Dying Words Read online

  The police helicopter wheeled away back up into the sky and Birch nodded to himself.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, through clenched teeth.

  Johnson did as he was instructed, and the Renault shot forward as Birch stamped on the gas pedal. The dark blue car slammed into the rear of the Nissan, the impact causing both cars to skid slightly.

  Birch smiled thinly.

  That’s for the first of the five, you piece of shit. How long ago was it now? Eight months? That’s how long we’ve been hunting you, isn’t it? Eight long fucking months.

  He hit the accelerator again and sent the Renault crashing into the back of the Nissan a second time. The impact was so savage that part of the Nissan’s rear bumper came free. Portions of shattered tail-light spilled into the road.

  That’s for the twelve-year-old you raped and murdered.

  The Nissan swerved. Birch rammed it again.

  That’s for the one who was fourteen. The one you strangled with electrical flex after you’d raped her. The one you hung from the highest diving board at Southwark Park swimming pool. Just to taunt us, eh?

  ‘Suspect’s vehicle is in Lancaster Place,’ Johnson said into the two-way, glancing briefly at his superior’s blazing expression. ‘Why wasn’t the road blocked?’

  A fourth time, Birch sent the Renault slamming into the Nissan’s rear end.

  And that’s for the latest one. For the little nine-year-old. The one you buggered as well. Raping her wasn’t quite enough this time, was it? Nor was blinding her with a soldering iron while you did it.

  The traffic lights at the end of the road were on amber. Someone tried to cross but the Nissan drove through anyway, narrowly missing them.

  ‘Turning left into the Strand,’ Johnson continued.

  Birch saw uniformed men on the street. The wail of sirens filled the air as more police cars came hurtling from the direction of the Aldwych.

  End of the line, cunt.

  ‘We’ve got him,’ the DI breathed, eyes blazing.

  He momentarily eased the pressure on the accelerator, cursing to himself as he saw the Nissan heading directly for two police cars trying to block the road. It hit them with a thunderous crash, the impact enough to open a gap between them large enough for the Nissan to scrape through.

  Uniformed men ran towards the stalled grey vehicle. Birch hit the brake and he and Johnson hauled themselves out of the Renault.

  The driver of the Nissan, blood running from a cut just below his hairline, was already out and running towards Southampton Street.

  Don’t let him get away. Not now.

  The DI saw him pull the long, sharp blade from inside his jacket as the first of the uniformed men came within reach of him.

  ‘Watch it,’ bellowed Birch.

  The blade flashed. Wielded with a combination of effortless expertise and demonic force, it caught the constable across the right ear, sheared off part of the lobe and hacked into his neck deeply enough to sever a major artery. A fountain of blood erupted from the wound as the man fell to his knees shrieking helplessly, hands clutching at the yawning gash.

  ‘Fuck,’ snarled the DI and ran on, Johnson close beside him.

  Some of the uniformed men were gathering around their fallen companion, others had already run to their cars. More were joining the two detectives in the chase.

  ‘He’s heading for Covent Garden,’ Birch gasped as he and Johnson ran.

  Ahead of them, the bloodied knife still clutched in his fist, their quarry sprinted away with surprising speed for a man in his early fifties.

  ‘If we don’t stop him we’ll lose him in the crowd,’ panted Birch.

  4

  Birch sucked in a deep breath, feeling it rasp in his throat as he ran, Johnson pounding along beside him. Both men had their eyes fixed on their target.

  He was less than fifty yards ahead of them but, Birch thought, if he managed to disappear into the maze that was Covent Garden Market he could vanish as easily as a puff of smoke in a high wind.

  So many people to hurt. So many places to hide.

  Behind him, Birch could hear sirens. Uniformed men were now joining the pursuit, but the two detectives were still the closest to the suspect.

  Up ahead there were screams. Shouts of fear and shock as members of the public caught sight of the knife held by the running man, who sometimes crashed into them in his haste to get away.

  Birch and Johnson did their best to avoid collisions with the hapless bystanders but it proved impossible. The DI hit a group of teenagers and sent two crashing to the ground. Some of their companions laughed, while others shouted abuse at the two policemen.

  The suspect dashed through one of the stone archways leading into the market itself and Birch lost sight of him.

  ‘Steve,’ he shouted, still running, gesturing to his companion. Johnson understood and veered off to his left, taking a route that would lead him to the far side of the market.

  Birch blundered on through the same arch, almost colliding with two women carrying large blue shopping bags. They looked in bewilderment at his sweat-stained face. The DI looked wildly to right and left.

  No sign of the man he sought.

  ‘Where are you, you bastard?’ he whispered under his breath, walking now through the hordes of browsing shoppers gathered round the many stalls in the market, inspecting the wares on offer.

  His quarry could be anywhere by now. He might even have run straight on, out through the other side of the market and up to Covent Garden Tube station. If the bastard had managed to get down on to the platforms and board a train, they hadn’t got a hope in hell of finding him.

  Birch walked up an aisle, checking the sea of faces that surrounded him, his heart thudding not from the exertion he’d just subjected it to but from nervousness. He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are, you scumbag.

  He passed a jewellery stall where two women were inspecting silver rings. Another vendor was selling framed photos of London. Potential buyers were perusing the selection. Birch reached the end of the aisle and peered out across the cobbled area beyond, scanning the faces there.

  ‘We’ve lost him.’

  He heard the voice close behind but didn’t turn.

  ‘I said—’ Johnson began again but Birch raised a hand to silence him.

  ‘He’s here,’ the DI said quietly. ‘I know he is.’

  ‘How can you be sure? He could have made it to the Tube station or be hiding in any one of these shops,’ Johnson insisted.

  Birch took a step away from his companion, still raking his gaze back and forth over the crowd.

  ‘He could have cut back towards Bow Street. I’ll get the other units to seal off Long Acre.’ The DS reached into his jacket pocket for his mobile phone. He was about to say something into the mouthpiece when Birch slapped him hard on the arm and pointed towards a figure moving briskly away from the market, looking furtively around him.

  ‘I told you the bastard was still here,’ he said triumphantly.

  He set off running, his feet pounding across the cobbles. Johnson joined him. They were less than thirty yards from the man when he spotted them.

  ‘Stop,’ roared Birch, but the suspect was already running.

  5

  Along King Street they raced. Those walking towards them paused to allow them past. Some tried to sidestep, wondering why these men in suits were running so fast and so purposefully. Others glanced at the figure they were pursuing: the older man in the leather jacket who occasionally looked over his shoulder at those who followed him.

  For Detective Inspector David Birch, the world had narrowed to just the twenty yards that separated him from his quarry. Faces of onlookers were indistinct as he passed them. All he was aware of was the thudding of his heart, the rasping of his breath and the growing ache in his muscles. But he pushed those feelings to the back of his mind and concentrated on the only thing that mattered to him. Catc
hing up with the man he was chasing.

  Ahead of him, his quarry dashed down Garrick Street then across St Martin’s Lane, slamming into a man coming the other way. The man jumped to his feet and turned to grab at his assailant, but he hesitated when he saw the knife swing into view.

  There were more screams as the blade cut through the air, missing the man by inches.

  Those in the path of the runners dodged to escape the onrushing men, in particular the one wielding the knife. The blood on it was starting to congeal now.

  Birch tried to force more speed from his pounding legs, and Johnson kept pace with him, shoving people aside if he had to in his eagerness to reach the quarry.

  Off to his right he heard more sirens, but the sound drifted meaninglessly on the air with the shouts and screams of those on the pavements. Cars sounded their horns as the men ran into the road.

  Birch sucked in another deep breath, telling himself that his prey was slowing down a little. He almost tripped as he rounded a pile of rubbish bags stacked on the pavement outside a cafe.

  Getting tired, you bastard?

  The older man looked back, almost stopped running for precious seconds.

  Birch, encouraged by this show of weakness, found extra strength and ran on even faster.

  There was now less than fifteen yards between himself and the suspect.

  ‘Stop there,’ he bellowed.

  The man swayed uncertainly for a moment.

  ‘Sanderson,’ the DI roared.

  Malcolm Sanderson wiped sweat from his face and spun round once more, determined to escape. Just ahead of him, he saw the means.

  ‘He’s going into the Tube,’ Birch said, shooting out a hand and practically dragging Johnson along with him. Sanderson had already disappeared into the entrance.

  Birch and Johnson rushed after him, buffeting their way past people climbing up from the subterranean depths of Leicester Square station.

  The policemen took the stairs two at a time, hurtling down the steps with little regard for their own safety.

  ‘There,’ Birch snapped, seeing Sanderson struggling over the automatic barriers.

  A uniformed London Transport official was shouting angrily at Sanderson, trying to stop him from scrambling over.

  ‘Get away from him,’ Birch shouted as the older man landed on the far side and ran towards the escalators.

  The uniformed man watched in bemusement as Birch also clambered over the barrier. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he shouted, but the two policemen ran on.

  Sanderson was already on his way down the moving stairway, knocking people out of his way where he had to, almost falling. Birch and Johnson followed, feet pounding on the metal slats. Those watching from the rising escalator looked on incredulously. Someone laughed. There was even a cheer.

  Sanderson reached the bottom and tripped.

  He rolled over, got to his feet with surprising agility and ducked into the archway that led through to the Northern Line.

  Birch jumped the last three steps and landed heavily, also rolling over before scrambling to his feet to continue his pursuit.

  Johnson was right behind him. But the DS misjudged the jump from the escalator and landed heavily on his left ankle. He cursed and felt red hot pain shoot through the joint and up his leg. However, he dragged himself back to his feet, trying to ignore the increasing pain, forcing himself on in spite of his injury.

  They pounded down the short walkway and then the stairs that led to the platforms.

  Birch recognised an all too familiar sound.

  A train was pulling in.

  ‘If he gets on that we’ve lost him,’ he panted, skidding out on to one of the platforms.

  He scanned the faces of the passengers waiting there.

  No sign of Sanderson.

  ‘Other platform,’ Johnson gasped and spun round.

  Southbound, a train was preparing to pull out. Johnson, wincing against the pain from his ankle, ran down the length of the six hundred ton transport, peering through windows, looking for their suspect and hoping to Christ that he didn’t see him. If he did, that meant he was seconds from escaping.

  He suddenly turned and hurtled back as fast as he could towards the driver’s cab.

  Stop him pulling out. Stop the fucking train.

  From behind him there was a scream. Shrill. Terrified.

  He stopped and headed back to the northbound side, where he saw Birch advancing slowly towards the far end of the platform.

  Another scream echoed through the underground cavern, reverberating off the walls and curved ceiling.

  The thunder of the approaching train was growing louder but Birch seemed oblivious of it. His attention was fixed on something else. For a moment, Johnson almost forgot the pain from his ankle.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he murmured.

  6

  The woman Sanderson held captive was in her early thirties.

  Smartly dressed. Pretty. She’d been carrying a briefcase but had dropped it when he’d grabbed her. It lay at her feet, some papers spilling from it. Something to do with her work, Birch thought as he advanced on her and the man who held a knife to her throat. All kinds of thoughts tumbled through his head as he walked to within a few feet of the woman.

  Where was she going? Where had she come from? Was she married? Did she have kids? It was as if any of those thoughts were preferable to the one that stuck most stubbornly in his mind. The one that told him she was going to be dead in a minute or two.

  ‘Stay back,’ Sanderson hissed, pressing the bloodied blade more urgently against the woman’s neck. ‘Or I’ll cut her throat.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Birch said evenly, looking past the terrified woman’s face.

  Johnson moved up alongside his companion, his breath still coming in gasps. By now it felt as if someone had stuck an air pump into his ankle and inflated it. The joint was throbbing fiercely.

  ‘I’m going to get on that train,’ Sanderson said, nodding in the direction of the carriage now rolling to a halt alongside him. ‘And you’re not going to stop me. If you try, I’ll kill her.’

  ‘Then kill her now,’ Birch rasped. ‘Because there’s no fucking way you’re getting off this platform except in cuffs. Got that?’

  A look of uncertainty flickered momentarily across Sanderson’s face, then he seemed to shake off the threat, pressing the knife more firmly against the soft flesh of his captive’s throat.

  ‘Don’t open the doors,’ Birch roared towards the tunnel mouth, his eyes never leaving Sanderson. ‘Driver. Can you hear me?’

  ‘I’ll kill her,’ the older man insisted. ‘Don’t play games with me.’ He tugged harder on the woman’s hair, dragging her head sharply backwards to expose her neck even more.

  ‘Driver,’ Birch shouted again. ‘Can you hear me? I’m a policeman. Use your radio. Check with your controller if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you what’s going on.’

  There was a moment of interminable silence, punctuated only by the terrified woman’s sobs.

  ‘I can hear you,’ a voice from just inside the tunnel called.

  ‘Don’t open the doors. Don’t let anyone on or off. Take the train out of the station now,’ Birch commanded. ‘Do it.’

  ‘Do you want her death on your conscience?’ Sanderson said quietly. ‘Because it’ll be your fault when she dies.’

  ‘I’ll live with it,’ Birch said flatly, his blazing gaze never leaving Sanderson’s.

  Johnson looked at his superior briefly, then turned to see uniformed officers spilling on to the platform at the far end.

  ‘Keep them back,’ Sanderson rasped, some of the bravado now missing from his tone. ‘If one of them comes any nearer I’ll kill this bitch.’

  Johnson, leaning against the wall to take some pressure off his injured ankle, held up a hand to halt the advance of the uniformed men. ‘Clear the platform,’ he shouted. ‘Get everyone out of here.’

  ‘Driver,’ Birch shouted. ‘Ta
ke this train out of the station now. Move.’

  There was a loud hydraulic hiss and the train began to pull slowly away. From inside the carriages, people stared out at the drama being enacted before them. At the far end of the platform, the uniformed men were hustling the last of the waiting passengers to the exit.

  ‘You bastard,’ snapped Sanderson.

  Birch smiled almost imperceptibly. ‘I can’t see from here,’ he said quietly. ‘But I’m guessing that the policemen who’ve just arrived on this platform are from an ARU. That means they’re carrying guns and it means they’re very good shots.’ He ignored the sweat that ran down his face in rivulets. His eyes never left Sanderson’s. ‘Now usually in a hostage situation if some mad bastard’s got a gun to someone’s head or a knife to somebody’s throat, then the marksmen have to be careful that they’ve got a clear shot. Because if they shoot and the bullet hits the wrong area of the body they run the risk of some kind of muscular spasm when the bad guy dies. Then maybe his finger’ll tighten on the trigger and blow the fucking hostage’s brains out anyway. But down here, they haven’t got that problem. They’ve got a clean shot at you. They’ll put one through the base of your skull and sever your spinal cord, and it’ll all happen so quick that knife will just drop to the ground.’

  Sanderson swallowed hard.

  ‘It’s up to you. If I give them the signal they’ll shoot now. Kill you and her. If you cut her throat they’ll shoot you anyway. However you look at it, the only way you’re going to walk off this platform is if you let her go.’

  The woman was sobbing almost uncontrollably now.

  ‘Let her go and you live,’ the DI continued. ‘Anything else, you’re a dead man.’

  Sanderson gripped the knife handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked from Birch to Johnson then beyond to the uniformed men clogging the far end of the platform.

  ‘Let her go and you live,’ the DI repeated evenly.

  Sanderson was breathing heavily. He tried to swallow but his mouth was chalk-dry.