Cold Pressed (28 page)

She brought the Jeep to a bumpy halt, but didn’t switch off
the engine.

“Don’t stop here. Pull up to the hut.”

A memory, or rather the resentment of one, surfaced in
Beatrice’s half-consciousness. A police driving instructor, who thought he was
a Marine drill sergeant, teaching her to drive.
What are you doing?! Put it
in first! No, don’t accelerate yet, you moron! Hear that? That’s the gearbox
screaming! What is wrong with you!?
He’d tried to humiliate her into tears.
He failed, she passed. Most importantly, she learned more about power games
than driving.

She pressed down on the accelerator and clutch simultaneously,
then tried shoving the gearstick into first. The graunching clash of metal made
her wince.

“For fuck’s sake!”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, breaking her own breaths to sound
nervous and emotional. “Driving isn’t really...”

“Right. Stop the car here and get her out.”

“Mr Dean, can I say something?”

“MY NAME IS NOT FUCKING TONI DEAN! Just shut your mouth. If
you keep quiet and do as you’re told, I’ll leave you out of it. Just get her
out of the car. Do not talk to me and DO NOT get in my way!”

Spittle flew from the gap in the ski mask. Beatrice could
not see his eyes, which under the circumstances, was a good thing. She opened
her door.

Contrary to expectations, Joyce was conscious. She said
nothing and her eyes were unreadable in the dark. Her skin was both moist and
cool, a smell of urine emanated from her clothes and she doubled over in pain
as Beatrice helped her from the car. Yet her grip on Beatrice’s hand was as
strong as ever. The man watched them from a short distance, his gun as still as
a signpost and his Maglite pointed to the entrance. He gestured with his head
for them to go inside.

The building resembled a bunker. Squat, square with a flat
roof and thick walls, a rough wooden door and deep-set windows without
shutters. Outside, a few large rocks circled the remains of a bonfire.

Beatrice shoved open the door into blackness and immediately
thought of spiders. She supported Joyce as they stood just inside the doorway.
With an impatient exhalation, the man pushed past and lit an old-fashioned kerosene
lamp. A weak yellow glow reflected off the whitewashed walls. No spiders,
breadcrumbs on the table and the scent of a recent fire. So this was where he’d
been hiding. The barrel of the gun directed them to the single bed against the
wall. Beatrice and Joyce sat, clutching each other’s hands. The man paced to
each window, listening and checking, his gun cocked. Finally he turned to look
at them. He let the gun fall to his side and seemed to be waiting for them to
speak.

The mask induced a disproportionate amount of fear. Beatrice
tried to convince herself it was only a stage crooner under there, a man who
dyed his hair and bleached his teeth and should have been in Butlins. It didn’t
work. They waited for him to say whatever it was he needed to say. Whatever it
was that had made him kill three elderly women and attempt to murder a fourth.
What drove him to shoot one police officer and abduct another. He would need
his moment. They always did. Whether to camera, to victims, to YouTube, they
needed their fifteen minutes. 

Right on cue, he slipped his hand under the neck of the ski
mask and eased it off his head. A feeling of vindication and sickness swept
over Beatrice.

Nikos was right. Toni Dean. The tan, the teeth, the bleached
hair. She clenched Joyce’s hand so hard she heard the poor woman whimper. He’d
just shown his face to two witnesses. Which implied that after tonight, no one
would be left to identify him.

Chapter 32

Each time Nikos took his hand from the throttle, he
could hear distant sirens behind him, growing louder. Ambulance? Back-up? He
hoped it was both. The road wound upward, the temperature dropped and moonlight
through the trees created a cinematic effect. He needed another pair of hands.
Not just an officer in support but two more limbs with opposable thumbs to hold
his gun while he steered.

On the straight, he drove as fast as he dared. At every
corner, he slowed, not only for safety but to avoid announcing his arrival. On
an awkward bend, he thought he saw a light flash through the forest but when he
looked again, it had disappeared. His inattention to the road, even for a
second, was a bad idea. Ahead, stark in the single beam of the headlight, lay
two bodies, one under a Harley Davidson Chopper. Nikos braked, dismounted the
Honda and readied his gun.

The decoy under the Harley did not concern him. Xanthou, on
the other hand, lay on his back with his hands pressed to his chest. His eyes
were closed and his lower jaw spasmed, chattering his teeth together.

“Xanthou!”

No response.

Nikos checked his pulse and noted the blood seeping through
the clothes beneath his clenched hands. He ran back to the bike to radio
Voulakis.

“At the scene. Xanthou has a serious gunshot wound to the
chest. This injury is life-threatening so make this the ambulance’s priority.
The police Jeep is missing, as are its passengers and there is no sign of Toni
Dean. They can’t have gained too much distance, so I am going in pursuit.”

He tore the Mylar blanket from the first-aid kit and rushed
back to the shivering detective. The reflective material would keep him both
warm and visible.

“Xanthou, listen to me! Medical help is coming.” He tucked
the blanket around his body and patted his face. “I have to leave now. Dean has
taken Joyce Milligan and DI Stubbs. You’ll be fine and the ambulance is only a
few minutes away. I have to go. Sorry. Just... hang on.”

He kicked the Honda into life and drove away, clenching his
teeth and wishing his medical training would stop the cold hard facts pounding
through his brain: chest-wound, internal blood loss, patient into shock, lungs
fill. Cause of death – drowning in own blood.

Nothing you can do but get him to hospital. If you stay
and hold his hand, you’ll only be there to watch him die. Find Beatrice. Find
Joyce. Find Dean.

They must have taken the Jeep but how the hell was he
supposed to know where? The Filerimos forest boasted many tracks up and around
the monastery.

A small blue glow, like a pilot light, shone from the verge.
Nikos drew alongside, donned gloves and picked up the phone. Missed calls:
Voulakis, Voulakis, Stephanakis, Stephanakis, Stephanakis. All callers trying
to contact Beatrice Stubbs.

Astride the bike, Nikos closed his eyes and concentrated
with an intensity he’d never used before. Why hadn’t Dean shot them there and
then and left them to bleed to death like he had Xanthou? He intended to kill
Milligan, Nikos had no doubt. Why the hiatus? Dean had taken them somewhere
else for a reason. Torture? Interrogation? Whichever, it couldn’t be public and
it couldn’t be far.

Nikos bagged the phone and stuffed it in his jacket. He was
just reaching for the radio when he heard a sound. An ugly crunching of gears,
the sort of noise you’d make when driving a strange vehicle. It came from the
forest.

The police Honda purred cautiously along the road,
Nikos watching for any kind of right turn into the woods big enough to
accommodate a Jeep. A siren further down the route grew closer. An ambulance,
please God. He crossed himself and offered a prayer for Xanthou’s health. Then
a break in the trees, tyre tracks and a right turn. Nikos crossed himself
again.

Uneven terrain and an uncertain reception made him cautious,
clashing with the imperative to roar ahead and prevent whatever Toni Dean had
planned. The dusty, stony track ascended to a peak and Nikos knew his headlamp
would shine over the ridge like a searchlight. He killed the lights and edged
up to the ridge as quietly as the bike would allow. Below, a squat stone
cottage sat in a clearing. The Jeep, parked in the shadows, appeared empty.
Nikos scanned the area but the only sign of life was the dim glow coming from
the cottage. He switched off the police radio and called Voulakis on his
mobile. He kept his voice low. Voulakis promised caution and assured him that
back-up, mere moments away, would approach with stealth. Nikos pulsed the
throttle once and allowed the impetus and gravity to propel him towards the
stone building.

Close enough. He left the bike behind the Jeep; accessible
for a rapid escape, but sufficiently hidden from the windows. There was no
glass in any of them and sounds up here would carry like goat bells.
Communications devices on silent, Nikos withdrew his weapon and emerged from
the cover of the Jeep.

Inside the cottage, a shadow crossed the window. A weak
solitary light barely cast enough illumination to create a reflective square on
the ground, yet Nikos focused his whole attention on the dim ochre gap as he
crept forward.

“Stubbs, stand up and turn around.” Dean stood in
front of her, a roll of masking tape in one hand, and his gun in the other.
With one last squeeze of Joyce’s hand, Beatrice did as she was told. He wrapped
the tape around her wrists, yanking painfully on her shoulders to test it was
secure. She made no attempt to pull her wrists apart once he’d finished,
knowing it would induce panicky feelings of impotence. Instead, she sat beside
Joyce and took calm breaths.

“Right. Better safe than sorry. You are a copper, after all.
See, you shouldn’t even be here. I’ve got no beef with you. But you can’t stop
interfering, can you? That’s what you’re all about. Interfering in other
people’s lives.”

He walked away, facing the window. Joyce laid her hand on
Beatrice’s arm. A gesture of reassurance, but her trembling set Beatrice off
like a mimosa tree. He cleared his throat as if to prepare himself and dragged
a chair from the small table. He sat opposite, resting his right hand – the one
with the gun in it – on his left. Close up, the Dean sheen was less polished
than usual. The contact lenses were missing. His trademark baby blues were a
pale grey, reddened and bloodshot as if he’d not slept. His dyed hair lacked
its flyaway, freshly shampooed bounce and hung limp across his right ear. The
only sign of the showman was a smudge of mascara beneath his eye. So whether on
stage or planning an ambush, the man still enhanced his eyelashes. Beatrice
began to see how little she understood this person and his motives.

“And you, Joyce Milligan, you’d know all about interfering,
wouldn’t you? Playing God and ruining lives. Do you know how long I’ve spent
wondering why? Give or take a few months, thirty-eight years. They told me the
summer before I started secondary school. ‘In case I found out from someone
else.’ Thirty-eight years wondering why my parents didn’t want me. What a
waste. I went through every scenario. I’d been kidnapped and sold. They’d been
killed in a car accident and I somehow survived. He was famous and handsome and
secretly watched me grow up from afar. She died in childbirth and he couldn’t
cope alone. He’d left her and she’d turned to prostitution. They were
desperately poor and wanted the chance of a better life for me, but giving me
away broke their hearts and they died of consumption. Yeah, right.”

He beat the gun against his palm. Beatrice searched for
something to say. Dialogue would buy time.

“Many adopted children...”

“SHUT UP! Shut your trap right now or I’ll shut it for you.
In fact, fuck it. This is not about many adopted children, it’s about me. And
it’s none of your fucking business.”

 He jumped to his feet and grabbed the tape, tore a stretch
off with his teeth and slapped it violently across Beatrice’s mouth, knocking
her backwards. The smack reverberated through her head, inducing tears of pain
and the taste of blood where she’d bitten her tongue. He pulled her upright by
her hair and pressed his face close to hers.

“You never listen. None of you. Can’t tell them, ’cos they
think they know best. If you can’t tell them, you got to show them. One more
time, Stubbs, and I will teach you the lesson you fucking well deserve.” He
brought his tensed fist to her cheek and snarled into her face.

Beatrice tried to stem the panic, breathing through her
nostrils, inhaling Dean’s sour breath. Beside her, Joyce whimpered, distracting
his attention.

“Shut up, Milligan! Or you get the same. Listen, I could
have killed you in the car. The only reason you aren’t dead yet is because you
have to understand what you did. You wrecked my life, and hers. Have you seen
her lately? She’s a fucking mess. Your fault! Everything I’ve ever done has
turned to shit because I spent my life wondering why I wasn’t good enough. It
was your fault! Now I’m pushing fifty and I’m still doing the rounds on
floating retirement homes. Your fault!”

He walked away, shaking his head. Beatrice watched his
heaving back as he tried to get his emotions under control. He spoke, his voice
calmer.

“I stopped wondering and decided to find out for myself. A
private detective got the info in about ten days. My father wasn’t a movie
star. My mother wasn’t dead. He was ‘Unknown’ and she was a fifteen-year-old
schoolgirl. That was all there was to it. Some silly little slut got up the
duff, gave the baby away and forgot all about it.”

He turned back to face them, his eyes wide and an unsettling
smile on his face. His gun rested in his hand, pointing away from them for now.

“The detective was worth the expense. Her home address was
in his report. So I went there, with one thing on my mind. I wanted to wreck
her life like she’d wrecked mine. To make her take responsibility. But she
wasn’t responsible, was she, Joyce?”

Hyperventilating through her nostrils was making Beatrice
light-headed. She willed herself to slow her breathing down, inhaling deeply
and relaxing into the release. She had to stay conscious. Beside her, Joyce
seemed catatonic, hypnotised by Dean. Her body, pressed against Beatrice, no
longer shook with fright and she shed no more tears. She seemed patient and
resigned to her fate.