Last Gasp Read online

  Last Gasp

  By Robert F Barker

  Text copyright @ 2015 Robert F Barker

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced in any form other than that in

  which it was purchased and without the written

  permission of the author.

  To Carol, for your endless patience

  To Christina, for your endless enthusiasm

  To Vale Royal Writers, for your endless support

  To all @ Harrogate’s Theakston’s Old Peculiar Crime Fest, for your endless inspiration

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The man in charge of the operation is worried. He senses something is wrong. He can’t yet say what it is. It’s just a feeling. But he’s had it since the beginning.

  He interrupts his pacing to check the monitor. The two men and a woman who make up his team are already gathered round it. They are staring at the woman framed in its centre. Perched on a chair, her legs are crossed at the knee, hands resting, almost demurely, in her lap. If she is anxious, she does not show it - which is remarkable considering she is waiting for someone who may be coming to kill her.

  The man checks his watch. The visitor is twenty minutes late. In that time, tension within the team has risen to the point where they can no longer hide their nervousness. One drums fingers on the table. Another cracks his knuckles. The female team member clicks her nails. Meanwhile the man in charge paces, and worries. The apartment they are using faces directly across from hers. She sits no more than twenty yards away. Yet he fears that when the time comes, it may be too far.

  It wasn’t his choice.

  From the start, he’d argued they should be secreted somewhere in her apartment. But she would have none of it, pointing out that apart from the two bedrooms, her apartment is open-plan. ‘If he opens the wrong door, you’ll be blown.’ Again, when he tried to push it, ‘You’re only across the hall. How long would it take to reach me? Five seconds? Ten, max. I’ll be fine.’ He wishes now he had stuck with his instincts. A lot can happen in ten seconds.

  The radio next to the screen bursts into life.

  ‘He’s here.’ There is a general shuffling as they all come on alert, then, ‘He’s in the lift. Going up. Over to you.’

  The man reaches forward, presses a button on the console. ‘He’s on his way. Thirty seconds.’ Then he adds, ‘How’re you doing?’

  The woman looks up to the camera concealed in the light fitting. ‘I’m fine. Stop fussing.’ She even manages a smile, though it seems a little forced. Not for the first time he marvels at her self-control. But then he thinks, What else should we expect?

  Half a minute later, as the bell's double-chime sounds, tinny but clear through the speakers, four pairs of eyes lock onto the screen.

  The woman in the chair hesitates, then rises. As she makes her way to the door, the black satin robe she wears over her work-attire billows behind. The clicking of her heels on the wood floor echoes round the apartment. Her pace is measured, as if the arrival of the visitor holds no fear for her. But as she reaches the door she stops and they see her take a deep breath.

  ‘Right,’ she says, just loud enough for the microphones to pick up. ‘Here we go.’

  Reaching up, she releases the latch, un-hooks the chain, turns the key. She opens the door. A man stands there, but she is between him and the camera, shielding his face.

  ‘You’re late.’ Already in role, her tone is strident.

  His mumbled apology is too indistinct to hear.

  For what seems longer than necessary she leaves him there, confirming the order of things. Eventually, she steps aside. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.'

  Head down, his reply is also lost.

  As he steps through, the onlookers strain to get their first sight of him, 'in the flesh'. His hair is dark, as expected, but his stooped posture makes it difficult to gauge his height. His dress is smart, but not too formal. Black leather jacket, blue shirt, dark trousers. But his face stays hidden as he keeps his head bowed, in keeping with his part.

  'Is it him?’ the female member of the team says. ‘He looks different from the photograph.’

  They all look to their leader. Any decision is his.

  The man in charge takes his time, weighing the visitor who seems to be taking in everything about the apartment. Suddenly the newcomer lifts his head and appears to stare directly into the camera, as if sensing the watchers' presence. But after a few seconds his gaze slides elsewhere.

  ‘It’s him,’ their leader says.

  To his colleagues, he seems calm again. No sign of the hand-wringing of earlier. Almost as at ease as the woman herself. What they cannot see however, is the turmoil inside. They cannot know that already he is struggling with the instincts telling him that something is wrong. That his bowing to her insistence that this is the right way to play it was a mistake. That he should have made her see things his way. And now-.

  ‘Is someone here?’ the man asks. He speaks with the deep, northern vowels that fit the profile.

  As he finishes, he lifts his gaze to meet hers in a way that almost challenges the protocols she'd begun to assert the moment she opened the door. Seeing it, the man in charge's concern deepens. It is not what he’d expect from a novice. But the woman shows no sign of being phased and returns him a cold stare.

  ‘No. And even if there were, it would be no concern of yours.'

  As if satisfied, the man reverts, mumbling some response that fits with her rebuke.

  Relieved, the man in charge nods. He even grants himself a wry half-smile. She is good at this.

  For the next few minutes the pair play-out the unwritten script that governs such encounters. She is haughty, dismissive; he fawning, obsequious, eager to please as she admonishes him, again, for his tardy time-keeping.

  But the man in charge sti
ll worries. For a supposed first-timer, the visitor’s responses seem well practised. In his head, a warning bell sounds. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  The others turn.

  ‘Seems okay to me,’ one of the men says, before returning his gaze to the screen.

  His female colleague follows suit. ‘Isn’t this how it’s supposed to go?’

  He doesn't answer, struggling to convey the instincts that come from the sorts of experience he knows they do not have. Anxiety growing, he returns his attention to the screen. The scene is still being played out behind the front door. The rules of the game dictate that she will not admit him further until she is satisfied he is properly, 'in role'. Even as they watch that moment arrives.

  Turning on her heel, she crooks a finger, beckoning him to, ‘Come this way.’

  This time they hear, clearly, the, ‘Yes Mistress,’ as he moves to follow her.

  But it is a feint. As she strides away he makes a quick reverse, turning swiftly and silently back to the door. Reaching up to the latch, he does something with his hands, the sound covered by her clicking heels, before returning to scurry after her so that he is where he should be as she turns to address him from the middle of the floor.

  The watchers lean in, alarmed.

  ‘What was that?’ one man says.

  ‘What did he just do?’ says the woman.

  At first the man in charge does not answer. Like them, he is stunned by the unexpected development. His mind races to interpret the significance of what he's just witnessed, how it affects their plans. Finally, he voices what they already know.

  ‘He’s snicked the lock and set the chain.’

  ‘Shit,’ is one response.

  ‘Fuck,’ another.

  ‘What do we do?’ the female says. ‘Do we abort?’

  For a moment he hesitates, torn between wasting many weeks' effort – others’ as well as their own – and risking the safety of the woman who is unaware that her visitor has just blocked the only route by which any needed rescue would come. In fact, the decision is an easy one. But even before he can voice the instruction, matters are taken out of his hands.

  Careful to proceed as she would with any client, the woman has already adopted the classic stance in front of the sofa, hands on hips, legs apart, face stern. But as she opens her mouth to deliver the lecture that will progress things to the next stage, the visitor makes his move.

  Taking two determined strides forward, he punches her, hard, in the middle of the face. The mics relay the 'crunch' of the contact. The force of the blow sends her reeling back onto the sofa’s thick cushions from where she bounces off onto the floor. Before she can even begin to raise herself, he is on her. The scream dies in her throat as his hand closes round it. As he lifts his other arm, high, the camera picks out the vicious-looking hunting knife he is already brandishing.

  But the watchers do not see it. They are already charging out through the door and into the brightly-lit atrium that distinguishes this particular luxury-apartment building from the many others that have sprung up around Salford Quays the past decade. And while there is no shouting, no sense of panic among them - they know exactly what they must do – they are under no illusion as to the difficulty of their task. They were all present when the woman who had entrusted them with her safety described the care she took to check things out before signing the lease. It included making sure that the sturdy, metal-framed front door with its five-lever mortise-lock was up to providing the degree of protection someone in her line of business needs. They also know that the several contingencies catered for within the Operational Plan that regulations demand be posted before an operation of this sort, were all based on one assumption. That the front door would remain unlocked and with the chain off, so they can gain swift entry any time they wish using the key the man in charge now holds, firmly, in his hand.

  And of the many thoughts racing through his mind as he reaches her door, one stands out.

  It'll take more than a damned key to get us through in time to save her.

  PART I

  Deja Vue

  Chapter 1

  DCI Jamie Carver stared through the iron gates and up the drive at the house half hidden by the trees that lent it their name; ‘Poplars’. He’d been staring since he’d parked up opposite the sandstone gateposts five minutes earlier. Part of him was conscious of what his passenger would be making of his silent vigil, the questions it could prompt. He didn’t care. The reasons behind it were complex. They boiled down to one word. Fear.

  It wasn’t the house itself scared him. A fine looking property in the Georgian style, it was far from the sort of Gothic pile which, in films and books, house knife-wielding psychos. Nor was he over-worried about meeting the woman they’d come to see. He’d been preparing for that for days. His fear came from his imagination; thoughts of what may come after, where it would lead. He even knew what was fuelling it. When it comes to painting scary scenarios, the past provides a rich palette.

  He was still staring when a voice said; ‘Are we just going to sit here all day admiring the view, or shall we get out and ring the bloody bell?’

  Carver turned to face the young woman he’d heard people referring to lately as his ‘partner’.

  The expression on DS Jess Greylake’s face was one he’d seen before, usually when she had a point to make, or was impatient, or bored, or all three. Like right now. He could imagine her thinking, What the fuck’s his problem? He could tell her, but there wasn’t time. For long seconds he stared into the bright hazel eyes some said reflected a keen intelligence, others, more earthy qualities.

  ‘Er... Hello?’ She waved a hand before his eyes. ‘Anyone at home?’

  He blinked. Blinked again. Came out of it. Get a grip. He took a deep breath, reached for the door handle. ‘Right.’

  ‘Hoo-ray,’ she muttered.

  One of the gateposts housed an intercom. The plate next to the button read Press and Wait. Jess pressed it. She gave it a minute and was about to try again when a squawk of static issued from the grill. It was followed by a tinny, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Megan Crane?’ Carver said.

  ‘Who is it?’ The voice was shrill.

  ‘It's the police, Mrs Crane. Detective Chief Inspector Carver and Detective Sergeant Greylake.’

  A pause, then, ‘What do you want?’

  They exchanged glances. ‘We’re from Warrington Police, attached to the Operation Kerry enquiry. What the media call The Worshipper Murders? We’d like to talk to you about some matters we think you can help us with.’

  There was another pause, longer this time. Weighing her options.

  The grill squawked again.

  ‘I need to see some identification. Show it to the camera. Over here, next to the other gate-post.’

  Carver saw it. Secured to the gate’s iron frame, the small black box was discrete enough not to be noticed unless looked for, and was pointing at them. Crossing to it, he took out his warrant card, held it up to the lens.

  Eventually the voice said. ‘Come up to the front door.'

  There was a buzz and a click and, with a jerk, the gates started to swing inwards. They stepped through.

  As they crunched their way up the drive, birdsong echoed in the trees. The midday sun cast dappled shadows. Ahead, a grey squirrel startled in its foraging, darted under a spreading rhododendron.

  ‘Jesus,’ Jess said. ‘She lives here? And she’s into this stuff?’

  Carver shrugged. 'It’s perfect if you think about it.’

  'Maybe. But it still seems out of place.'

  As they skirted the trees and he got his first full view of the house, Carver's first impressions were confirmed. The Poplars was, indeed, a substantial property. He could easily imagine it once being home to people of influence in the village. Retired military types. Bankers. A Country Lady or two. Tea parties on the lawn, that sort of thing. The thought came, What sort of parties does the present occupier host? He shook his head, forced i
t away.

  Most of the front was covered in ivy. High up, part of the side wall had been cleared around a yellow alarm box. Beneath the eaves, lights and sensors pointed down. The solid oak front door had heavy, black door-furniture. They waited. After a couple of minutes, the sounds of bolts being drawn and chains unhooked filtered through. It opened with a judder as its bottom edge caught on the step-guard. As it swung back, Carver got his first glimpse of the woman who'd rarely been out of his thoughts the past two weeks.

  The face peering round the door did so from under a white, towel-turban. A neat oval shape, it glowed red, as if she’d just stepped from the shower. A matching bathrobe that was way too big covered everything apart from the fingers gripping the edge of the door and the painted toes peeping out from a pair of gold mules. Carver's first guess put her some years older than Jess. Fortyish, maybe. From under immaculately plucked eyebrows, dark, piercing eyes regarded them with undisguised annoyance.

  Not best-pleased about being dragged from her shower, either.

  Even without make-up, Megan Crane was a striking-looking woman. Not quite as tall as Jess, but then Jess’s five-ten was above female average. But as he noted the well-defined features, the high cheekbones, Carver wasn’t certain he could match her to the picture in Jess’s document case.

  ‘Mrs Crane?’

  ‘Show me your identification again. Your hand was shaking.’

  Most times, Carver found people who make a point of showing they're not intimidated, ‘just because it’s, the Police’, irritating. What’re they trying to prove? But he said nothing, and dug out his warrant card again. This time as he held it up, the shake was barely noticeable. Nevertheless, a thumb and forefinger, nails painted to match the toes, emerged from the folds of white to pinch the leather next to his and steady it. For several seconds she went through the motions of comparing him with his photograph. Standing there, he was conscious of the tableaux they presented. She presumably naked or nearly so under her robe; he, smart and formal in his suit and tie, the two of them frozen like statues, fused together by the flimsy piece of leather. It was an image that would come back to him over the coming weeks.

  Eventually, the hand withdrew. She nodded her satisfaction.