They met up by the front door. ‘Was the booby trap meant for us?’
‘Hard to say. Perhaps it’s a burglar trap. No sign of Deedee or of a struggle. The door was unlocked and his electric bike is in there. He’s in his workshop in one of these derelict houses.’
‘Yes, but there’s scores of them. Which one is it?’
McLusky pointed. ‘It’s that one.’ Cooke had appeared from around the back of the last bungalow, whose garden backed on to the towpath. As he saw them he stopped in his tracks, then turned quickly back around the corner.
‘Stop, police!’ McLusky was running already. Austin sprinted around the front in case Cooke tried to escape that way. They met up by the back door, having seen nothing. Windows and door were boarded up and, to the casual observer, secure. Yet on closer inspection the chipboard over the back entrance was in fact a hinged door. A bolt lying on the ground beside it would secure the door from the outside. McLusky picked it up and flung it far into the long grass. There was no sign of Daws’ break-in. It had either been repaired or he had come in a different way.
Carefully he pulled on the edge of the chipboard. It moved easily on its hinges and he folded it back completely until it rested against the side of the house, revealing the door underneath. It was ajar. Closer inspection showed that it had once been broken open, possibly with a crowbar. He shone his pen light into the gap around the door frame. Booby traps could take many forms, there might be one standing on the floor, waiting to be triggered as the door opened. McLusky doubted that there had been enough time but he pushed Austin aside. ‘Get back.’ Then he flattened himself against the wall and with one hand swung the door until it was half open. There was no resistance. ‘Mr Cooke, it’s the police! Come out, Mr Cooke, show yourself!’
It was dark inside with all the windows boarded up. What little light fell in through the door revealed a gutted kitchen and a filthy, half-perished floor. Something or somebody had been dragged through the dirt recently.
McLusky strained to listen through the drumming and splashing of the rain. A small noise, like something dropped on to the floor somewhere in the house, not in the kitchen. McLusky slipped into the gloom of the inside and moved to the door connecting the kitchen with the hall, with Austin close behind him. A thin cold light fell on to the mouldy hall carpet from a half-open door at the end of the hall, from what he guessed would have been the sitting room. He could now hear a hissing sound, too. It made him shiver.
He repeated his call. ‘Police! Come out with your hands up, Mr Cooke!’
The answering voice was harsh and defiant, yet unmistakably that of an old man making an effort to sound strong and confident. ‘Go away! I’ve got one of your lot in here. He’s my hostage.’
McLusky moved slowly forward into the hall. ‘Nonsense, Mr Cooke, it’s over. You don’t want a hostage. That’s never worked before for anyone.’
‘You’re coming closer, I can hear you coming closer. Stay where you are or I’m going to hurt this officer.’
‘You don’t want to do that, Mr Cooke. How is the officer? He’s very quiet.’ As he moved closer to the door he thought he could detect the sound of laboured breathing. The hissing, he now realized, came from a hurricane lamp.
‘He’s not feeling too clever. I had to hit him on the head and I had to gag him. Don’t come any closer now or he gets it.’
‘I’m afraid I have to see him for myself, you could be lying.’ Keep him talking, Cooke has no plan, don’t give him time to make one.
‘Lying? I don’t lie, you are the liar, you are all liars, all that rubbish spouted about me.’
‘Nevertheless, it’s my duty to satisfy myself that my officer is alive. I’m going to come and look now.’ He moved slowly sideways into the rectangle of hissing light and stood still.
The centre of the room was taken up by several small tables. Every inch appeared to be covered in tools, boxes, wires, a car battery, bottles, canisters and a vice. Under the dark windows stood shelves filled with more material; in the corners bin-liners were overflowing with the remains of carefully dismantled fireworks.
Dearlove sat rigidly on a kitchen chair. He had been tightly trussed up with cables and his limbs taped to the legs and backrest of the chair. There was drying blood on the side of his skull and face. Several lengths of silver gaffer tape had been used to gag him. Dearlove breathed with noisy effort through a nose and sinuses choked with his own vomit, some of which encrusted his nostrils. His eyes stared straight at McLusky with wide unblinking terror. Behind him stood Cooke, his deeply lined face thrown into sharp relief by the hurricane lamp hissing on a foldable workbench by his side. Standing quite still he looked like a figure made from leather. His right hand rested on a petrol can. It was uncapped and McLusky thought he could smell the contents.
‘His name is David. I don’t think David can breathe very well. There’s no need for a gag any more, we’re here now. Everyone knows we are here. Any chance of taking David’s gag off?’
‘Shut up about him, you’re trying to distract me.’
‘Distract you from what, Mr Cooke?’ He took a casual step forward.
‘Stay where you are. Distract me so you can rush me. But I warn you, I have lots of weapons at my disposal. And there’s petrol in this. One false move and he’ll burn.’
‘Then we’d all burn. There’s no use in that. It won’t make any difference. It won’t bring them back.’ McLusky craned his neck left and right, leaning forward, looking about, moving forward a few inches. ‘Is this what they would have wanted you to do? Your daughter? And your wife, Barbara?’
The name electrified Cooke. ‘How dare you speak about them? How dare you mention her name?’
‘Would Barbara approve of this? Would she have liked it?’
‘Shut up. I warned you!’ His hand jerked forward and petrol splashed over Dearlove’s head and side. In response the DC let out a long insistent grunting noise of fear and pain as the noxious liquid bit into his head wound.
‘How many bombs are there? Just out of interest.’ McLusky spoke casually as though what had just happened was of no concern to him.
‘That you will find out over time.’
‘You’ve got none left, have you?’ He looked about, displaying disappointment. ‘All your arsenal deployed, all your little soldiers out there. It’s all over then, isn’t it.’ A statement, not a question. ‘Well, you outsmarted us then by the looks of it. So there’s no longer any need for all this.’ His hand gesture encompassed the room, indicating Dearlove. ‘Well, that’s it then. I’m going to go now, Mr Cooke.’
‘You’re going to go?’ He looked puzzled.
‘Are you going to tell me where you planted the remaining devices?’