Ingrid was still perched on the desk, beside me. She moved her hand out to mine. I held it.
‘How cute,’ said Owen. He shifted his aim slightly away from my head and towards our hands. ‘But let go, or I’ll blow your fingers off.’
We let go.
I cursed myself for allowing her to come, even though it would have been impossible to stop her. Owen wanted to kill me. He didn’t care about Ingrid, but now she would die too.
I still couldn’t believe the transformation I had seen in Guy. He had turned from confused and suicidal to focused and murderous. Something had snapped. This was a Guy I did not recognize, a Guy I did not know.
I wondered where they’d take us. Probably to some woods somewhere in Kent. They’d shoot us, dump us, and drive on to the ferry and the Continent. Would they escape? Between the two of them, they were pretty resourceful. They might.
I thought about dying. About my parents, how distraught they would be. About what I had achieved with my life. To my surprise, I found myself thinking about Ninetyminutes. That was something. Something good. Then I realized it was all going to be over. Sometime in the next hour or so, it was all going to be over.
I glanced at Owen. He saw the fear in my eyes. He smiled.
I tried to get a grip of myself. I had no intention of giving that bastard any pleasure.
We sat there a long time. It seemed longer than twenty minutes, but I didn’t want to check my watch in case it provoked Owen. He sat solidly still. If he was impatient or jumpy, he didn’t show it. His eyes never left me. He had the ghost of a smile, a complacent, self-satisfied smile. He liked to watch me sitting there in fear. He was enjoying this.
Then Ingrid spoke. ‘Owen?’ she said softly. ‘You could just leave us, you know. You could easily get away, just the two of you. We wouldn’t call the police until the morning.’
‘Quiet,’ Owen said. ‘Don’t even try to talk your way out of this.’
‘But, Owen –’
‘I said, quiet!’ He raised the gun.
Just then, we heard the sound of Guy running up the stairs, two at a time. He banged open the door.
‘You took your time,’ Owen said.
‘Come on,’ said Guy. ‘Let’s go. Give me the gun. I’ll cover them.’
‘No, I’ll keep it.’
Guy reached out towards the weapon. Owen pulled it away. ‘I said, I’ll keep it. If anyone’s gonna shoot these fuckers, it’s gonna be me.’
Guy stared at his brother, who stared back. He wasn’t going to budge. Guy shrugged. ‘OK. The car’s outside. Let’s go.’
Owen waved the gun at Ingrid and me. Reluctantly we stood up and followed Guy out into the hallway and down the stairs, Owen a couple of feet behind us.
Guy was first through the door on to the street. Everything was quiet. I looked for Owen’s black Japanese four-wheel drive, but I couldn’t see it.
‘Where’s the car?’ Owen asked.
‘Just round that corner,’ Guy replied, pointing to an alley on the other side of the road.
We crossed the street.
Then several things happened at once. Everything exploded in a bright whiteness. Guy screamed, ‘Down!’ He dived to the ground, pulling Ingrid with him. As I dropped too, pressing my face against the hard road surface, I heard the sharp crack of two shots, then a sharp scream from Owen behind me, and the clatter of his gun falling to the tarmac.
I rolled over. I saw Owen slumped in the road, an outstretched hand reaching for the gun, only inches away from his fingertips. I scrabbled over to it and snatched it away from him. All around me I could hear the sounds of running.
I pulled myself to my feet, still holding the gun. I looked down at Owen, illuminated by the bright lights. Blood seemed to be pouring out of two holes, one in his shoulder and another in his side. Policemen wielding rifles and handguns and wearing bulletproof vests bent over him. A siren wailed with increasing intensity as an ambulance barrelled down the little street towards us.
I turned to look for Ingrid. She seemed unhurt, but she was shaking violently. Wide-eyed, she staggered towards me and I wrapped my arms around her. She clung to me, tight.
Guy was hovering behind the group of policemen who were surrounding his brother, watching them as they tried to stanch the flow of blood. I recognized one of them: DS Spedding. Seconds later they were joined by paramedics in green overalls. Within a minute, Owen was on a stretcher and being lifted into the ambulance.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Guy asked Spedding, whose hands were covered in Owen’s blood.
‘He’s still alive. He’s bleeding heavily, but he’s a big strong guy. He’s got a chance.’
Guy tried to get into the ambulance with Owen, but Spedding stopped him. There were questions to answer.
I walked over to Guy. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. Spedding stepped back.
‘Thanks, Guy,’ I said.
He tried to smile. ‘Did I fool you?’
‘You fooled me. I knew you were a good actor.’
‘I had to be to fool Owen.’ He turned to watch the ambulance disappear up the road, siren blaring. ‘I hope he lives.’
I hoped so too. For Guy’s sake.
‘I had to do it, Davo. When I saw he really meant to kill you, that even I couldn’t talk him out of it, it all suddenly clicked. He may be my brother, but he’s evil. I’ve tried to hide from that fact all my life. Blame my parents, blame anybody but Owen. So it was up to me to stop him.’
‘I thought you were away a long time.’
‘I called Spedding. He was pretty quick in the circumstances. I knew I couldn’t keep Owen waiting too much longer.’ He shook his head, looking along the street to where the ambulance had long since disappeared. ‘I wish he’d given me the gun.’
Spedding approached us. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, but I have some questions I have to ask you.’ He drew Guy a few yards away and began asking them. Other policemen talked to Ingrid and me. After half an hour or so, they let us go.
‘I’m off to the hospital, now,’ said Guy. ‘To see how Owen’s doing.’
I glanced at Ingrid. ‘We’ll come with you,’ I said. I didn’t give a damn what happened to Owen, but I did care about Guy. He needed all the support he could get.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and turned to the small group of policemen who were still busy milling about the road. Spedding had already left, so he spoke to a uniformed sergeant.
A moment later he rejoined us. ‘Owen’s been taken to St Thomas’s. The copper said they could give us a lift, but we’d have to wait a few minutes. So let’s just grab a taxi.’
He headed off rapidly towards Farringdon Road, and we followed him, keeping our eyes out for black cabs with orange lights on. There were none.
‘Damn,’ Guy said. He was getting impatient, and began walking down towards Smithfield. He waved at an empty cab with its light off, but it ignored him and drove on. I was reminded of Hoyle’s prayers for a recession.
We paused at a crossing. Guy was suddenly struck by something. He turned to me, frowning. ‘You know, you were wrong, Davo.’
‘About what?’
‘About Owen. And the note to Clare.’
‘What do you mean? He admitted he wrote it.’
‘No, he didn’t. When I asked him, he said, “Maybe.” He was trying to be mysterious. Having his own little joke.’
Guy saw my scepticism. ‘Think about it. Think of the words in the note: “unsolicited offer”, “purchase the company”, “pursuing discussions with other potential investors”. That’s not Owen.’
It was true. They didn’t sound like Owen’s words.
‘Did you see the note Owen wrote to Henry?’ Guy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Was it anything like that?’
‘No. It was just a couple of lines. I can’t remember it exactly, but it was something like: “Give Ninetyminutes the money, or else.” ’
‘And another thing. I know Owen didn’t kill my father.’ I open
ed my mouth to protest, but Guy stopped me. ‘It’s not just that he was with me at the time, I know he didn’t hire anyone else to kill him, either. He was genuinely surprised when he heard what had happened. But someone murdered Dad. Someone ran him down, on purpose. And someone wrote that note.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a taxi with its light on speeding past us. But I was too stunned by what Guy was saying to react.
Guy’s frown deepened. ‘Where’s Mel?’
‘She’s with Clare,’ said Ingrid. ‘At Howles Marriott.’
‘Oh, my God,’ I said. Suddenly, I saw it. Guy was right. Of course Owen wouldn’t have written a letter like that: it was written by a lawyer. A lawyer who would do anything to help Guy. Anything.
‘What time is it?’ Guy asked.
I checked my watch. ‘Ten to twelve.’
‘Jesus.’ Guy looked up and down the street. No sign of any more free cabs. We were now quite a distance from Britton Street and the remaining police. ‘Come on! Let’s run! It’s only half a mile to Mel’s office.’
Guy set off, with Ingrid and me in hot pursuit. We ran along Charterhouse Street, across Holborn Circus, down Shoe Lane, and into the rabbit warren of streets and squares between Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. Guy ran fast and it was all I could do to keep up. I wasn’t as fit as I used to be; my heart was soon pounding and I was gasping for air. But I kept up, just. Ingrid wasn’t far behind us.
We reached the entrance to Howles Marriott. A security guard looked up from his desk, startled.
‘Have you seen Melanie Dean?’ Guy asked, fighting for breath.
‘She just left a moment ago.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. With another lady.’
‘Shit!’ said Guy. ‘Look. Call the police. Tell them there’s a murder about to be committed. There’s a dangerous woman out there and she’s almost certainly armed.’
The security guard’s jaw dropped. He didn’t move.
‘I’m serious. Do it!’
Guy and I ran out of the front entrance. Ingrid arrived panting.
‘Which way?’ I said.
‘God knows,’ said Guy. ‘She could have gone anywhere.’
‘I thought I saw two figures back that way,’ said Ingrid, pointing towards the alley from which we had come. ‘It’s not far.’
‘OK. Show us.’
Ingrid set off again and we followed her. She dived through a passageway under an office block and into a tiny square paved with flagstones. The red-brick lawyers’ buildings that surrounded it were still. No traffic. No people. Just Mel and Clare, illuminated under a yellow streetlamp.
‘Mel!’ Guy shouted.
At the sound of his voice, she stopped and turned. Clare was right next to her, looking very frightened. In Mel’s hand was a gun.
Ingrid and I stopped. Guy slowed to a walk. He approached the two women.
‘Now, Mel. Let her go,’ he said calmly.
‘No,’ Mel said. ‘I warned her that if she didn’t turn down the Champion Starsat offer she would die. Derek Silverman faxed through the acceptance ten minutes ago.’
‘I’m asking you to let her go,’ Guy said, taking a further step towards her.
‘Stop where you are!’ Mel shouted. Her eyes were bright. She was wired. On the edge.
Guy stopped.
‘I’m doing this for you, you know that, don’t you?’ Mel said.
Guy nodded. ‘I know.’
‘I’ve done so much for you.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you? I don’t think you do. I got rid of your father. Did you know that? Do you remember that night when you came round to see me after you’d had a fight with him? After he had insisted that Ninetyminutes become a porn site. Do you remember that, Guy?’
‘I remember.’
‘I was so angry for you. I wanted to help you. So I decided to force him to keep you on, to keep doing things at Ninetyminutes your way. I waited for him in my car outside his flat. I was going to tell him that if he didn’t do what I wanted, I’d accuse him of raping me in France.
‘Then I saw him. Coming out of his flat into the narrow street. I thought it would be so easy just to put my foot down on the accelerator and finish him off. I remembered what he’d done to me in France, how he’d ruined my life. I couldn’t let him ruin your life as well. So I put my foot down.’
I remembered what Anne Glazier had said: Mel had arrived back at her flat that evening after Guy. She had driven home straight from running Tony down. No wonder she had seemed so agitated.
I couldn’t see Guy’s face, but Mel could. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Owen killed Dominique, didn’t he? And you stood by him. Well, I killed Tony. For you.’
‘There’s no need to kill anyone else,’ Guy said. ‘Let Clare go. For me.’
Mel grabbed hold of Clare and lifted the gun to her head. ‘No. She destroyed Ninetyminutes.’
Clare whimpered. She was terrified.
‘Did Owen know?’ Guy asked.
‘He worked it out. He’s clever, your brother. And I knew he was trying to help you too. We both did our best.’
‘Is that where you got the gun?’
‘Yes. He came up to me a few days ago and said he’d got one for you and did I want one? I think he knew what I’d use it for.’
A siren sounded. Mel looked round the square in panic. The police. If she was going to press the trigger, she might do it now.
Guy took a step further forward.
‘I’m going to shoot her! I mean it.’
More sirens, louder. Guy took another step. ‘Let her go.’
‘I said, I’ll shoot her.’
Another step.
The gun moved away from Clare’s head towards Guy. Clare bucked and yanked herself away from Mel’s grasp. Guy lunged forward. There was a shot and a cry from Guy. He slid to the ground as Mel jumped backwards. Clare ran off somewhere to the side. I dashed towards Mel and Guy. Mel turned and ran down an alleyway.
I ran after her. I knew she had a gun, but I was angry and I was determined to stop her. I rounded a corner. She turned and fired. She was only a few yards ahead of me, but she was holding the gun unsteadily and the bullet whined harmlessly over my head. I ducked back out of sight.
Mel ran on and I followed. She was not a good shot and at that moment I didn’t care too much for my own safety. But I would have to figure out how to get close enough to disarm her. How many bullets did she have in her magazine? I had no idea.
Another corner, another alleyway. This time at the far end was Fleet Street, with its traffic, busy even at this time of night. Mel stopped and turned towards me. I was closer to her now. She raised her gun towards me. She was so near it would be hard to miss.
I thought about trying to run back to the corner. But she would fire then for sure. And she might hit me.
So I walked on.
‘I’ll shoot!’ she said, her voice catching with hysteria.
‘Don’t, Mel. Put the gun down.’
‘No!’ She was grasping the gun so tightly in front of her that it was shaking. But at least part of the time it was pointing straight at me.
‘There’s no point, Mel. You’ve shot Guy. He’s back there lying on the pavement in his own blood. He’s not coming with you.’
Mel bit her lip. Her shoulders hunched as she tried to control herself, tried to keep the gun pointed at me. ‘Is he dead?’ she said, in little more than a whisper.
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. Give me the gun.’
I took another step forward.
Mel braced herself and stared along the barrel of the gun straight at me. Then she slumped backwards into the wall. The gun dropped to her side.
I walked swiftly up to her and prised the weapon out of her fingers. The barrel was warm. She slid down to the ground, put her head in her hands and sobbed.
A policeman arrived breathing heavily. I left Mel and the gun with him and ran back to the small square.
&n
bsp; Guy was lying where he had fallen. Ingrid was with him, as were three or four armed policemen.
I pushed my way through to him.
He had a single wound to the chest. Blood was pumping out. He was finding it very difficult to breathe, but his eyes were open. His skin was pale under his stubble, so pale.
He saw me.
‘Davo.’
I knelt down beside him.
‘Is Clare OK?’ he asked.
I looked up. She was standing a few yards away, her face white, her hand to her mouth.
‘Yeah. You saved her.’
‘And Owen? How’s Owen?’
‘I don’t know.’
He tried to speak, but could only cough. Blood dribbled out of the side of his mouth.
‘Easy,’ I said. ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’
‘Can you find out? About Owen?’ It was little more than a whisper.
I looked up. Spedding was standing over us, catching his breath, splashes of Owen’s blood still on his clothes. I raised my eyebrows. He stepped back and spoke into his radio. After a few seconds he caught my eye and shook his head.
I looked down at Guy. He hadn’t seen Spedding.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘He’s going to make it.’
Guy smiled. Or tried to smile. He coughed. More blood. He coughed once more, and then he was still.
Ingrid wept quietly. I put my arm around her and squeezed her tight. As I watched the paramedics cover his body and load it on to a stretcher, I realized that in the end I had trusted Guy.
And he hadn’t let me down.
41
November 2000, six months later, Mayfair, London
The twenty-six-year-old ex-investment banker finished his PowerPoint presentation with a flourish and sat down expectantly. I glanced at Clare. This was the third Wireless Application Protocol deal we had seen in a month, and easily the worst. By a slight twitching of an eyebrow, Clare signalled that she agreed with my assessment. We asked the two-man team some questions for the sake of politeness, and then kicked them out.
‘We were never that bad, were we, Clare?’ I asked her as we made our way back to the small office we shared.
Clare laughed. ‘Not quite. But those guys were geniuses compared to some of the bozos we used to get in here a year ago.’
Fatal Error Page 38
