Authors: Jo Bannister
Changelings (27 page)
The towpath. It didn't run, free and unbroken, all the way into Castlemere, but there were good stretches where the bike could maintain whatever its top speed was and others where he could drag it over, past or round assorted obstacles. They couldn't do that with the Land Rover. If they didn't catch up with him before the first spot where the path narrowed he'd be free and clear.
Besides, by the canal he might find help. It was too late in a bad season to hope the water might be crowded with boating parties, but there was always the chance of meeting the odd fanatic like himself. A boat would be good. Failing that, someone on horseback would do. He knew people rode the towpath, and more in winter than in summer when they had to pick their way past old men fishing and boys on bicycles. Donovan couldn't ride but he could heft the child up behind a rider and issue strict instructions to get as quickly as possible to the first house known to be safe. A horse could go places even the quad couldn't. Across fields broken by banks and ditches it could also go faster.
âThe canal,' he shouted in Elphie's ear above the slipstream. âWhich way?'
The red sleeve pointed unhesitatingly. Unfortunately, it was pointing back the way they'd come.
âFigures,' growled Donovan. He wasn't turning back, not for anything. He put the bike into a sweeping curve that would bring it down to the towpath over the next half-mile or so. He was heading away from Castlemere all the time, but that didn't matter too much: if they reached the Sinkhole engine
house they'd be safe enough. The main thing was to swap a geography which favoured his enemies for one which favoured him, and nobody knew the canal better than Donovan. If he was going to beat the odds and save both their lives, that was where.
house they'd be safe enough. The main thing was to swap a geography which favoured his enemies for one which favoured him, and nobody knew the canal better than Donovan. If he was going to beat the odds and save both their lives, that was where.
They came to the corner of the field and a gate. Elphie climbed down to open it; but she couldn't manage alone, Donovan had to go and help. When he turned back, bitter disappointment jolted through him. He genuinely hadn't thought of that. It hadn't occurred to him that, if a quad bike was the ideal means of conveyance around the rough headlands and narrow tracks of the fen, The Flower Mill would have more than one.
As he watched first two, then another one, then another breasted the swell of the field and started down the long incline.
The call went out as the borrowed van cornered hard â two wheels digging deep into the gravel, two spinning in air â into the drive of Dunstan House. Urgent: all available officers to Cambridge Road: intruder in the grounds of the children's home: consider armed and dangerous. Without her radio Liz didn't receive it; but then, it wasn't telling Liz anything she didn't already know.
They didn't have to hunt for Martin Wingrave: he was standing on the front steps, hammering at the glass door with a stone prised from the rockery. It was safety glass, designed to stop an over-excited ten-year-old running through it. It was never meant to withstand a determined attack by an adult with a brick.
Liz couldn't guess how long it would hold. It might delay him until the reinforcements arrived or the glass might shatter at any moment, admitting a man with no conscience and a burden of lethal bacteria into what should have been a place of safety.
She couldn't take the risk. She was out of the van a second before it stopped moving, racing across the lawn, wondering what the hell she could use to stop him. But this was a children's home: anything that
could be used as a weapon was locked away. Hence the stone from the rockery: Wingrave would have used a sledgehammer if one had been lying about.
could be used as a weapon was locked away. Hence the stone from the rockery: Wingrave would have used a sledgehammer if one had been lying about.
She shouted his name and he turned towards her, lowering the stone. For all that they had been at war for a week, this was their first actual meeting. Somehow, Liz was expecting more. A giant of a man, perhaps; or a man with evil branded indelibly on his face. But if evil men looked evil there'd be a limit to how much damage they could do. Martin Wingrave was a good-looking man, a little taller than most, a little broader, with the firm musculature of someone for whom physical fitness was not so much a hobby as a way of life. He was a carpenter, she remembered: his upper body strength would be considerable. If he wanted to punch a hole through that door, sooner or later he would.
âI know who you are,' said Martin Wingrave. At first she thought he was an incomer like herself. But it was a fenland accent until he'd worked at refining it. From early youth he'd had the innate conviction that he was better than those around him.
A faint tremor in his voice indicated how much effort had gone into this incomprehensible act of revenge. Three days ago he was dramatically, violently ill; it had passed, as he'd known it would, but not without leaving its mark on him. He'd been ready for home, but nobody'd said anything about protracted physical exertion. When his task here was accomplished the dregs of energy would fail and he would quite possibly fall over. But Liz couldn't wait for that.
âI know who you are, too.'
Wingrave raised one sandy eyebrow. In colouring he was on the foxy side of fair. Liz recognized an expensive haircut when she saw one, though working with policemen she didn't see one very often. âI'm here to visit my son.'
âMost visitors ring the bell and wait for the staff to answer.'
âI did that,' said Wingrave, smiling slightly. âThey seem to have been held up.'
âYou have no right of entry here, whatever your relationship to anyone inside. Also, you don't look well. Why don't you come with me while we get this sorted out?'
Wingrave looked disappointed. Clucking with disapproval he shook his head. âInspector Graham. Detective Inspector Elizabeth Graham, walking advertisement for the Equal Opportunities programme and all-round stupid cow. Even you can't be so totally braindead as to think I'm going anywhere with you.'
Liz was used to abuse. She'd had insults, and worse, thrown at her on a regular basis since she was twenty years old. She didn't take it personally. Mostly it wasn't even very alarming: people hurling obscenities were not usually hurling anything else. Violence tended to start when the verbal inventiveness ran out.
This was different because the man doing it was different. He wasn't drunk, or angry, or baiting her. Scorn dripped from his tongue like venom. With his back to the wall and a police officer blocking his exit, he still genuinely believed he was in control of the
situation. He thought his natural superiority would enable him to succeed in whatever he attempted. He would never, under any circumstances, give up and come quietly.
situation. He thought his natural superiority would enable him to succeed in whatever he attempted. He would never, under any circumstances, give up and come quietly.
Mitchell Tyler had reached the same conclusion. He looked away and said dismissively, âShoot the bastard.'
Liz spared him a furious glance. âMitchell, will you stay out of this!'
He understood. âOh yeah. This is Britain, isn't it? â you believe in tackling violent psychopaths with stern words and an appeal to their better natures. You haven't got a gun.'
Liz wasn't sure if he said it loud enough for Wingrave to hear. She hoped not. âAre you trying to get me killed?' she gritted in her teeth.
He did the wolfish smile, fanning it between her and the man at the door, and reached under his coat. âNo sweat.'
She wasn't expecting a pocket Derringer â Tyler wasn't a man to do anything on a small scale â but she wasn't expecting a cannon either. She'd never seen a Colt .45 up close before, had no idea how much gun it actually was. She thought, If Tyler was pointing that gun at me I'd wet myself.
But Martin Wingrave had no imagination. He couldn't anticipate how it would feel to have a bullet that big punch through his flesh, or the devastating effects on the entire body of losing that amount of blood and tissue between one breath and the next. Perhaps he thought that if John Wayne could swap his gun into his other hand and go on shooting, he could
do the same with his rock. He lacked the sense of personal vulnerability that should have warned him that real people shot with a .45 round fall on the floor, all their mental and physical processes profoundly disrupted, and they don't get up again without a lot of skilled medical intervention. If at all.
do the same with his rock. He lacked the sense of personal vulnerability that should have warned him that real people shot with a .45 round fall on the floor, all their mental and physical processes profoundly disrupted, and they don't get up again without a lot of skilled medical intervention. If at all.
The carefully modulated voice was mocking. âYou're an American! You've no authority here. You shouldn't even have that gun. If you shoot me they'll put you in prison.'
âYou're absolutely right,' Liz said firmly. âHe has no right to carry a firearm in this country.' She put her hand out, palm up, demanding.
Tyler looked at her, at first incredulously, then with an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his strong features. She raised her eyebrows and snapped her fingers at him like Brian confiscating a stink bomb.
He thought she hadn't understood the consequences of what she was asking. âInspector Graham,' he began in a low, warning voice.
âNow, please!' She held her hand out until, with deep reluctance, hardly able to credit what he was doing, he put the gun into it.
The weight swung her arm down. But it didn't stay down. With both men watching, one smugly, the other with profound misgivings, she brought it up again and held it, rock steady, the foresight on Martin Wingrave's chest.
âI, on the other hand,' she informed the wanted man coldly, âam trained and authorized to use firearms when the need arises. You're endangering a house full
of children: I think that qualifies. They won't put me in prison for shooting you, they'll give me a medal.'
of children: I think that qualifies. They won't put me in prison for shooting you, they'll give me a medal.'
For the first time Martin Wingrave appeared to consider the possibility that he might get hurt. He looked at the gun. He looked at Liz's face, then at Tyler's.
Then he smiled and turned back to what he was doing. âYou're not going to shoot me in the back. Stupid slag. How would that look on your annual report?'
She breathed steadily. âYou've been watching too much television, Mr Wingrave. Nobody'll care how I shoot you, only that the situation made it necessary. The rules of engagement are, we don't shoot unless there's a serious risk to human life. But if there is we end it as quickly as we can. We don't try to wound: if you're lucky enough to escape with your life it's because that was the only shot available. We don't take up arms at all unless we're prepared to kill.'
He didn't believe her. He swung the rock again, hard. The glass rang and shook under the assault.
âShoot him,' said Tyler, low and urgently. âNow. If he gets in there, so do his bugs. Do it. You'll have to in the end. Finish it. Now.'
âShut up, Mitchell,' she said briefly.
He thrust a broad hand at her. âIf you don't want to do it, let me. We can sort the paperwork out later. Nobody's going to be too upset that I was in a position to deal with a homicidal maniac. Shoot the animal, now, or I will.'
The rock rang again on the armoured glass. Lightning cracks spread out from where it struck.
âLiz!'
She didn't shift her eye from Wingrave's back but her fury was all for Tyler. âMitchell, if you don't get the hell out of my way I'll shoot you! This is my job, I know how to do it. Now watch or walk away, but don't presume to tell me what to do!'
âSomebody has to,' he flung back. âOr we're going to have dead kids to explain.'
The rock fell again. The glass cracked from side to side.
âMr Wingrave,' she said, her voice quaking with intensity, âif that glass breaks it'll be the last sound you hear. I will shoot you. I will shoot you dead.'
Incredibly, his answer was to laugh. âStupid, stupid, stupid! You can't shoot me. My pockets are full of glass vials: if you shoot me with something that size the contents will go everywhere. I'm not sure what I've got here, but they all had bio-hazard markings on them. Release them into the air and it won't be me killing the children, it'll be you.' He laughed again, pleased with himself. âDidn't think of that, did you?'
Her voice came back like ice. âI'm a good shot, Mr Wingrave. I can drop you without going anywhere near your pockets.'
He didn't believe her. He wielded the rock once more.
The glass broke and fell out of the frame. With a snort of triumph Wingrave reached through and felt for the latch.
Tyler cast one last despairing look at Liz. He didn't think she'd fire either. Not everyone can. Training is
one thing, actually shooting another human being is something else. Some people can never do it; some can do it once but never again.
one thing, actually shooting another human being is something else. Some people can never do it; some can do it once but never again.
And whoever Wingrave was, whatever he'd done, whatever he meant to do, he was an unarmed man with his back to her. The training programmes never envisaged that. They presented you with targets which were, figuratively as well as actually, black and white: scowling men, heavily armed, racing at you in a menacing crouch. Nothing ambivalent about a situation like that: it's kill or be killed. Most people could shoot someone like that.
It took a different mentality to shoot someone posing this more academic sort of threat. Harder, or perhaps just cooler. You had to see past the target's defencelessness to the threat posed by his very existence.
The trouble was, it wasn't a now-or-never situation. Liz didn't have to fire immediately because that would be the only chance. She could follow him inside, repeating her intention to shoot, and still be following him when he reached the children and started breaking the vials.
She'd given Tyler two choices: neither of them appealed to him. There was another option. He thought he could reach Wingrave before Wingrave could get inside. He knew he could bring him down. Ten years older than his opponent, carrying a couple of stones that his doctor disapproved of, Mitchell Tyler still met very few men he couldn't bring down. He'd never raise his head again if he couldn't beat a man
who'd spent the last three days in bed with gyppy tummy.
who'd spent the last three days in bed with gyppy tummy.
That hit home. Typhoid, legionnaire's, hepatitis: nasty, messy, painful, dangerous, indignity-heaping diseases every one. Catching, too.
It didn't have to matter. There were bigger things at stake. Mitchell Tyler wasn't a sentimental man but he wasn't going to expose small children to something he wouldn't face himself. He launched himself at Martin Wingrave.
Who saw him coming and calmly pulled a wood-chisel out of his belt.
Tyler didn't make a lot of mistakes but that was one: assuming the man had only one offensive weapon. It was a rudimentary error, but he might not get the chance to kick himself for it. A hostage to his own impulsion, it was too late to back off. The only evasive action he could manage was to twist and hope the waiting blade buried itself in his shoulder rather than his heart or throat.
Pain shot him through, explosive, concussive. He gasped with the shock and curled into a ball around it. But that defensive ball exposed his skull and his spine to a man with a blade designed to penetrate hardwood: it took a real effort of will but he had to straighten out, find the man and the blade, fight his way clear of them. Whatever damage he'd sustained he had to absorb it, put it to the back of his mind for the next two or three minutes while he fought for survival. Nothing that could have been done to him was such a threat to his life as a psychopath armed with a wood chisel.
Ignoring the pain as best he could â a detached portion of his brain had traced it to the left side of his chest, was still puzzling over the noise in his ears and the blood in his eyes â he located a bit of his opponent and yanked hard. The next thing he knew they were tangled together on the ground. Shaking the blood out of his eyes Tyler groped for Wingrave's right hand. Typhoid be damned: if he didn't grab that chisel soon he wouldn't live long enough to get typhoid.
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