No Middle Ground Page 28

  ‘Ben Myers to DS Gayle. I’m currently heading into town on the A30. I can try to cut them off at Pocomb Bridge.’

  ‘Received.’

  He didn’t know if they’d cut across into the city or head down the A30 towards the bottom end of the M5 motorway but either way, they’d have to pass the spot Ben had mentioned. With any luck they’d be able to catch the brothers in a scissor action.

  ‘Traffic car Delta Romeo five two niner, Dan Bridges, currently M5 southbound. Can head up the A30 towards you in two minutes.’

  Pete breathed a sigh of relief. If Ben got to Pocomb Bridge in time, that would leave them only one option for escape if they took it: down Dunsford Hill into the city. Other than that, they’d be boxed in with no way out.

  Except one.

  He keyed the mike. ‘Be careful, Dan. They’re not known for subtlety. They’ll ram you if they’re desperate.’

  ‘Received. We can sting them or go for the waltz.’

  Pete knew exactly what he meant: park up out of sight and throw a stinger across the road in front of them to burst their tyres or bypass them and swing across to clip their back end, spinning them around. Neither option was ideal with other traffic on the road, but either would be effective in preventing their escape.

  ‘Be safe, guys,’ he responded. He wasn’t going to order either choice, but he wouldn’t complain if they made one of them.

  He flashed past a white bungalow on one side of the road, a double entrance on the other. Junctions, farms, the houses getting closer together as he neared the edges of the city though the road was still rural. He passed under the A30. Ben would be coming down there, hopefully going overhead anytime now. The road curved right. Pete was sure he saw, distant though it was, the battered Primera had its side windows down.

  Clever.

  They were reducing the drag caused by the missing windscreen by releasing the pressure through the sides. It had to be bloody cold in there, though, and hard to breathe at the speeds they were going. It would be like sitting in a wind tunnel.

  They approached the junction on the left.

  Decision time. In seconds, he would know which way they were going: turn left into town or continue down towards the A30.

  Still hurtling along despite the traffic, they didn’t slow.

  Too late.

  They were committed. He keyed the radio. ‘Suspects accessing the A30 southbound.’

  Now he could gain some ground on them. He overtook two cars at once, leaving only one vehicle – a small lorry – between him and his targets. The long slip road down to the dual carriageway gave him ample time to pass the slower vehicle more safely than the brothers had. It slowed, signalling as the driver saw his blue lights flashing in his mirrors.

  Thanks, matey.

  The pale blue Nissan was pushing hard towards the dual carriageway. It would have to slow in a moment to join the busier flow of traffic. But it didn’t. Horns blared as it cut up at least two vehicles, forcing others to brake behind them.

  Pete, at least, had the advantage that people knew he was coming with his sirens wailing and lights flashing in the grille and the back window. He eased over to the outside lane, putting his foot down hard.

  His other advantage showed now. They were having to force their way through the traffic, doing all the hard work for him. He could just press on, his lights and sirens keeping people out of his way.

  The radio hissed. ‘Sorry, boss,’ said Ben. ‘Didn’t make it in time. I’m about a hundred yards behind you.’

  Pete glanced in the mirror, saw a set of blues in the distance.

  ‘They’re driving like maniacs,’ he responded.

  Still, they couldn’t out-pace him with the problems they had with their vehicle. He gained twenty yards on them. Then thirty. Suddenly, they swung across left under the nose of an articulated lorry.

  ‘Shit,’ Pete gasped, cutting across behind the big lorry as its horn blared deep and angry, tyres screaming, back end juddering as the driver tried to avoid jack-knifing his vehicle on the busy road. Somehow, he seemed to pull it through but, by then, Pete was on the off-ramp leading down to Alphington Road.

  At the roundabout, whichever brother was driving used the hand-brake to pull the vehicle around to the left. A car coming from the right was slammed sideways into the chevron-painted guard rail as its front wing was clipped by their rear. The impact threw the brothers off-line too, but they fought the car round as Pete braked hard behind them.

  Again, the blues and twos helped, traffic slowing to allow him onto the roundabout.

  ‘Suspects off, off, off onto A377 Alphington Road, city-bound,’ he reported over the radio as he made the turn, staying behind them although they surged ahead, gaining back most of the ground they’d lost to him on the dual carriageway. A short way up here, he knew, they could cut left and head out of the city, back where they’d come from - not that he imagined they would. Even if they could lose him, they’d know he must have suspected their destination.

  They passed the turn. Passed a supermarket on the right, a filling station on the left. Then, without signalling, they swung sharp right, ignoring the slip lane and traffic lights and cutting up cars in every direction as they turned into the big industrial estate.

  Pete grinned.

  They’d be planning to lose him amid the maze of little roads and off-shoots but there was no way, as non-locals, they could know all the ins and outs of the place like he did.

  ‘Suspects entering Marsh Barton,’ he said into the radio as he slowed for the yellow-boxed junction.

  ‘Two hundred yards behind you, boss,’ Ben reported.

  ‘Three hundred,’ Dan Bridges said from the traffic car.

  ‘Car Charlie Alpha four seven zero coming down Alphington Road from the city,’ a third voice reported. ‘ETA fifteen seconds.’

  Pete made the turn and accelerated after the fleeing car.

  ‘Received,’ he replied.

  Surging ahead, they were about to pass the drive-through on the left when they surprised him again, braking hard and swinging right into a junction. Pete slowed, made the turn and…

  Nothing.

  Then movement showed several yards down, beyond the big car showroom on his left. Mistake, boys.

  ‘Suspects right, right, right into Ashton Road.’

  ‘I’ll block the entrance, boss,’ Ben offered.

  ‘Roger. Continuing pursuit.’

  Pete wondered if the Southams had planned to bail and nick a fresh car from the showroom forecourt, but decided he was too close.

  Either way, they’d gone past and on down the dead-end road.

  They took the left-hand curve fast. A quick flash of brake lights and they turned left again. Pete grinned, feral and triumphant. They had nowhere to go now and not long to do it in.

  Realisation dawned in Pete’s mind. They really didn’t know where they were. Had they got confused and taken the wrong turn off the main road of the estate?

  He saw them round the far end of the last building in a short row. He was now just a few yards behind, braking hard.

  Tyres squealed but to no avail.

  The impact was like an explosion as the speeding car hit the spiked steel fencing at the end of the short stretch of concrete. The car bucked as it came to an instant stop, the back end kicking up as the front end crumpled. Pete glimpsed something dark and floppy on the bonnet of the wrecked car as he leapt out of the Mondeo almost before it had stopped. He ran forward, barely aware of the sheen of spilled oil or diesel underfoot. Steam was hissing from what was left of the Nissan’s engine. The car was a crumpled mess all the way back to the driver’s door.

  Steve Southam was slumped over the steering wheel. He’d be going nowhere with his legs tangled up and trapped in the mess that had been the foot-well and engine compartment. His brother was lying awkwardly across the remains of the bonnet and the base of the windscreen opening. Blood was smeared on the fence and pouring from his crushed skull, run
ning bright red across the compressed car bonnet and down the far side towards the front wheel. A deep sense of satisfaction and natural justice overtook Pete. He paused a second to take in the scene then, hearing footsteps behind him, he reached over and touched the elder brother’s neck to check for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Pete knew he’d regret this feeling later but, for now, it was all he wanted, and he revelled in it, ignoring the soft exclamations from behind him.

  A soft moan came from the younger brother.

  Pete didn’t know if he was conscious or not, but he leaned down close to him. Reached out as if to check on him or comfort him.

  ‘That’s what you get for killing my son, you vicious bastard,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve killed your brother now, too. How’d you like them apples?’

  A hissing sigh escaped the wounded man’s throat.

  Leaving the two brothers where they were and ignoring the three wide-eyed men in filthy red overalls at the corner of the building, Pete walked back to his car, sat in and keyed the radio.

  ‘Suspect vehicle stopped,’ he said. ‘Ambulance. Fire brigade and pathologist required, end of Ashton Road, Marsh Barton.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Standing beside the wrecked car as the fire service, pathologist, scenes of crime officers and RTA investigators worked around him in a confusing sea of different get-ups, Pete checked his watch and was shocked to see that the entire chase around the lanes and back into the city had taken little over an hour. It felt like it had started on a completely different day.

  The radio in his car brought him crashing back to reality.

  ‘DS Gayle. Report.’

  The brusque voice was instantly recognisable. ‘Shit,’ Pete breathed. How the hell had Silverstone got to hear of this already? ‘I haven’t got time for this crap.’

  He returned to the car, sat in and shut the door. Pressing the transmit button on the radio, he said, ‘Suspect Adrian Southam deceased, sir. Suspect Steven Southam seems close to it.’

  ‘You’ve been told to stay away from that case. Where are you?’

  ‘I got involved, sir, because I was the senior officer present in an emergency situation. And it seems to me that, if you know enough to be on this radio now, you already know where I am.’

  ‘Answer the question, Detective Sergeant. Or I’ll have you up on disciplinary charges as well as the Professional Standards investigation.’

  ‘Ashton Road.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You asked for my location. Ashton Road.’

  ‘Humph. You know perfectly well, that means nothing to me. Ashton Road. Could be in Barnstaple for all I know.’

  Which is more of a reflection on your professionalism as head of the local police station than mine, Pete thought, but knew better than to say, especially on an open radio link. ‘You asked, sir. I answered. Is there anything else? The pathologist seems to be trying to attract my attention.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Silverstone squawked. ‘Yes, there’s something bloody else! This is the second fatal accident you’ve been involved in, in about a week, man.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And the dash-cam footage will confirm that’s exactly what it was – an accident – so it’ll give you all the evidence you need to exonerate me of any blame, sir, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Silverstone spluttered. He couldn’t argue with that over the radio. ‘Right. My office as soon as you get back to the station. And that means as soon as, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Pete got out of the car and approached the silver-haired Doc Chambers, who was standing beside the mangled blue Nissan, examining the man who had been driving it. Without even glancing up, he said, ‘Your second suspect died, I’m afraid, Peter.’

  Pete nodded. ‘Thanks, doc. I’ve got to leave you to it. Orders.’

  Chambers looked up at him. ‘Hm. Trouble in Paradise?’

  Pete gave a grunt. ‘I’ve never heard Heavitree Road called paradise before.’

  The pathologist smiled and waved him off. Pete threw him a salute in return.

  His mind was busy as he drove away. Should he go straight back to the station or to the hospital first? There’d be nineteen dozen kinds of paperwork to deal with over this, interviews with Professional Standards and all kinds of crap. It would easily take the rest of the day and more. Especially when, as Fast-track had pointed out, he’d been involved in a very similar incident only a few days ago. On the other hand, Louise would need to be told what had happened.

  He ummed and ahed until he got to the end of the road. Then, decision made, he left the industrial estate behind.

  Family came first.

  *

  Louise was at the ward desk, a phone to her ear when he walked in. She seemed to freeze when she saw him, losing awareness of anything else. There was no expression on her face as she watched his approach and Pete’s heart broke that he couldn’t offer her any visual clue as to his own feelings.

  He had yet to figure out what they were.

  It was way too soon to feel elation or triumph – even satisfaction - at the death of the man who’d killed Tommy. Yet, inside, he knew justice had been served, albeit natural justice rather than the legal kind he’d spent the last twenty years upholding on behalf of an often-ungrateful public.

  He felt no regret at what had happened - what Silverstone would probably try to claim he’d forced the brothers into. But nor could he claim any sense of joy from it. It was what it was. In some sense that really didn’t matter and wouldn’t until he’d recovered at least a little from the rawness of Tommy’s loss, it provided a degree of closure, if only in an eye-for-an-eye kind of way and in the sense that the perpetrators of the horror he and his family were going through wouldn’t be able to inflict such pain on anyone else.

  Other than that, he could feel nothing for them or their loss to the world.

  His lips tightened and he nodded to her.

  Louise suddenly realised she was still holding the phone she’d been speaking into. She jolted back to reality, said something brief and hung up. She went to rise but failed and stayed where she was as he covered the final few steps towards her. He didn’t go around the high-topped counter. Not yet. Instead, stopped in front of her and spread his hands on the narrow surface.

  ‘What… What is it? Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you in person. The Southam brothers are dead. Both of them. I’ve just come from the scene. There’s no question it’s them.’

  Her eyes had widened, but he couldn’t read the expression behind them. Horror, relief, sympathy, loss. They were all there and more. Like him, she was still grieving, still raw, but this was news that she’d never have expected him to bring.

  ‘How?’ she breathed.

  ‘Car crash. I was chasing them. They took a wrong turn. It was a dead-end.’ He realised what he’d said and gave her a ghost of a smile. ‘They hit a steel fence and it didn’t give way.’

  She looked confused. ‘You were chasing them?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I thought one of them was in prison?’

  ‘He was. There was an incident at the prison gates this morning. His brother managed to get him out of the prison transport van and get away in a stolen car. Time I got there, they were long gone, but I had an idea of where they might go to hide. It turned out I was right. There was a chase.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought I ought to come and tell you before I go and get my nuts roasted by His Lordship.’

  She frowned.

  ‘I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with them.’

  ‘Well… That bloke’s unbelievable,’ she frowned.

  Pete gave a soft grunt. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘But, how can he blame you for any of this?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll find a way. Trust me.’

  ‘Well, he’s an arse-hole and if you let me anywhere near him, I’ll tell him so,’ she declared. ‘And if he drops you in
it, I’ll tell the bloody world!’

  Pete smiled fully for the first time since he’d found Tommy. He stepped around the counter at last as she stood to meet him and took her in his arms. ‘God, I love you!’

  ‘And I love you,’ she replied. ‘And we will get through this. I don’t know how, but we will.’

  *

  ‘We’ve got news, boss,’ Jill declared as Pete walked into the squad room to drop off his briefcase before going to the DCI’s office.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The Hanson case.’

  He frowned. ‘We’ve closed that, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane put in. ‘And now we’ve locked the door and thrown away the key.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Two things. One: we’ve found a photo of Lucy Willoughby in Hanson’s collection. Confirms what she said to you and Jane. And two: Lincs phoned. You know they were doing forensics on his car. Found blood and hair. Well, they’ve now got a match on the hair. It was a misper. One they’d had reported a few days ago, but hadn’t done anything about because of her history. A prostitute. Her friends had reported that she hadn’t returned from a pick-up. Police just figured she’d either got an all-nighter or gone off somewhere to get high afterwards. She was a druggie.’

  ‘Was?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘They found her body yesterday,’ Jill continued. ‘In a ditch along the side of a B-road about five miles from where she disappeared from. A farmer smelled something nasty. Thought it was a dead badger or something, but then his dog took an interest, came out of the ditch with a shoe and he had a closer look. In the circumstances, they put a rush on the forensics. The hair matches hers and DNA on her necklace matches Hanson’s. She was strangled.’

  Pete nodded and set down his briefcase. For the second time that day, he felt that triumph was not an appropriate emotion for the occasion. A woman had lost her life while they’d been pursuing her killer. ‘That seals it, then. Murder as well as rape. Good work, everyone.’

  ‘Gayle.’

  The voice came from behind him, but he knew instantly who it was. He turned. Silverstone was standing in the doorway of the squad room.