Walter snorted his disbelief and said, ‘And Belinda Cooper? What did she do to deserve to die?’
‘That was completely different.’
‘In what way?’
‘I only wanted to frighten her, I wanted to spread panic through the city, I wanted to see what you would do, and I figured that if I was right there with you I’d always be one step ahead.’
‘You did that all right, spreading panic and fear.’
‘You don’t understand, Guv.’
‘Explain!’
‘She came at me, real crazy. Tried to kill me, tried to turn the tables. It was always going to end badly.’
Walter sighed and stared across into Hector’s gaunt face. He’d turned a shade of November dirty white. Some days in November in England everything is dirty black, or dirty white. Seemed like that, right there.
‘You almost killed two of your own fellow officers.’
‘I’m sorry about that. They’re not seriously injured, are they?’
‘They’ll live, no thanks to you. You need help, man.’
‘It’s too late for that, Guv.’
‘No, it isn’t!’
But even as Walter said that he saw Hector’s future. The remainder of his life behind bars in a place where he would be a marked man, a sitting duck, a big trophy to be hunted down by every sick and evil individual the State had decided to incarcerate. Sooner or later they would get to him, they both knew that. Crooked police officers went through hell in prison, and who was to say they didn’t deserve it? But a police officer who had turned into a killer, that was something else entirely, a rare and heinous thing, and all on Walter’s watch. No doubt the stinking stains would flood across the records of everyone involved.
The door to the roof opened again and Jenny and Corla stepped out and stared across at the two men. The guys’ body language looked wrong; as if it were all over, when it wasn’t.
‘Guv?’ said Jenny. ‘Everything okay?’
‘You!’ yelled Corla, pointing and glaring at Hector. ‘It’s him! He’s the killer!’
Jenny glanced at Hector and Walter in turn.
Walter let go the tiniest of confirming nods.
Jenny grimaced in disbelief and shook her head.
‘Come on, Hector,’ said Walter. ‘We need to go and get this sorted,’ and he slipped a pair of cuffs from his coat pocket.
‘I’m so sorry, Walter.’
Hector had never used his boss’s Christian name before.
Walter nodded and stepped towards him.
Hector brushed Walter’s hand aside.
‘You’ve been great, Guv. I love the bones of you.’
‘It’s time to show some real courage, DC Browne.’
‘That’s all drained from me, Guv. It’s slipped away forever, forgive me, will you?’
And he brushed past Walter and ran towards the edge.
Jenny read the situation well. She’d guessed what Hector might do, and leapt into action. She ran towards him, trying to head him off, but realised she wouldn’t get there in time. She leapt full length like a rugby fullback tackling a flying wing, reaching out for his ankles, hoping to bring him down before the white line.
Hector had half expected something of the kind. At the last second he hurdled Jenny’s outstretched arms and grasping fingers, kicking her hands in the process, fracturing two digits. He was strong, incredibly strong, much stronger than he looked, and dainty feminine fingers were never going to stop a healthy hurtling man.
Walter and Corla watched Hector clear Jenny, and dive over the edge, missing the black netting with ease, and like an Acapulco cliff diver he soared through the air, and was gone.
Walter, Jenny and Corla rushed to the edge in time to see Hector plummeting earthwards, towards his end, ever faster through the chilly November air, ever more content with his life choice of violent death.
‘Look out!’ screamed Walter to those below.
Some people looked up, and saw thirteen stones of masculine human muscle and bones hurtling down towards them. Huge terrified eyes stared up, disbelieving eyes glaring down.
The former DC Hector Browne crashed into the worn tarmac with a sickening thud. The body bounced, though not by much, for that’s what it now was, a dead body, where once, not so long ago, it had been a fine young man, and a promising police officer, who in recent days had twisted and turned into a ruthless and merciless killer. What is it they say? Even a dead cat bounces, as do mentally ill policemen.
‘Why?’ said Jenny, holding her damaged hand to her side.
‘Rejection,’ said Walter.
‘That’s a pathetic excuse!’ scowled Corla.
‘Of course it is!’ agreed Walter. ‘But that’s the reason.’
‘He must have been an incredibly weak man,’ muttered Corla.
‘He was,’ said Walter. ‘Weak in mind, strong in body.’ He glanced across at the women. Jenny’s hand was almost twice its normal size. ‘What’s happened to Karen and Darren?’
‘Gone with the medics.’
‘And that’s where you’re going too. Come on, let’s get you some treatment.’
‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ said Corla.
She was the only one there who was.
Corla sniffed the freshening wind and mumbled, ‘I feel free at last. Totally free.’
Thirty-Eight
Caw! Caw! Caw! The rooks were doing what rooks do, seeing in the dawn. It was just gone 7.30am on the first day of December. There was a thick crunching frost on the grass, and it was beginning to snow. Old gravestones and headstones and different sized blackened and mossy stone crosses lined the frosty lawn, standing out at weird angles. None of Hector’s family and friends had chosen to attend the garden of remembrance.
Maybe it was too early for them, maybe they were too ashamed, perhaps they simply didn’t care. It’s forever surprising how many people in the twenty-first century suffer unattended funerals. You can have a hundred thousand friends on social media, and still be alone at the graveside.
Walter was there, as was Mrs West, and the close-knit members of the team, three of them looking like walking wounded. Darren’s neck-brace was still on, and would be for a couple of weeks yet. Jenny’s arm was in a sling, though it was the fingers that were damaged and mending, while Karen had downsized the plaster on her nose and cheek, as the cut
