Ben had heard the shots. He watched as the man reached a waste bin, and saw him stuff the black plastic bag into it, before disappearing around the back of the shops. Ben moved slowly out from the side of the car, illogically registering it was a bright red Mini and he would have been better hiding behind something bigger like a Land Rover, then saw the first police car pull into the car park.
He waved at them and began to stand but within seconds he was surrounded and pushed to the floor.
‘My name’s Ben Craig,’ he said. ‘I reported I thought there was a problem, and now there fucking is. Get your hands off me. I’ve heard two shots; you need to get in there quick. Oh, and the fucking gun is possibly over there in the fucking waste bin.’ He waved in the general direction of the row of shops, and sank his head to his chest. He was aware he was still clutching on to his bacon sandwich. And that he was swearing too much. And that he couldn’t breathe.
The lock had dropped and they had to break through the door. Blood was everywhere, puddled, spattered, but not pumping.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Frank Sharpe roared. They had all watched in horrified disbelief at the actions in the small out-of-the-way betting office, all too aware of what the sound of sirens could do.
The shots had echoed. As one, every security person in the place stood as they saw the killer’s exit, feeling utterly useless, unable to help. The women had done nothing wrong, had played it by the book.
‘Adam, get me South Yorkshire Police.’ Frank slumped onto his chair and rested his head in his hands. ‘I want some bloody answers, and I want them today.’
He took out his mobile phone and scrolled until he reached Pete Newton’s name. It only took a minute to relay what information he had to the area manager, and Frank disconnected. His next conversation with South Yorkshire Police was much longer.
By the time Pete Newton arrived, the car park had been surrounded by crime scene tape, so he drove a little further down the road, then ran back up towards the shop. He hoped Frank Sharpe had been wrong; he guessed he hadn’t. Two ambulances were waiting but the paramedics were outside the shop, not inside where they would have been needed if…
Pete groaned. Both women had young kids who presumably still thought they had mums. He knew he should go to see the families once the police had done their jobs and notified them, but he wasn’t convinced he had the strength to do it. He reached the crime scene tape that had been festooned like Christmas decorations around the shop, and a constable stepped towards the tape.
‘Sorry, sir, it’s a crime scene.’
‘I know,’ Pete responded, ‘that’s my parking spot.’ He pointed to the ‘Area Manager’ sign.
‘One moment, sir,’ the constable said, and disappeared. He returned with another man, dressed in a white coverall, white elasticated bootees over his shoes.
‘DI Tom Fowler. I can’t let you in, Mr…?’
‘Newton, Peter Newton, I’m the area manager, and this is one of my shops. These are my girls…’
‘I’m sorry, Peter, but there’s nothing you can do for them.’
‘It’s Pete.’ He hesitated. ‘Both of them? Dead?’
‘I’m afraid so. Forensics are in there, and will be for some while.’
‘Have their husbands been notified?’
‘Not yet. I understand the ladies’ names are Carla Andrews and Lorraine West. Is that correct?’
‘It should be. That’s who was down for working this morning. What the hell’s gone wrong? There wouldn’t have been enough money to merit two deaths.’
‘You know them well?’
‘I’ve known Carla for about seven years, Lorraine for five. I see them a couple of times a week usually. This is one of the smaller shops, we don’t normally have any issues here. Nice area, nice punters, lovely staff. If this had happened in a couple of my other shops in the rougher areas, it wouldn’t have shocked me so much, but here…’ Pete stopped speaking. He had to. Grief suddenly hit him, and he knew words simply weren’t enough. The utter enormity of the situation hit him, and he felt himself stagger.
Fowler reached out and grabbed at his arm. ‘Steady. Come and sit on this wall, take a few minutes. I’ll need you to identify them as soon as forensics are done, so please don’t leave.’ He lifted the tape, and led Pete across to the wall.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ Fowler said, and left Pete to take out his cigarettes.
His hand shook as he struggled to light one, and then took a deep drag. A packet of twenty normally lasted him the best part of a week, but he guessed that might not be the case this time.
Pete’s phone rang and he saw it was Frank. Pete was tempted to ignore it, but then reluctantly swiped across his screen.
‘Frank?’
‘Pete. You okay?’
‘No, Frank, I’m not. We’ve lost two of the nicest lasses you could want to meet. I’m not fucking okay.’ His voice rose in anger.
‘We’re still monitoring things, but it seems some punter rang the police. The punter thought something was wrong because the door was still locked at half past ten. That’s what brought the bloody police in, sirens blaring.’
‘And they would have heard them,’ Pete said slowly. ‘Carla and Lorraine would have known what it meant.’
There was silence from Frank.
‘Is that it?’ Pete said. ‘Who’s coming here to see the families?’
‘I don’t know yet, Pete. We’re trying to find out who’s free…’
‘Not good enough.’ Pete’s anger was at boiling point. ‘Don’t ring me again unless it’s to tell me Sanderson himself is going to do it.’
Pete disconnected, stuffed his phone back in his pocket, and took another deep drag on his cigarette.
DI Fowler and DS Holly Jones arrived at the Andrews home to find Graham Andrews, with the two children, about to get into their car.
Graham watched with interest as the police car stopped; a man and a woman exited the vehicle. He was a little surprised when they walked towards him.
‘Mr Andrews?’
He nodded. ‘I am, but as you can see we’re going out. Shopping,’ he added, somehow feeling he had to justify what they were doing.
‘DI Fowler, and this is DS Jones.’ They showed their IDs, and Graham gave them a cursory glance.
‘A detective inspector? Have I done something wrong?’ he asked with a puzzled expression, but a half-smile nevertheless.
‘Is there someone who can look after the children for a short while, Mr Andrews?’ Holly said.
‘What? No, not really…’
‘A neighbour?’
‘Erm… if Sally’s in, she’ll watch them for a few minutes, I suppose.’
‘Sally?’
‘Sally Plowright. Lives next door.’
Holly reached out her hands. ‘Come on, children, I need you to go with me. You have names?’
They giggled. ‘Course we do, silly. I’m Kelly, and this is Daniel.’ Kelly turned. ‘Daddy…?’