‘Boo!’
Verner was in a combat kneel — one knee on the ground, the other drawn up — and had his pistol pointed directly at Henry’s heart.
‘Changing the wheel?’ Verner said.
‘Something like that,’ said Henry, his lips hardly moving.
‘Got ya.’
Henry gave a gracious nod and sniffed something in the air: petrol.
‘Looks like you’re a target too, though.’
Verner mirrored Henry’s nod. ‘So it seems.’ He relaxed with the gun, letting it waver slightly. ‘I’ll be OK. . the guy’s not a very good shot.’
Henry’s right hand came from behind his back, clutching the handgun he had confiscated from Troy Costain. He had no idea if the thing would work, whether it was loaded with blanks, or what. He simply prayed as he leapt to one side and, as he rolled, loosed off two shots at Verner, whom, once again, he had surprised.
Verner took one in the right shoulder, flinging him back on to the gravel. The other one buried itself in the wall of the house.
Henry rolled twice, came back on all fours and scuttled behind Tara’s Mercedes.
Verner struggled back on to his knees, managing to keep hold of the pistol. Intense pain seared through his shoulder, upper chest and neck.
He looked down at the wound and touched it with his free hand, the tips of his fingers coming away covered in blood. Shock rippled through him. He caught his breath, feeling light-headed and disorientated.
He slumped against the Bentley in an effort to keep upright as he scoured around for Henry.
‘You bastard,’ he cried.
Henry was prone on the gravel, looking underneath the Mercedes, trying to work out Verner’s position, aiming his gun along the ground. He could not be sure where he was, was not even sure he had hit him.
Verner could not think straight. He had never been shot before, but had always thought it would be a piece of cake to be wounded. Yet it hurt so much. He touched the wound again, wondering hazily why it was so bad. It was only his shoulder, for God’s sake. His fingers moved over the joint and then, even to his slightly befuddled mind, it was clear why it was so awfuclass="underline" the exit wound. The bullet had blown out the whole of the back of his shoulder and shoulder blade. Now he had no feeling down his arm. It was as though it was no longer there. He tried to keep hold of the gun, but his fingers did not work. It dropped with a ‘clink’ on to the ground.
He hauled himself up to his feet by using the back wing of the Bentley, smearing blood across the shiny bodywork. His head was spinning and the smell of petrol invaded his nostrils as he staggered around the back of the car, clutching at the smooth body to try to stay on his feet, but finding no purchase for his fingertips. He stumbled, not knowing where he was now, his brain seeming to have lost all sense of place, yet he could still smell petrol. He fell to his knees again and with a surge of clarity realized he had fallen into a puddle of petrol which was gushing out of a hole in the side of the car, like beer out of a punctured barrel. He gagged on the fumes which rose around him.
Verner slumped down on to his hands, so he was on all fours. The brief moment of clarity disappeared from his mind as he fought the intense pain in his wounded shoulder. He remained in that position for a few seconds, then his right arm folded under his him, unable to support his weight. He sank face down in the petrol.
‘Need. . to. . move,’ he said to himself.
With a massive force of willpower he pushed himself up to his knees with his left hand and tried to get to his feet by pulling himself up on the side of the Bentley, heaving himself up by using the door handle.
The next bullet from the sniper was right on target, slamming into Verner’s back, just below his left shoulder blade. It hit him with such force, it pinned him against the car. The next bullet struck him in the lower back. The next one missed completely and hit the centre of the rear wheel, ricocheting off with a ping and producing a tiny spark which ignited the rising petrol vapour with a whoosh. The flames clawed up Verner’s petrol-doused trousers, rising and engulfing him.
Henry ran to the front door of the house, screaming for Charlotte to open up. Good kid, she responded and Henry threw himself through the gap into the hall. Charlotte slammed the door behind him and locked it. He returned to the door and put his face to the mottled glass pane, trying to see what was happening, even though he knew that he was asking for trouble by doing this.
His countenance morphed into horror as he saw, though the distorted glass, the burning figure of Verner stomping around next to the Bentley, silent, no screams coming from him, as the flames ate him.
Henry watched open mouthed, but riveted.
Then, in a flash, it was all over for Verner.
The sniper put another bullet into him. This time it went into the side of his head, destroying the brain cortex, and killing him instantly. Verner jumped sideways in a grotesque way, hit the side of the Bentley and dropped to the ground, where he lay unmoving, apart from the flames rising up from his torso.
A procession of police cars turned into the driveway leading to the house, their blue lights flashing dramatically.
At last, Henry thought sourly, help had arrived.
Fifteen
Henry knew what he had to do, but it was a finely balanced thing. He needed to keep control, to hold people back, and it was damned hard because of one simple fact: he had no power as a cop and no one was obliged to listen to him if they did not wish to do so.
He insisted that Tara was taken to hospital immediately, accompanied by Charlotte. That, at least, got them off the scene and out of the way of any police questioning, which is what he wanted. He needed to get all the attention on himself so he could keep a grip on proceedings.
He faced a barrage of questions from Jane Roscoe and a detective superintendent from the SIO team by the name of Anger. . by name and nature, Henry thought. Henry did not know Anger, but learned he had recently been appointed on transfer from Merseyside Police.
Henry kept it all as simple as he could, straight to the point, telling them the story he wanted them to hear. When he had had enough of their pressure, he told them he wished to make a statement that he would write himself in his own time.
That did not go down particularly well. The investigators wanted to take his account of the night, to question and clarify, to dig, as they went along, but he told them to sod off. ‘I’ve been a cop long enough to be able to do my own, thanks,’ he said. ‘OK,’ he shrugged, ‘you’ve got three dead people here, but they aren’t going anywhere. Concentrate on the scene and see if you can find the person who whacked Verner.’
Anger stared at him hard. ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ he said.
Henry looked back at him through half-closed lids.
There was a stand-off.
‘OK,’ Anger relented, ‘but you do your statement here and now, no matter how long it takes.’
‘Fine,’ Henry said, also giving way, knowing he would not be allowed to go anywhere without giving the police at least something. A PC gave him a few blank witness statement forms and Henry went to sit in John Lloyd Wickson’s study, noticing, as he sat at the desk, the open firearms cabinet on the wall. He considered it through squinted eyes, then quickly began writing. It took about ninety minutes for him to get a draft of the basics which would suffice for the moment. He would flesh it out later, as appropriate.
He handed it to Jane Roscoe.
‘No trace of the marksman, sniper, whatever you want to call him.’
‘Didn’t think there would be.’
Jane glanced through the statement, her brow furrowed as she read. ‘It’s a bit. . thin, don’t you think?’
‘It’ll do for now,’ he said. ‘It’s been a tough night and I need some sleep. Unless I’m a suspect, I’m off.’
She gave him a very suspicious look. ‘Don’t leave town.’