A Reason to Kill (17 page)

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Goldman? Anything you noticed about him that could help?” Matt asked.

“Jacob. Please call me Jacob. And I can tell you that he sounded rational, but was like a golem.”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “A what?”

“From the Yiddish, goylem,” Jacob explained. “It’s a Jewish legend. A golem is a clay figure; a supernatural being brought to life. Like a robot, not human.”

“Why’d you say he’s like one?” Matt asked.

“His eyes. Have you ever been to a zoo and stood in front of a gorilla’s cage? I used to go to the zoo a lot. There was a famous gorilla at Regent’s Park. He was called Guy: a real crowd-puller. He died many years ago. Well, anyway, Guy would look into your eyes, and it was as if he knew your life and your thoughts. I used to feel that I was the exhibit, and that he was studying me. The man who came tonight had the same look. If I had lied to him, he would have known, and would have killed me with less thought than it takes to swallow. He is without pity.”

Beth set mugs of black coffee in front of them. She had said nothing, just listened to every word.

“Anything else?” Tom asked Jacob.

“The gun. It was a Glock 17, fitted with a silencer.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “And just how would you know that?”

“I used to sell replica firearms by mail order. I got to be able to recognise the models. And another thing. He wore rubber gloves, and his left wrist was bound up. There was blood on the bandage.”

“Thanks, Jacob,” Tom said. “We’ll leave an officer to take an official statement. And other officers will need to process...to examine the house and look for clues.”

“Did the woman...?”

“Yes, Jacob,” Matt said. “The woman and an officer were shot. Neither survived. But the baby was spared.”

“I hope you get him.”

“We will.”

“He’s a sick animal,” Jacob mused. “He needs putting down.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Matt said.

Matt elected to ride with Tom, refusing Beth’s offer of a lift to the Yard. “You know why,” he said to her.

“I think you’re overreacting to a situation that might not exist,” she replied as she climbed into her Lexus.

“You think?” Matt said. “That implies you’re not sure, so humour me.”

“What was all that about?” Tom asked as Matt buckled up and he pulled away from the kerb, with Beth following.

“Common-sense, Tom. I now choose to believe that I’m in real danger. I don’t want someone to see me with Beth, put two and two together and come up with five. Protecting my own back will be enough of a challenge.”

“Once the TV and papers roll, you should be in the clear. He’ll be preoccupied with staying out of our clutches.”

“Until he’s in a cell, or tagged and bagged, I’ll hold on to the belief that he considers me as unfinished business.”

“You really think he’ll keep coming?”

“Yeah. Anything put in his way will be just another hurdle to leap over. I don’t know if anything really frightens him. Maybe he’s more like that golem Jacob was talking about, than a human being. I’m suspending all logical thought and going with instinct. Beth’s insight and psychological profile point to him being driven. His type don’t just cut their losses and quit while they’re ahead. He’ll keep coming until it’s over, one way or the other.”

“And are you and Beth an item?”

“No, Tom. Not that it’s any of your damn business.”

“Anything that impacts on this case
is
my business, Matt. And I’ve got instincts as well. When you two are in the same room, the light seems to brighten. I see the way you look at each other, so don’t take me for stupid.”

“Nothing has happened, Tom. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

“But it will, Matt. It’s just a matter of time. Tell me you don’t fancy her something rotten.”

“Okay, so I’m interested. But I’m keeping it under wraps, at least until this is put to bed.”

Tom grinned.

“What?” Matt demanded.

“Put to bed. A Freudian slip. Even the threat of a maniac hitman on your tail won’t stop you and Beth from getting it on. Love – or lust – overrules prudence. Always has. Always will.”

“Bollocks!” Matt said without much conviction.

GARY
almost choked on the ham and cheese sandwich he was eating. He had put the news on to get an update on the murders of the woman and cop in Paddington, only to be confronted with an almost perfect facsimile of his own face. Dropping the sandwich, he went into automatic mode, putting into effect a plan he had never thought would have to be employed.

Ten minutes later he was driving away from the flat, never to return. Everything he would need was in the boot of the Mondeo.

He stopped once in a narrow and deserted lane to change the car’s plates, and then headed west towards Heathrow.

Sentinel Storage Services was an acre-sized site comprising rows of single storey buildings. Each garage-sized unit was accessed by a roll-up overhead door. The facility was surrounded by a high, razor wire-topped hurricane fence, and there was only one entrance/exit.

Gary pulled up to the gate, opened his window and held up the key with a large plastic fob inscribed with S.S.S. attached to it. A young Indian guy, with gelled hair and a wrinkled open neck uniform shirt, glanced at the distinctive yellow fob, logged the Mondeo’s registration in his gate book, and then fingered a button on the console in front of him. The gate rattled back on squeaky wheels. Gary raised his hand and smiled. The security guard did not respond, just waited until the Mondeo’s rear end passed over the steel track set into concrete, before thumbing the button to close the gate behind it.

It was a cheaply run set-up. Gary paid for a yearly rental under the name of Derek Clifford. The false car registration and equally fictitious address were all he had needed to rent the overpriced, damp cement box. As now, he had always worn a baseball cap and shades when visiting the site.

He turned into row G and drove halfway down it, stopping outside the storage unit that had the number 26 stencilled in six-inch black numerals on the door.

Unlocking the padlock, he pulled the door up and unloaded the contents of the boot into the cold, dim interior. Ten minutes later, he was driving back out past the morose gatekeeper. He would have to dump the car, after first removing the false plates, then wait for cover of night before returning and scaling the fence at the rear of the complex. It was a shoddy outfit. That was why he had chosen it. There were no patrols made, and the only CCTV coverage was of the main gate.

He drove the Mondeo up onto the third floor of the Terminal 2 car park at Heathrow and parked in a shadow-filled corner. He then removed the plates and put them in a suitcase that held only a plaid blanket.

Tagging onto a group who where walking across to departures, Gary entered the terminal, mingled with a crowd of holidaymakers, left by another door farther along, and climbed into the first available cab.

At an address he had given in Brixton, he got out of the cab, and within ten minutes was in another, heading back out to another address only a ten minute walk from the storage site.

A dry ditch faced by a tall hedge at the east side of the compound was where he settled to wait. He dozed with his head resting on the soft leather suitcase. He had all but erased Gary Noon. The dumb bastards who sought him would no doubt find the car. They would assume that he had used a false passport to quit the country. It would take them forever to check out every possible passenger on hundreds of flights to countless destinations. He had fake documents to start over, and once his appearance was changed he would be home free.

The perimeter lights were too far apart to properly illuminate the length of the fence, leaving deep areas of gloom to move in unseen. He removed the blanket from the suitcase, threw the piece of luggage over the fence, then scaled the barrier with ease, using the blanket to cushion himself against the rusted razor wire, and ripping it free as he dropped down to the ground, before stealthily making his way to the storage unit.

He saw no one. Unlocking the padlock, he carefully raised the door just high enough to roll under, after first pushing the suitcase inside. Now came the hard part. He pulled the door back down, leaving a gap for his hand to manipulate the padlock. The steel staple was welded to a runner set into concrete. There was just enough leeway to force the pivoted hook of the lock into it and gently push it tight enough to appear secure. It took him five minutes and several attempts to perform the exercise. Now, from outside, nothing would look untoward. Only a close physical inspection would disclose the deception, and that wasn’t on the cards. He hadn’t picked Sentinel for their professionalism.

Standing up in the darkness, he breathed in the cold, stale air. This was his bolthole; a concrete womb from within which he would be reborn. It was not something he had ever foreseen having to do, but his paranoia had made it necessary to have an escape plan in place. Foresight had paid off.

Feeling for the wall, he found it, and with his back against it, slid down into a sitting position. The sudden release of built-up tension drained him. He needed a few minutes to regroup. It had been so sudden. If he had not switched on the TV, he may have been caught cold. How much
had
the photofit actually looked like him? On reflection, the nose had been a fraction too narrow; chin a tad more pointed than his, and the receding hairline too far back, exaggerated. Penny’s memory had been good, but not perfect. Her description was flawed, but still unmistakably of him. He should have shot the rug rat first, before dispatching her. The traitorous bitch had promised not to talk. That he had murdered her husband, and thought he had capped her, was not the point. She should have known better than to describe him to the police.

Absently fingering the Glock, he found solace from the smooth, cold steel. The filth had bullets and shell cases from it, which were his calling cards. They would be in receipt of more before he was done with the weapon. The voices in his mind were ranting, shouting. He would have to take his meds. Jesus! It was like having a football crowd in his fucking head.

Another thought swirled to the surface. No doubt Marion had already called the police and given them his name and address. Well, she would get hers. ‘Trust no one’ was a saying he had heard years before on some TV show and taken to heart. You couldn’t rely on people. They were unpredictable, undependable, and therefore dispensable.

Climbing to his feet, he went over to where he’d stacked the contents of the boot. Found everything by touch, unwilling to use the torch he had brought with him.

He popped two tablets into his mouth and washed them down with water from one of the three plastic gallon containers he had filled. With a selection of tinned food, biscuits and fruit, the plan was to stay in the unit for several days. Only when the water ran low would he have to leave to replenish it.

He unfolded and set up a camp bed next to his other possessions. Settling on it, still clothed and covered by the now torn blanket, he felt secure in the darkness. Sleep would provide all the answers; what he had to do and in what order. It would all be reconciled in his subconscious. It had been a very hectic time. He was suddenly totally exhausted: needed to relax. He snuggled down and concentrated on Charlton Heston. For the hundredth time he began to mentally list the movies that the actor had appeared in. It was his equivalent of counting sheep:
El Cid, Planet of the Apes, The Agony and the Ecstasy, The Big Country, The Omega Man, Major Dundee, Earthquake
...er, shit, must get to at least ten.
Soylent Green
. Was that nine? He went through them again, counted them off on his fingers. Only eight.
Ben Hur
. One more. Just one more. He fell asleep satisfied as
Will Penny
came to mind.

Marion called in at the supermarket on her way home from work. It was almost five o’clock, but the air was still hot and muggy. She collected a cart and headed for the doors. Her lime-coloured dress was wet and clinging to her; hair matted in dripping ringlets, and face flushed and glistening from sweating in the humid heat.

The air-conditioning inside the store chilled her, in a good way. She plucked at the wet material that clung to her skin. Today was the day she intended to start a diet in earnest. She had made a list, and would load the cart with salad, fruit and chicken and fish. She determined to forego full fat cheese and milk and butter, and would opt for skimmed milk and half fat cheese and diet Coke. Getting past the pastries was the problem. The shelves laden with mouth-watering cream cakes seemed to call out to her and broke her resolve. Next week, she thought, quickly depositing a packet of chocolate coated cream-filled éclairs into the cart, deciding to have one last glorious fling and eat whatever the hell she fancied, apart from garlic. If the smell of garlic offended Gary, then she would never eat it again. By Wednesday, her body would have exuded all traces of it from her system. Christ! If this heat wave kept up, she would sweat it out before reaching home.

She was soaked again as she transferred the calorie-packed carrier bags from the cart into the Honda’s boot. There was a temptation to go back inside the store and stretch out in a freezer cabinet to luxuriate among the frozen vegetables, but she knew that doing so would no doubt be frowned upon.

At last, she was home. She took her dress and tights off and opened the fridge door. The chill air tightened her skin and hardened her nipples under the damp bra. She undid the enormous garment and tossed it onto the table, then put her meaty arms on top of the fridge and absorbed the coldness, remaining there until her front was numb, before turning to give her back and buttocks the same treat.

Better, much better. She poured a glassful of Coke, turned on the portable television and sat on a cool pine chair.

She gasped with her mouth full of Coke, causing her to have a coughing fit as the fizzy cola backed-up and bubbled out of her mouth and nostrils. The image of Gary’s face had appeared on the screen, with the words COP KILLER underneath it.

Still coughing, retching, her eyes misty with tears, she cranked up the volume.

“Do you know this man?” the talking head that replaced Gary’s asked. It was Carolyn Kirby, a blond, Madonna type, who could fix an appropriate expression on her face to suit every news item. She was as plausible as the average daytime soap star. Marion believed that as well as words, directions of when to smile, frown and look suitably concerned came up on the smug cow’s auto cue.

It didn’t make sense or sink in at first. But when it cut to a cop standing outside New Scotland Yard, Marion listened attentively.

“The man responsible for the cold-blooded shootings of several police officers and members of the public is extremely dangerous, armed, and should not be approached under any circumstances,” the spokesman said. “We have reason to believe that he is mentally ill, and may be undergoing out patient treatment. He is known to cut his wrists, which are scarred from repeated self-mutilation. If you know this man, call our incident room number now,” (it appeared at the bottom of the screen), “or contact any police station.”

The picture of Gary reappeared. Marion felt traumatised. Too stunned to move a muscle. Unable to react. And yet she was not shocked in the sense that the revelation was beyond belief. It
was
Gary. Of that there was not a shred of doubt in her mind. The self-mutilation was just an added but unnecessary detail. She had to do something. Other members of the mental health team would also have recognised him, and might already be phoning the police. If she did nothing, then it would appear she was covering for him. The thought of the videotape made her feel sick. No matter, it was of no consequence, not if she told the truth, now, and did the right thing.

“My name is Marion Peterson. I am a community psychiatric nurse, and the man who was just shown on the television and is wanted for murder, is one of my patients.”

The officer took her address and phone number. Asked her to hold while he transferred the call to the incident room dealing with the case.

“Hello, Ms. Peterson. I’m Detective Sergeant Deakin. Thank you for calling. I understand you think you know the man we need to contact.”

“If I only
thought
I knew him, I might not have phoned. The picture you showed on the television is of a man called Gary Noon. I can give you his address and phone number.”

“Please do,” Pete said, and wrote down the details. “We need to talk to you, Ms. Peterson.”

“You are talking to me.”

“Er, yes. I mean interview you.”

“You’ve got my address.”

“We’ll be with you shortly.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Marion said before hanging up.

Tom contacted Jack McClane at home and informed him that he was deploying an Armed Response Unit. They had received another call from a consultant psychiatrist, who verified Marion’s identification of the suspect. Pete Deakin and Marci Clark were sent to the address at Hornsey to interview Marion.

Within thirty minutes, the block of flats in Putney was ringed. Plainclothes officers went door-to-door and extricated the tenants quietly and swiftly, to lead them away from the immediate area.

“I’ve just phoned you lot,” an elderly woman clutching a writhing cat to her chest said to the DC who was escorting her to safety. “It’s the man in the flat opposite mine who was on the news.”

Tom phoned Gary Noon’s number. It just kept ringing. He was either out or not answering. A neighbour told them that Noon drove a black Mondeo, and that if he had been at home, it would have been in the residents’ car park. It was not.