forensics officer said, reading his mind. Waters knelt down. Inside was what could only be described as a bloody mess. ‘Could have been a badger,’ the officer continued, ‘although something bigger would have probably carried this off when startled.’
‘This?’ The Forensics
man pointed at something in the long grass. Waters turned and grimaced at the podgy hand lying there, still with a heavy gold bracelet around the wrist. ‘Nice.’ He crouched down and, with a pen, nudged the hand over to reveal the identity plaque on the bracelet, with the word Pumpy engraved on it.
Waters propelled himself up and said, ‘Whoever did this didn’t seem too concerned with hiding this guy’s identity – or taking much trouble to hide the remains.’
‘Yes, they’re practically on the path,’ a man in a Barbour said.
‘Who are you?’ Waters asked. He hadn’t previously noticed the two men in green standing back from the path.
‘I’m Marcus Archibald,’ answered the first one, a large, serious-looking man with a moustache.
‘And I’m Patrick.’ His shorter companion beamed. ‘Drink?’ he said, offering a hip flask.
‘Thanks,’ Waters said uncertainly. He realized these were the two who had stumbled across the remains. He took a gulp of whisky, stepping aside to let the Forensics men move in, as the liquid burned his throat. ‘And what are you doing here?’
‘Looking for the Lesser Spotted,’ said Marcus.
‘You what?’
‘Woodpecker,’ Patrick chimed in, taking a slug from the flask.
‘These gents are birdwatchers,’ the Forensics man explained.
‘Of course,’ replied Waters, eyeing them curiously. ‘Well, be careful where you “watch”.’ Turning his attention to Maltby, the crime scenes doctor, who was himself drinking from the flask, Waters asked, ‘How fresh, Doc?’
Frost spun the car backwards. He could smell petrol even from this distance. The Mercedes had sped off. He didn’t have a great distance to gather a run-up. There was a sharp turn through the trees along the lane and then an area of 300 square yards for loading and unloading. The warehouse was of wooden construction, with old-fashioned barn-style doors, fifteen feet high.
He revved the engine, determined but doubtful. The flames were already licking the upper reaches of the main doors. The small office window and the door that Nicholson and the girl had exited from were already consumed with fire. If he left it any longer they’d both perish. He released the clutch, and the Sierra shot towards the flaming warehouse. At the moment of impact Frost on reflex shut his eyes. The doors gave with a splintering crack and he found himself inside a dark warehouse. He leapt from the car.
The space was quickly filling with smoke and it clawed at Frost’s throat as he scrabbled around frantically; he’d hoped to see Clarke right away in the glare of the Sierra’s headlights but all he could make out was an empty, cavernous shell. The office – she must be in the office. There was a prefabricated structure within the main shell of the building to the right of the doors. It looked to be totally engulfed by fire. He ran, choking, towards the small door – it was open. The office was thick with smoke; Frost ran in and was almost overcome – but the room was tiny and Clarke obviously wasn’t there. Maybe he’d got it wrong? He’d jumped to the conclusion that Nicholson would leave her to perish in the torched building. Where was she? He ran back into the main building. Did they take her with them? he thought in alarm.
He ran towards the far wall, away from the car. The corners of the warehouse were shrouded in smoky darkness and it was only when he got closer that he discerned feet thrashing about underneath a stack of cardboard boxes. He charged over to find a bound Sue Clarke struggling to free herself. Panic in her eyes switched to relief. He freed her quickly by severing the ropes with his penknife. As she pulled him to her desperately, the fuel tank on the Sierra blew, and with it the entire front entrance: doors, wall, the lot.
Superintendent Mullett stood on the front steps of Eagle Lane police station before the press and television cameras. The divisional commander opened his speech with confidence and authority, and felt he had solid justification for doing so. There had never been such a fine result in Denton in such a timescale, certainly not in his tenure. Daley’s capture was a credit to him and to Eagle Lane.
For once he found he need not dodge questions, and could answer frankly and openly. That was until a blasted siren cut him off mid-sentence. The fire brigade, and it seemed to be getting closer. Heavens, he cursed, looking over the assembly of press and camera crews, what was the meaning of this? There was no visible sign of an emergency in the vicinity. He was losing his audience’s attention as the vehicle neared the police station.
A green car screeched to a halt, narrowly missing a BBC van. Waters? Seconds later the fire engine arrived. Out climbed Frost and Clarke. By now all attention was on them. But Frost didn’t stop – the newly promoted inspector hopped into Waters’ vehicle, and after a cursory wave in Mullett’s direction, shot off again. The sheer audacity; what on earth was he playing at? The sirens were silenced, and the press were now engaged in attempting to interview the fire crew.
‘Excuse me?’ Mullett beckoned to his audience, tapping the microphone. But he couldn’t regain their attention, in fact, quite the opposite – some were packing away hurriedly and jumping in their cars.
DC Clarke limped up the steps looking rather haggard.
‘Clarke!’ Mullett buttonholed her as she passed. ‘A rather dramatic entrance? Where have you been – and more importantly, where’s everyone off to?’
‘Uniform have cornered Nicholson,’ she said wearily. He caught a waft of some familiar smell as she passed by.
‘Nicholson? Who on earth is Nicholson?’
‘A man who tried to burn me alive.’
Petrol. He realized he could smell petrol, but before he could ask more, Clarke had entered the building.
‘It’s a stand-off, Jack – says he’ll shoot the woman.’ Waters handed over the binoculars. ‘You know, I recognize that girl from somewhere.’
‘Her name is Rachel Rayner. I think you went to see her?’
Uniform had Nicholson and Rayner trapped at a railway crossing on a seldom-used lane out towards the hamlet of Two Bridges. Frost’s alarm call had been acted on quickly, and the Mercedes was spotted entering Denton. Why they were headed towards Denton was a mystery, but their direction played straight into the police’s hands, and after a short pursuit, they were caught on the town outskirts as an express train rocketed through Denton. The lane was bordered by dense hedgerow, and with the barrier down the pair had nowhere to run. Nicholson, in a fit of desperation, had turned a gun on his partner. The stalemate had started almost an hour ago, even before Sue Clarke had guided herself and Frost out of the blazing warehouse. (Had Nicholson known it was her on surveillance duty of the site he would probably have shot her there and then – she’d done a thorough job, and knew all the entrances and exits of the building.)
‘Rachel Rayner? Yeah, I remember her,’ Waters said. ‘I interviewed her the afternoon after Harry got shot; Coconut Grove manager or something.’
‘That’s the girl,’ Frost confirmed. ‘Here, what are that lot doing here?’
Waters turned to see the armed response unit crawl stealthily through the drainage ditch and ease themselves through the hedgerow.
‘He has a gun, Jack, protocol dictates.’
‘Only as a last resort. Who put the call in?’
‘Hey, I was with you, remember? They’re from Rimmington – we’re almost on their turf.’
‘He won’t do it.’ Frost shrugged and started to move forward. ‘I just saw them drive off after torching that warehouse. They’re in it together.’
‘I don’t doubt they are, mate, but wait.’ Waters touched his colleague’s sleeve, frowning through the murky drizzle. ‘I’m not so sure he wouldn’t shoot. I think he knocks her around.’
‘What makes you say that? Just because he killed Game and probably Palmer, doesn’t mean he’d shoot his own missus.’ Frost looked at him quizzically. ‘Though I was often tempted myself in the past, admittedly.’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work.’ Waters dragged on his cigarette, the tip fizzling slightly in the damp. ‘When I saw Rayner
she was heavily made up, you know, the way some women are more because they have to than want to.’
‘I see.’ Frost adjusted his mac. ‘Well, even so, I got to give it a go.’ And with that he walked slowly beyond the police line towards the man who was holding a gun to his own woman’s head.
Waters watched through the binoculars. As Frost drew nearer to the pair he pulled his hands out of his mac and held them at head level to indicate he was unarmed. Nicholson clutched Rayner firmly by the neck, an automatic pistol pressed to her temple. She looked terrified. This is going to go badly, Waters thought to himself.
As Frost approached down the centre of the road, Nicholson shifted the gun away from Rayner and pointed it at him. Through the binoculars Waters could see the crazed expression on his face; Nicholson looked fierce and desperate. He’s going to do it. Waters felt anxiety crawl all over his body. He wanted to shout out, to run out to Frost who had stopped only yards away from the gunman. The DI had his back to the police support, so Waters was unable to guess what he was saying, but whatever it was, it appeared not to be working. Nicholson became even more agitated, spitting out what Waters could only surmise were angry demands for freedom. The gun barrel was no more than a few feet from Frost’s head. But then, Nicholson’s expression changed; a smile crept across his face and he spun the gun round in his hand and tossed it into the road.
‘Jesus H!’ Waters exclaimed softly to himself as he lowered the binoculars.
Two marksmen stepped out from the bushes and moved towards Nicholson who’d slumped back against the Merc, hands held above his head.
Frost turned round, lighting a cigarette, and shrugged at Waters as the girl careened past him screaming hysterically. Waters jogged up to his pal standing on his own in the middle of the road.
‘What did you say to that maniac to change his mind?’
Frost shrugged again. ‘Not much. I told him everyone thought he was going to kill his girlfriend anyway; we knew he beat her up and didn’t give a toss about her.’