A Deadly Compulsion (10 page)

Ron knew that he was running out of time.  He would soon have company, and then it would be over.  It had been a success, but although he had moved quickly, the cons were now organised, and many of them had wedged and barricaded their doors against him.  The hydraulic jacks that prised cell doors open in a matter of seconds, once in place, were not kept on the wings, but in the security office, separate from the residential areas, to be deployed when needed.  They were effective, but too cumbersome and heavy for one officer alone to operate.  Ron did have a set of Allen keys, and could have unscrewed the locking plates and reversed the hinge mechanisms, which would have allowed him to open the doors outwards, away from the barricades, but that also took time, which was a luxury he didn’t have too much of left.  Twenty from his list of twenty-five wasn’t bad.  He had wiped out a score of tossers who’d been a waste of space and a blight on society.  They would never walk free, or have the chance to harm anyone else ever again.  If his actions were deemed to be an outrage by policy makers who had wimped out, then tough shit.  He wasn’t looking for brownie points, but knew that most ordinary coppers, screws, and the majority of the general public would applaud his actions, even if they didn’t voice their approval openly.

“Give it up,” Ray Manning shouted as he rounded the corner of the spur and saw Ron covered in blood, breaking open the smoking weapon he held.  “Put it down, Ron,” he said, stopping ten feet from the officer, suddenly very scared as he saw the manic look in the other man’s eyes.

“There was a little man, and he had a little gun...” Ron mumbled, thumbing two fresh cartridges into the sawn-off and bringing it up to point down the landing.

“Ron, no...Please!”  Ray said, positive that he was about to die.

Ron blinked the sweat from his eyes and focused on the trembling orderly officer who stood before him with hands outstretched as if to ward off the lethal load he expected to be loosed.  “I did it for Heather and Brenda, and for all the families out there who are still suffering because of what these lowlife’s did to their loved ones,” Ron said before turning the shotgun, pushing the hot ends of the sawn down barrels between his teeth, deep into his open mouth, and smoothly pulling the trigger, to blow his brains out.

Ray Manning and the other officers stood frozen to the spot in disbelief as Ron jerked backwards and fell to the floor.

“Fuck me!” Ray murmured, reaching for the radio that was clipped to his belt, already trying to imagine the shitload of paperwork that this unprecedented mess would generate, as in the first instance he told control to contact the duty governor, the Medical Officer, emergency services and the Home Office press office.  As he spoke, a serpentine red stream flowed across the floor towards him from Ron’s blasted head.  He stepped back away from it as though it were acid, not wanting it to touch his shoes.

THE
iron steps were cold on Laura’s feet as she hurried down the corkscrew staircase with a small, contented smile on her face.  She felt truly alive for the first time since Kara’s death, and was tingling under her oversize Winnie the Pooh T-shirt and brief cotton panties.  The sensation of Jim still inside her and holding her persisted, arousing her again as she walked through to the kitchen and poured a steaming brew from the coffeemaker, that as usual had fired up as the timer triggered its operation, half an hour before her alarm clock buzzed like a fly and lured her from bed to turn it off.  She switched on the portable TV – that was positioned in the corner, atop the marble effect counter between the bread bin and an empty spaghetti jar – before sitting at the pine table to watch the early morning news.

“…And now we go live to Long Hutton prison,” the newsreader said, “where shortly after midnight a lone warder is alleged to have gone on a killing spree inside the jail. Early reports suggest that at least twenty inmates were gunned down in their cells.”  The newsreader turned to a large screen behind her, on which a correspondent was outside the well-lit walls of the maximum security prison. “John.  Can you tell us what is happening at this time?” he said.

“Yes, Fiona,” the suitably concerned looking young man, with sparse hair waving like corn in the light breeze, said. “A prison spokesman has confirmed that an officer on night duty smuggled a shotgun onto one of the wings, where he is believed to have coldly and methodically opened cell doors and executed inmates.  Unofficial reports suggest that up to twenty category A and B prisoners, all serving life sentences, died before the officer turned the weapon on himself.  As you can see,” – the camera panned back to give a wide angle view – “there is a heavy police presence, and coaches full of prison officers have arrived from several other establishments, including Manchester, Hull, Leeds and Wakefield, due to the unrest inside.  It is not yet known what the motive was for this unparalleled action, and the names of the dead inmates and officer have been withheld.”

The picture snapped back to Fiona Clarkson in the studio.  “That was John Kelly, live from outside Long Hutton prison,” she said.  “We will keep you up to date with the situation, as and when we receive further details.  I
can
tell you that the officer responsible for this tragic incident is believed to be the father of one of the so-called Tacker’s victims.  This may prove to be an act of indirect retribution carried out by a disturbed man.  The Tacker is still at large and continues to prey on young women in the York area.”

As the weather girl appeared, to theatrically wave her hands over a map of the British Isles and guarantee a humid day and high pollen count, Laura was already back upstairs getting dressed.

“What’s the matter?” Jim asked, propping himself up on one elbow as Laura darted about the bedroom.

“A screw at Long Hutton went berserk with a 12 gauge and declared open season on inmates, then blew his own brains out.  They didn’t name him, but I know it was Ron Cullen, the father of one of the Tacker’s victims.”

“You sure?”

“Do bears shit in the woods?”  Laura said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek before running for the door.

“Meet me for lunch,” Jim shouted as she clattered down the staircase.

“Same pub, one o’ clock.  Okay?” Laura called back.

“I’ll be there,” Jim said a split second before he heard the front door slam. Sitting up, he planted his feet on the cool, varnished floorboards at the side of the bed.  Took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  God, being back in the sack with Laura had graphically brought it home to him just what he’d been missing.  Sex with someone you want to be with and share your life with was more than just a physical act.  It transcended just getting your rocks off.  Making love with Laura was about more than fleeting gratification.  It was a bonding; an expression of pent-up emotional needs that could not be replicated with another partner.

“It
was
Cullen,” Hugh said, appearing at Laura’s door within seconds of her sitting at her desk.  “I knew he was a cold fish.  He topped twenty sex offenders and murderers, all serving life, and then ate his shotgun.”

“Who’s mopping up at the scene?”

“DCI Thornton.  He’s out there now with the SOCO and the pathologist.”

“It’s tragic, Hugh.  Cullen was in a position to take his revenge on the same sort of degenerates as the one who killed his daughter, and just flipped and did it.  But it has no bearing on our case, other than being a direct result of what our boy did to Heather.”

Hugh sighed.  “A lot of screws and coppers are like loaded guns.  I’ve heard more than one say that if he ever got diagnosed with anything terminal, he would do something similar to what Cullen’s done.”

“Yeah, but it’s usually just talking the talk, isn’t it?  This is the first time that one has actually gone over the edge and done anything like this.”

“Well, none of those wankers will ever be a threat to anyone again.  He just reintroduced the death penalty for a limited run.”

“You sound as if you approve of what he did, Hugh.”

“Professionally, I see it as a crime committed outside the law.  Personally, I think he provided a service that has been redundant for far too long.  I’m one of those hard-liners who would not only bring back topping, but backdate it.  The prison system is getting clogged up with lifers who should have been put down decades ago.  What do you think, boss?”

“I think that my view on capital punishment is irrelevant.  It’s our job to catch them.  I try to keep that as the only priority, and leave the courts to weigh them off.”

“Was that a for or against the death penalty?” Hugh pushed, his eyes twinkling.

“Let’s just say that if there was a system that could guarantee that no innocent man or woman was sentenced to death, then I would consider it in a different light for certain offenders.”

“That was a yes, boss, whichever way you wrap it up.”

“Shut up and pour the coffee, Hugh.  You’re giving me a headache.”

Jim spent the morning going through the reports again, searching for the slightest detail that he may have missed.  There was nothing.  He showered, drank too much coffee and watched news updates on the unfolding prison drama.  He had nothing but admiration for the killer screw.  The dark side of him was always pleased to see bad guys get their asses vaporised.  He had lived with violent, sudden death, and both seen and suffered the results of what sick and twisted psycho’s could do.  If milk is bad, you flush it away.  And if meat has turned rancid, you bin it.  He saw rotten humanity in the same light.  If it was no good, feed it to the nearest waste disposal unit available.  The lenient treatment of life’s worst scum did not make the world a safer place for honest folk; ergo, the law was an ass, far removed and at odds with the society it was supposed to protect and serve.  All decent Americans had been happy to hear that Bin Laden had met a violent end.  Call it revenge, justice, closure, whatever.  It had undoubtedly resulted in millions of folk punching the air and shouting
Yesss
at their TV screens.

Jim watched the hands of the carriage clock on the mantel in the lounge creep round with protracted, tortoise-like stealth.  And finally at a little past noon he left the cottage and headed for York, eager to be with Laura again, missing her with a passion that he could not have imagined just twenty-four hours previously.

He was early, bought the drinks and settled at a small corner table in an alcove, from where he could see the door.  It was  exactly one p.m. when Laura breezed in, and his heart raced as she walked toward to him; the love light in her eyes shining, making him feel like saying the words to some ‘Always and Forever’ type of late night song that he had heard on countless smooch FM radio stations.

“I’ve got something you might find interesting,” Laura said, producing a printout and handing it to him as she sat down.

“You’ve got a lot of things I find interesting,” he replied, taking the piece of paper, but keeping his eyes firmly on Laura’s, holding her gaze and speaking volumes without words, as she was held mesmerised by his magnetic stare.

“Stop it,” Laura said, turning her head away.  “I feel like a rabbit in a car’s headlights when you do that.”

“Do what?  I didn’t do anything.  I was just looking at you.”

“You know exactly what you were doing, Jim Elliott.  It wasn’t just looking, it was almost hypnosis.  There should be a law against you Yanks coming over here and looking at womenfolk that way.  You’ll be offering me nylons and chocolate next like they did way back in World War Two.”

“You should be so lucky.  I don’t offer bribes to the law.”

“Shame.  I’m open to a good bribe from time to time.”

“Let’s pursue this line of thought tonight, back at the cottage.  I’m sure I can find you something as hard and sweet to suck on as a block of dairy milk.”

“You’d better look at that list, before I run you in for...for making lewd remarks that are likely to make me blush.”

Jim looked at the list of names and descriptions of a dozen missing teenage girls, and at the times and dates of their last known whereabouts.  They were all fair-haired or blonde, with blue eyes, and they shared another common denominator; none had ever been seen again.  The last on the list had gone missing just six months ago and the earliest over three years back.

“This looks good,” Jim said.  “I need to see a map to pinpoint exactly where they were last seen.  It should give us his home territory.”

“If it is him, all those locations are southeast of the city,” Laura said, wanting to light just her third cigarette of the day, unable to in the pub, but pleased at the success she was having in cutting down.  “I’ve got a map of the York area in the car.  You can study it while I drive you to the crime scenes you wanted to see.”

“Forget those, Laura.  I wouldn’t find anything.  This is more important.  Let’s go back to your place and work on it.”

As they rose to leave, Hugh Parfitt walked into the pub, saw Laura and pushed his way through the lunch-time crowd, making a beeline for them.

“Boss?” Hugh said, looking from Laura to Jim and back again.

“Jim Elliott...DS Hugh Parfitt,” Laura said by way of briefly introducing the two men.

Jim shook the young cop’s hand.  It was a dry, cold, vicelike grip, intended to be challenging and slightly intimidating.  Jim matched it, then increased the pressure as he smiled and returned the guy’s fixed stare.  For a fleeting hundredth of a second, he saw a soulless and uncompromising dark quality under the surface of affability, which seemed as wild as a storm-lashed and cruel sea.  The youthful good looks and the too-quick pleasant smile were a mask that failed to hide a calculating, intelligent, and in some way dangerous mind from Jim’s honed skills of character analysis.

“Good to meet you, Jim,” Hugh said.  “Can I get you both a drink?”

“Thanks, but no.  We were just leaving.”

“American, huh?...Jim Elliott.  The name rings a bell,” Hugh said.  “Are you in law enforcement?”

“I used to be,” Jim replied.  “A long time ago.”

“Got it!”  Hugh said, grinning.  “I’ve read about you.  You were an FBI profiler.  Didn’t you catch a guy in Baltimore or Philadelphia?  Called himself Lucifer and used to burn his victims when he was done with them, to supposedly deliver their souls to hell or something.”

“It was Baltimore, and he called himself Lucien.”

“So are you here to help us nail our killer, Jim?  Or is your being in York at this time just pure coincidence?”

“Jim’s an old friend, Hugh.  He’s not on the case.  He’s in PR now,” Laura said, trying to end the conversation, walking towards the door as she spoke.

“Once a cop, always a cop,” Hugh observed, turning up the voltage of his Burt Lancaster smile, before abruptly turning away and heading for the bar.

“Hugh is a good copper,” Laura said as they drove out of the city in Jim’s Cherokee.  “He’s just a bit overprotective of me.  Looks after my interests.”

“I never said a word,” Jim replied.

“You didn’t have to.  I could tell you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t like or dislike him, Laura.  I don’t know the guy.  I just got a feeling about him.  He isn’t all he seems to be.”

“Who is?”

“Point taken.  I’m just on edge.  His mother probably loves him.”

That evening, he settled in what had been his father’s armchair.  It was worn and shiny-backed with frayed arms.  Decades’ worth of dust and sweat and grease had formed a patina of grime, overlaying the paisley pattern from all but the outer sides and rear of it. He had once dug his hands down the gap between the arms and seat and found a few pre-decimal coins; old pennies and even a dull, lacklustre florin that would be a ten pence piece nowadays.  There had also been a black plastic comb, still holding some of his dad’s Brylcreem-coated hair in its teeth.  He had returned the items to the dark chasms of the chair, which was, as the farm around it, a time capsule; his link to a past that still played such a major role in his life.  He had made few changes.  The house was almost as it had been when he was a child.  His parents’ clothes still languished in drawers and hung limp and moth-eaten on wooden hangers in the utility wardrobe in the front bedroom.  Old framed prints and monochrome photographs adorned the walls, preserving the colour of the wallpaper beneath, which had faded around them, and in places curled away from the encroaching damp.  Outside, the land had been neglected. A large patch of weed-filled ground marked the spot where he had burned down the chicken shed.  His memory of running around it whooping and shouting as the stinking hens clucked frenziedly as they were roasted alive still made him smile.