He was a father – a dad. Something he’d always envied Mo for. Now, he had his own son. Visions of trips to zoos and parks flooded Gus’s thoughts, then he realised that biologically he may be the boy’s father, but it seemed very likely that Billy thought of the man leaning so carelessly on the roof of that damn Mercedes as his dad.
His feelings of wonder were soon replaced by anger that had him pounding the steering wheel. Anger at Sadia for stealing years of shared experiences with his son, to fury at his mum and probably his dad too for once more keeping a secret from him. But this one wasn’t just any old secret – this one was about him and his son – his relationship with a child that, on his part at least, had been created through love. Although he would fight if necessary to be included in the rest of his son’s life, to build a relationship with him, Gus could see no way to rebuild his relationship with his parents.
Throughout the journey, he rejected call after call from his parents and Sadia. He needed time to think and for now, he had to focus on catching the killer, who he was now certain, was his cousin Ben. Families? Who’d have them? Dr Mahmood’s death was a blow and Gus had trouble swallowing the sense of responsibility that swamped him – but he needed to look past that and focus on the case. They needed to identify the killer’s whereabouts and put a stop to this.
When Compo’s call came through regarding Jasmine Younis’s death, Gus had no option but to put his foot on the accelerator and push to get back to Bradford as soon as he could. Ben was unravelling, his kills were getting closer and closer together and here he was, stuck on the damn M6, with a singing psychologist. As he swung the car out to overtake the slow-moving car transporter that was holding up the middle lane of the motorway, the truck driver swerved toward the fast lane, his speed dropping even slower than before. As if in slow motion, Gus could see the driver holding his chest, neither hand on the wheel, an expression of agony on his ruddy face.
Gus braked, tried to pull back, but he was too late. The transporter kept moving into his lane, its load of cars wobbling precariously until the truck hit the central reservation barrier separating the two directions of traffic. Metal screeched on metal, the truck quivered on two sets of wheels before crashing onto its side, the bed of cars swishing round to cause a blockade over all three lanes. Horns blared, tyres screeched, people yelled, but Gus could do nothing but brace himself as his mum’s jeep crashed into the overturned vehicle.
For long seconds, Gus was only aware of a faint moaning, pain in every part of his face and the echoing white noise – loud but indiscernible. He tried to move but found himself trapped by the airbag. Slowly managing to move his hand to reach the door handle he opened it and all but fell onto the tarmac. Burning rubber seared his nostrils, but that was the least of his worries, for as he tried to focus, through the smoke and chaos all around, he realised the other side of the jeep had borne the brunt of the collision. On trembling legs, he made his way round, to that side, and yanked at the passenger door. For a moment it resisted, then making him stumble backwards it opened without warning and Carlton released his seat belt before slipping out onto the ground his glasses askew on his face, but his blinking eyes telling Gus he was conscious if not OK.
Remembering the truck driver, Gus moved as quickly as his bruised torso would allow towards the transporter, already sirens were becoming louder as rescue vehicles approached. Other drivers had already reached the driver and Gus quickly explained that he suspected the man had had a heart attack at the wheel. The rest of the next few hours was a blur of paramedics, police statements, AA recovery vehicles, and constant pain – mainly in his face, but also his chest, arms, and legs.
Finally, using his police credentials, Gus managed to procure them a new vehicle, which Carlton, who somehow had come off much more lightly than Gus, insisted on driving. It wasn’t grand, but it drove and as far as Gus was concerned, that was all that mattered.
Throughout the rest of the journey, Gus was in constant contact with his team. There was no doubt that Jasmine Younis had suffered the same fate as Brookes, Flateau, and Smith. The fourth verse from the nursery rhyme:
Some to make hay, dilly dilly,
Some to cut corn,
While you and I dilly dilly,
Keep ourselves warm – had been left at the scene with the sixth month scan.
Compo was working down the list of nearly two hundred women from the Hudson Clinic who were in their seventh month of pregnancy in order to warn each of them in turn. Gus had wondered if it was normal to have a monthly scan and thought that if not, that might narrow the search considerably to only a few special cases. Unfortunately, Hudson Clinic’s policy was
