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Chapter 25
Sunday 28th February
Cheltenham Central Police Station
‘So, dare I ask, how are you feeling, Bryn? Only a few hours until D-Day now.’
It’s Sunday afternoon, and the Operation Shearwater team is trying, although not succeeding very well, to put on a brave face. The mission to get as many potential David victims as possible out of the city for the coming twenty-hour hours turned out to be as tricky as anticipated. Some of the men point-blank refused to go, accusing the police of over-reacting and saying that the threat to an unspecified man with the same extremely common name couldn’t possibly be aimed at them. Others were, according to Bryn, ‘absolutely bloody terrified’ and fled immediately, three demanding police escorts to take them to rural hidey-holes and one booking himself and his entire family straight onto a plane to Los Angeles. But it’s done, as far as it can be, and now it’s just a waiting game. Looking at the grim expressions on the faces on her screen, DCI Steph Warden can see that everyone is feeling horribly anxious, and totally powerless. There’s nothing any of them can do now except wait and see what the coming hours will bring, and the nervous tension emanating from the team is palpable.
‘Eight hours and two minutes until midnight, to be precise,’ Bryn says. ‘And as we know, he could kick this off any minute from then onwards. In fact, I’m expecting a call in the early hours, as that seems to be his preferred time. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve warned the right bloke. Miracles do happen, now and again. But we have no idea if this theory about how the killer’s selecting his victims is correct, do we? So, to answer your question, Steph, I feel sick to my stomach, to be honest. I haven’t eaten a thing all day, and that’s not like me at all.’
He rubs a hand across his paunch, and sighs heavily. Steph touches her own flat belly and wishes she hadn’t eaten the cheese toastie she had for lunch. Her stomach is churning, and the room, as it often does, feels too hot, too stuffy, as if the walls are slowly closing in.
I need some fresh air, she thinks, but Bryn is still talking, his tone melancholy.
‘We’re screwed, aren’t we? We’ve done what we can, which isn’t much, and now we’re out of time And my gut tells me we’re going to be dealing with victim number three by this time tomorrow, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.’
There’s a long silence. Then DCI Priya Thomson clears her throat. She’s wearing a blue and while floral blouse today, her long, dark hair loose around her face.
She looks more like a pleasant primary school teacher than a detective, Steph thinks.And I bet she wishes she was, sometimes.
Priya leans forwards a little towards the camera, her brow crinkling with worry.
‘You are going to do what we did in Birmingham though, tonight?’ she says. ‘Extra patrols, officers keeping an eye out for men walking home alone, all that?’
Bryn is nodding.
‘Yes, yes. And keeping their eyes peeled for late-night runners too. But he’s good at picking the quiet spots, isn’t he? That canal towpath in Oxford, out of sight of any cameras. And if he goes for somebody’s home again, well …’
He shrugs helplessly.
They exchange a few more words, but nobody has anything else constructive to add.
‘Right. Well, let’s end it there,’ says Steph quietly. ‘No doubt we’ll talk again in a few hours.’
‘Good luck, Bryn,’ says DCI Linda Lake. ‘We’ll be thinking of you tonight.’
‘We will,’ says Priya. ‘Keep us posted.’
‘I will. Anyone going to bed tonight?’ asks Bryn and gets shakes of heads and murmurs of ‘not me’ and ‘not a chance’ in reply.
‘Speak to you at some point after midnight, then,’ he says. ‘And if you’re a believer, start praying, eh?’
