The whole place is a mess; broken glass, broken furniture. I rub my fingers in my eyes to get some of the tears out of the way. As I’m doing this, I stumble over a brown furry cushion on the floor and see the P226. I pick it up and stick it in my waistband. I’ll wipe it down and get rid of it later.
Jennison’s mother’s wheelchair is two separate lumps of twisted metal. I can only see her legs and wonder what happened to the rest of her. There’s so much smoke in here that’s it’s difficult to make out anything, even if it’s only several feet away. Then I look at the wall behind where she was sitting. It looks like someone has thrown four or five buckets of offal at it. And then the smell hits me; burnt flesh, faecal matter and God knows what else. Flames are starting at the bottom of one of the curtains.
And then I see Isolda.
She’s still sitting where Jennison put her, the fabric that he wrapped around her thigh still soaked in her blood. She has a piece of silver shrapnel about six inches long embedded in her neck. There’s no blood coming from the wound. There’s another, larger piece of jagged metal in the side of her head, a little above the temple. Once again, there’s barely a trickle of blood, though that’s not necessarily a good thing.
She’s still alive, but I don’t think it’ll be for long. Her eyes flicker as she sees me and she smiles weakly. I sit down next to her and take her hand. It feels cold. Her breathing is rapid and her body twitches and jerks from time to time. Blood flows from her nostrils and her mouth. Her pulse is slow and her pupils are dilated.
‘You’re going to be OK.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Her voice sounds faint, as if it’s painful to talk.
‘Listen. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you to a hospital. They’ll take care of you there.’
This is bullshit, of course, but there’s nothing else I can tell her. Her hand squeezes mine. I feel a blast of hot air on my neck. The burning curtain behind me just got worse. This house will be a very dangerous place to be very soon. I can hear Shortass moaning. I’m wondering if anyone heard the explosion and has called the emergency services.
‘You were so nice to me,’ she whispers.
‘I know.’
This makes her smile. ‘Bastard.’
I push some hair away from her face and rub the side of my hand against her cheek. Still beautiful. There are tears in her eyes that weren’t there a moment ago.
‘Can you tell Sara…’
‘I know. You don’t have to say it.’
‘Can you kiss me?’
I smile at her and lean forward. Just as my lips touch hers I feel a brief sigh escape from her mouth and I know she’s gone.
I get up and head for Shortass. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with him, but he looks in a bad way and his blood is spreading across the terracotta tiles; pints and pints of it. I gave him a hell of a beating, but I don’t think it’s much to do with that. Well, maybe a little.
I rifle through all his pockets until I find the keys for Dixon’s Audi Sportback. His eyes open and he glares at me, sluggishly attempting to grab my arm. I bring my fist down hard on the base of his thumb and he lets go, slumping back against a chair.
The curtain that was burning has just made its neighbour do the same thing and now one of the sofas has caught fire. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about this, so I don’t even think about it. I feel sorry for the fish in the tank, though.
I run out into the hallway and head up the stairs. I don’t know which room they put Sara in, but I bet it’ll be the only locked one. I try three doors until I come to one which won’t open. I take a step back, dig my left heel into the carpet and then give the door an almighty kick with my right, ten inches below the lock. The wood splinters immediately, but the lock holds. I give it another kick and I’m in.
Sara is lying on her side on the bed, her wrists and ankles tied with some sort of medium thickness pink nylon rope. She’s not moving. I grab her shoulder, pull her onto her back and slap her face three or four times. What’s going through my head as I see her lying there, ankles and wrists tied with pink rope, wearing a see-through purple baby doll, makes me doubt my suitability for this job or any other.
She opens her eyes and smiles when she realises it’s me. She still looks out of it and her gaze is unfocussed. Shortass made a good job of the knots and I don’t have the sort of fingernails that would easily prise them open. I rip out the drawers from the dressing table and quickly rifle through the contents looking for something sharp. There’s now a strong smell of smoke coming from downstairs.
I find a small black leather thing with a zip. I undo it and inside there’s a man’s manicure and grooming kit which includes small stainless steel scissors. Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.
After a few frustrating, fiddly moments, I manage to hack and snip my way through the rope and pull Sara to her feet.
‘Sara. Listen. Look at me. You’re safe now. But we have to get out of here. You have to do as I say.’
She leans forward unsteadily, her eyes unfocussed, and puts her arms around my neck. ‘When you kissed me on Baker Street I went weak at the knees.’
I rest my hands on her hips. ‘Hey. Look. You’re drugged. Snap out of it. You’re a top designer. You don’t say things like that to strangers. Now come on.’
I take her hand and half-drag her down the stairs. Before we get to the front door, I take a last look in the living room or whatever it is. It’s full of flame. I can’t see any of the bodies in there, which is probably just as well. I try not to think about the fish. I try not to think about Isolda.
I can’t imagine how I’m going to get Sara to Dixon’s car without carrying her and that’s going to look conspicuous and memorable to anyone who’s passing by or looking out of their window, particularly considering how she’s dressed and how wiped out I must be looking.
I can hardly believe my eyes when I open the front door. The SUV is exactly where I left it, about seven yards away. I sit Sara down on the front step and run over to it. It’s open and the keys are still in the ignition. Well why wouldn’t they be? No one was going to steal this from outside Jennison’s house and even if they did, it’s a hire car. Besides, after Isolda and I arrived here, everyone was too busy with all the stuff they had to do to worry about it. I run back, lift up Sara and sling over my shoulders in a fireman’s lift, before dumping her in the passenger seat. She giggles like she’s pissed.
There are no siren sounds. No crowds. Perhaps the explosion wasn’t noticed. Perhaps it was noticed and ignored, who knows? I get Sara’s seat belt on for her and turn the engine over. I’m rather relieved it works. There’s a half tank of petrol.
It’s dark now. It’s a rather quiet, cool night, and I can smell honeysuckle in the air. I turn the heating up to full for Sara’s sake, but open the window on the driver’s side for mine. I’m still feeling drugged and need the stimulus. I take a deep breath. I look in the rear view mirror. I can see the flames have spread and are now behind the front door, but you wouldn’t be able to see that from any of the other houses around here, not until it’s too late.
I think of Wide Chest, still attached to the oven, frenzied, panicking, choking. Well, that’s for you, Peter Dixon, you dumb shit. If they ever look into it, whoever sent Dixon after me will certainly have some food for thought.
I drive slowly down the road with the headlamps off, slowing down for each speed bump. As we approach the gate, I wonder if I’ve got any explaining/lying to do to George, but there’s no one there and the lights are off in the gatehouse. When we’re five feet away, the traffic barrier opens automatically and we pass through. They’re plainly more concerned with people driving in than they are with people leaving. I can smell burning, but it’s not the house. Not yet.
After ten minutes’ driving, Sara seems to be recovering, if slowly. She puts her hand on my thigh and squeezes.
‘How are you? Are you OK?’ I say quietly.
‘Yo
ur flat. These men came in. Two men. I didn’t even hear them come in. Through the door, I mean. One was a big guy. Tiny, ugly, piggy eyes. He slapped me. I heard them walk over your noisy floor, but I thought it was you. I was half asleep. He slapped me so hard I hit my head against the wall. He made remarks about my body. He was leering at me then he slapped me again. He threatened me like it was a joke. He said he and his mates were going to…’
She starts crying, a hand covering her face.
I imagine Wide Chest trying to gnaw through his wrist like a wild animal as the flames engulf that kitchen, trying to get out of those cuffs before he’s roasted. I feel nothing as I imagine his terror.
‘They gave you some shit in your veins, Sara. Some drug cocktail. I had it too. But it’ll wear off. I can tell it’s wearing off already. Just breathe deeply and regularly.’
She ignores my excellent medical advice. ‘I remember this nasty little guy. He had a syringe. He jabbed the needle in my forearm. It hurt. I had no idea what was going on. Then I woke up in that house. There was an old lady in a wheelchair. All those people. I didn’t know them. I was frightened. I felt weird. I still feel weird.’
It only occurs to me now that Sara still doesn’t know what the cause of all of this was, from the first street hassle to the blazing house. Isolda made herself scarce as soon as we arrived, so Sara would still not have made the connection.
‘Is this going to go on and on until they kill me?’ she says, her voice a half sob. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to these people. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.’
A cyclist pulls out in front of me. My reactions are so messed up that I almost hit him. He gives me the finger. I can’t be bothered to give him a blast of the horn. I’m not sure where the horn is on this.
‘It’s not going to go on and on, Sara. It’s finished now. All of the stuff that was happening to you; Isolda was behind it.’
She turns to look at me. ‘What?’
‘It’s a long story. She was getting resentful of your success. The two shows thing – Milan and New York – that was the last straw for her. She couldn’t stand it. Her dad was some sort of career criminal. He offered to help her out. Put you off your stroke.
‘He had these thugs working for him who did all the harassment, including breaking into your flat. They did it all in such a way that you wouldn’t be believed when you told people about it.’
She looks out of the window for a few minutes.
‘Can you pull over, please?’
‘Sure.’
She gets out and throws up on the pavement. I ask if she needs help, but she waves me away. When she gets back in and we drive off, she’s silent for a few more minutes. I’ll let her do the talking for a while. If she asks about Isolda, I’ll have to tell her.
‘I can’t believe it. I love Isolda. She’s more than just someone who works for me. We’re friends. I mean, I don’t socialise that much, but I do go out with people from the company from time to time. How come I…I never got a hint of what you were saying? It’s as if you’re making it up for a joke.’
‘She disguised it pretty well. She had to.’
She looks angry and chews at a fingernail. ‘It’s such a fucking betrayal. I just can’t take it in. She would have benefited from it too! It’s insane.’
‘It’s just one of those things. You never really know what people are thinking or what their motives are. You just have to assimilate it and move on.’
I should be a New Age psychiatrist.
‘I don’t understand, Daniel. I can see how being called bitch on the street and having your privacy violated could screw your work life up, but what about all of the other stuff? Didn’t they go too far? Grabbing me on the street in broad daylight? Drugging me? Taking me to that place.’ She starts sobbing violently, then looks down at what she’s wearing, looking baffled, as if she’s seeing the baby doll for the first time.
I put my hand on her knee. ‘It’s more complicated, Sara. Isolda’s father was in prison for a long time. Sixteen years. He missed her growing up, his wife killed herself while he was away, his business, criminal and successful as it was, suffered and never really recovered.’
‘But that’s not my fault.’
‘Wait. It only happened yesterday. Isolda had lunch with him. She just let something slip about you. Your original surname: MacQuoid.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘He made the connection. It was your father that put Isolda’s dad in prison. He couldn’t get to your dad or your mum, but he could sure as hell get to you. He wanted revenge. He felt he was owed something for all of those wasted years.
‘I know it’s ridiculous. He was going to make you into a sort of wife for himself. For ‘wife’ read ‘permanently imprisoned and drugged sex slave’. That’s what was going to happen to you.’
I have to pull over again. I’ll have to save Isolda’s death and Rachelle Beauchesne’s coma for some time in the future when Sara and I have nothing to talk about.
*
I park the SUV in Tavistock Street, about one minute’s walk away from my flat. My jacket was still in the back seat, so I drape it over Sara’s shoulders and we head back along Wellington Street. Her unusual baby doll/leather jacket look attracts a little attention from the late crowds, but no one says anything once they’ve got a good look at me.
When we get inside, I sit her in front of the television, stick a nature programme on and make both of us some scrambled eggs, toast and coffee while I run her a bath.
While she soaks, I take a shower. I have a lot of things to think about, not least what the emergency services are going to make of what they find at the charred remains of Jennison’s place; six dead, evidence of gunfire, not to mention Dixon, the only uncharred body on the scene.
A known criminal, his two henchmen, his mother, his daughter and a private investigator specialising in divorce cases, who parked his car half a mile away. One of the bodies handcuffed to an oven: I can’t imagine the speculation.
The place will be covered in my and Sara’s fingerprints, but she has no criminal record and I have no record full stop. The prints, if they manage to salvage any, could belong to anyone. I’m hoping they’ll put it down to some type of gang warfare thing. After all, Jennison had quite a reputation in the old days and doubtless had/has a lot of enemies.
And now Sara. She’s going to have to take some time off. I don’t know how long. I don’t know if she can recover what she’d intended to do with the shows in Milan and New York. I don’t know how much she’ll be traumatised by all of this. I don’t know how much I should tell her about what went on while she was tied up on the bed.
The most logical route, as far as I can tell at the moment, would be for her story to end at the attempted kidnapping. She meets Rachelle Beauchesne. Rachelle is assaulted, Sara is dragged into an SUV and she somehow escaped when the SUV almost drove into another vehicle. The end. The only weak link in the story would be Eve Cook and I can take care of her.
Her friends at Maccanti would know all about me, as would Kimmons at her flat, but the story would end at the same point for them. For Melody, it would end when I had a row with Isolda and we stormed out of the building together. Whatever all the permutations and lies are, it’s a big mess, and the only way to deal with something like this is to play it by ear and see how it all works out, knocking each police lead on the head as it materialises. Perhaps DS Bream can put in a good word for me.
Basically, I’m exhausted; I don’t want to think about it and I wish it would all go away.
After her bath, Sara has perked up a little, although I did hear her being sick in the bathroom. I make us both a stiff drink and I tell her as gently as I can about Isolda and what happened at the house. I explain to her that neither of us is in the wrong, but it may not look like that to the police, should they wish to talk to her, particularly regarding my part in the whole thing, relatively innocent as it was (apart from a few minor in
discretions).
She understands and she wants to talk to the police herself. She wants the satisfaction of letting them know that they were condescending, sarcastic and apathetic towards her reporting of what turned out to be an extremely serious series of events that could have resulted in her permanent imprisonment, rape and even her eventual death.
It also resulted in the hell on earth of Jennison’s place, which we only just managed to escape from with our lives. She wants to make a stink about it and she doesn’t care who it hurts. Fair enough, I guess, as long as she keeps me out of the picture as much as is reasonably possible. As I said, I don’t want to think about it anymore.
She sits close to me wearing another one of my sweatshirts and a pair of Rufskin running shorts. She stares blankly at the television screen and sips her vodka and tonic.
‘Do you think I’ll need therapy after this, Daniel?’
I almost laugh, then realise she’s serious.
‘I think you’ll need to talk to someone. It won’t all have hit you yet. You’ve had the trauma of weeks and weeks of harassment, then the abduction, then the drugging and all the rest of it. Any one of those things would be enough for one person.’
‘I want to get on with things, you know? I want to put all of this behind me. It’ll need a lot more work, but I think I can do it. I’ll make Melody my MTA1 and she can look for a replacement for herself. She’s got loads of contacts, she’s always socialising with lots of people in the business. I reckon she could come up with half a dozen quality people in a matter of days.’
I suddenly think of Aziza. Her assessment of Sara’s problem was about as incorrect as it could be. I think she owes me one for that. I go to the kitchen and make us another couple of drinks. I’m not sure whether either of us should be drinking alcohol after our recent drug intake, but sod it.
Death is the New Black Page 35
