by Roberta Kray
For the next hour Henry worked through his correspondence, dictating replies for Louise to deal with in the morning. He was aware of the floors above gradually emptying, of the clatter of high heels on the steps outside, the brief flurry of voices, of brittle laughter as the girls separated on the street and went their different ways.
Gradually, like a soft exhalation, a hush descended. Henry tilted his head and listened. It was as though the building breathed differently in the absence of its daytime occupants, its walls and floors relaxing, its heart beating to a gentler rhythm. Smiling, he returned to his work.
It was a further forty minutes before the peace was broken by the rough grating sound of the intercom buzzer. He looked up, surprised, and glanced at the clock. Twenty to seven – well outside office hours. No client surely would be calling at this time. He decided to ignore it. But seconds later, it came again, three longer more determined buzzes.
With a sigh, Henry got to his feet and padded up the stairs. It entered his mind as he crossed the foyer that Shepherd might have decided on a more direct approach. He paused, considering a discreet withdrawal, but the strident sound, far louder up here, propelled him forward again. He jerked opened the door and found, with some relief, that the stranger standing on the step bore no resemblance whatsoever to the disagreeable sergeant.
‘Henry Baxter?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘My name’s Ian Allbright. I’m sorry to disturb you but I wonder if I might have a word.’
He had a faint but discernible American accent. Henry glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid we’re closed. Office hours are—’
‘Oh, it’s not about work, sir.’
That ingratiating use of the word sir made him suspect that Mr Allbright was about to try and sell him life insurance. Henry’s gaze flickered over the man, taking in his light grey suit, smart but not too smart, the white shirt and blue striped tie. His hair was brown, cut short with a side parting. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So—’
‘Actually, I’m a friend of Patrick Fielding. He asked me to drop by and talk to you.’ Glancing furtively over his shoulder, he lowered his voice. ‘It’s about Eve. Perhaps if I could step inside for a minute?’
‘Eve?’ Henry said, but even as he spoke he automatically stood aside.
Allbright nodded and moved forward. ‘Thank you.’ He waited until Henry had closed the door before lifting his briefcase up towards his stomach and patting it with his left hand. ‘I have some papers for you.’
Henry frowned. ‘What papers?’
‘Patrick thought they might be important. He thought you should take a look at them.’ He glanced around the foyer and then up the flight of plush red-carpeted stairs as if concerned about being overheard. ‘Er … perhaps there’s somewhere a little more private?’
Henry wondered what the documents could be. A clue, perhaps, to what had been happening recently, something that might help shed light on the cause of all her problems. He felt a vague flutter of excitement.
‘Of course.’ He gestured towards the door to the basement and followed Allbright down the stairs. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, after they had passed through the outer room and into the inner sanctum of his office.
Allbright pulled up a chair, put the briefcase on the desk and opened it with a couple of clicks. There was a thin rustle as he rooted through the contents. Henry steepled his fingers and waited expectantly. However, when the lid came down again, it was not papers his visitor was holding in his hand but a gun.
Henry’s jaw dropped, his heart skipping a beat. He didn’t know what kind of gun it was or even if was real. All he was sure of was that it was pointing straight at him.
‘What?’ It came out as a strangulated gasp.
‘You’re an intelligent man, Mr Baxter. I know you won’t do anything stupid.’
Henry stared down the barrel. It was pretty clear that he’d done the stupid bit already. The authenticity of the weapon no longer seemed in doubt. The gun, with what looked like a silencer attached, was aimed at his chest, just left of centre. He had a mental image – God, he hoped it wasn’t a premonition – of a red rose blossoming in his breast, of the stain slowly spreading …
Allbright gave him a creepy smile. ‘I think we have some business to attend to.’
‘I don’t … don’t understand.’ Henry’s voice wavered. It sounded like an old man’s voice, weak, slightly trembling. He slowly lowered his hands, taking care not to make any sudden movements. His gaze was firmly fixed on that finger on the trigger.
‘I want the photograph.’
And Henry’s pulse, as if it wasn’t already racing, began to sprint. By now it was obvious that Allbright had nothing to do with Patrick Fielding. Which meant … Christ, he knew what it meant: he was dealing with some gangster’s sidekick, the kind of scum who wouldn’t think twice about killing someone old enough to be his father. ‘The photograph?’
Allbright sighed, his smile fading. ‘I’m sure your time is as precious as mine,’ he said. ‘I don’t any see any point in either of us wasting it. Let’s keep this simple. There are two things I want – first the photograph and then the whereabouts of Eve Weston. I know you’re going to provide me with both – one way or another – so why don’t we just skip the painful preliminaries and get on with it?’
Henry’s first reaction was of pure relief. At least Eve was still safe; they didn’t realize where she was. The second, coming close behind, was of a cold eerie dread. It folded over him like a sheet of ice. He only had to look into those dead eyes to see what the man was capable of. He had to start thinking and thinking fast. Could he make some kind of trade-off, find a way of getting out of here alive without compromising Eve?
He swallowed hard and ran his tongue along his lips. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the picture, you can have it, but I don’t know where she is. I swear. I haven’t heard from her since Saturday.’
Allbright stared at him. He thought about it for a moment and then nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Just give me the photo.’
Henry, keeping his eyes on the gun, rose carefully to his feet. He could feel his legs shaking. ‘It’s in there,’ he said. He gestured with his head towards the cabinet behind his desk. He didn’t move until Allbright nodded again. Then, although reluctant to show his back, he slowly turned, opened the doors and revealed the safe. As he keyed in the electronic code, he thought again about what he was doing. But what choice did he have? Giving him the picture wasn’t the end of the world; he knew Eve had a copy, maybe more than one, and as long as he could get to her before they did, so long as he could warn her …
He reached in, removed the brown envelope and shut the safe again. ‘Here,’ he said, offering it over.
‘You open it,’ Allbright said, waving the gun. ‘Show me.’
Henry obediently opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph. He held it out for him to see.
Allbright scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ But no sooner had he stepped forward and got it in his grasp than it fluttered to the floor. It landed slightly to the right of the desk.
For a few seconds they both stared at it.
‘Pick it up!’
Henry wasn’t going to argue. He bent down, scrabbling on the carpet. It was only as his fingers closed around the image that he realized what a bad mistake he had made. He almost sensed the intention before Allbright’s booted foot, only inches away, lifted off the floor and stamped down on his hand with all the force of a ten-ton load of granite. Too late! He heard the bones snap, a slight brittle sound like the breaking of twigs, before he felt the pain scream through his body. The air rushed out of his lungs. Doubling over, he clutched at his hand but it was still trapped beneath the thick studded soles. No! But his shout, his plea, whatever emerged from his throat was stifled by a palm across his mouth.
‘Shut it, okay? You make another sound and I’ll break the other one.’
Henr
y groaned.
‘You understand?’
His head was being forced back, the cold metal of the gun pressing hard against his temples. There were lights dancing in his brain. But from somewhere, somehow, he found the sense to grunt. The hold abruptly slackened and Henry fell in a limp sprawl across the carpet. The boot lifted and instantly he reached for his hand, holding it, cradling it.
Allbright snatched up the picture and put it in his pocket. ‘Now tell me where the bitch is.’
Henry rocked his hand against his chest. ‘I don’t know, I swear.’ He could hardly speak for the pain. Cold sweat was trickling down his spine.
‘Come on, Henry. You know you want to help.’
For some reason Allbright’s American accent was more pronounced now; in fact everything about him seemed exaggerated, his height, his smile, the colour of his eyes. He was like an actor playing a part, gradually getting into character. The psychopathic gangster. And deep inside, like a gut instinct, Henry knew that this particular scene had been played out before – and that it always had the same ending.
Huddled on the ground, as helpless as a child, he was aware of his age, of his weakness. He thought about Celia waiting at home for him. He thought about the day they’d met, about the day Richard had been born. He wondered if it was true that your life flashed in front of your eyes just before … And he knew, knew absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt, that it didn’t matter what he said, whether he lied or told the truth – without a miracle he was going to die here tonight.
Still, he could play for time at least. ‘There are copies,’ he said. ‘Lots of them. She’s been careful. She isn’t a fool.’ He had to squeeze the sentences out, short gasps between the waves of pain.
‘She’ll hand them over.’
‘Why should she do that?’ He had to keep him talking while he thought about what to do next.
Allbright smirked, his index finger gently stroking the trigger on the gun. ‘Because she won’t want to end up like you.’
‘She’ll go to the police,’ Henry said. ‘She’ll tell them everything.’ He was tempted to add You won’t get away with it but it died on his lips, the threat like a bad piece of dialogue from a third-rate movie, too pathetic even to utter.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he drawled. ‘She wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen to that brother of hers.’
Henry’s eyes grazed the carpet searching for a weapon, a handy metal bar left under the desk maybe, but of course there was nothing. Only dust. It was surprising how much dust there was. An unexpected calm was beginning to descend on him. It was as though he had used up his supply of adrenalin, his fear had peaked and like one of those hospital graphs was gradually on the descent again.
‘Do you know, Henry, it’s been nice to chat like this but I’m getting kind of bored. Perhaps you’d like to tell me where she is now.’
‘All right.’ Henry nodded weakly as if he might be about to comply. ‘But can I get up first?’
Allbright took a moment to consider it. Then, rightly judging that the old man wasn’t in any fit state to launch a counterattack, he waved the gun towards the chair. ‘Sit over there.’
Henry staggered awkwardly to his feet, using his one good hand for leverage while the other hung limply at his side. He fell into the chair and pulled his damaged left hand up on to the desk. The movement intensified the throbbing pain. He stared down, feeling a curious sense of pity for it, as if it was not a part of him at all but something quite disconnected; limp and useless, it lay on the blotter like some battered piece of road kill.
‘You want me to blow your bloody brains out, Henry?’
He looked slowly up. ‘Aren’t you going to do that anyway?’
Allbright sat down opposite him. His eyes were gleaming now. He appeared almost… Henry struggled to find an adequate description. Joyous was the nearest he could get. He was a man, quite clearly, who took pleasure from his work.
‘Why should I?’ he said. ‘You tell me what I want to know, I’ve got no reason. I’ll walk out of here and you won’t call the Law. You won’t call them because you don’t want to see her get hurt. She won’t call them because she doesn’t want to see him get hurt. So she’ll pass the rest of the photos over and keep her mouth shut. And that way, everyone’s happy. You see?’
But Henry didn’t believe him. ‘You can’t afford to kill me,’ he said with more confidence than he felt. He had nothing to lose now. He may as well go for it. He took a deep breath and rattled out the questions in quick-fire rapid succession: ‘You think I haven’t made arrangements? You think I don’t know how important that photograph is? You think I don’t know what it means to Joe Silk?’
He had the satisfaction of seeing a reaction on Allbright’s face. It was fleeting, granted – the man was a professional – but he had found a weak spot. Now all he had to do was follow up on it.
‘What are you saying, Henry?’
He was still trying to figure that one out when, suddenly, there was a noise from the top of the stairs, a small click like a door being opened.
Allbright, distracted, turned his head for a second – and Henry took his chance. Lunging across the desk he grabbed for the gun.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
The last sound he heard was a soft muffled thud. And as the darkness enveloped him, dense as fog, he knew that it was over.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eve had a problem. It was Wednesday already, their third day in Crete, and she was still no closer to finding the Villa Marianne. Her father’s address book had only said Elounda; there had been no mention of a street name. Somehow she had imagined that once she was here she would know exactly where it was, but in fact the very opposite had happened. Apart from the clock tower in the square, and perhaps the harbour – although most harbours looked kind of similar – nothing seemed even remotely familiar.
On Monday afternoon, after a leisurely lunch, she had dragged Jack through the surrounding streets, claiming she was trying to get a feel for the place but privately hoping that something would come back to her. Every time they had stumbled on a villa, she had felt the fast thump of her heart – and every time she had been disappointed.
She had asked the rep, an over-smiley girl called Joanna, if she had ever come across it. ‘It’s white with wrought-iron gates at the front and, er … it’s got a pool, a courtyard.’ But she could have been describing any one of a hundred properties littered around the district. ‘I’m sure it’s not that far from the square.’
Joanna had continued to sort through her leaflets. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells but I’ll ask around. Would you be interested in a trip to Knossos or the Samaria Gorge? They’re both really worth seeing. I’ve got all the info here.’
And Eve had politely taken the leaflets, knowing even as she walked out of the door that the villa had already been forgotten. She had gone on to ask the maid who spoke no English, the man she bought her cigarettes off, three waiters and even a couple of German tourists but was met only by the same shrugs, the same shakes of the head.
There was no real reason why she shouldn’t mention it to Jack. Had the two of them split up and searched separately they could have covered twice as much ground. All she would need to say – and she wouldn’t even need to lie about it – was that she had stayed there once with her father, that she was curious to see it again. But something held her back. She wanted to keep Jack separate from the past, the photograph, from all the grief that was snapping at her heels. He was the only good thing in her life at the moment.
They were sitting near the harbour now, eating a breakfast of freshly grilled sardines and hot bread. Two tiny cups of thick Greek coffee cooled at their elbows.
‘Eve?’
She looked up sharply, realizing he’d been speaking to her. ‘Sorry.’
‘Any ideas for today?’
‘I don’t mind,’ she said. And then, aware of the blandness of the reply, quickly added, ‘More of the sam
e?’
He grinned back at her.
Yesterday, they had hired a car and driven out to the palm-fringed resort of Vai where, after finding the main beach covered by a swarm of towels and bronzing bodies, they had scrambled over rocks to a smaller, more secluded area. They had spent the whole day there talking, swimming, sprawling side by side on the sand. Had they been alone their roaming explorative hands might have led to something more but their haven, sadly, was not completely deserted. Abiding by the laws of public decency, they had settled for some deep erotic kisses in the sea, whispered what they’d like to do and saved the best until later.
‘How about a boat trip?’ He had a pamphlet open on the table, one of those guides that Joanna had given her. ‘Spinalonga – what do you think? Could be interesting.’
She gazed over his shoulder towards the distant smudge of the island.
‘There’s a tour boat leaves every half-hour,’ he continued. ‘Or you can hire one of the local guys. Hey, we could do that, try a bit of bartering.’
Despite the warmth of the sun, the flesh on her arms suddenly burst into goose bumps because now she did remember something, a flashback, a memory of sitting on an abandoned flight of steps while her father took her picture. ‘The island of the living dead,’ she said.
Jack raised his eyebrows.
‘It’s where they used to send the lepers. That’s what they call it, the locals.’
He speared a sardine and put it in his mouth. ‘Delightful.’
‘Like him,’ Marianne had said, when she’d told her where they’d been. She’d been lying on her back by the side of the pool, one hand trailing in the water like a glamorous movie star posing for a picture. Her loose wet hair flowed around her shoulders. She had raised the cigarette to her crimson lips and giggled. ‘The living dead.’ And Eve could clearly recall glancing over at the man she was talking about, the man standing under the arch of the doorway quietly watching them. She could feel him, sense the chill of his presence, but his face remained a blur.
