Last Gasp
Authors: Robert F Barker
Last
Gasp
By
Robert F Barker
Text
copyright @ 2015 Robert F Barker
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be
reproduced in any
form other than that in
which it was
purchased and without the written
permission of the
author.
To Carol, for your
endless patience
To Christina, for
your endless enthusiasm
To Vale Royal
Writers, for your endless support
To all @ Harrogate’s Theakston’s
Old Peculiar Crime Fest, for your endless inspiration
The man in charge of the operation
is worried. He senses something is wrong. He can’t yet say what it is. It’s
just a feeling. But he’s had it since the beginning.
He interrupts his pacing to check the monitor. The two men
and a woman who make up his team are already gathered round it. They are
staring at the woman framed in its centre. Perched on a chair, her legs are
crossed at the knee, hands resting, almost demurely, in her lap. If she is
anxious, she does not show it - which is remarkable considering she is waiting
for someone who may be coming to kill her.
The man checks his watch. The visitor is twenty minutes
late. In that time, tension within the team has risen to the point where they
can no longer hide their nervousness. One drums fingers on the table. Another
cracks his knuckles. The female team member clicks her nails. Meanwhile the man
in charge paces, and worries. The apartment they are using faces directly
across from hers. She sits no more than twenty yards away. Yet he fears that
when the time comes, it may be too far.
It wasn’t his choice.
From the start, he’d argued they should be secreted somewhere
in her apartment. But she would have none of it, pointing out that apart from
the two bedrooms, her apartment is open-plan. ‘If he opens the wrong door,
you’ll be blown.’ Again, when he tried to push it, ‘You’re only across the
hall. How long would it take to reach me? Five seconds? Ten, max. I’ll be
fine.’ He wishes now he had stuck with his instincts. A lot can happen in ten
seconds.
The radio next to the screen bursts into life.
‘He’s here.’ There is a general shuffling as they all come
on alert, then, ‘He’s in the lift. Going up. Over to you.’
The man reaches forward, presses a button on the console.
‘He’s on his way. Thirty seconds.’ Then he adds, ‘How’re you doing?’
The woman looks up to the camera concealed in the light
fitting. ‘I’m fine. Stop fussing.’ She even manages a smile, though it seems a
little forced. Not for the first time he marvels at her self-control. But then
he thinks,
What else should we expect?
Half a minute later, as the bell's double-chime sounds,
tinny but clear through the speakers, four pairs of eyes lock onto the screen.
The woman in the chair hesitates, then rises. As she makes
her way to the door, the black satin robe she wears over her work-attire
billows behind. The clicking of her heels on the wood floor echoes round the
apartment. Her pace is measured, as if the arrival of the visitor holds no fear
for her. But as she reaches the door she stops and they see her take a deep
breath.
‘Right,’ she says, just loud enough for the microphones to
pick up. ‘Here we go.’
Reaching up, she releases the latch, un-hooks the chain,
turns the key. She opens the door. A man stands there, but she is between him
and the camera, shielding his face.
‘You’re late.’ Already in role, her tone is strident.
His mumbled apology is too indistinct to hear.
For what seems longer than necessary she leaves him there,
confirming the order of things. Eventually, she steps aside. ‘I suppose you’d
better come in.'
Head down, his reply is also lost.
As he steps through, the onlookers strain to get their first
sight of him, 'in the flesh'. His hair is dark, as expected, but his stooped
posture makes it difficult to gauge his height. His dress is smart, but not too
formal. Black leather jacket, blue shirt, dark trousers. But his face stays
hidden as he keeps his head bowed, in keeping with his part.
'Is it him?’ the female member of the team says. ‘He looks
different from the photograph.’
They all look to their leader. Any decision is his.
The man in charge takes his time, weighing the visitor who
seems to be taking in everything about the apartment. Suddenly the newcomer
lifts his head and appears to stare directly into the camera, as if sensing the
watchers' presence. But after a few seconds his gaze slides elsewhere.
‘It’s him,’ their leader says.
To his colleagues, he seems calm again. No sign of the
hand-wringing of earlier. Almost as at ease as the woman herself. What they
cannot see however, is the turmoil inside. They cannot know that already he is
struggling with the instincts telling him that something is wrong. That his
bowing to her insistence that this is the right way to play it was a mistake.
That he should have made her see things his way. And now-.
‘Is someone here?’ the man asks. He speaks with the deep,
northern vowels that fit the profile.
As he finishes, he lifts his gaze to meet hers in a way that
almost challenges the protocols she'd begun to assert the moment she opened the
door. Seeing it, the man in charge's concern deepens. It is not what he’d
expect from a novice. But the woman shows no sign of being phased and returns
him a cold stare.
‘No. And even if there were, it would be no concern of yours.'
As if satisfied, the man reverts, mumbling some response
that fits with her rebuke.
Relieved, the man in charge nods. He even grants himself a
wry half-smile. She is good at this.
For the next few minutes the pair play-out the unwritten
script that governs such encounters. She is haughty, dismissive; he fawning,
obsequious, eager to please as she admonishes him, again, for his tardy
time-keeping.
But the man in charge still worries. For a supposed
first-timer, the visitor’s responses seem well practised. In his head, a
warning bell sounds. ‘Something’s wrong.’
The others turn.
‘Seems okay to me,’ one of the men says, before returning
his gaze to the screen.
His female colleague follows suit. ‘Isn’t this how it’s
supposed to go?’
He doesn't answer, struggling to convey the instincts that
come from the sorts of experience he knows they do not have. Anxiety growing,
he returns his attention to the screen. The scene is still being played out
behind the front door. The rules of the game dictate that she will not admit
him further until she is satisfied he is properly, 'in role'. Even as they
watch that moment arrives.
Turning on her heel, she crooks a finger, beckoning him to,
‘Come this way.’
This time they hear, clearly, the, ‘Yes Mistress,’ as he
moves to follow her.
But it is a feint. As she strides away he makes a quick
reverse, turning swiftly and silently back to the door. Reaching up to the
latch, he does something with his hands, the sound covered by her clicking
heels, before returning to scurry after her so that he is where he should be as
she turns to address him from the middle of the floor.
The watchers lean in, alarmed.
‘What was that?’ one man says.
‘What did he just do?’ says the woman.
At first the man in charge does not answer. Like them, he is
stunned by the unexpected development. His mind races to interpret the
significance of what he's just witnessed, how it affects their plans. Finally,
he voices what they already know.
‘He’s snicked the lock and set the chain.’
‘Shit,’ is one response.
‘Fuck,’ another.
‘What do we do?’ the female says. ‘Do we abort?’
For a moment he hesitates, torn between wasting many weeks'
effort – others’ as well as their own – and risking the safety of the woman who
is unaware that her visitor has just blocked the only route by which any needed
rescue would come. In fact, the decision is an easy one. But even before he can
voice the instruction, matters are taken out of his hands.
Careful to proceed as she would with any client, the woman
has already adopted the classic stance in front of the sofa, hands on hips,
legs apart, face stern. But as she opens her mouth to deliver the lecture that
will progress things to the next stage, the visitor makes his move.
Taking two determined strides forward, he punches her, hard,
in the middle of the face. The mics relay the 'crunch' of the contact. The
force of the blow sends her reeling back onto the sofa’s thick cushions from
where she bounces off onto the floor. Before she can even begin to raise
herself, he is on her. The scream dies in her throat as his hand closes round
it. As he lifts his other arm, high, the camera picks out the vicious-looking
hunting knife he is already brandishing.
But the watchers do not see it. They are already charging
out through the door and into the brightly-lit atrium that distinguishes this
particular luxury-apartment building from the many others that have sprung up
around Salford Quays the past decade. And while there is no shouting, no sense
of panic among them - they know exactly what they must do – they are under no
illusion as to the difficulty of their task. They were all present when the
woman who had entrusted them with her safety described the care she took to
check things out before signing the lease. It included making sure that the
sturdy, metal-framed front door with its five-lever mortise-lock was up to
providing the degree of protection someone in her line of business needs. They
also know that the several contingencies catered for within the Operational
Plan that regulations demand be posted before an operation of this sort, were
all based on one assumption. That the front door would remain unlocked and with
the chain off, so they can gain swift entry any time they wish using the key
the man in charge now holds, firmly, in his hand.
And of the many thoughts racing through his mind as he
reaches her door, one stands out.
It'll take more than a damned key to get us through in
time to save her.
PART I
Deja Vue
DCI Jamie Carver stared through the
iron gates and up the drive at the house half hidden by the trees that lent it
their name; ‘Poplars’. He’d been staring since he’d parked up opposite the
sandstone gateposts five minutes earlier. Part of him was conscious of what his
passenger would be making of his silent vigil, the questions it could prompt.
He didn’t care. The reasons behind it were complex. They boiled down to one
word. Fear.
It wasn’t the house itself scared him. A fine looking
property in the Georgian style, it was far from the sort of Gothic pile which,
in films and books, house knife-wielding psychos. Nor was he over-worried about
meeting the woman they’d come to see. He’d been preparing for that for days.
His fear came from his imagination; thoughts of what may come after, where it
would lead. He even knew what was fuelling it. When it comes to painting scary
scenarios, the past provides a rich palette.
He was still staring when a voice said; ‘Are we just going
to sit here all day admiring the view, or shall we get out and ring the bloody
bell?’
Carver turned to face the young woman he’d heard people
referring to lately as his ‘partner’.
The expression on DS Jess Greylake’s face was one he’d seen
before, usually when she had a point to make, or was impatient, or bored, or
all three. Like right now. He could imagine her thinking,
What the fuck’s
his problem?
He could tell her, but there wasn’t time. For long seconds he
stared into the bright hazel eyes some said reflected a keen intelligence,
others, more earthy qualities.
‘Er... Hello?’ She waved a hand before his eyes. ‘Anyone at
home?’
He blinked. Blinked again. Came out of it.
Get a grip.
He
took a deep breath, reached for the door handle. ‘Right.’
‘Hoo-ray,’ she muttered.
One of the gateposts housed an intercom. The plate next to
the button read
Press and Wait
. Jess pressed it. She gave it a minute
and was about to try again when a squawk of static issued from the grill. It
was followed by a tinny, ‘Hello?’
‘Megan Crane?’ Carver said.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was shrill.
‘It's the police, Mrs Crane. Detective Chief Inspector
Carver and Detective Sergeant Greylake.’
A pause, then, ‘What do you want?’
They exchanged glances. ‘We’re from Warrington Police,
attached to the Operation Kerry enquiry. What the media call The Worshipper
Murders? We’d like to talk to you about some matters we think you can help us
with.’
There was another pause, longer this time.
Weighing her
options.
The grill squawked again.
‘I need to see some identification. Show it to the camera.
Over here, next to the other gate-post.’
Carver saw it. Secured to the gate’s iron frame, the small
black box was discrete enough not to be noticed unless looked for, and was
pointing at them. Crossing to it, he took out his warrant card, held it up to
the lens.
Eventually the voice said. ‘Come up to the front door.'
There was a buzz and a click and, with a jerk, the gates
started to swing inwards. They stepped through.
As they crunched their way up the drive, birdsong echoed in
the trees. The midday sun cast dappled shadows. Ahead, a grey squirrel startled
in its foraging, darted under a spreading rhododendron.
‘Jesus,’ Jess said. ‘She lives here? And she’s into this
stuff?’
Carver shrugged. 'It’s perfect if you think about it.’
'Maybe. But it still seems out of place.'
As they skirted the trees and he got his first full view of
the house, Carver's first impressions were confirmed. The Poplars was, indeed,
a substantial property. He could easily imagine it once being home to people of
influence in the village. Retired military types. Bankers. A Country Lady or
two. Tea parties on the lawn, that sort of thing. The thought came,
What
sort of parties does the present occupier host?
He shook his head, forced
it away.
Most of the front was covered in ivy. High up, part of the
side wall had been cleared around a yellow alarm box. Beneath the eaves, lights
and sensors pointed down. The solid oak front door had heavy, black
door-furniture. They waited. After a couple of minutes, the sounds of bolts
being drawn and chains unhooked filtered through. It opened with a judder as its
bottom edge caught on the step-guard. As it swung back, Carver got his first
glimpse of the woman who'd rarely been out of his thoughts the past two weeks.
The face peering round the door did so from under a white,
towel-turban. A neat oval shape, it glowed red, as if she’d just stepped from
the shower. A matching bathrobe that was way too big covered everything apart
from the fingers gripping the edge of the door and the painted toes peeping out
from a pair of gold mules. Carver's first guess put her some years older than
Jess. Fortyish, maybe. From under immaculately plucked eyebrows, dark, piercing
eyes regarded them with undisguised annoyance.
Not best-pleased about being dragged from her shower,
either.
Even without make-up, Megan Crane was a striking-looking
woman. Not quite as tall as Jess, but then Jess’s five-ten was above female
average. But as he noted the well-defined features, the high cheekbones, Carver
wasn’t certain he could match her to the picture in Jess’s document case.
‘Mrs Crane?’
‘Show me your identification again. Your hand was shaking.’
Most times, Carver found people who make a point of showing
they're not intimidated, ‘just because it’s, the Police’, irritating.
What’re
they trying to prove?
But he said nothing, and dug out his warrant card
again. This time as he held it up, the shake was barely noticeable. Nevertheless,
a thumb and forefinger, nails painted to match the toes, emerged from the folds
of white to pinch the leather next to his and steady it. For several seconds
she went through the motions of comparing him with his photograph. Standing
there, he was conscious of the tableaux they presented. She presumably naked or
nearly so under her robe; he, smart and formal in his suit and tie, the two of
them frozen like statues, fused together by the flimsy piece of leather. It was
an image that would come back to him over the coming weeks.
Eventually, the hand withdrew. She nodded her satisfaction.
Carver motioned to Jess. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant
Greylake.’
For the first time, the woman turned to her.
‘Would you like to see my identification as well?’ Jess
said.
‘That won’t be necessary. But thank you for offering.’
Carver sensed that the polite smile that came with it could
as easily have been a smirk. And the way the two women stayed, staring at each
other for longer than the brief exchange merited, he wondered what he was
missing. Eventually, the gaze transferred back to him.
‘Well-well. The Police no less. And what, exactly, is the
nature of your business?'
Carver didn't hesitate. 'We’d like to talk to you about your
listing in a journal called, DOM.'
Beside him, he heard Jess’s intake of breath.
What the
hell
. After two weeks trying to flesh out the little they'd been able to
discover about her, he’d grown tired of pussy-footing. But the woman remained
as impassive as if she had never heard of the magazine. Her head tilted back,
until she was almost looking at them down her nose.
'And just how is an entry in a journal relevant to your
enquiries? I wasn’t aware such publications break any laws?'
Carver stifled his impatience. But her reaction was only
what he’d anticipated. He stuck to the script. 'If you’d care to invite us in
Mrs Crane, we can explain. Unless you’d rather we discuss the matter here on
the doorstep?'
It was an old ploy, one that works well with those who like
to maintain at least a show of respectability. But the woman in white wasn’t
about to be rushed. She continued to look at him as if she were weighing her
options.
Eventually, in a voice dripping boredom, she said, 'I’m not
sure I want policemen and policewomen traipsing through my house. But I suppose
if I stand here like this, I’ll catch my death of cold. You’d better come in.'
Taking a step back, she swung the door open, but stayed mostly behind it.
As Carver stepped through she caught his eye. 'And it’s
Ms
Crane, Detective Chief Inspector. Not
Mrs
. The kitchen’s straight
through. Make yourself a drink while I finish dressing.'
Carver paused long enough to meet her gaze, before passing
down the hall.
And so it begins
.
As Jess followed after, he heard her say, ‘And may I remind
you we’re all Police
Officers
these days,
Ms
Crane. We don’t
refer to Police
Women
anymore.’
Inside, Carver grimaced. Jess had six years under her belt.
She’d have met plenty who would fit the term, ‘different’. But he doubted any
would match Megan Crane. She would learn. As he reached the kitchen, he heard
the front door close. Soft footfalls signalled her mounting the stairs.
Somewhere above, a door banged.
The kitchen was large, gleaming and modern. The only item
disrupting the sweep of black work-top was a coffee pot, warming on its plate.
An oak table rested close to one wall. He crossed to it, pulled out a chair and
sat down. He checked around. Three doors led off the kitchen, four counting the
one they’d just come through. One, half open, down left led through to what
looked like a living area. A back door in the far right corner gave onto the
garden. Halfway down the right-hand wall was a third door, which was closed. He
turned to see Jess leaning against the worktop, arms folded, glaring at him.
She opened her mouth to say something but he got in first.
'First impressions,
Ms
Greylake?'
She paused. 'Um, I think you would have to say she’s...
interesting.'
He nodded. 'Interesting. Good word.' He stood up. 'Are you
sorting coffee?' She raised an eyebrow, gave a pointed look. With a shrug, he
pleaded guilty, and headed through the door into the living area.
As he came through into a room that was spacious and square,
he felt his shoes sink into the cream carpet’s deep pile. It was furnished
comfortably, but simply. A bright red sofa and matching chair were arranged in
front of the biggest TV screen he'd seen outside of a sports bar. French
windows looked out onto the garden. Shelves on the wall opposite contained some
books, a few vaguely-oriental ornaments, a photograph in a silver frame. As he
crossed for a closer look, he checked to make sure his shoes weren’t trailing
dirt from his walk up the drive.
The books were innocuous. A couple of travel guides – France
and Italy; a clutch of crime-thrillers; some celebrity-chef cookbooks. Nothing
that gave anything away. He studied the photograph. Against a blue-sea-and-sky
back-drop, the woman they’d just met was standing with her arm around the waist
of a tall, bearded man. Both were dressed in sunglasses, shorts and singlets
and sported deep tans. Something about the man sparked Carver’s interest. He
leaned in. Taken from about twenty feet away, the face lacked the detail needed
to make it out clearly.
Nevertheless
…
'COFFEE.’
Giving up, he returned to the kitchen.
Jess was holding the fridge door open for his inspection.
'She either lives on fresh air or takeaways. I’ll bet the mice get food parcels
from the Red Cross.'
Dipping to see, he noted the container of skimmed milk, tub
of low-fat spread and three tomatoes resting on a plate. A couple of wines, a
Sauvignon-Blanc and a Prosecco, rested in the door shelf.
'Maybe she's on a diet.' He returned to the chair. 'It’s the
same through there. Clean, but bare. Reminds me of a show-house. Looks great,
but it’s not a home.'
Jess handed him his coffee before taking hers over to the
window. As he drank - it was scorched and bitter, but drinkable - he mused over
what the house’s sparse contents said about the woman soon to join them.
Something about order, he thought. And, presumably, control. Which figures. Rising,
he went to join her.
The early afternoon sun was high over the trees at the
bottom of a garden which he was surprised to see badly neglected. The lawn
needed a good mowing, and the sparsely-stocked borders looked like they hadn't
been dug over for weeks.
Not into gardening either
. At that moment an
image swooped in, from where he wasn’t sure. It was of a man, naked apart from
leather briefs and a collar, pottering around, weeding and planting things. For
the first time in weeks, Carver came close to breaking a smile.
A noise behind made them turn.
Megan Crane was framed in the doorway.
As he took in the sight, Carver’s heart skipped several
beats and he had to juggle his mug between finger and thumb to stop it slipping
from his grasp.