SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller (10 page)

Chapter twelve

Shortly after seven, a lone figure emerged warily from his hiding place in bushes alongside the river, shivering in the frosty morning. After fleeing the house the night before, David Roberts had wandered the night-time streets for hours, ducking into the shadows as police patrols passed by, before heading across wasteland to a derelict warehouse down by the riverbank. Now, standing on the path and having experienced a cold and uncomfortable few hours’ sleep which had left him with a rocking headache, he glanced nervously across the wasteland, seeking movement.

  All he could see was mist swirling across the barrels and coils of rusting wire and all he could hear was the sound of cars on the nearby bypass and, closer, the lapping of the river. Briefly, but only briefly, he contemplated hurling himself in and allowing the dark waters to swallow him up. Feeling increasingly light-headed and with his leg having gone numb with the pain, he dismissed the thought and started to limp along the path, knowing that he had to keep moving to avoid the police patrols that he knew were looking for him.

After he had gone a couple of hundred yards, a familiar figure emerged out of the trees at the far end of the path. Peering through the mist, Roberts realised with a sick feeling that it was Gerry Perlow, followed by two uniformed officers. A shout went up and Perlow pointed at him and they started to run in his direction.

With a curse, David turned to run only to be confronted by two uniformed officers who had walked up quietly behind him and were now only a few metres away. Roberts whirled round to face Perlow.

‘Nowhere to go, David,’ said the detective constable, walking up to him. His voice softened. ‘Come on, son, time to give yourself up. It can’t go on like this. You’re already in enough trouble.’

Roberts did not reply but lunged to his left and started to run across the wasteland, startling the officers and surprising himself with his speed as he hurdled the scrap metal and old pallets, his breathing coming hard and fast as he heard the shouts of his pursuers receding behind him. Despite the pain from his injured leg, he pushed himself ever faster and gradually built a distance of about fifty metres between them.

Spotting a derelict warehouse to his right, he glanced back and realising that they could not see him through the fog he dived in through the main door and hurled himself behind a pile of old fruit boxes.

Crouching in the darkness, his nostrils assailed by the smell of rotting pallets, he edged himself behind a pile of boxes and managed to find a crack in the wall through which he could see the blurry figures of officers spreading out across the wasteland. David Roberts was so intent on watching them and working out his next move that he did not hear the soft tread of the man behind him or see the movement in the shadows.

‘Knew you’d come here,’ said a voice.

David whirled round to see a figure standing just metres away.

‘What you doing here?’ he gasped, his heart pounding as he noted the man’s emotionless expression, his eyes wide open and lifeless.

‘You violated the church,’ said the man calmly and David noticed that he was holding a knife down by his side. ‘You violated a sacred place. Just like the vicar did by stealing that money. He had to pay for it and so must you.’

‘Jesus, that was you?’

The man did not reply but instead raised the knife.

It was not long before Gerry Perlow and two uniforms entered the building, standing for a few moments as they allowed their eyes to grow accustomed to the grey light that filtered through the high windows, and listening for a sound that might give away their quarry.

‘Fan out,’ said Perlow, ‘he’s got to be in here somewhere. There’s no way he made it to the bypass.’

The officers did as they were instructed and Perlow shouted, ‘Come on, David, give it up, son!’

There was no reply so the officers continued their advance across the warehouse floor, moving slowly, cautiously peering behind boxes and pallets, mindful of their colleagues in the hospital. The call from the uniformed officer, when it came from the far end of the warehouse, was dull and flat and Gerry Perlow know immediately that something was wrong.

He ran over and looked down at the body. David Roberts was lying behind the fruit boxes, eyes wide and lifeless, blood oozing from the stab wound in his chest. Beside him lay a Bible opened at a page on which a passage had been underlined in red.

‘Exodus 21,’ read Perlow, crouching over. ‘He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. Very prophetic.’

‘Yes, but what does it mean?’ asked one of the uniforms.

‘It means,’ said Perlow grimly, ‘that we appear to dealing with an avenging angel.’

‘Fuck me,’ said the uniform, glancing at his colleagues, ‘we don’t get many of them in Leyton.’

A nervous Jason de Vere arrived at the nature reserve car park three miles to the north of Leyton just after seven thirty that morning. More used to meeting people in his office, where he could control the situation, he felt exposed and vulnerable – as he had many times over recent weeks. Getting out of his car, he pulled his coat around him to keep out the chill and stood amid the mist-shrouded trees for a few moments before turning as he heard tyres crunching on the gravel and saw a dark Jaguar appear at the entrance to the car park.

Once it had slowed to a halt, a smartly dressed man emerged, hair beautifully coiffured, teeth shining brightly but expression dark and brooding.

‘Tony,’ said de Vere, trying to sound relaxed and offering a hand of welcome, which was ignored by the property developer.

‘You better have some good answers,’ growled Hankin, ‘because if the vicar goes public with what he knows…’

‘He won’t.’

Hankin stared at de Vere suspiciously.

‘You said that last time,’ he said, ‘but he clearly has not got the message.’

‘Charles says he has,’ said de Vere defensively. Even though they were alone, he lowered his voice. ‘He seems very sure about that.’

‘How sure?’

‘You know Charles. He can be very persuasive.’

‘What about the police? What if they work out that we…?’

‘Don’t worry about the police,’ De Vere nodded reassuringly. ‘Radford will keep them off our backs. They’re in our pocket. I told you on the phone, as long as we stay calm we’ll be fine.’

Tony Hankin sat on the bonnet of his car and considered what he had been told for the best part of a minute. Eventually, the property developer nodded.

‘As long as you’re sure,’ he said.

‘I am sure, Tony. Do I take it that we still go ahead tomorrow?’

‘We have to, no option. The Koreans say that if it does not happen tomorrow it won’t happen at all – and I have too much at stake to back out now. We all have.’

‘Talking of stakes,’ said de Vere hesitatingly. ‘I am still good for my cut, yes?’

Hankin looked at him for a few moments, noticing the council leader’s anxious expression.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘there is something distinctly sickening about a corrupt politician.’

De Vere did not reply. He knew what he had become.

‘However,’ continued Hankin, ‘I told you, when the bishop signs that deal, a million of it will quietly disappear. I am man of my word, you’ll get your share, don’t worry. And so will Charles Garfield.’

‘That’s all I need,’ said de Vere.

‘And all I need, Jason,’ said Danny Radford, emerging from the trees, followed by Michael Gaines.

De Vere stared at him in horror.

‘What the hell…?’ he exclaimed as a number of plainclothes officers emerged from the other side of the car park.

‘Sorry, Jason,’ said Radford, taking a step forward. ‘The game’s up.’

‘You damned fool!’ exclaimed Hankin, glaring at de Vere, turning and starting to run, only to be caught by one of the officers and wrestled to the ground within seconds.

‘Jason de Vere,’ said Radford, producing a set of handcuffs and snapping them on the startled council leader’s wrists – he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times, ‘you are under arrest for corruption in a public office and conspiracy to commit murder. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be used in evidence.’

The council leader stared at his cuffed wrists as if unable to comprehend what had happened then looked up at the inspector.

‘I thought I could trust you,’ he said, the bewilderment clear in his voice.

‘You were one of the few who did,’ said Radford, glancing at Gaines who looked away.

‘But I thought you were like me,’ said de Vere.

‘I have many flaws but being like you is not one of them.’

De Vere gave a slight shake of the head and it seemed to the inspector that the all-powerful council leader, Mister Leyton, looked somehow smaller, as if the life had been sucked out of him.
End game
.

‘Take him away,’ said the DCI to the undercover officers.

Once de Vere was being lead to a patrol vehicle that had pulled into the car park, Radford turned his attention to Tony Hankin, who was struggling to free himself from the grip of one of the officers while glaring balefully at the inspector.

‘You’ll not get away with this,’ snarled Hankin. ‘My lawyers will make mincemeat of you. You have got nothing on me.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Radford, nodding to the officer holding him. ‘Get this low-life out of my sight.’

Ten minutes later, the car park was empty and Radford sat down on a nearby bench and gave a deep sigh.

‘I am glad that is over,’ he said, looking at Gaines.

The sergeant hesitated.

‘What is it?’ said Radford. ‘Go on, spit it out.’

‘What was it you said, about people not trusting you? I feel ashamed.’

Radford shook his head.

‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘Just make sure everyone back at the factory knows. I’m sick of checking my lunch for saliva.’

‘Who’d know the difference? I haven’t had the tapioca pudding for years.’

Radford chuckled; it felt good to laugh. The inspector took his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a number.

‘Hi, yes, all like clockwork,’ he said. ‘You can lift him now. And his little friend.’

Radford placed the phone back in his pocket.

‘Lift who?’ asked Gaines.

The inspector gave a half-smile.

‘You’ll not believe it when I tell you,’ he said. ‘Good job you lost your faith a long time ago.’

The bishop was sitting in his office, gloomily contemplating the day ahead when there came a knock on the door and his secretary appeared.

‘I am sorry but he insisted...’ she began.

The bishop watched with growing dread as she was following into the room by a stocky man in a dark suit, accompanied by a uniformed officer.

‘Bishop Joseph Morrison?’ said the man.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ exclaimed the bishop. ‘Who are you and why are you…?’

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Peter England,’ said the man, holding up his warrant card. ‘You are under arrest.’

At that moment, the final vestiges of Bishop Joseph’s faith crumbled around him and he started to cry. England watched him dispassionately then looked at the shocked secretary.

‘The chaplain,’ said England, ‘where is Charles Garfield?’

‘He’s not come in yet,’ stuttered the secretary.

‘Nor I suspect will he,’ said England grimly, turning to the uniformed officer. ‘Get an APB out – roads, railway stations, airports, the lot. I want Charles Garfield and I want him now.’

Having fled the warehouse after killing David Roberts, the man hid behind a pile of rusting barrels and watched the police search parties fanning out across the wasteland. Searching for
him
now. Glancing over to his left, he realised that they had left a gap between his hiding place and the river and, as the fog rolled in thicker than ever, he vanished from sight.

Chapter thirteen

Radford and Gaines stood in the damp chill of the warehouse later that morning and stared down, grim-faced, at the body of David Roberts.

‘Just when you think things are going your way,’ said the inspector.

He glanced at Perlow, who was standing nearby.

‘And no one saw the killer get away?’ asked Radford, unable to conceal the disbelief in his voice. ‘Even though there were five of you here?’

‘It was misty,’ said the constable uncomfortably. ‘He just vanished. Like a ghost.’

Radford raised an eyebrow.

‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘ghosts don’t stab people.’

Perlow looked even more uncomfortable but did not reply. He knew his comment had sounded lame. The inspector crouched down to peer at the underlined passage in the Bible lying next to the body.

‘Another message,’ he said, looking up at Gaines. ‘He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. Any thoughts?’

‘As far as I know, the only smiting that David Roberts did was one of our uniform guys.’

‘Indeed.’ Radford straightened up. ‘But he did it in a church, did he not? Maybe that’s the link with what happened to James Rowland. Maybe our attacker heard that the vicar was stealing. Maybe he thinks he is avenging the tainted honour of the church.’

‘Nothing would surprise me anymore,’ said Gaines.

‘I’m prepared to put that to the test.’ Radford looked at Perlow. ‘Gerry, we have got to see James Rowland. I want you to look after things at this end. Think you can handle it?’

Perlow nodded.

‘Yeah, no problem,’ he said, pride stirring in his breast at the responsibility he was being given.

‘Don’t let me down.’ Radford started walking towards the door. ‘After the hospital, we’re likely to be busy with de Vere but you can get me on the mobile if it’s urgent.’

‘Would it help if I saw the vicar for you?’ asked Perlow.

‘No, it’s alright.’ Radford gave a slight smile. ‘I’ve got something that might just restore the good sergeant’s faith in the clergy.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ grunted Gaines.

‘We’ll see,’ said Radford.

As Perlow watched them go, the thought of the faith that Radford had shown in him, coupled with an image of Jason de Vere in a police cell, prompted him to summon up the courage to broach the subject that had been nagging at him all morning.

‘Guv?’ he said tentatively.

Radford turned.

‘I just wanted…’ began Perlow, ‘you know, I just wanted you to know that when people were… that is, I’m glad that you’re not…’ The constable’s voice tailed off, words failing him.

‘No need to say it, Gerry,’ said the inspector. ‘I understand. You’re not the first person to have struggled over their words this morning.’

Thirty minutes later, Radford and Gaines walked into the hospital room to see the Reverend James Rowland sitting up in bed, sipping a cup of tea.

‘You look much better,’ said Radford, noting the colour in his cheeks, walking across and touching him lightly on the hand. ‘You’ll be glad to hear that it’s all over.’

‘Thank God,’ said the vicar, momentarily closing his eyes. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

Gaines looked at the two of them in bewilderment as the rancour of their previous encounter was banished to be replaced by what appeared to be genuine affection.

‘Would someone like to tell me exactly what the fuck is happening?’ he demanded. ‘I didn’t exactly have you down as buddies.’

‘My apologies,’ said Radford. ‘Michael, may I introduce you to Detective Constable Jeremy Laverick from Warwickshire Police. Most people call him Jez.’

‘Except my mother,’ said Laverick.

Gaines stared at the inspector in amazement then at the man in the bed, who despite his battered and bruised face was managing to smile.

‘Makes a good vicar, doesn’t he?’ grinned Radford. ‘A right sanctimonious twat, if you ask me.’

‘After all I’ve done for you,’ murmured Laverick.

‘And what has he done for you?’ asked Gaines.

‘Been undercover for the best part of a year.’

‘So this was all a set up?’

Radford nodded.

‘Sure is,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Michael, could not risk you knowing until I had to. Just in case you let something slip by accident.’ The inspector gave him an affectionate look. ‘And not because I didn’t trust you. As long as there are officers in this force like you and Roland Connor, we’ll be OK.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gaines, his voice slightly unsteady.

‘See,’ continued Radford, ‘we knew from our informant at the council that de Vere was eying the church up for one of his dodgy deals. However, St Mark’s had been without a vicar for months and the congregation was agitating for a replacement. The bishop did not want to appoint anyone, but Charles Garfield persuaded him that it would avoid suspicion if they did. Stop any awkward questions. It was too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘So you invented a fake vicar?’ said Gaines, looking at Laverick, who was taking another sip of tea.

‘Yeah, with fake references to boot. They didn’t check particularly thoroughly; they knew he wasn’t going to be there long and they didn’t care what kind of a job he did. Once they concluded that he was unlikely to stand in their way, the job was his.’

‘You got Garfield yet?’ asked Laverick.

‘No, but he won’t get far,’ said Radford. He looked back to Gaines. ‘Once Jez landed the job, all we had to do was to wait for the right moment for James Rowland to reveal himself as a bolshie twat – the only person standing between them and their pay day.’

Gaines sat down on one of the chairs and shook his head.

‘So this was all planned?’ he said.

‘Everything bar the attack. We just did not see that coming. Never thought they would set Garvin and Cranmer on him. Never in a million years did we think they were that desperate. They probably wouldn’t have done it if Tony Hankin’s investors had not turned the screw.’

‘But what about the police record suggesting that James Rowland was wanted for theft?’ asked Gaines. ‘That’s all fake as well?’

‘Yeah. We needed to give them something to blackmail him if need be. Also, we knew that someone at the factory was leaking information to Garfield, just did not know who. This was our chance to find out.’

Gaines looked at the inspector uneasily.

‘Derek?’ he asked.

‘Derek,’ nodded Radford.

‘It does explain why he tried to put me off the scent about Rowland last night.’

Radford nodded.

‘Sorry, Michael,’ he said. ‘I know he’s a friend.’

Gaines gave him a gloomy look. ‘If you make your bed…’ he said.

‘Indeed.’

‘I take it that there’s no money missing from the church then? That all a set up as well?’

‘Oddly enough, it wasn’t,’ said Radford with a frown. ‘We knew nothing about it until a couple of days ago.’

‘So who did take it?’ asked Gaines.

The uniformed officers forced their way into George Roberts’ house shortly after ten to find his wife dead in bed, smothered with her own pillow, and the old man slumped over the dining room table, an empty bottle of pills lying in front of him, next to a Bible open at Luke 19.24. One passage was underlined. ‘How hard it is for those who have riches to enter the Kingdom of God?’ it said.

Neil Garvin and Des Cranmer had only just taken their seats at their usual table at The Black Lion when the front door was wrenched open and half a dozen officers in riot gear walked in and headed for them. The arrests were all over in less than a minute.

The Reverend Charles Garfield glanced about him nervously and prepared to board the train standing in at Leyton Station. As he did so, he noticed two uniformed officers appear at the end of the platform. With a curse, Garfield ran to the other end of the platform where he stood for a few seconds, his eyes focused on the gap in the fence at the far side of the tracks. His way onto the street beyond, his route to safety, his chance to evade capture. The chaplain gave a laugh, shot a look of triumph in the direction of the pursuing officers, jumped down onto the tracks and started running.

He did not see the express train that sped round the bend until it was far too late.

‘One thing before we go, Jez, said Radford, who was standing next to the bed. ‘It may sound cockamamie but we think you were attacked by three people in the church.’

‘Not so cockamamie,’ said Laverick thoughtfully. ‘There’s something been bugging me and it’s only just started to come back.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s only a vague memory but after Garvin and Cranmer attacked me, I have this recollection of someone standing over me. I think he was the one that ground his foot into my face.’

‘You know who it was?’ asked Gaines, who was over by the window, staring out over the rooftops but now turning back into the room. ‘You seen him before?’

‘Yeah, some kid called Roper.’

Radford and Gaines exchanged glances.

‘How do you know him?’ asked Radford.

‘He came to me a few weeks ago, said he wanted to be a priest. I told him that if he kept off the smack I would put a word in for him.’

‘And did he?’ asked Radford. ‘Did he stay off the smack?’

Laverick shook his head.

‘I suspect not,’ he said. ‘That was the last I saw of him until last night. Pity, nice kid. But why would he want to kill me?’

‘Religion has a lot to answer for,’ said Radford as he patted Laverick’s hand and headed for the door. ‘Get some rest. Come on, Michael, I reckon I know where Roper is. Get Gerry and a couple of uniforms to meet us at Chandos Street.’

Radford was the first to push his way through the front door of the terraced house. Wrinkling his nose at the rank smell, the detective inspector walked down the hallway and into the darkened living room to see Jonathan Farron sitting on the sofa clutching a grubby handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

‘One of Roper’s mates,’ explained Perlow.

‘What happened to you?’ asked Radford, gesturing to the bloodied handkerchief.

‘Guy Roper hit me.’

‘Why? Something to do with David Roberts?’

Farron hesitated.

‘I really do not have time to fuck about,’ said Radford. ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll arrest you for conspiracy.’

‘Conspiracy for what?’ A brief flash of defiance.

‘Conspiracy to piss me off. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. So I ask again, was it something to do with David Roberts?’

Farron nodded, defiance banished.

‘You do know that David is dead, don’t you?’ said Perlow.

Farron took the handkerchief away from his nose and nodded.

‘And Guy killed him?’ asked Radford.

Again a nod.

‘But why?’ asked the inspector. ‘Why did he do it?’

‘He has not been himself for the past few days,’ sighed Farron. ‘We met this dealer in a pub on Sunday night and he sold Guy some pills.’

‘What were they?’

‘God knows but I took one of them and it made me feel weird. Didn’t take any more after that.’

‘But Guy kept taking his?’

Farron nodded.

‘Whatever they were, they fucked with his head. He said he had to avenge wrongs against the church, started quoting from the Bible, said he was an angel. I tried to get him to stop taking the pills but he just looked straight through me every time.’

‘And this morning?’ asked Radford. ‘What happened this morning, Jonathan?’

‘He said he was going to kill David. Said that knifing anyone, even a copper, in a church was a violation and he had to pay for it. David was a nice kid. He didn’t mean to stick that copper.’

‘But Guy did not agree?’

Farron shook his head then dabbed his nose again with the handkerchief.

‘When I tried to stop him, he did this,’ he said.

‘And you didn’t think to call us?’ asked Radford.

Farron did not reply. Silence settled on the room for a few moments. It was broken by Gaines.

‘We think he also tried to kill James Rowland,’ said Gaines, moving away from the door to stand at the end of the sofa. ‘Are we right?’

‘Guy said he had heard that the vicar had been stealing from the church. Something David had said. I think he heard it from his grandfather.’

‘So the vicar had to pay for it?’ asked Radford.

Farron nodded.

‘Everyone has to pay, according to Guy,’ he said. ‘I tell you, he’s not thinking straight. Even told me he could fly.’

‘And where is he now?’ asked the inspector.

No one saw the young man climb up the drainpipe and onto the roof of St Mark’s, stand for a few moments, open his arms and dive slowly, gracefully, to his death.