Judas Horse Page 24

  The man raised his crowbar, extended it towards Jack and whispered three words: ‘I’m the boss.’ In that moment, Jack’s blood ran cold, remembering Mathew’s trembling voice as he spoke of being beaten, over and over, by ‘Oberyn Martell’. His final words to Mathew had been ‘I’m the boss’. This man, with his arm around Bevan’s neck and a crowbar in his hand was Alberto Barro. This man was the weak link they needed to bring De Voe to his knees. Jack maintained his external calm for Bevan’s sake.

  The masked man slid his arm from round Bevan’s neck and grabbed a fistful of her hair. The move took less than a second, but a more experienced field officer would have used it to break free. Instead, Bevan stood stock still, staring at Jack, waiting for him to tell her what to do. She had no copper’s instinct – no survival instinct. She was totally relying on Jack to save her. Jack realised he’d misjudged her and wished she was still sitting at her computer surrounded by pastries.

  The masked man pulled Bevan backwards and then, with one violent shove, he threw her forwards, still holding her firmly by the hair. She grimaced in pain as her scalp screamed in agony but she managed not to cry out.

  Jack wasn’t close enough to make a grab for her, or to make a grab for the man he now believed to be Alberto Barro. The masked man flicked the extended crowbar sideways, indicating that Jack should move out of the way of his exit. Jack seemingly started to do as he was told, but as well as moving left, he also edged forwards. Once the masked man could see a clear route out, he pulled Bevan fiercely towards his chest before throwing her forwards again, this time letting go of her hair. She lurched into Jack’s arms, forcing him to catch her and giving the masked man time to escape. Jack got Bevan back onto her feet, steadied her, then dashed outside.

  The Yardley house was at the end of a short gravel drive which Jack could clearly see down to the street at the far end. No one was running away in that direction. At the back of the house, a locked iron gate juddered as though someone had just vaulted over it. Jack leapt the gate and ran down the dirt track beyond. After running in a straight line for about thirty seconds, Jack realised that he was getting nowhere. He had no clue how far this road went and, to his left and right, the fields were scattered with huge rolls of hay, any of which would make a perfect hiding place. He was chasing ghosts.

  Furious with himself, Jack started to walk back the way he came. He heard the rustle of bushes behind him one second too late and, as he turned, he walked straight into the heavy crowbar. Jack fell flat onto his back, staring up at the silhouetted masked man who now stood over him. The man spun the crowbar in his hand. He was playing, taunting – his favourite game. The man got out his mobile, found the name Betina and texted:

  It’s a trap. Get out.

  Then, as the weapon was raised for the final kill, Jack breathed out what he thought might be his last words: ‘Alberto Barro.’ The words made the crowbar freeze, mid-strike. The man took off his mask and laughed. ‘Good for you. What are you going to do . . . arrest me?’

  As his head spun and his vision swirled, Jack’s only hope of survival now was that Alberto loved the sound of his own voice so much, that he would keep taunting Jack until backup arrived. Alberto’s mobile pinged. It was Betina:

  Safe.

  Alberto smiled. ‘Know this before I kill you. You haven’t got us all. What you’ve got is cannon fodder. Small fry who don’t even know who they’re working for.’

  Jack’s vision was becoming clearer and, with the adrenaline fiercely pumping, dulling the pain in his head, he said simply, ‘Michael De Voe.’ He saw the silhouette before him straighten and tense. Jack smiled. He couldn’t see Alberto’s expression, but he now knew that the police did know who the small fry were working for. And if they knew that, then they knew everything. Although Alberto was the one with a crowbar in his hand, it was his voice that now trembled in fear: ‘Who are you?’

  Jack’s voice was deep and steady. ‘Jack Warr.’

  At this point, Jack still imagined that he was about to die, but he was determined that his name would be a ghost haunting Alberto Barro’s dreams for the rest of his life. As the crowbar was drawn back, time stood still long enough for Jack to clearly picture Maggie and Hannah. He smiled and focused on his beautiful, love-filled final memory.

  Suddenly a voice shouted Jack’s name, sending Alberto fleeing into the field, swiftly followed by adrenaline-fuelled police officers. Someone knelt by Jack’s side – he had no idea who – and they assured him that he was going to be OK.

  *

  Barrowman’s charity buffet was a loud, raucous event: exactly what this systematically victimised community needed. The beer tent was packed, the band was on stage belting out a classic pop number, and the low buzz of voices filled the air. Then all of this was abruptly drowned out by the sound of two different types of siren, coming from several directions. Police cars and ambulances. Everyone stopped in their tracks to watch dozens of blue lights flash past.

  Barrowman intuitively ran towards the church hall – the only person moving amid the stunned crowds all speculating about what on earth was going on.

  Half a mile away, in one of the fields, Betina, wearing tourist clothes, a headscarf and dark glasses, made her way through the sea of cars, towards an aerial sporting a red ribbon, blowing in the breeze.

  As Barrowman marched in one direction, DC Oaks was running full-pelt in the other, through the dressage arena chasing a man dressed like a tourist, but wearing very distinctive, red-soled trainers. This man, when approached by Oaks because of the trainers he was wearing, had immediately bolted.

  Oaks was transfixed by the flash of red he saw with each stride. This was Adidas Man!

  Barrowman saw Oaks, changed direction and made a beeline for him. The arena was covered in a thick layer of coarse sawdust, with a barrier of hay bales to catch any riders who fell. Beyond the hay bales, metal crowd-control barriers were linked together with a hook-and-eye system. Every fifth barrier was left unlinked in order to facilitate the quick response of the St John’s Ambulance if needed, and the Mayor when it came time to hand out the winners’ medals. Barrowman knew where these unlinked barriers were, as he’d made certain he was chair of the health and safety committee. He slid through one of the gaps into the arena and walked calmly around the outside of the hay bales, in an arc that would see him intercept the man Oaks was chasing. When Adidas Man leapt onto the hay bale next to Barrowman, he was so focused on clearing the metal barrier in front of him that he didn’t see Barrowman’s fist until it slammed into his jaw. The man fell backwards into the sawdust, out cold. Oaks came to a stop, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to get his breath back. ‘Is this them?’ Barrowman was furious. Oaks nodded. Barrowman had no further questions for an underling like Oaks, so continued on his path towards the church hall. Gifford was going to be the one in the firing line for keeping Barrowman in the dark!

  Adidas Man started to stir and groan, and he lifted one hand towards his head. Oaks quickly slapped the cuff onto the moving hand, spun him onto his front and secured both arms behind his back.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Oaks said.

  ‘No English,’ the man replied.

  ‘Good,’ Oaks said. ‘I’d hate you to report me for calling you an ugly little fuck.’

  Adidas Man, in a sudden fury, brought one knee up and tried to turn onto his front, but Oaks kept his weight on the man’s shoulders to hold him still. ‘You understood that,’ he grinned. Oaks then happily read him his rights, then waited for assistance to arrive, knowing he couldn’t safely move him on his own.

  The church hall was sectioned off into two areas. As Barrowman strode through the front door, he was met by a scene of calm efficiency as officers dealt with lost children, and first aiders dealt with mild sunstroke and elderly people who had had minor falls. But Barrowman could also hear a buzz of chatter from a second area towards the back of the room that was curtained off from prying eyes, and that was where he headed.

/>   Pulling back the curtain, he saw a bank of screens linked to surrounding CCTV cameras, being monitored by a team of six officers, while Gifford stood in front of several whiteboards displaying an array of information. Barrowman couldn’t make head nor tail of it all – until he spotted a map highlighting the five target properties and probable escape routes. Five properties were going to be burgled and no one had told him!

  Barrowman was about to give Gifford a piece of his mind, but was stopped in his tracks by the sudden entrance of a bruised and bloody Jack. He had a blood-soaked bandage towards the back of his head, and blood on his shirt collar. ‘Did we get Betina Barro?’ he shouted. ‘Who’ve we arrested? Names! Come on! And the Adidas NMD guy, did we get him?’ He paused for a moment to get his breath while Barrowman and Gifford looked on in equal bemusement.

  ‘Alberto escaped from my raid. He said we didn’t get everyone . . . he texted . . .’ Jack staggered on the spot, but quickly righted himself. ‘He only cares about . . . he wouldn’t text anyone else. It had to have been Betina.’

  Gifford picked up a chair, took Jack by the arm and sat him down next to an officer seated in front of the CCTV screens. The officer pointed out where each target house was situated, and which ones had ended in arrests. With the exception of Alberto Barro, every other gang member who had arrived at a target home had been arrested.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jack mumbled to himself, desperate to put the pieces together. ‘She was here. He texted her, I know he did. And she texted back. So, where was she? If not at any of the target homes, where the hell was Betina Barro?’ Then a memory found its way to the surface and a terrible idea struck him. ‘He called them “cannon fodder”.’ My God! Was it all just smoke and mirrors?’

  *

  Emil Borreson was a Swedish Bitcoin dealer who lived in a seven-bed mansion on five acres of land just outside Chipping Norton. He sat at his office desk, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard of his laptop. Stuck to the art nouveau shade of the desk lamp was a polaroid photograph of a terrified, crying woman seated on the floor of a dark room. Framed photos on the same desk suggested that this woman was Borreson’s wife, or at least his partner. Also visible in the polaroid was a pair of feet, wearing Adidas NMDs. That same man now stood by Emil’s side as together they watched the spinning circle in the middle of the laptop screen.

  Betina stood a few yards away, mobile in hand, ignoring its buzzing. She had twelve voicemails from Alberto and she finally pressed play on one of them. ‘Answer my calls! I’ve got away. Have you? You said you were safe – why aren’t you answering me?’ Then another: ‘The police were waiting at every house, I just need to know that you’re safe. Why aren’t you . . . if this is the cops, pick up. Pick up or . . . I’ll kill someone. Anyone. Where’s my sister?!’ And another: ‘Betina, if you’re not with the cops, and you are safe, pick up! Or have you betrayed me, Betina? Did you know they were coming? Please don’t tell me that’s it . . . please! This is that bastard De Voe’s doing. And you let him! When did I become part of the fucking cannon fodder, you bitch? They have your name, Betina. They have his name, so you’re not safe at all. You’d better hope the police find you before I do, darling sister. Because, blood or not, if you’ve betrayed me, I’ll slit your fucking throat!’ Betina listened to the voicemails without any expression on her face.

  Adidas Man waved Betina across to the desk. Borreson’s request to cash out his £20 million cryptocurrency account had been granted by the crypto exchange and the money was now on its way to a second bank account. Betina texted De Voe:

  With you shortly.

  ‘Please . . .’ Borreson’s voice was no more than a whisper. His armpits were dark with sweat. He stared at the image of his wife’s terrified face. ‘Please. Give her back to me.’

  Betina assured Borreson that his wife was alive. After they left his home, they’d return to the place she was being held and let her go. Betina moved his laptop and his mobile out of reach, and placed a small camera on the desk in front of him, pointing in his direction. ‘If you move from your desk before your wife walks through that door, I’ll kill her. If you call the police, I’ll kill her.’

  Borreson said that he understood. He said it over and over.

  ‘I know you do, Mr Borreson,’ she said.

  Outside Borreson’s mansion, Betina and Adidas Man could hear distant sirens, but the surrounding foliage was too high for them to see any accompanying blue lights. Betina instructed Adidas Man to bin the clothes he was wearing and head back to his bike. He asked about letting ‘the woman’ go, but Betina insisted that there was no time. ‘They’re on to us. We need to run. Now. Leave them both for the police to find.’

  *

  The CCTV officer flicked from camera to camera, following the pre-determined escape route back past Ascott-under-Wychwood train station, via the temporary traffic lights.

  Nothing.

  Jack shook his head. ‘No, they won’t leave the same way they came in. Not now they know we’re on to them.’ All he could think of was that with every passing second Betina, Alberto and Adidas Man were getting further away. ‘Find me another route out!’ The cameras flicked between shots until – ‘Stop!’ Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Betina’s white Mercedes! ‘Track that car and keep sending the coordinates to my mobile. Have we got a helicopter?’ Gifford looked sheepish and said that it had been diverted to a higher priority case at the last minute. ‘Then contact the tourist helicopter that was using the far field,’ Jack snapped. ‘I need it on the ground by the time I get there!’

  Jack ran as if his life depended on it. He was not going to be outsmarted by Betina and Alberto Barro, and whoever the hell Adidas Man turned out to be. He lurched from dizzy to clear-headed and back again as he ran. His skull throbbed beneath the bloodied bandage and his mind raced as fast as his body. How the hell did De Voe’s gang get ahead of the police? Did they know they were being watched or was De Voe just playing the odds? What if Betina had seen Jack in the Cotswolds – not today, but days or even two weeks ago – and then recognised him when he went undercover as Richard Delaware? What if De Voe had always known that Jack was a copper and this fiasco was all his fault?

  Up ahead, Jack saw the helicopter circling and turning into the wind before and smoothly descending in a vertical hover, until it danced to a halt on the grass.

  *

  A sky-blue Ducati Panigale approached a T-junction on an empty back road. To the rider’s left was a sharp bend so even though he thought the road was clear, he had no option but to stop. Before he could pull away again, Alberto stepped into the road in front of him, with his hand in the air and a smile on his face. The rider instinctively lifted his visor, assuming Alberto needed help. Alberto looked apologetic, as though he was lost and needed to ask for directions, but when he got within arm’s length of the rider, Alberto quickly punched through the open visor. The rider’s body shuddered, as though having a seizure. When Alberto pulled his hand away, a small knife could be seen protruding from in between his forefinger and middle finger. Alberto deftly caught the bike as the rider slid lifelessly from it, then removed the helmet, shook the blood from inside it, climbed onto the bike and sped away.

  *

  In Jack’s pocket, his mobile phone started pinging as the requested coordinates for the Merc updated. Jack climbed into the back of the helicopter and put on his headphones. The pilot had no clue what was going on: all he’d been told was that he’d been commandeered by the police and was to follow the instructions of the officer who’d meet him at the helipad. But Jack, with his head wound and blood-soaked collar, was not what he was expecting.

  Jack handed over his mobile phone and said three words that, in seventeen years as a police officer, he’d never actually uttered before: ‘Follow that car.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Bjarne Kristiansen was a Norwegian Army Reserve helicopter pilot who, in recent years, had earned his livi
ng from flying around the same patch of sky, repeating the same script about local landmarks and places of interest, or ferrying people from A to B like a taxi. He couldn’t complain about the money, but he found it frustrating when his EC120 Colibri was capable of so much more. He was proud of his skills and could make her dance; he just never got the opportunity. Until tonight.

  Bjarne tucked Jack’s mobile securely between his thighs, so that he could see the screen, and took off, feeling a surge of adrenaline he hadn’t experienced for a long time. As soon as he was off the ground, he tipped the nose down and accelerated forwards, flying so low that Jack could have sworn his blades were going to decapitate the crowd. Bjarne followed the constant positional updates along the back roads running parallel to the A429.

  ‘I reckon they’re headed for the M4,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what we expected. But get a bit higher. I don’t want them to know we’re here,’ Jack told him.

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s as quiet as a mouse. They won’t know what’s hit them,’ Bjarne reassured him.

  Once Betina’s Mercedes hit the M4, CCTV back at the church hall began to receive clearer footage of the car. Jack instructed Bjarne to share his own contact details with Gifford, so that Jack could take his mobile back in order to make a phone call.

  Ridley was in one of four unmarked police cars near the westside junctions of the M25. He’d also been getting updates relayed directly to him from Gifford, and although it was currently looking as if the Merc might stay on the M4 all the way to the M25, Ridley certainly wasn’t committing all of his resources to that option until he knew for certain; there were simply too many opportunities for Betina to turn off and disappear. After their brief strategic catch-up, Jack swiftly changed the subject. ‘Do me a favour please, sir . . .’