Exit Wounds (29 page)

Heol Cefn Onn, Lisvane

Andrew Colgan pulled up slowly outside his house, not bothering to drive it up onto the driveway and into the garage. He pulled up the handbrake, put the stick into neutral and turned off the ignition, paying considerable concentration to each action he would normally do without thinking.

He took off his seatbelt but didn’t move. He had asked Zeddemore to let him break the news to his wife himself and he had agreed. Zeddemore had questioned Colgan’s condition to drive and at one point Colgan thought he was going to insist that he’d be driven home, but eventually he waivered and let Andrew leave of his own accord.

Movement in his peripheral vision made him look up from the steering wheel, to see his wife in the kitchen, pacing back and forth, the cordless phone against her ear. She looked worried and just as Colgan started to wonder who she was calling he felt his mobile begin to vibrate against his chest.

He pulled it out from his inside pocket and looked down as it continued to ring, his thumb hovering over the pickup button. He suddenly tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started up the engine, driving away as fast as he could.

M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

“How did you feel, being in a combat situation again?” Brick shit-house asked Paul, his brow deepening.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“You didn’t feel anything?”

“No. What did you think I was gonna feel?”

“You didn’t feel upset then?”

Paul laughed wryly, “Um no.”

Brick Shit-house frowned harder, “Put you do suffer with P.T.S.D., don’t you?”

“According to the shrink.”

“Lack of sleep? Flashbacks? Nightmares?”

Paul nodded quickly in agreement, “Yeah actually. There is this one nightmare. Scares the hell out of me. No matter what I do I just can’t seem to shake it.”

Brick Shit-house leaned in closer. “Go on.”

“It’s me, trapped in this room with you for the rest of my fucking life, listening to your stupid questions over and over and over and over and over-”

“Paul, this is a very serious matter.”

“And over and over and over and over and over-”

The Brick Shit-house’s cheeks began to twitch as he struggled to keep his composure. He bit down on his bottom lip before trying again. “I think that’s quite enough of that.”

“And over and over and over and over and over and over-”

“Paul, stop it.”

“And over and over and over and over and over and over-”

“I said stop!”

“And over and over and over and over and over and over-”

The Brick Shit-house suddenly lunged over the table, knocking one of the laptops on the floor and grabbed Paul by the scruff of his collar. “Stop it! You think this is funny?! I said stop!”

Paul did stop. He looked down slowly at the Brick Shit-house’s hands and then back up to his face. “Take you hands off me.” He added, “Now.”

Suddenly Zeddemore burst into the room, flanked by the guard that had been waiting outside. “Davies! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

The Brick Shit-house didn’t let go immediately. He kept his eyes focused on Paul and for a brief moment he thought he saw him smile. He slowly released his hold and retreated back across the table and stood upright, brushing himself down with one hand. “I’m sorry, sir, I...” he stammered. “I don’t know what came over me... I...”

“Wait outside my office.”

Brick Shit-house bowed his head slightly and quickly left the room, doing his best to ignore Paul as he blew him a kiss.

Paul turned his head around in a circle, stretching his neck. “You going to apologise for that?”

“Apologise?” Zeddemore shrieked. “You deliberately provoked him!”

Paul felt the corner of his mouth raise slightly, “Yeah, but only a little.”

“It’s in your best interests to cooperate with us, Russell. There will be questions raised about today’s events and like it or not you WILL have to answer them.”

“I want to speak to my brother.”

“Impossible. He’s making his statement and you have yet to make yours. No contact can be made between you until we have both of your separate accounts.”

“Well, then I want to see Andrew Colgan.”

Zeddemore laughed, shaking his head, “Did your brother tell you to ask for him?”

Paul ignored the question. “I want to see him.”

“He’s been sent home to be with his wife after the murder of his daughter. I am in acting command of this department. I will appoint another officer soon and then you will continue with the debrief.”

“I don’t answer to you, buddy.”

“Actually you do, since technically speaking you’re on the payroll now and I’m your superior.” Zeddemore forced a thin smile. “Welcome to the team.” He turned his attention to the guard. “Any further failure to cooperate will be seen as a hostile action and you have my permission to arrest him.”

Zeddemore marched out of the room quickly. He had been watching both of the live feeds from his office and only rushed to the cells to intervene when things got out of hand. Both sides of the Russell’s story matched, and he had no doubt that when they eventually brought in Colgan for his statement he would substantiate their version of events. That was the problem. The blame was spread too thinly, between two many people. The only way to save embarrassment for the department and in fact the government in this incident was to blame one individual. Zeddemore needed a scapegoat.

Unsworth was mid sentence when Zeddemore entered without any introduction. She looked up from her glasses, questioningly.

“Leave us,” Zeddemore said.

“But sir, I haven’t finished the debrief-”

“I’m aware, thank you.”

Unsworth stood up slowly and quietly left the room. Zeddemore shut the door behind her and walked over to the table. He unplugged the laptop cable and turned off the camera, before sitting down on the edge of the table.

“Are you bringing criminal charges against me?” Richard asked.

“That depends.” Zeddemore said, not yet looking Richard in the eye.

“On what?”

“Richard, I’m prepared to let you and your brother walk clean from this messed up situation.” Zeddemore paused. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, “But Richard, both you and I know, somebody is going to have to be held accountable for all this.”

“Giacometti is the one you should be blaming.”

Zeddemore nodded, “I agree. But that’s not going to be enough. The Pope is dead. The government is going to want to distance itself from that as much as possible. That means putting the focus on a single individual.”

Richard suddenly understood. “You want me to pin this on Andrew!”

“Colgan won’t serve any jail time. He’s just lost his daughter. The public will sympathise. They’ll see him as a man who made mistakes yes, but just as a man. Another victim of the Blind Lover murders.” Zeddemore shifted his weight, moving his hand to point at Richard. “On the other hand, they see you, and they’re just going to see an obsessed copper looking for some payback. And your brother?” He tilted his head to the left in a slight shrug, “Well people are hardly friendly to veterans of a war they don’t agree with are they?”

“You watch your mouth when talking about my brother. Paul is a hero!” Richard snapped.

“I’ve no doubt. All I’m saying is that he will suffer, and let’s face it, he’s only involved in all this through his sense of loyalty to you.”

Zeddemore was talking sense, and that’s what made it worse. Paul had only got involved because Richard asked him to. Paul had seen him grow further and further distant from his family over the passing months as he obsessed over the Plug case. He had made Richard promise that if agreed to go undercover with him, that this would be the end of it and he would go back to his family, the way things used to be.

“Your wife, Jade, she’s pregnant isn’t she?”

Richard didn’t answer.

“Richard, let me put this another way. Put things in perspective for you. If you don’t do this. If you take the heat. You will go to jail. Do you really want to wait at least five years before you can hold your new baby in your arms as a free man?”

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Tony Horton walked back into the M.I.T. bullpen with a slight flinch in each step. The 9mm had passed clean in and out, missing any internal organs or major arteries. He was lucky, the doctor had told him as he patched up the wound. Tony didn’t feel lucky.

“Tony!” Craig’s hand shot up from his desk, excitedly waving him over.

Tony smiled back in spite of himself. Regardless of how badly he had treated him today, Craig was still as loyal as ever. It occurred to Tony that Craig was probably the closest thing he had to a best friend.

“How you feeling?” Craig asked once Tony had crossed the room.

“Not bad, all things considered.”

Craig shook his head, “I still can’t believe you got shot! I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony reached a hand out to Craig’s shoulder, “Don’t be. If it weren’t for you I’d still be trying to crawl down those stairs, bleeding my guts out.”

Craig forced a smile, “I just keep thinking, if I had made it up there sooner... maybe, you know...”

“We really shouldn’t be talking about this. Not until we’ve both made our statements.”

“Statements can wait.”

Tony spun round suddenly at the sound of Richard’s voice. He had changed into a spare black and grey pinstripe suit he kept in his locker, with a white shirt and a blue tie. He strode across the room with vivid buoyancy and a sense of purpose.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in holding!”

Richard smiled thinly, “Not anymore. I’m the new departmental director.”

Tony’s jaw practically hit the floor, “What? After all that’s gone on today how can they promote you?!”

“Wind your neck back in, Tony. We have work to do.” Richard placed his hands on his hips. “You two have been more involved than anyone else on the team today. It’s up to us to find Giacometti.”

“If he’s got any sense he’ll be long gone by now,” Craig said.

“You’re assuming that killing the Pope was his final endgame?”

“It’s hard to think how he could go any bigger after that,” Tony muttered.

“Whether it is or isn’t, we can’t let him just walk away from this. At the end of the day we are still police officers and catching criminals is what we do.”

Craig and Tony didn’t say or do much but Richard sensed they were on board with him.

“Giacometti. How do we find him? Ideas? We’ve got to pick up a thread from somewhere.”

Craig rubbed the side of his face as he thought.

“Dean Reynolds?” Tony thought aloud.

Richard nodded, “Why wasn’t he on the roof?”

Tony shook his head, “The Russian definitely said it was Dean who picked up the missile from the exchange.”

“So Dean must have met up with Thomas somewhere and handed over the launcher,” Craig said.

Richard snapped his fingers, “Tony, find the security footage of Capital Tower. You’ll be able to see what vehicle they unloaded the missile and launcher out of. Then, use all available C.C.T.V. you can access to trace the vehicle back to where Dean handed it over.”

Tony was already headed for his desk, “Then I can track Dean back to where he is now!”

“And with any luck, Giacometti,” Richard added.

Craig said, “Oh yeah, because we’ve had loads of that so far.”

313

16.24 BST (British Summer Time)

Present Day

Cardiff. Wales. Great Britain.

Old Vale Airfield, Rhoose

Giacometti acknowledged the irony in his actions. He had just watched the reports of the Pope’s plane crash broadcast on national television. The final achievement of his carefully orchestrated plan complete, the head of the Catholic Church dead, Giacometti began to pray.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of the old airfield control tower. The rain outside had eased off for now but the clouds had yet to part fully, casting the land below in shadow. Candles lay, scattered around the room, their flickering light brought his many tattoos to frightening life.

His was a pure faith. Free from false gods and deceitful prophets, he worshipped only the true Lord.

I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Do not have any other gods before me.

You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.

You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.

He brought his hands together slowly and closed his eyes. It was over. It was finally over. Years of waiting, of planning, and now his mission was accomplished. He had rid the deluded world of its chosen idol. You did not worship any man, let alone one who sanctioned and led an institution of conmen, thieves and paedophiles.

Giacometti was still unsure of how he felt. He had imagined that there would be a sudden rush of euphoria, that somehow something inside of him would feel better, feel free. But he did not feel free.

He had showered and changed since his time with the last young girl yet still he could smell her scent. The beautiful aroma of untouched innocence replaced now with the stench of guilt, remorse and disgust, clinging on his nostrils despite any amount of scouring.

Perhaps there are some things you simply cannot cleanse?
he wondered morbidly.
Perhaps I’ll never fell clean?

Giacometti thought back to the last time he had felt clean. The memory was so distant and faint he sometimes wondered if ever a time had truly existed. Had he ever been that innocent boy with young eyes and a simple smile that he saw in his dreams? Perhaps. But that boy had been destroyed a long time ago. He had been forced to do things that he didn’t understand and didn’t want to do. He had been lied to by false prophets all his life, telling him that forgiveness would set him free.

Vengeance would set him free. As it was written in the scriptures.

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound...

Father Boccanegra had taken his life, all those years ago. Now he had taken his.

Perhaps that is the problem?

It wasn’t Giacometti who had taken Boccanegra’s life. It had been that damned Police officer. Paul Russell.

He cheated me out of my vengeance and now I can never have the closure I need. The pain will go on. The hunger. The terrible lust for purity. To feel pure. To be one with purity. Will it never end?

Despite all my patience and effort will I never find absolution?

It should have been by my hands that the abomination met his end. Not Paul Russell!

How did two policemen infiltrate and destroy my schemes? Because I broke the plan! I rushed! Why? Because His Holiness, the false prophet of God, changed his travel plans!

Giacometti shook his head, he had come to pray but his own straying thoughts were preventing him from worship. It was a simple thing that had sowed the seeds of his failure, but then he knew better than anyone that every action has a reaction. And every wound leaves a scar.

M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

“Got him!” Tony shouted across the bullpen. “Dean ended up at the old Vale Airfield, just outside Barry!”

“Brilliant!” Richard jumped to his feet, snatched up his jacket off the back of his chair and slid it on. “Craig, contact the A.T.S.T. have them assemble on the airfield right now!”

“They’re a long way out, boss. They headed back to Bristol after they found the warehouse empty,” Craig told him.

Richard shook his head, “Great. Just great. Okay, get hold of the local Armed Response. They’re gonna have to do. Also put a call out, I want all personal with firearm experience at their airfield. No one is to make their presence known until I give the order!”

Craig nodded, “Understood, boss. Does that include me?”

“No, I’m going to need you to coordinate things from here.” Richard smiled, “From now on, you’re the ranking officer on site, Craig Hughes.”

Craig’s cheeks blushed a little as he smiled. “Understood.”

Tony patted his fingers gently on his desk, “What about me?”

Richard turned to Tony slowly, zoning in on him with a steely gaze. “You think you’re up for another fire fight today?”

Tony met the stare with his own. “Absolutely.”

Richard nodded, “Good. Then you had better get down to the armoury quick and stock up on some more ammo.”

Paul had sat in silence since Zeddemore had left the room. Having slowed down to a stop, the exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with him. The last drops of adrenaline had left his body hours ago. Their potent kick of energy now replaced with achy fatigue and a sharp pain weighing on his brow. He was now starting to become aware of each of the wounds he had sustained throughout the day. Like a severely delayed reaction they emerged one after the other in chronicle order.

He leant forward on the table, resting his head in his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly. Paul could never sleep for more than an hour or so at a time anymore and when he did the sleep was rarely restful.

The holding cell door opened, but instead of the replacement interrogator, in walked his brother, dressed smartly in a black and grey suit.

“Hey,” said Paul sitting up straight. “How come you get the nice suit and I get to look like a flaming P.E. teacher?”

Richard laughed. “I think it’s a good look for you actually. Maybe you should consider it as a career choice. Lots of fit girls running around in tight shorts. I know how you like them young!”

Paul pulled a face, “Piss off! I don’t like them that young!”

A group of people rushed past the doorway in a hurry. One of them stopped on seeing Richard. “Sir, we’re ready to go.”

Richard nodded, “I’ll be right there.”

Paul looked questioningly at his brother as the officer left. “Rich, what’s going on?”

“We’re being released without charge.”

Paul went to laugh but Richard didn’t join him this time. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, I’ve been appointed as the new directing officer.”

“You’ve been released without charge and promoted?! How did you manage that?”

Richard avoided eye contact. “I’ve told them to get you some food. Catering’s not up to much here so if you wanna order takeaway just tell them and they’ll get you whatever you want.”

Paul wasn’t stupid and he knew when his brother was holding something back. “Where are you going?”

Richard pressed his tongue flat against the inside of his teeth, “We think we’ve tracked down Giacometti.”

“That’s great news!” Paul said, standing up.

Richard nodded, “We’re assembling now to launch on his position.”

“Fuck the food. I’m ready to go now.” Paul headed towards the door, but the guard blocked his path. He turned over his shoulder, “Rich?”

“You’re not coming with us, Paul.”

Paul turned the rest of the way round to face his brother. “What? Why not?

“You’re not even a police officer.”

Paul scoffed, “According to that prick that was in here earlier I am. Come on! Let’s go.”

“Paul, I’ve asked way too much of you already today.”

“You’re not asking, Rich. I’m offering. I’ve come this far, I wanna see this through to the end.”

Richard shook his head.

“Come on! You need me. You know you do.”

Richard shook his head again.

“You know you need me. That’s why you brought me along with you this morning.” Paul playfully punched Richard in the arm. “Face it. You still need your brother by your side to look out for you.”

“I brought you along because together we fitted the description!” Richard snapped, suddenly. “I’ve spent the last ten years looking after myself just fine without your help, and last time I checked it was you that needed looking after! Not me!”

Richard regretted his words the second they left his mouth.

Paul’s smile dropped. He shook his head slightly and walked to the other side of the cell.

“Paul,” Richard started, he fumbled for something to say. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now.”

“Then go,” Paul said, his back to his brother.

“I am sorry,” Richard insisted.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “Me too.”

Richard left the cell quickly and the guard closed the door after him, locking Paul inside alone.

Old Vale Airfield, Rhoose

Dean Reynolds approached the control tower office door with deliberate caution. Giacometti hated to be disturbed when he was praying and Dean had already had to interrupt him when he was with one of his young girls today. He didn’t want to risk angering him any further, but they would have to move soon if they wanted to continue to evade the authorities.

Dean tapped his knuckles gently on the door and waited.

“Come,” Giacometti’s voce beckoned from inside.

Giacometti was stood, gazing out through the wide window that ran almost the entire way round the room. The black rain clouds had mostly absconded from the sky, replaced now with blues and whites of a summer’s day, cascading into the purples and reds of a slow, approaching sunset.

He turned and smiled at the sight of Dean in his doorway, “My friend Dean. My true friend.”

“The planes are fuelled and ready to go. You ought to leave soon.”

Giacometti nodded, “Yes, of course.” He moved forward and held Dean by the shoulders. “I think you might be the closest friend I have in the world. In many ways you are like a son to me, Dean. I love you, and I hope you know that.”

Dean smiled and nodded, respectfully, “I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

“I wish I could convince you to come with me. They’ll be looking for you, you know.”

Dean grinned, “They’ll look, but they won’t see.”

Giacometti patted Dean on the shoulder, “Quite right.” In a sharp move he quickly produced a small, folded piece of paper from inside his shirt sleeve. “Consider this a token of my gratitude for your loyalty, and your friendship.”

Dean reached out to take it, but Giacometti pulled back slightly at the last moment.

“Be careful though, my friend Dean. I know you think it will bring you everything you desire. But it is hard to obtain something when you don’t know what it is you are looking for.”

Dean shrugged with a smile, “Well until then I guess I’ll just have to console myself with all the money and power I can imagine.”

Giacometti smiled thinly, knowing his words had fallen on deaf ears. Nevertheless he slowly held out his hand and Dean quickly took the piece of paper.

Watford Road, Caerphilly Mountain

Andrew Colgan had parked his car in the bay next to the infamous snack bar and walked along the footpath across the mountain fields for twenty minutes before venturing off into the woods alone. Finally, when he had come to a spot amongst the trees where he could see not a glimpse of evidence of another man or woman and the blissful silence had drowned out the low hum of traffic, he stopped.

He dropped slowly, resting his arm on a nearby rock and sat gently down on the quilt of fallen branches that covered the ground.

He reached into his trouser pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a handful of small photographs of his family. He had been secretly wishing that their first baby was a boy, but when Rebecca was born he fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. He knew then the reason he had been put on this earth was her. He swore then that he would do anything in his power to love, raise and protect her in the best way he knew how. It was an oath he had failed to keep. He had failed her.

It was only when a tear fell on the photograph in his hand of Rebecca with her first bicycle that he realised he was crying again. He brought his knees up against his chest and held the photograph to his head.