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Authors: Susan Hill
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definitely a handgun that was used? Do you know what type?”
“Yes, but I’m saying no more yet. Right, that’s it for now. I’ll let you know the moment we have any further news and, meanwhile, your cooperation is appreciated. Please try and keep the murder of Melanie Drewup there—someone has got to know something, or to have seen or heard something. We want to jog their memories. Thanks a lot.”
As he left the briefing room, Serrailler caught a glimpse of Graham Whiteside pushing his way through the media pack towards one of the reporters from Bevham who sometimes sold info on to the nationals.
“Will someone ask DS Whiteside to see me in my office?”
“Sir.”
As he went up to the CID room, he was planning what he would say. Whiteside would not like it. But he got no further. A DS came fast up the stairs.
“Sir, there’s been a shooting at a house in May Road. Man holding woman hostage. Call just came in.”
“Let’s go.”
She drove. Serrailler used his phone. By the time they were out of the station car park, an armed response vehicle was en route.
“What do we know?”
“A passer-by heard shouting from the house—then a scream. One shot. Man came to the window waving what looked like a gun. He had his arm round a woman’s neck. Then he dragged her back. That was it.”
“Any names?”
“No, sir.”
“Who lives in the house?”
“Rented property, owned by Mr Theo Monaides.”
“He owns a lot of property round there. Tenants?”
“A Joanne Watson. Been there for a couple of months.”
“Alone?”
“They’re still checking. Monaides’ office says yes, alone, but a neighbour says a man has been seen coming and going.”
The car went round a corner on what felt like two wheels. Serrailler made a face. But the DS was a highly trained police driver. She spun expertly out into the main road and overtook two buses. The DCS closed his eyes.
There was the usual circus when they reached May Road, half a dozen streets away from the house in which Melanie Drew had been killed. Outside a semi, in the middle of the street, the press were already hovering, kept back behind the tape.
“Neighbours haven’t been backwards in picking up the phone,” Serrailler said as he got out of the car.
Three uniform were holding the fort and the sergeant looked relieved to see Serrailler.
“You SIO, sir? We’ve had no further sighting, no more gunshots—if it was a gunshot.”
“Who reported it?”
“A woman, walking her dog. Lives over there, at number 17. Seems reliable. She flagged down a motorist, he saw the man at the window with the gun and then, a few seconds later, with the woman. Used his mobile to phone us.”
“Has he opened a window, shouted anything out?”
“No, guv.”
“DCS Serrailler?” The sergeant in charge of the ARV was at his side, the vehicle pulled up a few yards back.
Simon filled him in.
“What do you want to do?”
“Wait. Just to see if there’s any communication.”
“OK. Give us the word.”
Simon stepped back and looked up at the house. Then he walked off in the opposite direction, to think.
Inside the Armed Response Vehicle, six men waited.
“Always the bloody same,” Steve Mason said. “Go like a bat out of hell then sit cooling your heels.”
“Probably a water pistol,” said Duncan Houlish.
“Somebody’s shadow.”
“His own arm.”
“Kids. Often kids.”
But they were tensed as they waited, on the ready, pepped up and wanting to go. They were trained for it, trained to do, yet 90 per cent of their time was spent not-doing.
Clive Rowley looked at his feet. “Get on with it,” he said under his breath.
“Could be linked with the other one,” Steve said.
“What? Melanie Drew?” Clive looked at him.
“Once you’ve got a lunatic with a gun out there …”
“What’s to say he’s a lunatic?”
Clive picked at the skin on the side of his finger. They yammered on. He preferred to stay quiet. Ready. Not that the
“Yes, but I’m saying no more yet. Right, that’s it for now. I’ll let you know the moment we have any further news and, meanwhile, your cooperation is appreciated. Please try and keep the murder of Melanie Drewup there—someone has got to know something, or to have seen or heard something. We want to jog their memories. Thanks a lot.”
As he left the briefing room, Serrailler caught a glimpse of Graham Whiteside pushing his way through the media pack towards one of the reporters from Bevham who sometimes sold info on to the nationals.
“Will someone ask DS Whiteside to see me in my office?”
“Sir.”
As he went up to the CID room, he was planning what he would say. Whiteside would not like it. But he got no further. A DS came fast up the stairs.
“Sir, there’s been a shooting at a house in May Road. Man holding woman hostage. Call just came in.”
“Let’s go.”
She drove. Serrailler used his phone. By the time they were out of the station car park, an armed response vehicle was en route.
“What do we know?”
“A passer-by heard shouting from the house—then a scream. One shot. Man came to the window waving what looked like a gun. He had his arm round a woman’s neck. Then he dragged her back. That was it.”
“Any names?”
“No, sir.”
“Who lives in the house?”
“Rented property, owned by Mr Theo Monaides.”
“He owns a lot of property round there. Tenants?”
“A Joanne Watson. Been there for a couple of months.”
“Alone?”
“They’re still checking. Monaides’ office says yes, alone, but a neighbour says a man has been seen coming and going.”
The car went round a corner on what felt like two wheels. Serrailler made a face. But the DS was a highly trained police driver. She spun expertly out into the main road and overtook two buses. The DCS closed his eyes.
There was the usual circus when they reached May Road, half a dozen streets away from the house in which Melanie Drew had been killed. Outside a semi, in the middle of the street, the press were already hovering, kept back behind the tape.
“Neighbours haven’t been backwards in picking up the phone,” Serrailler said as he got out of the car.
Three uniform were holding the fort and the sergeant looked relieved to see Serrailler.
“You SIO, sir? We’ve had no further sighting, no more gunshots—if it was a gunshot.”
“Who reported it?”
“A woman, walking her dog. Lives over there, at number 17. Seems reliable. She flagged down a motorist, he saw the man at the window with the gun and then, a few seconds later, with the woman. Used his mobile to phone us.”
“Has he opened a window, shouted anything out?”
“No, guv.”
“DCS Serrailler?” The sergeant in charge of the ARV was at his side, the vehicle pulled up a few yards back.
Simon filled him in.
“What do you want to do?”
“Wait. Just to see if there’s any communication.”
“OK. Give us the word.”
Simon stepped back and looked up at the house. Then he walked off in the opposite direction, to think.
Inside the Armed Response Vehicle, six men waited.
“Always the bloody same,” Steve Mason said. “Go like a bat out of hell then sit cooling your heels.”
“Probably a water pistol,” said Duncan Houlish.
“Somebody’s shadow.”
“His own arm.”
“Kids. Often kids.”
But they were tensed as they waited, on the ready, pepped up and wanting to go. They were trained for it, trained to do, yet 90 per cent of their time was spent not-doing.
Clive Rowley looked at his feet. “Get on with it,” he said under his breath.
“Could be linked with the other one,” Steve said.
“What? Melanie Drew?” Clive looked at him.
“Once you’ve got a lunatic with a gun out there …”
“What’s to say he’s a lunatic?”
Clive picked at the skin on the side of his finger. They yammered on. He preferred to stay quiet. Ready. Not that the
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