Evil Valley (31 page)

A sudden realisation. The road map. That was it. The map of Manchester. He strode back into the pub, quickly pushed past a couple of waiting customers and interrupted the barman.

‘That map I borrowed earlier. Can I have it back please?’

‘Just a moment, sir, I’m dealing with this lady.’

No time to argue. Each second could be precious. Dan ducked down, under the bar, grabbed for the map. The barman reached out an arm, tried to stop him, but Dan slapped it aside. A wine glass hit the stone floor, shattered.

‘Here! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Saving a little girl’s life.’

The man just stared, open-mouthed. Dan walked quickly back into the toilets, his aching ankle forgotten. He fumbled the map open on pages 92 and 93, Greater Manchester. What was he looking at? Looking for?

What had Gibson said in one of his earlier letters? Something about a trip somewhere around Manchester. He stared at the map. Around Manchester … around Manchester…

Then he saw it. The motorway circling Manchester. The M60. And here, on the map of Dartmoor there were grid references in the 60s.

Dan felt his pulse quicken. His brain was fresh now, active, eager, the draining lethargy gone. What else had Gibson said? There was that stuff about Denton and Hyde. That had seemed odd all along. Why pick out those places? There was nothing special about them.

He ran a finger over the road map, found them. They were on the M67.

He gazed at the map of Dartmoor, traced the grid references with his finger. Square 6067. What was in it? His hand was trembling. It was where he’d walked with Claire and Rutherford. More importantly, it was close to the Scout Hut.

He was onto something, he was sure of it.

Dan swore loudly. He’d sat in his flat, looking for clues in Gibson’s letters, stared at these very bloody motorways and not seen it.

He concentrated, picked out the landmarks in the grid square. Higher Hartor Tor, Plym Steps … what was there that could mean Gibson was there too?

One place stood out. Dan’s eyes fixed on it. At the top of grid square 6067. A little valley called Evil Coombe.

Gibson had used the word evil several times in his letters, hadn’t he? He’d made a point of repeating it. Hadn’t he said something like “the question of evil is at the very centre of our dance?”

Hell, he’d walked past it with Claire, even pointed it out to her. Evil Coombe. It was on the side of a hill, and the Chief Constable’s surname was Hill. That was it. That was where all this would end, where Gibson would make his final grand gesture.

He ran out of the toilets, threw down the map, grabbed Adam and pulled him up.

‘Come on, quick, quick, quick,’ Dan panted. ‘Quick! I think I’ve found him.’

Chapter Twenty

I
T WAS ALMOST DARK
when they reached the car park by the Scout Hut. They climbed quickly out of the police cars and vans and formed a semi-circle. Adam gave a fast briefing. His voice was still hoarse with tiredness, but it was urgent too.

‘We think he’s up there,’ he rasped, pointing along the old mine track, ‘in a valley by the side of Higher Hartor Tor called – and get this – Evil Coombe.’

There were about 20 officers gathered around Adam, dressed in black and wearing black baseball caps with checked bands and ‘Police’ inscribed on the front. It was all that could be gathered at instant notice. Adam ignored the sergeant’s request to wait for more, said they couldn’t afford the time.

Dan noticed most of the officers were armed. One man next to him, tall and silent, was holding an automatic rifle. Another by his side had a baton gun cradled in his arms. Both wore holsters containing pistols. He backed away slightly, making his ankle throb again.

‘I don’t need to remind you Gibson has a gun and a young girl with him,’ continued Adam. ‘I can’t afford to let this become a hostage situation. We don’t know what state she’s in. She may be cold and hungry and very frightened and for her sake, I don’t want to have to stay out here for the night negotiating. That’s why we’re going in now. We need a quick resolution. Our actions will be crucial in ensuring her safety. I’ll hand you over now to Sergeant Brand for the firearms tactics.’

The little light that was left was fading fast, the jagged moor now just a black silhouette against the blood-red threads in the sky, the dying embers of the fiery autumn sunset. A portly man stepped forward and addressed the group. He too carried a rifle, slung over his back.

Dan suffered a wave of nausea and tried to breathe deeply. The fatigue was enveloping him again, making him feel light-headed. The sight of all these guns wasn’t helping. He bent down to massage his ankle. It was aching unbearably and he wondered if he’d be able to follow the search team. Dartmoor’s tors and rough terrain were hard enough to handle if you were fit. He didn’t like to think about his own physical state. But he couldn’t give up now, not when they could be so close.

He had a sudden idea. It felt insane, but tempting, surely worth trying. The briefing would go on for a few more minutes. He didn’t stop to think, just limped over to the stream, sat down on a smooth rock, pulled off his walking shoe and sock and plunged his aching ankle into the freezing water.

A shock of delight rushed through his lethargic body, waking him, banishing the pain in an instant. The release brought an urge to laugh, lay back on the rock and let out wracking great guffaws.

Dan controlled himself, allowed a low chuckle to escape from his chest. What the hell was he doing? Amongst a group of armed police, closing in on a psychopath who was holding a young girl hostage, and he was sitting dangling his ankle in an icy Dartmoor stream. It felt good though, so good. It was liberating, a reprieve from the world of darkness where he’d spent the last unending hours.

He looked around, saw Adam standing rigid, gazing at the sergeant, his eyes wide and intent. He reluctantly pulled his foot out of the stream, dried it on his coat and put his sock and shoe back on, then walked over to the group. The ankle was still aching but felt much better than it had.

‘The open moorland gives us a tactical problem,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘I don’t want the risk of any officer being caught in a crossfire, so this is what we’ll do. We’ll surround the valley, but myself, Chief Inspector Breen, and PC Williams will approach from the front. We will be the talking team. We’ll use the standard contain and negotiate tactics. Our side will be designated as white, the front.’ He gestured at two men. ‘Andy and Bill, you take the right, or red side. Helen and Mike, you’re on the left, or green side.’

Dan looked over at the two figures Sergeant Brand was pointing to in surprise. He hadn’t realised any of the firearms officers were women.

‘And Will and Stephen, you’re on the back, or black side,’ the sergeant concluded. ‘Now, regarding the problem with the open moor. I want the surrounding officers to take cover as best they can, either lying down or behind boulders.’ He looked around the group. ‘That is for their own protection. You are not to open fire, unless Gibson makes a run for it, comes in your direction, ignores a challenge and is obviously armed and threatening. Is that understood?’

A low but sharp chorus of ‘Yes sir,’ came back.

‘There is one oddity to this operation,’ said the sergeant, beckoning Dan forward. He walked to the front, only hobbling a little now, stood beside Adam. ‘This man, you may recognise. He’s a TV reporter, Dan Groves, but he’s here to help us, at Mr Breen’s request. So remember, if it does come to opening fire, we have an unfamiliar face amongst us.’

Twenty pairs of eyes were fixed on him, and Dan felt a stab of fear. Why did it suddenly seem like he had a target painted on his chest? He hoped these people would recognise him, were good at their jobs. Particularly in this darkness. And under this pressure.

‘Gibson has specifically singled him out to pass messages to, so Dan could be useful if we have to negotiate,’ continued Sergeant Brand. ‘That’s why he’s here.’ He looked around the group. The faces were all calm, concentrating, focused, no hint of nerves. ‘That’s all then. Let’s go.’

They began walking fast up the mine track towards the silhouetted pyramid of the Tor. Dan struggled to keep up, his ankle beginning to throb again. The stream had provided only a transient relief. The team moved silently in single file, scanning the land from left to right. A half moon had begun to rise, dusting the land with a silver light. Dan noticed his hands were shaking and his heart beating rapidly.

They crossed another trickling stream and the sergeant held up a hand. He whispered to four black figures at the front of the group and they left the track, heading silently out over the moorland in a line. Dan watched them go, the moonlight reflecting from the rifles slung over their backs. Another few hundred yards up the track and four more were sent the same way. They must be circling, surrounding the valley. Dan took advantage of the brief rest to kneel down and massage his aching ankle.

They carried on up the track. Adam was in front, and Dan noticed he was breathing heavily, marching mechanically. The other men seemed calm, strode precisely. Dan’s foot caught a stone and he half fell, righted himself, the pain in his ankle biting hard. He swore silently, concentrated on the black outline of Higher Hartor Tor, a dark looming pile of strewn rocks against the moonlit skyline, tried to put the incessant throbbing out of his mind.

At the top of the track the sergeant again held up his hand. He produced a map from a side pocket, checked it. He pointed down a narrow and shallow valley running to the south of the Tor. The moonlight fell into it like a silver river, pitted only with black boulders of stray granite. Halfway down the valley, just a hundred yards away, was a small tent.

The sergeant beckoned to four more men and they divided, two each slipping down the opposite sides of the valley, well back from its lips. Another four were beckoned and began taking up positions around them, behind the granite rocks.

The sergeant stepped over to Adam. ‘We’re all in position now, sir,’ he whispered. ‘We’re ready to go. How do you want to play this? We could try going in on the tent to surprise him and lift him before he has a chance to harm the girl. Or we could take it more gently and negotiate. The textbook says we surround, contain and talk, but this isn’t a textbook situation. There are big risks in both options, sir, if he’s got a hostage in there. I don’t want to look like I’m passing the buck, but you’re the senior officer here. I’m afraid it’s going to have to be your call.’

Dan looked at Adam. The detective stood silently, staring down at the tent. Thank God I have a job where if I make a mistake, the only penalty I pay is a going over from Lizzie, he thought. If Adam gets this wrong and Nicola is hurt, or even dies … he’ll resign from the police and that’s just the start of it. He’ll never let himself forget it, let alone forgive.

What would I do, Dan wondered? How dangerous is Gibson? We know he’s armed. Would he just shoot Nicola, then himself? I was sure he didn’t want to harm anyone. But am I that sure? Sure enough to risk a young girl’s life? Is this his grand final gesture, the deaths of them both? That would be a way of humiliating the police, wouldn’t it? To show how they could have stopped him if they’d been smarter. And it would certainly bring him all the publicity he seemed to crave.

Dan looked down at the tent. It was silent, no sign of movement or life. Above them an owl hooted, making him start. All else was still, but he felt breathless. Was Gibson in there? Holding a gun over a bound and gagged Nicola, waiting for them? Or had he got it completely wrong and the man was miles away, laughing at them?

The cold was seeping into his body, but Dan scarcely noticed it. He knew he was afraid, of all these guns surrounding him, of what they would find in the tent and what would happen in the next few minutes.

He looked again at Adam. The detective was breathing heavily, almost panting, still staring at the tent. The sergeant waited for his word. Then he saw Adam flinch, his eyes widen, the sergeant’s face, too, flicking down the valley.

Movement. A ruffling of the canvas, the unmistakeable sound of a zip slowly being drawn down. A figure was emerging from the flap of the tent, crouched at first, now standing tall, looking around. It seemed to nod approvingly.

A hand raised and swung sideways, back and forth in an exaggerated motion. It was a wave, Dan thought incredulously. The man was waving.

‘Hello!’ A familiar voice cut through the still air. ‘Hello, my dear Dan, and Adam too. And lots of others no doubt. Welcome to Evil Coombe. You’re just a little earlier than I expected, but I should have known better than to underestimate you. Anyway, it’s no trouble. We’re all ready for you. Hello, and welcome to my lair.’

There was a silence. Adam, Dan, the sergeant stared down in disbelief. Of all the things they might have been expecting, a friendly sounding, waving Gibson wasn’t one.

‘Talk to him,’ whispered the sergeant. ‘He wants to talk. Always get them talking if you can. You’re covered if he tries anything.’

‘Hello,’ called Adam uncertainly, then louder. ‘Hello … Mr Gibson.’

‘Ah, Adam. Please, I think after all we’ve been through now we should be on first name terms. Please call me Edmund.’

‘Hello, Edmund,’ called Adam again, and Dan could hear the tension in his voice. Anger, awkwardness, stress, pressure, anxiety, fear, contempt, loathing, they were all in there.

‘That’s much better,’ came the reply. ‘Are you all right, Adam? You sound a little uptight. Hello to Dan too, by the way. I’m sure he’s with you. You pair are so close it’s touching. Hello, Dan!’

Dan glanced at the sergeant. ‘Go on,’ the man hissed. ‘Try to keep him talking. While he’s talking, he’s no threat.’

‘Hello, Edmund,’ called Dan, stepping forwards so he was beside Adam. He felt as if he was walking out before a firing squad. ‘Hello.’

‘Now that’s much better. The two stars of the show are on the stage. Well, three with me of course, but I was being modest. Now, may I ask, how did you find me? I tried to give you enough clues to bring you here, but not too soon. Was it the last hint I left on the quad bike that did it? I wasn’t quite sure whether I should give you that one.’

‘Yes,’ called back Dan. ‘Well, that combined with the others. I was in the Spray of Feathers and they had a big map of Dartmoor on the wall. I noticed the grid references coincided with the motorway numbers around Manchester. I should have got it sooner really.’

‘I did worry you might have,’ shouted Gibson. ‘It was a very difficult call, how much to feed you. It was the part of my plan I was most worried about. But anyway, it’s all worked out nicely hasn’t it? And here we are again, having a lovely chat, just like we did back at the leisure centre.’

An insistent, unwelcome memory surfaced in Dan’s mind. What Gibson said about their final conversation. That it would be short. He felt a growing fear churning his stomach. If Gibson decided to shoot they’d make easy targets, standing here, upright in the moonlight.

‘Ask him about Nicola,’ whispered Adam.

‘How’s Nicola?’ Dan called, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

‘She’s fine. Quite safe and very well. She’s taken all this in her stride. It’s been an adventure for her. She’s begun to get a bit upset recently, but she’s fine, don’t worry.’

‘I know you don’t mean to hurt her, Edmund,’ Dan shouted. ‘I know you’re no killer. I take it you still mean her no harm?’

‘No harm at all.’

Dan felt Adam’s foot tap his ankle. ‘He wants to talk to you, not me. Keep going on about Nicola. Try to get her freed.’

The crushing weight of responsibility was suddenly back, assailing Dan again, a flare of burning anger too. It was an effort not to turn on Adam, grab his jacket, rant into his face – “I’m only a bloody TV reporter, you’re the cops, why do I have to do this? What am I even doing here? Why make me the one who’ll decide Nicola’s fate? How will I feel if something happens to her …”

He calmed himself. He had to concentrate, couldn’t afford to make a mistake. But what to say? Standing here on Dartmoor, in the cold moonlight, in lethal danger, the life of a nine-year-old girl depending on him. Where was the inspiration, the clever words to save Nicola, and himself and Adam?

‘Err … good, Edmund,’ was all he could manage. ‘Great … I knew you wouldn’t harm her. So … err … what’ve you been up to?’

‘Are we passing pleasantries, Dan?’ came Gibson’s amused reply.

‘No … I was just wondering … where Nicola is.’

‘She’s fine, don’t worry about that.’

‘Good … so can we … err … see her?’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Yes … of course … well …’

Beside him, Dan thought he heard Adam groan.

‘Of course you don’t trust me!’ called Gibson, his voice still bizarrely jolly. ‘I’m a madman, aren’t I? I’m barmy! Totally bonkers! I abduct little girls because the police shot my dog! What a nutter!’