abductor. He hadn’t recognized her – she was striking with those long black tresses and plump pink lips – so why had she chosen them? Was this some sick reality TV joke? Would someone jump out soon and reveal the gun to be full of blanks? The tone of her voice on the phone suggested otherwise. She wanted blood.
Ben started to cry. There had been so much bloodshed in his life already that it seemed the ultimate cruelty to end his days like this.
Now. Why not? Just to see if Peter is dead or not. He looks dead, so where would be the harm?
‘Peter? … Peter?’
Ben eased himself to his feet. It was impossible to do it quietly, so he did it ostentatiously loudly. Stretching and yawning, he said:
‘I’m going to have to take a shit, Peter. Sorry.’
Nothing.
Ben took a step towards the gun. Then another.
‘Did you hear me, Peter?’
Ben bent down slowly. His ankle joint clicked – the noise echoing around the silo, bugger it – and he paused. Then slowly, quietly, he picked up the gun. He shot a glance at Peter, expecting him to rear up in alarm, but he didn’t. He wished he would. At least then it would be a fight.
The safety catch was obvious, so he released it. Then he pointed the gun at Peter’s back. No, not like that. He might miss. Or just injure him. Fuck knows what a ricochet might do in this metal can. Kill them both? Yeah, that would be a good joke.
Stop prevaricating. Ben took a step closer.
‘Peter?’
He really is dead. Still, he’d better do it to make sure. To make sure he gets out. And suddenly a thought of Jennie flitted through his mind. His fiancée. Who’ll be in pieces. Who he’ll see soon. Who’ll forgive him. Of course she’ll forgive him. He only did what had to be done. What anyone would have done.
Another step closer.
Ben lowered the gun so the barrel was almost resting on the back of Peter’s head. This is it, he thought, and began to squeeze the trigger. Which was when Peter suddenly reared up, driving a metal splint right through Ben’s left eye.
21
Helen never made it to the gym. As soon as she stepped into the incident room Charlie collared her. The chirpy DC had her serious face on. After a brief, hushed conversation, the pair marched straight out again. ‘Lesbian night at the gym,’ DC Bridges quipped, trying but failing to hide the fact that he fancied the pants off the very heterosexual Charlie.
Helen and Charlie bustled their way through the city centre traffic to the Forensics Unit. The five-minute journey could take twenty-five at rush hour and with Christmas shoppers and revellers flooding Southampton, today was going to be one of those days. Office party season was in full swing. Helen snarled in frustration at the coaches clogging up the bus lanes. She stuck on the blues and twos and begrudgingly a way was cleared for her. She sped away, ploughing straight through a freshly deposited pool of vomit – spraying the surprised culprit in the process. Charlie suppressed a smile.
Ben Holland’s Silver Lexus was up on the stand and awaiting inspection when Helen and Charlie entered the Forensics Unit. Sally Stewart, stalwart of the unit, was waiting for them.
‘Charlie’s already talked you through the basics, but I thought you should see this for yourself.’
They walked underneath the car and looked up. Sally shone her pen torch at the rear-right wheel arch.
‘Pretty dirty as you’d expect, given the amount of miles your driver did every week. But this wheel arch looks – and smells – dirtier than all the others. Why? Because it’s been marinated in petrol.’
She gestured them out again and once they were all clear, Sally lowered the car so it was almost at eye level.
‘Here’s why.’
Assisted by her deputy, Sally carefully eased the wing off the right side of the vehicle. The innards of the prestige car were duly revealed and now Sally’s torch zeroed in on the petrol tank. Helen’s eyes widened.
‘The fuel tank has been
Ben started to cry. There had been so much bloodshed in his life already that it seemed the ultimate cruelty to end his days like this.
Now. Why not? Just to see if Peter is dead or not. He looks dead, so where would be the harm?
‘Peter? … Peter?’
Ben eased himself to his feet. It was impossible to do it quietly, so he did it ostentatiously loudly. Stretching and yawning, he said:
‘I’m going to have to take a shit, Peter. Sorry.’
Nothing.
Ben took a step towards the gun. Then another.
‘Did you hear me, Peter?’
Ben bent down slowly. His ankle joint clicked – the noise echoing around the silo, bugger it – and he paused. Then slowly, quietly, he picked up the gun. He shot a glance at Peter, expecting him to rear up in alarm, but he didn’t. He wished he would. At least then it would be a fight.
The safety catch was obvious, so he released it. Then he pointed the gun at Peter’s back. No, not like that. He might miss. Or just injure him. Fuck knows what a ricochet might do in this metal can. Kill them both? Yeah, that would be a good joke.
Stop prevaricating. Ben took a step closer.
‘Peter?’
He really is dead. Still, he’d better do it to make sure. To make sure he gets out. And suddenly a thought of Jennie flitted through his mind. His fiancée. Who’ll be in pieces. Who he’ll see soon. Who’ll forgive him. Of course she’ll forgive him. He only did what had to be done. What anyone would have done.
Another step closer.
Ben lowered the gun so the barrel was almost resting on the back of Peter’s head. This is it, he thought, and began to squeeze the trigger. Which was when Peter suddenly reared up, driving a metal splint right through Ben’s left eye.
21
Helen never made it to the gym. As soon as she stepped into the incident room Charlie collared her. The chirpy DC had her serious face on. After a brief, hushed conversation, the pair marched straight out again. ‘Lesbian night at the gym,’ DC Bridges quipped, trying but failing to hide the fact that he fancied the pants off the very heterosexual Charlie.
Helen and Charlie bustled their way through the city centre traffic to the Forensics Unit. The five-minute journey could take twenty-five at rush hour and with Christmas shoppers and revellers flooding Southampton, today was going to be one of those days. Office party season was in full swing. Helen snarled in frustration at the coaches clogging up the bus lanes. She stuck on the blues and twos and begrudgingly a way was cleared for her. She sped away, ploughing straight through a freshly deposited pool of vomit – spraying the surprised culprit in the process. Charlie suppressed a smile.
Ben Holland’s Silver Lexus was up on the stand and awaiting inspection when Helen and Charlie entered the Forensics Unit. Sally Stewart, stalwart of the unit, was waiting for them.
‘Charlie’s already talked you through the basics, but I thought you should see this for yourself.’
They walked underneath the car and looked up. Sally shone her pen torch at the rear-right wheel arch.
‘Pretty dirty as you’d expect, given the amount of miles your driver did every week. But this wheel arch looks – and smells – dirtier than all the others. Why? Because it’s been marinated in petrol.’
She gestured them out again and once they were all clear, Sally lowered the car so it was almost at eye level.
‘Here’s why.’
Assisted by her deputy, Sally carefully eased the wing off the right side of the vehicle. The innards of the prestige car were duly revealed and now Sally’s torch zeroed in on the petrol tank. Helen’s eyes widened.
‘The fuel tank has been
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