Fifteen
Vogel was first to hear the news. Dispatch alerted him at 10.15 a.m., saying there had been a 999 report of a shooting in Traders’ Court. They didn’t have the identity of the victim, but given the proximity to the Tanner-Max premises and the disappearance of Henry Tanner’s grandson, the young PC on duty thought Vogel would want to be informed.
The DI half ran to Nobby Clarke’s office, a cubicle off the Operation Binache incident room. Hemmings was in there with her.
‘There’s been a shooting,’ he blurted out. ‘Behind the offices of Tanner-Max.’
‘Fuck,’ said DCI Clarke.
‘Get down there, both of you,’ instructed Hemmings.
He wasn’t actually in a position to order Nobby Clarke about, but such was the habit of senior station officers.
Clarke and Vogel took off at speed down the corridor. When they reached the stairs, Clarke paused and put a hand on Vogel’s arm.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve done anything useful like learn to drive in the time you’ve been here?’ she enquired.
Vogel shook his head.
‘And I came on the bloody train,’ muttered Clarke.
Both officers looked around desperately for someone to commandeer to drive them.
On cue, Constable Bolton appeared, carrying a packet of sandwiches and a cardboard beaker.
‘Forget breakfast, you’re needed,’ barked Vogel.
‘But I only came here to drop in some stuff for the tech boys,’ protested Bolton. ‘I’m supposed to get my arse straight back to Lockleaze.’
Neither Clarke nor Vogel had any jurisdiction over Bolton, but Vogel didn’t care.
‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ he snapped. ‘This is an emergency. I’ll square it with your sergeant. Come on, there’s been a shooting and we need you to get us there fast. You in a squad car?’
Bolton nodded. Vogel saw the expression in the young man’s eyes change. A shooting. That was something far removed from routine police work. PC Bolton abandoned his breakfast, turned on his heel and set off at a run, leading Vogel and Clark to a squad car at the far side of the car park. Bolton zapped the vehicle open as he ran. He climbed quickly behind the wheel. Vogel and Clarke got in the back. So that they could talk, Vogel hoped.
Vogel’s mobile rang: Dispatch. Vogel put his phone on speaker so that Clarke could also hear.
‘There’s an officer on the scene now, guv. He’s reported that the victim of the shooting is Henry Tanner.’
‘How bad is it?’ asked Vogel.
‘PC Tompkins doesn’t know, guv. Blood everywhere, though, and Tanner is unconscious.’
‘Shit,’ said Vogel, ending the call. ‘C’mon, Bolton, step on it!’
‘Yessir!’
Bolton stepped on it all right, swinging the little Ford around a passing pantechnicon with a screech of rubber, then in and out of lanes and dodging oncoming traffic, siren wailing, lights flashing and blazing.
Unusually, Vogel was oblivious to the wild driving. He had other things on his mind. Clarke didn’t speak, but Vogel could see that whatever intrigue had brought her to Bristol, she hadn’t been expecting this any more than he had.
Vogel had only even been involved in a shooting once in his life, a little over a year ago in London, and his stomach still churned at the thought of it. David Vogel had behaved in a rather out of character way on that occasion. He’d been positively cavalier in fact. And he had ended up in hospital. He didn’t share DC Bolton’s excitement at the thought of approaching the scene of a shooting. Indeed, he sincerely hoped the shooting would be over by the time they got to Traders’ Court.
‘So what do you think, boss?’ he asked, turning to the DCI. ‘Henry Tanner has copped one. Could be dead. Where does that leave us?’
‘I have no idea,’ she replied.
‘Oh come on, boss, the grandfather of our missing child has been shot. Please will you tell me what’s going on?’ he demanded.
‘Not now, Vogel,’ said the DCI, glancing pointedly at PC Bolton.
Vogel didn’t think Bolton was aware of anything much except the road ahead. But he refrained from saying more.
It was Janet who broke the news of Henry’s shooting to the family. She had been in the office when the Tanner Bentley arrived in Traders’ Court. Unlike Stephen Hardcastle she’d had no doubt that was where her boss would want her to be. As usual. Even on such a highly unusual day.
She heard the noise of the shot whilst sitting at her desk. She told herself it was a car back-firing, but somehow she immediately knew better. And she’d had a pretty clear idea of the direction from which that noise had come. She hurried to the toilet at the back of the building, the only place from which there was a window overlooking the courtyard.
From that window she had seen Henry lying motionless on the ground, eyes closed, with Geoff Brooking lying half on top of him.
It took a second or two for Janet to take in what had happened. The bang, the loud crack she had heard, had been a shot. Henry Tanner had been shot. Geoff Brooking must be trying to protect him from any further fire.
Janet withdrew from her vantage point and dialled 999. She was about to run downstairs and see if she could help, when her natural survival instincts kicked in. Whoever had shot Henry might still be out there. Janet was afraid. She decided to stay exactly where she was. But there was something she could do. The family had to be told, and it would be far better coming from her than some anonymous police officer. She debated with herself how best to tell them. It would be another tremendous shock to people already dealing with the turmoil and heartache of a missing child.
She decided to call Mark Mildmay. He would almost certainly be at The Firs with the rest of the family. Even Henry Tanner would not expect his grandson to be at the office that day.
Mark answered at the second ring. Hesitant. Nervous. Yet his voice was also expectant, hopeful even. She imagined all the family were in a similar state, hoping each phone call would bring good news, and fearing that it might bring bad.
She had bad news all right. But not the bad news they would all be dreading.
‘It’s your grandfather, Mark,’ she told him bluntly, unable to think of a gentle way. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s been shot.’
She could hear Mark Mildmay’s sharp intake of breath. It seemed a long time before he spoke.
‘Dear God,’ he said.
In the background she could hear female voices, Joyce, Felicity and maybe Molly. She couldn’t make them out individually. It was obvious though that they had been listening, anxious yet half hopeful, and were reacting to Mark’s response. She heard them asking Mark what was wrong, what had happened.
‘Is he d-dead?’ asked Mark.
In the background there was a stifled scream, a woman’s cry so shrill that it rose above the chorus of voices.
Then Mark’s voice, distant, not directed at the receiver: ‘No, no. It’s not Fred. Everyone, it’s not Fred. Wait a minute...’
‘Mark, are you still there?’
‘Yes, Janet.’ Mark’s voice was louder. He was speaking into the receiver again.
‘I don’t know,’ said Janet. ‘I don’t know how your grandfather is. He was shot in the car park. I’ve called for the police and an ambulance. He’s on the ground. Just lying there. Geoff seems to be trying to protect him. In case there are any more shots, I think... Oh Mark...’
Janet began to cry. She couldn’t help it. She supposed she was in shock too. She’d done what she knew she must: she’d called the emergency services and then the family. Like the good PA she was. But now the reality of it all was beginning to hit her. She could no longer hold herself together.