Хилари Боннер - Wheel of Fire

During the drive to the airport Vogel had called Micky Palmer and asked him to check if any flights were booked in or out of Bristol airport that night.

Micky had returned the call just as Vogel and Saslow were turning into the airport complex. The airport authorities had reported that a private jet, registered to a Saudi Arabian sheik, had landed within the last few minutes. The jet, a Gulfstream like Dyson’s, with a range of 7000 nautical miles, had also been booked to fly out of Bristol within the hour.

Saslow pulled into the short-term car park as Vogel had instructed. He didn’t want to attract attention by parking their car anywhere that it shouldn’t be. As the two officers walked across the access road to the terminal building, just the one at Bristol, Vogel’s phone rang again. It was Polly Jenkins to tell him traffic had reported that Kivel’s vehicle had just been spotted turning into the airport. It seemed Vogel and Saslow had got there first.

‘Let’s get back into the car park, keep out of the way,’ said Vogel, mindful both of Hemmings’ instructions and Saslow’s confrontation with violence the previous year, from which he did not believe the young officer had yet fully recovered.

The grey Prius appeared almost immediately and pulled up right outside the terminal in a restricted parking area. Clearly Jack Kivel was in a hurry, and with the terrible crimes Vogel now believed he had almost certainly committed, a parking violation, even at an airport, would be unlikely to bother him.

Two men emerged from the Prius. The lights from the terminal building were bright enough for Vogel to be able to identify one of them as Jack Kivel, and the second, from photographs provided by the MIT surveillance team, as Freddie Fairbrother.

They quickly entered the terminal building, Kivel leading the way.

Vogel glanced around, there was no sign of any other police presence. No airport police, although they must surely be around somewhere. No armed response. Nobody.

He turned to Saslow. ‘Look Dawn, I’m going over for a closer look, see what’s going on. I want you to stay here, wait for backup, OK?’

‘No boss, if you’re going over there. I’m going too.’

‘I’m not putting you in danger, Saslow, not again.’

‘Sir, it might not be Heathrow but that terminal building is a big place. We can keep out of sight, I’m sure, just check nobody gets away. Keep a watching brief. Maybe alert airport personnel. Much easier with two of us.’

Vogel knew there wasn’t time to argue.

‘Stay with me,’ he commanded, as he hurried across the road.

The two officers entered the terminal cautiously. At first, they couldn’t see Kivel or Fairbrother or anyone else who might be of interest to them. All the check-in desks and the bars and cafes seemed to be closed.

Then they caught sight of three figures at the far end of the building, close to departures. One was a tall bearded man wearing a baseball hat. The second was Jack Kivel. The third almost certainly Freddie Fairbrother.

‘We mustn’t get too close, Saslow,’ instructed Vogel. ‘Kivel might still be armed.’

‘In an airport, boss?’ queried Saslow.

‘They’re not airside,’ responded Vogel. ‘You don’t go through security until you go airside. For all we know they could all be armed.’

The three men seemed to be in deep conversation. And thankfully, they appeared to remain unaware that they were being watched. In order to make themselves less visible Vogel and Saslow sat down on two of a row of plastic seats.

After about five minutes a female airport official came and spoke to the tall bearded man, who then seemed to start taking his leave, in an apologetic sort of way.

‘What on earth is that woman doing?’ muttered Vogel. ‘Airport staff should have been warned not to approach.’

‘Seems like the word hasn’t got through,’ responded Saslow. ‘Wires crossed somewhere. She doesn’t look as if she’s aware of any sort of danger.’

After a brief further exchange, the other two men, Fairbrother and Kivel, turned to walk towards the exit to the car park. The bearded man followed the airport official towards departures. It was probably his imagination, but Vogel reckoned he could hear the revving of a Gulfstream’s engines outside on the runway.

Vogel looked anxiously around him. There was still no sign of the promised backup.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘That bastard’s going to get away. I’m not having it.’

He turned to Saslow. ‘Stay here. Do you hear me. Stay here.’

Then he took off at a run across the terminal building, passing close to Kivel and Fairbrother, but moving so quickly that they did not begin to react until he’d reached the bearded man and the airport official.

‘Sir John, Sir John Fairbrother,’ he shouted, holding out his warrant card at arm’s length. ‘Stop. Police.’

The bearded man turned at once, probably involuntarily, Vogel thought later.

‘I’m sorry I think you must be mistaken, officer,’ he said calmly. ‘My name is Jeremy Carter. You can see my passport if you wish.’

Vogel placed one hand firmly on the man’s arm, and with the other took a set of handcuffs from his pocket.

‘You are Sir John Fairbrother,’ he said. ‘And I am arresting you on suspicion of four counts of murder and conspiracy to murder, and on suspicion of an as yet unspecified number of counts of fraud. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence—’

Vogel didn’t get to quite finish the caution. Moving with considerable speed for a burly man, Jack Kivel had arrived at his side.

‘Back off, DI Vogel,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand what you are dealing with here. Just back off.’

Vogel was momentarily distracted. And before he could attach the cuffs, Fairbrother wrenched himself free.

Vogel turned to look at Kivel, and found he was staring down the barrel of a Glock handgun fitted with a silencer. A gun that had probably already killed once that day. Vogel no longer had much doubt about that.

‘Jack, don’t make things any worse for yourself,’ he said lamely, looking hopefully back across the terminal. He could see that Saslow had arrested Freddie Fairbrother, who, predictably, appeared to have made little fuss. There was still no sign of any further police presence. Where the hell was that backup?

Meanwhile Fairbrother Senior had grabbed the stunned-looking airport official and was holding a pocket knife to her throat.

Vogel could barely believe what was going on. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. It was surreal.

‘C’mon, Jack,’ said Fairbrother suddenly. ‘You’ll have to come with me. There’s no choice now. You’ve been seen with me. You can’t bluff your way out of this one, and neither can I. We can still get away. The bank might be history, but we needn’t be.’

The Glock wavered in Jack Kivel’s hand. ‘But we did all this for the bank,’ said Kivel. ‘That and your damned family name!’

‘Well that’s over now, but we can still escape to somewhere no one will be able to get at us and live a new life. In luxury. It’s all been arranged. You know that.’

Vogel was surprised at how calm Sir John Fairbrother seemed to have remained. This was some piece of work. How could he be that way, under these circumstances? There was, of course, only one possible conclusion. The conclusion which Kivel had finally reached on the drive from London.

Sir John Fairbrother had gone quite mad. Raving mad. Stark staring bonkers. Off his rocker.

Kivel was talking. ‘I have a wife, boss — children, grandchildren...’