estate took her on to the bypass, after which she skirted a grid of avenues leading to the Hill. Revulsion she had not felt for months, and fear too, rose up in her and seemed to fill her mouth with a bitter taste. She did not want to go near the Hill, where women had been attacked and so swiftly, expertly murdered. There was a stain over the place that would never be erased from Lafferton’s consciousness. Someone had written a book about the case, someone else was making a television documentary, keeping it all alive, keeping the wounds open.
She took a detour round Tenbury Walk. The hospice was at the bottom of here. The lights shone softly behind drawn blinds; a couple of cars were parked at the front. Cat turned into the entrance and pulled up beside them.
Twelve
“Chapman.”
“Call just came in, guv. Natalie Coombs, aged twenty-six, lives in Fimmingham. Reports her next-door neighbour has a silver Mondeo registration XT … something. She suddenly panicked because her six-year-old daughter spends quite a bit of time round there apparently.”
“Has the child said anything?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Neighbour’s name?”
“Ed Sleightholme.”
“Get someone round there. Now.”
“Guv.”
The driver murmured urgently, and Chapman glanced up. “Bugger.”
“They’re turning off, sir.”
The patrol car in front had veered left, leaving the dual carriageway, and was following the Mondeo on to a B-road.
“He’s not going to Scarborough.”
“Where then?”
“Not sure …” The rain had lessened slightly but the clouds were still dark, banking up as they ran towards the sea, and the narrower road was treacherous.
“OK, Katie, let’s not cause a pile-up.”
“Sir.” The driver eased off but ahead of them, the patrol car streaked after the Mondeo, sending up sheets of spray behind it.
“Funny, isn’t it,” Chapman said, leaning back in his seat, relaxed and calm. “Give them a rope and they’ll often hang themselves … If he hadn’t panicked when the boys stepped after him, he’d not have roused any more interest. Now look at him.”
“Have you got enough to arrest him?” asked Simon.
“Just about enough to bring him in for questioning.”
“Jesus.” Simon closed his eyes. He opened them on an empty road ahead. The cars had peeled off on to yet another B-road. Lightning cracked across the sky, out to sea. The Mondeo drove towards it.
It took them twenty minutes to reach the coast, and a stretch of open, scrubby ground off the road.
They jumped out. The patrol car had stopped. The Mondeo was slewed round a few yards away from them and the driver was out and running fast towards the cliff edge.
“Bloody hell.”
“He’s going to kill himself,” Chapman muttered.
“Not if I have anything to do with it he’s bloody not.”
Something made Serrailler run, something that had been building up inside him like the storm and now hit him in the stomach as a burst of fury. The uniformed officers were making across the grass but they were slow, one of them a heavy man, the other seemingly in trouble with his boot. Simon passed them, confident, running easily. What gave him speed was his certainty, cast iron and unwavering, that he was following the murderer of David Angus, Scott Merriman, Amy Sudden … He had to catch the man before he reached the cliff edge and hurtled himself through the air on to the rocks far below.
But as he drew nearer, Serrailler realised that there was a path. He did not look back to see if the others were following. He was on his own now, this was his chase and his arrest.
The man vanished.
Simon reached the cliff edge and hesitated, looking down. The path was narrow and precipitous, cut into the cliff, without any handrail or holding place, but clearly the man knew exactly where to go and what to do after he plunged over the edge.
Simon did not hesitate.
It was the wind which shocked him and almost threw him off balance; rain was driven
She took a detour round Tenbury Walk. The hospice was at the bottom of here. The lights shone softly behind drawn blinds; a couple of cars were parked at the front. Cat turned into the entrance and pulled up beside them.
Twelve
“Chapman.”
“Call just came in, guv. Natalie Coombs, aged twenty-six, lives in Fimmingham. Reports her next-door neighbour has a silver Mondeo registration XT … something. She suddenly panicked because her six-year-old daughter spends quite a bit of time round there apparently.”
“Has the child said anything?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Neighbour’s name?”
“Ed Sleightholme.”
“Get someone round there. Now.”
“Guv.”
The driver murmured urgently, and Chapman glanced up. “Bugger.”
“They’re turning off, sir.”
The patrol car in front had veered left, leaving the dual carriageway, and was following the Mondeo on to a B-road.
“He’s not going to Scarborough.”
“Where then?”
“Not sure …” The rain had lessened slightly but the clouds were still dark, banking up as they ran towards the sea, and the narrower road was treacherous.
“OK, Katie, let’s not cause a pile-up.”
“Sir.” The driver eased off but ahead of them, the patrol car streaked after the Mondeo, sending up sheets of spray behind it.
“Funny, isn’t it,” Chapman said, leaning back in his seat, relaxed and calm. “Give them a rope and they’ll often hang themselves … If he hadn’t panicked when the boys stepped after him, he’d not have roused any more interest. Now look at him.”
“Have you got enough to arrest him?” asked Simon.
“Just about enough to bring him in for questioning.”
“Jesus.” Simon closed his eyes. He opened them on an empty road ahead. The cars had peeled off on to yet another B-road. Lightning cracked across the sky, out to sea. The Mondeo drove towards it.
It took them twenty minutes to reach the coast, and a stretch of open, scrubby ground off the road.
They jumped out. The patrol car had stopped. The Mondeo was slewed round a few yards away from them and the driver was out and running fast towards the cliff edge.
“Bloody hell.”
“He’s going to kill himself,” Chapman muttered.
“Not if I have anything to do with it he’s bloody not.”
Something made Serrailler run, something that had been building up inside him like the storm and now hit him in the stomach as a burst of fury. The uniformed officers were making across the grass but they were slow, one of them a heavy man, the other seemingly in trouble with his boot. Simon passed them, confident, running easily. What gave him speed was his certainty, cast iron and unwavering, that he was following the murderer of David Angus, Scott Merriman, Amy Sudden … He had to catch the man before he reached the cliff edge and hurtled himself through the air on to the rocks far below.
But as he drew nearer, Serrailler realised that there was a path. He did not look back to see if the others were following. He was on his own now, this was his chase and his arrest.
The man vanished.
Simon reached the cliff edge and hesitated, looking down. The path was narrow and precipitous, cut into the cliff, without any handrail or holding place, but clearly the man knew exactly where to go and what to do after he plunged over the edge.
Simon did not hesitate.
It was the wind which shocked him and almost threw him off balance; rain was driven
Similar Books
