looked at him with wide, confused eyes, and then dropped her gaze and nodded.
PC Cartwright. Annie’s father. Sam had seen him, met him, spoken to him – and then watched him die at the hands of Clive Gould, the villain who had all these coppers and detectives on his payroll. Sam had seen it all, though it had happened ten years ago. He had been there.
Choosing his words carefully, Sam asked: ‘What can you tell me about Anthony Cartwright?’
‘I looked him up,’ said Annie. ‘He was a uniformed officer, quite young. Something happened to him, and he died. I think there may have been some sort of a cover-up.’
‘But the name,
‘I … I don’t know what it means to me, Sam. When I saw it, I tried to think if I had any relatives with that name. Uncles, cousins. But … I couldn’t think of any, Sam. I mean, I couldn’t think of any,
‘Did memories start coming back?’
‘Not memories as such, just … impressions. Feelings. Echoes of things. God, I don’t know, I can’t explain it.’
The same thing will happen to me if I stay here long enough, thought Sam. This place – this 1973 us dead coppers find ourselves in – it takes us over eventually, erodes our memories of the life we used to lead, makes us forget everything except the here and now. But those memories of what we used to be are still in there somewhere – buried deep – waiting to be unearthed.
‘I’m really confused, Sam,’ Annie muttered.
‘Believe it or not, I completely understand you,’ Sam replied.
Annie looked at him intensely: ‘Yes. I think you do. You know things, don’t you.’
‘Yes. I know things.’
‘Something’s going on, isn’t it. Something weird.’
‘Pretty weird, Annie, yes.’
‘Then help me,’ Annie urged him. ‘Tell me why I can’t remember nothing. And tell who you are. And who I am! And where the hell we are!’
Sam hesitated. It was a long story – long and mysterious, and full of things he didn’t understand and dark corners where real horror lurked. Where to begin?
Slowly, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for an explanation he had no idea how he was going to phrase. But he only got as far as one word.
‘Well,’ he said. And then, without warning, he was on his feet, staring past Annie through the open door of Joe’s Caff. ‘Oh my God …’
‘Sam? What is it?’
‘A fella …’
‘A fella?’
‘With a gun. I've just seen a fella with a gun.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Right there! Walking into the church! I just seen a fella with a gun walking straight into that church!’ Sam ran for the door, shouting: ‘Joe! Dial 999! Now!’
Joe stood and gawped, slow-witted as a Neanderthal, so Annie shoved past him and grabbed the phone as Sam raced out into the street. He heard Annie’s voice calling after him – Don’t go, Sam, stay here, wait for back up! – but he couldn’t stop himself. His instincts had kicked in.
Is this the final showdown? Sam wondered as he sprinted across the street and through the little churchyard. Was that Gould I saw? Is he ready now? Is this how we’re going to finish this business between us – in an armed stand-off in a church? So be it, then. If that’s what he wants, let’s do it. Let’s do this thing! Let’s finish it once and for all – right now!
He reached the arched entrance of the church and flung the doors open before he could talk himself out of it.
Sam dashed into the church and skittered to a halt. Dotted about in the pews were various elderly people, old ladies mostly, waiting for the service to begin. But Sam’s attention was fixed on the man who stood at the very back of the church, just inside the main doors, only feet away. He was in his sixties, dressed in a denim jacket, orange nylon shirt, and beige corduroy slacks. He had a hard face, square-jawed and deeply lined. His hair had receded to a collection of wiry, grey curls about his ears. Motionless and silent, he stood at the end of the aisle and glared fiercely ahead.
He’s certainly not Clive Gould. So who the hell is he?
Sam looked down, and saw the revolver gripped tightly in the man’s white-knuckled hand. His finger flexed repeatedly on the trigger.
This guy’s right on the edge. He’s all nerves. Is he deranged? Is he high on something?
‘Hey there,’ Sam said softly. He edged carefully forward. ‘You look strung out.’
The man ignored him. His jaw muscles convulsed.
‘Maybe I can help you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to try anything. My name’s Sam.’
There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, and he turned his head suddenly to turn that furious gaze upon Sam.
‘Sam?’ the man grunted. ‘Sam Tyler? DI Sam Tyler?’
Oh God, have I nicked him in the past? Sam thought, trying to place the man’s face. Has he got a grudge against me? Should I just grab that gun off him and pin him down before he makes a move?
‘Yes, I’m DI Tyler. Have we met?’
‘So … it’s you …’
An old lady turned round in her pew and shushed angrily.
Sam inched closer to the man: ‘Listen, why don’t you give me the gun and we’ll talk outside. There’s a café just across the road. I’ll get you breakfast.’
‘SHHH!’
The vicar had appeared, a small, round-shouldered man with pebble glasses. He took his place at the lectern and perused his Bible short-sightedly, oblivious to the drama playing out at the back of his church.
The man with the gun was shaking, his jaw muscles clenching, eyes glaring. Whatever he had come here to do, he was on the verge of doing it. Sam had to get him out of there right now. He’d give it one more go with the softly-softly approach but if that failed, he’d wrestle the gun from him by force and keep him pinned till
