At 12.30 a.m. the next morning, a black van containing a team of Specialist Firearms Officers from Kent Police pulled into a lay-by close to the large iron gates of Oakwood Farm. The driver killed the headlights, and the engine idled. It was a lonely patch of country road with just a couple of other houses. To the left of the van, the empty fields stretched away, and a lone light glowed in the window of the farmhouse. Six Specialist Firearms Officers, headed by Sergeant Portman, crouched in the back of the van. They were used to waiting, and despite the cold, they sweated under their Kevlar vests and protective gear.
Less than forty miles away, Erika and her team were assembled around a computer monitor in the incident room at West End Central. Erika was impressed that Melanie had taken her seriously, and stepped up as Acting Superintendent. It had been no mean feat to pull together two teams of Specialist Firearms Officers from Kent Police with so much speed, and Erika realised just how much was on the line. The teams were being coordinated from the control room at Maidstone Police Station and everything was being relayed to them at West End Central, via a live audio feed. The rest of their office stretched away in darkness, the other teams having left for home hours ago.
‘Okay, we’re standing by,’ said Sergeant Portman with the first team.
‘Team two, are you reading me?’ came a female voice. This was DI Kendal in the control room at Maidstone. The second team of Specialist Firearms Officers were approaching an access gate at the other end of the farmland, which, if the map was correct, was a quarter of a mile from the Oast House.
‘Loud and clear. We’re just on Barnes Lane, should be at the gate in a few minutes,’ came the voice of Sergeant Spector, who was leading the second team.
Erika caught Moss’s eye and saw she was uncharacteristically tense. The radio fell silent for a long minute. Just when they thought the audio connection was lost, they heard Sergeant Spector again,
‘Okay, we’ve got the access gate open. Looks like there’s no security lights down here.’
‘Okay, proceed with caution, keep your lights off,’ said DI Kendal in control. ‘Team one, can you move into position?’
‘Yes, standing by,’ came Sergeant Portman’s voice.
‘The neighbour, Marina, has said that the gates open automatically on approach,’ said DI Kendal. ‘I want team two in position outside the Oast House before I give you the signal to activate the front gates.’
‘Standing by…’
‘Bloody hell. I can’t bear this,’ said Peterson back in the incident room. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he wiped it with his sleeve.
Chapter Forty-Five
The Oast House seemed to rise up as the van containing the second team drove slowly towards it across the frozen earth. Sergeant Spector crouched in the back with his team of three male and two female Specialist Firearms Officers. It was almost pitch-black, and boiling hot, their sticky bodies packed in together. Despite his years in the Specialist Firearms Unit there was always anticipation and fear. You needed it to stay sharp. His hands were sweaty under his gloves, but his grip on his Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle was firm.
The van slowed and came to a stop.
‘This is Spector. We’re in position by the Oast House,’ he said into his radio. He heard DI Kendal in control give team one the go-ahead.
‘Gates and security lights have activated,’ said Sergeant Portman. ‘We’re approaching the farmhouse.’
‘Proceed with caution,’ said DI Kendal. ‘Team two, you are clear to proceed with caution.’
Spector then took over, and on his command the van door slid back. The cold air flooded inside and the team moved out with a practised fluidity, fanning out around the Oast House with its strange spout-like funnel. The snow and ice crunched underfoot. Spector stopped by a large metal door, and listened. There was no sound. Then the wind started to blow and there was a low groaning.
‘I can hear screaming or moaning, please report, over,’ said DI Kendal’s voice in his earpiece.
Spector looked up at the tower against the black sky, and as the wind rose and fell so did the moaning.
‘I think it’s ventilation on the roof, over,’ he said.
His team paused, guns held, feet splayed, ready and waiting to move. They listened to Sergeant Portman through their earpieces as he gave updates on team one’s progress.
‘We’re coming to a stop at the farmhouse. Looks deserted…’
Another moment passed, and they heard the van door slide back. It was often difficult to listen to another team and keep your surroundings in focus. The wind was now blowing the snow across the surrounding fields and whipping it into their faces like powdered sugar. The vent in the spout-like roof moaned and metal creaked.
Spector looked around at his team, and then gave them the order to go. Using bolt cutters, one of the officers clipped open the padlock on the huge sliding door. They all activated the lights on their protective headgear as he pulled back the door.
‘POLICE! GET DOWN!’ shouted Spector, as their torches shone through the open doorway and over the inside of the Oast House.
Something flashed, and there was a face frozen and still.
‘THIS IS THE POLICE. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!’ shouted Spector.
But the person wasn’t moving. Then he saw a flash of an arm holding a gun, the face came towards him, and he fired.
Chapter Forty-Six
At the back door of the farmhouse, team one were in position. Sergeant Portman had knocked on the wooden door, and there had been no response. Just as two of his officers were preparing to break down the door with a battering ram, a light came on above their heads.
‘Hang on, cuddles, you come here,’ said a male voice through the door. ‘No. I don’t know who the hell it is at this hour, but I don’t want you running out in this snow!’
‘THIS IS THE POLICE! STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR!’ shouted Portman.
‘What? I’m trying to open the door!’ came the voice.
The two officers with the battering ram stepped back and they aimed their rifles at the wooden door. They heard bolts being pulled back, then it opened, and they were confronted by a slim man in his early forties. He wore a thin silk robe covered in a pattern of red roses. His long blond hair hung limp down to his shoulders and he had a large hooked nose and a turn in one of his piercing green eyes. He was holding a tiny white kitten, which was mewling and doing its best to escape. He stepped back, but didn’t seem too fazed by the six armed police.
‘PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!’ shouted Portman.
The blond man did so, holding the kitten above his head where it blinked and mewled in the torch light.
‘I haven’t got any weapons, officers! Nor has mother; she’s asleep upstairs…’ he said.
‘Where is the third person who lives here?’ shouted Portman.
‘My father? He’s dead! He died last month. Pneumonia…’ said the man, this situation with the armed police starting to dawn on him. The kitten held above his head was starting to panic and scratch his arms. ‘Please, can I put my hands down? She’s going to cut me to ribbons.’
* * *