Death Comes First (23 page)

All he had to do now was to find a way to surprise the mystery caller whose number was withheld and who had so far only left a text message on the pay-as-you-go mobile very
few people knew that Henry had. Henry had a fair idea who the texter was, or at least who he represented. As soon as he’d been told that Fred was missing Henry had sent an email. An innocuous enough email, he hoped. And he was pretty sure it was the email recipient who had texted him. If he could wrong-foot the bastard then maybe he could sort this mess out. The police were no help; that DI Vogel probably thought he was a clever bugger, but he wasn’t nearly clever enough to sort out this situation. There was only one person with a hope in hell of doing that, and that was Henry Tanner himself.

Yet, for once in his life, Henry had no idea how he was going to do that.

However, when he left the Corner House, Henry would have appeared to any observer to be setting off for a normal day at work with nothing more pressing on his mind than dealing with a spreadsheet or two before breaking for a spot of lunch. Which was Henry’s intention. He always behaved as if he were being watched. And quite often, not merely at this moment of crisis, he suspected that he
was
being watched. He was dressed in one of his immaculately tailored suits, his silk tie carefully knotted, his handmade shoes gleaming.

And so, as he climbed into the Bentley, also gleaming in the morning sun, Henry looked the same as he always did. Nobody watching him would have guessed his inner turmoil. Something Henry had made absolutely sure of.

Henry always had to be the man in charge. He felt that he had no choice. There had never been anyone else, not since his father, and sometimes Henry thought there never would be. But that morning he was battling terrible uncertainties. Henry so wished he had someone to turn to, someone to confide in. Someone who might help him. But that was not
the way he had structured his life. He never cried for help. And he wouldn’t now. Not least because there was no one to answer his cry.

Geoff drove through Tarrant Park and along the leafy country lanes in an almost leisurely fashion. Henry didn’t hurry his driver. The truth was that Henry was only going to the office out of habit and because he had nowhere else to go. Nor, until the next call came, anything better to do. It was an attempt to numb the pain, and to keep himself occupied until he did have something constructive to do. His house was empty and would be no kind of home for as long as Felicity was staying at The Firs with her daughter. And he was clearly not welcome there.

Tanner-Max had its own parking area in Traders’ Court, a cobbled courtyard at the rear of the building. The name dated back to the murky heyday of the port of Bristol when the old courtyard had been used by traders bartering slaves shipped in from Africa and the West Indies. Henry always used the rear entrance; he was a creature of habit. As Geoff turned into Traders’ Court, Henry’s mind was all over the place. He was barely aware that they had arrived at their destination.

Absent-mindedly, out of habit again, Henry checked his watch. It was five minutes past ten. Two hours later than he usually started work. Even Henry had to admit that this was not a usual day.

Geoff pulled to a halt and climbed out of the vehicle to open the rear door for his employer. Only then did Henry hoist himself off the back seat and out of the car in a manner he had perfected that did not, he hoped, draw attention to his creaking joints in general and his stiff right knee in particular. He stood up straight as quickly as he could, using one hand
pressed against the roof of the car to give himself extra support.

He muttered a thank you to Geoff and took a step away from the Bentley.

Then, suddenly the world went mad. There was a single loud crack.

Henry fell to the ground as if he had been shot. He
had
been shot. But as he lapsed into unconsciousness he was not even aware of what had happened. He neither heard the gun being fired nor felt the bullet which entered his body. He just went down. Like a felled animal.

The shot had come from above. There had only been the one. So far.

Geoff was slow to register what had happened, but when he did he sprang into action. It could have been instinctive, but was actually something he had been trained to do long ago yet had almost forgotten about. He threw his body forward and flung himself on top of Henry Tanner, completely covering the fallen man and protecting him from any further gunfire. But Geoff Brooking was already too late. There was no need for any further gunfire. Henry Tanner was down.

On the rooftop of the building next to Tanner-Max a black-clad hooded figure carrying a sniper’s rifle melted away into the murky skies of yet another damp Bristol morning. He had not attempted to fire a second time. One shot was all that had been required.

Fifteen

Vogel was first to hear the news. Dispatch alerted him at 10.15 a.m., saying there had been a 999 report of a shooting in Traders’ Court. They didn’t have the identity of the victim, but given the proximity to the Tanner-Max premises and the disappearance of Henry Tanner’s grandson, the young PC on duty thought Vogel would want to be informed.

The DI half ran to Nobby Clarke’s office, a cubicle off the Operation Binache incident room. Hemmings was in there with her.

‘There’s been a shooting,’ he blurted out. ‘Behind the offices of Tanner-Max.’

‘Fuck,’ said DCI Clarke.

‘Get down there, both of you,’ instructed Hemmings.

He wasn’t actually in a position to order Nobby Clarke about, but such was the habit of senior station officers.

Clarke and Vogel took off at speed down the corridor. When they reached the stairs, Clarke paused and put a hand on Vogel’s arm.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve done anything useful like learn to drive in the time you’ve been here?’ she enquired.

Vogel shook his head.

‘And I came on the bloody train,’ muttered Clarke.

Both officers looked around desperately for someone to commandeer to drive them.

On cue, Constable Bolton appeared, carrying a packet of sandwiches and a cardboard beaker.

‘Forget breakfast, you’re needed,’ barked Vogel.

‘But I only came here to drop in some stuff for the tech boys,’ protested Bolton. ‘I’m supposed to get my arse straight back to Lockleaze.’

Neither Clarke nor Vogel had any jurisdiction over Bolton, but Vogel didn’t care.

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ he snapped. ‘This is an emergency. I’ll square it with your sergeant. Come on, there’s been a shooting and we need you to get us there fast. You in a squad car?’

Bolton nodded. Vogel saw the expression in the young man’s eyes change. A shooting. That was something far removed from routine police work. PC Bolton abandoned his breakfast, turned on his heel and set off at a run, leading Vogel and Clark to a squad car at the far side of the car park. Bolton zapped the vehicle open as he ran. He climbed quickly behind the wheel. Vogel and Clarke got in the back. So that they could talk, Vogel hoped.

Vogel’s mobile rang: Dispatch. Vogel put his phone on speaker so that Clarke could also hear.

‘There’s an officer on the scene now, guv. He’s reported that the victim of the shooting is Henry Tanner.’

‘How bad is it?’ asked Vogel.

‘PC Tompkins doesn’t know, guv. Blood everywhere, though, and Tanner is unconscious.’

‘Shit,’ said Vogel, ending the call. ‘C’mon, Bolton, step on it!’

‘Yessir!’

Bolton stepped on it all right, swinging the little Ford around a passing pantechnicon with a screech of rubber, then in and out of lanes and dodging oncoming traffic, siren wailing, lights flashing and blazing.

Unusually, Vogel was oblivious to the wild driving. He had other things on his mind. Clarke didn’t speak, but Vogel could see that whatever intrigue had brought her to Bristol, she hadn’t been expecting this any more than he had.

Vogel had only even been involved in a shooting once in his life, a little over a year ago in London, and his stomach still churned at the thought of it. David Vogel had behaved in a rather out of character way on that occasion. He’d been positively cavalier in fact. And he had ended up in hospital. He didn’t share DC Bolton’s excitement at the thought of approaching the scene of a shooting. Indeed, he sincerely hoped the shooting would be over by the time they got to Traders’ Court.

‘So what do you think, boss?’ he asked, turning to the DCI. ‘Henry Tanner has copped one. Could be dead. Where does that leave us?’

‘I have no idea,’ she replied.

‘Oh come on, boss, the grandfather of our missing child has been shot. Please will you tell me what’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘Not now, Vogel,’ said the DCI, glancing pointedly at PC Bolton.

Vogel didn’t think Bolton was aware of anything much except the road ahead. But he refrained from saying more.

It was Janet who broke the news of Henry’s shooting to the family. She had been in the office when the Tanner Bentley arrived in Traders’ Court. Unlike Stephen Hardcastle she’d
had no doubt that was where her boss would want her to be. As usual. Even on such a highly unusual day.

She heard the noise of the shot whilst sitting at her desk. She told herself it was a car back-firing, but somehow she immediately knew better. And she’d had a pretty clear idea of the direction from which that noise had come. She hurried to the toilet at the back of the building, the only place from which there was a window overlooking the courtyard.

From that window she had seen Henry lying motionless on the ground, eyes closed, with Geoff Brooking lying half on top of him.

It took a second or two for Janet to take in what had happened. The bang, the loud crack she had heard, had been a shot. Henry Tanner had been shot. Geoff Brooking must be trying to protect him from any further fire.

Janet withdrew from her vantage point and dialled 999. She was about to run downstairs and see if she could help, when her natural survival instincts kicked in. Whoever had shot Henry might still be out there. Janet was afraid. She decided to stay exactly where she was. But there was something she could do. The family had to be told, and it would be far better coming from her than some anonymous police officer. She debated with herself how best to tell them. It would be another tremendous shock to people already dealing with the turmoil and heartache of a missing child.

She decided to call Mark Mildmay. He would almost certainly be at The Firs with the rest of the family. Even Henry Tanner would not expect his grandson to be at the office that day.

Mark answered at the second ring. Hesitant. Nervous. Yet his voice was also expectant, hopeful even. She imagined all
the family were in a similar state, hoping each phone call would bring good news, and fearing that it might bring bad.

She had bad news all right. But not the bad news they would all be dreading.

‘It’s your grandfather, Mark,’ she told him bluntly, unable to think of a gentle way. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s been shot.’

She could hear Mark Mildmay’s sharp intake of breath. It seemed a long time before he spoke.

‘Dear God,’ he said.

In the background she could hear female voices, Joyce, Felicity and maybe Molly. She couldn’t make them out individually. It was obvious though that they had been listening, anxious yet half hopeful, and were reacting to Mark’s response. She heard them asking Mark what was wrong, what had happened.

‘Is he d-dead?’ asked Mark.

In the background there was a stifled scream, a woman’s cry so shrill that it rose above the chorus of voices.

Then Mark’s voice, distant, not directed at the receiver: ‘No, no. It’s not Fred. Everyone, it’s not Fred. Wait a minute
 . . .
’

‘Mark, are you still there?’

‘Yes, Janet.’ Mark’s voice was louder. He was speaking into the receiver again.

‘I don’t know,’ said Janet. ‘I don’t know how your grandfather is. He was shot in the car park. I’ve called for the police and an ambulance. He’s on the ground. Just lying there. Geoff seems to be trying to protect him. In case there are any more shots, I think
 . . . 
Oh Mark
 . . .
’

Janet began to cry. She couldn’t help it. She supposed she was in shock too. She’d done what she knew she must: she’d called the emergency services and then the family. Like the
good PA she was. But now the reality of it all was beginning to hit her. She could no longer hold herself together.

‘I’m on my way,’ said Mark.

Throughout the call Joyce had been at her son’s side, trying to hear what Janet was saying. She had grasped enough to have the gist of it. But she stepped back and allowed Mark to break the news as gently as he could to Felicity and Molly.

Felicity already seemed to know. It was she who had screamed. Not Joyce.

Molly wasn’t taking anything in. Felicity had turned a ghostly white and collapsed into a chair with her hand over her mouth.

‘It’ll be all right, Mum,’ Joyce said, running to her side and putting an arm around her. ‘Dad is tough as old boots, he’ll be all right. He has to be. What would any of us do without him
 . . .
’

She realized she was babbling. She couldn’t stop herself.

‘But who would shoot Granddad?’ asked Molly, her face full of bewilderment.

‘I don’t know, darling,’ said her mother.

‘First Fred disappears and then Granddad is shot.’ Molly was frowning now, trying to make sense of it. ‘There must be a connection, mustn’t there? I mean, things like this don’t happen. Now we have Fred missing and Grandpa shot. Is that a coincidence? I mean, it can’t be, can it?’

‘I don’t know, darling,’ said Joyce again.

She too was beginning to think. Her last words to her father had been to tell him to fuck off. The family seemed to specialize in making unpleasant remarks to each other, only for something terrible to happen to the family member they’d made the remark to. Molly had told her brother she was
going to kill him. And that was the last time any of them had seen him. Molly might have been joking, but that hadn’t stopped her from feeling dreadful about what she had said, and it had made her brother’s disappearance even worse for her.