Jack crawled along the rafters on his hands and knees. That bitch police officer had caused this mess. He could taste her blood in his mouth. It would have been nice to hurt her some more, but there just hadn’t been time. He needed to get back to his own house without being shot or arrested. That was easier said than done. It was a good job that he was always well prepared. The police had chased him across four continents for decades, but he had avoided capture so far. He could hear them running around, shouting and bawling at each other. They would comb the cellars and the attic space. He was counting on that. There were some nasty surprises lurking in the dark places. Jack had found some wonderful websites, demonstrating how to make lethal booby-traps using flexible carbon fibre poles and cheese-wire. It was amazing what you could find on the internet. If only he could hang around and see how effective they were. He knew what cheese-wire could do to skin and bone because he often used it to hurt his guests. Attaching it to something that could generate force made it more dangerous, and much more fun; after all, that was all that mattered.
Jack heard footsteps approaching, and he dropped his body to the rafters. He slowed his breathing down and waited for the boots to pass overhead. Muffled shouts drifted to him. The heavy boots were above him somewhere. Dust and grit tumbled through the gaps in the boards. They were close, very close indeed, but they wouldn’t find him. Jack had lived in the house for three years and he had spent hours knocking through the cellar walls to explore the empty buildings around his. He had made thousands of pounds cashing the metal piping and copper wiring in to scrap yards. It was also perfect for entertaining his guests when he had the urge. He occasionally kept the odd person in the cellars before transporting them to their buyers, but that was rare. It was whilst exploring the houses one day that he had noticed that the bedroom ceilings on the upper floors were lower than on the other floors. Victorian buildings had high ceilings and were difficult to heat, especially the upper floors. Jack assumed that the council or housing association who had converted coal fires into gas central heating had lowered the ceilings to insulate them. Whatever the reason, the void space had become his refuge.
He waited for the footsteps to fade away before making his way back towards his own house. He didn’t think it would be long before the bomb squad arrived. They were probably there already. He hoped so, because the sooner they arrived, the sooner he could get out of there.
The scene at Shankly Way was bedlam. Paramedics were carrying the decapitated body of an ARU officer into a waiting ambulance. The two colleagues who had witnessed his gruesome demise were sitting on the pavement, covered in his blood. Their superior officer, DS Eales, squatted next to them, offering support to his officers. Alec watched as two armed units entered the adjoining buildings at the end of the terrace, carrying ladders to access the attics.
“Is the boy still crying, guv?” Smithy approached. News of the beheading had forced them to evacuate the houses and wait until they deemed them as safe. Bomb squad officers and the heavily armoured Tactical Support Group now backed up the armed response units. Identifying potential booby traps was paramount to keeping their officers safe.
“Yes, he was before we evacuated.” Alec pushed his hair from his forehead. Dried blood smeared his fingers. “They’ll get him out of there this time.”
“He must have spent weeks building that stuff in there.” Smithy was in shock. Seeing Kisha’s injuries had rocked him. “I‘ll tell you what I don’t understand, guv.”
“Go on.” Alec didn’t think there was much to understand, really. Howarth was a psychopath, full stop.
“Why build a fake bomb?” The ginger detective looked baffled.
“Who knows what that bastard is thinking?” It had puzzled Alec too, but the priority was finding Kisha and the boy.
Raised voices inside the end terrace disturbed their conversation. “Paramedic!” An ambulance crew ran to the steps and waited. Alec feared the worst. He wondered if another of Howarth’s traps had injured or maimed an officer. Two ARU officers emerged from the house. Between them, they carried the fragile figure of a child. “We’ve got him, guv. He’s alive, but I think his legs are broken.”
“Any sign of Howarth?” Smithy shouted.
“No sign of him.”
The paramedics took the boy and placed him on their stretcher. After a quick assessment of his injuries, they applied a foam brace to each limb to restrict their movement. For the third time that day, they watched an ambulance drive through the police cordon. “Did he say anything?” Alec asked.
“No, guv. He’s in shock.”
“Who is in charge here?” Alec turned to see an officer from the bomb squad approaching. He had that stride military personnel had. He had tucked his camouflage trousers into black boots, which had a mirror finish to their polish.
“That will be me.” Alec walked toward him. “Detective Superintendent Ramsay.”
“I’m Captain Riley, bomb squad.” The captain pointed to the property where the device was. “We have a big problem, inspector.”
“Great, what is it?” Alec looked at the grey skies and blew out a deep breath.
“Those drums in number 44 are not full of water.” Riley called over one of his team. “Have you got the info?”
“What do you mean?” Alec asked surprised.
“We’ve inspected it, and the litmus test is telling us that it isn’t water. It is clear and odourless, which is why your men assumed that it was, but it isn’t.”
“Sir,” said the soldier jogging over to them. “A swab test is showing that the drums are full of Chlordane, sir. I think the timer is a decoy. We‘re guessing the real detonator is somewhere inside the drums. Here’s what we’ve got on the stuff. I printed it off in the transporter, sir.” He handed the captain two sheets of information about the chemical.
“What is that? I’ve never heard of it,” Alec asked.
“It’s a liquid used in insecticide production, and it is highly flammable. I’ve never come across it, but I know it’s been used to make incendiaries before.”
“Can you make it safe?” Alec frowned, and the creases in his face deepened with concern. “We have a dangerous suspect in there somewhere, and we need to find him.”
“Until we find the detonator you will have to call your people out of there and pull them back, inspector.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Alec turned to Smithy. It was obvious now why Howarth had built the device. “How far back and for how long?”
The captain thought for a moment. “According to this data, a tanker load of this stuff went up somewhere in Chechnya, and it flattened everything within a half mile radius. I need your people back a thousand yards at least.”
Jinx accelerated down the dual carriageway until he was directly behind Dean’s Ford. He flashed his headlights, signalling him to pull over. He could see Dean’s eyes in his mirror looking uncertain. The Ford carried on at the same speed for a few hundred yards before it indicated and turned off the main road onto a Tesco supermarket. Dean drove his car to the front of the store where there were plenty of people milling about before pulling into a parking bay. He took out his mobile phone and jumped out of the Ford. Pointing it at the silver Mercedes, he captured images of the number plate and the driver. “What do you want, Jinx?” Dean shouted at the top of his voice. Passersby looked toward the noise. Dean didn’t think that Jinx was going to shoot him in public, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. “His name is Jinx Cotton. Remember that!” Some people laughed, thinking it was horseplay, but others put their heads down and scurried off.
Jinx smiled and turned his vehicle into the next bay. He lowered the driver’s window. “Funny, Dean!” He shook his head. “Everyone will think you’re a nutcase.”
“Better than everyone thinking I’m a dead nutcase, eh, Jinx?” Dean didn’t share the humour of the situation. “What is this about?”
“I want you to know that I am not coming for you, Dean,” Jinx lowered his voice. “Get in, let’s talk.”
“No, thanks.” Dean kept his distance. “I was never coming for you. I said No, so say what you have to say and fuck off.”
Jinx eyed Dean coolly. “If your kids weren’t sick, you would already be dead. I saw you arguing with Leon. If you want a way out of this, we need to talk.”
“What, like the chat you had with Jackson and Monkey?” Dean bent down to make eye contact. “I don’t think so, do you?”
“Monkey?” Jinx frowned. “Who the fuck is Monkey?”
“Someone whacked him in the bogs at Mac’s on Queens Drive, but then I think you know all about that.” Dean looked for a reaction from Jinx but none came. He looked genuinely confused.
“I don’t know the guy,” Jinx shrugged.
“Bollocks, I don’t have time to chitchat,” Dean tutted. “What do you want?” A fat woman with a trolley full of shopping walked between them. Her black leggings were so tight that her cellulite looked like dimples in the material. She hurled a string of four letter words at her three fat children, oblivious to the conversation she was interrupting. They waited patiently for the tirade to subside as she carried on her way. “I need to get off, Jinx.”
“Okay, I’ll give it to you straight.” Jinx looked around to make sure that no one was in earshot. “Leon is too close to the Turks. Let’s just say that certain parties want him out of business. Tell me where his shipment is coming in, and I will guarantee you are left alone.”
Dean looked confused and spat on the floor. He had been loyal to Leon for years, but he needed to leave this life behind. “You guarantee it?” Dean’s biggest fear was the safety of his family. If they recovered from their illness, the chances were that they would need months of aftercare, and that meant he had to stay in the city. “How do I know that I can trust you, Jinx?”
“You don’t know me well, Dean but you know of me. I helped your sister out once, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Dean wanted a passport to another life. This was it.
“I have no beef with you, Dean,” Jinx said. “There’s a tracking device under your rear wheel arch, left hand side.”
Dean hesitated for a moment and then walked to the back of his car. He knelt down and looked underneath the wheel arch. “Fuck me!” Dean hissed. “How long has that been there?”
“Long enough,” Jinx winked.
Dean swallowed hard and checked his watch. He had a decision to make, and he needed to make it quickly. “The shipment is coming into Bootle docks today. It’s a Dutch cargo ship. He has the port security in his pocket, so the parcel will leave the docks without any bother. They meet at the old Dockers’ Clock, do you know it?”
“The transport café?” Jinx looked surprised.
“Yes, that’s it. It’ll be a simple exchange, nothing heavy.”
“Take it easy, Dean,” Jinx nodded and put the window up as he pulled the Mercedes away. “I hope your kids make it,” he called through the window as he drove away. He grabbed for his mobile and redialled the number for Gus Rickman.
Jack heard the police leaving the house in a rush. Loud shouts accompanied the sound of heavy boots stomping across the aging floorboards. It sounded like everything was going according to plan. The bomb had done what he had designed it to do, which would give him the time he needed to get away. He waited half an hour to make sure that it wasn’t a ploy to lure him out of hiding, and then he dropped through a hatch onto the attic floorboards and moved quickly through the attic spaces until he reached the house next door to his. He listened intently. The building was silent apart from the odd creak or groan from the ancient roof trusses. He lifted the hatch in the bathroom ceiling and then dropped down into the house. He had a ladder hidden there which he had used to drag the boy up into the loft, but he chose not to use it now. Time was against him. The bomb squad must have cleared the area when they realised what they were dealing with. Jack had got the idea from Nate Bradley. He had planned to rig an incendiary device to his lockup, so that in the event of his capture, he could destroy the evidence of drugs and money remotely. Jack had liked the idea and built a much bigger device over a period of months. It wasn’t rocket science, although the detonator was yet to be tested. He was confident that it would explode if he dialled the correct number with his mobile. Jack used another mobile phone to provide the spark required to ignite one of the drums. If one drum went up, it would be a matter of seconds before the others ignited.
He made his way down the stairs to the ground floor cautiously. The police had smashed the front door in, and he could see out onto the empty street. There was no sign of them outside. He crept as close to the door as he dared and peered out into the grey daylight. A radio buzzed with garbled messages somewhere out of his field of vision. He could see the shadow of the bomb squad transporter, but he couldn’t see the vehicle. It was too far down the road. He placed his back against the damp wall and moved away from the door into the darkness. The floorboards in the long hallway creaked loudly as he crept to the cellar door. He was less than twenty-five yards from an open manhole cover. It led into the Victorian sewers which carried human waste and rainwater under the city to the river. A drum full of Chlordane covered his escape route. He knew that the bomb squad wouldn’t risk more than one officer at a time, and they would be occupied disconnecting the decoy timing device. Jack had rigged it with four separate power sources and connected it to the main electricity supply. He guessed that they would disconnect the electricity supply first and then concentrate on the others before confirming their suspicions that the timer was a decoy. By that time, he would be safely in the sewer system, miles away. He was so close that he could smell freedom. He could taste it. Patrick Lloyd was dead and gone, and Jack Howarth was back in business. The cellar door creaked as he opened it. In the silence of the empty house, it sounded deafening. He stepped onto the staircase and closed the door behind himself. The steps were slippery, and he took each one carefully. It was impossible to put weight on the rotting wood without it making a noise. He listened intently for any sound from the cellar next door, but he couldn’t hear anything. If there was a bomb technician working there, then he couldn’t hear them. He could hear his own breathing as he crept down the stairs. His heart beat quickly, and he could feel the blood rushing through the veins in his temples as he reached the drums. He stepped between them until he reached the furthest one away, and then he knelt down and used them as cover whilst he pressed his shoulder against it. The drum shuddered, and he could hear the liquid inside sloshing around as it moved slightly. There was a squeal as metal scraped on metal, and he froze in the darkness. There shouldn’t be any metal there. He had removed the manhole cover months before. He felt down with his hand, but felt only stone. Using a torch here was out of the question. Any flicker of light would give away his presence. There was a waterproof flashlight stashed in the sewer along with a wetsuit and a loaded Glock. He waited a few long seconds and then heaved the drum again. It stuck fast and then slid slowly across the floor. He reached for the open manhole but touched cold metal. His breathe stuck in his throat and his heart missed several beats. Someone had put the lid back in place.
Lights blinded him, and their suddenness made him catch his breath. He cried out like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “Are you looking for a way out, you piece of shit?” Alec Ramsay said from the stairs. “Armed police, show me your hands!” DS Eales shouted at the top of his voice as he came through the hole in the wall, followed by two of his unit. “Do it now, show me your hands, or I will shoot.”
Jack Howarth looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. His eyes were wide open and glassy and there was no comprehension of what was happening in them. He put his hands above his head but didn’t move. “Stand up, do it now!” A second armed officer screamed. Jack flinched visibly and stood up on shaky legs. His knees wouldn’t lock out, and he felt like they were pipe cleaners that couldn’t hold his weight.
“Jack Howarth, I am arresting you for the murder of Louise Parker. That will do for a start. You do not have to say anything, but whatever you do say may be given in evidence.” Alec stepped aside as the armed officers dragged him from between the drums. DS Eales grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back painfully. He slammed his face into the wall, splitting his lip and cracking a tooth. Jack gave a muffled shout, but a powerful blow to the kidneys silenced him. They frisk-searched him and then slapped solid handcuffs onto his wrists. “Get the bastard out of my sight,” Alec sighed. He reached for his radio. “Captain Riley?”
“Yes, inspector,” the radio crackled.
“Send your men in, we have the suspect in custody.” Alec walked up the cellar stairs and ignored the fact that his suspect’s head seemed to be thumping into each one individually. Jack cried like a baby, and it sounded good. “Smithy,” Alec clicked the transmit button again.
“Yes, guv.” Smithy sounded hypo. “You got the bastard!” Alec cringed at the use of profanity over the police band, but he didn’t think anyone would mind this time around.
“We did.” Alec felt flat despite the result. “Has the cordon been moved back?”
“All done and dusted, guv,” Smithy replied. It had taken over an hour to move the police lines back and evacuate an area a thousand yards square.
“Good. I want everyone back at the station in an hour,” Alec ordered. “Hand the scene over to uniform until the bomb squad are finished. This isn’t over yet.”