Skin and Bones (4 page)

The first police car arrived twenty seconds later. It was an armed
response vehicle with two male officers from the Tactical Firearms
Unit, PCs Davies and Eade. They had been diverted from routine
patrol in mid-Sussex following a report of an incident involving a firearm.
A second ARV, from Brighton, was approximately fifteen minutes away.
Two unarmed police vehicles and an ambulance were also en route,
but wouldn't enter the village until the ARV gave clearance.

According to the control room, a householder in Chilton had
witnessed the shooting of a Royal Mail driver. The 999 call had been
logged at 8.09 a.m. It was now 8.22 a.m. If it had been an armed
robbery, which seemed the likeliest explanation, the perpetrator would
be long gone.

PC Davies, in the passenger seat, had checked the village's location
and noted that it had only one access road. He'd warned his
colleague of the possibility that they might encounter the getaway
vehicle driving towards them along Chilton Way. He had also drawn
his weapon, a Sig Sauer P226.

As it was, not a single vehicle passed them on the short journey
from the B2112 to the village. This gave Davies a twinge of unease.

Rounding a bend close to the village shop, they saw the Royal Mail
van parked at the kerb. As Eade reduced his speed, Davies killed the
siren and began scanning the village for any visible threat. The
passenger window was open, and he realised how quiet it was. Apart
from the sound of their car, all he could hear was birdsong. There
was no one in sight. Nothing moving.

Then he spotted a form on the green, maybe ten or fifteen yards
away. At the same time PC Eade realised there was a body lying behind
the van.

Both men exclaimed softly in unison. As the car pulled up, there
was a moment when they exchanged a glance and understood they'd
each reacted to something different.

As soon as he got out of the car, Davies saw the shotgun lying on
the grass next to the body. The 999 call had described the suspect as
carrying both a shotgun and a handgun. The description of his hair
colour and jacket also matched the body lying on the grass.

'I think this could be our shooter,' he called to Eade, who had also
drawn his weapon. Eade took aim at the body, providing cover while
Davies made a cautious, circular approach, ensuring he didn't stray
into his colleague's line of fire.

Another few feet and he could see enough to know the man was
dead. A single shot to the temple from the handgun. Looked like a
.22. Nevertheless he knelt down, careful not to disturb the scene, and
checked for signs of life.

Then he stood up. Made a note of the time. Looked at PC Eade
and pointed to the postman's body.

'Take that one. I'm going to have a look round.'

Even as he spoke he spotted the next victim, in a large house across
the road. He had a direct line of sight along the garden path. There
was an elderly man slumped by the front door.

Twenty past eight on a Saturday morning, in one of the smallest,
sleepiest villages in the county. What the hell was going on?

He turned to Eade, who was standing by the postman. 'Dead?'

'Yep.'

'Hit the siren for a minute, will you?'

Eade frowned, but wasn't in the mood to argue. He returned to
the car and activated the siren. The slow whoop sounded eerie as it
echoed off the fine Georgian terrace. A flock of birds took flight from
the trees around the church.

Davies raised his hand: that's enough. The silence returned so
abruptly it made him shiver.

He resumed a slow 360-degree scan of the village, using his hand
to shield his eyes from the sun.

Ten seconds. Nothing.

Twenty seconds. Nothing.

After half a minute he was convinced there would be no reaction.
But then came the sound of a front door opening. One of the big
Georgian houses on the far side of the green. A woman peeped out,
face as white as snow, a slash of dark hair across her forehead.

She made eye contact and seemed to sag, like a punctured balloon.
Davies broke into a run, skirting a large yew tree, and almost collided
with a body. This one was a young woman, face up on the grass,
covered in leaves and blood.

'Another victim here,' he yelled to his colleague, and hurried on.
His priority was the living witness. He wanted to get to her before she
fainted, or slammed the door on him.

'It's all right,' he called. 'It's all under control.'

She went on staring at him, her eyes haunted. She was going into
shock.

'Are you okay?' he asked. 'Are you hurt?'

She managed the tiniest shake of her head.

'I'm PC Davies,' he said. 'Just relax now. We're going to take care
of this. It'll be fine, okay?'

She laughed, and it made him flinch. It was the bitterest sound
he'd ever heard.

'It's never going to be fine,' she said.

He glanced round, taking in the scene behind him. Eade was
returning from the house where the man lay in the doorway. He made
a thumbs-down gesture.

Davies turned back to the woman. He had to work hard to control
his voice. 'What happened here? Where is everyone?'

The woman shut her eyes tightly, perhaps praying she was still
asleep and this was just a dream. Then she opened them, settled her
gaze on his and gave him the answer he was dreading.

'They're dead.'

He heard a shout from Eade and told the woman to go back inside.
Someone would be with her very soon.

This time he gave the body by the tree a wide berth. Eade was
almost hopping with impatience. 'What did she say?'

'Says they're dead. I don't know if she means the entire village, but
it's not looking good, is it?' Although the adrenalin was pumping like
crazy, he felt a wave of weariness at the thought of what lay ahead.

'What's the call, then?' Eade said.

'Got to be Major Incident,' said Davies. 'We'll have to seal the
whole area. Search every house.' He sighed heavily. He was supposed
to be off duty in a couple of hours. A tiny voice reminded him of his
intended plans for the day: quick scoot round Homebase with the
missus, doze in front of the telly, out with some friends for a few pints
and a curry in the evening; then a lie-in and hopefully a legover
Sunday morning.

All of it blasted away by some nutter.

Christ, he thought, if this is another Hungerford we'll never hear
the end of it.

'The church door's open,' Eade said. 'I'm going to check it out.'

Davies nodded, still absorbed in his reverie as he reached for his
Airwave radio. He wondered if Eade had considered the firestorm of
activity about to descend on them.

Then he heard a groan, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

As he turned, he saw the woman's leg twitch. He knew that corpses
sometimes made little movements, caused by stray electrical impulses
running through the muscles. The process of dying could take hours
beyond the actual moment of brain death.

But then her head moved, no more than half an inch. Bubbles of
blood appeared on her lips.

Oh shitting hell. She's alive. She's alive and I ran right past her.

He fumbled with his radio and shouted: 'We have a Major Incident
here. Repeat, this is a
Major Incident
. Three confirmed fatalities so
far, plus one serious casualty. We need that ambulance ASAP. Hotel
900 too, if it's available.'

He dropped to his knees and checked her airway was clear. Felt for
a pulse and found one. Very weak. There was so much blood that at
first he couldn't work out where she'd been hit. Somewhere on her
right side, he guessed, with various cuts and scratches adding to the
confusion. If he didn't know better, he'd say she had fallen out of a tree.

He looked up in time to see Eade stumble out of the church. 'Two
more in there,' he shouted. 'This is a fucking disaster.'

No, it's a massacre
. 'This one's alive,' he shouted back. At the same
time he was told Hotel 900, the police helicopter, could be there in ten
minutes. The paramedic on board was being briefed about the situation.

Good luck to him, Davies thought. He took the woman's hand and
squeezed it gently. It felt very cold. Her eyelids fluttered and he leaned
close, urging her to focus on him.

'Hang on, love,' he said. 'Be strong for me. We'll have you in an
ambulance in no time.'

He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He'd seen plenty
of dead and dying bodies before, mostly from his time in Traffic. The
woman lying here looked just as bad as any RTA victim. He wouldn't
have given her more than a ten per cent chance of surviving, but he
prayed she would prove him wrong. If she died, he'd always ask himself
whether he could have made a difference if he'd noticed her sooner.

'Be strong,' he said again. Whether to her or to himself, he wasn't
quite sure. 'Stay alive for me, love.'

Stay alive
.

The killer ran along the narrow lane. His vision blurred. Despite the
cold morning, it was hot inside the leathers. There was sweat rolling
down his face, a stinging pain in his eyes. The helmet bumped against
his shoulders and the visor entombed him, made him feel like an
exhibit under glass. But he couldn't risk lifting it, not even for a single
gulp of air. He had risked too much already.

The killer was scared. And he was angry. His meticulously planned
operation had turned into an almighty fuck-up.

He pushed himself harder, faster. He was running for his life. There
were sirens blaring in his head. He had no way of knowing if they
were real or imagined. His heart thumped inside his chest and his
boots pounded on the tarmac. His breath roared in the helmet.

No one saw me
. He clung to that hope, repeated it to himself like
a mantra. No one except the woman in the tree, of course. And she
was dead. Almost certainly dead.

He rounded a curve in the road and saw the bike, partially concealed
by the thick hedge that bordered Hurst Lane. He covered the distance
like an Olympic sprinter. Like a hero.

Then he skidded to a stop, and saw how stupid he'd been.

He could be a hero
. The man who stopped a killer. For half a second
he saw himself in that role, paraded and garlanded and acclaimed by
the nation. Pictured himself on TV and brought on stage at public
events. Waving to the crowds like a Roman emperor.

Then he thought of the discrepancies. What was he doing there?
How had he disarmed the killer and overpowered him without a
struggle? Why did he shoot him at such close range?

It was a stupid idea, the product of a mind in panic. He wasn't
thinking clearly. Besides, he had never craved the limelight. He
belonged in the shadows.

He told himself to get a grip.

The bike was a Kawasaki KDX200, lightweight and fast, road legal
but well equipped to handle rough farm tracks and fields. He'd bought
it two months ago for eight hundred pounds in cash. Registered it in
a false name, kept it garaged where no one knew him. He was especially
glad of that caution now.

He gripped the handlebars and pulled the bike upright. Then he
turned his head slowly, scanning in every direction. There was no
movement, no sign of anyone. No birds singing. No engines. Just a
tremendous crushing silence.

Then suddenly the whoop of a siren, not close but carrying well
in the still morning air. The sound chilled the sweat on his face and
made him shiver. He looked down at the bike and realised how lucky
he was. The siren had saved him from another fuck-up.

The police were in the village, less than half a mile away. If he
started the bike they'd hear it easily. Maybe they wouldn't think
anything of it, but maybe they would. He couldn't take the chance.

He wheeled the bike as fast as he could, jogging beside it. He took
the turning towards the farm, bouncing the Kawasaki along the beaten
dirt track. Ice gleamed like broken glass in shallow ruts. His lungs burned
and his muscles screamed, but he ignored them and allowed himself
a little hope. You can still do this. You can still get away with it.

The farmhouse loomed into view beyond a line of beech trees. He
shuddered. The farmhouse was where it had all gone wrong.

He saw the front door was open slightly. He thought he'd shut it,
but couldn't remember for sure. He kept an eye on it as he passed,
half expecting someone to spring out.

Beyond the farmhouse the lane twisted to the right, between a barn
and a large corrugated-steel shed. It should be safe to ride from here.
The buildings and trees would muffle the sound.

Mounting the bike, he raised the visor and wiped his face. As he
glanced back, he caught a flash of light in the sky. A helicopter, no
more than a speck against the Downs. The perspective made it appear
to be gliding along the top of the hills. It was heading for the village.

For a second he was transfixed. The enormity of the event was
starting to sink in. It wasn't just murder. It was fucking
slaughter
.

He imagined alarms sounding across a vast network. Emergency
services descending on an enormous scale, the media hot on their
heels. The impact reverberating around the whole world.

This realisation sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. With it came
a peculiar spreading warmth in his chest. Gradually he recognised it
as pride. He'd faced terrible obstacles, and against the odds he had
come out on top.

The bike kick-started on the first attempt. He set off along the track,
heading north of the farm. He looked back again, but couldn't see
the helicopter. He forgot about it and accelerated, keeping a light grip
on the handlebars as the bike juddered over the track.

He'd planned the route carefully. After half a mile he turned off
the main track and cut through a gap in the hedgerow, joining a bridle
path that took him north-west. He raced past winter fields of dark
churned mud, glistening with frost like icing sugar on melted chocolate.
Another mile, then left across a meadow of wild flowers.

He threaded through a knot of trees that marked the northern
perimeter of the farm, then burst on to the road and sped away. And
as he did, he allowed himself a brief scream of laughter. He had never
in his life felt so vital, so extraordinary, so
complete
.

He had found his vocation.