Pawn, page 17
Barns sighed as he stared at the supermarket from the car park, disgusted that such an awful thing as a shootout and bombing could have happened here, in a peaceful place. But it had, and so close to his home too. It had already been a long day, even if it had only been an hour or two since he had got the call. And it was only going to get longer.
Or maybe not. He suddenly spotted a lone figure leaving the supermarket and heading his way. A figure far too tall and gaunt even in body armour to be anyone else but his sergeant. Barns knew that if he was leaving, it could only mean that he was no longer needed inside, and probably he had some news. He waited impatiently for his sergeant to complete the hundred yard walk across the parking lot, weaving his way through the parked cars and over to the command post.
“Hopkins.” It had seemed even longer standing outside the crime scene, unable to enter it because there were still possibly some gunmen running loose inside the buildings. But at least his sergeant could, if only because he’d recently done his weapons and first aid training. Say what you would about him, the man was dedicated to his training, and that was useful.
“Eight dead, fourteen seriously to critically injured, most of them women and children out doing the family shopping. Please tell me we have someone to pin this on Hopkins.” If Barns sounded upset it was only because he was. This was more than just terrible, it was an atrocity. And somehow he was sure that it was all linked back to Venner and his accursed painting. In fact it reminded him of the hotel.
It had been a bad week even before the shootout. Ever since his initial suspect had been murdered on a beach.
Someone had leaked masses of information about the case to the press, and Rufus’ Hennassy’s name was once more the lead story on the news every evening. But not his death, his life. His early years. And he had to hand it to them. Once the media had a story they went with it all the way. Hospital records, social services records, teachers and priests. Anyone and anything they could lay their hands on that told them a little more about his beginnings they’d somehow managed to drag out. And it was terrible.
What Rufus and the police records had told him was bad enough, but with what the media were dragging out and plastering all over the evening news, it just got worse. Abuse, torture, repeated horrific injuries, many of them life threatening, and even suggestions of sexual abuse, the disaster that was his early life was unspeakable, or it should be.
But people were speaking. They were shouting in fact. Calling for enquiries. How could any young child suffer so much for so long and it not be reported? How could the doctors who’d treated him not have reported the abuse to the police? How could the teachers who saw him coming to school each day covered in blood and bruises not have acted? How could the social agencies not have acted? There were already questions being asked in parliament about it. So many questions, so few answers. And now all they had was a dead man, and not even a body to pay their respects to.
Naturally the police were in the firing line. He was in the firing line simply for having named him a person of interest in the current cases. Making that public announcement had been an unfortunate mistake in hindsight. It gave the press a target. But also, and this was the thing that truly hurt, for not having recognised him as a victim from the outset. The press were relentless on that score. Maybe they were right to be.
There was truth in the charge, and the inspector couldn’t deny it much as he might have wished to. At the start he had thought him a suspect, and thought he was hiding something. He was, but it wasn’t a guilty conscience. It was his own horrid past. But worse than that, when he had learned of his past, he hadn’t acted quickly enough to protect him. That was his failure. His repeated failure. And now the man was dead because of it. But he could do nothing about it. Nothing at all. His own masters had made sure of that.
His statements to the press were carefully monitored and no admission of guilt in any way would be tolerated. In fact every statement he made had to be vetted by a media officer almost before it left his lips. For the same reason he had been specifically forbidden to lay flowers at the beach where Rufus Hennassy had been gunned down by his brother, a site that was fast becoming a shrine to an abused child. And he wasn’t allowed to attend any of the vigils or church services for his passing either. It would only have been right and decent, but in the modern police image was more important than those things.
The inspector hated that, and he hated the fact that someone else could know so much and find out so much more about the abused child when he as a mere copper had no chance. He hated the fact that that same person, whoever it was, was leaking all the information to the press, especially when he was certain it wasn’t Venner. The painting yes, but not the stuff about Rufus Hennassy. He had no reason. So there was another player involved, and he hated not having the foggiest who that might be. But most of all he hated the fact that only a few short hours before, the criminals he was chasing had gone on the rampage once more and created a whole new atrocity. Still he had no time to dwell on that anger. The only thing he had time for now was his job. Find the guilty and lock them up.
He knew it was Rufus Hennassy’s family in action again. Who else could it be? The press knew it too, and they were camped outside the police cordons in their droves. Cameras were everywhere, many of them with very long lenses, and the tv reporters were actually standing on the roofs of their vans, filming everything. In fact there were probably more press vans and reporters and cameramen, then there were police and public put together. They were everywhere, a veritable sea of microphones and flashing lights surrounding them. He didn’t want to see the evening news, if he was ever lucky enough to return home again. But for the moment he had a sergeant to listen to.
“Two someones sir. One dead, one probably dying. But there are more.” Of course there were more. There were always more. There were no shortage of bad guys in this mess, and all of them he knew in his bones, linked back to Venner somehow.
“Tell me.”
“Well for a start we have Petras the mercenary with no last name. He’s dead with a knife in his throat. His brother though, if he was there, got away.” But at least one of them was down. That was Barns’ first thought. One less bad guy running around with a gun.
“Go on.”
“And we also have Aidan Hennassy. Bullet wound in the thigh. Broken back, smashed ribs, concussion and multiple internal injuries. The paramedics are fixing him up now, ready to be flown to the hospital.” His sergeant might look somewhat pessimistic about the man’s chances, but in everything that he’d said Barns had understood only one thing.
“He’s alive?”
“For now.”
“Now is enough. Hopkins we have to question him.” He didn’t care if the man lived or died, as long as he could finally get some answers and put the rest of these villains behind bars, starting with Venner.
“He’s not talking Sir.” The sergeant hung his head, and Barns gathered from his disappointed expression that he didn’t expect the man to talk at all. That was bad. They needed him to talk. They needed him to lead them to the painting, because only then would this nightmare end. Find the painting end the violence. And then they could concentrate on capturing the criminals. But it wasn’t looking good.
Rufus Hennassy was probably, almost certainly dead. But he hadn’t known anything anyway. Daryl Hennassy was locked away in a mental institution, completely out of his mind and with little prospect of returning. Petras the mercenary with no last name, was also dead, his miserable brother still free and likely angry. And now Aidan Hennassy was probably about to die too without a confession. But still, a man so evil as to torture his son for the first dozen or so years of his life, would it be such a terrible thing if he died? Barns couldn’t have found it within himself to grieve for the man. His passing would not be a loss to the world. As long as he answered his questions first.
“Store security’s up!” One of the scene examiners yelled it out from the back of a nearby police van, stopping the inspector from asking any more pointless questions of his long suffering sergeant, and they rushed over to see. They were far from alone however, and Barns soon found himself having to jostle for a place among his peers. Hopkins was luckier being so tall. But fairly quickly they all found themselves a place where they could watch the monitors in the back of the van.
“So, from the start. Ten twenty one this morning.” The technician hit a button and suddenly four screens came on at once, showing them the inside of the shop, before it had turned into a disaster area and everyone held their breath. A calm, normal supermarket with plenty of people, mostly mothers and children, loading up their carts as they wandered down the aisle. It was so peaceful it was almost boring. But when the action finally started, Barns wished he was back at the peaceful minutes.
“Oh my God!” It was a nightmare. A normal suburban supermarket crowded with shoppers, and people had just started opening up with heavy artillery inside it. The results were entirely predictable. People running and screaming, women and children mostly, while they found themselves trapped in the aisles with shooters at both ends. There were bodies falling everywhere, some of them very small bodies, as huge bullets tore massive holes in fragile flesh. There was blood everywhere and much worse besides. And then the bombs started flying.
Barns made the technician stop the video at that point, so that he could get an image of the bomber. It was a matter of professionalism, getting an ID and simply making sure that the bomber wasn’t among the dead and wounded. But in truth he would have been more than happy if he hadn’t seen it, if the man was dead. He would have been more than happy if they all were. But they weren’t. And soon he had to watch the entire atrocity continue.
He saw Aidan Hennassy, wounded and confused in the smoke, busy shooting indiscriminately, killing and wounding maybe a dozen people, and he knew that the villain would care nothing for those innocents he’d murdered. Anyone who could so terribly abuse his son had no heart at all. He also knew that since they’d been attacked, his lawyer would likely plead self-defence if he survived to reach trial, and some sort of deal would have to be made. There would be no justice in this. Not for anyone. The surviving Russian had done exactly the same thing, shooting wildly in all directions, but since he had got away, again, there would likely be no trial for him at all. Of the guilty, it seemed Aidan Hennassy and the dead Russian were their only two captured perps, and neither of them was going to be of much use.
As usual for the rest of them seemed to have got away, again, though at least not cleanly. Serina had slipped out, somewhere in the midst of the smoke filling the store, but she was sliced from head to foot and some of those cuts looked deep from the blood soaking her clothes. She’d need medical attention. The surviving Russian, Ivanova had taken three or four shots, but he was apparently wearing body armour. Only the one in his shoulder was likely to need attention. But at least he was wounded enough that he would need some medical help. It was a place to start looking.
Arabas Ben was there of course, and he too had been sliced and diced and would need to seek medical attention. But at least the images of him were very sharp. If he did get away, and a man like him had plenty of contacts, Interpol would have something to use when they hunted him down. He might not be captured in Britain, but with a little luck he would be caught.
As for the bomber, he had got away completely unscathed. Though his face was caught perfectly on the monitor and Interpol would probably have a file on him, he hadn’t been among the survivors or the dead. He hadn’t even been touched. He’d simply lobbed his bombs over the packed shelves, and let the entire disaster become ten times worse as people fired indiscriminately. But of them all, he alone had come out on top. Not only had he not been shot or stabbed, he had got his man, or actually his woman.
The daughter, Tracey Hennassy, he’d nabbed her as she’d been staggering through the smoke and flame holding an injured leg, bashed her over the head, and simply carried her out like a sack of potatoes while flinging more bombs around to add to the confusion. They’d hunt him, but the inspector knew it would take time. And all the while he knew she would be tied up in a chair somewhere, being beaten or worse, tortured for information. And when he had it? That was the next question.
He’d probably kill her, but then she was a part of a criminal family, and her own crimes were no small matter. Her death would not be a loss to the world either, and Barns found he had little sympathy for her. But as for the painting itself? The Rembrandt, if it really was one. Would it be a matter of just picking it up from wherever the Hennassy’s had stashed it? Or would it be another shoot out with more innocent people caught in the crossfire?
And if the others knew the bomber had the girl and was on to the painting? They’d come after him. No matter how he looked at it, Barns knew that things were going to get much worse before they finally ended. And many more innocent people were going to get hurt along the way.
This wasn’t going to end. And the fact that the rest were all looking at him, told him one thing more. Officially or not this had finally become his crime scene. It was with a heavy heart that Barns turned to the others, knowing that they already knew everything he was going to say.
“Alright, by the books people. Peter, the rest of the market needs to be cleared, all the side rooms, chillers and offices checked and secured, and then the surrounding shops. Full body armour and dogs, there could still be a bad guy or two in there. The fallen need to be checked for signs of life, and if they are still breathing, have them stretchered out by the paramedics under close guard. The rest can stay. Everyone here, everyone who made it out, photographed, fingerprinted and statements taken. Full statements, verified if possible. And then forensics. Every inch of that supermarket needs to be checked.”
Quietly they all wandered off to start their work, none of them even complaining about the high handed way he had ordered them around. But then they’d known it was coming.
And in the end, they were far luckier than him. At least they could do their job. He still had no idea where the Hennassy’s were. That meant he was going to be standing there for the rest of the night, listening to the copious reports, and metaphorically twiddling his thumbs as he hoped some crumb of useful information might fall his way.
But he knew it wouldn’t.
*****************
Chapter Eighteen.
“Chief Inspector, thank you for coming.” Agent Dikē managed a surprisingly convincing smile as she held the door open for him and his sergeant, and ushered them in the room. Cynic that he was, Barns suspected that despite her words on the phone, that could only mean that she wanted something. But as long as she was willing to trade he could live with that. He could live with a lot if it would stop these criminals rampaging through his town, killing innocent people. And if it would give him Venner, so much the better. And the fact that she had called him, that gave him hope.
“I’m sorry for having to meet under such conditions, but we don’t have an office out here in the south east and I didn’t think you’d want to be pulled too far away from your investigation just now.” Maybe she had a point and while it was unusual to meet another officer in a motel room, she wasn’t a local and London was quite some distance to travel for a meeting. But still it was a nice room. A suite in fact, and in a very nice motel, The Manfred. Interpol obviously put their people up in good places when they had to. But then they probably had money and she likely had a very useful expense account. Things simple country coppers like him could only dream of.
Still he didn’t waste his time looking around at all the things he didn’t have, like a huge flat screen telly hanging on a wall or an espresso machine. Instead he walked over to the dining table where the informant was waiting to meet them. The trouble was that he didn’t look much like a normal informant. He looked like a priest and not your common parish vicar either.
“Father?” He stretched out a hand in greeting.
“Archdeacon Fields.” The man even stood up as he shook his hand, well mannered, and despite all the terrible things people said about the church, fairly down to earth. He even offered to pour them a cup of the black coffee from the plunge pot sitting in the middle of the glass topped dining table. Barns declined, having spent the last two days doing nothing but drink coffee and going through endless reports and interviews. He couldn’t take another drop.
“Archdeacon, I’d like you to meet Detective Chief Inspector Barns and Detective Sergeant Hopkins. Detectives, this is Archdeacon Geoffrey Fields of the Archdiocese of Utrecht in the Netherlands. He has special duties for the Pontifical Commission for the Cultural Patrimony of the Church, in relation to several artists. Most notably he’s an acknowledged authority on the work of Rembrandt.” For a while there as she gave his endless titles, Barn’s mind had been turning in circles, until she added the last. It was then that everything abruptly clicked into place.
“You know about the painting?” Of course he did. What else could he know unless these people had come to him in the confessional, and then they didn’t tell the police what they learned.
“Absolutely inspector.”
“And it’s a fake?”
