Silvermeadow

by Barry Maitland

  ‘I’m sorry, Kathy.’ His voice was plaintive. ‘I felt obliged . . . in case I led you into any danger.’

  ‘The only danger I’m in is from that damn thing going off by mistake!’

  ‘No, no. I was in the army, you know. The safety catch is on. What in God’s name is that sound?’ Orr breathed. ‘It’s like the voices of ghosts.’

  ‘It’s only the machinery,’ Kathy said, and turned away, irritated. ‘The extract fan’s at the far end. Come on.’

  They passed evidence of where workmen had begun replacing the missing grilles in the incoming ducts, and came to the place where Wiff ’s nest had been, still cordoned off with police tape. Here they examined the original plan, orienting themselves. If the door to the octagonal room existed, they realised, it must be quite close.

  They moved on down the main plenum to the next short branch to the left, which they followed to its end, closed by a panel of louvres. This, they decided, talking for some reason in whispers, was where the door should have been. But there was no sign of a handle or hinges in the louvres, which appeared firmly fixed. Orr rattled them in frustration, pushed his shoulder half-heartedly against them, then stepped back in astonishment as they swung soundlessly open.

  Their torches showed another corridor beyond, its walls formed of grey concrete blockwork. It ran forward for about twenty yards, then turned left and stopped at a door. Kathy told Orr to wait and tried the handle. It turned, and she opened the door into a darkened room. The air was suddenly much warmer and had a strong human smell, of urine and sweat. She pointed her torch into the dark space and picked out a chair, an electric fan heater and a pair of wellington boots. As the beam swept slowly across the room she saw a mattress on a steel-framed bed. From the head-frame hung a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘Oh God . . .’ she breathed. ‘You were right, Robbie. Just stay where you are please. Don’t come in here.’

  She shone the torch back along the wall towards the door and found a light switch. A harsh white fluorescent light flickered into life overhead, and Kathy stepped cautiously into the room. There was a suitcase near the bed, open, with clothes heaped untidily inside.

  At her shoulder, Orr whispered, ‘I knew it, Kathy. I knew I was right. The Minotaur’s lair, eh?’

  ‘Yes. And I told you to stay outside. For goodness’ sake don’t touch anything.’

  She was staring at the mattress. There was a sleeping bag heaped at one end, a pillow at the other, magazines scattered in between. Behind her she heard the door click shut. She turned, assuming Orr had followed her instructions and left, but he was still at her back, staring towards the door. Then she saw the man standing there and her heart gave a violent jolt.

  ‘Who the blazes are you?’ Orr demanded.

  The figure didn’t answer, but Kathy knew who it was. She had seen the face on video and mug shots, and once in the flesh.

  Gregory Thomas ‘Upper’ North.

  22

  Kathy spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I’m a police officer. I’ll show you my warrant card.’

  She made to reach into her pocket, but North raised a warning hand and she froze.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She had heard people mention the soft, sibilant voice that reinforced the impression he was under the influence of something even when he wasn’t.

  ‘DS Kolla.’

  ‘Division?’

  ‘Serious Crime. With DCI Brock.’

  Without the heavy-rimmed glasses he looked much more like the North of the earlier pictures, slightly dreamy eyes pinched together, cruel mouth. At the mention of Brock’s name he blinked and stared more fixedly at Kathy.

  ‘Is he here too?’

  Kathy hesitated and saw the eyes focus threateningly.

  ‘No, he’s not here at the moment.’

  ‘Who else is with you?’

  ‘No one. Just us. At the moment.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I’m supposed to report in.’

  The mouth formed a thin smile. ‘Sure. Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s—’

  ‘Now look!’ Orr interrupted, becoming incensed that someone he took to be a maintenance mechanic, dressed in tracksuit and trainers, should have the presumption to question a police officer in this way. ‘You show a bit of respect, sir!’

  ‘Robbie . . .’ Kathy said warningly, remembering all she had been told about North. If she could just keep things calm for ten or fifteen minutes, Sharon would have told Brock, who would surely come. But Orr was waving his hand imperiously at her as he continued to address North in his most pompous classroom manner.

  ‘I am Professor Robbie Orr, and I am an archaeologist assisting this officer in her investigations. We have no interest in you, and I suggest you leave now before—’

  ‘Tell him to keep his fucking mouth shut,’ North hissed.

  Orr, unlike Kathy, had not noticed the black object dangling from North’s right hand.

  ‘How dare you speak to us in that manner!’ Orr exploded. ‘If you can’t show a little respect—’

  North brought his right hand up until it was pointing at Orr’s chest. Orr blinked in astonishment as he made out the automatic and silencer.

  ‘Robbie, please keep quiet and leave this to me,’ Kathy said, with some intensity. She tried to glance unobtrusively at his hands, terrified that he would try to pull his antiquated gun from his coat pocket. ‘Don’t move or say a word, and everything will be perfectly all right.’

  Orr swallowed, then drew himself up straight. ‘No, Kathy. I refuse to be intimidated by some loutish thug. Does your employer know you have that thing?’ he challenged North. ‘Good God, sir! I’m not frightened of the likes of you. I was with Templer in Malaya!’

  There was silence for a moment. North was frowning, as if trying to work out what the hell Orr meant, and Kathy began to say something to try to divert his attention. But before she could get the words out, North said, ‘Yeah? Well I was with Ronnie Kray in Pentonville,’ and the gun jumped twice in his hand, with two vicious thumps.

  Orr toppled abruptly backwards, lay felled on the floor, a look of blank amazement on his face. North stared down at him for some seconds, as if contemplating a fine piece of work, then swung the gun to point at Kathy’s head. Instinctively she closed her eyes, waiting for oblivion.

  A long silence, then she heard his voice. ‘Take the coat off, very carefully, darling.’

  As she eased it off and handed it to him a hissing, gurgling noise came from the figure stretched out on the floor beside her. She glanced down and saw pink foam on Orr’s lips.

  North backed over to the bed and emptied the pockets of Kathy’s coat without taking his eyes off her, spreading out the purse, handcuffs, wallet with warrant card. Then he told her to turn and stand over against the wall, hands and feet spread. She felt him come close against her back, the end of the silencer press against her temple, then his free hand feeling in the pockets of her jeans, then round under her sweater to the front of her shirt, unbuttoning it and feeling inside to her skin. The hand slid up to her breast, pausing there a moment, his breathing heavy in her ear, then continued feeling her front, her belly, then round to her back, tugging the shirt out of her jeans so that the fingers could feel over her skin, up to her shoulders, then through her hair.

  The hand went round to her front again, to the belt and zip of her jeans, undoing them. She said, ‘No,’ and tried to twist round, but he grabbed her hair and banged her face against the concrete block wall, pressing the metal tube harder against her temple. Then he returned to what he had been doing, unfastening her jeans, pulling them down to her ankles and feeling up and down her legs. He pulled off her shoes, threw them aside, and stepped back.

  ‘Hands behind your back,’ he said.

  She obeyed, and felt the handcuffs on her wrists.

  ‘Turn,’ he said. ‘Sit.’

  She squatted against the wall, jeans still round her ankles. The blow to
her head had dazed her; her brow throbbed painfully. She fought to control the trembling that threatened to take her over, and tried to concentrate on things outside herself—on Orr, lying a couple of yards away, wheezing and bubbling faintly.

  North was sitting on the bed, examining her wallet again, when she heard something, a faint metallic clang, from outside the room. The metal door of louvres, she thought, and imagined someone making their way slowly along the connecting corridor to the door of this room. Please let it be Brock, not Sharon, she thought, staring transfixed at the door handle as it began to turn.

  She glanced at North, still preoccupied with her wallet, then back at the door. It opened a few inches, then a few more, and she recognised Harry’s profile in the gap. She wanted desperately to call out to him, tell him to run, get help, but she guessed that North would start blazing away indiscriminately if she startled him, so she bit her lip and watched Harry in silence as he slowly took in the scene in the room, his eyes widening at the sight of Orr stretched out on the floor, Kathy against the wall. Run! she silently urged him, as he stood staring at her, then at North, seemingly unable to decide what to do.

  Finally she couldn’t stand it any more. Terrified that he’d say something, she gave a little sharp warning shake of her head. But the movement registered with North, who looked up suddenly, first at Kathy, then at the doorway, and took in Harry.

  ‘Run, Harry!’ she finally blurted. ‘Get help!’

  But instead of running, he began to walk slowly into the room.

  Incredulously, Kathy watched him crouch beside Orr. Then she was aware of North picking up his gun at last. He waved it in the general direction of Harry and said simply, ‘He’s dead.’

  Harry looked up, face grim, then got to his feet and stared at Kathy. He took in the livid mark on her forehead, the dishevelled clothes, bare legs. ‘Christ, Greg,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to—’

  ‘What? You think I screwed her?’ North gave a short laugh. ‘I was looking for a wire. She’s clean. She doesn’t even have a gun.’

  Jackson looked over at the contents of her pockets spread out on the bed at North’s feet, then in puzzlement at Kathy. ‘No radio? No phone? What do they teach you kids these days?’

  Kathy felt a wave of panic and despair rise inside her as she finally understood. She saw that he was holding in his hand the note with Brock’s phone number that she had given Sharon, and wondered desperately if she had made the call.

  She took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound strong, in control. ‘We’ve got an operation going, Harry, searching for hidden rooms. It’s only a matter of time before the others move down here. I left my phone upstairs. I should have checked in ten minutes ago.’

  He studied her thoughtfully, then shook his head. ‘That wasn’t what you told Sharon, Kathy. And it doesn’t make any sense to me. An operation? With this old geezer? And not even a can of capsicum spray on you?’

  He turned back to North. ‘You been checking the radio traffic?’

  ‘Earlier, yeah. Nothing special.’ He reached down from the bed and switched on the radio on the floor nearby.

  After a moment the unmistakable sound of a police radio exchange came through: ‘Oscar Lima, receiving seven one five,’ and the reply, ‘Seven one five, go ahead.’ The voices were flat and untroubled. ‘All quiet on Nelson Road, Oscar Lima . . .’

  Harry Jackson turned back to Kathy. ‘Sounds more like you had one of your little brainstorms, Kathy. What, decide to crack the case single-handed, did you? Christ . . .’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘She’s one of Brock’s,’ North said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So she’s not good to have around.’ He said this pointedly.

  Kathy looked up at Jackson’s face, trying to read his reaction. He met her eye briefly, then turned away.

  ‘Let’s think about it.’

  ‘What’s to think about?’ North said. ‘Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll do it. My pleasure.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure what’s going on out there.’

  Jackson went over to North and began speaking to him urgently in a low voice that Kathy couldn’t hear. She watched their expressions as the discussion went backwards and forwards. At the end of it, when Jackson got up from the bed and walked away, head lowered, hands in pockets, she couldn’t tell for sure which way it had gone, but it didn’t look encouraging.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ North said, casually picking up a magazine. ‘Get us something, will you, Harry? Nothing spicy; my gut’s playing up, stuck down here in this hole. Something with chips—fish or burger or something. And a decent bottle of plonk. It is Christmas Eve, after all.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jackson muttered. He turned to the door without looking in Kathy’s direction.

  ‘Don’t I get a last meal?’ she said.

  North smiled, but said nothing.

  Harry looked back reluctantly over his shoulder. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to get help for Orr,’ Kathy said. ‘Please, Harry. You can’t just let him die. Take him out of here and leave him somewhere and call an ambulance. If he survives he won’t be able to talk for days. Come on, Harry. It’s no risk to you.’

  He smiled uncomfortably at her. ‘Nice try, Kathy.’ The tone of his voice chilled her. It was sympathetic, regretful, as if he didn’t expect to be talking to her again.

  North said, ‘There’s some car keys in her bag, Harry. Maybe you’d better get rid of it.’

  Jackson came back over to the bed and picked up her keys. ‘Yeah, I’ll bring it down beside mine, then I’ll close the service road for the night. Where is it?’ he asked her. ‘I know what you drive.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Harry,’ she said.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He turned and made for the door.

  As his footsteps faded away, North got to his feet and stretched, and for the second time Kathy braced herself, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘So, Kathy, is it?’ he said. ‘Your name?’ He began to stroll towards her, a little smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. A bit like Mandy.’

  ‘Eh?’ He stopped dead. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said my name is a bit like Mandy—two syllables, five letters—’

  ‘What do you know about Mandy?’

  ‘Which Mandy are we talking about? Mandy Rice-Davies? Or Mandy Bryant of twenty-three Tulip Court?’

  ‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, bitch. How do you know about Mandy?’

  ‘And Sophie. Well, how would we know? I mean, who do we know that knows about Mandy and Sophie? Now Sophie is two syllables and six letters. Like Connie. That’s a coincidence too, isn’t it?’

  He was standing right over her now, glaring down, and Kathy smiled sweetly back up at him, feeling like a swimmer floundering through crocodile-infested waters. She watched him raise his hand and bring it down across her face once, twice. He seemed to like to work in twos, she thought: two bullets, two blows. One just wasn’t enough for Upper North. She heard his voice talking angrily, to her presumably, but she couldn’t make it out, what with the roaring in her ears and the shock of the pain where his rings had split her mouth.

  He squatted down beside her and gripped her by the hair and spoke distinctly into her ear. ‘Tell me, you fucking bitch, or I’ll cut your fucking tits off. Who’s Connie?’

  So he didn’t know about Connie. She wondered where the knife was. She hadn’t noticed one so far.

  ‘She’s Harry’s girlfriend, of course,’ she mumbled through lips that seemed to be inflating as she spoke. ‘Who also happens to be DS Lowry’s wife.’

  ‘And she told you about Sophie and Mandy?’ he hissed.

  ‘That’s what DS Lowry said.’

  He pushed her head away so hard that she sprawled sideways onto the floor, arms trapped painfully behind her. From this position she watched his trainers stride away, then be
gin pacing backwards and forwards across the room. As they passed Orr, the prostrate figure groaned feebly and tried to raise a hand. North stopped, launched two vicious kicks at the old man, then continued on his way.

  It seemed a very long time before they heard Harry Jackson’s footsteps again. Long enough for North to calm down and sit on the bed, and long enough too for Kathy’s hope that Sharon had phoned Brock to fade. At one point Kathy heard a faint rumble and creaking coming through the plywood ceiling of the room, and imagined Mount Mauna Loa erupting overhead for the benefit of the final shoppers, though the construction was sufficiently solid that they would never have heard any cry from her.

  When Jackson came in, North waited while he put his burden of carrier bags down on the table, then got easily to his feet, walked over to Jackson and threw him against the wall. Jackson was a big man, six foot two and a couple of stones heavier than North, but he lacked the other’s violent energy, and was caught completely by surprise.

  ‘Wha—?’ he gasped, as North rammed a forearm across his throat and began haranguing him in a hoarse undertone. Kathy picked up the odd word, mainly obscenities and names: Connie, Sophie, Lowry . . .

  Finally the angry monologue became a conversation, Jackson struggling to get the words out. She couldn’t hear exactly what was said, but the gradual shift of North’s tone, from fury to doubt to acceptance, was clear enough. She closed her eyes and waited for the retribution.

  Footsteps—the click of Jackson’s boots coming towards her. She opened her eyes as he bent down and took hold of her by the arms and hauled her into a sitting position, then up onto her feet. He reached down and pulled up her jeans, yanked up the zip and stood in front of her with arms braced against the wall on each side of her head.

  ‘I don’t blame you for trying,’ he said, voice low, ‘but that was really stupid. Have you any idea what he’s like when he loses it?’

  She looked past him at North, now ripping open the paper bags and taking handfuls of fish and chips while he fiddled with the controls of a small portable TV. It blared into life with the music of a cartoon programme.