The Psalm Killer by Chris Petit

Author:Chris Petit [Petit, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781447217701
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

‘Beware? Be warned?’ Westerby said over the phone.

Cross stared at the letters. His brow felt clammy.

‘If we’re right, you know what this means, sir?’

He shook his head, forgetting that she could not see.

‘It means the next one will be fourteen.’

Several hours later, Cross was still brooding on the implications of Westerby’s news while waiting for an armed unit to pick up Willcox, who had been spotted at the address Hargreaves had been given. Cross sat squashed with Hargreaves in the back of an armoured patrol car, listening to an Action Man sergeant rehearse several beefy constables from the Special Support group.

‘Suspect has been in the house since 22.45. Lights out at 23.27. It’s now 23.40. Give him another five minutes to finish his shag and in we’ll go, sir,’ the sergeant said, deferring to Cross.

‘You’re the one who’s done the course, Sergeant,’ he said sourly. Anyone would think the man was organizing the D-Day landings.

The sergeant was on his walkie-talkie, alerting the other men positioned and waiting in the lanes at the back of the house.

The vehicle braked to a halt and the sergeant and his three constables were out at the double and taking a sledgehammer to the front door. Judging by how long it was taking them they were having trouble.

‘Cowboys,’ Cross remarked to Hargreaves as they got out.

They walked through the splintered front door, which was backed by some kind of steel reinforcement, in time to see the constables clattering up the stairs and shoving aside Willcox’s screaming girlfriend, who hissed at them, ‘Shite-faced bastards!’

Cross ignored her. As he turned the bend in the stairs he saw the constables banging in and out of doors, while the squawk of the sergeant’s walkie-talkie told him that there was no sign of Willcox at the back.

Typical balls-up, he thought, looking in the bedroom. The bed was still warm, and there were indentations in both pillows. Out on the landing a constable was standing on a ladder, sweeping the attic with a torch.

‘Not up here, Sarge,’ he called down.

Everyone stood around getting in each other’s way, still pumped up with surplus adrenalin. One constable started accusing those outside of not doing their job.

‘Cunt got out the back,’ he said.

‘How about a cup of tea, love,’ said another to the girlfriend, who was trying to hide in the bathroom. The sergeant shouted at her in exasperation, asking where Willcox was.

‘I was asleep, I’m tellin’ you, until you noisy bastards woke me up!’

Cross asked for a torch and looked in the loft. He hauled himself up into the dusty space and swept the area with the beam. He missed it the first time – a hole in the brickwork giving access to next door. He trained the torch through the gap. The pattern was repeated for several houses along, allowing a crawl path of escape.

‘Right, let’s go,’ said the sergeant when Cross told him and they all clattered downstairs and into the street, where Cross watched the bully-boys

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