The Birdwatcher (36 page)

The young man winced, clutching his leg. This was the first time South had had a chance to look at him. The leg was bleeding, but from the amount of blood South guessed the shot had flayed muscle, but didn’t appear to have damaged any major blood vessels. He would live, he guessed.

‘My mum’s dead,’ Cameron whispered. ‘Isn’t she?’

South nodded. He was trying to remember everything he knew about hostage situations. He had had a briefing once about them but had assumed he would never have to use any of that knowledge. He was just a neighbourhood cop, after all. What were you supposed to do? These first minutes were the vital moments when you were supposed to take any chance you could to escape, he remembered, before they were trapped here as hostages. But Cameron could almost certainly not walk much, if at all. He could not just leave him and the other boy here. They would be killed.

Sleight opened the door a crack, looking into the living room.

‘You stupid cunt,’ he was saying. ‘This is all your fucking fault. Everything is your fault.’

‘What’s happening? Tell me what’s happening,’ cried the half-naked boy.

South said nothing; he was looking around to work out where they were, work out where the exits were.

Outside, he heard cars skid to a halt and cut their sirens; over the rising wind he could hear the instant chatter of radios, the crunch of boots. The police were finally here; they would be trying to work out what had happened. Sleight’s house was dark, but this one was blazing with light.

Had they brought a firearms unit? He couldn’t be sure. If not, it would be here soon, when they saw Mrs Gemmell’s body sprawled out on the road.

Sleight had opened the kitchen door a crack, looking out. South spoke. ‘Give yourself up, Vinnie. It’s the only thing.’

‘Shut your mouth,’ said Sleight, not taking his eyes off the scene outside.

‘Dad,’ said the boy. ‘You shot me.’

‘You knew, all along,’ said Sleight.

‘Shh,’ whispered South. ‘Don’t talk.’

‘You killed Mum.’

South raised his finger to his lips.

Hadn’t he grown up knowing that this was what men could be? He knew this rage and fear. His father had had it; and he had, too.

Without even realising, South had backed Sleight into a corner. When backed into a corner, these men became monsters. They did terrible things. He knew that. Sleight had killed his own wife, he had killed Bob and would have killed his own son if his aim had been better. It would not stop here. The presence of the police outside would only make things worse.

Sleight turned. ‘Is there a back door?’ he demanded.

The boy sitting on the floor looked confused.

South repeated the question in a quieter voice.

‘End of this corridor,’ the boy said.

‘You,’ Sleight said, pointing at South. ‘Go take a look. See where it goes. No more than ten seconds. Or I kill the boy.’

‘Don’t kill me,’ cried the boy. Sitting on the cold floor, shaking, the boy was panting so hard he could barely breathe. He was panicking. He would have to be calm or Sleight would find his own way to shut him up.

‘What’s your name?’ asked South.

‘Axel,’ he said.

‘Axel. It’s OK. The police are outside. Everything will be OK,’ he said, though he doubted it would. ‘Trust me.’

‘Fucking go,’ shouted Sleight.

South stood and walked slowly, as calmly as he could, down the corridor and out of sight.

A single door with a key in it. He turned it and pushed the door open and looked at the quiet darkness beyond. Behind the house was the golf course. Maybe Sleight was planning on trying to escape, to lose the police there. The police hadn’t made it to the back of the house yet; they had seen the body. That had altered the rules of engagement. They would now need a clear plan; clear orders on the use of weapons. All this would happen fast, but it would still take precious minutes. They wouldn’t approach the back of the house until they were sure it was safe to do so.

He himself could run now, he thought, leaving the others behind. That way, at least, the police outside would know what they were facing. But Sleight would then kill those who were left behind, he was sure of it.

In the darkness of the corridor, he took his phone from his pocket and texted DI McAdam’s number: ‘
1 man with shotgun. Pass intel to Ops 1.
’

He took a last breath, put the phone on silent, locked the door again, turned and went back, still walking slowly, trying to look calmer than he felt. ‘Door into the back garden,’ he said. ‘The key’s in it.’

Sleight nodded.

‘Can they see through it?’

‘No. It’s wood. At the moment there’s no one there.’

‘Bollocks. You’re trying to trick me.’

‘No. I promise. There’s no one. You could escape if you wanted to.’

‘Close the blinds,’ Sleight said.

A long window ran down one side of the kitchen. If the police could not see in, they would not be able to assess the situation. South hesitated.

‘The back is clear. The police aren’t there yet. You’d have a clear run out onto the golf course if you leave now.’

Sleight turned away from his crack in the door and pointed the gun at South again. ‘Don’t you start telling me what to do.’

South raised his arms. ‘I’m not.’

‘Shut the fucking curtains, then get on the floor.’ He was staying. Which meant this could only end with more blood.

South walked over to the blinds and started to draw them, taking his time.

When he’d finished, he sank down on the floor between Cameron and Axel.

‘Your dad’s gone fucking nuts,’ said Axel.

Cameron nodded.

‘How’s the leg?’ South asked.

‘Fucking hurts.’

‘What are they doing?’ said Sleight.

‘They’ll take their time,’ said South, from his position on the floor. ‘They’ll be wanting to assess the situation. Establish a chain of command. In a minute, the phone here will go.’

‘You answer it. Talk to them. Tell them I’ve a gun. Tell them I’ll kill you if they try to kill me. And the boy.’

Axel started to sob.

But the phone didn’t ring yet. Nothing happened. Each slow second seemed like an age.

The thin sun emerged on the skyline of the mountain above him, warming him a little. He thought of his mother and of the way she hugged him. And then he must have slept. Because a voice was saying, ‘Billy. Wake up.’

And someone was shaking him.

He looked up and there was Sergeant Ferguson in his peaky cap, but he had no jacket on and his shirt was half untucked, flapping in the wind.

‘I guessed you’d be here. I told them that’s where they should look. The helicopter spotted you. I ran up here ahead but there are soldiers coming after me. So we have to be quick.’ He was panting as if he had run hard.

Billy wished he had tried harder not to be caught.

‘Glad I got here before they did.’

He looked down and realised Sergeant Ferguson’s jacket was wrapped around him tightly to keep him warm.

‘I saw it, Fergie,’ Billy said. ‘Only it wasn’t what people thought.’

Ferguson didn’t seem interested. ‘Where is the gun? Tell me, lad. The gun that shot your dad?’

Fergie knew. He was so ashamed of himself.

‘Quick. Before anyone gets here. I had to run like fuck to get here first. My heart is going to bloody explode. Tell me, God’s sake, it’s important.’

‘The gun?’ Billy’s brain was sand.

‘Please, Billy. I can save you both if you do this.’

‘Save me?’ Billy was surprised to hear how little strength there was left in his voice.

Ferguson leaned in closer. ‘Save you and your mother. I don’t want to see her go to jail.’

‘Why should she go to jail?’ asked Billy, bemused.

‘That’s what I say. I understand what she did. None of it was her fault. She’s been through enough. It was him or her. I know that. That’s why I want you to tell me where the gun is.’

What was he on about? Billy didn’t understand. ‘Down the drain,’ said Billy.

‘Where? Was it you got rid of it?’

Billy nodded. He could hear more voices now, shouting.

‘It wasn’t her fault Billy. You don’t have to run from her.’

‘From her?’

‘Sometimes we have to do bad things, Billy. Especially times like this. You’ll understand when you’re older. She thinks the fucken world of you, Billy.’

The thin policeman reached down and placed his hands under Billy’s armpits to lift him.

‘I have to tell you this, Billy. You know that your father was not a good man, Billy. You have to understand that. He was a killer. I figured it out, you see. It took me a while. It wasn’t anyone else. It was him killed those Catholics. Must have been.’

‘But—’

‘It’s the truth.’

And with what seemed like an enormous effort, Ferguson lifted him up, his jacket wrapped around him.

The shouting was getting closer. ‘Over here. The copper’s got him.’

‘So if it was the same gun that killed him, it must have been his own gun. I didn’t want to believe it at first. And if it was his gun that killed him it had to be someone who could find the gun. God knows, she had reason enough to do it. I’ve always known . . . And you have to understand too, OK?’

‘But . . .’

‘Which drain? Quick. Before they come. Which drain?’

The soldiers were running, bounding over the uneven ground.

‘I can make everything better if you let me know where the gun is.’

‘I saw the bird, Fergie.’

‘Never mind the fucken bird, Billy. I don’t care about the bird.’

Billy looked at him. A grown man in tears. Why is that? What is wrong with the man? ‘At the back of the house.’

The soldiers were here now, all around.

‘A drain at the back of your house?’

Billy nodded.

‘Good lad,’ said Fergie, and gave him a wink.

And then they were all around him, rubbing him on the back, shouting orders. The squaddies took him from Sergeant Ferguson and two of them made a fireman’s chair, crossing arms, while a third placed Billy on it. ‘He’s got exposure, I think,’ said Ferguson.

‘We’ll get him down. Stand back.’ To Billy they said, ‘Grab on, laddie.’ And placed his arms around the two soldiers’ necks.

‘Got the poor little bastard, Sarge.’

Billy said, ‘They got it all wrong. It wasn’t what they said it was.’

‘What’s the lad saying?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fergie. ‘He’s delirious. Get him warm, quick.’

The Englishmen’s accents seemed so strange and alien. Next thing he was off at a lick, the soldiers striding fast back down the mountain, bumping up and down.

When Billy stretched his neck to look round at Fergie, he was standing there with a strange smile on his face and a finger up to his lips.

It was the last time he ever saw him.

TWENTY-TWO

Sleight was still at the door trying to see the police outside.

‘What are they doing?’ Sleight called.

‘I don’t know.’

South leaned down to Cameron. ‘Are you OK?’ he whispered.

‘My dad killed Bob, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said South.

‘I liked Bob,’ said Cameron. ‘He was a nice man. He got me into uni.’

‘Yes,’ said South. ‘He was my friend. I liked him a lot.’

Cameron nodded. ‘My leg really hurts.’

‘I know it does,’ said South. ‘You’re doing great. Bob was your teacher, then?’

Cameron nodded. ‘My tutor. He used to live in the guest house. He was like part of the family.’

‘He loved your mother. Did you know that?’

‘They tried to hide it. I knew. I don’t think Dad ever did. He’s God’s gift. Why would she love anyone else? They were childhood sweethearts, my mum and dad. Before he ever got money. There are photos in their bedroom. A couple of teenagers. He always said he did all this for her.’