Out of Reach Page 2
Schaefer picked up the Browning and set off in pursuit of Yates, who was already two flights above him. Leaping the stairs two at a time, Schaefer matched Yates step for step. By the fifth floor, his lungs burned, and his heart jack-hammered in his chest, but Schaefer had felt pain before and knew that it would pass. His true suffering could only be relieved by one thing. Schaefer kept running. As he reached the eighth floor, Schaefer looked up and saw Yates leave the stairwell on the tenth floor, the steel fire door clattering shut behind him. Schaefer raced up the final two flights and burst into a deserted corridor. He sent Noel another message on his mobile, “10th floor.”
Schaefer pocketed his phone and moved along the quiet, dimly-lit corridor. The walls and the dozen or so apartment doors were all covered in graffiti. In among the conventional street tags Schaefer could see Latin words, pentagrams and other occult symbols that would fit Yates’ profile. Schaefer was halfway along the corridor when he heard one of the doors open behind him. Schaefer turned to find himself confronted by a sawn-off shotgun wielded by a kid half his age. The door opposite opened and an even younger kid stepped out. This one held a sub-machine gun, an Uzi.
“This our nest, friend,” Schaefer heard Yates’ voice coming from behind him, and turned to see his quarry standing in the last doorway. “Outsiders, they not welcome.”
Every single unopened door along the corridor opened at once, and Yates’ young acolytes stepped out brandishing a variety of weapons. Guns, swords, knives, and axes were all in evidence.
Schaefer tried to remain unfazed by his situation, and focused on the only thing that kept him going, “Tell me what you know about Amber.”
Schaefer aimed the Browning at Yates, and cocked it to make a point.
Yates flashed a shark’s smile at Schaefer, “You won’t kill me, friend. He seen to that. You still can’t see what this is.”
Schaefer looked around the corridor at the dead-eyed kids who surrounded him.
“You think death scares me?” Schaefer asked coldly.
“Death ain’t waiting for you, friend,” Yates smiled. “There something much, much worse.”
“Drop your weapons! Drop your weapons!” A chorus of deep voices boomed off the walls as a squad of heavily armed S.O.19 officers rushed the corridor. Schaefer saw all the kids look to Yates for guidance, as the machine-gun wielding police officers closed on them. Yates gave an almost imperceptible nod, and all his acolytes complied, dropping their weapons and filling the corridor as they surrendered. More and more of them appeared from inside the flats, and the corridor soon became dangerously overcrowded. Schaefer marvelled at the unquestioning devotion Yates inspired in his followers and the simplicity of the ploy, which enabled Yates to escape through the fire exit at the other end of the corridor. The police couldn’t even see him through the crush of bodies, and even if they had seen him, there was virtually no chance of pursuit from the other end. Schaefer forced his way through the throng, and where he met resistance, lashed out with the butt of the pistol. After the first couple of bodies fell, Schaefer found the going easier as the last of the crowd parted to allow him to pass.
Schaefer pushed his way onto the emergency stairwell and looked up and down. There was no sign of Yates in either direction. Schaefer could see another S.O.19 squad five flights below.
“Drop your gun!” The lead officer yelled up at Schaefer. Schaefer ignored the command and started towards the roof. Yates would not have risked an encounter with the police by heading down.
Bullets pocked the concrete around him as Schaefer leapt the final two flights of stairs. He burst onto the roof, the heavy door slamming behind him. Expecting some kind of assault, Schaefer was taken aback to find Yates standing on the lip of the roof, contemplating the drop.
“Tell me what you know,” Schaefer demanded.
Yates turned to face Schaefer slowly, a wry smile on his face. “The truth is always hidden in plain sight, Thomas,” Yates said, in a Home Counties accent that wasn’t his. He reverted to his usual patois. “That the river card. Show he face.”
Schaefer started, as Yates took a small step back, “Stop right there!”
“This your pain, friend,” Yates said. “Time for a new beginning.”
As the second squad of S.O.19 officers burst through the stairwell door, Leon Yates stepped off the roof and fell to his death twelve stories below. Schaefer ignored the warning cries from the police officers behind him and ran to the edge of the roof. Far below him he could see Yates’ mangled, contorted body. The world became stiflingly distant as Schaefer realised that his first proper lead in years was gone. He hardly felt the heavy hands on him as the police officers pulled him roughly away from the edge.
TWO
“You okay?” Noel asked Schaefer, who sat in the doorway of one of the many ambulances that now filled the courtyard outside the tower block. The strain of the night showed on Noel’s face.
“I’m fine,” Schaefer replied. “You?”
Noel rubbed his face with his palm. “D.I. Kent – Peter – he’s dead. We lost all four of them.”
“Sorry. The shooter’s on the other side of the building. He jumped off the roof.”
Noel spat at the mention of his partner’s killer. “I hope he’s burning.”
Schaefer turned his attention to the thirty or so young men who were being penned in and processed by a fifty strong squad of uniformed officers. Yates’ acolytes were searched, identified and cuffed before being loaded into one of a dozen waiting police vans. What started as the simple snatch-and-grab of one suspect had turned into a major criminal incident.
Pope, a wiry detective Schaefer didn’t know so well, approached. Schaefer got the sense Pope disapproved of him. Probably with good reason; this had been one of his leads.
“Any of these yours?” Pope asked.
Schaefer studied the acolytes more closely and saw a face he recognised.
“Him,” Schaefer replied, getting to his feet. Schaefer pointed out a tall, muscular young man whose eyes burned bright with hatred. “That’s Derek Liddle.”
*
The guy slumped on the bench seat stank to high heaven. Schaefer tried to gauge his age, but it was difficult. His bushy, long beard obscured half his face, and the other half was covered in thick grime. Schaefer stepped away from the sleeping drunk and slowly paced the lobby. Police stations were all the same. The notice board displaying pointless public service messages, homeless drunk sleeping one off, the teenagers arrested for booze-fuelled assault, the tired police officers becoming increasingly jaded with their daily exposure to the worst humanity has to offer. Not the worst, Schaefer corrected himself; even the police don’t see the real darkness.
Ron and Sandra Liddle entered fearfully. Ron’s father had come to London from Jamaica in the fifties. Sandra’s family had been here longer. Schaefer traced her lineage back to a great-grandfather who worked in the Liverpool dockyards. Both Afro-Caribbean, both in their fifties, both slightly overweight. Law-abiding, hard-working, nothing to suggest any involvement in Derek’s disappearance. Schaefer could see the shock in their eyes. When they engaged him to find their son, they never expected the trail to lead to a violent cult led by a dangerously unbalanced, ruthless, and, as it turned out, suicidal criminal.
“Mr and Mrs Liddle,” Schaefer said as he greeted them, “we found Derek.”
Sandra clasped Schaefer’s arm and asked, “Where is he?”
“Inside,” Schaefer said, nodding towards the custody suite. “We found him with a man calling himself Leon Yates. You ever hear of him?”
Sandra shook her head. “I used to know all Derek’s friends. But in the last couple of years he became a stranger.”
“I should’ve been stronger with the boy,” Ron started.
“I’ve seen kids run away from the most perfect homes,” Schaefer cut him off. “Doesn’t matter how strong or weak you are with them. If the need is there, someone like Yates will come along and exploit it.”
“What you here for!” Derek yelled. “You nothing to me but dead.”
“Calm down, or I’ll put you back inside,” Pope warned. Pope turned his attention to Schaefer, “He wasn’t carrying, so we’ve got nothing to hold him on. He’s all yours.”
Pope uncuffed Derek, who smiled slyly. “Police always gonna lose the game,” he observed. “We ain’t got no rules.”
“Neither do I,” Schaefer said as he grabbed Derek’s hands and bound them together with a plastic tie.
“What the fuck!” Derek objected.
“Derek Liddle, you have been sectioned under the Mental Health Act. For your own safety, I am authorised to use such force as is necessary to detain you.”
Schaefer pulled Derek close to him, “So I’m ready anytime you want to start playing.”
*
Derek had been silent for most of the drive out of London. The trip, which usually took forty minutes, had taken almost an hour because Schaefer had to make sure that he did not lose Ron and Sandra, who followed in their own car. He’d almost lost them in the one way system around Croydon, and was forced to stay in the slow lane on the A22 down to Sussex. Schaefer had turned off the A22 about a mile back, and was now head towards Perry Wood. As troubling as he found his trips to Milton House, the road to Perry Wood was one of his favourites. The trees arched together to form an unbroken canopy above the tarmac, and cracks of moonlight danced between the densely packed leaves.
“Seigneur said you’d come for me,” Derek said.
Schaefer looked in the rear view mirror and saw Derek fixing him with a hard stare. Schaefer said nothing.
“He say you carry your burden well, for a weak man.”
“You keep talking,” Schaefer threatened, “and I’ll show you just how weak I really am.”
Derek fell silent, as Schaefer turned off the road and drove between the grand sandstone pillars that marked the start of the private drive that led to Milton House.
*
Milton House was a grand, double-fronted Regency stately home that had been converted into a specialist psychiatric hospital. The walls were formed of large, heavy stones that doubtlessly provided the hospital’s private clients with a sense of security. Schaefer parked by the main entrance and pulled Derek from the car. Ron and Sandra followed Schaefer and Derek up the broad stone steps to the main door, which was flanked by Doric columns capped by an impressive pediment. Ron and Sandra’s heads were slightly bowed, a posture Schaefer had seen in other parents. Many felt a profound sense of shame and failure as they climbed these stone steps, and bowed their heads like supplicants about to make an offering in an ancient temple. Schaefer always tried to find ways to help parents understand that it wasn’t their fault, and in truth, it rarely was. Few of the kids he recovered were ever driven into the hands of cultists by abuse or neglect. Most were middle-class youngsters on a dangerous quest for answers.
Schaefer pressed the buzzer, and a voice crackled from the intercom by the front door, “Yes?”
“It’s Schaefer.” Schaefer glanced up at the CCTV camera bolted to the underside of the entablature. Moments later he heard the sound of the buzzer, and pushed the door open.
Schaefer led Derek into the spacious marble lobby. A lone security guard sat behind a desk, and gave Schaefer a nod of recognition. Milton House was the epitome of safe, modern psychiatric care. The extensive use of wood and glass in the décor conveyed a sense of contemporary openness that was presumably intended to make people feel that the patients of this institution were in good hands. Schaefer knew that the décor deteriorated the deeper one went into the building. The inner security door buzzed open and a captivatingly beautiful nurse – Schaefer had seen her around a few times, her name was Kelly or Carly – approached. She was followed by two heavy set orderlies.
“My name’s Charlie Simmons,” the nurse said, “you must be Mr Schaefer.”
“Derek Liddle, on a twenty-eight day assessment,” Schaefer replied, pushing Derek forward.
“We’ve been expecting you, Mr Liddle,” Charlie said, as the two orderlies manhandled him into their custody.
“Easy, man!” Derek protested the rough treatment.
“Derek, these people want to help you,” Ron said.
Charlie turned her attention to Ron and Sandra, “Mr and Mrs Liddle, if you’ll follow me, we’ll complete the admissions paperwork.”
As the orderlies led Derek away, Ron clasped Schaefer’s hand and shook it gratefully. “Thank you, Mr Schaefer. You don’t know what it means to have our son back.”
Across the lobby, Derek struggled against the orderlies’ restraining hands. “It’s not me who needs help, old man! It’s all you shadows. You and the old bitch will die in pain!” Derek yelled wildly, spittle spraying the floor. “When the darkness comes, who will feel your pain?”
The orderlies redoubled their efforts to pull Derek through the security door, but he pushed forward for one final pronouncement.
“And you, old Mr,” Derek shouted, directing his hostility towards Schaefer, “Seigneur told me you on a dark path. Papa Boya got you. You worse than dead!”
The sound of Derek’s ranting was cut off as the security door slammed shut, but Schaefer could see that he was still shouting and struggling against with the orderlies as they dragged him down the corridor.
Tears filled Sandra Liddle’s eyes. Schaefer knew there were worse things than seeing your child raving, but still felt for Derek’s mother. Charlie placed a reassuring hand on Sandra’s shoulder.
“We’ll look after him,” Charlie said softly. “If you’d like to follow me, we’ll get the paperwork done.”
Ron comforted his distraught wife, as Charlie led them into the administrative offices that flanked the lobby. Schaefer watched them go, feeling none of the satisfaction that he imagined one should feel at the successful conclusion of an investigation. Too much had gone wrong: the deaths of four police officers; and the suicide of a man who clearly knew something about Amber. Schaefer approached the desk.
“Is Doctor Gilmore here?” Schaefer asked the guard.
“No. He’s on call at home.”
“Thanks,” Schaefer said as he walked away.
“You have a good night,” the guard called out, as Schaefer left the building.
THREE
Schaefer pulled up at the black gates, wound down his window and pressed the intercom. Gilmore’s house was the kind of place middle England dreamt of. A high, ivy-covered wall encircled an immaculately manicured Home Counties garden. Situated slightly to the rear of the three-acre plot was the main house, a double-fronted Georgian red brick.
“Hello?” Gilmore’s voice was crisp and direct, and Schaefer was always convinced he could hear the faint residue of a Teutonic accent.
“It’s Schaefer.”
“Thomas!” Gilmore sounded genuinely pleased. “Come in.”
The electric gates parted, and Schaefer drove along mottled red tarmac towards the house. Neatly trimmed ivy covered the eastern half of the north-facing front wall. The brickwork and pointing looked as fresh as they had done when the house was newly built. Gilmore’s home was a testament to his fastidious and thorough nature; the doctor was prepared to invest time and resources to make sure that things were done properly.
Schaefer felt very conscious of the dilapidated, filthy state of his old BMW as he parked it next to Gilmore’s concours condition 1960s sky blue Mercedes pillarless coupe. Schaefer climbed the steps towards the finely painted black front door, where Gilmore waited.
“It’s good to see you, Thomas,” Gilmore said, as he shook Schaefer’s hand.
Years in the shadows had honed Schaefer’s ability to judge a person’s true intentions, but he always struggled around Gilmore. The gaunt doctor never betrayed anything other than empat
hy and warmth. Schaefer doubted that there was anyone on Earth as consistently happy and well-balanced as the genial man that stood before him. Perhaps it was simply good manners, the result of breeding, education, and a way of life that died at the turn of the last century. Or maybe Gilmore, one of the country’s most accomplished psychiatrists, was simply untroubled by the fears and doubts that blighted the hearts of most ordinary people.
“Come in,” Gilmore suggested, as he ushered Schaefer inside and shut the door behind him. “I was just about to have a drink. Would you like one?”
“That would be very kind, Doctor Gilmore,” Schaefer replied.
“Thomas,” Gilmore began with a smile, “how many times do I have to ask you to call me Harry?”
Gilmore led Schaefer along the hall, which was filled with vibrant pot plants and priceless antiques. Fine oil paintings, mostly baroque, lined the walls. The masterful use of light and shadow in the paintings gave the hall a richness and depth that made the entrance to Gilmore’s home even grander than it would otherwise have been. Gilmore was an old traditionalist in every sense, but there was something about him that was also very youthful. Maybe it was the way he moved. He carried his lithe frame with no hint of encumbrance. It certainly wasn’t his appearance. Gilmore’s close cropped grey hair hadn’t changed in the eleven years they’d known each other, and Schaefer was willing to bet that it hadn’t changed in the eleven years before that. The doctor favoured tailored suits and tweeds, and considered a cravat casual. Gilmore was sporting one now. The overall effect was of a man out of time, a throwback to the 1930s.
Schaefer followed Gilmore into his study. Inexplicably, the room always made Schaefer think of mulled wine, and he always felt like there was a roaring fire, even when, like tonight, the fifty inch stone fireplace was empty. The red shade on the brass banker’s lamp on Gilmore’s large, oak partner’s desk gave the room a crimson tint, which made it feel even warmer and more welcoming. Purpose-built shelves lined three walls from floor to ceiling, and each carried unimaginable riches in parchment and paper: Gilmore had one of the finest collections of rare books in the country. His appreciation of history, ancient art, and long-forgotten cultures was unrivalled. On the fourth wall, split as it was by the stone fireplace, hung two paintings. Schaefer had always found them disturbing. Executed in the style of Hieronymus Bosch, the painting on the left of the fireplace showed a number of women experiencing a variety of hellish torments. The painting on the right showed almost the same number of men enduring similar torture. Schaefer had once asked Gilmore about the disturbing paintings, and the doctor had explained he liked to be reminded of the myriad torments the mind can inflict on a person. Each of the individuals in the paintings represented an episode of mental torture: the woman being force-fed by a demon represented someone suffering from a compulsive eating disorder; the withered man clutching at his throat was an addict killing himself with the poison of a narcotic. As worthy as they might be, Schaefer could not help but feel a little unsettled every time he saw then.