My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (37 page)

‘Now you’re asking.’ The profiler thought for a moment. ‘You have to bear in mind that the army made Wells a killer before any of this, but now he may have no sense of restraint. He’s likely to be suffering advanced and increasing delusions, which means he’s going to crash at some point, although it’s impossible to say when that will occur. For now, he still appears to be in control, in which case he’s highly dangerous. I’m afraid your only option may be lethal force.’

Hawkins thanked him and hung up, feeling like she now had at least a basic understanding of their man. A soldier emotionally damaged by war and the traumatic loss of a friend, sent home with severe psychological issues then allowed to develop unchecked. The result was a demented vigilante, confused by the lack of a definite foe, now selecting arbitrary targets in line with his own chaotic agenda. All of which was great in theory,
but it moved them precisely no closer to tracking him down.

She began crossing the room towards the door, but halfway there her foot caught something hard. She lurched forward, reaching for support, her foot stamping against the floor, making her wince.

‘Antonia?’ Mike called from the other room. She heard him move across the creaky landing to the doorway, shining his torch at her. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ She switched on her torch, aiming it where she had stumbled. ‘Tripped over something.’

But as she scoured the floor, Hawkins realized there was nothing there. She used the beam to search the far corner, in case she’d kicked whatever it was out of the way.

Mike pointed his torch at the rug. ‘Carpet must have been rucked.’

‘No,’ she continued, checking the corners, ‘it was too hard for that.’

Unless.

She turned suddenly, bending to grab the mat, moving it aside. Then she stepped back and shone her torch at the floorboards underneath, testing them one at a time with her foot. The first couple creaked; didn’t move. But as she placed her weight on the third plank it dipped, raising the far end above the floor.

‘There,’ she announced. ‘That’s what I fell over.’

‘Great.’ Mike started to turn. ‘At least if he ain’t the killer, we got him for wilful neglect.’

Hawkins didn’t follow. ‘Hold on. This place might be old, but it’s hardly falling down.’

She crouched, grabbing the raised end of the plank, trying to pull the unsecured section free. Mike joined her, producing a pocket knife, using it to prise the tight-fitting board away from the ones on either side. After a short struggle, it came loose.

Mike dumped the plank as Hawkins picked up her torch and shone it in the gap. At first she thought it was nothing: just a cavity holding spider webs and dust, but as she angled the torch further in, something else became visible, hidden right at the back.

She adjusted her position and fed a hand down into the recess, reaching for the item. She had to use the rubberized fingertips of her gloves to drag it closer before she could grip it and pull it free. Hawkins placed her discovery in the beam of Maguire’s torch: it was a thin plastic sleeve. She glanced at Mike, his face barely visible in the reflected torchlight.

He returned her gaze. ‘Come on, the suspense is killing me.’

Hawkins nodded, turning her attention back to the file. She took a deep breath and undid the clasp, hoping its lack of weight didn’t mean it was empty. Then she reached inside, easing out the contents. Envelopes – but as they came out something else fell, back through the gap in the floor.

Mike followed up with the torch and retrieved it, turning it round so he could see what it was.

‘Holy shit.’ His face registered shock. ‘I think we found our man.’

Hawkins scrambled around beside him, craning her neck to see what he held, her heart pounding as she registered what she was looking at in the wavering light.

A photograph of Matthew Hayes.

Suddenly, she was reaching for the nearest envelope, noting Wells’ address on the front, removing the paper from inside, unfolding it with trembling hands. But nothing could have prepared her for the shocking handwritten words she read, slowly, aloud:

Hello

My name is Samantha Philips. You probably heard about me in the news six years ago when I went down for murder. My tutor raped me when I was eighteen, so I cut his throat with a bread knife. I don’t care about that. I did it and I’m not sorry.

The reason for this letter is that I got pregnant from the rape. At first I tried to forget what he did, to convince myself I’d love the baby no matter what. But it didn’t work. It felt like evil growing inside me, poisoning my soul. I couldn’t bear it, so I had an abortion. I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as it was done.

I murdered my child.

I tried to forget that, too. I took drugs, went off the rails, but none of it worked. I even tried to kill myself, though I messed that up as well. That’s when I snapped, and murdered the tutor who raped me. He didn’t deserve to live.

So they locked me up. And every day for six years I sat in my cell, wondering if I had any more right to life than he did. Now I realize I don’t.

I regret my actions more every day. I used to have faith, but not any more. So God can’t help me, but maybe you can.

As you request, there will be no suicide note. I don’t want to know when or how it will happen. All I ask is that it’s quick, merciful, soon.

My address is 28 Gladstone House, Chambord Street, Bethnal Green, London E2. I include a recent photo of myself.

Thank you

Samantha Philips

Hawkins finished reading and grabbed the next envelope. She removed the letter and read a few similar lines, checking the signature at the end:

Matthew Hayes.

The next note was from Calano. Broken English, but the same thing again.

She and Maguire stared at each other as the truth about the Judge’s victims slowly came to them both.

They had all
wanted
to die.

Hawkins and Maguire sat in the gloom of Marlon Wells’ front bedroom, reeling from the discovery they’d just made. It took Hawkins a moment to find her voice, but even then she whispered the words.

‘They wanted to die.’

Maguire nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, and this guy was just … helping out.’

Sam Philips’ suicide attempt reared in Hawkins’ mind. Had the others tried and failed, too? Either way, all three had come to Wells because of what he offered. A
service
for those who needed release but couldn’t bring themselves to take the final step. He’d known when each target left jail, and where to find them afterwards, precisely because they’d
wanted
him to.

‘Suicides that looked like murders,’ she breathed. She lowered the torch, her gaze drifting away into the darkness.

‘Wait.’ Maguire picked up the folder. ‘There’s another envelope.’

Suddenly, Hawkins’ focus was back. She watched him open the final letter and read.

Familiar emotions began to unfold – self-hatred, torment, guilt – and as Maguire talked, Hawkins realized what the letter meant. Either there was a fourth body still to be found, or there was another victim out there somewhere, waiting to die. But the biggest shock came as Mike read on, because the story was one she already knew.

She reached out, taking the paper from him, turning it over, seeing the signature she already knew would be there.

Amanda Cain.

‘Shit.’ She stood. ‘This makes Cain his prime target.’ She picked up the Airwave handset, fumbling with the keys, thankful that she’d worked out how to store
contacts. She scrolled down, selecting the number for one of the officers they’d posted outside Cain’s home.

He answered fast. ‘Edwards.’

‘Neil,’ she said, ‘has anything happened there?’

‘No, ma’am, nothing to report. Doctor lady hasn’t left the house, and there’s been no one hanging around.’

‘Good. Listen, Cain’s in danger. I want her moved into protective custody right now, the nearest high-security location we have. She won’t like it, but
don’t
take no for an answer. Arrest her if you have to, for conspiracy to murder.’ She told him that Wells might be on his way there, and that she’d ring back to explain once they were inside.

‘Understood,’ Edwards confirmed. ‘Anything else?’

‘She’s a flight and suicide risk, so watch her, okay?’

‘Got it.’

Hawkins hung up and turned to Maguire. ‘I want full undercover teams set up on this place and at Amanda Cain’s, and get an all-ports warning out on Wells’ car. We need to –’ She trailed off as Maguire pointed his torch at himself so she could see he was already on his phone.

He shook his head. ‘Don’t need an APW.’

She frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s Amala, for you.’ He held out the phone. ‘Wells is here.’

62

The room was dark. Not too dark to see, but dark enough. It was warm and comfortable, with a heavy green carpet and leather chairs. But it was all another trick, to keep fucked-up patients calm.

Fucked-up patients like Bull.

‘Would you like some water?’ The army shrink sat back in his chair.

Bull ignored him, carried on looking around. The room had no wallpaper, just panels of wood. There was silence for a while.

‘So, Marlon,’ the shrink said at last, ‘what would you like to talk about?’

‘Do I have to be here?’

‘No, you can leave, but these sessions are to help you.’

‘To help me
what
?’

‘ … deal with things that trouble you.’

Bull watched him scribble something. ‘Why, so you can make notes about why I’m fucked up?’

‘I don’t have to take notes.’ He put the pen down. ‘Is that how you feel?’

‘Fucked up? Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘I went to war. Now I’m fucked up.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I get nightmares.’

‘What about?’

‘Death.’

‘Is that why you were prescribed anti-depressants?’

‘Yeah. I don’t take them.’

‘What’s war like?’

‘War’s the worst fucking day of your life, every day you’re there.’

The shrink moved his hands from the armrests of his chair into his lap. ‘Tell me about Jim.’

He looked away. ‘Jim’s dead.’

‘How did he die?’

Anger flared. ‘He stepped on a fucking landmine. That shit happens.’ Bull crossed his arms. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He was quiet for a few seconds. But suddenly he was talking again, about the day Cheshire died.

The shrink listened without interrupting. Then he said, ‘Why do you have nightmares about that?’

Bull realized he was shaking. ‘It’s my fault he died.’

‘Why?’

‘I told him to run.’

‘I thought you had no choice.’

‘That’s not the point. I was in charge. It was my call.’

The shrink paused. ‘Did you kill anyone else?’

‘Only insurgents.’

‘Is that different?’

‘They’re the enemy. You’re meant to kill them.’

‘So it’s about killing a friend?’

‘No, it’s about killing someone who didn’t deserve to die.’

‘Even if you were trying to save him.’

‘Yeah, people should pay for their mistakes.’

‘And what should the penalty be?’

‘Death.’

‘An eye for an eye.’

‘I guess.’

‘Do
you
deserve to die?’

Bull thought for a moment. ‘Yes.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Maybe. But not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I want to put things right before I go.’

63

Hawkins’ heart leapt as she clicked off her torch, plunging the small bedroom back into darkness, expecting at any second to hear the front door opening downstairs.

She took the phone from Maguire. ‘Amala, where’s Wells?’

‘He just drove past me.’ Yasir’s voice was hushed, and Hawkins imagined her crouching in the driver’s seat of their VW. ‘He’s parking now.’

She let out the breath she’d been holding. ‘Did he see you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good.’ She moved away from the door. ‘Will he notice if I look out of the upstairs window?’

‘No, he’s still in the car to your left, facing away from the house.’

‘Okay, hold on.’ Hawkins reached the outer wall, eased the curtain aside. She swore at the condensation that had formed since her previous visit to the window, now blocking her view through the lower panes. She stood on tiptoes, not wanting to leave marks by wiping the water away, still hoping their target would approach the house unaware.

She could see most of the street in one direction,
although the misted glass meant her view wasn’t clear. But she made out Wells’ dark-coloured Vauxhall backing into a space about thirty yards away. He’d gone a fair distance past the house to find a gap, but at least that would give them a few more seconds to track his approach and organize themselves.

Hawkins also noted SCO19’s unmarked BMW, still parked on the same side of the road, a few spaces nearer the house, although from her current position Amala’s Golf was out of view to the right.

She handed the Airwave unit to Mike. ‘Use the radio channel to let everyone know what’s going on. The plan is to stay hidden until Wells leaves his car and heads this way. Tell Bishop to wait till he passes their vehicle, then I want him pinned down and arrested before he gets to the door.’