Death Call (26 page)

If he left the car here he’ll have oil on his shoes, Carroll thought, looking around him. There were two large pools of oil that had been spilled in the immediate vicinity, one leading to the train sheds and the other back out onto the road. Carroll lit a cigarette and inhaled a lung full of smoke before addressing the detectives stood before him.

‘If he’s around here we should be able to trace his steps – the oil will be all over his shoes. Keep the uniforms away from the car. Wheeler, Thompson, take a look over toward the train sheds and see if there are any tracks leading that way. We’ll check over by the road, okay?’

Wheeler nodded and walked off, followed by Thompson, whose eyes searched desperately for footprints. Carroll and Grant headed back toward the road on foot, but found nothing.

Within two minutes Wheeler had spotted what he thought to be the tracks of running shoes heading through the old train sheds. He called for Carroll and Grant, who made their way back across the yard.

There, indelibly marked on the concrete floor of the sheds, were oily footprints. The only problem was that the footprints disappeared after about thirty metres.

At least we know which direction he went, Carroll thought, looking off in the general direction of the footprints. If Nash had continued on his original trajectory, he’d have ended up at the back of St. Pancras Station.

‘He could’ve headed back out onto the road last night,’ Grant said as the four detectives looked around the train shed.

‘Well, if that’s the case he’s long gone,’ Dan replied. ‘But I think he’s still around here. I can feel it in my gut, and my gut is seldom wrong. I’d say he headed over towards St. Pancras last night and maybe got into the old hotel building there.’

‘It’s worth a look, I suppose,’ Grant conceded, unable to come up with anything else to say.

‘Did you have a late night last night or something?’ Carroll asked his partner.

‘Yeah,’ Grant replied curtly, indicating that he wanted the conversation to end right there. He wasn’t in the mood for talking. His mind was preoccupied with the news that Vicky had given him the night before.

‘Well, wake the fuck up, man. We’re dealing with a fuckin’ psychopath here – you’ll need your wits about you!’

Grant smiled at his partner, turned around and headed for the car.

‘Where the fuck are you going?’ Carroll asked.

‘St. Pancras, Sherlock. And I suggest that you and those other two sleuths get your collective arses in gear,’ Grant said, matter-of-factly.

Carroll shook his head and looked at Wheeler and Thompson, who laughed.

Once back in the car, Carroll rang DCI Jones on his mobile and told him they were going over to the old St. Pancras Hotel to have a look around. Jones said he’d divert some of the Special Operations Squad so that they’d have some back-up, and ensure that the stolen car was looked after.

The huge, gothic exterior of St. Pancras Station was a sight to behold. No matter how many times he passed the building, its decaying magnificence left Carroll awe-struck. An enormous red-bricked building with towers and extravagant brick-work just rising up out of the Euston Road. It seemed almost alien amongst its neighbours. On one side, just up the road, was the new British Library, which had taken many years and many millions of pounds to complete. On the other side was the dreary shape of King’s Cross Station – a veritable magnet for low-life.

The upper floors of the St. Pancras building were unoccupied, and had been for years. Once the home of a rather good hotel, it had been left to go to rack and ruin over the past twenty years and now contained nothing other than a few small businesses on the ground floor. That left hundreds of rooms unoccupied on the upper floors. It was perfect for what Nash would want. No one ever went upstairs in the building – mostly because it was deemed unsafe in parts, but also because the stairwells were blocked off. Nash could, Carroll thought, easily force an entry and stay there without attracting the glare of Joe Public. Only he hadn’t counted on the oil in the freight yard. When Nash had abandoned the BMW it was dark, and he hadn’t noticed the pools of old oil. It was a simple mistake to make, but it was one that was leading the cops to his new-found home.

Carroll and Grant went looking for the security guard on duty, whilst Wheeler and Thompson began looking for signs of forced entry on the blocked-up stairwells.

The security guard was an Indian man of around forty five, sporting a beard and a purple turban. A Sikh, Carroll thought, introducing himself.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Carroll, and this is DC Grant. You might be able to help us....’ Carroll began.

The security guard smiled in a friendly sort of way.

‘Your station phoned me a little earlier. They said they were looking for signs of forced entry on the buildings in the area. I’ve only just begun my shift, and the man who was on last night didn’t report anything – so I presume everything is okay. I haven’t had a chance to do my rounds yet,’ the security guard said.

Grant interjected in an effort to speed the process up a little.

‘Where would be the easiest place to gain access to the upper floors of the building?’

‘That would be through the door to the left of the building, or up the fire escape to the rear. But the fire escape has been covered in barbed-wire, and we haven’t had any break-ins recently,’ the security guard said, as if to justify his job.

‘Can you show us where you mean?’ Carroll asked.

‘Just follow me,’ the guard replied, walking around through the front door.

Carroll looked around him at the high-ceilinged rooms that led off from the corridor down which they were walking. It was a long corridor, with many doors. It reminded him of the offices at the MOD, where he had met the young secretary in the old woollen suit.

The guard walked ahead of them to an emergency exit, which was padlocked.

‘You do know it’s against fire regulations to have your emergency exits locked like that, don’t you?’ Grant said.

Carroll looked at his partner sourly, as the guard removed the lock and opened the door.

By now, Wheeler and Thompson had already gained access to the upper floors through a stairwell in the west wing of the building. Some metal sheeting, which had been put in place to restrict access to the upper floors, had been pulled back into place. But it was obvious that someone had used the spot to get in. There were even some oily marks on the steps, leaving Wheeler and Thompson in no doubt that their man had gained entry to the top floors at this point.

Thompson pulled back the sheeting and attempted to get through the barrier. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed with a little difficulty. Wheeler followed him gingerly and with a little more ease. Thompson was a good ten kilos heavier, after all.

The stairs seemed to go on forever.

‘There must be at least eleven floors in the building,’ Thompson exclaimed, looking up the stairwell shaft.

‘This is going to take all bloody day!’ Wheeler sighed as they began climbing to the first floor.

There was dust and cobwebs everywhere. It looked as though the upper floors hadn’t been used for years. A rather large flock of pigeons had made their home in the building, and there were pigeon droppings all over the floor.

‘God, it stinks up here!’ Thompson exclaimed.

‘Pigeons. There must be hundreds of the buggers up here,’ Wheeler replied.

They began their systematic search of the rooms. There were at least a hundred on each floor, and Wheeler’s assumption that it would take all day to search the building wasn’t far off the mark.

Slowly pushing back each door, the two detectives continued down the corridor, wondering where the hell Carroll and Grant had got to, and questioning whether they should wait for them. After all, Carroll and Grant were armed.

Chapter 28

The security guard showed Carroll and Grant the fire escape at the rear of the building. Someone had cut through the barbed-wire, leaving it as an entrance or escape route.

Carroll climbed up the iron ladders to the fire escape proper, followed by his partner.

‘You might want to take care going up there – some of the floors are a little unsafe,’ the security guard said.

‘Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind. I’d appreciate it if you could go back around to the front of the building and wait for our back-up, so you can show them were to go,’ Carroll said, hoping the man was going to be helpful.

‘You’re expecting more policemen?’ the guard asked.

‘Yeah, so if you could direct them up this way we’d appreciate it.’

The fire escape was rusty and gave off a reddish sort of dust that covered the two detectives’ hands, and their raincoats.

On the first floor level there was an open window. Carroll approached it slowly and looked inside. The room was empty. Grant followed Carroll into the building.

Plaster from the ceiling lay scattered on the floor, with holes appearing at intervals. Opening the door, Carroll stepped slowly into a great corridor, similar to the one on the ground floor. He guessed that the layout was similar for every floor.

‘Jaysus! Do you get that smell?’ Carroll asked his partner, who was three steps behind.

‘Pigeon droppings. The building will be full of them. It’s always the same in deserted buildings. All it takes is one broken window and...’ Grant went quiet on hearing some movement from above. Carroll motioned for his partner to follow him up the corridor in silence. He had heard footsteps and was intent on finding out who had made them.

On the second floor, directly above Carroll and Grant, Wheeler and Thompson were systematically opening doors and cautiously peering into empty rooms. The noise that Carroll and Grant had heard was unusually loud, due to the fact that Wheeler had been startled by around twenty pigeons when he entered a room and had made a run for the door in an effort to escape the rising dust and the horrible smell of feathers and pigeon shit. Wheeler closed the door behind him, feathers in his hair. Thompson chuckled lightly to himself.

‘We’d best get a move on. I wonder what’s holding up those other two idiots?’ Wheeler said, trying to bring his heart rate back to normal and hide his embarrassment.

‘Ah, they’ll be along soon enough. We’d best start moving on to the third floor. There has to be some sign of life in the bloody place....’ Thompson replied.

The sound of police sirens filled the air. Carroll and Grant, who were now climbing the stairs to the second floor heard them, as did Wheeler and Thompson, who had just reached the third floor. It was the Special Operations boys, Carroll concluded, happy in the knowledge that there was some armed support on the way.

‘Maybe I’d best give Wheeler a ring,’ Carroll said, reaching into his raincoat pocket for his mobile.

‘Do you think it’s wise? They could be on the verge of finding something....’ Grant replied, thinking that they may alert Nash to their presence with a ringing mobile phone.

‘He keeps it on the vibrator mode, so it doesn’t make any sound,’ Carroll said, dialling Wheeler’s number. Only Carroll was wrong. It was Thompson who kept his mobile on the vibrator mode.

Wheeler’s phone rang loud and clear as they began searching the third floor corridor.

From the other end of the corridor, a figure emerged, gun in hand. It was Nash. There could be no mistake, Wheeler thought, hearing a bullet whizzing past his head, followed by the crack of gunfire .

‘Get down, it’s Nash!’ Wheeler, exclaimed as a second shot rang out, hitting him in the stomach.

Wheeler fell through an open door on to the floor of an empty room. He looked behind him to see where his partner was. Thompson lay in a pool of blood in the corridor, a gaping hole in his forehead.

Carroll and Grant heard the shots and began running toward the stairwell in an effort to get to their colleagues and give chase to Nash. But Nash had already made for the upper floors by the time they arrived on the scene.

Thompson lay awkwardly in the corridor, half propped up against a door frame. Wheeler was moaning in agony and covered in blood.

‘Which way did he go, Richie?’ Carroll asked Wheeler.

‘I think he’s gone upstairs....’ Wheeler moaned, clutching his stomach.

‘We’ll have an ambulance for you in no time, just hang on,’ Carroll said, as Grant made his way to a front facing window.

Grant opened the window and shouted down to the assembled Special Operations Squad, who were talking with the security guard. They may not have heard the shots, Grant thought, on hearing the noise of the morning traffic on Euston Road.

‘Get an ambulance! We’re on the third floor. Two officers down. Get a stretcher up here!’ Grant screamed.

A flurry of activity told him that they had heard him, and would soon be on the scene. Grant returned to the room where Wheeler lay soaked in blood.

‘An ambulance and stretcher are on the way, Richie, just hang on, okay?’ Grant said softly.

‘I’m going after the fucker,’ Carroll announced, drawing his service pistol.

‘But Specials Operations are on the way....’ Grant replied.

‘He could be trying to get out of the building. By the time the Specials get their act in gear he could be gone. I’m going up after him,’ Carroll continued.