It was the one.
I pulled into the middle of the road without indicating and waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic. The car behind me couldn’t get through and beeped again. I still ignored him. He beeped a third time. I felt like jumping out of the car, pulling the .45 and blowing out one of his headlights. Instead I closed my mind to everything except the task ahead, my fingers drumming loudly on the steering wheel, waiting.
There were ten yards between two of the cars coming towards me. Hardly a gap at all, but it was going to have to be enough. I took my chance and accelerated across, looking ahead for the offices of a company called Tembra Software.
The road was about a hundred yards long and dotted with storage units and warehouses. It came to a dead end in front of a large 1960s-style concrete building four storeys high, that was swathed in darkness apart from two illuminated windows on the third floor. A concrete wall topped with long ornamental black railings like spears bordered the plot, separating it from the businesses on either side. There was a rectangular concrete sign about two metres high at the entrance to the building’s main car park. The sign was unlit, but as I drove towards it I was able to make out the darkened lettering: TEMBRA SOFTWARE. I was in the right place. The gates to the car park were open, but there were no cars inside and I could see from the tired state of the building’s exterior that Tembra must have gone out of business some time ago.
I slowed down and pulled up at the side of the road twenty yards short of the entrance. I needed to make my decisions carefully. Barron was expecting me. He knew I’d come here in search of Emma because the bastard had been one step ahead of me the whole time, using Blondie to pick off all those potential witnesses whose information could help to solve the Malik/Khan murders. I was no longer in any doubt that Barron had been a participant on that night seven years ago, that he’d been one of the five people in the room when Heidi Robes had been murdered, because I couldn’t believe that he’d be protecting these people unless he was one of them. And now he was finally tying up the loose ends. He’d finish off Emma, then finish off me. I wondered if he already knew my true identity, and, if so, whether that was why he’d told Blondie not to kill me if I turned up at Andrea’s place the previous night, but to leave me there with the murder weapon and the corpses. Dennis Milne, the killer, returns.
I got out of the car and closed the door quietly. Behind me, the traffic rumbled endlessly past on the main road through the estate, but it was quiet at this end. The warehouses on both sides of the Tembra building had their shutters down, and appeared deserted. There was no sign of Emma’s car anywhere.
I looked up at the two lights on the third floor. There was no one in either of the windows, no flickering shadows, but I felt sure that Barron was in there, and that if he was, so was Emma. This was definitely the place where he’d want to finish this thing; in the darkness, away from any witnesses. I figured he wouldn’t have anyone with him. He was trying to cut all links between himself and the crimes of his past. It would be far better to operate alone on this one and be safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t have anyone else to deal with later. That meant he’d either be by the front door waiting for me to come in that way or, alternatively, up on the third floor (in my opinion the more likely location). He’d know that when I turned up I’d come inside to investigate, because I’d want to know whether or not Emma was still here. He’d be able to watch for my arrival far more easily from the higher vantage point. So that meant that the front door was probably free.
But caution told me to avoid it, even though it was the most direct route and time wasn’t on my side. Instead, I headed through the empty car park of the warehouse next door and made my way along the narrow alleyway that separated it from Tembra’s boundary wall. When I was out of sight of the two illuminated windows and level with the rear of the Tembra building, I reached up, grabbed hold of the railings and scrabbled up the wall until I managed to get a toehold in the tiny space between two of them. Using the top of the railings to pull myself upright, I very carefully lifted one leg over them. The metal spikes scraped against my jeans, and I was conscious that one slip and I could end up castrated. I repeated the process with the other leg, then half jumped, half slid down the wall.
Somehow I landed on my feet, painfully but unscathed, to find myself in Tembra’s empty rear car park.
Which was the moment my mobile started ringing.
I was wearing the black leather jacket I’d bought and the phone seemed to take for ever to find, but eventually I located it and pressed the answer button, putting it to my ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Dennis? Please ...’ The words were a terrified, forced whisper.
‘Emma! Where the hell are you? Are you all right?’
‘I’m at that place I was meant to meet Simon,’ she hissed, her voice shaking. ‘I’m in trouble . . .’
I could hear background noise. Footsteps. Emma cried out in fear.
‘I’m coming to get you,’ I told her frantically. ‘Don’t worry.’
But I was already talking to a dead phone. I held it to my ear for a few more seconds, waiting until I was sure she wasn’t going to make another call, then switched it off.
So she was alive. And Barron was impatient. I had no doubt that it was he who’d controlled that phone call, just to make sure that I took the bait. But at least now I had a chance of success. They wouldn’t expect me to be here already. If he’d seen me, he wouldn’t have bothered getting Emma to call.
The rear of the building was shabbier than the front, and someone had spray-painted rune-like patterns that may have been gang signs on the brickwork between the ground-floor windows, several of which had been smashed behind the metal security bars. The smoked-glass double doors that led out into the car park had probably been quite plush once, but were now worn and scratched. They were also locked.
I walked round to the other side of the building, looking for another way in, my footsteps sounding artificially loud on the chipped tarmac. The first-floor windows weren’t protected by bars, and one was broken, with a single piece of jagged glass jutting up from its base. A drainpipe ran beside it and I contemplated shinning up it and getting in that way, but it felt loose to the touch.
I was going to have to go in the way he wanted me to. I looked at my watch. Five to five. Rush hour. The rain continued to pound down and I knew that this could be Emma’s and my final resting place – a bland and derelict building on a lonely industrial estate in the midst of this cold, teeming city. The thought frightened me.
But fear’s good. Fear keeps you alive and hones the senses. Fear is what can get you out of these situations.
I started walking again. Slowly and quietly, circumnavigating the building. Time now suddenly back on my side.
When I reached the corner of the wall that faced the building’s main entrance, I slowly poked my head round. The double doors were closed, but unlike the back ones, they didn’t appear to be locked. Beyond them was darkness, with no sign of anyone. I moved back out of sight, leant down and picked up a loose chunk of cement and chucked it round the corner at the lower part of the doors. It struck with a light tap, and I waited to see if this aroused anyone’s curiosity.
Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.
It could have been a trap, but in the end I had no choice. I stepped out of the shadows and, drawing the .45, tried the handle. The door opened with a squeak that probably seemed a lot louder than it actually was, and I stepped inside, half expecting to hear the sound of a weapon being cocked, then the final, deadly explosion of gunfire. But the corridor ahead of me was empty. Half a dozen linoleum steps led up to the next floor. I crept over to the bottom and listened.
Again, nothing. Not a sound.
The steps climbed at rigid right angles between the floors all the way to the top of the building. A dim half-glow from the street lamps outside provided the only light. In the distance, a long way off, I heard the sound of a siren. Nothing moved. I started up t
he steps, my finger tensing on the trigger of the .45.
The siren faded into the night and the silence grew louder.
I reached the first floor. Above me, shadows from the city ran across the grainy, bare walls.
I kept going, straining to hear any sound from above, and fighting to stop myself from breaking into a run and announcing my presence prematurely.
All my life I’ve had a ruthless streak, an ability to shut myself away from the suffering of others and not let it get to me. You need that when you’re policing the crime-worn streets of London, or when you’re living and running a business in the Philippines. Or when you kill people for money. I relied on that ruthless streak now to shut out Emma’s suffering, while I concentrated on preparing myself for Barron.
The siren began again in the distance, a long slow whine, joined shortly afterwards by a second. Charging off towards the scene of another bloody crime. It was a noise that reminded me of home. Of life here in the big, violent city. Always some emergency going on. A never-ending conflict between the haves and the would-haves-if-they-could-get-their-hands-on-it, and the people meant to keep them apart – the coppers. Men like Asif Malik, who’d paid the ultimate price for his work in such a thankless job. And once upon a time, men like me, who’d instead been corrupted by it.
I reached the third floor and stepped onto a landing with a large window at the end that looked out onto the industrial estate. A solitary picture – a cheap-looking abstract that was barely visible in the gloom – hung crookedly from the wall. There were corridors to my left and right. The one to my right was where I’d seen the lights earlier. It stretched for about fifty feet, with doors facing each other on either side, all of them wide open, before ending at a windowless wall with part of its brickwork exposed. The second and third doors on the left led into the rooms with the lights on.
Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder and found myself staring back at a perfectly symmetrical corridor going down the other way. Except on this one, all the doors were closed. Barron was not making this very easy for me, but then I’d expected that.
I waited where I was for several seconds, aware that the sirens were getting closer, then slowly walked towards the lights, holding the .45 two-handed in front of me.
I passed the first couple of open doors and peered into empty offices, long since stripped of fittings and furniture. I kept going, conscious of the sound of my footfalls on the linoleum. He had to know I was coming. Even tiptoeing as quietly as possible, my approach must have been audible amidst the dead silence of the corridor.
I came to the second set of doors. To my right, darkness. To my left, light. I took a step forward and looked in.
Something immediately caught my attention. A leg, partly concealed by the angle of the open door.
The sirens had been joined by a third, the whining getting louder as they entered the estate.
A trap. It could be a trap.
With a sudden lunge, I kicked the door wide open and burst into the brightly lit office, gun swinging in a wide arc.
And groaned.
Because I was too late. Had always been too late. And had walked once again into a trap that had been expertly set for me.
40
For a moment, I simply stared at the corpse, unable to move. Full of regret that yet another innocent life had been taken.
Then I shook myself out of my torpor and walked over to him.
DCI Simon Barron was slumped against the wall at a slightly crooked angle, his eyes closed, his white shirt and pale blue tie drenched in blood. I could see that he’d been stabbed a number of times in the chest and abdomen in what must have been a frenzied attack. The entry wounds were clearly visible, and the blood that had flowed freely from them had now coagulated. A pool had formed round the top of his legs and had dyed the edges of his khaki raincoat crimson. His face was white and I guessed he’d been dead a while. An hour or two, at least.
The noise of the sirens was now continuous and coming closer and closer. Through the window I could see the blue and white flashes of light dancing across the night sky above the estate’s buildings. The vehicles were on the main road but no more than a couple of hundred yards away, and as I watched the first police car turned into the cul-de-sac and approached the Tembra Software building at speed.
At that moment, I knew they were coming for me.
I turned and ran like I’ve never run before, charging along the corridor and across the landing, taking the steps three and even four at a time. The third floor became the second floor, the second the first, and outside I could hear the cars pulling up and the shouts of the arriving police officers as they began to secure the area. I knew they would go round the back and surround the building to make sure their fugitive didn’t get out. I had to beat them to it.
I turned left on the first floor and raced down the corridor, trying to remember where I’d seen the broken window. When I got to the last door on the right, I opened it, ran inside, and saw that I’d guessed correctly. Running forward, I kicked the glass jutting up from the base of the window and knocked it flying. It shattered loudly as it hit the ground. I clambered out, cutting my leg in the process, and slid down the nearby guttering. There was a tearing sound as it came away from the wall. I was still five or six feet from the ground and had to jump the rest of the way. I hit the concrete hard, a piece of the guttering landing on my head, then turned to run round the back of the building.
I heard someone shouting ‘Stop! Armed police!’ from behind me, but I kept running, across the empty car park and up to the wall at the back, taking it in one go. Rather than trying to manoeuvre myself over, I simply went head first and hoped for the best, the best being in this case a painful landing on my hands, followed by an involuntary two-second handstand and then a forward roll into a puddle, during which the .45 fell out of my waistband, though thankfully didn’t discharge.
I jumped up again, retrieving and replacing the gun in the process.
I was in a large builders’ yard filled with various pieces of plant, a handful of combi vans and a number of metal sea containers. Plenty of places to hide, and no sign of anyone. I was tired, but adrenalin, coupled with the knowledge that the police were right behind me, kept me moving. I could hear one of the coppers shouting that I’d gone over the wall, and he sounded close, so I started running again.
I cleared the builders’ yard in the space of thirty seconds and found a hole in the fence at the other end which led onto one of the estate’s roads. I went straight through it, ran a further hundred yards, turned into another road and ran down that. When I got to the end, I turned right and slowed to a walk. There weren’t many pedestrians about, but there was enough slow-moving traffic to delay any vehicle-bound pursuit.
I knew then that I should have called it a day. I could have walked away and got on the plane back to the Philippines, confident at least that the reason Malik had died was connected somehow with what had happened seven years previously, and that Pope, Blacklip, Slippery Billy and now Blondie had been punished for it. There were unanswered questions, of course, such as exactly what it was that Jason Khan had found out months after the end of Ann’s sessions with Dr Cheney that had prompted him to meet Malik and for the killing spree to start, but no one could say that I hadn’t done my bit for my old colleague and friend, and that I had given him some measure of justice, even if his family would never know the true story.
I should have called it a day, but of course I didn’t. Somewhere out there was a man who had worn a black leather mask and tortured a young girl to death one night, and who, quite possibly, still walked free. I wanted to find him, and those still helping him.
And this time I knew where to look.
41
I waited for him in the dim, reddish light of the underground car park. I knew he’d come. His car, a Jaguar S-Type Sedan, perfect for a man of his seniority, remained parked in his spot. He was working late that night. It was half past seven and I’d be
en there close to half an hour, standing in the corner shadows not far from the pedestrian entrance. Men and women in business suits came through every so often, the high-pitched ding of the lift or the tattoo of footfalls in the stairwell announcing their arrival. Their numbers were getting fewer now as the evening wore on, and only a couple of dozen vehicles remained, dotted about the cavernous room.
My leg hurt where I’d cut it on the glass. Before I’d come here, I’d found a pharmacy and bought a basic first-aid kit. I’d then returned to my room in Paddington, strapped it up crudely with the bandage, and finally cleared the place of all the essentials, before checking out. I was now beginning to get used to the dull throbbing of the wound. To be fair, I was now beginning to get used to injuries in general, having received more in the past five days than I’d had in the previous ten years. It was the price I had to pay for operating alone.
I was doing some stretching exercises to encourage the circulation and warm up a bit when the lift dinged again. A couple of seconds later, a shortish man with thick black curly hair and a moustache emerged, his footsteps echoing as he strode purposefully towards the Jaguar, a briefcase in one hand. As I watched from my vantage point ten yards away, he flicked off the car alarm remotely, then opened the car boot and chucked the briefcase in, before heading round to the driver’s door.
As he got in, I drew the short-barrelled Browning pistol Tyndall had supplied me with and came out of the shadows, screwing on the silencer as I walked towards his car. The engine started with a low rumble that hinted at a lot of power.
He didn’t see me until I’d pulled open the front passenger door and deposited myself in the seat next to him. A shocked expression shot across his face and he started to protest, but I wasn’t having any of that. I smiled and shoved the silencer against his cheek, using enough force to push his head back against the window. He ended up in a position that looked very uncomfortable.
A Good Day To Die Page 26
