Fire Damage (A Jessie Flynn Investigation, Book 1) (28 page)

Sergeant Colin Starkey pushed open the door to the Non-Commissioned Officers’ Mess at Intelligence Corps headquarters, Chicksands. Navigating through the empty chairs, in the deserted room, he made his way up to the bar.

‘Whisky, sir?’ the Catering Corps private behind the bar asked, as Starkey settled himself on to one of the stools.

‘I clearly need to stop drinking during the day,’ he sighed. ‘It’s becoming a nasty habit.’

The barman glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly four, sir. Not obscenely early.’

Starkey gave the barman a rueful smile. Four p.m. on a weekday, everyone else gainfully employed. It was only him, it seemed, who had fuck-all to do but hang out in the bar and drink. Drink and wait for his judgement to be handed down. Not that he had any regrets. Given the same situation, the same options he had been faced with in Afghanistan ten days ago, he would make the same choices.

‘When are you back on the job, sir?’

Starkey shrugged. ‘Soon, I hope.’

‘And the investigation?’

‘I’ll be acquitted.’

‘Glad to hear that, sir.’ The barman smiled. ‘Though you’ll miss this life of leisure when you’re back.’

Starkey shook his head. Leisure gave him too much time to think, and he didn’t like to think too much. His thoughts always turned bad: to Nooria, to Soraya, to his mother and sister living out their lives in the council house in Fulham that he had grown up in, every day a wearisome struggle, despite the money that he sent them monthly.

No. He wanted to get back to it. Couldn’t wait.

Pushing himself up from the bar-stool, he went over to the window, where he swivelled an empty chair so that it was facing out, relaxed into it, putting his feet on the windowsill. The sky was leaden, heavy black storm clouds layering to the south, darkness falling fast. He took a sip of whisky, savouring the taste. Another. Closing his eyes, he took a large slug, felt the burn course down his throat, fire spreading into his chest. The darkness in his mind’s eye flickered, yellow, gold, and he was back in Afghanistan.

I’ll be acquitted.

He’d had no idea at the time that Andy Jackson had suffered a heart attack. Everything had happened too quickly. They’d been down in the dirt, brawling. Andy Jackson had been a big lad too, strong and vicious, with the purpose and focus of a trapped animal fighting for its life.

He had felt no satisfaction when he had pulled the trigger. Just blind fury and a profound need to re-address the balance, according to his own rules and morality. Salvage a tiny bit of right from wrong.

His eyes snapped open. The bar was still deserted. Darkness of the late afternoon closing in. And even now, back in England, sitting here with a drink in his hand and the dirt of Afghanistan long since washed from his body, he felt no regrets, no remorse. Andy Jackson had deserved everything that he had got.

Starkey knew that he was in the clear. Forensic examination of his gun had given the Redcap nothing and he would find no other evidence, however hard he looked. There had been no witnesses and the only person left alive had no intention of ever talking.
The truth never set anyone free, Captain.
Only the fucking stupid believe that.

Raising his glass, he gave a silent toast – to Nooria and Major Scott, to the little boy, and to Soraya. He hoped that their lives would work out, had tried hard to make sure that they would. But he knew that the chances were slim. They had already been through too much, done too much, were probably too far gone now for salvation.

‘Dr Flynn.’

‘Major Scott.’

He was sitting in the same chair she had found him in the first time she’d been here, in front of the window, but facing into the room this time, a shadow framed in the dim light of the table lamp and the darkness of the winter afternoon, closed in now, cold and dense.

They held each other’s gaze across the room, the tension between them an almost physical presence. Jessie’s gaze flicked down from Scott’s face for an instant: she noticed the bottle of whisky on the chair beside him, empty, a thin gold string running down the leather from the mouth of the bottle; a millisecond later the snub-nosed Browning cradled in his lap. His hand resting lightly on its butt, index finger tapping out a musical note on its trigger.

He watched her eyes move, the flicker of recognition – the fear – and his face broke into a smile, the burnt skin on his cheek cracking like drying mud.

‘I’ve come to see Sami, Major Scott. Is he in his room?’ Her voice infuriated her, thin and reedy, like a nervous little girl.

He smiled. ‘Are you frightened, Dr Flynn?’

She shook her head, the movement so weak it almost wasn’t there. ‘Why should I be?’

‘You’re a terrible liar.’

Suddenly, he was moving, reaching for the arm of the chair, hauling himself up, bearing down on her across the room with the force of a collapsing building, the Browning clutched tight in his swinging hand. Stepping back, Jessie came hard up against the wall. Left or right – was the door to the sitting room left or right? – she wasn’t sure, had lost her orientation in the dimness of the room, the disturbing force of his presence.

His face was so close to hers that his breath stirred her hair. She recognized that rabid look in his eye, a look she had seen before in the most damaged of her patients, smelled the whisky, rancid on his breath. The Browning hung by his side, gripped lightly in his right hand. Jessie forced herself not to look at it, not to acknowledge its presence.

She cleared her throat. ‘Is Sami upstairs in his room?’ The politeness in her tone felt almost comical.

‘You leave Sami alone.’ His voice hissed from his mouth like poisoned gas.

The urge to turn and run from his claustrophobic proximity was almost overwhelming. But she had come here for a reason: to see Sami. She stood her ground.

‘I’ve just seen Nooria. She told me everything. The truth.’

‘The truth?’ He gave a harsh, half-laugh. ‘Nooria told you the truth, did she? It was more than she did to me.’ His voice, strangled with pain, rose and cracked. ‘The truth will set you free, Dr Flynn. One of my sergeants in Afghanistan, the one who tried to save me from all this—’ he raised his hand to his burnt face – ‘used to say that.’

Starkey
.

‘It’s bullshit.’ His face was so close that she felt as if she would drown in the red liquid of his naked eye socket. ‘The truth, if you really want to know it, Dr Flynn, is that I’m a murderer. A double murderer.’

‘Murderer?’ Her voice was strangled.

‘Wendy.’ He tilted forward until his mouth was kissing her ear. ‘I stabbed Wendy Chubb.’

Jessie recoiled. Twisting her head, she searched left and right for the door. It was right, barely two metres away. She could dodge through quickly, dart to the front door, escape. His fingers snapped closed around her wrist like a trap. Had he read her mind?

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ Jessie croaked. ‘For Wendy?’ Her heart was slamming in her chest.

‘I had no choice.’

‘We always have choices.’ As she spoke the words, she felt the heavy weight of his hand tight around her wrist. Why the hell was she challenging him when all she wanted to do was get out of here alive? But she couldn’t help herself. Challenging was part of her job, in her nature, her DNA.

‘I’m sorry about Captain Callan too,’ he muttered.

Callan?

It took her a moment.

Jesus Christ.

‘You shot Callan?’ She felt blood rush to her brain, anger flare, hot and furious. She tried to yank her arm from his grip, but the muscular fingers tightened with a strength that frightened her. ‘You fucker,’ she said, right into his face. She couldn’t help herself. ‘You shot him in the back. You shot him in the back, you cowardly fucker.’

Major Scott twisted her arm so hard it almost popped from the shoulder joint. She gasped, clenched her teeth against the pain. She didn’t care now. Couldn’t give a shit.

‘You’re a fucking coward,’ she sneered.

‘Do you think a third will make any difference to me or to them? The Army? The police?’

‘Callan is alive.’

Was he?
She didn’t know.
DI Simmons’ phone had gone straight to voicemail.
It was as if Scott hadn’t heard her.

‘It’s your fault,’ he growled. ‘We were fine before you.’

‘Nothing was fine. You and Nooria just buried your heads in the sand.’

Sliding her free hand to her coat pocket, she pulled out her mobile, glanced down quickly. No signal.
Shit.
No bloody signal. She held it up to his face, conscious that the words on the screen were blurred with the trembling of her hand.

‘The Detective Inspector running the Wendy Chubb murder case knows I’m here.’

Scott chuckled. ‘Nobody knows you’re here. That’s why you’re shaking.’

‘I called him before I came.’

‘Bullshit.’

It wasn’t bullshit. She had called him from the petrol station on West Hill, another two times while speeding, one-handed, down the A3, left three messages on his voicemail. He clearly hadn’t listened to them yet. She was on her own.

Tilting her head, she fixed on the door two metres away, Scott’s bulk blocking her escape to it. But if she
could
get there, run through. The stairs would be straight ahead, the door to the outside and escape to her right. Which way? Should she go to Sami, or should she run?

Then it hit her.

The acute memory of pushing open the door to Jamie’s room, seeing the shape of him hanging in front of the curtain.
It was your fault. You were supposed to be looking after him.
Buried self-hatred snaked into her mind like molten lava through a fissure.

‘I just want to see Sami and then I’ll leave. I want to say goodbye.’

Relaxing her arm – the one he was grasping – she let it flop freely, so that his hand was supporting a dead weight. No tension. No resistance.
Take the aggression out of the situation.
Playing the psychology.

A second. Two.

She heard Scott sigh, felt the rigidness in his body relax fractionally. His fingers around her wrist loosen. Fractionally.

‘I let them both down,’ he murmured. ‘I left them here to be his victims.’

‘You had a job to do,’ she said gently. ‘You had no choice.’

Snatching her arm free, she ducked sideways, darted through the door, and sprinted for the stairs. She had a second’s head start, while his brain struggled to adjust from compassion to escape.

Suddenly he was behind her, snatching at her leg as she started up the stairs, yanking it from under her. Staggering, she cycled frantically, trying to stay upright on her other leg, but momentum was propelling her forward and she slammed down prone. The edge of a stair caught her under the ribcage, knocking the breath from her lungs. She lay for a moment, winded and shocked.

‘You fucking bitch,’ Scott snarled.

Kicking out hard with her free foot, she caught him under the chin, saw his head snap back, his torso follow. His hand fell from her ankle. She scrabbled up the first few stairs, her hands slippery on the polished wood, found her feet, charged up the rest. At the top of the steps, she stumbled. The darkness on the landing was denser than in the hallway; for a few seconds she was blind. Scott was at the bottom of the stairs, a crouching, groaning shadow framed in the dim hallway. He was on his knees clutching his jaw in agony. Had she broken it? She hoped so.

Careering down the corridor, she found the door to Sami’s room, burst through without knocking. Slamming the door closed behind her, she searched for the lock.

No lock.
Fuck.
Turning, she scanned the bare room.

The bed.

The chest of drawers.

Plastic play buckets.

Sami, a motionless statue in the corner, his dark eyes huge with fright.

‘Sami, it’s Jessie Flynn.’

No reaction. No obvious recognition. Just the familiar look of frozen, wide-eyed terror. And a bruise, blooming purple and blue on his cheek.

Putting her weight behind the chest of drawers, she bumped it across the carpet to the door, hauling one end, running to the other, bumping that end, heaving, dragging it across the room like a giant crab. It was heavy old oak, full of clothes, weighed a ton. She stopped, panting, catching her breath.

Footsteps.

Her heart was in her mouth, watching as the door handle twisted.

‘Open the door, Dr Flynn.’ His voice full of threat.

He had the gun. Would he shoot through the closed door? Surely not. Not when his only son was on the other side.

‘Call the police and when I hear them arrive, I’ll open it.’

A thud as he threw his weight against the door. Spinning away, she ran over to Sami, was momentarily blinded. The torch. Sami pressing himself into the corner of the room, shining the torch beam straight in her face.

‘The torch will keep the Shadowman away. The torch will keep the Shadowman away.’ Chanting under his breath, eyes jammed closed.

Squatting in front of him, she put her hands lightly on his shoulders. He cringed away.

‘Look at me, Sami. Look at me,’ she urged. ‘Open your eyes and look at me.’

He met her gaze through cracked lids, his dark eyes brimming with tears. She touched her fingers lightly to the bruise.

‘What happened to your cheek, Sami?’

‘Daddy angry,’ he whimpered. ‘Daddy angry with the girl …’ he stuttered. ‘… with … with the boy.’

Jesus.
Looking at him now, the bruise, the utter terror, the depth of psychological damage in one tiny, four-year-old boy, she felt furious.

‘You have my son in there. Open the fucking door.’

‘Call the police now,’ she shouted back, her voice cracking with tension. Tension and rage. This was all wrong. This was so badly, madly wrong. She turned back to Sami. ‘Remember that you’re safe with me, Sami. The boy is safe with the woman.’

Tears ran down his cheeks.

‘The boy is safe with the woman, Sami. Say it. Say it, Sami. The boy is safe with the woman.’

A choking sob. ‘The boy is safe with the woman,’ he repeated – a mechanical toy – hugging the torch to his chest. ‘The boy is safe with the woman.’

‘Open the fucking door now, or I will kick it open.’

Lifting him gently by the upper arms, Jessie brought him to his feet and guided him over to the window. Yanking the curtains open, holding tight to his trembling hand, she slid the sash window up. Freezing air billowed into the room, watering her eyes, swirling around them. An electric storm muttered in the distance, thunder, a flash of sudden lightning. With a cry, Sami cowered away. Jessie pulled him to her, hugged him tight.

A thud. The chest of drawers swayed, slammed back against the door again.

She looked right into his tear-drowned eyes. ‘The boy is safe with the woman, Sami. Remember, the boy is safe with me.’

Pulling him on to her knee, sitting herself on the window ledge, she swung one leg and then the other out of the window. Clutching the frame with one hand, the other arm wrapped tight around Sami’s chest, she shuffled forward, felt the window ledge shift to the edge of her bottom, tensed her bicep ready to take the strain. She gave one last push against the crumbling brick with her feet. Their bodies swung – out and back – she slammed sideways against the wall, her shoulder and hip taking the impact, bicep burning with the effort of holding them both. They were hanging fifteen feet above the ground.

A crash in the room.
The chest of drawers.

She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Opened them, and let go.

Her feet hit the frozen earth, her knees buckled, she rolled sideways as she’d been taught when parachuting, transferring the energy from the impact into motion. Her knees and ankles felt as if they’d been cracked with a sledgehammer. Sami was silent. Silent and still and pale as a corpse in her arms, too frightened to move or scream.

Grabbing the torch, which had rolled away from them, carrying Sami in her arms, she sprinted across the grass to her Mini, clicked the locks and shoved him in through the driver’s door, following in one fluid motion as Scott rounded the corner of the house.

‘I love that boy and I love his mother,’ he screamed.

Tyres screeched on gravel as Jessie put her foot down, spun the Mini across the drive and on to the road, leaving him, running, screaming in her wake.