“Give me that,” Barneston said to the officer holding the radio. He touched the press-to-talk switch. “We’re on the way. Over and out.”
There was a stampede to the cars.
16
The map reference wasn’t required. The helicopter marked the spot by hovering over it. The convoy of three police vehicles travelled at speed in emergency mode, blue lights flashing. When they got closer the sound of the rotors beating the air drowned out the sirens.
“One thing’s certain,” Diamond said to Hen, some distance in the rear in a fourth car, his own. “We’re not going to surprise anyone.”
But it was wise to advertise their approach. The width of the lanes left no margin for the drivers. After a series of bends they passed a derelict cottage, its roof stripped of most of its tiles, foliage thrusting through the rafters. A short distance ahead was the gate to a field where sheep were grazing, indifferent to the activity. Beside an oak tree, a dark green Range Rover stood in front of the gate on turf, just off the lane. The helicopter pilot had done well to spot it under the tree’s thick foliage. There was no movement at the windows.
Having pointed the way, the helicopter climbed higher, circled a couple of times and remained overhead in case someone made a dash to escape.
The convoy stopped about thirty metres short and two armed officers were detailed to make an approach. A few people got out and crouched behind the vehicles, but Diamond and Hen chose to wait in the comparative safety of the car. They still had a view of the two men moving cautiously ahead, stooping below the level of the hedge. The Range Rover looked unoccupied, but there was no telling what was below window level.
Hen muttered under her breath, “I don’t like to think what they’ll find.”
Neither did Diamond, though he said nothing. The young man had been under Special Branch protection, and it had let him down. If the very worst had happened, any police officer who took his job seriously was going to feel regret, if not shame.
The two armed men in black coveralls and body armour separated, one taking a wide arc through the field on the far side of the Range Rover, while the other remained in the lane. After a series of short forward movements, one of them-the man in the lane-flattened himself to the ground and began a crocodile-like approach to the rear of the vehicle, using his knees and elbows for leverage, but still gripping his short-barrel machine gun. He was close enough to be below the sight range of the wing mirrors.
The afternoon sun caught every detail of the drama. It was getting hot inside the cars.
Progress was agonizingly slow. The man inched forward, and finally got right up to the rear bumper of the Range Rover. For about half a minute he did nothing, listening, no doubt, for a voice or a movement inside the vehicle. Then he raised himself into a crouching position and slowly stood high enough to look through the rear window. Abruptly he turned towards the others and gestured with both hands for them to approach.
“Go, go, go!”
The response was immediate. Everyone got out and started running towards the Range Rover, with Diamond and Hen well in the rear. Even the helicopter dipped its nose and zoomed lower.
The officer was shouting, “They’re on the floor. We’ve got to get in.” He smashed the side window with the butt of his gun- which activated an alarm loud enough to shatter eardrums. He put his arm through, swung back the door and dipped inside.
In a moment he emerged with a body trussed with plasticuffs and leather belt. Others helped lift the man out and onto the grass, where they unbuckled the belt that pinioned his legs. He was breathing. He opened his eyes.
A second man was removed from the space behind the back seat. He, also, had been tied up and handcuffed, and he, also, was alive. Like his companion, he looked dazed and ill. The heat inside, with all windows closed, must have been appalling.
Neither of the rescued men was Matthew Porter.
Jimmy Barneston wasn’t too concerned by the state of them. Quite rightly, he wanted information. Someone thoughtfully produced a bottle of water. Barneston snatched it, unscrewed the top and splashed most of the contents across the face of the nearest man.
“Somebody kill that fucking alarm!” Barneston yelled.
It took a few minutes to get under the Range Rover’s bonnet and locate the mechanism. A uniformed inspector disabled it.
The men’s groans could now be heard by everyone. The more animated of the two was still handcuffed and lying on his side. But at least he was conscious.
“Where’s Porter?” Barneston asked. “What happened to him?”
One question was a lot to cope with. Two was overdoing it. The man shook his head.
Barneston asked again, “What happened? Come on, man, I need to know.”
The mouth was moving soundlessly, like a beached fish.
“I can’t hear him,” Barneston said. “Someone tell that chopper to get the hell out of here.”
Hen said, “He’s dehydrated. Give him a drink, for pity’s sake.” She snatched up the plastic bottle and held it to the man’s mouth.
He gulped at it.
They fetched another bottle for the second man. “Can’t we get them out of these cuffs?” Hen asked. “The poor guys are in pain.”
One of the police gunmen unhitched cutters from his belt and snipped through the plasticuffs.
The man who seemed in slightly better shape sat up, and immediately vomited, throwing up all of the water he’d swallowed and more.
It definitely wasn’t Jimmy Barneston’s day. He’d taken some of it on his shoes.
The man seemed to be about to retch again. In fact, he was trying to speak a word that he eventually spluttered out.
“Gas?” Barneston said. “Did you say gas? He used gas on you?”
A nod.
“What-CS?”
He shook his head, and the movement seemed to hurt him, because he winced and shut his eyes.
“Did he put it to your face, or what?”
Now he managed a few connected words. “Took me from behind. I was coughing. Couldn’t breathe. Don’t remember any more.”
“So the gas knocked you out. This was inside the house?”
“Living room.”
“Did you see him?”
He shook his head and placed his hand, palm inwards, against his face, covering his mouth and nose.
Barneston was quick on the uptake. “He was wearing a gas mask?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you get any warning? Alarms?”
“Going to throw up again.”
This time, just in time, Barneston stepped aside.
When the man’s head came up, Barneston said, “What about Matt Porter? Was he in the room with you?”
“Another room.”
“So he would have been gassed as well. What happened then?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t have any memory of being driven here? You didn’t see what happened?”
The man looked around him and asked, “Where are we anyway?”
The question remained unanswered because Barneston had turned to the second guard and was trying to question him. But the gas had affected this one more seriously. He was talking gibberish.
