Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Collection

Chapter 3-2

‘No, these old Geminis come as standard driver-operated doors.’

Sant tossed the information around in his puzzled head. ‘So it would’ve been possible, would it not, for someone to fire a gun at Simpson immediately after he’d opened the doors for them, and then jump out of the vehicle before it picked up speed on its descent towards these shops.’

Jones shook his head a little less vigorously than before. ‘I suppose that’s what happened, but I – can’t exactly picture it in my head.’

Sant nodded. ‘Neither can I, though believe you me, the events leading up to most crimes stretch the bounds of credibility.’

‘He must’ve stopped the bus.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, if I read the situation rightly, the gunman has fired at the passengers first. Not the driver. The advice we give to all our drivers is to stop their vehicles promptly in the event of violent behaviour.’

‘And call the police?’ Sant scratched his nose.

‘Absolutely. They use a panic button. And if they carry a phone they can use that too, but I’m not sure–’

‘I’ve already checked. No phone was found on Simpson. Is CCTV installed?’

The bus rep adjusted his stance, defence in his tone. ‘Not in these older models, I’m afraid. The unions want cameras on all fleets to protect drivers, though as with every issue, there’s a pay-off between benefits and costs incurred.’

‘One last thing,’ said Sant. ‘Show me the last stop this bus passed through.’

Jones obliged, more than happy to get away from the ghastly chorus of press cameras flashing. He pointed to a temporary bus-stop sign. About a hundred yards up the slope, it sat atop a wobbly red pole held upright by sandbags. Sant thanked him. The wet breeze swept up Jones’s sigh of relief as he headed to his car, head shaking like a top-heavy blancmange.

* * *

The lights of a nearby bakery flickered in the distance, the prospect making Sant’s stomach rumble with hunger. He was about to set off that way when Capstick approached looking like death warmed up.

‘Get much rest?’

‘Not a wink, sir.’

‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’

Capstick gave a slight nod, swallowing hard, trying to banish all recent memories. He’d been as sick as a dog. Food was the last thing on his mind. They decided to return to headquarters and grab a swift breakfast there, Capstick doing the usual honour of driving.

Back at the office, bacon butty in hand, Sant pointed to Dryden’s bare desk a few feet across from his own. The emptiness lent an eerie feel to the room.

‘We need to know what he was up to.’ He ate as he spoke. ‘He must’ve left some trace of where he was going and what he was doing. I say we start looking right here – in his drawers, files, computer, the lot.’

‘I’ve made a start,’ said Capstick. ‘No sign of any notebook. He had a work phone, but I doubt we’ll find it any time soon.’

Sant nodded. ‘I checked with forensics. He didn’t have it with him. At least, not after he’d been shot. But Dryden always carried a phone; was practically glued to it. Whoever killed him took his phone too. But why?’

‘To stop him calling for help?’

Sant let out a stifled hoot. ‘Would you know how to use a phone with a bullet in your brain? Put your thinking cap on, Capstick. The only logical reason the killer stole the phone was because it was in his interests to do so.’

‘That’s it!’ Capstick cried out. ‘Dryden was trying, before he was shot, to message something, some evidence, incriminating whoever then attacked him.’

evidence‘Well, no-one got a message from him, though you’re right – the killer would take no chances on that front. But unless we find the phone in some far-flung gutter, there’s not much to go on.’

The door flew open and in strode Detective Sergeant Amanda Holdsworth, her permed brown hair dishevelled by the wind. She’d heard the news – it was harder to avoid it – and her flustered face spoke a paradox of dejection and determination. A single mother in her early forties, she’d suffered a lot of heartache in recent years, one more slice of bad news acting more like a jolt than a shock to the system.

She deposited a large bag on her desk, leaned on the side of it, placed her hand on her chin. It was a familiar pose and Sant felt reassured whenever she adopted it. She was a clever detective and not afraid to show it.

‘A penny for your thoughts, Holdsworth.’

She paused briefly before unleashing her stream of consciousness. ‘Okay, this is how I see it. Dryden gets on a bus, where and why we don’t know. He’s returning to town from somewhere. Why take the bus? Because he’s gone to meet someone who doesn’t wish to be identified. Someone he meets in secret. Dryden wasn’t even supposed to be at work. Which makes the whole affair shifty if you ask me.’

Sant chewed his toothpick. ‘Me and Capstick think his phone was taken by the killer.’

Holdsworth perched on her chair before swivelling ninety degrees towards Capstick and stretching out her stockinged legs. ‘It makes sense. The killer shadowed Dryden, overheard his conversation with this mysterious informant, followed him back to the bus, got on board with him, and soon realised Dryden was using the phone to record what he’d heard.’

‘Precisely,’ Sant said, slapping a pint-sized hand on his chair arm. ‘All we need to do is find the informant, who should lead us to a motive and a perp.’

Holdsworth leered, spreading her arms theatrically. ‘You make it sound so easy, Carl.’

Capstick adjusted his specs. ‘The key question is: who is the killer? And why did he kill practically everyone else on that bus as well as Dryden? That isn’t so easy to explain. Maybe Dryden wasn’t the target – just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘You’re right to speculate,’ said Sant. ‘We can’t assume anything hard and fast. But the main action kicked off on the upper deck of that bus. It must’ve been up there where the intended victim was fired at. Which makes the odds two-to-one against Dryden given we have three dead on the upper deck.’ He fumbled with something in his pocket. ‘The perp killed those three first and then made good his escape from the bus, though not before shooting dead anyone who could recognise him subsequently.’

‘Including the driver,’ added Holdsworth.

‘Right. He had to confront the driver in order to get him to open the doors, which left poor Brian Simpson a no-brainer for a bullet in the head. He was doomed. So were the others. No-one would get out alive. Let’s hope the two blokes in intensive care survive to tell the tale.’

‘Even if they do,’ said Capstick, ‘what chance have they of remembering what happened moments before they got a bullet for their troubles?’

‘Weren’t the survivors found to have no shot wounds?’ Holdsworth put in.

‘Right again,’ answered Sant. ‘Stick to the facts, Capstick. Facts are all we’ve got. Let’s not muck about with them.’ Capstick muttered an apology, his cheeks reddening, his eyes not registering Holdsworth’s suppressed laugh. ‘They were lucky to avoid the bullets according to Wisdom. Sadly, both suffered severe blows to the head. They were flung several yards down the bus on impact. The likelihood of recall is slim.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Holdsworth. ‘The human brain is remarkably resilient.’

Sant nodded. ‘Right now, memories are the least of those men’s worries.’

‘Who’s leading the investigation?’

‘Haven’t a clue. We were his closest colleagues at the time of his death so don’t expect a free lunch any time soon.’

The pattering of hurried feet grew louder from the corridor outside.

‘The Old Man with his division of labour,’ muttered Holdsworth.

Right on cue, Gilligan’s head appeared at the door. ‘Inspector Sant, conference room in five. And be smart! Every news organisation and its dog are sniffing around out there.’

Sant was taken aback. ‘What about a briefing first?’

‘No time.’

‘But what am I supposed to say?’

‘Nothing. Leave the talking to Lister and Hardaker.’

No sooner was the Old Man there than he was gone.

‘Talk about a put-down,’ Holdsworth remarked, tapping a finger to her nose. ‘Clearly the big-wigs are looking after number one, Carl.’

‘At least they’ve invited me to the party, Holdsworth, but if they think they can keep me quiet they’ve got a shock coming their way.’

They swapped brief smiles as he grabbed his Sunday-best jacket and walked out, adjusting his black tie for the media circus ahead.

* * *

He sat at the end of a long table. At the other end was Gilligan, fiddling with a mic in the fashion of a fading rock star. Between Sant and Gilligan perched the men in charge: master of ceremonies Chief Constable Edward Lister and coordinating officer Superintendent Harry Hardaker. Sant could just about stomach Hardaker. Lister was a different matter.

Lanky Lister – as other officers liked to call him, though never to his face – arched his lofty skeleton, stuck out his veiny neck and signalled the start of proceedings with a wave of his bony hand. Then he summed up the events of the last ten hours, stressing that no names of any victims could be released until next of kin were contacted and identifications confirmed. All thoughts, understandably, were with the families. The only name he could release to the news hounds was the one they knew about already: Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden.

Sant had already sneaked a peek at a TV screen screaming the headline POLICE OFFICER KILLED IN BUS ATTACK. The ‘other victims’ got tagged onto the end of the news ticker. Ironic. One of the few occasions an officer demanded respect was on the occasion of their death.

Hardaker rounded things off with the usual call for information regarding the incident. He was a good speaker; better than Lister. Unlike most CID officers, Hardaker blossomed under the roving gaze of the public eye. The Chiefman, as Hardaker was nicknamed owing to his long red locks and pointed red beard, was a man going places fast.

Questions followed. As instructed, Sant said nothing and put on his best professional pose. Seen but not heard. It brought out the kid in him.

‘Have you found the murder weapon?’

‘Not yet,’ Hardaker declared. A neat response. Honest but not without hope. ‘Teams of officers are searching the crime scene as we speak.’

‘CCTV images?’

‘Likewise, they are being retrieved and examined as we speak.’

‘Has anyone been detained in connection with the incident?’

‘No,’ uttered Lister. Less hopeful, less assured.

‘Are the police looking for more than one gunman?’

Lister shifted in his chair, his head leaning awkwardly to one side. ‘Our investigations are ongoing as far as numbers go.’

‘Numbers? So two minimum?’

‘Well, er, as I was saying, investigations are–’

‘But how can one person kill others on a moving bus, including the driver, and get out before it crashes?’

oneHardaker took over. ‘Detectives investigating the incident remain open-minded about whether they are dealing with one or a number of perpetrators. The situation is fluid and we will update you with developments as soon as they become apparent.’

‘Did the shootings take place inside or outside the bus?’

‘Inside,’ Hardaker replied.

‘Can you explain your evidence for this?’

‘Certainly. The hackle marks found in the smashed window glass were at right angles to the outside surface, indicating the bullets entered the windows from the inside.’

‘Was the bus in motion or stationary when the shootings occurred?’

‘We believe it was moving,’ said Hardaker, running the show now.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Judging by the speed of the vehicle at impact with the shop buildings, it is likely the bus was moving.’

‘So how did the killer or killers manage to escape from a moving bus?’

Hardaker replied without hesitation. ‘It was probably moving slowly at that phase. The driver appears to have applied the brakes after hearing gunshots. The perpetrator or perpetrators would have had time to escape from the open doors before the bus began to pick up speed down the slope of the hill.’

Almost perfect, Sant thought.

‘The number of fatalities?’

This time Hardaker paused slightly.

‘Six,’ Lister said.

Hardaker glanced to his left. ‘Seven, including DS Dryden.’

Lister blushed slightly and bit his lip.

‘Injured?’

‘Two,’ said Lister. He got that right.

‘How many of the fatalities are women?’

‘Two.’

‘Children?’

‘None.’

‘Were the bodies found on the lower or upper deck?’

Hardaker intervened again. ‘Three on the upper, four on the lower.’ He was good at maths; Lister not so hot.

‘Did the killer start firing on the upper or lower deck?’

‘We cannot confirm that information at present.’ A textbook response from the Chiefman.

‘Any evidence of a terrorist attack? Islamist extremists, maybe?’

The Chiefman kept his cool admirably. ‘We’re not ruling anything in or out. Needless to say, the Ministry of Defence is in close touch with us.’

A flurry of further questions went by before the whole technological operation began winding down. Journalists from the big news firms had what they wanted; enough copy to see them through the next few hours. Wires were being unplugged, laptops shut. As the conference drew to a close and Lister wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, a last hand went up. The young face attached to it wasn’t familiar to Sant.

‘Was Sergeant Dryden on duty?’ the woman asked.

Good question. No-one had thought of it. The other reporters cast glances her way as they packed away the tools of their trade.

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Hardaker sounded less comfortable. Heads were looking up again.

‘So if he wasn’t on duty, was his presence on the bus just a coincidence?’ the woman probed. She had a feminine yet firm voice.

‘All lines of enquiry are being pursued.’

The reporter wasn’t convinced enough to quit. ‘So there’s a chance he was deliberately targeted?’

Hardaker rolled his eyes in Lister’s direction. Nothing was forthcoming. An uncomfortable pause later, he mumbled: ‘That is – a possibility.’

‘But assuming DS Dryden wasn’t in uniform, and assuming he was the killer’s main target, surely the killer knew his victim prior to the killing. Knew he was a police officer.’

Hardaker was regretting not tying up the conference sooner. ‘That may be the case.’ He stood up to leave.

‘All things considered, are we dealing with a police assassination?’

A ripple of excitement ensued at the sucker punch. ASSASSINATION. What a word! The whole place was buzzing with its sheer sibilance. Reporters dived under and over each other, frantically plugging wires back in. Keyboards started tapping again, the microphones humming their appreciation.

Recovering his composure just in time, Hardaker announced: ‘The enquiry is at an early stage and, as I said, we are ruling out nothing. We will, of course, provide updates at regular intervals.’

The young reporter still wasn’t finished. The London hacks had had their say. Now it was her turn. Her voice was carrying nicely. She had a captive audience. All routes pointed her way.

‘Is there a connection between the bus killings and any other serious crimes presently being investigated?’

Sant couldn’t believe his ears. This was exactly the conundrum he needed to unpick, except he hadn’t thrust his mind that far forward. And now this quick-witted journalist was doing the mental work for him. Other serious crimes? Which crimes did she mean? Talk about alarm bells; shivers down spines.

Other serious crimes? Sant looked across at Hardaker. His eyes were wider than a runway. Was the Chiefman thinking what he was thinking? Maybe this young hack was thinking the same thoughts too. She might be telepathic. She might be a genius for all Sant knew.

Lister just shook his head, scratched his ear and made a grunting noise. Then he affected a very loud cough before pronouncing the usual rehearsed denouement. ‘We cannot rule out a connection. What we can do, however, is follow every lead until whoever committed this horrendous crime is brought to justice.’

Pleased with himself, Lister gave a final wave of his bony hand and left with command in his pace, Gilligan and Hardaker trailing behind. Sant was in less of a hurry. He wanted a word with mind-reader extraordinaire. But as he peered over towards where the woman had been sitting, all he saw was an empty seat.

She wasn’t a mind reader after all.