The Handshaker (30 page)

Climbing behind the wheel, as Thurrock came to with a groan, Croft drove out of the industrial estate, wound his way through several streets of empty terraced houses until he came out on Scarbeck Cross Road, a minor tributary providing a back route to Ashton and Stockport.

“I’ll kill you for this, you arsehole,” Thurrock warned.

“Just shut up, Thurrock, or I’ll put you out again.”

A set of lights on red confronted Croft. He slowed down to 20, nosed across the line and with a glance either way, hung a sharp right, sweeping down the hill to a set of ornate, wrought iron gates, where he turned hard left into Alexandria Park.

“And where the fuck do you think you can hide here?” the detective demanded.

“I told you once, shut up,” Croft warned. “Think about this, Thurrock. I’m in control and you’re knee deep in it. If I were The Handshaker, if I had murdered Joyce Dunn, you’d never see the light of day again. I’d just drive your car, with you in it, into the boating lake and let you drown.”

Leaving Thurrock to ponder his words, he wove the car through half-road speed humps, turned past the plant nurseries, skirted the children’s playground, and drove along a bush-lined path, beyond the boating lake, where he turned onto the south track and stopped, killing the engine.

Croft looked around. The bad weather had kept everyone indoors and the park was deserted. Beyond the perimeter trees, he could make out sparse traffic passing along Kings Road. He half turned to face his captive.

“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time trying to explain it to you, but I need to be free to find Trish and confront The Handshaker.”

Thurrock rubbed his jaw with his free hand. “They’ll throw the book at you. If I could do it, I’d throw my fucking fist at you and put you out for keeps, you bastard.”

Croft grinned. “When this is over, I’ll let you try, but only if you guarantee me a seat at the front of the bus on the next police outing.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’ll understand, Thurrock. Trust me.” Croft threw open the door. “You’re not hurt and I’m certain this car is fitted with GPS tracking. It won’t take your boys long to find you. Catch you later, kid.”

With the thought that the police may be able to track the radio too, using GPS, he removed the battery, climbed out of the car, tossed the useless radio onto the driver’s seat, and hurried off towards Kings Road.

39

The entire police station was a buzz of activity, so much so that when Simpson tried to find bodies for routine patrols, Shannon gave him short shrift.

“We’ve got an officer and his car missing, Ronnie,” barked Shannon, “and a fugitive on the run. I don’t have the men to spare.”

“Ernie,” argued the sergeant, “we still need men on the ground.”

“I have more important things to worry about. Get onto Division … Wilkins.” The final command was barked across the CID room and the Detective Constable came hurrying over. “Have you got the GPS tracking on that car yet?”

“I’ve been onto them, sir, I’m waiting for them to come back.”

“Get back onto them again,” Shannon ordered. “Tell them we have an officer in danger, and I want the answer ten minutes ago. Move it.” Wilkins fled, Shannon turned and found Simpson behind him. “Are you still here?”

“I am eight officers down for my patrols, and you’re the senior officer on duty.”

“Begum? Grindley? Beamish?”

“All with the SOCOs at Allington and Winridge. Ernie...”

Simpson trailed off and Millie, about to harass Shannon on the matter of Evelyn Kearns, also shut up as a shout of triumph went up across the room.

“We’ve got the car,” cried Wilkins, the telephone in one hand.

“Where?” demanded the superintendent.

“Felixandra Park. South track, somewhere near the boating lake.”

Millie was already moving to the exit, Shannon hurried after her and they overtook Simpson at the top of the stairs. “Ronnie, all available units to Alexandria Park, south lane, near the boating lake. They’re looking for Millie’s car and hopefully Dave Thurrock in it.” Scuttling down the stairs, he called over his shoulder. “Tell them to approach with caution. Croft might still be there.”

Simpson leaned over the stair rail and shouted back. “I don’t have any available units.”

***

They found Thurrock where Croft had left him, handcuffed to the passenger door, his mobile phone/radio stripped of its battery, out of reach on the driver’s seat.

Millie unlocked the cuffs. “What happened?”

Angrily, Thurrock rubbed his wrist where the manacles had chafed. “We were through the jam at Pearman’s Junction and he snatched the handbrake on, legged it. I gave chase, but he jumped me. Smacked me on the frigging jaw. Next thing I know he has me strapped into the passenger seat, my right hand cuffed to the door. He brought me here, then took off. When I get my hands on the bastard, he’ll know about it. I know this isn’t the time or place, but procedures demand that when we’re taking prisoners in, we’re supposed to be double manned.”

Millie was sympathetic. “Tell that to Shannon. You need a medic?”

He shook his head. “I’m okay.”

“Did he say anything?” Millie wanted to know.

“Said he was innocent and the only way he could get his totty back and prove it was to remain free.” Thurrock climbed out and stretched his legs, getting the circulation moving. “That’s it. What’s the score, guv?”

“We have an APB out on him.” Millie was not pleased. “Looks like Shannon was right and I got it wrong this time.”

“About what?”

“Croft,” Millie replied. “We figure he’s bumped Sinclair off.”

Thurrock shook his head. “He says not.”

Millie laughed humourlessly. “And there are fairies at the bottom of my window box.”

40

Croft did not have a clue what he was going to do, but his first priority was to get away from the Alexandria Park district. He guessed he was guilty of resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer, both of which could carry a prison term, and he was not going to hang around for Thurrock’s colleagues to show up.

Throwing the lithium battery from Thurrock’s radio into the boating lake, he hurried out of the park’s south entrance, crossed Kings Road, and made his way up the hill, through streets of terraced and semi-detached housing to South Dean Road.

It was an area of older houses, most of them broken down into flats for rent to university students, and he reflected that a good many people who knew him would probably be hanging around their apartments at this hour. It was not wise to dawdle where he may be recognised.

On the other hand, it was not a district he knew well, and he had no notion of buses – neither the service numbers nor frequency – to Scarbeck or Manchester.

Across the road was a bank. He guessed that one of the first police actions would be to suspend his access to money, so he withdrew £300 on his debit card, and then hurried along towards Scarbeck town centre. Half a mile on, he came to a charity shop, entered and five minutes later came out, £20 poorer, carrying an armful of secondhand clothing.

He moved further along, still making for the town centre, keeping himself close to the shop fronts, so he could turn his face to their windows should any police vehicle pass by. Eventually, he stepped into a pub, made straight for the lavatory, and changed his clothing, leaving his expensive tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt and fleece in the cubicle. He emerged minutes later dressed in a pair of old jeans, a faded, Manchester United sweater, and a reefer jacket, with a fisherman’s hat pulled down low over his brow. He rang for a taxi and while he waited, sipped on a half of bitter at the bar. Ten minutes later he left the pub and climbed into the cab with the wail of police sirens ringing in his ears. Giving the driver orders to take him to the university, he glanced out of the rear window but the cars making the noise were nowhere to be seen. They had sounded as if they were away down the hill, heading for the park and he reasoned that they had tracked Thurrock down.

In his pocket he had his mobile phone and he desperately wanted to ring… someone. But who? Mrs Hitchins? His father? Trish’s chambers or doctor Parsons? Evelyn Kearns? His university colleagues were out. The ephemeral nature of his work had often bred resentment amongst them. They saw him as diverting funds which could be put to better use on their own, pet projects.

The inability to think of anyone to whom he could turn came as a stern reminder that Trish was still missing, that he was not a native of Scarbeck, and he was totally alone.

It was just after 11 when he paid the cabby off outside the university main entrance, watched the car pull away and then entered the building. He estimated he had less than twenty minutes to get into his rooms, collect his laptop and get out again, but he still had no idea where he would go.

With his coat pulled close about him and hat dragged low over his brow, it was entirely typical of the university staff that no one gave him so much as a second glance. He shared the lift to the second floor with a colleague from the School of Business Studies who neither recognised him nor paid him the slightest attention. Getting out, he let the lecturer walk ahead, while he followed at a slower pace, then let himself into his room.

Once inside, he moved quickly, gathering the laptop and its AC adaptor, scanning his bookshelves for anything that may help him … help him do what? He did not know, and once more it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going to hide or what he was going to do. The police, he guessed, would be here in minutes and he had to go somewhere.

He glanced out of the window. Gorse Mill? It was about two miles away and like many such buildings it was derelict, standing proud on the horizon, a reminder of Scarbeck’s textiles past. Even if he cut across the university grasslands to get there, the place would be useless to him. Unoccupied for a good few years, it would be unlikely to have an electricity supply.

Down below, in the nearby copse, Danny, the gardener, was hard at work, raking sodden leaves from the rolling grass. Croft’s face broke into a broad grin. The perfect solution.

He glanced further to the left and the main gates, where the first police car hurtled into the grounds half a mile away, its headlamps ablaze, emergency lights flashing through the rainy gloom. Immediately behind it was the recognisable shape of Shannon’s silver-grey VW saloon, followed by yet another patrol car.

Shit! He’d underestimated their response time.

He hurried from the room, toyed briefly with the idea of using the lift, changed his mind and took the staircase to the ground floor.

Coming out into the bottom corridor, the police were already milling around the reception area, Shannon talking loudly to the receptionist who denied having seen Croft. The superintendent barked orders at his men.

“You, man the door, you take the stairs, you two come with me.”

With a shock of alarm, Croft realised he was right alongside the very lift doors Shannon and his men were making for. Crossing the corridor, determinedly not looking at them, he concentrated on a nearby noticeboard as Shannon and two constables waited for the lift while a third uniformed officer took the staircase.

“If he gets past you,” Shannon warned the departing, third man, “I’ll have you on school crossing patrol for life.”

Less than 20 feet from Shannon, Croft shrank deeper into his reefer coat, and concentrated on the noticeboard. It was enclosed behind a sheet of Perspex, and by focussing his eyes on that, rather than the notices behind it, he could make out a faint reflection of the three men behind him, all with their backs to him, watching the red, LED indicators of the lift’s progress.

“What is it with these bleeding things?” Shannon grumbled at the recalcitrant elevators. “They take forever to get here.”

Croft mentally echoed the sentiment, drawing in deep, silent breaths to calm the rising panic which bade him run for it. He was cornered. If he ran he would announce his presence, if he walked away, there was a danger that the receptionist may spot him and inadvertently raise the alarm. He had to stay put, wait until the lift arrived and Shannon got in.

It seemed like an age. Someone passed so close that it sent a shock through his system and he expected hands to grip his arms, immobilise him, but it was only a senior administrator making his way towards reception, and he did not recognise Croft because his attention was distracted by the presence of the police.

“For Christ’s sake, where is it?” Shannon whined.

Silently, Croft too wanted an answer to the rhetorical question. He wanted the lift to appear, take the irritating superintendent away and give him the space to get the hell out of there.

From the corner of his eye he could make out a female form coming towards him. He risked a glance and saw it was Debbie Austwick, one of his more shapely and attractive students, and she was walking straight at him, a smile spread over her pretty mouth. His heart began to pound. Surely she hadn’t recognised him?

“Hiya,” she greeted, causing Shannon and his two men to turn their heads in his direction.

Close to panic, Croft snatched her arm, pulled her to him, and locked his lips onto hers. She struggled briefly, before responding.