Good as Dead Page 29

‘Of course you don’t, I know that, Javed. I know that this isn’t about making headlines.’

  ‘Not until my son’s murderer is caught and sent to prison. Then I want to see big bloody headlines, believe me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Biggest ones they have.’

  ‘Biggest ones they have, absolutely,’ Pascoe said. ‘But until then you can at least see how seriously we’re taking everything.’

  ‘Everybody looks very serious, that’s for sure,’ Akhtar said. ‘Everybody seems very busy, but still there is nothing really happening. I have heard nothing more from Inspector Thorne.’

  ‘He wanted me to tell you that he’s still chasing that lead, Javed.’ Pascoe glanced at Donnelly. ‘A very strong lead.’

  ‘The dead boy, yes I know.’

  ‘He has more information now—’

  ‘I’m getting impatient.’

  Pascoe looked at Donnelly again. They did not need top-quality speakers and high-definition stereo to hear the anger in Akhtar’s voice.

  ‘That’s understandable, Javed.’

  ‘I will not be strung along, do you understand?’

  Donnelly waved to get Pascoe’s attention, pointed at his headset and nodded.

  ‘That’s not what’s happening, Javed,’ Pascoe said. ‘You need to believe that. You need to know that there’s support for you out here. A lot of support, for all of you. Can you hear me, Helen?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said.

  ‘Whatever happens, you need to know that we’re out here, that there’s support here and that we’re listening. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Helen said.

  ‘I do not want to be … fobbed off,’ Akhtar said. ‘I do not want to be messed around.’ The anger was blossoming now, his voice ranting and ragged. ‘There has been far too much of that.’

  ‘I will not mess you around,’ Pascoe said.

  ‘You give me your word?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. OK. That’s it.’

  There was a second or two of silence before the line went dead.

  ‘Nice,’ Donnelly said. He took off his headset. ‘You think she got the message?’

  ‘Like I said, she’s clever.’ As Yates and his fellow technician began to confer about DBs and balanced output, Pascoe excused herself and stepped down from the truck into the playground.

  I’m getting impatient …

  She thought about the textbook response to anger on the part of a hostage taker. The strategies she had been taught to deal with the increased threat of volatility. She considered the options as she walked back towards the hopscotch court and felt for the pebble in her pocket.

  FIFTY-SIX

  It was just beginning to get dark as McCarthy’s silver Astra drove out of the Barndale car park and its headlights came on as the barrier was raised at the security checkpoint. The car turned on to the quiet country road towards the M25 and Thorne waited for another vehicle to pass before he pulled out of the unmarked track opposite, flicked on his own lights and began to follow. It would be easier to stay out of sight once they reached the motorway and until then it would just be a matter of staying far enough back. Thorne did not think there would be a problem. He guessed that Ian McCarthy would have more important things to worry about than whether or not he was being followed.

  He hoped so at any rate.

  Though not quite able to pull off ‘blasé’, the doctor had done his best to appear cocky, defiant even, and Thorne’s first thought when he had left the prison almost an hour before had been to race back into central London and confront the person he believed had given McCarthy the coaching. He had quickly decided that he would almost certainly have even less luck with him than with McCarthy. So, with no idea who the third man was, he could do little for the time being other than stay close to the doctor and see what happened.

  See where the weakest link in the chain would lead him.

  Or to whom.

  Thorne was now convinced that Amin Akhtar had been the victim of a conspiracy. He also knew that he could base this on no more than a single picture on Rahim Jaffer’s phone, which actually proved nothing at all. The names and the reasons were what mattered now of course, were what would get Helen Weeks out of that newsagent’s, but if those responsible were to pay for what they had done, Thorne would need evidence that the conspiracy had been maintained. He had to prove that the men in that photograph were still in contact with one another.

  It began to rain as they drove past Chorleywood Common. The road straightened over the next mile or so, becoming wider and better lit as it approached the M25 roundabout. Thorne was three cars behind the Astra, doing fifty-five in the inside lane, when his phone rang.

  ‘You sound weird.’

  ‘I’m in the car.’

  ‘Hands-free, I hope.’

  ‘What is it, Phil?’

  ‘I know how they did it,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne’s hands tightened on the wheel, just for a second, as he followed McCarthy’s car across the roundabout, up on to the slip road, then southbound on the M25.

  ‘We’d already established there was no way the killer could have got that many pills into Amin’s stomach,’ Hendricks said. ‘Right? Those few pills in his mouth, on the bedclothes, they were just for show. They were the suicide indicator.’

  ‘But there was enough Tramadol in his system to kill him?’

  ‘Plenty, so there’s only one other way it can have got there. It was liquid Tramadol and it was injected.’

  ‘But Bridges did this.’

  ‘It’s just an injection, Tom, it’s not rocket science. He takes the cap off the cannula on the back of Amin’s hand and in it goes. Anyone could have shown the kid how to do it.’

  Thorne told Hendricks exactly who had shown him.

  ‘Right,’ Hendricks said. ‘So McCarthy gives Bridges a quick lesson on cannulas and needles, slips him the pills and the syringe—’

  ‘We’ve still got a problem with these pills though,’ Thorne said. ‘How did he get as many as he did into Amin’s mouth? How did he do it that fast? That quietly?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t just Tramadol in the syringe,’ Hendricks said. ‘This is what I’ve been trying to figure out. What the extra drug was.’

  ‘You’ve figured it out?’

  ‘Remember that Hamas agent? The one the Israelis killed in that hotel in Dubai a couple of years ago? This is the same drug they used on him. It stops the victim struggling, eliminates noise.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘You might need to write this down.’

  ‘Tricky,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Suxamethonium chloride.’

  ‘I can’t even say it.’

  ‘You don’t need the chloride bit.’ Hendricks said it again, slowly. ‘It’s a neuromuscular blocker, OK? Basically a muscle relaxant, but incredibly powerful, incredibly quick. It’s used in anaesthesia and intensive care, to make intubation easier. They used to use it in the US to paralyse prisoners before they got the lethal injection.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘They stopped because of the side-effects.’

  ‘I’m listening … ’

  ‘As soon as it’s administered, all the nerves start to fire and every muscle in the body begins to spasm like mad. The patient starts fitting basically, then a minute or so later he’s completely paralysed and pretty soon the drug makes it impossible to breathe. But he’s awake the whole time this is happening, so these days it’s never given to patients who are conscious, not unless there’s no other option. It’s too dangerous.’ There was a pause. ‘Too disturbing.’

  ‘Amin would have known what was happening to him?’

  ‘Sorry, Tom.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It was the perfect drug,’ Hendricks said. ‘Sodding perfect. The fits were consistent with a Tramadol overdose … the tongue bitten off, all that. Then as soon as the paralysis kicked in, Bridges could put the pills into Amin’s mouth, set up the
overdose scenario and the beauty part is he’s in and out of there in a couple of minutes. Job done.’

  ‘Why didn’t they find it at the PM?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘That’s why it’s so perfect. Unless you take a blood specimen within thirty minutes, the enzymes in the body start to break the drug down and eventually it becomes so degraded it’s almost undetectable.’

  Ahead of Thorne, the silver Astra was indicating, pulling across to the inside lane.

  ‘So how the hell do I prove any of this, Phil?’

  ‘Almost undetectable,’ Hendricks said. ‘And only when you’re not specifically looking for it. Amin wasn’t cremated, was he?’

  ‘Buried.’

  ‘No problem then. If we can exhume Amin’s body, I’ll find it.’

  Thorne watched as the Astra began to indicate again, just shy of the first motorway junction. He followed the car as it came off at the exit then turned right at the roundabout following the sign for Maple Cross. Holland had already texted through McCarthy’s address and Thorne recognised the name.

  It looked as though the doctor was heading home.

  Thorne pulled out to overtake a lorry and ratcheted up his wipers to handle the spray. He put his foot down. Now, he was happy enough to follow McCarthy all the way to his front door and he no longer cared whether he was seen or not.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The sound had gone back up on the television now, and as Helen watched, she imagined Pascoe and the others outside, huddled in their van, their eyes narrowed in concentration, with their headphones pressed to their ears, enjoying Emmerdale.

  We’re listening.

  If anything, she was surprised that it had taken them this long. Perhaps it had been her presence inside that had delayed the decision to bring in technical support until now. The notion that, as one of the hostages was a police officer, they had ‘ears’ on the inside anyway.

  We’re listening.

  The implication was obvious enough.

  We’re listening … if there’s anything you want to tell us. Anything you think might help. Something to give us the advantage out here, put us ahead of the game.

  She leaned back against the radiator, took her eyes from the screen and looked across at Akhtar. He had no interest in the television. He was sitting with his back to the wall opposite her, his head lowered, staring down at the gun. He had been doing this a lot more since the previous evening. Picking the gun up, carrying it around for a while, putting a hand on it. He was not pointing it, or even waving it around, and it seemed to Helen that it was simply a question of reminding himself that he had it, and why he had it.

  That he was the one ahead of the game.

  Helen felt something tighten in her chest each time he reached for it.

  However much she thought she understood Javed Akhtar, she could no longer be sure what he was or was not capable of, and she did not need to be reminded what a loaded gun could do. She hoped to God that she was imagining it, but several times in the last few hours she had thought she could catch her first whiff of the body in the next room. A sharp stab of something sweet. Only for a moment, but enough to make her stomach turn over and her eyes begin to water.

  We’re listening.

  She felt as though she should say something to Akhtar, to warn him before he said the wrong thing, but she had no idea how. She could write something down perhaps – DON’T MENTION MITCHELL – but even asking for a pen and paper would probably sound suspicious to anyone listening in.

  Inevitable in the end, she knew that. Same as the smell.

  Now it was only a matter of time until they were found out. Until she was found out. A matter of time before the people on the outside stopped listening and took a rather more proactive approach.

  Because of something they hadn’t heard.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Thorne slowed and watched the silver Astra fifty yards ahead of him turn into the driveway of a modern, semi-detached house. He watched Ian McCarthy get out of the car and drag his briefcase from the back seat. He watched him walk quickly through the rain along a path paved in red brick, past nicely trimmed shrubs and well-tended flower beds, and step through his front door without looking back.

  He gave him five minutes. Just enough time for someone to get their feet under the table, put the kettle on or open a bottle of something. Start getting comfortable.

  When McCarthy opened the door he was still wearing his coat.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a third option,’ Thorne said. ‘You stop pretending you’re big and brave and tell me everything you know.’

  McCarthy moved quickly to close the door, but found Thorne’s foot in the way, then his shoulder. A dog began to bark somewhere behind him and a few seconds later a Golden Retriever that looked anything but fierce forced its head through the gap. McCarthy tried to pull the dog back while keeping his weight against the door.

  ‘It’s finished,’ Thorne said. His face was only a few inches from McCarthy’s. ‘We’re going to get Bridges eventually and he’ll give you all up in a second as soon as he starts to need a fix badly enough. Let’s not forget we’re talking about two murders here, counting Peter Allen, oh … and when we re-examine Amin Akhtar’s body we’ll find the Suxamethonium.’

  McCarthy blinked.

  ‘So, can I come in?’

  The dog had retreated back into the hall, barking with less enthusiasm now, and as McCarthy opened the door Thorne saw a woman come through a doorway behind him, grab the dog by the collar and tell it to be quiet. She looked up at McCarthy as Thorne stepped past him.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  McCarthy closed the front door. ‘Fine, love. There’s a problem back at the prison, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing very serious,’ Thorne said. ‘I shouldn’t keep him too long.’

  McCarthy moved to a closed door and nudged it open. ‘Let’s go in here.’

  ‘Wherever.’

  ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I’ll have coffee,’ Thorne said, smiling. ‘Only if you’re making some.’

  McCarthy switched on a light and disappeared through the door. Thorne watched the woman and the dog head off towards the kitchen, then followed him.

  The room was pristine – the cushions on sofa and armchairs perfectly plumped and the Hoover marks still visible on the carpet – and Thorne guessed it was the living room the McCarthys kept for best. The one they might take coffee through to after a dinner party and where they played Trivial Pursuit or Risk once in a blue moon. There were framed degree certificates arranged on the wall and dried flowers in the fireplace, and the highly polished sideboard in one corner was topped with an array of family photographs.

  Husband, wife, daughter, dog.

  Perfect.

  Thorne dropped into an armchair. Said, ‘Very nice.’

  McCarthy was already sitting on the sofa. ‘What is?’

  ‘All of this,’ Thorne said. ‘Your wife.’

  ‘Don’t,’ McCarthy said.

  Thorne sat forward. ‘Here’s the thing. I was thinking “conspiracy to murder”, but the law’s become very … fluid these days, as far as all that goes. I mean, let’s say you’re part of a gang that attacks and kills someone. Even if you do nothing but egg somebody else on, even if you don’t lay a finger on the victim, you can still go down for murder.’ He let that hang for a few seconds. ‘That’s what the law says now. “Joint enterprise”, it’s called. Probably got a few up in Barndale been done because of that. You give someone a murder weapon … the fact that you’re miles away when that murder’s committed is neither here nor there. You’re as guilty of murder as they are in the eyes of the law.’

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Knife, gun, syringe … doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘You gave Bridges that syringe, and you showed him exactly what to do with it. E
ager to learn, I should imagine. A decent wedge to spend when he got out, and the fact that it’s an Asian kid he’s doing is probably a bonus for a racist headcase like Johnno Bridges, right? You gave him the keys to get out of the ward and into Amin’s room. You showed him where the cameras were.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘And let’s not forget who staged those thefts from the dispensary to make it look like those were the drugs that Amin Akhtar had taken. So, even though you were tucked up here in bed while he was being shot full of poison, you’re the one who was ultimately responsible. You’re the one who’s looking at a very long time in prison, and it’ll be somewhere a damn sight rougher than Barndale, I can guarantee that—’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ McCarthy said. ‘None of it was my idea.’

  Thorne sat back. It was like he had thought. The weakest link in the chain.

  McCarthy’s face was tight and bloodless, and he squeezed one hand with the other, methodically crushing the knuckles as though trying to distract himself with pain. The first pangs of remorse, or anguish at being caught, it did not much matter.

  Thorne looked at him and felt nothing.

  ‘The shit in that syringe,’ Thorne said. ‘The paralytic. They stopped using that in executions because of what it did. Because it was too cruel. Did you know that?’

  McCarthy started to talk, quickly and quietly. ‘The other men I was with at that party, the men in the picture. One you know, obviously, and the other one’s called Simon Powell.’

  The name meant nothing. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He works for the Youth Justice Board. He’s on the allocations team.’

  Thorne thought about it and it made perfect sense. The second in the chain of three, the second in the process. It also explained something the governor of Barndale had told him two days earlier.

  Sometimes these pen-pushers who allocate placements just like to try and make things awkward.

  What else had Bracewell said?

  I’m sure you’ve met the type.

  The type. Thorne looked across at McCarthy.