‘A lot of people have left town since last year,’ Nick said.
‘Yes, but the police are different. Or should be.’
‘The police in this county are moved around all the time. Some would have applied to go to another division, others would have been due for a transfer anyway. Do I have to explain that?’
‘No, I’m sorry. What I want to do is talk. I keep going over this in my mind, and I want to hear myself saying the words.’
‘And I’m handy for it.’
‘Yeah…but you also know a lot about what went on.’
‘Less than you may think,’ Nick said.
‘Even so. Let me finish this, because there’s a third thing I don’t understand. Grove only possessed two guns, the ones he used that day. This has been established beyond doubt. The girl he knew, Debbie—’
‘Debra,’ Nick said.
‘Right. Debra. See what I mean about you knowing things? OK, Debra says Grove only ever had those two guns, and he was obsessed with them, always cleaning them and oiling them. But they were the only ones he had.’
‘No one’s ever disputed that.’
‘Listen, because someone’s about to. As far as I can tell he had four guns, not two. There were the two he used in the streets, and two more were found in the luggage compartment of the car he stole.’
‘Is this relevant?’
‘I don’t know about relevant, but it mystifies me. The guns he used were a handgun and a semi-automatic rifle. The handgun was called a Colt All-American: it’s well known in the US. The rifle was an M16 carbine, the great American rifle. Set aside the problem of how he got hold of them in this country in the first place—I guess there are ways if you want them bad enough. Why should he have two of each?’
‘But did he?’
‘The police found an M16 and a Colt in the back of the stolen car; they found an M16 and a Colt with his body.’
‘Exactly the same?’
‘Same makes, yes. Same models, probably. I can’t get it any more exact than that.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s much of a mystery,’ Nick said. ‘They’re probably the same ones, and somebody made a mistake.’
‘Grove’s car was found in Welton Road, about a hundred yards from the GunHo building. It was unlocked. Grove’s fingerprints were all over it. They found the rifle and the handgun inside, and his prints were on them too. I’ve seen the scene-of-crime officer’s report. There’s no mistake on this. Anyway, the forensic and ballistic reports prove that the handgun was the one used on Mrs Williams and her boy, and the M16 was the rifle he fired at the cashier in the filling station. Right, so far so good. But the problem is, identical weapons were found at the end of the massacre.’
‘With the same forensic evidence?’
‘Yes.’
‘So did he have four guns or two?’
‘The police say he had four.’
‘Have you looked at them yourself?’
‘They’re not in town any more. The police said they’d try to find out for me where they are now, but they didn’t sound too interested.’
‘So what’s your point? Surely the only thing that matters is that he had guns from somewhere?’
‘OK,’ Teresa said. ‘Let me ask you something else. Did you know Gerry Grove?’
‘No, I never met him, even when I lived here.’
‘Do you know anyone who did know him?’
‘Yes, a lot of people. Some of them come in here.’ Nick nodded towards the pool table, where the two young men were still playing. ‘Those lads were at school with Grove. Amy also knew him, I think. He was one of the locals. Most people only knew him by sight, though. He didn’t have many friends. After the massacre, when it was known who had done it, there was a feeling of shock. You don’t expect someone you’ve seen around town for half your life to go mad with a gun in his hand.’
‘So you think no one could have predicted what happened?’ Teresa said.
‘How could they? Grove was typical of a lot of young people who come off the estate up there on the hill: he was unemployed, he was often in trouble with the police, but never anything really serious, he did drugs when he had a bit of spare cash, he liked a drink or two. But he was quiet. Afterwards, everyone said how quiet he was. He was an only child, he stayed at home a lot, always looked a bit lonely and distracted when you saw him, never had much to say for himself. A bit of an obsessive, someone said. Always collecting things and making lists. When the police searched his house they found a pile of notebooks, full of numbers he had written down. He never threw away magazines, and the house was full of them.’
Nick paused, staring down at his glass of beer.
‘That’s not a lot,’ Teresa said. ‘What it amounts to is it basically lets the police off the hook. They got away with a crappy investigation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? For starters, which guns did Grove actually use while he was killing people? Which guns did he pick up from his house, which ones did he leave in the car when he went into the ExEx building, and which ones did he use afterwards in the town? Was the rifle he used at the filling station the same one he used here? And the handgun, in the woods, was that the same one he used later? If not, where did he get them from? Which ones did he leave in the car? How can two sets of guns give identical ballistic test results? Then you’ve got the lousy police response to explain. When there was a shooting at the filling station, why didn’t they put up roadblocks and haul him in straight away? When he started shooting in the town, why didn’t they have armed marksmen out on the streets within five or ten minutes?’
‘We don’t do that sort of thing over here, I suppose,’ Nick said, hearing the primness in his voice even as he spoke. ‘Not straight away, at least.’
‘Right, and so Gerry Grove gets away with it because you’re a bunch of tight-assed Brits.’
Nick said, defensively, ‘People get away with it in America too.’
‘Sometimes.’
At last he realized what he had been getting at, if only subconsciously. He said, ‘That’s how your husband was killed, wasn’t it?’
She turned away, looked across the almost empty bar to where the kids were playing pool.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I didn’t think. I’d forgotten that, for a moment.’
‘I deserved it.’
There was a long silence between them, while the jukebox played and the pool balls clacked intermittently. Nick was ashamed, not just of what he had said, but of having said it in the dowdy bar in the old hotel he ran, where people came for a couple of hours to be less bored than they were at home, but still bored. Ashamed of being still here in Bulverton. Of doing what he did, of the drinks he got through, of holding on to Amy, of being frightened of the future.
Finally, Teresa said, ‘May I have that bourbon now?’
‘OK.’
‘No, I don’t want it.’ Then she pushed her glass across to him. ‘Yes, I do, but only one.’
CHAPTER 22
It was a blisteringly hot day, and the Duke Ellington Orchestra was on the radio playing ‘Newport Up’. Teresa backed the car away from the sidewalk, did a U-turn, and drove south along 30th Street. She eased herself more comfortably on the wide bench seat, and glanced up into the rear-view mirror, straining to see herself; an elderly black woman’s face, full of mild concern, looked back at her.
‘Hi, Elsa!’ Teresa said aloud, smiling at her own reflection. ‘Let’s go to Mexico!’
She followed signs across town towards the Montgomery Freeway, Highway 5, and turned south again. The sea was on her right, glimpsed through palm trees and apartment blocks. A new track came on: Artie Shaw playing ‘I’m Coming Virginia’. The Mexican border was not far ahead. She drove until the rest of the traffic had disappeared, and the buildings of San Diego were static in her rear-view mirror.
The sea remained out of rea
ch, far away, glistening out to the horizon, still and tranquil.
When she was sure she could go no further, Teresa returned the gun to the glove compartment. She waited until the Artie Shaw record ended.
LIVER.
Teresa was a man, sweating in the heat, jacket off, cap on, dark glasses on her eyes, gun on her belt, gum in her mouth, itch in her crotch. Her name was Officer Joe Cordle, San Diego City Police. Officer Rico Patresse stood beside her, his pistol resting on the white-painted hood of the car. They were on duty at a roadblock across Route 8, three miles east of downtown San Diego. Another police unit was parked at a similar angle on the opposite side of the highway. Two officers stood at the ready there. In case there was an attempted getaway, back-up units were parked at other strategic points on the road, most of them hidden from view.
Traffic moving towards San Diego was being monitored by a team of four other armed officers standing at the roadside. They gave each vehicle a quick look-over before waving it through. The car they were interested in was a dark blue ’47 Pontiac being driven by a single white male: William Cook. A second man, Cook’s hostage, identity still unknown, was tied up and lying on the rear seat. The Pontiac had been identified earlier, heading in the direction of San Diego. It had been decided to carry out the intercept well away from the built-up area of the city, but close enough to city limits to allow rapid access to hospital if that became necessary.
A radio message came through that Cook’s car had been spotted in the vicinity and was still approaching. It was expected to reach the roadblock in the next few minutes. Teresa removed the safety catch, and placed her gun next to Patresse’s on the hot paintwork of the police car. She wiped her brow with the back of a sleeve, and they both spat into the dust at the side of the road.
Teresa stepped back from the car. She gazed at the surrounding scenery: the low hills, the small trees, the sage-brush, the telegraph poles alongside the highway, the buildings of San Diego behind, and a distant glimpse of the sea. Teresa knew that this was a finality, that there was nothing beyond or behind what she could see, but that everything within sight and touch was flawless, seamless, a self-enclosed reality.
She stretched her hands and arms down behind her back, linking the fingers, then tensing them until the knuckles popped. Her barrel chest and protruding belly swelled out before her. She brought her hands back, and flexed the fingers in the sunlight, turning her hands to and fro. There was a tattoo of a blue heart inscribed with the name ‘Tammy’ visible beneath the forest of black hairs on her right hand. Her palms were sweating, so she wiped them on the seat of her pants. She picked up her gun, crouched down, rested her left forearm along the hot metal of the car, and sighted the weapon towards one of the cars currently slowing down to pass through the roadblock.
Beside her, Rico Patresse was doing the same. He was talking football: the Aztecs game upcoming at the weekend was going to be a tough one, so long as they fielded the same side from last week. What they needed to do—
A blue Pontiac appeared at the corner, following two other cars. Teresa and Rico hunched down, trigger fingers relaxed but ready to fire.
‘You wanna bet he won’t stop?’ said Patresse.
‘Nah, he’ll stop,’ Teresa said, and recoiled mentally from the sound of her own voice, redolent of too much old beer and stale smoke. ‘They always haveter stop in the end.’
They both laughed. She shifted the gum to her cheek and wadded it behind her teeth, so as to concentrate on her aim.
She heard a car approaching from behind their position, and broke her concentration long enough to glance quickly over her shoulder. A silver-and-blue Chevrolet station wagon was driving slowly towards the roadblock. An overweight, elderly black woman was at the wheel, peering anxiously ahead.
‘Who let that goddamn car through?’ Teresa shouted, even as she realized who the driver must be.
‘Get back, lady!’ Officer Patresse shouted, without shifting his position. He and Teresa both waved their arms. The station wagon kept on coming. It steered between the two police cars, and drove uncertainly on. For a few seconds the car was in their line of fire, blocking most of their view.
Beyond it, just in sight around it, Teresa could see the Pontiac, still driving towards them. Finally, the Chevrolet lumbered out of the way, and in the same instant the driver of the blue car must have seen the roadblock. The Pontiac’s nose suddenly dipped down and the rear end skidded round. There was the sound of tyres, and a cloud of dust rose in the air.
The driver’s door opened, and a figure half fell, half scrambled out. He pulled open the rear passenger door, and dragged out a man with his hands tied behind his back. The hostage collapsed on the surface of the highway. The driver crouched down beside him, and pulled a rifle out of the car. He moved swiftly, and handled the weapon with appalling skill and exactness of motion.
The Chevrolet was alongside him at this moment, and Teresa could see the woman driver looking in horror at what was happening beside her. She braked suddenly, throwing up more dust. It was getting difficult to see clearly.
‘Take him out, Joe!’ said Patresse.
Teresa fired, and a spurt of dust flew up beneath the trunk of Cook’s car. The man immediately swung the rifle towards her, and fired twice in quick succession. The first bullet buried itself somewhere in the body of the police car, the second screeched along the metal hood and snatched at Teresa’s non-firing arm. Pain flashed through her.
‘Shit!’ she yelled in her bar-room voice, turned hoarse with agony.
‘You hit bad, Joe?’
Her hand was still working, her aim was steady. She dashed to one side, crouching low, and threw herself on the rocky ground behind the police car. She had a clear line of fire. She took aim on Cook, but things had changed again.
The driver of the Chevy had climbed out of her car and was holding a gun, levelling it at Cook.
‘Hey, Joe!’ Rico shouted. ‘The witness has a handgun! You want me to shoot her?’
‘Hell, no! Leave it to me!’
She still had a clear line to Cook, so she fired. Then again, and again. Her third bullet struck him and he was thrown to the ground. Beside him, the hostage was struggling to get away. Cook sat upright slowly, got hold of his rifle, took aim at her, fired. He fell back.
Gravel and grit flew up in front of Teresa’s face, spitting into her mouth, eyes and hair. She ducked down, waiting for the next shot, but after a few seconds of silence she chanced another look.
Her last bullet must have struck him decisively. Cook was again lying on his back in the road. He was still gripping the rifle, which was standing on its stock, pointing at the sky. As Teresa watched him his grip relaxed, and the rifle clattered to the ground.
She got to her feet, and with her gun aimed steadily at Cook’s body she returned to the shelter of the police car.
‘What you think, Rico?’ she said to Patresse, and discovered she could hardly speak, so short of breath was she.
‘He’s dead. You got him. You gonna be all right, Joe?’
‘Yeah.’
They moved forward cautiously, levelling their guns, ready to fire at the first movement. The other cops were moving in too. A dozen pointing gun muzzles staked the man’s body. The driver of the Chevrolet threw her gun down on the ground, and covered her face with her hands. Teresa could hear her wailing with fright and misery.
They all advanced slowly, but William Cook was not going anywhere. His head was tilted back at a horrible angle, and a rictus of pain distorted his face. His eyes stared into inverted distance. Teresa kicked his rifle away from him, just in case, and it skittered across the dusty road.
Her arm was bleeding badly.
‘I guess that’s it,’ said Patresse. ‘You wanna get that arm looked at, Joe?’
‘In a while,’ she snarled, and kicked the body of William Cook in the gut, with just enough force to be finally sure he was dead. ‘You OK there, ma’am?’ she growled at the witness.
> ‘Sure, honey.’
‘You carryin’ a licence for that gun, ma’am?’
Then Teresa stood back and looked around again at the static scenery, glowing in the windless heat of the day.
She Located, Identified, Verified, Envisioned, Removed.
LIVER.
Copyright © GunHo Corporation in all territories
The words stayed visible for a few seconds, then faded slowly and smoothly. There was no music.
CHAPTER 23
Teresa ate alone in the hotel dining room that evening. She used her elbow to hold open the paperback beside her, while she forked in the food with one hand. She was glad there was no one else around. Amy served her, coming and going with the dishes, not saying anything unnecessary, but nevertheless seeming friendly. There was no sign of the four young Americans, and when Amy brought coffee Teresa asked if they had checked out.
‘No. They said they wanted to eat out this evening. I think they went to Eastbourne.’
‘Do you think they’re going to find the sort of food they like in Eastbourne?’
‘You know about the food, do you?’
‘Nick has dropped a few hints. I gather they’re picky.’
Amy said nothing, but smiled and moved away from her table.
Teresa dawdled over her meal, because a long unoccupied evening loomed ahead, and she wanted to resist the easy temptation of the bar as long as possible. She had a few practical matters to attend to; notably, she needed to sort out her credit-card accounts. Every use of the ExEx equipment ran up a large bill. Although in theory the bills would be comfortably within her credit limits, the accounts, she had belatedly realized, would be sent for settlement to her home address. As there was no one there to forward mail nothing would be paid until after she went home. She had noticed 24-hour emergency phone numbers printed on the backs of the cards, and she was planning to call them this evening to try to straighten out the problem.
She was tired after her long and physically demanding sessions on the ExEx equipment, and in similar circumstances at home she would have killed the evening mindlessly: watching TV, catching up with letters or housework, calling friends. None of these appealed or was possible while she was stuck in her hotel room, and the thought of running up more transatlantic phone charges from a hotel line was discouraging. The time differences anyway meant most of her friends would still be at work.