Simon Kernick - A Good day to die

'Jesus Christ,' I whispered audibly, ignoring the looks of the other people on the PCs.

For a full ten seconds I didn't move, the shock rooting me to the spot. I've faced guns before; been shot at; been certain I was about to die. But nothing has ever incapacitated me as much as what I was looking at right now.

Because now I knew what had happened.

Jumping to my feet, I turned and walked away as fast as I could, knowing without a doubt that Ann Taylor's story was true and was the reason she'd died, and that the twelve-year-old Heidi Robes was the victim who had been murdered in the paedophile orgy. And that it was essential that Emma had reached her parents' home safely, because otherwise she was putting herself in extreme danger.

You see, she knew one of the men who I was now sure had been involved on that dark, terrifying night seven years ago; the man who seemed to keep popping up wherever I turned, and who'd been quoted at the bottom of the article as he talked to the assembled press outside the post-verdict courtroom. It had been a harrowing case for all those involved, he'd said, but at least now justice had been seen to be done. Ironic words indeed, but understandable from the man who'd led the police murder investigation.

Detective Chief Inspector Simon Barron.

It all made sense. They'd had an inside link on the police investigation from the beginning, and it had to have been someone senior. Barron was a DCI, an officer privy to the most confidential information on the inquiry, including the name of the prime suspect: Billy West. He could have leaked the name without drawing suspicion to himself. And it had been Barron who'd been to see Dr Cheney asking questions about Ann; who'd not said anything to anyone else about what he was doing. And doubtless, it had been him too who'd been feeding Emma with the stories linking Nicholas Tyndall to the Khan/Malik murders, as he'd worked to deflect attention away from the true culprits.

Outside it was dark and the traffic on the main road had built up. I fumbled in my coat pocket for my phone and switched it on hurriedly. My hands were shaking and I silently cursed the fact that Emma had ever become involved in this case, and that I hadn't done more to stop her.

The phone rang to indicate that there was a message. I pressed the callback button and waited while the number rang twice.

It was Emma. She sounded breathless and excited. Static screeched in the background. 'Sorry about this, Dennis, but the job's got the better of me. I'm on the hard shoulder of the M4, somewhere near Swindon. I've just had a call from Simon Barron. He thinks he's onto something, but he's worried. He's saying that the people we're looking for have definitely got an insider on the murder squad. He wants to meet me at some offices over in Wembley. He says there's someone there he wants to introduce me to.' She gave me an address, adding that it was on an industrial estate near the new stadium. 'He must have found out about your involvement as well. Not that he knows who you really are, of course, but he knows that you're an investigator working the case, and that you've been speaking to Jamie Delly and Dr Cheney. And also that you've been helping me. He said I should call and get you over there, too. So I'm driving up there now. It's…' there was a pause while she checked her watch, 'five to one, and I'm about an hour and a half away. Hopefully, see you there. Call me. I really think we could be onto something here. Talk soon. Bye.'

The world seemed to melt around me, and the cars passing by became lost, watery silhouettes as I realized that I was too late, and that I'd surely helped Emma Neilson into her grave. An hour and a half away at five to one. It was now five past four. Even if she'd hit heavy traffic and got lost, and her journey had taken double the time, she'd still be there by now. And possibly dead.

The message ended, and I scrabbled at the phone with shaking hands, pressing 5 for redial.

Her mobile rang. And rang. Then went to voice-mail. I left a message as I hurried down the road towards the car. 'Do not go to that meeting with Simon Barron,' I shouted into the mouthpiece, making no effort to hide the panic in my voice. 'He's the insider on the murder squad, the one we want. If you go to that meeting, he'll kill you. I'm serious. If you get this message, call me back straight away.'

I rang off, then listened to her message again, writing down the address of the meeting place in my notebook. The car was two minutes' walk away — one minute if I ran — and I was on the right side of town for Wembley, so, traffic permitting, I had a chance of making it there in the next half-hour.

A cold wind whipped across the Colindale Road and I pulled up the collar of my jacket and tried to do the distance in a minute, running as fast as I could and dodging between faceless passers-by, not knowing what I was going to find when I finally stopped.

It had started to rain again as I turned off the roundabout and into the huge Wembley Park industrial estate. The road that ran through it in a shallow incline towards the immense building site that was the new football stadium was already busy with the first wave of commuter traffic. Huge, featureless business units and warehouses, swathed in the dim half-light of neon signs and glowing street lights, reared up on both sides, while every fifty yards or so another road branched out, clustered with further monotonous examples of the same bland architecture.

I was sweating, my hands sticky on the steering wheel, peering through the rain for the turning I wanted. I couldn't seem to see it. The site of the new stadium with its giant looping arch loomed closer and closer. It meant the end of the estate. It meant I'd missed the turning and wasted another precious few minutes. I could hear my heart hammering in my chest. Imagined Emma at Barron's mercy, and knew that my actions, my stupidity and my selfishness had helped to get her there. One victim in a long fucking line. I counted to ten in my head, urging myself to stay calm, to detach myself from the situation. To push her image out of my mind.

Another turning appeared on the right. I slowed down, looking for the road sign. The car behind me honked impatiently. I ignored him and slowed further. Then I spotted it, squinting through the windscreen wipers, my nose inches from the glass.

It was the one.

I pulled into the middle of the road without indicating and waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic. The car behind me couldn't get through and beeped again. I still ignored him. He beeped a third time. I felt like jumping out of the car, pulling the.45 and blowing out one of his headlights. Instead I closed my mind to everything except the task ahead, my fingers drumming loudly on the steering wheel, waiting.

There were ten yards between two of the cars coming towards me. Hardly a gap at all, but it was going to have to be enough. I took my chance and accelerated across, looking ahead for the offices of a company called Tembra Software.

The road was about a hundred yards long and dotted with storage units and warehouses. It came to a dead end in front of a large 1960s-style concrete building four storeys high, that was swathed in darkness apart from two illuminated windows on the third floor. A concrete wall topped with long ornamental black railings like spears bordered the plot, separating it from the businesses on either side. There was a rectangular concrete sign about two metres high at the entrance to the building's main car park. The sign was unlit, but as I drove towards it I was able to make out the darkened lettering: TEMBRA SOFTWARE. I was in the right place. The gates to the car park were open, but there were no cars inside and I could see from the tired state of the building's exterior that Tembra must have gone out of business some time ago.