Rutter's Revolt: Rutter Books, #4

By David Waine

Following on from her narrow brush with death at the hands of psychopathic genius, Kevin Mallory, Detective Chief Inspector Julie Rutter finds herself pitted against an even greater foe on a larger canvas than ever before. Literally. Assigned to investigate a major Art theft, she discovers that the case crosses frontiers and takes her to the Austrian Alps, where an even more sinister scenario begins to emerge. As the investigation escalates and falls apart around her, she has to face questions about her own future - even whether she has one at all.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Waine
• Release date: Nov 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386115663

David Waine

David Waine was born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, in 1949. He is the youngest of three brothers, all of whom went on to become teachers like their father. It was during his teaching career that he developed an interest in writing, initially plays, and his adaptation of Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' was performed at the Cockpit Theatre in London (the forerunner of Shakespeare's Globe) as part of the Globe Theatre restoration in 1991. He took up novel writing after leaving the profession, and his first published work, The Planning Officers appeared in 2011. He lives with his wife in the foothills of the Pennines. www.davidwaineauthor.com

Book preview

RUTTER’S REVOLT

The Fourth Rutter Book

by

DAVID WAINE

Turnspit Dog Publishing

© David Waine 2015

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This is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this narrative mat be reproduced in any way without the written consent of the copyright holder. David Waine has asserted his moral rights. All rights reserved.

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www.davidwaineauthor.com

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Dedication

To my wife, Helen, and our sons, Michael and Paul

CONTENTS

RUTTER’S REVOLT

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

PART TWO

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

THE SECRET ANGELS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART ONE

RUTTER’S REJECT

CHAPTER 1

Saturday, July 25th 1998

THE HIRED ROOM above the Eagle and Lion pub in Hackney was packed to overflowing. The lighting was deliberately subdued, masking the rather worn state of the décor reasonably effectively; the disco was conspicuous by its absence, replaced by piped music that was strictly background only. This was a celebration where adults would talk to each other as grown-ups, rather than the manic writhing to cacophonous music preferred by their heirs. The buffet was extensive and much more than the usual sandwiches, cold chicken drumsticks and pizza wedges turning up at the pointy end. There were hot and cold tables, cooks on hand to replenish the offerings as quickly as they disappeared, and the bar was doing a roaring trade.

Julie Rutter and Alex Lawson had arrived later than intended. The Eagle and Lion was only two streets away from the home that they had shared until it became a crime scene where the contents of the late PC Norman Gilbert’s arteries were still splashed across its walls. They had both attended his funeral only two days previously.

For the week since that night, they had lived in a hotel, returning only to pick up changes of clothes, toiletries and so forth. They had no intention of ever moving back in and had already made an offer on a house in St. John’s Wood.

Their hotel was much further away, and the journey complicated by inconsiderate roadworks with faulty traffic lights, so they were the last to arrive at Superintendent John Shaw’s retirement party.

Nevertheless, they were very welcome, Shaw greeting them personally at the door and introducing his wife, Marjorie, who was the very antithesis of him, being spindly to his portly and pale of complexion in contrast with the network of purplish veins that shone in his cheeks.

Got here at last, did you? he growled in his usual rough tone, although it was accompanied by a most uncharacteristic smile.

Sorry we’re late, smiled Rutter. Roadworks.

Tell me about it. Taverner turned up about five minutes ahead of you, but Cornish and his missus were among the first here. How’s the house-hunting?

We’ve got one in our sights, replied Alex.

Good. Come on. That was addressed to Rutter, in particular. I’ve somebody for you to meet.

He ushered them through the throng of drinks-laden off-duty police officers and partners, towards the back of a man in close conversation with Commander Mike Taverner. Bow Road’s most senior officer looked uncomfortable without his regulation epaulettes. The polo shirt, jeans and trainers looked as if they had only lost their price tags earlier that evening. Rutter had always vaguely assumed that he slept in uniform and wore the epaulettes while bathing. The thought that there was something fundamentally sad about a man who looked so out of place in casual clothing flashed through her mind.

At least he had heeded Shaw’s request to turn up casually dressed, unlike the fellow he was talking to. That man was tall and immaculately suited. His hair was trimmed just so and gelled precisely. This was a man for whom there was no such thing as an informal occasion. Rutter paused in mid-stride and her mouth opened in dismay. Alex noticed the change come over her and looked at her questioningly. She had recognised the set of those shoulders and the way that the head nodded slightly as he addressed the somewhat shorter Taverner. Another blast from her past, he surmised.

Detective Chief Inspector Julie Rutter, beamed an oblivious Shaw, meet my replacement: Detective Superintendent Malcolm Renwick. Fresh down from Manchester today.

The man turned, his official half-smile already in place and his eyes locking on hers in an instant. He was a northerner by birth, but no one could have guessed it from his speech. The product of a privileged upbringing, he had been educated at Harrow, yet had elected to make his own way in the Police Force, rather than follow his father — a prominent judge — to the Bar. His face — the sort that advertising executives considered ideal to model aftershave for affluent over thirties — had that slightly too perfect, sculpted look of those obsessive about their appearance.

Summoning her self-control from God alone knew where, Rutter tried her best to compose a welcoming smile. Predictably, in Alex’s opinion, she failed.

Julie! the teeth gleamed. I heard you were in London.

She was national headlines last week, so that is hardly surprising, put in a jocular Shaw, but I see you two know each other already.

We were sergeants at the same station in Derby, she responded without quite managing to keep the tremor out of her voice. She sniffed involuntarily. Welcome to Bow Road, sir. Congratulations. She extended a non-committal hand, which he took.

And it is to our great satisfaction that we have two of the fastest-rising officers in the country working in our manor, put in a proud Taverner.

Taking her by the arm, Renwick flashed a brief smile at Taverner. Drawing her to one side, he lowered his mouth to her ear and murmured, We’re not on duty now, Julie. You can call me Mal here.

She eyed him frostily and released her arm from his grip with greater force than she had intended. And you can call me DCI Rutter, sir, she replied in a flat monotone.

Alex appeared at her side, extending a cautious hand for the newcomer to shake. Alex Lawson, he introduced himself.

Renwick took the hand, dragging his eyes reluctantly away from Rutter, his automatic smile clicking back into place. Oh yes, the doctor. I’ve heard of you. You’re mentioned in the Mallory case files.

If you’ve read them, you will also know that he is actually a consultant psychiatrist at the Lambeth Hospital, put in Rutter with a faint attempt at a half-smile. The distraction had allowed her to regain a little of her equilibrium.

A brief, but awkward, pause.

Then I wish you both much happiness, remarked Renwick with a condescending nod of his head. There was an identifiable reluctance in his tone. I look forward to working with you again, Julie. See you Monday. He smiled automatically again before turning back to Taverner.

Rutter turned away, seething. Fortunately for her, the pub’s upper room had a small balcony overlooking the street, and the window was open to let out the oppressive heat. She stalked through it into the evening air, drawing in great gulps to dispel the rage rising within her as she leaned on the balustrade and stared furiously at the evening traffic below.

Alex was at her side again. The sight of her lithe, dusky figure against a summer evening sky, floored by London rooftops, was not one that he would easily forget. Yet it would not be a happy memory, for he could see that she was trembling, and not through cold or fear. Through anger.

What is it? he asked gently.

She could not bring herself to answer him for several seconds, for her lips were clamped tightly together. Why did it have to be him? she spat at last. Of all the ambitious DCIs in the country, why him? Anybody but him!

She knew he would understand more than her words conveyed. That familiar knowing look came into his eyes as he rested his hands next to hers.

Ah, he said resignedly.

Ah, what? she asked.

He seemed to consider for a moment before replying. In reality, he was simply waiting for her to calm down a little. He had already made up his mind what he was going to say. Like I told you once, Julie, we are not so very different really. We both seek out the truth from a myriad of tiny clues. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to work out that you have a past with that man.

So?

He closed his eyes for a moment of reflection. This was the Rutter of old, the cold fish who did not invite intimacy. He shrugged. So I surmise that it didn’t end well, he said simply.

She was silent for a moment. It was over long ago, she answered bluntly, staring straight down at the street below. She had stopped shaking.

He smiled, although he had already divined that the pain of their parting still gnawed at her, and the man’s reappearance had brought it to the forefront of her awareness. Taking her hand and drawing her attention back to him, he said brightly, Well, that’s good news, so it really should be left in the past, shouldn’t it? Eyeing her a little more closely, he went on, Do you think you will you be able to work with him?

I have no choice, do I? The answer came out in clipped tones, a little too quickly.

Not for the moment, certainly, he agreed, making a mental note to return to the topic after she had a chance to calm down properly, but I suppose that he doesn’t either. Turning her gently, he stared deeply into her eyes. I don’t know him, but my first impressions are rather more acute than most people’s, because of what I do. Already I am picking up vibes.

What do you think I should do? she asked warily.

He looked back at the setting sun and exhaled slowly. Tonight? Here? Nothing. This is John Shaw’s retirement party, and we will make sure we enjoy it and celebrate more than forty years of exemplary service. That fellow, he jerked a momentary thumb in the direction of Renwick, who was still engaged in close conversation with the commander, will be out to make an impression on Taverner, so we can keep ourselves to the far side of the room and talk to Shaw, Cornish and their wives.

All right, she said slowly.

Later that night, they lay in each other’s arms in their hotel bed. The lights were out, and a thin beam of street lighting invaded the ceiling from a slight parting of the curtains.

I didn’t know he was coming to Bow Road, you know? she said a little too defensively.

I surmised that, he reassured her with a light kiss, but his reappearance has unsettled you, and this might be your best chance of preparing to deal with it.

She swallowed hard. Okay, I’ll buy that. A brief pause. He and I were an item about seven years ago, she admitted. We lived together for six or seven months in Derby, but we split up when I went to Sheffield and he to Manchester.

It had the look of a past love affair, confirmed Alex, one that ended acrimoniously.

To be truthful, I ended it a few weeks before that. I walked out on him before Sheffield. Lived in a bed and breakfast for a month. Even if I hadn’t landed that job, I would have walked anyway after what he did. I heard on the grapevine that he had gone to Manchester about a year later. He’s the same age as me. I made D.I. quicker, but he has overtaken me now, she replied. Obviously. He’s very good at his job — I can’t deny that — but that is as far as his redeeming features extend. In my eyes, at least.

Alex lay back, his head resting on the pillow. I can probably imagine what he did to earn your low opinion of him, but it might be helpful if you told me anyway. I wouldn’t want to make the same mistake.

She raised herself on one elbow and gazed down at him smilingly. Her face darted downwards as she planted a light kiss on his lips. You are not an inveterate womaniser.

Good God, no! he laughed, his assumption confirmed. Do you really think me capable of juggling two or more women when one of them is you? That’s one of the reasons that we have people like me. I’m far too dull for that sort of thing. But he obviously isn’t.

He always had a way with the girls, she admitted. He was considered quite a catch in the day. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he still is. She paused, her eyes darkening at the memory. Which is really just another way of saying he knows how to charm the pants off anybody. It was only after I caught him, for want of a better word, that I discovered just how much he fears commitment. He would be the life and soul of the party on the dance floor, surrounded by a phalanx of short skirts, while I just jigged a bit in the background. He always made it up to me afterwards. Swore that it was nothing more than a bit of innocent flirting, such as happens at any party. It happens and is forgotten. That’s what he said. Her eyes felt suspiciously hot. He can be very persuasive when he wants to. Like a fool, I believed him.

Alex nodded slowly, taking this in. So, what happened? He deliberately did not mention the as if I didn’t know.

She looked long into his eyes before replying. He returned her stare evenly. It was when Marie was still travelling around Europe before she married Joe, she explained. She was due home for a visit, so I arranged to go down to London to see her and catch up with Sally, Marcus and the others…

I think I can see where this is going, he observed.

I’m sure you can, she confirmed.

He nestled a little more comfortably on his pillow. So, you returned earlier than expected?

Only by about an hour — and just in time to find him humiliating me with a sergeant, called Felicity — his most frequent dancing partner at parties: shortest skirt of the lot, legs to die for and an open wide attitude. I caught the pair of them at it like rabbits. Having unburdened herself, she felt a bit better. She treated him to a softer, warmer kiss. And what you call your dullness is one reason why I love you. I know I can trust you.

He paused for a moment. I surmised that you don’t trust him when I saw him earlier. Sharp suit when we had all been told to turn up casual, teeth so recently cleaned and flossed that the buffet must have tasted of toothpaste. He wanted to make an impression.

She cocked her head slightly sideways. On Taverner?

Yes, but also on you. He would have known you would be there. There will have been other posts he could have gone for.

All right, she conceded, but he wouldn’t just have applied for the job because I was there.

I wouldn’t have thought so. He squinted briefly at the streak of light across the ceiling. One look at him is enough to realise how ambitious he is, but I suspect it gave him a further reason.

She sat up, cupping her arms around her knees, deep in thought. Then I will require you to protect my honour. Her tone was deliberately whimsical, but he knew instinctively that her intent was not.

Oh, thanks, he responded sardonically. I am a man of cerebral, as opposed to physical, strengths. Excuse me while I polish my armour.

I’ve had my heart broken twice, she admitted bitterly, the old, haunted look returning to her eyes. Once by Kevin Mallory’s older brother, Jason, and once by him. I have no intention of going through it a third time.

And I am behind you all the way, he put in, sitting up next to her. You are not the only one to suffer that. He referred to his own heartbreak of three years previously when he had lost his wife and daughter on the same night. On the other hand, we shouldn’t just assume that he will try to reignite the old flame as a matter of course. I expect that he has ego enough to try, but the intelligence to think first. That was why I introduced myself when I did. Might save me the trouble of challenging him to a duel later on. Police officers are trained in unarmed combat, aren’t they? Psychiatrists tend not to be. Not as part of our job description anyway. He considered for a moment. You have both moved on and built successful careers separately. You should give him the benefit of the doubt, for now at least. It may be possible for you to work together.

She was silent for a long time, but finally, she shrugged. I suppose, she conceded. But he’s no John Shaw or Ron Abberline. Not to me. I can never respect him as I respected them.

So, what is he to you now?

She took her time replying again. When she did finally speak, it was in a small voice. I know this isn’t fair because she never betrayed you, but do you still love your late wife?

He had not been expecting that and his eyes widened in surprise. His heart experienced a small jerk at her words. That’s different! he protested. If you truly love someone, it’s eternal, but it doesn’t mean I love you less.

She turned to him and placed an apologetic hand on his lips. I’m sorry, she whispered, I shouldn’t have asked that. I do love you and I want to be with you forever. She looked away. But once I loved him…

And a part of you always will, despite what he did, because love is unconditional, he said solemnly.

I have a horrible feeling that it might not be simply a question of not trusting him, she admitted in a halting voice, but whether I can trust me.

CHAPTER 2

Monday, July 27th 1998

BOW ROAD POLICE Station was its usual bustling self — all notice boards and hurry — when Rutter reported for duty the following Monday morning. She had expected to endure a formal introduction to her new superior in Taverner’s office, but he was meeting with the Commissioner instead, so she found herself summoned to Renwick as soon as she arrived.

New DS wants to see you, ma’am, growled Cornish. I’ll have the kettle on for when you get back. I brought the biscuits. Your turn next week.

Come! the response to her knock was almost instant. He wasn’t like Taverner, then. He wouldn’t keep her waiting with his head buried in a stupid file.

She entered the office to find almost every trace of its previous occupant obliterated already. She had found a certain homely security in the fact that Shaw’s inner sanctum had barely changed in his twenty-year tenure of the room, with its elderly, ink-stained desk covered in loose papers, and its bog-standard computer monitor largely ignored. The brand-new desk reeked of ambition and status, as did the sumptuous leather chair in which the new detective superintendent sat, staring at a computer terminal straight out of a science fiction movie. His shirt was pristine white, his tie broad and silk, and his dark blue suit jacket on a hanger by the window. The walls were bare, other than a massive, and full, bookcase behind him, and the furnishings limited to just two more occasional chairs on this side of his desk and four filing cabinets by the door. He hadn’t changed the carpet, but that was fairly new anyway — Shaw having only replaced the original when it became threadbare.

Come in, Rutter, he smiled, indicating an occasional chair. At least he hadn’t called her Julie. Take a seat.

She perched herself on the further away of the two. She could see the word, MALLORY, on the front of a closed file on his desk.

He looked at her with the sort of professionally welcoming smile dentists reserve for their patients. I invited you up because I think it would be in both of our interests if we were to clear the air before working together again.

I never had a problem working with you, sir, she replied coldly. It was living with you that was the problem.

He nodded, a slight air of resigned exasperation twisting his face slightly. I understand that, of course, he acknowledged at last, and it works both ways. She eyed him closely, her tongue firmly in check. That was not an apology. It was also seven years ago, he went on, and I seem to remember that we agreed to differ on how to interpret the events at the time.

We can differ on the interpretation, she cut in, but not the events.

He nodded slowly, identifying the obvious tone of acrimony and recognising the futility of raking over old wounds. We have both moved on since then, he continued. I think, under the circumstances, that the past is best left where it belongs, don’t you?

That was a statement that purported more than it said. She looked him straight in the eye. If you mean in the past, yes, she answered.

A small smile crossed his face momentarily. He nodded again, a small look of relief flashing across his face. Policing considerations excepted, of course, he added.

Naturally. A hundred tart responses formed on her lips and were promptly dismissed.

So, we can work together as professionals?

Yes, sir.

Right, he said with more evident relief, his shoulders relaxing. Leaning back in his chair and picking up the thick file from where he had placed it when she entered the room, he mentioned, I have been looking through this.

She read the name again, upside down, from her seat.

Kevin Mallory?

The one and only, he confirmed. A feather in your cap, there is no doubt — but it took you two attempts to get him.

She could feel herself withdrawing inwardly already. If ever there was a superior officer who could pick holes in her work, he was the one. Having had no part in either investigation, there he was, making judgements on the basis of a written report that could not possibly evoke the drama or terror of the true events because it had to stick rigidly to the facts. He planned it that way, she replied. It was all an elaborate smokescreen to get at me for locking up his elder brother. He deliberately misled us all to believe that Culshaw was him, leaving him free to create mayhem, and misdirect me, while we thought we had him locked up. Renwick nodded absently. He had read the file closely. We had no way of knowing that beforehand, of course, she went on. He is a criminal genius.

He was a criminal genius, corrected Renwick. He’s a potato now. You saw to that.

He tried to blow his brains out when I finally had him cornered so that I would have his death on my conscience for the remainder of my days, she countered. It was his Plan B. He had intended to kill me very slowly, and very painfully, but I managed to outwit him. In the end, he had to take desperate action: either kill me with one shot or kill himself and leave me with the burden of guilt. That was how far he was prepared to go to destroy me. I cannot comprehend hatred of such depth — especially when undeserved. She sighed. Call it self-interest if you like, but I stopped him, and he no longer haunts my dreams. If I could have disarmed him before he pulled the trigger, I would have.

Renwick allowed a pause to develop. He looked sceptical. I don’t criticise your detective work on either investigation, but I do have reservations about the outcome of each. Both times, you found yourself facing an armed killer on your own. There was a long pause during which the pair of them eyed each other coolly. You carried a service weapon but failed to make effective use of it on either occasion.

Again, he had planned for that, she explained. On Box Hill, he had decoy firecrackers in the woods to distract the Armed Response Unit and get me on my own. The second time, I anticipated that he would try something, so I had myself tracked the whole way. I own up to not anticipating his drugging me and taking my gun. But rescue was never more than a minute away.

A minute during which you and Dr Lawson could have been killed.

A risk any police officer is prepared to take in the line of duty, sir, as you know full well. I left Dr Lawson in our flat and under police protection.

Be that as it may, responded Renwick shortly, Mallory is in a coma, from which he may never emerge and, even if he does, he will be ruled unfit to stand trial. Therefore, barring a miracle, there can be no conviction. Ever. No closure for the families of the victims…

One of whom is facing you right now, she broke in with greater heat than she had intended. Remember that he murdered my parents and tried to kill me, Alex and Cornish. If I can accept what he did to himself in place of a conviction, the others will have to do the same.

He made no reply to that but pulled another file from his desk drawer and opened it. She read the word, RADCLIFFE, on the cover. I had this faxed through from Sheffield this morning, he announced.

Julian Radcliffe, she confirmed in a monotone.

Another feather. One that was, no doubt, instrumental in securing your current post. Another genius, so I’m told.

He was a member of MENSA, sir, although I believe they threw him out after his conviction. Something about sullying their reputation.

Renwick leafed through the file. "Eleven prostitutes killed over a two-year period before you got him.

Only ten of them were prostitutes, she corrected. Tracey Hepscott was a respectable student on her way home from a night out. She had been to a tarts and vicars party. He mistook her hired costume for the real thing. He sent us an almost apologetic note after he saw the announcement on the News.

He eyed her coldly. How public-spirited of him. You snared him by getting a female officer to dress up in a similar outfit to lure him in.

She was a black belt in Karate, armed with pepper spray, and she volunteered. Besides which, I had a full squad of armed officers, in plain clothes, only yards away at all times.

He closed the file with a snap. Very well, he announced with an air of finality. I would be the last person to question your success, but I may be the first to point out that you have achieved it by taking massive risks — and not only to yourself. The end cannot always justify the means, Rutter.

She knew that this was a valid criticism of her actions, which she could hardly deny, so she said nothing. Memories of shared intimacy in a Derby bed resurfaced, and she fought them down ruthlessly.

I appreciate that in the heat of the moment, a personal risk may be the best course of action, he went on. People were dying at an alarming rate, after all, and you had to do something. During the past six months, you have effectively been in charge of murder investigations because John Shaw was no longer fully up to the job. Looked at from a dispassionate point of view, some of your actions could be construed as reckless. Now I am here, and the responsibility for those investigations falls to me. Part of my remit will be to keep you in check. She looked up sharply at this, but he waved it away with a pass of his hand. I know that you are an exceptional police officer, Julie, and it is my intention to ensure that you remain that way. The Met. needs good detectives, not dead heroes. Is that clear?

She swallowed her pride. She had no choice. Yes, sir, she sighed.

She rose to go, but he stopped her. There is one more thing.

She sat again, eyes widening. She had no idea what this might be.

Julian Radcliffe absconded from custody while on a hospital visit last night. Had you heard?

She shook her head. No, sir, I hadn’t.

He leaned forward again tapping his fingertips together. It will be announced at a press conference in Leeds later this morning. He was serving life in Wakefield. It seems he fooled the prison doctors into believing he had acute appendicitis, so they transferred him, under heavy guard, to the local infirmary. He never arrived. He had outside help, which is unusual for him.

Definitely, she agreed. A one-man band, like most serial killers.

Renwick rubbed his chin. Well, he isn’t now. They found the van, the escort and several battered guards about four hours ago.

Nobody killed?

Renwick shook his head. Thankfully, no. A few broken bones and a lot of bruises, but nothing beyond G.B.H. What conclusions do you draw from that?

She thought for a moment. That he must have planned it meticulously, and he has prepared far beyond merely getting away. I infer that he has much bigger plans. A thoughtful pause during which Renwick nodded his confirmation to her. Then the obvious struck. Aside from whatever else he has in mind, it’s possible that he’s coming for me, she ventured at last.

Renwick nodded soberly. That is my reading too. If there is one thing you are undeniably good at, it’s cultivating grudges among gifted psychopaths. As we speak, the North, West and South Yorkshire Forces are tearing their respective counties apart in a desperate effort to find him before he kills somebody. I think they’re wasting their time.

You think he’s already in London?

The superintendent nodded. But until we have some evidence to support that, it remains purely a supposition. Nevertheless, we should prepare. First of all, I absolutely forbid you to go out and hunt him down.

Play it by the book, she said flatly.

Exactly, but we can take precautions. You are a licensed armed officer, and you will carry your gun at all times. I am also assigning Merriweather to you as your bodyguard…

I don’t need a bodyguard, sir…

Yes, you do, and that is final! She shut up. At least for a few days until we know more. He passed over a couple of business cards. One for you and one for Dr Lawson. These are my office and mobile numbers. If anything happens to him, ring me directly. Tell him to do the same if anything happens to you. I want your troops assembled in five minutes. There doesn’t seem to be anything too pressing at the moment otherwise, so we can start some discreet enquiries of our own. As soon as we get even a sniff that he has moved south, I want to know.

Rutter returned to her office to find a mug of hot coffee waiting and Cornish’s eyebrows raised in enquiry.

He wants to make sure I behave, she answered his unspoken question.

And will you?

When it suits me.

The briefing was grim. Renwick took it, generally impressing the gathered officers with his gravitas and ensuring that they all understood the need for discretion. If he gets so much as a whisper that we are on to him, the consequences could be unthinkable.

But sir, piped up a sober-faced Chalmers, do we have any evidence that he is in London, or even on his way?

Renwick’s finger jabbed directly at Rutter’s head. There is your evidence. Need I add more?

Predictably, nothing much happened. The news was broken to a shocked nation later that morning, and South Yorkshire Police found a stolen car, plastered in fingerprints — some of them Radcliffe’s — abandoned in a place called Penistone.

No sniggering at the back, snapped Renwick to his gathered troops. "As a native-born Yorkshireman, I can tell you that Penistone, with a short ‘e’, as in pen, is a village near Barnsley, which DCI Rutter will confirm is not a million miles from Sheffield. Crucially, between the two lies the M1 motorway, the high road to London. His stare was ruthless. Some of the prints in the car have been identified as belonging to one Gary Warbush, a native of Dagenham, known drug pusher and with form for violence. That is all the information that we have at present, but it points straight here."

Other than that, there was nothing. All of their informers were discreetly consulted, and none of them knew anything. Nobody had seen Gary Warbush in weeks. One of them even volunteered that someone told him he had moved up north to get away from the Met.

*

FOR THE NEXT three nights, Rutter returned to the hotel dispirited and frustrated, the knowledge that she was probably being stalked by another vengeful assassin, with a mental capability beyond her own, clawing relentlessly at her equilibrium. The clear the air talk with Renwick had only served to compound the issue. She had finally put an end to Kevin Mallory’s reign of terror by almost sacrificing herself. The fact that she had lived to tell the tale was as much good luck as good police work. She had gambled that his over-preening ego would not allow him to destroy her without rubbing it in first, thus giving the cavalry time to arrive, according to her pre-ordained plan. In the end, she had been proved right, but she had no way of knowing whether he would turn his gun on himself or simply kill her and Alex while he had the chance.

The more she thought about it, the greater a failure she seemed in her own eyes. Renwick was right. She had taken unacceptable risks to bring down her foe, and she had endangered the life of the man she loved in the process. Twice.

So great was her guilty conscience that she had to restrain herself from working her way through the mini-bar that the management had thoughtfully provided. The damage that Mallory had inflicted on her mind was so deep-seated that she doubted she would ever recover completely. Did that leave her easy prey for another evil genius — Radcliffe — to mop up at his pleasure? Ironically, she lived with a psychiatrist, yet she could not bring herself to unburden her darkest innermost thoughts entirely to him. Even if he were allowed to treat her without encountering a conflict of interests, which she doubted, it would distress him massively. Therefore, she had not mentioned the number of bruises she had picked up at Renwick’s hands, or that he had once forced himself on her against her will. She knew that women could be their own worst enemies where love was concerned, for they would endure for themselves what they would never countenance for others in the vain hope that love would win out in the end. She had taken no action at the time, and years had passed since. His reappearance had brought the self-loathing back as if it had never been away.

That left the redoubtable Marcus Logan, her old Irish hypnotherapist mentor. She could lie on his chaise longue and unburden her soul without transgressing any ethical taboos. On Wednesday evening, she made a silent compact with herself to do that very thing on her next day off — Saturday.

She had the burly Merriweather to keep her from drowning her sorrows in alcohol while Alex’s back was turned, although he also had his own temptations to beat down. This was the same Frank Merriweather who had stood in as a bodyguard for her friend, Marie Burnett, during the original Mallory investigation. During the second, PC Gilbert had been drafted in to protect Alex, and it had cost him his life. This was the first time that she had been given armed protection for herself, and she discovered just how stifling it was. Merriweather was a genial soul when not terrifying villains with his bulk and service weapon but knowing that he was there specifically to lay his life on the line to save hers, was a weight on her mind.

CHAPTER 3

Thursday, July 30th 1998

ALEX ARRIVED BACK at the hotel at his usual 6.15 PM to find neither Rutter nor Merriweather present. A discreet enquiry at Reception confirmed that they had not been seen since they left for work that morning. No, there were no messages.

There was nothing unusual in that. When they shared her flat in Hackney, he would simply have set about preparing their evening meal, expecting her to return soon enough, or to text him if she would be delayed. Police officers worked irregular hours at the best of times. Living in a hotel, however, left him with no cooking to do. Their meals were taken in the restaurant downstairs most evenings, or in some other restaurant if they went out. Both had taken to ordering deliberately restrained portions lest their waistlines suffer, and frequently chose salads.

His work was finished for the day, so he had little option but to read a book or watch the television. His writing career was on hold until he could salvage his computer from their flat. He had toyed with the idea of buying a laptop but had yet to get around to it. In any case, his mind was empty of ideas. His one attempt at writing fiction had been a limp exercise in ineptitude that had failed to progress beyond its first few paragraphs. His principal published title, Nicholas Trent: A Man Obsessed, still earned him a trickle of royalties after a couple of years of publication, mainly from fellow psychiatrists who were the only people he could imagine being able to tolerate his plodding, cross-referenced, academic prose. Ironically, although he had written the book long before he first met her, Rutter was a significant feature of it, for the Nicholas Trent Case — the modern-day Jack the Ripper, and the subject of Marie Burnett’s best-seller: Marie and Jack, Chained in Time — had been one of her first major cases.

A further hour passed. The hotel room was becoming oppressive. It was comfortable enough as such things went, but it wore its bland impersonality in a way that made it impossible for him to relax unless she was there. Still no news. She should have been in touch by now. He texted both of them with a superficially innocuous enquiry, asking when they expected to be back. Neither replied. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he called Bow Road.

Hello, Dr Lawson. Chief Inspector Rutter is off duty. She signed out at… er, let me see. 5.30.

His eyes shot to the clock on the wall. It was now almost 8.00 PM. Something was definitely wrong. Fumbling in his wallet, he pulled out the business card that Rutter had given him the previous Monday evening and jabbed the number into his mobile.

Renwick. The voice answered after three rings.

Oh, hello. It’s Alex Lawson. We met at John Shaw’s party last Saturday. You wanted me to ring you if anything happened.

The voice took on an immediately attentive tone. Has something happened, Dr Lawson?

There was an ominous pause as the caller fought with his thoughts. I’m not sure, but Julie and Merriweather should have been back more than an hour ago. She left the station at 5.30, apparently, and there has been nothing since. She always texts if she expects to be delayed.

Have you tried her mobile?

Yes, and Merriweather’s, but both go straight to voicemail. I have texted them both, but neither has replied.

Renwick’s voice was