It was the best she could come up with. For a moment there seemed to be a glimmer of doubt in his eyes, then the hard look snapped back and he turned away with a dismissive snort.
‘Harry!’ she called after him. ‘Get me a drink of water. Please.’
He hesitated, then poured water into a glass on the table and brought it back to her. Kathy took a gulp of water, then said hoarsely, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘There’s nothing I can do, Kathy. I’m sorry. Really. What’s done is done. I have to live with it. I can’t change it now.’
‘Suppose you could?’ she whispered. ‘Suppose you could go back a month, and forget about the hold-up, and Kerri, and Speedy, and everything.’
He shook his head. ‘Christ… life isn’t like that.’
‘There’s no hard evidence linking you to the hold-up or North, or to Kerri’s death either.’ She lifted her face closer to him, straining to make him understand. ‘If you were to stop North right now, a citizen’s arrest, and rescue me, who’s to say you’re not a hero? Me? Not likely. North? Everyone knows that he’d sell his mother for tuppence.’
‘You’d look after me, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Oh sure.’
‘Yes, Harry, I promise. You’ve got a good record. Why not? You can start again, with Connie.’
He smiled, looking sick. ‘You’re a trier, Kathy. Got to hand it to you. But you know I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. You’ve seen what he’s like. He’s got that gun. I couldn’t take him.’
‘If you had a gun, I could distract him, Harry.’
‘If…’
‘There’s one in the pocket of Orr’s coat.’
‘Eh?’ He looked at her as if she were mad.
‘In the right-hand pocket. An old service revolver, loaded. He brought it to shoot Verdi. Unfasten my handcuffs, and wait until he comes towards me.’
He shook his head and backed away from her. ‘God, you never give up, do you?’ He turned and went to the door.
North watched TV for the best part of an hour. At times Kathy thought he might have fallen asleep, but then he would sit up and look over to see what she was doing. Whenever he seemed absorbed in the screen she would continue with her attempts to ease the bed to which she was handcuffed away from the wall and closer to Orr. After a long, suppressed struggle that left her sweating and aching, she discovered that it would budge no further, and when she looked under it to see what the problem was she discovered that one of its legs at the head was chained to a bolt in the wall. She had been wasting her time. In desperation she tried stretching out on the floor, reaching out as far as possible towards Orr. Straining on her handcuffed wrist, she was just able to get a foot to within a couple of inches of the top of his motionless head, but no closer.
She was sitting crouched on the end of the bed, shivering with frustration and chill, when North yawned, stretched, jabbed the TV off and turned to stare at her.
‘Like The Bill, do you, Greg?’ she asked as he came towards her, not liking the look in his eyes one bit.
‘Yeah, always used to watch it. Didn’t think it would still be on when I came back, but there they were, the same old characters. Well, some had changed. June, for instance. I understand she had a spot of bother. I was sorry to hear that. I always had a soft spot for June. Being a blonde, maybe, like you.’
He contemplated her with a slightly dreamy look, then squeezed his nose and sniffed noisily. He seemed suddenly voluble, and she guessed he’d been snorting something.
‘I should have let you watch it, darling,’ he went on. ‘Special Christmas Eve episode. Reg played Santa at the children’s hospital with a raving paedophile on the loose. You’d have enjoyed it, the way they all back each other up, and the villains always get caught in the end. Would you say that’s realistic, darling? From your perspective, as a serving officer, in the flesh, like?’ He stared down at her legs. ‘How did you get your jeans on again?’
‘Harry-’
‘Oh, good old Harry.’
‘I don’t know about good, but he’s certainly smart.’
‘Oh yeah?’ he said vaguely.
‘Smarter than you, anyway, if you haven’t figured out what he’s going to do tonight.’
North grinned at her tolerantly. ‘Don’t try it again, darling. I thought I taught you about your lip.’
Kathy shrugged and looked away. ‘Suit yourself.’
There was a short pause.
‘Go on then, I could do with a laugh. What’s he going to do?’
‘When he’s finished, there’s going to be three dead in here.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yes. The old man and me shot with your gun, and you dead of an overdose, same as Speedy.’
‘Is that right?’ North sniggered. ‘You amaze me, you really do. Now why would he do that?’
‘Because he has no choice. My coming here doesn’t make much difference to you-you’re going to be on the run anyway. But for him it’s a disaster. He doesn’t want to go on the run. His new girlfriend won’t stand for it. His whole plan was to retire in respectable comfort with her, a free man. Hasn’t he told you about the villa overlooking the Mediterranean?’
North nodded, more cautious now, looking as if he resented having to get his nicely mellowed brain to work.
‘We already had our suspicions about Harry, and if you two kill me Brock won’t rest until he’s put him away. That’s not Harry’s plan at all. That’s what he and I were talking about while you were watching Bart Simpson. So now he only has one option. He has to make you responsible for everything, and he has to have you and me both dead so we can’t tell the truth. It worked with Speedy, maybe it’ll work again. My guess is that at this moment he’s desperately trying to figure out a way to do it that won’t look too suspiciously much like the way Speedy died. That’s really his only problem. Then, when he’s done it, he’ll help Brock to find this place, and clear up the case. After a decent interval he’ll go off with his half share, confident that Greg North will never come crawling out of the woodwork one day to give him away.’
North stared down at her, silent, and with a sense of dread Kathy watched his doped smile fade and black fury flare in his eyes.
He bent down and grabbed her left arm and leg, lifted her up and threw her bodily across the bed. Her right arm jerked taut and twisted on the handcuff, and Kathy screamed as she felt the muscles in her shoulder tear. He was on top of her, on her back, spitting as he shouted into her ear.
‘Nice try, bitch! You’re a fucking comedian, know that? Now I’ll tell you my fantasy. You’re a copper, see? Let’s call you June, eh?’ He began pulling at her clothes. ‘Yeah! And June is going to die, right? Just like on The Bill. Only this time, when you’re dead’-he was gasping with effort and rage, tearing at Kathy’s clothing-‘and they open you up on the stainless-steel table… inside of you.. . they’ll find a message… a personal message, from me… to Brock.’
Beyond his hoarse shouting in her ear and the pain screaming in her shoulder, Kathy heard another voice calling out, telling him to stop. Jackson, she decided. Finally North heard it too, and he paused long enough in his struggle with her jeans to tell him to fuck off.
Then he went abruptly still.
Kathy twisted her head up and saw his face inches away, saliva dribbling from his mouth, and the barrel of Orr’s gun pressing up under his chin.
‘I said’-Jackson’s voice came from somewhere beyond-‘get off her, Greg.’
‘What are you doing?’ North was genuinely astonished. ‘What are you fucking doing?’
‘She’ll have to come with us to the airport, in case we run into trouble. We’ll need her to be able to walk. Just leave her alone.’
‘Okay. Sure, Harry. Take it easy.’
North’s voice had become steady, calm, but Kathy could see the look in his eye, which Jackson couldn’t. He slowly got to his feet, still with Jackson at his back. Harry began to lower the heavy gun, and in that moment North uncoiled li
ke an eel, the flick-knife blade opening in his hand and slamming into Jackson’s side.
‘Too old, Harry,’ he hissed. ‘Too slow.’
Jackson staggered back against the wall, and as his knees buckled he lifted the heavy revolver and pulled the trigger. There was a loud clunk as the hammer struck. He sank onto his knees, face screwed in pain, and lifted the gun again, struggling to thumb back the hammer.
Another clunk. This time North gave a wild whoop of mocking laughter. A jet of scarlet spurted from Harry Jackson’s mouth and he began to topple forward, and as the gun hit the floor a great explosion shattered the air.
It was a moment before Kathy realised what had happened. She took in Jackson spreadeagled on the floor, face down, and North slumped back against the end of the bed, facing him. His knife had dropped to the floor, there was a puzzled look on his face, and the top of his head, above the eyebrows, was gone.
The barking dog roused her. Far away at first, she gradually allowed herself to believe that it was coming closer. Not much time had passed, she thought, for her ears were still ringing from the explosion. She tried to shout, but her throat was dry and she could barely raise a cough. Then the door opened and the German shepherd bounced in, dragging a dog-handler behind it, closely followed by Lowry and Brock.
They all stopped dead, even the dog, at the shock of the scene in the room: four corpses, blood splashed everywhere, on the walls, the floors…
Kathy realised that one of the corpses was her. She lifted a pale face and muttered hoarsely, ‘About bloody time.’
Brock stared at her. ‘Oh, Kathy,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t do things by halves, do you?’
23
O n the way to hospital Brock confirmed that Sharon hadn’t phoned him, and explained that Lowry had been the one to raise the alarm. He had spent Christmas Eve drinking alone, until he reached the point of deciding to beat the hell out of his old mate Harry Jackson. He had driven to Silvermeadow, arriving after the centre had closed, and gone down to the service road. The security grille was pulled down for the night, but through it he had been able to make out both Jackson’s car and Kathy’s parked near the security centre window, in which a light was showing, but no sign of any staff on duty.
‘This’ll strike you as odd, Kathy,’ Brock continued, as the ambulance swayed down the motorway, ‘but for some extraordinary reason he decided to check with Hornchurch Street, and then with me, before he did anything.’ But his sarcasm was lost on her, he realised, lying there pale and withdrawn, and he decided to save it for later.
Actually, Leon Desai had already phoned Brock before Lowry’s message came in. Kathy wasn’t answering her phone at home, and her mobile number was reporting a fault. He just wondered if Brock knew that she was all right. Kathy didn’t react to that either, so Brock said no more.
At West Essex General they gave her immediate treatment for her damaged arm and face, and decided to keep her in for observation for the night.
The following day Brock picked her up and took her to Hornchurch Street where she made a full statement to him and a senior woman police officer, and then disappeared from sight.
The Christmas Day shifts were staffed mainly by men and women who either had no family to spend this special day with, like Brock and now Lowry, or else found it so stressful that they were pleased to volunteer for work. For those involved, clearing up after Kathy’s spectacular mess was a welcome chore.
There was Verdi to be arrested, on the basis of hard evidence at last, both the collection of sickeningly graphic tapes which were discovered in Jackson’s holdall, taken from Speedy’s house, and also the forensic traces they found in the octagonal room. And then there was the question of the girls, Naomi and Lisa. The fact that their testimony was no longer required either to incriminate Verdi or explain the fate of Speedy, Wiff and Kerri Vlasich raised something of a quandary. The only concrete evidence of their illicit drug business in the food court was their own confessions, and confessions could be retracted, especially by the young and vulnerable. How much effort was worth expending to make charges stick? Naomi’s grandmother seemed to have worked this out for herself when Brock spoke to her later on Christmas Day.
‘If it weren’t for the money,’ she said cautiously, ‘we might almost be prepared to forgive our Naomi. But you can’t just turn a blind eye to nearly forty thousand quid, now can you, Chief Inspector?’
Brock agreed that that was a problem.
‘I mean, we might say that Jack had had a windfall at the dogs, and it was nothing to do with Naomi at all. We might say that, but we’d never be able to take advantage of it, not knowing what we do. But supposing…’
She paused and looked wistfully at the little portrait gallery of her drug-blighted family on the wall.
‘Yes?’ Brock asked sympathetically.
‘Well, supposing it were given away, to a good cause, something to do with drug rehabilitation or something, as a memorial to Naomi’s poor mum, who passed away on this very day two years ago.’
‘Ah. Interesting thought,’ Brock said, scratching his beard.
‘Do you think so, Mr Brock? Do you really think so?’
Brock promised to consider it. In a few years, he thought, Naomi would have Nathan Tindall’s job, or own a satellite TV company, and he had no desire to blight the future career of such a promising young capitalist.
Late on Boxing Day, Brock sat down in front of the roaring gas fire with a cold snack and a bottle of excellent red, and resisted the impulse, yet again, to phone Suzanne. Instead he picked up the little book that she had brought for him, which he had not yet opened. Emile Zola, he read, turning over the fly-leaf; Au Bonheur des Dames, or The Ladies’ Paradise, 1861.
He closed it again and took a sip of the red, the same as the one Kathy had brought. It was difficult to concentrate on anything else. If it was closure you wanted, he thought, it was closure Kathy gave you. All the villains dead or sorted. Everything resolved-except, of course, Kathy herself.
Leon Desai, whom she had refused to see during the medical procedures and debriefing on Christmas Day, had turned up in some agitation on Brock’s doorstep this morning, thinking she must be sheltering there. But after accepting a Christmas drink and some words of advice he had returned to his parents’ home none the wiser.
After he had gone, Brock had driven over to Finchley and taken the lift to the twelfth floor of the block of flats where Kathy lived. Her neighbour, Mrs P, stuck her head out of her front door when she heard the key in Kathy’s lock, and Brock had given her a bottle of gift-wrapped port which he said Kathy had asked him to give her. She would be away for a while, he had explained, if Mrs P wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her flat.
Inside the flat he had found the credit card statement from the bank, with its accompanying letter warning that her limit had now been exceeded. He had put it into his pocket and returned to his car, where he wrote out a cheque and put it into an envelope with the payment slip and posted it on the way back.
He gave a little start as the phone at his elbow began to ring.
‘Hello, David.’
‘Suzanne! How are things?’
‘Fine. What are you eating?’
‘Duck sandwich. How’s the patient?’
‘She’s not too bad. Enjoying a bit of hero worship, I think. I’m afraid you’ve lost your status as number one cop.’
‘Kathy has several advantages over me,’ he said. ‘She’s black and blue from head to foot, and she’s not likely to run off with their gran.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Their confidence is so fragile. It would take so little to shatter it.’
‘Hmm.’
He wasn’t too sure about that. For all her tears at the thought of him pruning the bonsai’s toes, little Miranda had been quite prepared to murder it when that became necessary. He rather felt they were every bit as tough as yesterday’s duck.
They chatted for a while, then Suzanne said she would have to go and do somethi
ng in the kitchen, and added, ‘Have you tried the Zola yet?’
‘It’s right here on my lap. I was just about to open it.’
‘I marked some passages for you. Have a look.’
She rung off. He refilled his glass and opened the book. The passages were marked by slips of paper, and he turned these over, reading. Some described the incredible new department store which was the central character of the book, its vast size and glittering interiors, its irresistible attraction to the fashionable consumers of Paris, its devastating effect on the old businesses around it, and the underpaid, desperate humans who worked within it.
Then he came to a page which Suzanne had doubly marked for him, describing the philosophy that had inspired Mouret, the creator of this phenomenon: Mouret… finished explaining the mechanism of modern commerce. And, above all that he had already spoken of, dominating everything else, appeared the exploitation of woman to which everything conduced-the capital incessantly renewed, the system of assembling goods together, the attraction of cheapness, and the tranquillising effect of the marking in plain figures. It was for woman that all the establishments were struggling in wild competition; it was woman whom they were continually catching in the snares of their bargains, after bewildering her with their displays… And if woman reigned in their shops like a queen, cajoled, flattered and overwhelmed with attentions, she was one on whom her subjects traffic, and who pays for each fresh caprice with a drop of her blood… Now the baron understood… His eyes twinkled in a knowing way, and he ended by looking with an air of admiration at the inventor of this machine for devouring the female sex. It was really clever.
Brock put down the book and pushed away the inedible duck sandwich. He got to his feet and went over to the bay window that projected out over the lane. The snow had finally begun, falling in big, lazy flakes through the still, cold air.
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