The Patient Killer (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 4) (11 page)

Hinges creaked as the rear doors to the van swung open.

Mayberry sensed movement and tensed in the expectation that he and the girl would be bundled out of the van, but then the door thudded shut again as quickly as it had opened.

He heard voices, muffled and growing quieter.

‘
Falowanie
!’ the husky voice cried, and then the van lurched forward as if someone had crashed into the back of it.

Mayberry felt the van begin to move underneath him, but the engine was still off. A split second later it hit him: they were rolling downhill.

He and the girl were still tied, bound at wrists and ankles. He struggled furiously, trying to free his hands, desperate to do something.

Faster and faster the van rolled. Every minor bump in the asphalt sent a shudder through the van.

Mayberry did the only thing he could. He threw himself to his right, covering the girl with his body, trying to shield her from the coming impact.

And then it happened. There was no squeal or scream. Nobody hit the brakes to arrest their momentum. In silence the van thrust forward, pulled by the weight of gravity, and slammed without remorse into something at the bottom of the hill. The windshield shattered, imploding inwards and pelting the interior of the van with a hail of glass shards.

The front of the van crumpled, but it did not stop. Instead it flipped over to the right, the side of the van dragging along the pavement, and then there was another crash as the van came to a halt.

The van’s occupants, untethered by seatbelts, were flung forwards into the corkboard dividing the cabin from the back of the van. They slammed into it, Mayberry first as he clung to the girl, and he felt his back collide in a wave of pain more terrible than anything he had felt in his life.

The air was ripped from his lungs, his head began to scream, and then, mercifully, he slipped out of consciousness and silence ruled once more.

T
hursday April 9th 20:35

Rafferty idled on the north side of the M3 for over half an hour.

During that time, roadblocks had been set up on either side of Junction 12 where the M3 and the M25 met, causing traffic to quickly pile up for miles in every direction.

She had inched along the hard shoulder, her ANPR camera recording every number plate she passed as she drove. Every few seconds the computer pinged back another result. If she had been a traffic cop, it would have been a most productive use of her time. Several cars were being driven uninsured, two drivers were flagged as disqualified, and one sports car had been reported stolen the previous weekend.

But there was no sign of the van.

Rafferty watched the road with one eye and kept the other fixed on her dashboard. Officers from nearby precincts were assisting. They were visible, but totally ineffective. With every minute that passed without sight of the stolen van, it became more and more apparent that it was long gone.

A few drivers had taken to getting out of their cars. They milled idly around, perplexed and angry that the police would have closed such a busy thoroughfare during rush hour.

Rafferty was about to go and order the pedestrians back into their cars when the radio crackled.

‘Van spotted. Hillcrest Road, Camberley. We’ve got a situation.’

***

T
en minutes later, Rafferty roared into Camberley. She heard the crime scene long before she saw it. Sirens were wailing, and an ambulance sped past her as she turned onto Hillcrest Road.

Squad cars were lined up blocking off most of the road, and Rafferty was forced to park at the top of the road in case any more emergency vehicles needed to drive past.

She leapt from her car and jogged uphill on foot. Picturesque houses, each recessed a good thirty feet from the road, passed her by in a blur. If the situation had not been so dire, Rafferty might have taken time to reflect how beautiful and quiet Camberley was compared to inner London. It was an unusual place to hide, with only one entrance from the main road and nowhere to go on foot at the bottom of the cul-de-sac.

Rafferty rounded a bend at the top of the hill, jogged briefly along a flat bit of land where squad cars were parked two abreast, and then headed back down the other side of the hill, where the road was split by a grassy embankment running down the middle. The ground began to drop back down, much more steeply than her ascent, and the longest part of the road came into view before her. The road dropped straight down faster and faster. It reminded Rafferty of the kind of road that she would have sought out as a kid to thunder down on her skateboard.

It was only then that she saw it.

Perhaps a hundred feet down the road, at the bottom of the hill, the white van they had been chasing lay on its side amongst the conifers that guarded the front garden of one of the final homes in the road, the van’s undercarriage exposed to the elements. Firefighters were yelling for people to back away as Rafferty continued to jog towards it. Fuel was dripping from the exposed diesel tank, and the pungent smell of aerosolised diesel was in the air.

As Rafferty closed in on the van, an armbelonging to a burly firefighter wrapped around her and pulled her away from the van just as the diesel caught fire. With an almighty whoosh the van was engulfed in flames, and the smell of burning conifer sap erupted into the air, pungent and smoky.

‘Mayberry!’ she cried.

‘Ma’am, get back.’

The firefighter dragged her away as smoke began to billow towards them. Once they were a safe distance away, the fireman came to a halt while Rafferty continued to yell herself hoarse.

‘There’s no one in there, ma’am. We got both occupants out, a man and a woman.’

Rafferty stopped struggling, the fireman loosened his grip, and Rafferty pulled away.

‘The man who was in the van. Where has he gone?’ Rafferty demanded.

‘Hospital, ma’am. He looked rough. Is he a friend of yours?’

Rafferty shook her head slowly. ‘Just a colleague.’

***

M
orton arrived on the scene half an hour after Rafferty. He had been stuck south of the motorway and had to wait for the roadblock to clear before he could make it to Camberley. Though he would not know it for another hour, Mayberry’s ambulance had passed him in transit as it headed for the Accident and Emergency department at St Peter’s in Chertsey.

The van fire had been put out, which Morton knew would seriously hamper the work of the scene of crime officers who would descend on the scene as soon as they could. After a fire and water, there was a good chance that any forensics had been compromised.

Word had been sent from the hospital that Mayberry was in surgery. Morton wanted to head over there as soon as he could. It had been his choice to send in poor, stuttering, and relatively green Mayberry.

Morton found Rafferty doing crowd control fifty feet from the van. She was barking orders to uniformed officers as Morton approached. Crime scene tape had been set up across the road, and the residents who lived on the wrong side of it were now crowded around the police cars, huddled up with thermal blankets and thermoses full of tea.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Emergency services were called by a homeowner. She was in her living room when the van crashed into her conifers.’

‘Where is she now?’ Morton said.

‘Paramedics took her away,’ Rafferty said. ‘She’s being treated for shock.’

‘And Ayala?’

‘He’s canvassing door to door looking for anyone who might have seen the van.’

‘Go and help him out.’

For once she didn’t argue about being paired up with Ayala again. She nodded and ducked under the crime scene tape. Morton watched her go and then turned his attention to the van. Paint had been scorched off the lower half of the van, while the remaining paint had been turned a pale grey by the smoke.

The bodywork looked largely intact, other than the front cabin, which had crumpled upon impact with the conifers. Glass from the windscreen littered the ground, a thousand tiny pieces reflecting the dying light of the day.

It was when Morton looked inside the van that the true extent of the devastation became apparent. The Jaws of Life had been applied to the rear door to leverage the metal apart, and Morton was able to shine a torch inside. The corkboard which had once divided the front cabin from the rear of the van had given way, and the contents of the van, which included tools and a large bag of ballast, had been scattered all over as if by a giant shaking the van like a snow globe.

Much of the detritus was covered in blood. Mayberry’s blood.

Morton turned away, his eyes beginning to well up at the sight.

He stared at the ground for what seemed like an age and barely noticed when Ayala came jogging towards him.

‘Boss! Boss! I found a witness.’

Morton dabbed at his eyes quickly with his sleeve. ‘Dust,’ he said quickly, by way of explanation, and then, before Ayala could question him, he added, ‘What did they see?’

‘She – that is to say, Mrs Lydia Hunt up at The Cottage on the Hill’ – Ayala pointed up at the top of the hill – ‘saw the van... and a car. Get this. One of the ladies saw a black sedan parked outside her house first thing this morning, which, according to her, is really unusual because everyone around here has multiple driveways and nobody is rude enough to block the road. She shrugged it off until this evening, when she heard an engine starting out front.’

‘Did she see the kidnappers get in?’

Ayala shook his head. ‘No, sir. She thought there were multiple men in the car, but it was the van she was concentrating on.’

Morton looked up from his position by the van, squinting uphill. It was a long way away to see anything. ‘How did the van draw her attention from all the way up there? Was it already on fire?’

‘No, sir. The van hadn’t even crashed by then.’

‘Then how...?’

‘She saw the van rolling. I spoke to the first responders. When they got here, the only people in the van were Mayberry and the girl.’

‘Vanessa Gogg,’ Morton supplied.

‘That’s it. Just the two of them. Nobody was driving when they crashed.’

‘You mean to say that they pushed the van downhill with Mayberry and Ms Gogg inside, and then drove off in the other car?’ Morton said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Damn.’

They were smart. The kidnappers had planned a change of vehicle, and they’d used the van to draw attention while they got away. It was well-planned and well-executed. By now they were long gone.

‘And, sir?’

Morton looked at Ayala quizzically.

‘You know it’s not your fault, don’t you?’

T
hursday April 9th 23:00

Despite Ayala’s protestations, Morton knew better. It had been he who had placed Mayberry in harm’s way.

When he had arrived at St Peter’s, Mayberry was in surgery, and Vanessa Gogg was being assessed. That was two hours ago. Ayala and Rafferty had been sent home with a promise to call them as soon as there was any news, and then Morton had found himself alone in a friends and family waiting room which was decorated much too cheerfully for his tastes, with children’s toys on the floor and insipid free coffee bubbling away in a filter machine that produced coffee which could be described as drinkable. Barely.

A mix of literature, mostly months-old magazines and a few dog-eared paperbacks, had been scattered almost artfully over a long table.

Morton was staring at the table and debating starting an old murder mystery when he heard someone politely clearing their throat. He looked up to see a woman not unlike Vanessa Gogg: slim, pretty and with high cheekbones, but this woman was older, with a few strands of silver gracefully hiding among the blonde.

‘Detective Morton?’

‘I’m DCI Morton.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which had become ruffled while he held his head in his hands, and then forced himself to stand and nod in greeting.

‘I’m Bridget Abrahams.’

Morton’s eyes did the familiar flicker towards Bridget’s left hand. Sure enough, Bridget’s ring finger bore a thick gold wedding ring. Her name hadn’t always been Abrahams.

‘Vanessa’s sister?’ he ventured. Though he had to wonder if Bridget might be her mother instead, sister seemed the safer choice. If he was wrong, it was a compliment, whereas vice versa would land him in hot water.

Bridget smiled. ‘How’d you guess? She’s awake now, if you’d like to have a word. The nurses said you were waiting here.’

Morton motioned for her to lead on and then fell in step beside her. ‘How is she doing?’

‘Physically, she’s not too bad. I think she has the other man to thank for that. I heard he’s a police officer? How’s he doing?’

Morton quickened his pace and tried to give her a reassuring smile, but that didn’t hide his worry. They walked in silence to the end of the ward and parted ways at the entrance to the dimly lit room where Vanessa Gogg lay in the bed by the window.

Six beds were in the room, laid out like a dormitory. Mercifully only one other bed was occupied, and the woman in it was fast asleep. Morton always thought it reassuring to be put into a shared ward. A private room often meant there was something seriously wrong with its occupant.

He approached Vanessa’s bed, introduced himself, and pulled up a plastic chair beside her. Vanessa looked pallid; her wrists were cut up where plastic cable ties had been used to restrain her, and she appeared to be covered in a mishmash of bruises and minor cuts, but the most haunting element of her aspect was her eyes, which refused to meet Morton’s gaze.

He reached out to proffer a hand in sympathy, but Vanessa recoiled and pulled her bed sheets even tighter about her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ he said gently, keeping his voice low and even. He produced a pen and notebook from inside his jacket and waited for her to speak.

‘I was at Niall’s. It was breakfast time. He brought us breakfast in bed and then got dressed for work.’

‘What time was this?’

‘He leaves by seven most days.’

‘And how does he travel to work?’ Morton asked.