Good Bait (24 page)

‘Could be a hit, then.'

‘Possibility.'

‘Witnesses that early?'

‘Not so far. But CCTV. Still checking.'

‘Let me know, Tim, anything shows.'

‘Will do.'

She was barely out of the door when the phone rang again. The switchboard with a call from a Detective Sergeant Barry Morgan, a hostage negotiator in the Notts Police.

‘Got a situation here. Mansfield. Armed male holding a pregnant woman hostage. Both known to you, I believe.'

Karen drew breath. ‘Jayne Andrew?'

‘You got it.'

‘Wayne Simon.'

‘Wanted in connection with the murder of his partner and their child, back end of last year, is that right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any history? Anything useful you can tell us?'

‘Useful? He's been stalking her for a while. Work and home. I made the point when I was up there not so long ago. Strongly, I thought. The likelihood of something like this happening. Obviously not strongly enough.'

Morgan said nothing.

‘What's the likely outcome here?' Karen said. ‘Which way you leaning?'

‘Hard to say. Blokes like Simon, not exactly rational. Spoke to him a couple of times on the phone. Her mobile. Lot of anger, not a lot of sense. Since then no one's picking up. Case of waiting it out, I'd reckon.'

Karen heard her own voice, low and persuasive:
He's not going to hurt you, I promise
.

‘I'm on my way,' she said.

‘Likely no need.'

‘Anything happens, get me on this number.'

Karen broke the call and, taking care not to move her head too sharply, bent low and reached for her shoes.

It was a grey kind of day. Clouds the colour of pale slate that presaged snow. Karen drove too fast, using both her siren and magnetic beacon to clear a way through the traffic that clustered along the motorway between Leicester and Nottingham.

A command post had been set up some seventy-five metres from the front of the block in which Jayne Andrew lived, rutted tarmac and muddied grass in between. Residents of the neighbouring flats had been evacuated as a precaution, the immediate area cordoned off.

Barry Morgan met Karen with a quick handshake and ushered her inside. Made the introductions, senior firearms officer, incident commander. More handshakes and down to business. A plan of the flat's interior had been stuck up alongside the windscreen. Living room and kitchen with windows to the front, door leading out on to a narrow balcony, bedroom and bathroom with windows to the rear. Armed officers were already in position.

‘Last sighting,' Morgan said, ‘best part of half an hour since. Living-room window. Lass standing there with Simon close behind her, knife to the side of her neck here.' He rested two fingers just behind the jawline, immediately below the ear. ‘Cowardly bastard.'

‘Maybe should have taken him out then,' the firearms officer said. ‘Clear head shot for a full five seconds.'

‘No need,' Morgan said. ‘Not while there's a risk of hitting the woman. Not while there's time.'

‘Is there?' Karen asked. ‘Time?'

‘Happen.'

‘When did you speak to him last?'

‘An hour back. Same barely coherent ranting as before. What a crock of shit the world is. Everyone conspiring against him. Doing him down. Women especially. Whores, the lot of them.'

‘He's not made any demands?'

‘Just threats. If we come near the flat, attempt any kind of rescue, he'll cut her throat.'

‘And if we don't?'

‘Cut her throat anyway. Later rather than sooner.'

The firearms officer lifted clear the binoculars through which he'd been watching. Spoke to Karen. ‘Killed this young woman, didn't he? Hammered the life out of her. Cut her about for good measure. And the kiddie, killed her too. Next time my lads get an unobstructed view of the target, let me give the order. One in the brain pan. All the consideration he deserves.' He hawked up phlegm from the back of his throat and, nowhere to spit it, swallowed it back down. ‘Eugenics, where people like Simon are concerned, not such a bad idea after all.'

For some moments, no one looked at anyone else.

Then the sound of a police helicopter circling overhead.

‘You've spoken with her,' Morgan said to Karen, ‘must have got some impression. How d'you think she'd stand up to this?'

Karen was remembering the pale-faced young woman who'd made her tea, talked about her boyfriend out in Afghanistan, talked about the coming baby. About Wayne Simon.

I'm frightened. Frightened he'll do something. Hurt me. Hurt my baby
.

‘Not too well. She's not strong, physically strong. Low self-esteem. And she'd be scared, scared for the baby.'

‘Any idea why he's latched on to her the way he has?'

‘Men like Simon, they're drawn to women they see as weak. Easier to bully, knock into shape. Then, when those women start thinking for themselves, trying to break away, the Simons of this world react the only way they know how. Lash out.'

‘End of lecture,' the firearms officer said, as much to himself as anyone, loud enough to be sure Karen had heard.

No one had seen hide nor hair of Jayne Andrew for a full thirty minutes, just glimpses, shadowy, of Simon moving around the flat without apparent direction, this way and that.

Karen remembering again her vain promise she would come to no harm.

Morgan dialled the number for Jayne Andrew's mobile, the one on which he'd spoken to Wayne Simon before. While it was still ringing there was a sudden movement behind the living-room curtain, the window opened and two mobile phones were hurled down on to the grass. His and hers.

‘Fuck,' Morgan said softly and lowered his head.

‘Stage two,' the incident commander said, not without a certain satisfaction.

Morgan was already fastening his bulletproof vest. Moments later, he was stepping out of the van, loudhailer in his hand. ‘Wayne, listen to me. There's a way out of this. For everyone. For you. Nobody has to get hurt, no one has to come to any harm. You hear me? You understand?'

No movement. No response. No reply.

‘Just let me see Jayne, let her come to the window on her own. I just want to see that she's okay. Then you can let her go. Let her leave.'

Snow was starting to flutter slowly down, catching in Morgan's hair as he moved steadily forward, one careful pace at a time.

‘No one's hurt here. Nothing's happened. Nothing that we can't talk about reasonably, between ourselves. You and me. But you have to let Jayne go first. Then we can talk. All right, Wayne? We can sort this all out.'

While he was still talking the door opened and Jayne Andrew stumbled out, one hand thrust out in front of her, the other clutching her belly; her face, her front, dark with blood.

Morgan dropped the loudhailer and started to run.

‘Go, go!' the firearms officer shouted, and immediately armed officers began to advance from either end of the balcony, weapons raised.

Karen was running herself, stumbling a little on the uneven ground.

Jayne Andrew tumbled into the arms of the first officer to arrive and, taking her weight on his free arm, he turned her away from the balcony edge and towards the wall and lowered her slowly down. Which is where she was when Karen reached her, still crouching, holding herself and sobbing inarticulate sounds through trails of snot and tears. That close, the blood startlingly bright on her face and hands.

Not hers.

Karen carefully raised Jayne Andrew's head and wiped her face, took hold of her then by the arms and lifted her to her feet; put one arm round her and held her tightly as she walked her towards the stairs, the waiting paramedics, the ambulance, a warm bath and caring hands, the first of many nightmares, flashbacks, some kind of a future.

At least she was alive.

Wayne Simon had slashed his throat across while holding her close, the blade puncturing the carotid artery behind the jawline, below the ear.

He lay on his back, legs akimbo, arms outstretched, head to one side, a beached fish on dry land, the severed flesh open like a second mouth.

Flowers of blood stippled across the floor, along the wall.

‘Look!' Wayne Simon had said, the moment before he cut his throat. ‘Look what you made me do.'

Karen drove back more slowly; urgency, expectation drained. The promised snow flaked across the windscreen, sticking here and there beyond the wipers' range. She thought of Carla, wondered how she was, living in provincial digs and stepping night after night into the spotlight to enact
The Revenger's Tragedy
, more familiar now with the quickness, the arc of blood. She thought of Alex, the enviable assuredness with which she worked and lived, the quick touch of her hand upon her arm.

At the service station, she drank coffee, black, and checked the messages on her mobile phone. CCTV at Woodford had shown two men running from the scene of the shooting, one of them Liam Jarvis, previously arrested and then released in connection with a similar shooting in Walthamstow. A fresh warrant had been issued and a search carried out at his last known address, as yet no sign.

39

Cordon had tried bringing up the subject of what had happened to Maxine, Letitia's mother, a number of times, but on each occasion got little response other than an impatient sigh and shake of the head, clear signs that as a topic it was closed. On other occasions, the reply was more emphatic. ‘How many more times, she fell under the fucking train!'

It wasn't until they were sitting outside, one evening, dusk closing around them, Danny in bed early, exhausted by the day, that Letitia raised it herself.

‘Parlo, he was there at the house when she come round. Question after bloody question. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Threatened to clip her one and she laughed in his face, told him if he did that she'd be back with the police.'

‘How d'you know this?'

‘He rung Anton, didn't he? On account of she'd mentioned my name, said who she was, who she claimed to be. Anton told him to frighten her off, make sure she never come back.'

Letitia stopped and poured herself more wine.

‘That's what he did. Followed her to the station.'

‘Pushed her under the train?'

‘Not according to him. Lost sight of her on the platform. Only saw her again at the last minute, just as the train was coming in. Tried to elbow his way through the crowd towards her, but with everyone else pushing and shoving, fighting to get on, somehow, he says, she went under. He hadn't been able to get near her. Nothing he could do. Walked away.'

‘You believe that?'

‘That he walked away? Got out of there as soon as he could? Sure, of course.'

‘That he didn't have anything to do with what happened?'

She shrugged and reached for her cigarettes. ‘What's it matter? Pushed, fell, either way? Not going to bring her back, soft cow.'

Cordon bit back his words. Her mother, not his. Her life to live.

Neither of them mentioned it again.

Jack Kiley had been in touch that morning. According to Taras, his brother was gradually coming round; just give him a little longer and he thought Anton could be persuaded to agree to some kind of reasonable arrangement, shared access to his son in exchange for financial support. Just give him a little more time.

Time they still had.

Venturing out into the surrounding area, they found, less than fifteen minutes' drive away, a family theme park with bouncy castles and trampolines and pedalos; a small paddling pool, where Danny screamed with delight at the sudden shock of cold; a petting zoo with sheep and goats and a pair of long-eared donkeys, shaggy in their winter coats.

Emboldened, they drove north to the Pink Granite Coast and followed the path as it wound between vast, impossible formations of rocks shaped by the sea and the wind; parked above the empty swathes of sand at Beg Léguer, where Cordon and Danny combed rock pools for shrimps and tiny crabs, while Letitia sheltered out of the wind and smoked and read for the second time a Maggie O'Farrell she'd found stashed behind all those dry and clever men on the bookshelves where they were staying.

On a shopping expedition to the Carrefour in Guingamp, Danny picked up a flier advertising the Haras National de Lamballe, the national stud. Guided tours at three p.m., Tuesdays to Sundays. The illustration showed a stallion rearing irresistibly up into the sky, its mane catching the rays of the sun.

‘Please!' Danny cried. ‘Please!'

Smiling at his anticipation of such pleasure, Letitia agreed.

Lamballe was where they had switched cars, no more than an hour and a half away; Cordon could call in at the office while they were there, extend the period of loan. Give the boy his wish.

The sun shone, still weakly, but without a breeze they could delude themselves of its warmth. The tour of the stables was more interesting than either Cordon or Letitia had expected – some of the huge Breton horses weighing up to a ton – and Danny, in his element, ran from stall to stall, glowing with excitement; when the tour guide pointed to some hay and asked if he wouldn't like to help feed one of the horses, it must have felt like heaven.

Afterwards, they sat outside a patisserie in the town square, Cordon and Letitia drinking coffee and sharing some kind of almond pastry, while Danny sipped hot chocolate through a straw and bit down into a coffee éclair so hard the cream splurged out from the far end, all over his face and hands.

Letitia caught Cordon's look and instead of giving him a warning glance, she allowed herself a smile.

‘Good day?' he asked, as they settled back into the car.

‘Not bad.'

Leaning across, she kissed him on the cheek, and from the back seat, Danny issued a little squeal of delight.

It couldn't last.

40