Six feet and four or maybe five inches, and that was with the slight stoop that some self-consciously tall men adopt early in their lives. He was overweight around the middle – a beer belly and plenty of fast food, she guessed – but the shoulders were massively broad and sloping into a rounded back. She doubted whether he had ever lifted any weights, but she also had no doubt that he would be naturally and enormously strong. In proportion to the body, the head seemed too small, and the hair was already thinning, making him look older than his years.
But he moved lightly for such a big man as he crossed the room to the patio doors, and he gave them barely a glance as he did so. There was no sign of the gun but it had to be there, underneath the loosely-hanging rugby shirt. It had to be there, and somehow she had to take it away from him.
It was almost six o’clock. Small had not left the room – after watching the garden for two or three minutes, he had positioned his bulk on an antique-looking dining chair that seemed unlikely to take his weight for very long, folded his arms and sat waiting. He had hardly looked at them in twenty minutes, and Lane was certain that he was the more dangerous of the two men. It would be impossible to make any sort of connection with him, even an antagonistic one, because the two women in the room were nothing more than a circumstance in the job that he was being paid to do. If the order came, he would simply eliminate them and walk out of the front door with the same expression on his face as had been there when he walked in.
There had been some sort of phone conversation upstairs but Lane had been unable to make out what was being said; the knife man had asked questions two or three times, that much she could tell from the inflections in his voice, and there had been silences during which he had presumably been given some answers. Then there had been several minutes of silence in the house.
She used the time to consider what she had been told earlier – that this would all have been over if he, the son, Detective Sergeant Robert Willows, had answered his phone. Which must mean that they were not holding him as well; Robert Willows was still out there and they wanted him to do or not to do something related to a case that he was working. Their only means of reaching him was by his phone.
Had they spoken to him at all, then? If not, he wouldn’t even know that his mother was being held, and the police would have no knowledge of this situation. The others involved might have sent texts but if he hadn’t read or acknowledged them, they still could not be sure that he understood the situation. That might explain all this waiting around. On the other hand, if the detective had received the threats and was now not communicating, their situation in the house was potentially more dangerous.
An immigration racket would not normally involve anything like this but Mrs Willows had repeated to her what the son had said – that the people being brought in were rich and influential, so maybe that was it. Borders had tightened up after all the trouble with migrants in Europe, and the worsening situation in northern Africa and the Middle East would mean that the serious money was leaving. Where there is serious money, there are serious criminals.
Careless of the son, though, to reveal that much to a relative. It was possible, of course, that Willows was involved. He might have taken a backhander and agreed to tamper with evidence; maybe this was about keeping him in line, some sort of insurance policy. Imagine the effect of that on Mrs Willows here, seeing a son in the dock, a corrupt policeman… Still, the old girl was tougher than she looked. A bit matronly, a touch frumpy, but she had come through with the sobs and tears, and that had undoubtedly lowered their captors’ guard over the past hour.
Lane’s thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming down the stairs. He appeared in the doorway to the hall, seemed satisfied that the two of them had not moved from the sofa and then went back through to the kitchen. She heard a tap running and cursed to herself – if he had decided to make some tea, she would need to rethink. But there was no sound of a kettle beginning to boil, and a moment later he came in through the other entrance, holding a glass of water. Lane had the impression that he had just taken some sort of tablet, and that seemed almost bizarre under the circumstances.
It was past six o’clock now. Late August – it would begin to get dark between half past eight and nine. They needed to be somewhere safe before that, there was no sense in adding night-time manoeuvres to the mix. She made a point of asking Mrs Willows if she was feeling better now, ending with the customary panacea – would she like a nice cup of tea? Yes, of course she would, and both of them looked in the direction of the yellow-faced man.
‘Just you,’ he said, meaning Lane, ‘she stays where she is. Make enough for everyone. At this rate you could be cooking us breakfast as well.’
Then he looked at the motionless figure perched on the dining chair and said, ‘Watch her in the kitchen.’
Small did as he was told, standing behind her but still in the doorway so that he could see into both rooms just by turning his head. Lane found everything that she needed easily – it was a tidy house, fussy even, the home of someone with too much time on her hands, and she thought ruefully, mine should look more like this these days.
There was a glass-fronted corner cupboard that contained a proper set of six cups and saucers, bone china with red roses, and she wanted to use them because the irony would be, well, exquisite, but she needed something more substantial for what she intended to do, and so she found mugs instead. And a nice tray with a map of Land’s End, a jug for some milk from the well-stocked fridge, the whole business becoming ludicrously homely.
She turned and said, ‘Do you and your friend take sugar?’
He didn’t laugh or even smile at the daftness of it. When she continued to wait and watch him, he said, with what she thought must be an east London accent, ‘Just get on with it.’
So she carried the tray into the lounge, with him padding softly a few feet behind her. She put the tray onto the low table in front of the sofa and Small sat back on his dining chair which, Lane concluded, must be a proper antique to take all that weight. Then she looked at Emily Willows and saw, just for a moment, a look of fright in the eyes – a look that said, my God, you’re actually going to do this.
Chapter Five
Emily Willows could barely bring herself to take a sip – the entire business had assumed the air of a macabre mad hatter’s tea party. When Lane went to take the tray and its mugs to the two men, the older had said, ‘Sit down. We’ll get it when we want it’; it seemed to Emily that he was alert to the danger, that he might have guessed something of what Lane planned to do.
Lane, on the other hand, seemed calm and composed, and Emily took another look at her, reflecting on what she had learned so far. There were some things distinctly odd about the woman, not the least of which was the way in which she had just sort of got on with it since she arrived. This was a terrifying situation for anyone to find themselves in, let alone two women trapped in a house with two violent criminals – and yet Lane seemed to treat it as no different to being told that her neighbour’s washing machine had broken down. Instead of saying you’d better call a repair man or is it under warranty, the young woman from next door had rolled up her sleeves and said right, where’s the toolbox… That was not normal.
The yellow-faced man could not sit still for long, and Emily wondered whether it was the growing sense that something had gone wrong with their plan or whether he was ill and in some sort of pain. He got up from the armchair facing them across the table and went back to the patio doors; both men seemed to think that the garden was where the next problem would arise.
Then his phone buzzed and he read the message that had arrived. He looked at the women with a smug, knowing smile and said, ‘At bloody last. I’m sending him the picture of his darling mum. Let’s hope he thinks as much of you as you do of ’im.’
Emily looked at Lane, and their eyes met. Lane’s expression gave nothing away but she upended the mug of tea, which was in itself a kind of signal. She didn’t put
the mug down and Emily knew then that Lane intended to go through with it. In a matter of minutes, they might both be stabbed or shot. She felt sick and wanted to stop it but Lane wasn’t looking at her any more.
It’s all in the timing, of course, but even then there is luck involved. Last time, when she went into the kitchen, old yellow-face had sent Small to watch her. She needed him to do the same now – if he decided to come himself this time, it didn’t work. There would be no point in her taking the knife if the other man still had the gun. Could she time this to improve the odds of making things happen the way she wanted?
She watched and waited, the empty mug in her hand, wondering whether either of them would notice it. The man by the patio doors was leaning against the wall a little now, with his right shoulder, looking as if he might not want to move himself, and Small was still sitting on the chair, closer to the two women – still staring with that disconcertingly blank expression. He had shown no signs of impatience like the other one, had followed his orders without comment or question. If she missed or if it simply failed to work, he would probably kill her.
‘Excuse me?’
Both men turned.
‘I need to go to the bathroom – to the loo.’
She almost said, ‘Too much tea’ and then stopped herself – she didn’t want to draw attention to the mug in her hand. Lane had been in the house for almost three hours, and so the request should not seem unreasonable; that was one of the reasons she had waited this long.
The older man straightened up and turned to face Lane but before she could curse silently he said, ‘Go with her. The door stays open.’
She dropped her jeans and her underwear, making absolutely certain that the mobile phone she had concealed in her drawers didn’t clatter onto the floor. Small had not placed himself where he could see her fully – like most men, he was a little squeamish about such matters – but he would, she guessed, be able to see her left leg, and so everything had to seem convincing. Then she looked to her right and it was as Emily Willows had described it.
She put the mug onto the floor by her right foot and reached for the plastic bottle. It was good old-fashioned bleach, none of your forest-fresh, pine-scented stuff. Kills ninety nine per cent of all known germs…
She only half-filled the mug because Small was a lot taller than she was, and she would have a few feet of ground to cross before she could get close enough – he might get a glimpse of the yellow liquid if it was full to the brim. Half a mug would do the job if her aim was good.
When she stood up, she moved a little to the left so that he could see more of her as she pulled up her clothes – another little distraction that might keep him thinking about other things for a split-second longer. Then she bobbed down out of his line of sight, replaced the mobile, picked up the mug and placed it on the sink while she washed her hands.
Those three and a half minutes were an eternity for Emily Willows. Silly things went through her mind – Ron and what he would have told her to do in a situation like this (for a start, offer them more money than they are currently being paid), the grandchild in Australia that was about to be born and whom she might never see, what sort of party Robert and Marie had arranged for her tomorrow evening… And, of course, the instructions that this lunatic Lane person had given her: as soon as you hear anything, get off the sofa and run for the hallway.
What she heard first was a gasp followed by a fit of coughing, a man coughing violently, and then that became a moan that became a scream. Emily found herself on her feet and running, literally running across the lounge and into the hall.
Lane was bending over the man, trying to turn him onto his front – he was on his back, had both hands over his face and was clawing at his eyes. Emily could see the bleach dripping onto her carpet. Lane got hold of Small’s right arm and heaved backwards, and as he rolled over she said to Emily, ‘Get behind me, please. Keep clear of his hands.’
Small’s right arm was now waving around, trying to get hold of his assailant. Keeping away from it, Lane stepped in between his legs, grabbed the left wrist and forced that arm up with both hands behind his back until it must have hurt. Then she jammed her knee into the small of his back. A few seconds had passed but there was still no sign of the other man.
Looking down, Emily Willows could see that the gun was exposed now, tucked into the waistband of the trousers, the curved, black handle poking out like the end of a walking stick.
Lane said urgently, ‘Get the gun!’
Emily made a move and stopped; the thought of touching either the man’s pasty skin or the gun that had been rubbing against it appalled her, but Lane was saying, ‘Get the gun or we’re both dead. I can’t hold him much longer.’
It was heavy and she held it at arm’s length between finger and thumb until Lane took it from her. Small had both hands back at his face, rubbing and breathing heavily, cursing. Lane stepped away from him and gestured for Emily to get in behind her – and then she moved slowly along the hallway until they were level with the kitchen. He wasn’t in there. Then they walked slowly forward again until Lane could see into the lounge. From her head movements, Emily could tell that the other man had disappeared from that room.
Lane took one quick step into the lounge and glanced left and right – again no sign, and again she moved back into the hall and then they went forward in single file. The hallway angled off to the right where they would find the car keys, the front door and freedom, and that’s where he was waiting for them, the razor in his right hand.
As soon as they had begun to move, Lane had held the gun straight out in front of her in her right hand, with the left hand cupped around the right wrist, just as they do on the television. There was a grin on the man’s face when he noticed.
He said, gesturing with the blade, ‘Look at you! It’s Charlie’s Angels!’
Emily was suddenly aware that they were now between the two men. One was incapacitated but how long would that last? After perhaps five seconds, Lane said, ‘Get out of the way. Put that on the floor. Then walk out of the hall and back into the lounge.’
‘Not happening, love. When I’m paid to do a job, I do it, and I’m getting well paid for this one.’
And that, thought Emily Willows, is that. So much for guns – someone only has to call your bluff and the weapon is of no more use than the iron this woman joked about earlier on. She might as well be pointing that at him now.
Without taking her eyes off the man or moving the pistol a millimetre, Lane said, ‘What’s the other one doing?’
Emily turned and felt the fear rise yet again. She said in answer to the question, ‘He’s up on his hands and knees.’
Lane said more quietly now, ‘I’ve given you fair warning. Get out of the way or I will fire.’
He was laughing openly at her then.
‘Ooh – I will fire! You put that effing gun down now and I’ll do my best to persuade him to make it quick, you bloody interfering bi-’
Lane lowered the gun thirty degrees and the bullet tore into his thigh. Emily Willows saw the hole appear in his trousers, dead centre, and it must have struck the bone and smashed it. The leg went backwards with the impact and the rest of him toppled forward. There was a look of surprise on his face as he went down. It was too soon for him to feel the pain but when it came it would be dreadful. And then Lane was walking past him as if he was no more than a rug on the wooden floor; she took the keys from the hook, opened the door and went out into the evening sunshine.
‘Come on, let’s keep moving.’
Lane was at the driver’s door, waiting.
‘Couldn’t we… Go to a neighbour’s and call the police?’
A long way down the road, Emily could see old Jim Stannard walking his Jack Russell but there was not a sign of anyone else – she supposed it must be most people’s tea-time.
Lane said, ‘Do you really want to go knocking on doors and maybe not getting an answer? Or getting in, trying to explain what’
s happened and involving someone else? Best to keep moving, put some miles between us and them.’
As she spoke, Lane wasn’t looking at Emily – her gaze was going up and down the road, methodically again, the way she had looked around the house when first taken captive; Emily realised then what Lane was looking for – signs that the two men in the house had not been working alone. She opened the passenger door and got into the car.
One, two, three attempts and it wouldn’t start.
Emily’s ears were ringing from the gunshot in the confined space and she was a little disorientated for all sorts of reasons, which is why it took her a moment to remember.
‘Oh, yes… It isn’t starting very well. It’s booked into the garage on Monday.’
Lane stopped turning the key and put both hands onto the steering wheel; when she eventually spoke, she continued to look straight back at the house.
‘Really? You could have mentioned that a little earlier, Mrs Willows.’
‘Yes, I realise that, but in all the … How can you just sit there? You just shot a man!’
Lane was still watching the front door, breathing in a very controlled manner, and Emily Willows wondered whether she was counting to ten. But Lane said nothing.
‘I really do not understand how you can… I don’t understand any of this. Why? I don’t understand…’
‘You mean, why did I shoot him?’
‘Well, among other things, yes.’
‘Well, among other things, I think he was about to use the b-word – I hate that.’
Emily’s mouth dropped open a fraction, and Lane’s eyes narrowed a little because there was some movement behind the front door, something had darkened the frosted pane for a moment.
Lane said, ‘What exactly is wrong with the car?’
Lane Page 4
