Then he pulled the triggers.
Both barrels, squarely in the chest, their captor slammed back into the wall of the cellar behind Sarah, his lifeless body sliding down into the darkness.
Cole’s legs buckled. He dropped the gun as he fell to the ground, crawling towards Sarah now, tears streaming down his cheeks. He pulled himself up, lifting her head to the light, trickles of blood coming from shotgun pellets that had hit her in the face and neck.
Birdshot cartridges, the spread enough to have caught her at that range. It was a chance he’d had to take.
He picked up the shard of glass that was lying next to her chair and began sawing at the cable ties; first her ankles, then reaching around to the back and freeing her hands. Sarah slumped forwards into his arms.
He lowered her gently to the ground, cradling her head in his arms, and started to sob.
Dixon was fifty yards ahead of the Armed Response team, sprinting along the track, ignoring the shouts from behind.
‘Stand down, Superintendent!’ Watts, playing it by the book, as usual. ‘Armed officers must secure the area.’
He slowed as he reached the barn. The double doors were open, a Fiat 500 up on blocks, wheels off. A door was open at the side, stairs down, a shaft of light coming from a cellar below, no doubt the source of the gunshot.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Dixon ran down into the gloom below.
Cole was sitting on the concrete floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, Sarah’s head in his arms. He looked up. ‘She’s dead, Sir,’ he said. ‘I had to shoot him and I hit her as well. He was going to slit her throat.’
Dixon picked up the shotgun and moved towards the body lying against the wall behind Cole, flicking on the light on his phone.
Both barrels squarely in the middle of the chest. There was no coming back from that.
He used the gun to move the zombie mask to one side.
Git.
‘There’s another one over there, Sir,’ mumbled Cole. ‘Sean Rodwell, apparently. He hasn’t moved all night, I think he’s dead.’
‘Armed police!’ A shout from the top of the stairs.
‘3275 Superintendent Dixon. I have the gun; the area is secure.’
Then he leaned over Cole, shining the light on his phone in his face. A gash to the forehead, hair matted with blood, hands and arms cut to ribbons. ‘Let me take her,’ he said, softly.
‘I killed her, Sir.’
A blow to the back of her head, her neck and collar soaked in blood; several shotgun pellet holes, blood trickling down her face and neck. But bleeding was a good sign, Dixon knew that much. He pressed his fingers to the side of Sarah’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
‘Let her go, Nige,’ he said. ‘She’s alive.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dixon was standing in the middle of the track, watching an ambulance picking its way between the puddles and ruts as it headed back out to the lane with Sarah in the back; on a stretcher, her head secured in a brace, oxygen mask clamped over her mouth. There was a doctor on board, and the air ambulance was standing by at Musgrove Park to take her to Bristol if need be. Jane had insisted on going as well – to keep her company, more than anything.
Nigel Cole was sitting in the back of the other ambulance, having his various cuts and lacerations bandaged before being taken to hospital. He had insisted his head injury was no worse than he’d had before around the blind side of a scrum, but his speech was slurred, so concussion it was, whether he liked it or not.
A convoy of Scientific Services vans was approaching along the lane from the other direction, Hari Patel and his clipboard walking alongside.
Charlesworth had appeared on the scene too, dressed in jeans and a pullover. Still, it was Sunday morning and he did live just up the road.
‘Thank God you found them,’ he said. ‘Will she live?’
‘Yes, Sir. She’ll live. The doctor thinks so, anyway.’
‘Someone needs to go and tell their families. They’re still at Express Park. Would you like me to—?’
‘I’ll do it, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘William Hudson.’ Charlesworth shook his head. ‘Revenge then? I’m told Sean Rodwell’s in there as well.’
‘That was certainly revenge. I’m not so sure about the rest.’
‘And what’s this I hear about a second set of remains on the Torquay building site? It’s the lead story on the Torbay Gazette website.’
‘There is no second set of remains, Sir. That was a trap I set for Detective Sergeant Dean Wevill. He’s been tipping off journalists; you’ll recall we had a welcoming committee waiting for us at the exhumation.’
‘I’ll deal with him,’ said Charlesworth, firmly. ‘So, what happens now?’
‘I’d like you to see to it that Nigel Cole is awarded the George Medal, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘Despite being seriously injured, he threw himself on to a box of glass bottles in a successful attempt to free himself from his bonds. He was then able to tackle William Hudson, killing him just as he was about to murder Police Constable Sarah Loveday. If ever an officer deserved a medal.’
‘I’ll go and sit with him in the ambulance.’
‘He’s very shaken up, but I don’t think he knows it yet, Sir.’
