15.
Rob loved York. More than any historical city, he loved York. As a child, moving from the tranquil greens of Cambridge with his parents and elder sister, Gaynor, he had soaked up the stories with zeal. Every corner of the city had its tale: the Vikings and their paradoxical farmlands; the Romans and their famous wall; the final days of the highwayman Dick Turpin; the seat of the House of York, the white rose of Yorkshire.
Yet as he strode through the winding streets, carved from millennia of living past, he began to hate every single stone. He begrudged every nook and cranny, every shadow shrouded corner, every alleyway in which his son could be lost within.
When he’d returned from the supermarket that morning, Sam and Nick were gone. He’s shrugged it off at the time—boys of fourteen had better things to do than hang out with men of his age—and knuckled down to a bit of guitar practice.
The morning faded into the afternoon and still they weren’t back. He’d rung Gaynor, who had been off in the damp fields filling bags with mushrooms, but she’d not heard from them either. By three’o’clock he’d got frustrated and texted Sam. There was no response.
After the sixth unanswered text, he left the flat above the shop and went out into York. Gaynor had mentioned that the boys had gone to the station first thing, before they turned up dressed as girls at his flat. A sickening sense of dread grew in his belly as he approached the train station and saw the police incident cordon around it. A small army of reporters hung around in the drizzle, like a cohort of sulky legionaries.
The sense of apprehension deepened as he explored the rain-soaked streets and tried to ring Bootham hospital. The switchboard operator said ward three was temporarily unavailable and that he would be better coming into the hospital.
His phone had gone flat at that point. He cursed the cheap model and headed back to the flat to pick up the charger on the way to Bootham.
Petergate was deserted—the worsening rain and the Sunday evening combined to drag even the most devoted student drinkers off the streets and into the amber warmth of the many pubs. He reached the shop door and froze. The lock was scratched and damaged. The door opened with a gentle push.
Rob moved into the shop. The streetlight cast a honey glow over the rows of CDs and glittered on the frame of the Elvis record above the till.
‘Hello? Who’s in here?’ he called.
‘Mister Worthington?’ a voice asked behind him. Rob jumped in fright.
‘Hell’s bells! What are you doing sneaking up on me?’ he said angrily.
A red haired woman with a pretty face and a long dark coat was stood on the street with two hefty policemen in uniform. She was holding up her warrant card.
‘DS Sinead O’Ryan. Can we come inside and have a chat?’
Rob grinned. ‘Only if it’s just you and a pair of handcuffs.’
Sinead didn’t smile. Neither did the two damp policemen.
‘Uhhm, all right... come into the shop. I guess you’re not here after rare New Wave twelve inch vinyl?’
Sinead smiled faintly. ‘You’d have that right, sir. We’re asking after your sons, and your nephew.’
Rob’s blood ran cold. ‘Sam and Ben? Oh my God, what’s happened? Are they...?’
‘Calm down, sir,’ Sinead said, moving into the gloomy interior of the shop. ‘As far as we know they’re unharmed, but they are involved in some serious trouble.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like assaulting a police officer, stealing a firearm, stealing a car, being witness to a murder and fleeing the scene of a crime.’
Rob laughed. ‘This is a wind-up.’
‘I must assure you, sir, I’m deadly serious. Now have you seen...?’
There was a heavy clunk from above. All four looked up at the ceiling. Sinead indicated for one of the officers to stay with Rob and she crept forward with the other. Rob’s eyes widened as he saw her ease a handgun from her coat.
The policeman pulled loose a radio from his stab vest and leaned to talk into it. Rob’s heart was racing. He was frozen in indecision.
‘Control, this is Charlie Foxtrot Oscar three, requesting armed response unit to...’
The policeman crumpled to the ground, clutching at the rear of his scalp. His helmet rolled across the floor of the shop. Rob stifled a yell as a white-haired old man stepped over the unconscious officer. He brandished a handgun.
‘Oh my God, you just knocked out a policeman.’ Rob gawped at the old man.
‘Well spotted. I thought you protest singers enjoyed that sort of thing?’ the man replied.
‘I enjoy singing about it... hang about aren’t you...?’
‘Albert Jones. I live... well, lived near Gaynor. Are your sons here?’
There was crashing noise from above and the sharp crack of a pistol. Rob and Albert stared at the stairs that led from the shop to the flat. There was a second crash and the limp body of Sinead tumbled down the stairs. She was bleeding from a head wound.
Albert grabbed Rob’s arm as he moved to check her.
‘She’ll live... but we won’t if we don’t go now.’
Rob looked at Albert dumfounded. A dark figure walked down the stairs and stepped over Sinead’s slumped body. In one smooth motion, Albert aimed his handgun and fired two shots into the figure’s chest. A spatter of oil flecked across the doorframe. The impact sent the figure tumbling back.
Rob clutched his ears in pain. ‘You shot him! I think I’m deaf.’
‘You are the least resilient rocker I have ever met,’ Albert said. ‘He’s down for a matter of seconds. Now run!’
The pair raced out of the shop. Rob glanced back and to his horror saw the figure clambering to its feet.
The street blurred past as Rob sprinted after Albert. His breath came raggedly as they sprinted past the Minster and under Bootham Bar. Albert skidded to a halt next to a motorbike and within three seconds had started it up.
‘Get on!’
Rob straddled the pillion and grasped Albert urgently as the motorbike roared off. Seconds later the Delta android emerged, bio-energy pistol aimed. The motorbike hurtled from view before he could take a shot.
It was a minute before Rob stopped shaking and then he could only croak, ‘I don’t suppose you have a helmet?’
Albert sighed. ‘You really are a rubbish rebel, Robert.’
***
Nick’s bedroom was as neat as ever. His clothes—an esoteric collection of knitwear, tie die and Star Wars t-shirts—were folded in precise piles. His science fiction DVD collection ran in alphabetical and numerical order. His computer screen saver displayed a variety of images from the Hubble telescope. It cast a scintillating glow over the bedroom.
Tears had left Gaynor’s cheeks stained with salt. Her phone was silent but she nonetheless checked it every twenty seconds—just in case. In between glances she sipped her camomile tea and tried to relax her churning insides.
Something was wrong. Call it mother’s intuition, call it sixth sense, call it what you will—Gaynor just knew. Nick was such a stickler for order and honesty that he had never copied a CD or downloaded a shared file in his life. For him to take off without warning, even after an argument, was just unfeasible.
Is it some trouble with Samuel? It was possible. Sam had an urgency, a suppressed fury within him. But he also had love for his cousin and Gaynor was definite that he wouldn’t drag Nicholas into trouble.
She sat at his PC and nudged the mouse with her elbow. The screen saver dissolved and she stared at the array of tiny icons.
This is wrong, she thought. This is Nicholas’s privacy here.
In the corner she could see a tiny icon labelled Rainbow Warrior. It brought a smile to her face—a file named after the famous Greenpeace ship. She clicked on it.
The screen went dark and a golden box popped up.
Encryption activated: key in password.
Gaynor swore and jumped back from the keyboard as if it had been electrified. Oh Gods, he’ll know I’ve been snooping...
The doorbell chimed. Gaynor checked Nick’s Stargate Universe clock. It was just past ten—who on earth would be calling now?
Two men were stood at the door when she opened it. They oozed conformity and officiousness. Gaynor felt her ire rise.
‘If it’s tax you’re after then I’m exempt on the grounds of being too scatty for work,’ she said. ‘And if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses then you need to know I’m a devout Wiccan and would happily receive blood.’
The two men regarded her grimly and held up their warrant cards.
‘Mrs Worthington, I am Agent Andrew Preston and this is DCI Barton, may we enter?’
Gaynor snorted. ‘First of all it’s Miss not Missus. Secondly, are you like vampires?’
‘Excuse me?’ Andrew said.
‘My apologies—I understand that you are from the South and therefore from intellectually compromised genealogy. Are you vampires? Namely, if I invite you over my threshold will I come to regret it?’
Andrew sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Apologies, madam, I was being polite. Would you like me to perpetuate your stereotypes and kick your door down instead?’
Gaynor grinned. She liked this one.
DCI Barton stormed past Gaynor and into the cottage. Gaynor whirled in anger. ‘Excuse me! How dare you clomp into my abode with your jackboots on. I have rights...’
Barton glanced at the cluttered rooms. ‘Are you here alone or do you have three boys stashed away, Miss?’
Gaynor looked at Andrew as he wearily entered. ‘What in the Gods’ name is this about?’
A stack of books crashed to the floor as Andrew knocked against them. He looked pale and slightly drunk to Gaynor. Barton emerged from Nick’s room.
‘What it is about, Miss Worthington, is the fact that your son has been seen fleeing a murder scene and then later assaulting my colleague here in a psychiatric facility.’
‘Nicholas? I hardly think so,’ Gaynor spluttered. ‘If this is some kind of set up I don’t understand why...’
‘And DNA samples partially matching your own were found at a murder scene yesterday.’
A rickety chair broke Gaynor’s fall as she tumbled backwards. The room felt as if it pressed all around her. It stifled her breath, choked her throat. Andrew crouched by her and offered her water from a grubby glass.
This is insane, Gaynor thought. And then something dawned on her.
‘How have you got a sample of my DNA?’ she demanded.
Barton met her gaze coolly. ‘It was on file from an MI5 database, from when you were arrested at Greenham Common in 1982.’
‘An MI5 database. Me?’ Gaynor gawped.
‘It was a matter of national security...’ Andrew began.
‘What are you? The little and large of the fascist state comedy roadshow? How dare you!’
‘If you’ll just stop your jabbering,’ Barton shouted. ‘Then I may explain. The DNA at the scene yesterday is a match on a number of alleles...’
‘In English?’
‘The degree of match we would expect from a sister.’ Barton folded his arms.
‘Impossible—I don’t have a sister. A brother...’
‘No, the DNA is female, not male. It must be a sister.’
Gaynor shook her head. ‘I... don’t know. I’m certain my father wouldn’t have had any children we don’t know of.’
‘And you’ve no idea of the whereabouts of your son or nephews?’ Barton asked.
Gaynor glared at him. ‘Do you think I would tell you if I did?’
Barton shrugged. ‘No matter. I’m detaining you for further questioning and will have your house searched.’
‘Make sure you leave it nice and tidy,’ Gaynor said, standing and holding her arms out for handcuffs.
A second pile of books tumbled to the floor. Andrew sighed and led Gaynor from the kitchen.
Copyright Ross M Kitson 2012