when a telephone rang in front of Shirley. The superintendent glared at it for daring to interrupt before picking it up and barking into the receiver.
‘What is it?’
Every pair of eyes in the room were locked on Alex Shirley. All of them, even Winter, knew that it would have to be something important to disturb the super in the middle of a briefing as huge as this one.
As Shirley listened intently, the granite look on his face began to slowly but visibly crumble. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped for just long enough to cause a shiver to pass through the entire squad room.
‘Harthill Services,’ he said quietly as he hung up. Then louder, ‘Harthill Services. Now!’
CHAPTER 13
Half an hour earlier
The white transit van swung off the M8 at pace and headed deep into the first corner of the motorway services at Harthill, coming to an abrupt halt in an acre of space without another car within shouting distance. The driver, his head covered in a black balaclava, immediately opened the door and jumped out of his seat, making for the rear of the van.
He pulled the doors wide and bundled out the two men that were inside. They were both tied at the wrists and ankles and fell onto the ground at his feet. Without saying a word, the driver swung back a boot and crashed it into the midriff of the first man then the knee of the second.
Reaching down, he untied the ankle binds on one man, then the other, delivering a savage kick as he did so. As the two men writhed on the concrete, the masked figure pulled each towards him and undid the ties on their wrists. Standing behind them, he put a boot hard behind the back of each man and pushed them away from the van and in the direction of the services, a few hundred yards away, with only a few articulated lorries in between.
The men stumbled forward, the momentum bringing them unsteadily onto their feet. Both glanced behind them, blinking but uncomprehending. He was letting them go? Given what he had already done to them, the blood and the bruises evidence of it, they were wary of thinking that he would just let them run.
They looked at each other and back to him, then began moving forward, slowly then more quickly, a final glance back then into as much of a run as they could manage. Their injured legs took them as fast as they could allow, heading in the direction of the lorries further along the barren concourse and the petrol station beyond. Their hearts were pounding and they sweated heavily, joints aching and burning, but they didn’t dare stop. They had to get away, to the safety of the lorries. Maybe if they got in among people then they could survive. It hurt, it hurt a lot but they had to run for their lives.
Behind them, they heard the engine of the van start up and knew immediately what it was. They had heard it loud and clear as they hurtled along the M8 and thought it might be the last sound they’d ever hear. The transit had turned over its engine like a pistol signalling the start of a race.
They ran harder, trying to shut out the pain and the fire and the sweat that was blinding them, bursting a gut to get towards the juggernaut lorries and then the petrol station that just might be their salvation. The driver must have stepped on the accelerator because they suddenly heard the engine leap and roar in the distance behind them, taunting them, chasing them.
Stevie looked across at Mark running almost level with him and instinctively knew that it would be better if he got away from him. Sure, they were together in this but the chances of them both getting out of it were slim. He veered off to the left, trying to put some distance between them. Mark saw his move and changed direction to go with him, his arms pumping at his side to keep up his momentum.
Stevie arrowed even further left and when he was followed again, he roared across at Mark.
‘Fuck off!’
‘What?’
‘I said fuck off. Go right. Go the other way from me,’ Stevie panted, blood dripping from his burst lip.
Confusion passed across Mark’s face but he must have decided he didn’t have time to work out why. He swerved right again, putting yards then more yards between them. The pair passed by the lorries, glad to have the sheer size of them temporarily between them and the van. Stevie clambered onto the plate of the first one, pulling himself up to the cab only to find the door locked and no one in. From his vantage point he could see that none of the lorries had drivers in them. He threw a glance back at the transit and jumped to the ground again, the pain shooting through his battered knees as he landed. He shook his head at Mark who was watching him hopefully and they both ran again.
Across either side of the patch of grass that separated the lorry park from the car parking area, onto the forecourt where there were a bunch of cars and drivers up ahead in front of the petrol pumps. It was really hurting now but another two hundred yards and they’d be safe.
They’d passed the first of the parked cars when Stevie heard the noise. He couldn’t be sure if he heard the gunshot first or the sound of Mark hitting the ground or the scream; it all seemed to reach him at once. He knew one thing though, the screaming wasn’t Mark’s. The bullet that tore into his head had killed him before he could make a sound.
Stevie didn’t stop. It had only meant that he’d been right to get away from him. He ran harder, his heart fit to bursting. There were people up ahead, standing with their mouths open, a woman screaming. He would go to them. They’d save him. They had to.
A car door suddenly opened to his left and a middle-aged man got out, obviously unaware of what had happened to Mark, just intent on walking to the services shop. This was his chance.
‘Help me,’ Stevie roared with what breath he had left. ‘Please.’
The man stopped and turned, his eyes widening at the sight of the bruised and bloodied man, bathed in sweat, who was running at him and he took a step backwards.
‘No, you’ve got to help me! Fucking help me!’
Stevie was on the man now and grabbed him, intent on twisting him so that he was between him and the transit van. But almost the second he had his hands on the driver, he felt his own body desert him. His legs couldn’t support him and he was crashing to the concrete, darkness descending on him at a speed he’d never known before. His head hit the ground and he felt the cold rush through his skull like a too-cold ice lolly. There was a big hole somewhere and he was falling into it.
As he slipped away, he failed to hear the third shot, the one that took out the man who had done nothing more than to go for a newspaper or a packet of cigarettes. They’d been the death of him all right, them and the bullet that had exploded into his head. The poor man had already fallen into the same pit of death as Mark and Stevie.
As people gathered round the bodies, hardly any of them noticed a white transit van driving along the roadway that led to the slip-road onto the M8 towards Glasgow.
CHAPTER 14
As soon as Shirley had given the order, eight officers got to their feet, kicking back chairs and pulling on jackets in their haste to get out. Winter was aware of resentful looks from the cops, Rachel included, that were stuck there while he was on his way to the scene. She fired him a glare that didn’t seem to be in jest and he returned it with a shrug that hopefully said that it wasn’t his fault and she shouldn’t hold it against him. She simply glared at him harder for interacting with her in public and he knew it would be a shag-free zone for him for a while. So be it, he thought, the truth was if it was a straight choice then he’d opt for the chance to photograph whatever it was lay at Harthill. Crazy maybe.
Instead he picked up his camera bag, comforted by the weight that told him everything he was going to need was in there. He hefted it onto one shoulder and his photo documentation kit – with its collection of photo markers; gray, white, black and transparent scales; photomacrographic scales; ruler tape and steel tape measure – onto the other and tagged on to the back of the small scrum that was filing through Stewart Street en route to the car
