Random Targets (14 page)

H
E REALIZED SUDDENLY
that he should have played safe and fled the scene, but it was too late. He could see the helicopter approaching fast from the east and he could hear the wail of sirens speeding along the motorway towards his position.

Five minutes had elapsed since a car stopped briefly on the hard shoulder only yards from where he was standing. He’d stepped back behind the concrete bridge support the moment he saw it, and relief had surged through him when nobody got out and it went on its way after less than a minute. He’d been sure that the driver hadn’t seen him and had probably stopped simply to answer a mobile phone. So he’d finished spray-painting his message on the wall before climbing to the top of the embankment, intent on carrying out another attack.

But now he knew it wasn’t going to happen. The cops were coming for him. He was sure of it. Whoever was in the car must have spotted him and raised the alarm.

He was not sure how to react and a bolt of fear rippled down his spine. In a few seconds the helicopter would be directly
overhead and the pilot would have no trouble seeing him.

His bike was about a hundred yards behind him on a country road and in front of him, beyond some low bushes, was the M4. The rush hour was just getting under way and traffic was pouring out of London on to the westbound carriageway.

He tightened his grip on the rifle as the helicopter reached the opposite embankment and hovered about two hundred feet above the trees.

The pilot switched on the searchlight and directed the beam on to the bridge. Slowly the big bird moved towards him across the motorway, a wave of shuddering air beneath its rotor blades, the roar of its engine drowned out the sound of the traffic.

He forced himself to stay calm, breathing slowly as he quickly considered his limited options. After a couple of anxious heartbeats he knew what he must do. He had to take down the helicopter. He wouldn‘t be able to outrun it and once it pinpointed his position the cops on the ground would know where to go.

So he lifted the rifle and took aim. It was a big, easy target. When it was about forty yards away he pulled the trigger.

The first shell smashed through the front window and as the ’copter veered dramatically to the left the second shell punched a hole in the fuselage.

The ’copter gained height briefly, then spun out of control as he let rip three more rounds, emptying the magazine.

The ’copter spiralled downwards towards the motorway with smoke billowing from its engines. Its blades clipped the side of the bridge, gouging out great lumps of concrete. The traffic below started to brake and he could hear shrieks of tortured rubber.

But a number of cars and vans were directly beneath the ’copter as it crashed on to the westbound carriageway. The drivers and passengers didn’t stand a chance as their vehicles were consumed by a giant ball of fire.

The searing heat from the explosion reached up the embankment along with the sound of imploding glass and grinding metal. It was as though a bomb has dropped on the motorway.

The sniper couldn’t hold back a grin and the hairs quivered
on the back of his neck. He’d managed to salvage the situation and complete his mission, despite an unforeseen setback. The death and destruction down on the motorway was more than he could have hoped for. The impact on the public and the authorities would be enormous.

There was no time to savour the moment. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. More cops would soon descend on the area, in helicopters and in cars, along with all the other emergency services. He needed to get away from there fast.

He started to dismantle the rifle as he headed back through the bushes towards the road. His escape route was all worked out. He’d follow the road south through Datchet and Windsor to the M25. From there it would take him about an hour to get home.

He came to a wooden fence and climbed over it. The narrow road was still deserted, but he knew it wouldn’t be for long. To his right was the bridge over the M4 and a shower of ash from the fire below rained down on it.

He turned left and dashed towards a small clump of trees on a grass verge at the side of the road. That was where he’d left the motorbike after making sure it was well concealed from passing traffic.

But when he got there he stopped suddenly and stared in confusion. He thought that maybe he’d got it wrong, that this wasn’t the right spot.

But then it dawned on him and his heart sank.

This was definitely where he’d left the bike.

The problem was it was no longer there.

T
HE TWO DETECTIVES
saw the explosion. They were travelling towards the M4 in one of the Met’s air support helicopters when the blast lit up the sky in the distance.

Moments earlier they’d heard the pilot’s panicked voice over the emergency channel, yelling that he and his observer were under fire from the ground.

It didn’t take a great stretch of the imagination for Temple and Vickery to realize what had happened. The sniper, having been spotted on the motorway embankment, must have shot at the helicopter, causing it to crash to the ground.

The rifle he’d been using was powerful enough to do the job, and the chopper would have presented an easier target than any of the cars on the motorway.

Temple felt a tightening in his gut. He found it hard to take in the sheer brutal reality of what had happened. Yet at the same time his heart rate spiked at the prospect of closing in on the sniper. The bastard had made his first big mistake and it was likely that he was still at or near the scene. Every patrol car in the area had been alerted. They knew the exact location thanks to the motorist who had happened to stop on the hard shoulder to send a text on his mobile phone. He’d apparently spotted a hooded man under the bridge acting suspiciously and had called 999.

The bridge straddled the motorway at Slough, a few miles west of London. The road that crossed it went south towards Windsor and north towards Farnham and Uxbridge.

Temple and Vickery were going to be among the first police officers on the scene. The carnage on the motorway would delay most of the patrol cars. Below them tailbacks were already stacking up along the westbound carriageway.

Neither man spoke as the helicopter moved rapidly across the urban landscape. He was dreading what they were going to find when they reached their destination. In fact it turned out to be far worse than he’d imagined.

The fire was still raging on the motorway where the police helicopter had come down on traffic. A number of cars and vans were ablaze. Several had been crushed. A lorry had smashed through the central reservation on to the eastbound carriageway. It had toppled over, causing a second multiple pile-up.

The devastation was widespread and as they hovered above
the scene Temple knew for sure that the death toll would be in double figures.

Vickery leaned forward and put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder.

‘We need to circle the area,’ he said. ‘See if we can spot the sniper.’

The pilot was hesitant. ‘But if he’s still around he might start shooting at us.’

‘Then we need to keep our eyes peeled,’ Vickery said. ‘We can’t pull out now. I know there’s a risk, but if the bastard gets away there’ll be more scenes like this and more deaths.’

The pilot nodded beneath his helmet. ‘Then I reckon it’s a risk worth taking.’

The helicopter banked sharply to the left and swept in low over the bridge. Temple saw that one side of the bridge was damaged and the road itself was littered with ash and debris.

He also saw movement down on the motorway. A few people had got out of their vehicles and were fleeing the scene on foot. Others were standing amidst the wreckage staring at the flames. No doubt their senses were so scrambled they didn’t know how to respond.

A moment later the scene below the helicopter changed. The inferno was replaced by trees and bushes and an unlit road that rolled northwards through countryside. The pilot switched on the thermal image sensor and continued to stare down through the window. Vickery watched the black and white picture on a small monitor in front of him and Temple.

His eyes followed the progress of the helicopter’s searchlight as it brushed over the landscape. They were about a hundred feet above the ground and Temple prayed that they weren’t about to come under attack. There was no way of knowing if the sniper had them in his sights and would try to bring them down too, but his gut told him it was more likely the man was already putting distance between himself and the scene. There was no sign of life along the embankment.

It was easy to see why the sniper had chosen this spot from which to launch his fourth attack. The unlit road provided an
escape route and clumps of bushes along the top of the embankment provided cover. There were no properties in the immediate area and Temple could see no traffic on the road. It was a quiet, rural location, just like the others the sniper had chosen.

‘What’s that?’ Vickery shouted suddenly.

Temple turned to look at the monitor. The picture was clear and there was very little vibration thanks to the stabilizing gyroscopes beneath the undercarriage. He saw a small ghostlike figure moving along the road.

‘It looks like someone running,’ Temple said. ‘Can we zoom in?’

Vickery adjusted the controls and the picture was magnified.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Vickery said. ‘It must be him.’

The figure was that of a man and it was as though he was lit up from within. He was wearing a short jacket and he appeared to be carrying something on his back, possibly a rucksack.

The pilot began shouting directions into his radio and word came back that at least one police patrol car was closing in on the road. Others were screaming towards the crash scene on the motorway.

The man was running north along the road away from the bridge towards a built-up area.

‘Hold back a little,’ Vickery told the pilot. ‘Just in case he stops and decides to take a pot shot at us.’

Vickery was right to be cautious, Temple thought. The guy was still a serious threat. But he wouldn’t be for long. A patrol car could already be seen on the screen at the far end of the road.

The man carried on running and every few seconds he twisted his body to look up at the helicopter, his face a white smudge. Then suddenly he veered off to the right and scrambled over a fence into a field.

And that’s where he finally ran out of steam and collapsed on the ground.

On the monitor they watched him roll on to his back and stare up at the sky. Thankfully he didn’t produce his rifle to make a last, desperate stand. Instead he seemed to accept his
fate as police officers on foot entered the field and moved cautiously towards him.

‘We’ve got him,’ Vickery said in a breathless whisper. ‘We’ve got the murdering bastard.’

T
HE PILOT MANAGED
to put the helicopter down in the same field. By the time Temple and Vickery stepped out on to the grass, their quarry was in handcuffs and surrounded by half a dozen police officers.

Temple could barely contain his excitement as he ran towards the cluster of high-visibility jackets. They were only about two hundred yards from the motorway and they could hear the sirens and see the glow from the fires.

Temple was sure he could also hear screams. He had to force himself not to think about what was happening beyond the embankment. It was likely that people were dead and dying – some perhaps being burned alive in their vehicles.

He experienced a frisson of guilt because he wasn’t doing anything to save them. He had to tell himself that he had no choice but to pursue the man responsible. And that man was just yards ahead, sitting on the ground with his hands behind his back.

Vickery got to him first and pushed the uniformed officers out of the way so he could get a close look.

‘Thought you could outrun us, did you?’ he yelled at the man in a voice that shook with rage.

Then he snatched a torch from the hand of one of the officers and shone it on the man’s face.

Both Vickery and Temple were shocked to discover that it wasn’t Yousef Hussain or Cole Renner. This guy was unfamiliar to them. He was younger, in his late teens. He had a mop of black curly hair and a hollowed-out face. His eyes were wide
with alarm and sweat glistened on his forehead.

He was wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans and next to him on the grass lay a black sports rucksack.

Vickery picked it up and peered inside.

‘There’s no fucking rifle,’ he blurted out as he reached in the bag and pulled out a motorcycle crash helmet. ‘He must have dropped it.’

Temple stepped forward and stared down at the young man. He had to resist a powerful urge to beat the shit out of him. After all, this was the deranged bastard who had launched a killing spree against innocent people. The animal who had put Angel in hospital and struck fear into the hearts and minds of motorists across the country.

And yet he didn’t look like the devil incarnate. He looked like a pathetic, terrified loser.

‘Where’s the rifle?’ Temple demanded, his voice sharp and hoarse.

The guy shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a rifle.’

Vickery reached forward, grabbed the man’s jacket by the collar and wrenched him to his feet.

‘You’re a bloody liar,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve just shot down a police helicopter and killed God knows how many people on the motorway. What have you done with the rifle?’

The man looked from Vickery to Temple and shook his head again. ‘I swear I didn’t do that. I saw the helicopter come down and heard the explosion. That’s why I left the motorbike and legged it. I knew something bad had happened and I didn’t want to get roped in.’

Temple frowned. ‘What do you mean, you left the motorbike?’

The guy swallowed hard and spluttered his words. ‘I couldn’t ride it because I haven’t got the key. I was pushing it along the road and I knew it would hold me up. So I dropped it and started running.’

‘So why haven’t you got the key?’

‘It’s not my bike,’ he said. ‘I saw it at the side of the road when I walked over the bridge. I thought it had been dumped because
there was nobody around. So I took it. I was going to push it home.’

‘Where’s home?’ Vickery asked.

The man pointed with his chin. ‘About half a mile that way. I live with my parents.’

‘So where were you coming from?’ Temple said.

‘The pub. It’s just over the bridge. I was with some mates. They’re still there. You can check. And the landlord knows me. His name’s Thomas Mosby.’

Vickery and Temple exchanged anxious looks. This wasn’t good. Could it really be that he wasn’t the sniper? That they had chased the wrong man?

‘What’s your name?’ Temple asked.

‘Paul. Paul Whitman.’

Temple stepped forward and searched his pockets. He found a wallet and mobile phone. There was a driving licence in his wallet along with a couple of credit cards and the name on them was Paul Whitman. He handed the licence to Vickery.

‘So where’s the motorbike?’ Temple said.

‘It’s back there next to the road,’ Whitman replied.

‘Then show us.’

They marched Whitman back the way he’d come. The motorbike was on its side in front of a hedge. It was a Suzuki and the engine was still warm.

‘So you’re saying that you came across this machine just minutes ago?’ Vickery said, his voice tight with tension.

Whitman nodded.

‘And the helmet?’

‘It was lying next to it.’

‘All right,’ Vickery said. ‘Now show us where you claim you found the bike. And move your fucking arse.’

The spot was thirty-odd yards further back along the road. It was behind some trees a short walk from the embankment.

‘I only saw it because I was walking,’ Whitman said. ‘It was well hidden. If I’d been in a car I would never have spotted it.’

Vickery came to a sudden decision and instructed the uniforms to take Whitman in, after first making a note of his
address and home phone number.

‘Get the techies to carry out forensic swabs on his hands,’ he instructed. ‘And I want search teams up here to go over every inch of this road and the surrounding area, including the embankment. If the rifle’s been dumped then we need to find it.’

He also instructed the officers to secure the motorbike and the area around it.

As Whitman was being bundled into the patrol car, Vickery turned to Temple and said, ‘We need to check out this lad’s story, but I’ve a horrible feeling he’s telling the truth.’

‘Me too,’ Temple said. ‘And he doesn’t strike me as a mass murderer.’

Vickery wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve and nodded. ‘But if he’s not our man then the sniper may still be close by.’