Pandi was unable to see that the commander and his uncle were already dead, face down in the bracken with holes in their backs. The commander had managed to get within a few metres of the top of the slope before being hit.
Pandi reached the end of the belt and everything went silent. His blood was up and he wanted to continue. He would keep firing until he ran out of ammunition or the men appeared. He grabbed the remaining belt from the box, loaded the tray and pulled the cocking lever back. As he gripped the trigger a bullet slammed into his chest and he flew back onto the bed hitting it hard.
Pandi lay there looking at the sky, trying to breathe. He knew he’d been shot. It burned like hell. He could feel liquid filling his throat and began to choke on it. He coughed, spurting blood from his mouth and the hole in his chest. It was filling his lungs. And suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. Within seconds it went dark. Pandi lay still, his glazed eyes open. Blood trickled from his mouth.
The father in the BMW had watched Pandi throughout his last half minute of life. When silence fell he reached for the ignition key and turned it. The engine gunned to life. He floored the accelerator and fishtailed across the dirt until the tyres reached the road and tore along it.
Chapter 4
Bethan Trencher faced the full-length mirror in her bedroom and examined herself in her black business suit. On the bed was a suitcase filled with enough comfy clothes to last a week, notably devoid of socialising garb. Scrummy jumpers, pyjamas and thick, long socks. She placed it on the floor, smoothed over the bed cover, checked all was in order, picked up the case and left the room.
She stepped into another room, a spare bedroom turned office. A wall was covered in pictures, notes, sketches, pieces of cloth, all connected by a complex web of coloured strings. It was the pictures that were disturbing. Young girls mostly, smiling, posing, selfies, happy, disfigured, mutilated, bloody and dead. At the top of the matrix was a man in his thirties.
Clenching her teeth she ripped his picture down and screwed it up as if crushing his very soul, folding and pressing it until her fingers hurt. She tossed it inside a black plastic bag and tore at the rest of the matrix, pulling it off in chunks. She worked with enthusiasm and aggression in order to remove every little piece of it.
She took a deep breath when it was over. But it wasn’t over. That would come later in the day.
She left the room, carried the suitcase down the stairs, grabbed her laptop bag and a box of files and left the house. It was a bright afternoon in Hampstead. Leaves were shoved around by a gentle breeze as she put her stuff into her car, climbed in and drove off. Two hours later, she was sitting in a packed courtroom near the Aldwych. Beside her was her boss, Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Dillon, brow furrowed as he concentrated on the proceedings. Bethan was staring at the man in the dock, his hands chained. It was the man in the picture at the top of her matrix.
‘You are an evil man, to be sure,’ the judge said. ‘There is no place for you in civilised society, nor is there any likelihood of that being the case in the future. This court sentences you to whole life imprisonment without possibility of parole.’
The sentence was met with stony silence. It was no surprise to anyone. Bethan was satisfied and sighed deeply without realising how loud she’d been. DCI Dillon put a gentle hand on hers. Bethan wasn’t sure if it was intended to calm her or to share a moment of victory. She wanted to stand up and applaud and wondered whether, if she did, how many people would join her.
Bethan was more than ready to leave when the court was dismissed. She wanted to get on the road, away from the City and into the countryside. She could already taste the solitude. As she headed along a corridor towards the main entrance, she heard her name being called. It was Dillon. He was doing his official bit, chatting with various people, receiving plaudits and discussing police business but he wanted to speak to her.
‘Well done,’ he said, genuinely cheerful. ‘Your father would have been very proud.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. She appreciated the comment.
‘Enjoy your week.’
‘I will.’ And she headed out the door.
Five hours later, Bethan was driving along a narrow lane that burrowed its way into Dartmoor. There was wide open countryside as far as the eye could see in every direction with pockets of trees behind her and nothing but moorland in her windscreen.
She turned onto a gravelly lane
