Random Targets (15 page)

O
UT OF DESPERATION
he clambered down the embankment between the bushes towards the motorway. The bridge was to his right, the blazing helicopter just beyond it.

On this side of the bridge the carriageway was packed with people who had managed to get out of their vehicles and out of harm’s way. They were standing around, shocked and dazed, the glow from the fires revealing the stark terror on their faces.

Several cars had parked haphazardly along the road, their drivers having stopped on the carriageway after seeing the explosion in their rear-view mirrors.

The police and paramedics had yet to arrive so there was complete chaos. People were screaming, shouting, crying, running. The heat from the fires was intense and the noise deafening.

But it meant the sniper was able to step on to the hard shoulder and then on to the carriageway without drawing attention
to himself. Nobody looked at him, despite the fact that he was carrying a rucksack on his back and he was out of breath after running like the clappers from the spot where his motorbike should have been.

He had no choice but to head for the motorway as soon as he saw the second helicopter. There was nowhere else to run. In the woods and fields he would have been picked up by searchlight or heat-seeking sensors.

At least now he stood a chance. The helicopter was out of sight and in all the confusion he could get away, but he had to stay calm and in control. He couldn’t afford to panic.

He stood on the edge of the carriageway to get his bearings. The place was ringing with the roars of pain and despair. He saw a blue flashing light up on the bridge and he could hear sirens approaching fast. He watched as a woman staggered away from the carnage with her clothes on fire. Two men rushed over to help her. And then he saw a small boy wandering along the bottom of the embankment, lost and frightened.

And suddenly every cell in his body seemed to freeze as a wave of guilt washed over him. He was never meant to get this close to his victims. He never wanted to see their faces or hear their screams. The plan had always been to keep his distance, remain detached from the suffering he’d caused. So being here in the midst of the mayhem was not good. The images prodded his conscience and he could do without that. He had to shake himself mentally in order to get a grip.

Then, wielding a fierce look of determination, he started to jog away from the bridge along the westbound carriageway.

He wasn’t alone. Others were running too while some were sitting on the tarmac waiting for help to arrive. There were quite a few parked vehicles along the hard shoulder. All of them were empty, their drivers playing at being good Samaritans.

He spotted a BMW 3 Series with its driver’s door open. No one was standing next to it. He peered inside and saw the key in the ignition. He looked around. No one was watching him. So he threw his rucksack on to the front passenger seat and then quickly slipped behind the wheel.

He switched on the ignition. The engine rumbled in to life and the headlights snapped on. Then he moved along the motorway at 15 mph, past groups of bewildered people; most of them had stepped over the central barrier from the gridlocked eastbound carriageway.

He pushed down on the accelerator when he saw that the road ahead was clear. Within minutes he was approaching the junction 6 exit.

He had a moment of panic. Should he leave the motorway here or stay on it? The police would be bound to look out for him. But had they had time to mobilize their patrols and get road blocks into position? He doubted it. And the sooner he got off the M4 the better.

So he turned on to the slip road which brought him to a large roundabout. There was a police car parked at the kerb, but it looked as though it had only just arrived and the officers were spreading traffic cones across the road. One of them waved him through and with a sigh of relief he turned left on to the A355 towards Windsor.

He continued driving for about ten minutes, then fished out his mobile and made a call.

‘It’s me,’ he said when it was answered. ‘There’s been a problem and I need help.’

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. But before the other person could respond he revealed that he’d been forced to shoot down a helicopter and that his motorbike had been taken.

‘I had to steal a car,’ he said. ‘But I have to dump it as soon as I can. So I need you to pick me up.’

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead he gave the location from where he wanted to be picked up. Then he turned off his phone and concentrated on the road ahead as he tried to ignore the acid feeling in his stomach.

He’d had a close shave, but he felt confident that he’d soon be home and dry. And he consoled himself with the thought that, despite the set-back, he was one step nearer to achieving his goal.

T
HE TWO DETECTIVES
knew that a full-blown search of the area was going to have to wait. Rescuing survivors and making the carriageways safe was the first priority for the emergency crews.

So Temple and Vickery decided to do what they could until more detectives arrived. Vickery called the task force HQ and told them to arrange for Slough police to send someone to Whitman’s address. The pair then split up. Temple set off for the pub to check out Whitman’s alibi while Vickery went back up in the chopper to scour the landscape.

Temple had to cross the bridge to get to the pub and when he looked down at the appalling scene on the motorway he felt nauseous. The first fire tender had turned up but the wrecked helicopter was still ablaze. And so too were several cars. He wanted to go down and do what he could to help, but he resisted the impulse because he knew that catching the sniper was the only way to stop this happening again.

So he dragged his gaze away from the carnage and pressed onwards over the bridge. Within seconds he saw that a police Range Rover had closed off the road ahead, just this side of the pub. Several people had gathered there, no doubt curious to know what was going on.

The pub was called The King’s Head – it was small and quaint with a car park out front. Temple flashed his ID to the uniformed officer standing next to the Rover and hurried inside the pub. There were about half a dozen male customers around the bar talking in hushed tones. Temple walked straight over to them and introduced himself. The man behind the bar was tall and overweight with a shiny bald head. He said he was the landlord and that his name was Thomas Mosby. He went on to confirm Paul Whitman’s story that he’d been drinking in the pub until just before five. Temple also managed to elicit a few more facts about Whitman. He’d lost his job as a car mechanic eighteen months previously and had served a term of community service for stealing a car. Thomas also revealed that Whitman
had been in the pub the previous evening – around the time of the sniper attack on the M25.

Temple stepped outside the pub and called Vickery on his mobile phone.

‘So while we were chasing that fucking idiot the sniper slipped away,’ Vickery said above the rumble of the chopper.

‘We weren’t to know,’ Temple said. ‘He was running away from the scene. We had no option.’

‘Tell that to the people he kills on his next outing.’

They arranged to meet back in the field where they’d cornered Whitman. Temple was waiting when the helicopter landed. By this time the area was swarming with police and patrol cars were backed up along the road. Below on the motorway the fires were being brought under control and casualties were being taken to ambulances. Gradually the extent of the damage was becoming evident. Eight cars and two vans were crushed or burned when the helicopter was brought down. Fifteen other cars had shunted together, forming a barricade of wrecks, and two lorries had overturned. There was total gridlock on both carriageways stretching for miles in each direction.

The two detectives kept themselves busy while they waited for reinforcements. Vickery arranged for the abandoned motorbike to be towed away after calling in the registration number so it could be checked. Together they went down to have a look under the bridge where the hooded man had been spotted by the motorist. Sure enough the sniper had left another message. It had been sprayed on the concrete slabs in red paint.

It read:
This is fun. Long may it last.

A mobile command centre arrived after an hour and parked on the road close to the bridge. The vehicle was as big as a coach and filled with monitors, work stations, a small conference room and even a toilet.

Vickery and Temple stationed themselves inside and as detectives and scene-of-crime officers arrived the two officers dispatched them to search for clues.

Temple was impressed by the way Vickery managed things;
his instructions were always clear and concise and he never lost his cool. If he was daunted by the task facing him, he didn’t show it. It made Temple realize why he’d been put in charge of the task force. He might have been arrogant, but he was also bloody good at his job.

Information flowed in during the evening. They were told that Paul Whitman’s parents had vouched for their son and could not believe he was suspected of being the sniper. They were now at the local nick waiting to find out what was going to happen to him. Then SOC officers reported back from the embankment that they’d found the spot from where the sniper had fired at the helicopter – five brass shell casings had been discovered lying in the grass.

Then news came in about a motorist who’d stopped on the westbound carriageway to see if he could be of help. When he tried to return to his car – a BMW – he found that it had gone. This immediately gave rise to the suspicion that the sniper had stolen it in order to make good his escape. Vickery at once ordered an ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition) check. This would draw data from the CCTV network and hopefully track the vehicle’s movements.

The information they’d all been dreading reached them at 9 p.m. It was the list of casualties. Six people had been killed, including the two helicopter crew members, and seven had been injured, two of them seriously. It came as a shock to Temple even though he’d been bracing himself for bad news. But an even bigger shock came shortly after when vehicle licensing sent through the identity of the person who owned the motorcycle.

It was none other than Martin Renner, the nicotine-addicted father who’d claimed his missing son was in possession of a stolen sniper rifle.

T
EMPLE WASTED NO
time calling the incident room in Southampton. It was still being manned despite the hour and DC Fiona Marsh was the senior detective on duty.

Temple told her about the motorcycle found near the scene of the latest incident and the fact that it belonged to Martin Renner.

‘Get to his flat in Romsey right away,’ he said. ‘We believe he may have stolen a car so he’s probably home already. If he is then arrest him. If there’s no answer, I want you to break in. And send someone to his wife’s house as well, just in case he goes there.’

‘I’m on it, guv.’

‘Be sure to take an armed response team with you.’

Temple hung up the phone and as he turned to Vickery, his face bunched up in a grimace.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I was with the guy this afternoon.’

‘Maybe he’s gone psycho,’ Vickery said. ‘His life is fucked up right now. His wife kicked him out of the family home and he’s living in a pokey flat. He doesn’t have a job and he’s fallen out with his son. This might be his way of getting even with the world for what he’s going through. Did he strike you as a psychotic killer?’

‘Of course not, but psychotic killers are usually very good at pretending they’re perfectly normal people.’

‘So why did he tell you his son stole the rifle?’

‘Probably because it’s true and he wants us to think that Cole is the sniper.’

Vickery shook his head. ‘But we’re not talking about one or two victims here. Thirty people have been killed, for God’s sake. Surely someone like Renner wouldn’t commit murder on such a massive scale just because he’s having a hard time of it.’

‘Isn’t that usually why people go on killing sprees?’ Temple said. ‘Look at all those school shootings in the States. From Sandy Hook to Virginia Tech, there’s never a credible motive behind them. The killer almost always turns out to be a
pissed-off student who wants to vent his rage over some trivial incident or perceived grievance.’

‘But this isn’t a one-off atrocity that can be explained away so easily,’ Vickery said. ‘This is a fucking campaign of terror that’s been carefully planned. The sniper wants to unsettle the whole country. Not just kill people. That’s why he’s launching his attacks during rush hour and on motorways. He knows he’ll scare the hell out of us all.’

‘But based on the facts, Martin Renner fits the bill,’ Temple said. ‘He was in the army so he knows how to use a weapon. We also know that his son stole a rifle – the same rifle that’s being used by the sniper. Then to cap it all a motorbike that’s registered to him turns up at the crime scene after the latest attack.’

Vickery heaved his shoulders. ‘I can see where you’re coming from and I have to admit it is pretty convincing, but even so we can’t just ignore what Yousef Hussain’s accomplice told us. He said Al Qaeda were behind this.’

‘And he may have been talking bollocks,’ Temple said. ‘It could be that he just wants you to
think
they’re behind it. He wouldn’t be the first terrorist to falsely claim responsibility for an attack.’

At that moment Temple’s phone rang. It was Fiona Marsh. She was at Martin Renner’s flat in Romsey and it was empty.

‘We’ve started searching the place,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got officers watching outside in case he turns up. All his clothes are here and it doesn’t look as though he left in a hurry.’

‘Have you heard back from his wife?’

‘DS Vaughan is there now, guv, and apparently there’s no sign of Renner.’

‘OK. Stay put then and keep me informed.’

As he hung up, he and Vickery moved over to the conference table where they were joined by a couple of other detectives and one of the SOCOs. It was time to take stock of what they had and decide how many officers needed to stay at the scene into the night. But just as the discussion was starting Vickery took an urgent call from Scotland Yard. As he listened his face tightened and then he suddenly shot to his feet as though his legs were
spring-loaded.

‘Get them to take him to Paddington Green,’ he barked into the phone. ‘We’ll go there right away.’

When he hung up he looked at Temple and said, ‘Police at Heathrow have made an arrest.’

Temple drew in a ragged breath. He knew the airport was just a couple of miles from where they were sitting. He immediately assumed that Martin Renner had driven there in the stolen BMW ready to fly out of the country.

But he was wrong.

‘It’s Yousef Hussain,’ Vickery said. ‘He was trying to board a flight to Karachi. He was using a fake passport. A sharp-eyed customs officer spotted the bastard.’