‘Must make a nice change for you, getting out like this,’ the cabbie said.
‘You’ve got no idea,’ Vance said. ‘I’m hoping this is just the start. Rehab, that’s what this has been for me. I’m a changed man.’ Changed, in the sense that he was determined never to repeat the kind of mistakes that got him confined. But he was still a killer; he’d just learned how to be a better one.
Now, he was studying the landscape, matching their route to the map in his head. Seven and a half miles of quiet country roads before they hit the major artery leading towards Birmingham.
Vance had pinpointed three places where he could stage the next part of his plan. It all depended on traffic. He didn’t want any witnesses, not at a stage in his escape when he had no weapon to defend himself. So far, one van had passed them, going in the opposite direction, but there was nothing in sight ahead of them as they climbed a long steep incline. He shifted in his seat so he could catch a glimpse in the rear-view mirror, making it look as if he was taking in the view. ‘Bloody lovely round here,’ he said. ‘You forget, inside.’ Then he jumped, genuinely startled. ‘What the hell is that?’ he demanded.
The cabbie laughed. ‘How long have you been away? It’s a wind farm. Giant windmills. They catch the wind and make electricity. Plenty wind up here, so there’s plenty windmills too.’
‘Jesus,’ Vance said. ‘They’re bloody enormous.’ And, fortuitously, their conversation had made the driver less attentive. The moment was perfect. They were approaching a T-junction, the first of Vance’s possible attack points. The car drifted to a halt, the driver pausing to point out more windmills on the horizon before checking for oncoming traffic.
In a split second, Vance smashed the forearm of his prosthesis into the side of the cabbie’s head. The man yelped and threw his hands up to protect himself. But Vance was remorseless and his artificial arm was a weapon far more solid than the bone and muscle of a human limb. He brought it down again on the man’s head, then swiped it hard against his face, smiling as the blood gushed from his nose. Vance used his other hand to release his seat belt so he could gain more leverage. He moved forward and cracked him across the head again, so hard he bounced off the window. The man was screaming now, hands clawing at Vance.
‘Fuck this,’ Vance hissed. He got his arm behind the driver’s head and rammed him face first into the steering wheel. After the third sickening crunch, the man finally went limp. Vance unfastened the driver’s belt and freed him from its constraint. Still pumped with adrenaline, he jumped out of the car and hustled round to the driver’s side. When he opened the door, the driver slumped towards the road. Vance squatted down and got one shoulder under his torso. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to his feet. All those hours in the gym had been worth it. He’d made sure to build strength and endurance rather than exaggerated muscle; he’d never seen any point in being obvious.
Vance staggered as far as the hedgerow that bordered the road. Breathing heavily, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, he dumped the driver on to the top bar of a metal field gate, then tipped him over on the far side. He grinned at the startled expressions on the faces of the nearest sheep as the cabbie tumbled to the ground, arms and legs flailing weakly.
He leaned against the gate for a moment, catching his breath, letting himself recover from the overdose of fight-orflight hormones. Then he returned to the car, this time to the driver’s seat. He cancelled the right turn on the indicator, slipped the car into drive then turned left, the opposite direction to Evesham Fabrications. He reckoned it would take him about forty minutes to make it to the service area on the motorway and the next stage of the plan.
He couldn’t help wondering how long it would take before someone noticed Jason Collins was still on the Therapeutic Community Wing. And Jacko Vance wasn’t. Before they understood that one of the most notorious and prolific serial killers the UK had ever produced was on the loose. And keen to make up for lost time.
This time, his grin lasted a lot longer than a few minutes.
9
Paula shuffled her papers and stifled a yawn. ‘I’m ready when you are,’ she said, moving closer to the whiteboards that lined one wall of the cluttered squad room. Carol wondered whether she’d managed any sleep at all. Paula would have had to hang around at the crime scene to make sure everything was being done according to the Major Incident Team’s protocols. Then she’d have had to go back to Northern HQ with their detectives and set up the programme of actions for the morning shift to carry out, again according to Carol’s specifications. And now she was charged with delivering the morning briefing to this close circle of colleagues who had learned each other’s ways with as much acuteness as they’d ever paid to a lover.
This was the squad Carol had hand-picked and built into the best unit she’d ever worked with. If James Blake hadn’t walked into the Chief Constable’s job with a personal mission to cut costs to the bone long before the idea occurred to the Prime Minister, she’d have been happy to stick with this bunch till she was ready to collect her pension. Instead, she was about to take another of her leaps into the unknown. Only this time, it felt like she was following instead of leading. Not the most reassuring prospect she’d ever faced.
‘Briefing in five,’ she shouted, giving them time to wind up whatever they were doing. Stacey Chen, their computer specialist, invisible behind her array of six monitors, grunted something inarticulate. Sam Evans, deep in a phone call, gave her the thumbs-up. Her two sergeants, Kevin Matthews and Chris Devine, raised their heads from the huddle they’d been forming over their cups of coffee and nodded.
‘Got all you need?’ Carol asked.
‘I think so.’ Paula reached for her coffee. ‘Northern sent me everything from the first two deaths, but I’ve not had time to go through it in detail.’
‘Do your best,’ Carol said, heading for the coffee maker and fixing herself a latte with an extra shot. Another thing she’d miss. They’d clubbed together to buy the Italian machine to satisfy everyone’s caffeine cravings. Apart from Stacey, who insisted on Earl Grey tea. She doubted there would be anything comparable in Worcester.
And speaking of missing, there was no sign of Tony. In spite of his bold promises, it looked as though he hadn’t managed to deliver. She tried to dismiss the disappointment that threatened her; it had never been a likely outcome, after all. They’d just have to wrestle their way through the case without his help.
Carol crossed back to the whiteboards, where the rest of the team were gathering. She couldn’t help admiring the exquisite cut of Stacey’s suit. It was clearly bespoke, and expensively so. She was aware that the team geek had her own software business independent of her police job. Carol had never enquired too closely, believing they all had a right to a private life away from the shit they had to wade through at work. But it was clear from her wardrobe alone that Stacey had an income that dwarfed what the rest of them earned. One of these days Sam Evans was going to notice the almost imperceptible signs that Stacey was crazy about him. When Sam the superficial put that together with her net worth, there would be no stopping him. But by the looks of it, Carol would be long gone before that happened. One drama she wouldn’t be sorry to miss.
Paula cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. There was nothing bespoke about her creased jeans and
