The beatrice stubbs boxs.., p.20
The Beatrice Stubbs Boxset Two, page 20
Nikos joined in the laughter. "He told me he was lunching with his new girlfriend."
"Some girlfriend! Antonis is fifty-seven and has a moustache!"
"He's so false. Smiles and charm with Joyce Milligan for the pictures, but did you see the way he shoved her into the Jeep? At least Beatrice is with them. She'll look after her."
"I think he's had enough of old women today. Well, he can go back to preening himself in front of tourists from tomorrow."
"Yes, best place for him. Why has he had enough of old women? This case?"
Voulakis yawned. "I suppose. Not glamorous enough for him. Plus those two ladies came in this afternoon, the original witnesses, and he had to listen to their chatter for over an hour."
"Over an hour? Why?"
"Nothing important. They'd remembered something from the Santorini incident."
"Did he tell you what it was they remembered?"
"A noise, apparently. After seeing that man throw the old lady off a cliff, they heard a motorbike start. They heard it again this morning and recalled the sound. As Xanthou said, it's probably the closest thing to excitement in their lives, so they have to wring out every last drop."
Nikos snapped his head to look at Voulakis.
"A motorbike?"
"So they said. It's just a way of getting involved. That's why they went to visit the Milligan woman. Desperate to be part of the action."
Nikos indicated and pulled over into a concrete merchant's yard. "Wait. They visited Joyce Milligan?"
"Why are we stopping?"
"They heard the same sound of a motorbike? When? Where?"
"Today. At the hospital."
Nikos reversed into a three-point turn and started the siren.
Chapter 30
Joyce sighed as the car turned the bend and they lost sight of the hospital staff.
"Such lovely people. I wonder if I can come back next year, perhaps with fewer injuries."
Beatrice swivelled in her seat. "Even if you turned up bouncing with health, I’m sure they'd be delighted to see you. Are you comfortable?"
"Well, I'd rather be back there, riding pillion with him." She jerked her head at their escort. "I asked him if he was married, but he went all coy."
Xanthou, unsmiling, said, "He doesn't speak English."
Joyce pushed herself round to look out the back and gave the outrider a girlish wave, a ripple of gnarled knuckles. Beatrice chuckled to see him lift a gloved hand in response.
"You see, the language of love is universal." Joyce winced as she returned to her original position.
Beatrice frowned. "Joyce, are you..."
"I'm right as rain, my dear. Don't worry. Might just give the surfing a miss next weekend."
Xanthou indicated and took a quieter road uphill towards the centre of the island. The Jeep climbed to greener areas and Beatrice regretted the onset of dusk. Peaceful roads, forests and views of which they would see very little as the light faded.
"This is a quicker route than going back through the city, I assume?"
Xanthou nodded once, like an extra not paid enough for dialogue.
Beatrice tried again. "The journey takes around twenty minutes, I believe?"
"Depends on traffic."
So that would suffice for small talk. They rode in silence for several minutes, Beatrice inhaling the scent of evening foliage. She looked back at Joyce.
"Warm enough?"
"Snug as a bug in..." The remainder of the rhyme was drowned out by the roar of an overtaking motorcycle, startling Beatrice and causing Xanthou to touch the brakes.
"Idiot!" Xanthou spat.
He was right. Even on such quiet roads, overtaking on a bend was a stupid and unnecessary risk.
"Definitely," Beatrice agreed. The sound of the bike's engine faded into the distance.
"Drivers like that will be dead soon," said Xanthou.
"But sadly they take others with them." She flipped down the sun visor to look in the vanity mirror. "You all right in the back there?"
"Fine, Beatrice. A bit peckish is all."
"We'll have time for a snack at the airport. Our last chance to sample..."
Three things happened at once. Beatrice realised the road behind them was empty, with no sign of their escort. The police radio burst into life, urgent voices speaking Greek, and her mobile rang. Caller display showed Nikos Stephanakis. She hooked a finger in one ear to block out the background noise and answered.
"Beatrice! Stop immediately. Dean may be lying in wait or following. I believe he's still in the area. We're about five minutes away, so stop now and turn around. We'll meet you. Tell the outrider to keep his position at the rear."
Beatrice looked behind them. "OK, we'll stop right away. But our outrider has disappeared."
Nikos swore. She ended the call and tried to attract Xanthou's attention. He was yelling into the police radio and driving faster than was safe.
"Stop the car, Inspector! We have to turn around!"
"Don't be stupid. This is a few old ladies creating a fuss over nothing. And Stephanakis is one of them. We're going to the airport as planned. And if Dean is following us, turning round delivers the chicken straight into the fox's jaws." He turned the radio volume to a background buzz and drove still faster.
"Inspector, I am senior officer here. You obey my orders. Stop the..."
Xanthou braked sharply, causing Beatrice to drop her mobile. On the road ahead, stark in the glare of the headlights, lay a motorcycle and its rider. The torso was clearly visible while the lower body seemed trapped beneath the chassis. There was no sign of movement. Xanthou switched off the engine, unclipped his seatbelt and withdrew his gun.
"No!" Beatrice caught hold of his jacket. "If this is an ambush..."
Xanthou shook her off. "... then I am armed. If not, I can help. Call an ambulance." He got out of the car, his gun trained on the stricken biker, and approached.
Beatrice scrabbled for her phone and scanned the surrounding woodland. The silence, the forest, the cool evening air stretched her senses to screaming point. Once she’d located her mobile, she twisted to reassure Joyce, who was staring past her at the road ahead.
“Beatrice...?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. He’s...”
A shot blasted out, ringing round the trees and shocking both women into silence.
Xanthou crumpled and hit the ground.
The body under the bike remained inert, but out of the trees, a figure emerged. Dressed in a black ski mask and a leather jacket unremarkable in its lack of identifying features, the man trained his gun on the Jeep.
"Joyce, get down. As low as you can." Beatrice opened the glove compartment, but found no gun. She dialled Nikos on her mobile with shaking fingers.
"Officer down," she whispered. "Passenger safe. Armed man approaching."
The figure moved towards Xanthou, his focus still on the Jeep. Beatrice glanced to her left and checked the ignition. Xanthou had left the keys there. Faintly she could hear Nikos's voice from the mobile and Joyce's uneven breathing. A brace of sitting ducks. She released her seatbelt. His gun still trained on the car, the man kicked Xanthou's prone body and looked down. There was no response. He snatched up Xanthou’s gun, straightened and began to approach the Jeep. His mask hid his features but she caught a flash of white teeth in the headlights as he yelled in her direction, his gun aimed at Beatrice's face.
“Stubbs! Put your hands where I can see them!”
Beatrice dropped the phone into her lap and raised her palms to the level of her head.
Joyce’s shaking voice came from the back seat. "Go, Beatrice. Get out now and God bless you."
Beatrice did not move. "I'm not leaving you."
The man paced towards them.
"Go on. He’s not interested in you. Get out and go. Please don't ask me to meet my Maker with you on my conscience." Her voice broke.
Beatrice's whole body shook, but she remained where she was. "No. I have a duty of care."
"So did I." She was crying, her words hard to make out. "We thought we were doing the right thing. Please, Beatrice..."
The gunman opened Beatrice’s door.
Chapter 31
As the car rounded the corner, Nikos took in the situation in a millisecond. In the headlights, a bike and a body. The outrider. The temptation to ride on past and find Dean arose but Nikos slammed on the brakes, hit the hazard flashers and drew his weapon.
The motionless uniform lay at the edge of the road, his bike on its side about twenty metres farther ahead. Nikos handed his mobile to Voulakis, instructed him keep listening to Beatrice and to call an ambulance. He got out of the car and approached the uniformed man. The headlights illuminating his movements made him a perfect target if anyone was lying in wait. He crouched beside the motorcycle officer, whose name he couldn’t recall and holstered his weapon. The helmet was scratched and scuffed. He lifted the visor, holding his breath. No blood, eyes closed, breathing regular, strong pulse.
“Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”
No response.
He squinted at the car and saw Voulakis setting up a POLICE warning sign on the bend. When he looked back down, the motorcyclist’s eyes were open.
“Hi, hello? Can you hear me?”
“Where’s my bike?”
“Here. It’s fine. Do you know what happened?”
He tried to sit up. Nikos put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay still. Wait for the ambulance crew.”
The rider relaxed onto the ground.
“Someone hit me. A biker. He tried to overtake and I signalled to stand back but he did it anyway and hit me with I-don’t-know-what. I came off the bike and...”
“What’s your name?”
“Tsipras.”
“What day is it?”
“Thursday.”
“What kind of bike do you ride?”
“Honda Transalp, XL700V.”
“You’ll be fine, Tspiras.”
“Is he hurt?” Voulakis had joined them.
“I can’t tell. He needs to be checked by an expert. Let’s leave the helmet in place.” Nikos rested his hand on the rider’s arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Weird. Dizzy. Shit! What happened to the ladies?”
The very question tearing at Nikos. He stood up and faced Voulakis.
“Sir, I’m going after the Jeep. Dean is on two wheels and while I’m in pursuit, I want the same advantages. I’ll take Tspiras’s bike; you stay with him and keep trying DI Stubbs. Radio and mobile. I’m going to need back-up so move the police vehicle to one side.”
He grabbed his mobile and ran for the Honda. It had been a while since his motorcycle cop days, but this kind of bike and Nikos were made for each other. He heaved it upright and swung into the saddle. Seven words pulsed through his mind as he gunned the ignition. Beatrice’s voice, professional and calm. “Officer down. Passenger safe. Armed man approaching”.
Beatrice heard Joyce flinch as the gunman wrenched open the door.
“Get over and drive. Do it quickly and don’t make me hurt you.”
He shoved her shoulder with his left hand, while the right continued to aim his gun at her. She clambered over the gearstick and lifted her legs after her.
“Mr Dean, my driving skills...”
“My name is not Mr Dean. Now fucking move!” He turned the police radio off.
She started the car, put it into first and moved forward, easing around the fallen bike, its dummy rider and the immobile shape that was Inspector Xanthou.
A strong smell of ammonia hit her nostrils. Joyce Milligan’s fear had manifested itself. The man swore and opened his window. In the mirror, Beatrice couldn’t see Joyce at all and assumed she was still in the foot well.
“Come on, speed it up.” A bass, rough, West Country accent through gritted teeth. In only five words, this voice revealed itself as far from the transatlantic syrupy timbre of Toni Dean. If not Dean, who the hell was under the mask?
She accelerated and changed gear. He slid down in his seat and reached for something on the floor. Beatrice’s mobile. He tossed it out of the window without taking his eyes from her.
Dusk had departed and night crept over the landscape. The scene was monochrome and sinister in the headlights, trees casting long-fingered threats across the grey tarmac.
“Slow down. Now turn right. Don’t indicate! Yes, that track there. Go on.”
Sandy and overgrown as it was, the track was no match for a police Jeep. They bounced and lurched away from the main road, branches and brambles scratching at the windows, causing Beatrice to duck more than once. Moonlight made visibility surprisingly clear. Nevertheless, Beatrice switched to full beam, mainly to advertise their own visibility. Her concentration on the terrain concealed frantic activity in her head.
How to get him off guard, how to alert the rest of the force to their location, how to protect Joyce without getting herself hurt in the process, how to convince the gunman she was no threat.
After a few minutes, in which Beatrice grew increasingly concerned by the total absence of sound or movement from the back seat, the track descended steeply into a small clearing with a stone-built herder’s cottage in the centre. It seemed long abandoned, although there were signs of recent activity judging by the amount of tyre tracks in the dust.
She brought the Jeep to a bumpy halt, but didn’t switch off the engine.
“Don’t stop here. Pull up to the hut.”
A memory, or rather the resentment of one, surfaced in Beatrice’s half-consciousness. A police driving instructor, who thought he was a Marine drill sergeant, teaching her to drive. What are you doing?! Put it in first! No, don’t accelerate yet, you moron! Hear that? That’s the gearbox screaming! What is wrong with you!? He’d tried to humiliate her into tears. He failed, she passed. Most importantly, she learned more about power games than driving.
She pressed down on the accelerator and clutch simultaneously, then tried shoving the gearstick into first. The graunching clash of metal made her wince.
“For fuck’s sake!”
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, breaking her own breaths to sound nervous and emotional. “Driving isn’t really...”
“Right. Stop the car here and get her out.”
“Mr Dean, can I say something?”
“MY NAME IS NOT FUCKING TONI DEAN! Just shut your mouth. If you keep quiet and do as you’re told, I’ll leave you out of it. Just get her out of the car. Do not talk to me and DO NOT get in my way!”
Spittle flew from the gap in the ski mask. Beatrice could not see his eyes, which under the circumstances, was a good thing. She opened her door.
Contrary to expectations, Joyce was conscious. She said nothing and her eyes were unreadable in the dark. Her skin was both moist and cool, a smell of urine emanated from her clothes and she doubled over in pain as Beatrice helped her from the car. Yet her grip on Beatrice’s hand was as strong as ever. The man watched them from a short distance, his gun as still as a signpost and his Maglite pointed to the entrance. He gestured with his head for them to go inside.
The building resembled a bunker. Squat, square with a flat roof and thick walls, a rough wooden door and deep-set windows without shutters. Outside, a few large rocks circled the remains of a bonfire.
Beatrice shoved open the door into blackness and immediately thought of spiders. She supported Joyce as they stood just inside the doorway. With an impatient exhalation, the man pushed past and lit an old-fashioned kerosene lamp. A weak yellow glow reflected off the whitewashed walls. No spiders, breadcrumbs on the table and the scent of a recent fire. So this was where he’d been hiding. The barrel of the gun directed them to the single bed against the wall. Beatrice and Joyce sat, clutching each other’s hands. The man paced to each window, listening and checking, his gun cocked. Finally he turned to look at them. He let the gun fall to his side and seemed to be waiting for them to speak.
The mask induced a disproportionate amount of fear. Beatrice tried to convince herself it was only a stage crooner under there, a man who dyed his hair and bleached his teeth and should have been in Butlins. It didn’t work. They waited for him to say whatever it was he needed to say. Whatever it was that had made him kill three elderly women and attempt to murder a fourth. What drove him to shoot one police officer and abduct another. He would need his moment. They always did. Whether to camera, to victims, to YouTube, they needed their fifteen minutes.
Right on cue, he slipped his hand under the neck of the ski mask and eased it off his head. A feeling of vindication and sickness swept over Beatrice.
Nikos was right. Toni Dean. The tan, the teeth, the bleached hair. She clenched Joyce’s hand so hard she heard the poor woman whimper. He’d just shown his face to two witnesses. Which implied that after tonight, no one would be left to identify him.
Chapter 32
Each time Nikos took his hand from the throttle, he could hear distant sirens behind him, growing louder. Ambulance? Back-up? He hoped it was both. The road wound upward, the temperature dropped and moonlight through the trees created a cinematic effect. He needed another pair of hands. Not just an officer in support but two more limbs with opposable thumbs to hold his gun while he steered.
On the straight, he drove as fast as he dared. At every corner, he slowed, not only for safety but to avoid announcing his arrival. On an awkward bend, he thought he saw a light flash through the forest but when he looked again, it had disappeared. His inattention to the road, even for a second, was a bad idea. Ahead, stark in the single beam of the headlight, lay two bodies, one under a Harley Davidson Chopper. Nikos braked, dismounted the Honda and readied his gun.
The decoy under the Harley did not concern him. Xanthou, on the other hand, lay on his back with his hands pressed to his chest. His eyes were closed and his lower jaw spasmed, chattering his teeth together.
“Xanthou!”
No response.
Nikos checked his pulse and noted the blood seeping through the clothes beneath his clenched hands. He ran back to the bike to radio Voulakis.
“At the scene. Xanthou has a serious gunshot wound to the chest. This injury is life-threatening so make this the ambulance’s priority. The police Jeep is missing, as are its passengers and there is no sign of Toni Dean. They can’t have gained too much distance, so I am going in pursuit.”
