Evil Valley (32 page)

Another whisper from Adam. ‘For Christ’s sake don’t wind him up. Get him back on to Nicola.’

Dan found he could hardly breathe to shout. ‘So … err … can we see her, Edmund? Just so we’re sure she’s OK?’

‘She’s OK, Dan. You can see her in a minute, but you’ll have to trust me for now. I think you know me well enough for that.’

‘I’m not sure I do, Edmund.’

‘Oh, come now. You must have realised I only need to make my little point. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. You’ve been through my history. I’m hardly a killer. The failed warrior. The dog lover whose one true friend was taken from him by the police. I’m not alone in losing loved ones to their bloodlust you know.’

Dan waited, didn’t know what to say. Behind him, the sergeant urged, ‘Just keep him talking.’

Dan’s throat felt very dry. He cleared it awkwardly, shouted, ‘Those other two shootings, Edmund? Bodmin and Saltash? Are they what triggered this?’

‘Spot on, Dan. I knew I could rely on you. That’s why I chose you. I’m trusting you to report why all this happened fairly to the world. Someone needs to say something about what the police are like, and I’m glad it’s been me. No one forces them to take up arms you know. They’re all volunteers. They eagerly step forward and say, “Oh yes please, give me a nice shiny gun to carry, I want to look like a real man.” They don’t get extra pay for it. They don’t get special promotions either. So there can only be one reason why a policeman wants to carry a gun, can’t there? They enjoy it and they want to use it. It’s as simple as that.’

‘But you carried a gun too, didn’t you Edmund? Isn’t that the same? You joined the army.’

‘Yes, Dan, but I’m not sure I volunteered. I was pushed into it by my father, and as you know I didn’t last long. I didn’t like what I found and got out. You can’t say that about the police. They seem to enjoy their guns all too much.’

‘Well, they are constrained by the law, Edmund,’ called Dan. ‘They can’t just go out shooting with impunity.’

A cold and mocking laugh echoed across the moonlit Coombe, a sinister sound in the still moor. It seemed to echo back and forth from the rocks, dying only reluctantly.

‘I beg to differ Dan. As you’d no doubt expect, I’ve done a little research on police shootings. They’ve killed more than thirty people in the last dozen years or so in England. Some for terrible, obviously capital offences such as being Brazilian and trying to catch a tube train – poor Jean Charles de Menezez – or carrying a table-leg home after having it mended, like Harry Stanley. And guess how many of our admirable, law-upholding police officers have been prosecuted for those innocents’ deaths, Dan?’

‘I don’t know, Edmund.’

‘I’ll give you a clue, shall I? It’s a round number. Very round in fact.’

‘None?’

‘Well done, Dan! Exactly zero. The law allows them to go about their killing with complete impunity. And that’s just for people. When they kill dogs, no one even raises an eyebrow. They have their guns and no one must spoil their fun.’

‘And it’s nothing to do with wanting to protect the public, Edmund?’ called back Dan. ‘Nothing to do with a sense of duty? Maybe the lack of prosecutions shows the law is working well. The officers had nothing to be prosecuted for. They did their duty.’

Dan sensed Adam flinch. ‘Careful,’ came a whisper from his side. ‘I told you not to wind him up.’

‘Ah, ever the professional, Dan,’ shouted Gibson. ‘Doing your job in being Devil’s Advocate and putting the opposite view to me? But what is your job now? Are you a fully signed up quasi-policeman, or a journalist?’

Dan felt another surge of anger, tried to cap it, reminded himself a little girl’s life could depend on what he said. But Gibson sounded just like Lizzie with those snide bloody digs of hers.

Adam’s voice broke the silence. ‘I’m the police officer here, Edmund, and I’d like to know if Nicola –’

‘Shut up, Adam,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Don’t interrupt. Didn’t your parents teach you it’s rude? I’m talking to Dan.’

Adam muttered something under his breath. ‘What?’ Dan whispered from the corner of his mouth.

‘Just keep the bastard talking. Try to get him back on to Nicola.’

Dan took a long breath, called, ‘So … is that why you chose me, Edmund? Because I let you down? Because you saw how much I love Rutherford, but I can still work with the police … the people who killed Sam?’

‘Bingo, Dan! That’s it, spot on. I admire and respect you, but I don’t agree with you. So I thought you might benefit from a lesson, as well as the police. And here we all are, with our cards finally on the table.’

There was another silence. Dan thought he could see dark figures creeping around the sides of the valley near the tent, but it could have been his imagination. Next to him, Adam stood motionless, unspeaking. Dan suddenly felt very lonely, couldn’t stop the thoughts cascading through his mind. Keep Gibson talking, but how? Where’s Nicola? What the hell do I say? And what’s this lesson he’s going to teach me?

‘Anyway, as I warned you, this conversation would have to be brief and so it must be,’ came Gibson’s voice again, but different now, not chatty, no longer amused, but harder, more purposeful. Dan saw the figure move, seemed to rummage at its waist. A hand reached out and waved again, but this time there was an object in it, shiny, with a thin barrel. Another shot of fear pulsed through him.

‘This is my gun, Dan, in case there was any doubt. A beauty, isn’t she? Not as nice as the ones the police get to carry, but she does a decent job. Not as pretty or modern as their MP5s and their pistols, but she’ll do for me.’

Dan heard a hiss from behind. The sergeant. ‘Shall we take him, sir?’

‘Can you stun him?’ whispered back Adam, his eyes fixed on Gibson.

‘He’s too far away. At that range we can’t be sure to hit him and take him down with a baton round. It’ll have to be a bullet.’

‘Look, Dan, my gun,’ called Gibson again, waving it towards them. ‘And guess what I’m going to do with it?’

‘Keep him talking,’ urged the sergeant. ‘Keep him looking this way.’

‘Err … what are you going to do with it, Edmund?’ called Dan, trying to keep his voice from shaking. His heart was pounding and he felt as though he could hardly breathe. He could see tiny red dots hovering on Gibson’s chest like lethal flies, precursors of imminent death.

‘I’m going to shoot someone, Dan. And guess who it’s going to be?’

The figure raised the gun, pointed it towards them. Dan tried to make himself dive to the ground, but he was frozen, couldn’t move. He was shaking hard, at any second expecting to feel his chest burst, explode as it was punctured by a bullet, the tension inside him instantaneously released, find himself sliding slowly into dark oblivion.

‘Sir?’ hissed the sergeant to Adam. ‘Sir? Shall we take him? Sir!’

Dan was shaking helplessly, couldn’t stop himself. He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

‘Who, Edmund?’ he managed, his voice thin, breathless. ‘Are you going to shoot me?’

No reply. Slow seconds ticked past.

‘Are you going to shoot Adam?’

Still no reply.

Dan found himself shouting. ‘Who? For God’s sake, who?’

‘Sir?’ hissed the sergeant again, but Adam was silent.

‘No!’ called Gibson sharply. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, Dan. How could I? Nor Adam, however much he might deserve it.’

He turned back towards the tent, pointed the gun down into it. ‘I’m going to shoot this little girl in here. Bye bye Nicola.’

Adam jerked into life. ‘Take him!’

‘Fire!’ barked the sergeant into his radio.

A series of cracks echoed around Evil Coombe, bounced off the silent rocks, rumbled back and forth along the valley. The dark silhouette swayed, staggered, then dropped.

Adam was away, sprinting, tripping on some gorse, stumbling, almost tumbling, righting himself, running hard towards the tent. Dan ran after him, ignoring the agonising pain from his ankle. He could hear the blood’s relentless pounding in his ears.

They reached the tent. Adam ignored the slumped, still figure, dropped to his knees and thrust his head inside.

There was a sleeping bag, some pots and pans, but otherwise it was empty. No sign of Nicola.

Adam lurched in, threw the sleeping bag aside, knocked the pots over, scrabbled at the ground sheet. There was nothing.

Dan breathed out heavily, wished his heart would stop thumping. He leaned back on his knees, fought a wave of dizziness. Adam was clawing at the ground, hitting out at the pots with a flaying arm, ripping at the sheet, panting heavily in his wild and hopeless search.

There was nothing. No sign of Nicola. Nowhere she could be hidden.

Stuck high up on the tent pole, Dan saw an envelope addressed to him. He pushed Adam’s shoulder, got no response, reached out, grabbed the detective’s flailing arms, calmed him. He took the envelope, opened it with shaking hands.

Inside were ten fifty-pound notes bundled together and a piece of paper covered with Gibson’s writing.

“My Dear Dan,

“I couldn’t resist leaving you one more note. It seemed a fitting end to our dance.

“I’m so very sorry I won’t be able to say this in person, but I wanted to bid you farewell. It’s been a pleasure. I only regret things couldn’t haven’t have turned out differently. In another life, we might have been friends.

“Have you managed to add it all up yet? It was simply about making the law bee sorry.

“The money is for Nicola to buy a pony. I promised her one and she certainly deserves it. I hope it’s some recompense for what I had to put her through. I trust you to pass it on when you find her. You’ll know how.

“My fondest regards and memories,

“Edmund.”

‘Where is she?’ cried Adam, his voice breaking with desperation. ‘Where’s Nicola? Where the fuck is she?!’

He ducked back out of the tent. Armed police officers were cautiously converging on them. ‘Has anyone seen the girl?’ Adam cried. ‘She’s not in the tent.’

One of the marksmen knelt down by Gibson’s body, checked the neck for a pulse, stood up again.

‘He’s dead,’ the man said.

‘Bollocks to him,’ barked Adam savagely. ‘I couldn’t give a shit. Have any of you seen Nicola?’

Shaking heads, murmurs. ‘Then where is she? Where the hell is she?’ Adam cried, spinning around and staring at the silvery moorland. ‘Get the helicopter back up. She must be around here somewhere. He can’t have taken her far. Get the dogs in. I want them following any scent they can find. It’s freezing. She won’t last the night out here. I don’t care that it’s dark and I don’t want to hear a word about fucking overtime. Get everyone you can and get looking for her. Now!’

‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant began dictating orders into his radio.

Another of the police officers put on a pair of gloves and checked the gun lying by the side of Gibson’s body. ‘It’s a replica,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s never fired a bullet in its life. This guy used us to commit suicide. Suicide by cop.’

Adam ignored him. ‘Dan, come here.’

Dan couldn’t prevent his mind from pleading – no more. Please, no more. Make this ordeal end.

The adrenaline was leaking away, leaving him hollow, floating, lost. His ankle stabbed hard and another warm wave of soporific tiredness took him. He could feel his eyelids drooping, longed for the safety and warmth of his bed, the flat’s doors and windows all safely locked, the reassurance of Claire holding him, Rutherford lying on the floor beside them. He still hadn’t stopped shaking, or lost the churning in his stomach. He was sweating, despite the penetrating chill of the night. It was all he could manage not to be violently sick.

‘Look at the note again,’ rasped Adam. ‘Look at it. I said – fucking look at it!’

The detective’s venom forced Dan’s eyes on to the paper.

‘He talks about passing the money on to Nicola when we find her and we’ll know how,’ Adam panted. ‘What does that mean?’

Dan made his parched mouth find the words. ‘I think … it’s probably exactly what it says. He’s … he’s expecting us to find her. By saying we’ll know how, I’d guess he means the clues are all there in front of us again. And probably … in this note.’

Adam pointed a trembling finger. ‘Then start thinking about it. Right now! No one’s going home until we find Nicola. I’ll call Eleanor and Michael and tell them what it says. They can start work on it from their end. You keep going over it until you find anything that might help us. I’ll take any guesses, anything. Anything at all. Just come up with something. I reckon we’ve only got hours to save her.’

Adam turned and aimed a kick at Gibson’s prone body, then another, and another. A lifeless arm flinched under the wild assault.

‘You bastard,’ he hissed. ‘You evil bastard. Where is she?’

Chapter Twenty-One

T
HE KEYBOARD HAD BECOME
keyboard had become the weapon of a murder fantasy.

“I want to kill him. I want to feel my fingers around his throat and watch him turn a beautiful blue as he gasps for air and the life ebbs out of him. I want to vent all this humiliation and rage in a wonderful murder. I want to sprinkle cyanide in the wine he loves so much and sit back, smiling as he drinks it. Then I’ll count down the last seconds and laugh myself stupid as he pitches forwards, retches, clutches his chest and dies in a slow agony.”

Claire stopped typing, sat back, hit the send button. The chatroom had become real.

It was decorated in aggressive red paint, but apart from that it was bare. The floor was cold concrete. A hard, white light hung from the red ceiling, no shade to soften its swinging bulb. Their voices echoed from the stone walls. The three of them were each slumped in the corners furthest from the grey, iron door, fearful of what would enter. One was groaning from her wounds, one huddled in a ball, the other shaking, continually eyeing the door, flinching with every sound that might be the precursor to another kicking.

She’d almost forgotten the long, freezing day on Dartmoor, the frustration, anger and despair at the failure to find Nicola. They’d been stood down and sent home, despite their protests. Come back tomorrow when you’re fresh and ready to try again, the sergeant had said. We won’t find anything tonight. Whiting had resisted the most, she’d noticed. He sounded as though he would have been happy to spend the night scouring the moor.

She’d got to know the two women in the chatroom over the last couple of hours. It was strange how the faceless computer link and shared suffering allowed you to free your demons in a way that would be impossible over a coffee with a close friend. Both the women told depressingly familiar stories, not so different from the one she’d invented.

Lynn’s husband was a professional man, although she wouldn’t say what he did. His job was high-powered, his pay breathtaking, certainly compared to what Claire earned as a Detective Sergeant. They had a young son who was a delight, a beautiful modern home near Tavistock on the western edge of Dartmoor.

She spent her days looking after the house, doing the shopping, meeting with friends for lunch, a few hours voluntary work at a charity shop. Much of the time he was a good husband, caring, understanding and attentive. But when he’d had a bad day, a row with a colleague or a competitor, when the little boy was safely in bed, that’s when it would start.

At first it was a slap, then it grew to a punch, then a kick. Now his favourite was the cane. It was a thin stick, the kind used by gardeners for twining tomato plants. But it cut the air with a wicked, fearful whip. He’d hit her on her back where the thin wood bit into the tender skin, but the weals wouldn’t show. She’d thought about leaving him, but what could she do? There was the boy to think of, the beautiful home too and she had no money of her own, no job, no one to help her, nowhere to go. She was trapped.

Jackie sounded younger. She had two children, but wouldn’t say where she was from. She worked part-time in a supermarket, wasn’t married, but she and her partner had been together since they left school. He’d beaten her from the start, a punch and a kick after a few beers was his favourite. And he liked his beer too, not quite an alcoholic, but four nights a week at the local was his average. She would lay awake and dread his return. But he was a decent man really, she said. She loved him, so she stayed with him. He only did it when he was drunk. He didn’t mean it.

A couple of months ago the assaults had grown worse. He’d got in from the pub one night and called her downstairs. She’d been bad that week he’d said, spending too much money on the housekeeping. He’d taken a carving knife from the drawer. She stood still, frozen, terrified. He made her lift up her nightdress and cut her thigh. And that had become his favourite attack, a thin but bloody cut on the tops of her legs. She stayed with him, had nowhere else to go of course, but she loved him. She was sure he was a good man really, that he would change.

Zac whistled under his breath as he watched Claire’s typing, exchanging messages with the two women. It was just after nine and they’d been online for almost two hours. He was trying to concentrate on the screen, but he couldn’t help casting sly glances around her flat. He’d imagined being here a few times before, but in very different circumstances. Through the door into her bedroom he could see an inviting looking bed. It wasn’t helping that some of Claire’s small and lacy white knickers were hanging up on a drying rack in the corner of the bathroom.

‘Claire,’ he whispered as she waited for a message from Lynn to finish. ‘What exactly are you hoping to find?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, sipping at a glass of white wine. She’d offered Zac some but discovered he didn’t drink. ‘I’m just following a hunch. About the only possible link I can see between Crouch and the shootings is a computer. They’ve all got them and Crouch had a password hidden in his house. Apart from that, I don’t know. I was wondering whether – maybe – he could get into these chat rooms and find some desperate woman who he could set up a conspiracy with.’

As spoke, she wondered at how thin it sounded. ‘Well, something like that.’

Zac paused, then said, ‘So you’re playing a part that you hope …’

‘He might intrude on, like some kind of guardian angel and offer me a way of getting rid of the man. I’m trying to sound as if I’m at the end of my tether and desperate enough to do anything.’

‘Isn’t that entrapment?’

She’d worry about that later. ‘It might be if it works. For now, think of it as … fishing.’

He nodded, checked the array of electronics he’d linked to the side of her computer, watched her type out Zoë’s next message.

“I don’t know what to do either. But I suppose I’m lucky compared to you two. I don’t have kids to worry about. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I just dream about him being killed in a car crash, or some accident at work. I fantasise about the phone ringing and this voice saying “Prepare yourself for some bad news”, then telling me he’s dead. And instead of being shocked, I’m overjoyed. I just want to be free. I was only half joking with that message about wanting to murder him. I haven’t told anyone this, but I’ve started planning how to kill myself. I just can’t take much more.”

‘Whew,’ Zac whistled. ‘If that doesn’t prompt your guardian angel to come calling, nothing will.’

If he’s there, thought Claire. A big if. Her theory was feeling hollow.

They sat back to watch the response. Lynn and Jackie were both very kind thought Claire, the sort of women I’d like to meet. Both sent instant messages telling her never to think like that, not to give up, that something would happen to make life better. She wondered what they looked like, what their children were like, if any of their friends knew or suspected what they were going through. Why had life turned out this way for them?

She began typing a reply, thanking them, telling them they were keeping her going, giving her strength. ‘If we don’t get anything in the next hour or so, Zac, we’ll call it a day,’ she said. ‘It’s only a hunch and I’ve wasted enough of your time.’

He watched her fingers fly over the keyboard. “…you’ve made me feel so much better, thank you both. It’s good to know I’m not alone. Maybe I will have the strength to plunge that knife into him, then stand up in court and tell the jury why I did it. I wonder if they could really convict me after all that I’ve been through.”

‘You sure you don’t want a glass of wine, Zac?’ she asked, leaning back from the laptop. ‘It’s the least I can offer you for helping me out.’

‘No thanks. I gave up drinking at university.’

‘Bad hangover?’

‘No, I did something very silly.’

Claire turned to him with that lovely smile of hers, all white teeth and unspoken promise, he thought. ‘Oh yes? Tell me more?’

She was interrupted by an electronic bleep from Zac’s computer. ‘What’s that?’ Claire asked.

‘That,’ he said, leaning forwards to see the screen, ‘is the equivalent of a fish’s nibble on your float. Look.’

There was a message, but in different type from the two women, bold, red letters.

“
Hello Zoë. Don’t be alarmed, this is one of the site managers. Just a question. How desperate are you
?”

‘It’s someone who has superuser powers,’ said Zac. ‘The others can’t see that message. It’s just to you. Answer it in the same character you’ve been playing and I’ll see if I can trace where it’s coming from.’

Zac began fiddling with the keyboard he’d attached to hers via a tangle of wires and a black box. How do I answer, thought Claire? She could feel a surge of excitement. Not too keen, stay in character, don’t frighten them off. Zoë would be wary, wouldn’t she?

“Who is this?” she typed. “I thought I was talking to Lynn and Jackie. I didn’t know anyone else was there.”

The reply was swift. “
It’s fine, don’t worry. I’m someone who’s helped other women before.
”

“What do you mean? How? Why? Who are you?”

“
Don’t worry about who I am, just that I might be able to help you. Someone very close to me suffered in the way you are, and I want to try to save anyone else from going through the same
.”

Claire felt another shot of excitement. “How? How can you help me?”

“
Don’t worry about that for now. First, I need to know how desperate you are. You must answer me honestly or I won’t be able to help
.”

What would Zoë do now, she thought? She might pause, mightn’t she? Be suspicious but also interested? Wait a minute to think. Claire forced herself not to type a reply, not yet.

‘I’ve got it,’ exclaimed Zac, his head bobbing up from behind the computer. ‘I’ve got the number it’s coming from. But it’s a mobile. It’ll take a while to trace where exactly it is.’

‘What?’ said Claire.

‘It’s a mobile. This person’s a site superuser. They’ve used their special privileges to interrupt and talk to you directly. But they’re using a mobile phone and a laptop computer to link to the server.’

‘Can you find out where it’s being done from?’

‘Yep, if you keep them talking for a few more minutes.’

Why would someone use a mobile and a laptop, Claire thought? It must only be so they could hide … because what they were planning was illegal? It could only be that, couldn’t it? Crouch? Or was her imagination getting the better of her?

Claire turned back to the computer, began typing her next message. Stay in character, she warned herself. Don’t get too keen, over-excited. Zoë would be heartened to find a sympathetic stranger, but still wary.

“I’m really desperate,” she typed. “I don’t know what to do. I’m thinking about ending it all. I never thought life would be this dreadful. I wake up every morning crying and I cry myself to sleep again at night.”

Claire waited, tapped away at the table with a finger, staring at the screen. She reached for the wine bottle, but it was empty.

“
I may be able to help you
.”

She stared at the bold, red words. “How?”

“
I can’t tell you that yet. We would have to meet.”

“How do I know you’re genuine? You could be anyone.”

“
I’m genuine. I’ve helped women like you before
.”

“How do I know?”

“
You’ll have to trust me. And I would have to trust you. We would both have a great deal to lose if we couldn’t trust each other
.”

She stared at the screen. Could it be Crouch? It sounded like him. He typed messages in a similar way to how he spoke. Or was it just some pervert with a new way to prey on vulnerable women? She knew she couldn’t stop now, had to find out.

“What would we have to do?” Claire typed clumsily.

“
We must meet. Not now, and not at night, but in a few days, in some place safe for us both
.”

Claire was about to reply when her radio crackled with a tinny voice. ‘Emergency. All available officers to Dartmoor to join hunt for missing girl. Most urgent.’

They both stared at it, then Zac whispered, ‘What do we do?’

‘Shit,’ Claire hissed. ‘We could be on the trail of a double murderer cop …’

‘But it could be entirely innocent.’

‘Or we might be able to help find Nicola …’

Zac nodded. ‘Nice dilemma. Well, I’m glad I do backroom work and it’s not the sort of thing I have …’

‘Shhh!’ Claire interrupted.

She stood up, stared at her reflection in the mirror. Behind her taut face she could see Nicola, crying, her hands reaching out, begging for help, Whiting, his mouth set in that strange, sinister smile, and Crouch, a gun in his hand, calmly aiming it right between her eyes.

What was going on? The search was supposed to have been suspended for the night. She radioed in.

‘Male shot dead, girl still missing,’ the harassed operator replied.

A man shot dead. Dan?

‘Who?’ she gasped. ‘Was it … a cop?’ Claire hesitated. ‘Or someone with the cops?’

‘No. Suspect shot dead. Girl still missing.’

She couldn’t hide the relief, leaned heavily back against the wall. What state would Dan be in if he was part of the shooting? Did he need her there? Or would he put on one of his typical macho shows and pretend he was better off facing the danger alone?

Where was Nicola? Should she go now and help in the search? She’d found the Scout Hut … maybe she could find the girl. But what about Crouch? If it was him online, this could be their only chance to catch him. She’d love to see Whiting’s face if she did …

There was another electronic bleep from the black box next to the computer. ‘Got him!’ whispered Zac. He clicked at his keyboard. ‘The superuser … he’s close. He’s in … hell, he’s just up the road. In the middle of a field, according to this map.’

‘What? A field?’

‘No, it’s not a field, sorry. It just came up green on my screen. It’s an allotment. In Lipson. Right in the middle of Plymouth. Just five mins up the road.’

Claire closed her eyes, massaged her forehead with her fingertips. Zac took a couple of steps towards her, stopped. ‘What do we do?’