Final Account (35 page)

Banks knew that Ken Blackstone at West Yorkshire had followed correct procedure in getting a photograph, description and details about Arthur Jameson out to all divisions. And the point he had most emphasized was, “May be armed. Observe only. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND.”

Jarrell's was one of those unfortunate faces in which the individual features fail to harmonize: long nose, small, beady eyes, bushy brows, a thin slit of a mouth, prominent cheekbones, receding chin, mottled complexion. Somehow, though, it didn't dissolve into total chaos; there was an underlying unity about the man himself that, like a magnetic field, drew it all together.

“Any update on the injured officer, sir?” Banks asked.

“What? Oh.” Jarrell stopped pacing for a moment and faced Banks. He had an erect, military bearing. Suddenly the fury seemed to bleed out of him like air from a tire. “Miller was killed outright, as you know.” He gestured at the outline and the surrounding, stained tarmac with his whole arm, as if indicating a cornucopia. “There's about seven pints of his blood here. Everett's still hanging on. Just. The bullet went in through his upper lip, just under the nose, and it seems to have been slowed down or deflected by cartilage and bone. Anyway, it didn't get a chance to do serious brain damage, so the doc says he's got a good chance. Bloody fool.”

“If you don't mind my saying so, sir,” Banks said, “it looks like they got into a situation they couldn't get out of. We had no reason to think Jameson knew we were onto him. Nor had we any reason to think he was a likely spree killer. We want him for a job he was hired to do cold-bloodedly. He must have panicked. I know it doesn't help the situation, sir, but the men
were
inexperienced. I doubt they'd handled much but traffic duty, had they?”

Jarrell ran his hand through his hair. “You're right, of course. They pulled him over on a routine traffic check. When Miller called in the vehicle number, the radio operator called the senior officer on the shift. He tried to talk her through it calmly, but … Hell, she was new to the job. She was scared to death. It wasn't her fault.”

Banks nodded and rubbed his eyes. Beside him, Hatchley's gaze seemed fixed on the bloody tarmac. When Banks had got the call
close to two
A.M.
—his first night at home in days—he had first thought of taking Susan Gay, then, not without malice entirely, though affectionate malice, he had decided that it was time Sergeant Hatchley got his feet wet. He knew how Hatchley loved his sleep. Consequently, they hadn't said much on the way down. Banks had played Mitsuko Uchida℉s live versions of the Mozart piano sonatas, and Hatchley had seemed content to doze in the passenger seat, snoring occasionally.

Most chief inspectors, Banks knew, would have had someone else drive, but he was using his own car, the old Cortina, no longer produced now and practically an antique. And, damn it, he
liked
driving it himself.

“Seen enough here?” Jarrell asked.

“I think so.”

“Me, too. Let's go.”

Jarrell drove them down the road. “Believe it or not,” he said, “this is very pretty countryside under the right circumstances.”

About a mile along the road, towards Princes Risborough, Jarrell turned left onto a muddy farm track and bumped along until they got to a gate on the right, where he pulled up. A hedgerow interspersed with hawthorns shielded the field and its fence from view. Cows mooed in the next field.

The gate stood open, and as Banks and Hatchley followed Jarrell through, they both sank almost to their ankles in mud. Too late, Banks realized, he hadn't brought the right gear. He should have known to bring the wellingtons he always carried in the boot of his car. Like most policemen, he took pride in keeping his shoes well polished; now they were covered in mud and probably worse, judging by the prevalence of cows. He cursed and Jarrell laughed. Hatchley stood holding onto the gatepost trying to wipe most of it off on the few tufts of grass there. Banks looked at the muddy field dotted with cow-pats and didn't bother. They'd only get dirty again.

In the field, a group of men in white boiler suits and black wellington boots worked around a car that stood bogged down in the mud with its doors open. The air was sharp with the tang of cow-clap.

One of the men had propped a radio on a stone by the hedgerow, and it was tuned to the local breakfast show, at the moment featuring a golden oldie: Cilla Black singing “Anyone Who Had a Heart.” One of the SOCOs sang along with it as he worked. The cows mooed even louder, demonstrating remarkably good taste, Banks thought. They weren't so far away after all. They were, in fact, all lying down in a group just across the field. Cows lying down. That meant it was going to rain, his mother always said. But it had rained already. Did that mean they'd been in the same position for hours? That it was going to rain again?

Giving up on folk wisdom, Banks turned instead to look at the abandoned Granada, the bottom of its chassis streaked with mud and cow-shit. It had been found, Jarrell said, just over an hour ago, while Banks and Hatchley had been in transit.

“Anything?” Jarrell shouted over to the team.

One of the men in white shook his head. “Nothing but the usual rubbish, sir,” he said. “Sweet wrappers, old road maps, that sort of thing. He must have taken everything of use or value. No sign of any weapons.”

Jarrell grunted and turned away.

“He'd hardly have left his guns, would he?” said Banks, “Not now he's officially on the run. I'd guess he probably had a rucksack or something with him in the car. Look, sir, you know the landscape around here better than I do. If you were him, where would you go?”

Jarrell looked up at the louring sky for a moment, as if for inspiration, then rubbed at the inside corner of his right eye with his index finger. “He has a couple of choices,” he said. “Either head immediately for the nearest town, get to London and take the first boat or plane out of the country, or simply lie low.” He pointed towards the hills. “A man could hide himself there for a good while, if he knew how to survive.”

“We'd better cover both possibilities,” Banks said. “He's spent time in the army, so he's probably been on survival courses. And if he heads for London, he'll likely know someone who can help him.”

“Whatever he does, I'd say he'll most likely go across country first,” said Jarrell. “He'd be smart enough to know that stealing a car or walking by the roadside would be too risky.” He looked at his
watch. “The shooting occurred at about half past twelve. It's half past six now. That gives him a six-hour start.”

“How far could he get, do you reckon?”

“I'd give him about three miles an hour in this terrain, under these conditions,” Jarrell went on. “Maybe a bit less.”

“Where's the nearest station?”

“That's the problem,” said Jarrell slowly. “This is close to prime commuter country. There's Princes Risborough, Saunderton and High Wycombe on the Chiltern Line, all nearby. If he heads east, he can get to the Northampton Line at Tring, Berkhamsted or Hemel Hempstead. If he heads for Amersham, he can even get on the underground, the Metropolitan Line. Unfortunately for us, there's no shortage of trains to London around here, and they start running early.”

“Let's say he's managed about sixteen or seventeen miles,” said Banks. “What's his best bet?”

“Probably the Chiltern Line. Plenty of trains and an easy connection with the underground. He could even be in London by now.”

They started walking back to the car. “I can tell you one thing,” said Banks. “Wherever he is, his shoes will be bloody muddy.”

II

If. If. If.
Such were Banks's thoughts as he followed Superintendent Jarrell into Jameson's rented cottage an hour or so later.
If
Everett and Miller hadn't stopped Jameson last night.
If
Jameson hadn't panicked and shot them.
If
.

In an ideal world, they would have tracked Jameson to this cottage through a cheque stub or a circled address in an accommodation guide. Quietly, they would have surrounded the place when they were certain Jameson was inside, then arrested him, perhaps as he walked out to his car, unsuspecting, without a shot being fired. For he
hadn't known
. That was the stinger; he hadn't known they were after him. Now, though, things were different. Now he was a dangerous man on the run.

As it turned out, they discovered that Jameson was renting a cottage just to the east of Princes Risborough through an Aylesbury estate agent shortly after the office opened at eight-thirty that Friday morning. Policemen were showing Jameson's photograph around and asking the same questions in every estate agent's, hotel and bed and breakfast establishment in Buckinghamshire, and the pair of DCs given the Aylesbury estate agents just happened to get lucky. Like Everett and Miller got unlucky. Swings and roundabouts. That was often the way things happened.

Jameson had simply driven off from Leeds on his holidays. Being a lover of nature, he had headed for the countryside. Why the Chilterns? It was anyone's guess. It could just as easily have been the Cotswolds or the Malverns, Banks supposed.

According to the estate agent, the man had simply dropped in one afternoon and asked after rental cottages in the area. He had paid a cash deposit and moved in. There was no need for subterfuge or secrecy. Arthur Jameson had nothing to fear from anyone. Or he wouldn't have had, were it not for a weakness for pornography, a fleeting contact with Daniel Clegg's estranged wife, Melissa, and Sergeant Hatchley's network of informers. He had either been careless about the wadding, or he thought it was a joke; they didn't know which yet. It hadn't shown up as a trademark in any other jobs over the past few years.

Last night he had probably gone into High Wycombe for a bite to eat, lingered over his dessert and coffee, maybe celebrated his new-found wealth with a large cognac, then headed back for the rented cottage, taking the bend a little too fast.

The cottage was certainly isolated. It stood just off a winding lane about two miles long, opposite a small, perfectly rounded tor. The lane carried on, passed another farmhouse about a mile further on, then meandered back to the main road.

From the mud on the floor, it looked very much as if Jameson had been there after the shooting. A bit of a risk, maybe, but the cottage wasn't far from his abandoned car. In the kitchen, yesterday's lunch dishes soaked in cold water, and breadcrumbs, cheese shavings and tiny florets of yellowed broccoli dotted the counter.

In the living-room, Jameson had left the contents of his suitcase
strewn around, including a number of local wildlife guides beside a girlie magazine on the table. Hatchley picked up the magazine and flipped through it quickly, tilting the centrefold to get a better look. Then they all followed the mud trail upstairs.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, hardly hidden at all by the spare blankets Jameson had obviously used to cover them, lay a twelve-gauge shotgun wrapped in an oil-stained cloth, and a small canvas bag. Carefully, Banks leaned forward and opened the flap of the bag with the tip of a Biro. It was empty, but on the floor by the blankets lay a few used ten-pound notes. Banks visualized the hunted man hurriedly stuffing the notes into his pockets until they spilled over on the floor. The shotgun was obviously too big and awkward for him to take with him, but he was still armed with the handgun.

Banks pointed to the shotgun and the canvas bag. “Can we get this stuff to your lab?” he asked Jarrell. “That shotgun's probably evidence in a murder case.”

Jarrell nodded. “No problem.”

As Hatchley bent to pick up the shotgun, careful to handle only the material it was wrapped in, and as Banks reached for the canvas bag, a message for Jarrell crackled through on his personal radio.

“Jarrell here. Over.”

“HQ, sir. Subject, Arthur Jameson, spotted at Aylesbury railway station at nine fifty-three
A
.
M
. Subject bought London ticket. Now standing on platform. Locals await instructions. Over.”

“Has he spotted them?”

“They say not, sir.”

“Tell them to keep their distance.” Jarrell looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. “When's the next train?” he asked.

“Twelve minutes past ten, sir.”

“Which route?”

“Marylebone via Amersham.”

“Thank you. Stand by.” Jarrell turned to Banks and Hatchley. “We can pick up that train at Great Missenden or Amersham if you want,” he said.

Banks looked first at Hatchley, then back at Jarrell. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let's do it.”

III

Banks and Hatchley boarded the train separately at Amersham at ten thirty-two. Reluctantly, Superintendent Jarrell, being the local man, had agreed to stay behind and co-ordinate the Thames Valley end of the operation.

Neither Banks nor Hatchley looked much like a policeman that morning. Waking miserably to the middle-of-the-night phone call, Banks had put on jeans, a light cotton shirt and a tan sports jacket. Over this, he had thrown on his Columbo raincoat. Even though he had done his best to clean the mud off his shoes with a damp rag, it still showed.

Sergeant Hatchley wore his shiny blue suit, white shirt and no tie; he looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards, but there was nothing unusual in that.

They had been told by the Transport Police, who had spotted Jameson, that the suspect still resembled his photograph except that he had about two days' growth around his chin and cheeks. He looked like a rambler. He was wearing grey trousers of some light material tucked into walking boots at the ankles, a green open-neck shirt and an orange anorak. Nice of him, Banks thought, dressing so easy to spot. He was also carrying a heavy rucksack, which no doubt held his gun and money, amongst other things.