49. Wreckage
Ahead, blue lights were arriving and sirens pierced the air. Stephen Gemmell carried Sally across the shingle while paramedics sped out to meet them.
"There was an explosion," Gemmell shouted over the wind, laying her down on a gurney. "She was caught by it. And she got hit by PAVA spray in the face."
"She's police, isn't she?" one of the paramedics asked as they rolled her into the ambulance. "Who sprayed her?"
"Don't ask."
The paramedics set to work, cutting free her clothing and wrapping her with silver blankets, washing her eyes and face with some cool, stinging solution. The pain in her eyes swiftly eased and the relief flowed back to her throat and nose. Breathing came easier. The chill came off her skin.
"Any other urgent response cases here?" one of them asked Gemmell. "She needs to go to hospital."
Gemmell looked out. "There's an officer with a head injury."
The other paramedic sprang out of the back, Gemmell went to help and moments later came back in with PC Hawlin.
He was shivering violently, with a silver blanket around his shoulders and a white towel pressed to his head, stained with blood.
They brought him in and sat him down alongside Sally, pressing a clotting agent against his scalp.
"Let's roll!" The paramedic banged the front wall, while the other slammed the first rear door closed.
"Wait!" Sally rasped.
"What is it, ma'am?" Gemmell asked, holding the second door open.
She struggled to sit up. "The killer's here, Stephen. On this beach."
He frowned, his features blurring before her. "You mean Bledd?"
Sally shook her head, which sent sparks shooting across her vision. "We don't know it's Bledd. I don't think it's him. But whoever triggered that bomb…" she paused to swallow painfully, "they had eyes on us. We need to lock the whole beach down."
Gemmell stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'll relay that to–"
"Not enough," Sally rumbled, and swung her legs off the gurney. Her head swam as new urgency rushed through her. "I'm OK. Get me some clothes."
"Not a chance," one of the paramedics said, a restraining hand on her shoulder. "At minimum you're at risk of concussion, and the PAVA has long-lasting effects. We need to get you–"
Sally twisted the man's hand away and stood, silver blankets draping down her body. "No. Stephen, get to Mayhew and start this. I'm coming."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Clothes," Sally repeated to the male paramedic.
The man shook his head. "John told me about you."
"Please."
He sighed, looked out at the beach, then turned and burrowed in a small rucksack in the corner, coming up with a chunky plastic bag. "This is my own spare kit. I want it back."
He held it out.
Inside was a set of dark green cargo trousers and a green polo shirt. Sally pulled them on, too loose, but she cinched the belt tight then stepped back out into the wind.
The door slammed shut behind her and the ambulance departed, siren wailing.
Sally scanned the view, eyes clearing a little more in the misty rain. The fire on the water was still burning, but all the officers were up on the beach. DCI Mayhew stood with Gemmell by the wall of Prospect Cottage, in heated conversation.
Sally strode toward them.
"What the hell are you doing?" Mayhew demanded when she saw Sally. "You're supposed to be in the ambulance!"
"The killer was here," Sally called. "Watching. Maybe by drone, but I think in person. They'd want to see this. We need…" she braced as a shudder rocked her. "All units to search the beach, the road, every nearby house. They may still be here."
Mayhew looked disgusted. "DI Gemmell's just been telling me. You really think the killer isn't Bledd?"
"No." Her thoughts whirled, theories clattering into place. "Maybe it's another frame? Like the Rooks. The killer misdirecting us."
Mayhew just shook her head. "You should've gone in the ambulance, Rogers. Get inside. Get warm. Leave this to us."
"But–"
"Nobody's listening, Sally," came a voice to her right. She turned. Liam was looking at her, wrapped in another silver blanket. His skin was pale and goose-fleshed, but his eyes were sharp like needles. "Nobody trusts you."
Sally just looked at him. In that moment, it was hard to imagine they'd ever been close. Maybe this was who he really was. It was how he'd been at the very start. Arrogant. Dismissive.
"Shut your mouth, O'Connell," came another voice.
Sally turned again, the beach reeling. It was Gemmell, his nice suit smeared with ocean foam from carrying her, the cancer ribbon pin stained black.
He looked angrier than she'd ever seen. At the end of his tether.
"She was looking out for you, you ungrateful prick. She saved your fucking life."
Liam opened his mouth but said nothing.
"DI Gemmell, control yourself!" Mayhew snapped.
Gemmell simmered back, then pointed. "Yes, ma'am. I'll grab Simms and we'll take those two houses. Can you and O'Connell clear the north beach, ma'am?"
Mayhew's lip curled, and she fixed Gemmell in a hard glare. "Go."
Gemmell ran off. Mayhew turned back to Sally. For a moment she seemed as angry as before, then something seemed to shift. "You called me Stewart, out there. Talked about my father."
Sally said nothing.
"Maybe you saved my life, too." She looked back out across the beach. The rain was growing harder. "Go inside, Sally. You are no use to us like this. Now." She looked to Liam. "O'Connell, with me."
They headed off.
Sally stood alone. She tried to watch their progress, but the adrenal rush was fading and she felt her head drooping. Exhaustion was hitting her. Someone appeared by her side. Flaherty? The tall woman had a haunted stare and shaking hands. She held out a mug of tea, which Sally took.
"Thanks."
She squeezed the mug in her palms. It felt like the only warm spot on all of Dungeness.
"She just went up," Flaherty murmured, mostly to herself. "Just gone."
Sally took a sip. Bitter, weak, pointless. She hated tea. But at least it was hot.
"Come inside," Flaherty said. "We can watch through the window."
Sally let herself be led. They sat side-by-side, on the window seat and watched as reinforcements arrived. A fire crew ran down to the sea, resorting to using buckets to throw sea water over the blaze. It went out after a few minutes, but spewed black smoke.
AROs stalked across the beach in formation, rifles raised. More paramedics came in, then there was CSM Akilota and his crew, and a Coastguard boat, and numerous people in bright orange waders out in the tide, sifting for evidence.
Sally found herself sipping dregs. She thought of Nancy Cagen again, carrying her plastic bag of treasures, talking about cracking rocks for crystals down at the slack tide line. The memory was replaced by the image of Emily Chakrati, going up in flames.
The anger began to climb back up inside her, getting hotter by the second. The killer wouldn't stop. That's what the Fates had said. They'd waited 30 years for this moment, and it was only going to get worse.
She had to catch them. Now. Today.
Her phone rang. For several moments she didn't recognize the sound, just a strange buzzing as she watched the tape lines going up then ripping free in the gathering wind. Officers chased the yellow plastic streamers pointlessly.
Then she raised the phone and checked the screen. NCA Deputy Director McMaster. She braced herself and answered.
"What on God's green Earth is happening down there, Officer Rogers?" McMaster said. No greeting. No 'Are you OK?'
Sally swallowed. "It's bad, sir," she began, then went on to summarize; Arthur Bledd, Nia Mensah, the boat, the blast. The death of Emily Chakrati.
Seconds passed, then McMaster responded.
"Words can scarcely describe how deeply fucked all of that is, Rogers.
This man Bledd was in the vehicle with you yesterday, correct?
He was piloting the drone that found the second victim?
A drone you gave him permission to fly several thousand feet high, in contravention of all CAA regulations? "
Sally gulped. She left the window seat and stepped out of the cottage. The wind crashed over her and she leaned into it; the only thing keeping her on her feet.
"That's right, sir."
"And are you aware that Liam O'Connell, your own damn partner, gave his final debrief this morning? A debrief in which he left you alone holding the bag on your demolition-derby escapades yesterday?"
Sally felt a heavy, cold weight slam into the pit of her stomach. "I'm aware of that possibility, yes."
"Yes, sir," McMaster snapped. "Last of all, and this one I'm really struggling with, so you're going to have to help me.
Am I really to believe that, en route to a great bloody boat explosion that left one poor girl dead and the rest of you near-hypothermic, you actually shoulder-charged your DCI Mayhew and knocked her into said freezing water?
That she was actually forced to discharge her pepper spray into your face to protect herself? "
The cold weight thumped harder in Sally's belly, almost dropping her to her knees.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that it? Yes, sir, you physically assaulted a superior officer after being ordered explicitly to stay back?"
Sally wanted to let the wind take her; sweep her up like the forensics tent and carry her away. But the weight in her belly held her down.
"My actions saved the life of my partner." Her voice was a monotone, like she barely believed it herself.
"But not this other poor officer. It is damning, Rogers. Everything about your time down there, the way you've comported yourself, is wrong. Now an officer is dead, and I cannot overlook the sheer weight of impropriety any longer. Officer Rogers, you are–"
"Sir, please," Sally interrupted, feeling herself falling.
"We're so close. Everybody will think it's Bledd now, but I believe, no I'm certain, it isn't him.
He's been framed. This is all a setup. It's Heraclitean.
Flux, the river, everything flows. And something worse is coming, I know it. More deaths, more–"
"You're babbling. Rogers, the cock has crowed three times now and then some. You are done. The second this call ends, you get yourself in a taxi and come back to London. It's over. I want you in my office within three hours. Failing that, I will have you arrested."
"But sir–"
"Three hours, Rogers. Now say, 'yes, sir'."
Sally felt the impact hit her. It really was over. Three times, the cock had crowed. Liam. Mayhew. Bledd. Too many failures, too many misjudgments. Done here. Maybe done in the UK. The river had reached its end.
"Yes, sir," she said in a strangled voice.
The call ended. Sally gazed out at the incoming tide. It was climbing high on the beach, now. Spurred by the wind, driving the sea into a froth.
Motion caught her eye to the side. The press were clamoring at the tape line, Tania Brown a bright pink amongst them, craning to see the wreckage. A press liaison officer met them. And beyond them, standing alone on the beach, was an old man. Haggard, bowed, eyes milky with cataracts.
Dean Whateley. The Seafoam Strangler. The man who'd watched his whole family die in the slack tide. Looking right at her with something like understanding.
She felt like vomiting. Her throat burned. She turned and started walking away. Past Prospect Cottage. Up to the road. Calling a taxi on her phone.
It was done. It was all done.