Stepping over the threshold, a blast of drizzle and cold night air hit me in the face. Beneath my feet was concrete, and a dim overhead galley light showed up the roof area.
So it was a mistake: this door just led to the top of the building, accessible merely for maintenance purposes. All around this murky, flat roof area was a low parapet wall. Yet logic dictated if it had all been a roof area, access could only have been through a trapdoor in the ceiling – this doorway itself had to have its own separate canopy roof.
It was a large square area. As I was about to go back from where I’d come, I saw that on the right a wall rose up, and in this there was a door. So I’d been right all along, there was a flat, if this dilapidated ruin could be described as such. It was a single-storey hut, itself built onto part of the roof area. There was a window beside the door, but no light shining through, nor were there any curtains.
Stepping back into the shadows, I waited and watched. This miserable hovel looked forgotten and unoccupied, judging from the windowsill’s peeling paintwork, and the fact that the door was open a couple of inches. There was graffiti on the wall, spray-can painted slogans and obscene pictures. The place had to be derelict and empty, yet I couldn’t help remembering Hartby’s paleness when Stu and I had mentioned Lamelle’s injuries, and his unmistakeable glance upwards, that only now made might make sense. I heard the ping sound of my phone, and pulled it from my pocket to read the text from Caroline: you shouldn’t have gone without me. Don’t go in there alone. Text me the address and I’ll get a cab there and I’ll go in with you. Wait outside! Love u. C u . Be careful.
I texted her back, typing the address and saying: but no need you come I’ll let you know ASAP. Back soon Luv U2.
I walked across until I was outside the door to this, the topmost flat. The drizzle had turned into rain, soaking into my jacket and blinding me. I hesitated. If Lamelle was in this dilapidated wreck he was truly desperate, and was likely to stop at nothing.
No lights at all, apart from the dim murky wash of the roof’s exterior security beam. I took off my shoes to silence my footsteps. My stockinged feet were immersed in a puddle, and instantly soaked. As gently as I could, I pushed the door inwards, heart beating faster, praying for it not to squeak on unoiled hinges. It didn’t. Once inside I strained to listen for any sounds.
Silence. I was in a narrow hallway, the torch switched off, held in my left hand, the crowbar in my right. I waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, straining to see shapes. Gradually outlines edged out of the blackness: an open door into a room straight ahead. To the left another open door, and I could just make out the outline of a fridge. So one of the other doors had to be to a bedroom.
Tiptoeing to this right-hand door, I could see that it was open an inch.
Closing my eyes for a second and trying to control my heartbeat, I concentrated on keeping absolutely still, absolutely quiet. Straining to listen, I could just about make out the faint sounds of someone breathing. The noise was coming from the other side of the wall. Forcing myself on, I knelt down beside the bedroom door, bending to look through the gap. All I could see was the carpet, a slice of wall and the corner of a bed.
Praying for luck, I pushed the door infinitesimally, hoping against hope that the sleeper in the room would not notice. If he was asleep I was safe. If not...
Pushing the door again, very slowly, another fraction. It was still no good. But more of the bed was now visible.
Another inch did it.
There, lying asleep in the bed, was Dr Roger Lamelle, mouth open, snoring gently, his heavily bandaged right arm resting on the bedclothes.
All I had to do now was make my exit without anyone knowing, and then call the police. I turned, heartbeat drumming in my ears. Took one careful step at a time.
When my phone rang.
I ran back along the tiny entranceway, back through the flat’s still-open door and out into the drizzle of the night, hoping he hadn’t heard. I’d made it halfway across the rooftop when I felt the blow to the back of my head that sent me sprawling.
Chapter 18
HARD LANDINGS
I managed to get to my knees and take a swing with the crowbar. It thumped into something soft and there was a grunt of pain. Roger Lamelle fell back. I stood up and hit him again, missing his face, but smashing into his collarbone. He grabbed the crowbar and pulled it so hard that he wrenched it out of my hands. He took a swing, cracking me on my upper arm, driving me back against the parapet wall. But during his next one-handed swing I managed to grab it away from him, sending it spinning out over the low barrier.
We were struggling beside the periphery wall, and, before I knew what was happening, my back was to the open air. He was pushing me backwards while I strained to resist. He was forcing me further and further, kicking at my legs, desperately trying to knock them from beneath me, so he could tip me out over the parapet and into sheer six-storey drop. Lightheaded and terrified I felt my torso being pushed further and further out over the brink, tipping. My feet were sliding across the floor, while I tried and failed to grab a handhold.
Practically past the point of no return. My head was so far back the blood was singing in my ears. With the last dregs of my strength I managed to knock his hands away. I slid downwards and sideways. Collapsed onto the asphalt surface.
Then we were both rolling around, punching, kicking and biting. But in the end I was winning. I was on top, kneeling on his chest, my fist drawn back to smack into his teeth. Which was when I felt an arm around my neck from behind. Pulling tight, choking and dragging me backwards to my feet. Lamelle staggered as he stood up, then kicked me in the groin. His fingertips found my eyes, and he pressed down hard until I saw stars. Soggy material was pressed against my mouth and I bit fiercely, realising it had to be his attenuated hand. He screamed in pain and fell back.
“Get him downstairs,” ordered Lamelle, standing about a foot away, letting his injured arm dangle. I noticed he was wearing the clothes he’d worn when he’d tried to shoot me, the same bloodstained shirt and dark trousers, obviously hadn’t changed to go to sleep. I managed to turn round far enough to see ex-Doctor Dennis Hartby behind me, his restraining grip surprisingly tight. I was dragged through the rooftop door and down the two flights of stairs and into Hartby’s flat, Lamelle following us inside.
Hartby lost no time in tying my hands behind my back, and pushed me down into a wooden chair, tying my ankles together. Lamelle watched, toying with a long vicious-looking kitchen knife. He was panting, clearly out of breath.
“Well that’s it, Roger,” Hartby said, standing up and walking away from me. “I did you a big favour and this is how you repay me. You’ve outstayed your bloody welcome. Now I want you out.”
“What about him?” Lamelle said, pointing to me with the blade of the knife.
“He’s your problem. I helped you out just now because I didn’t want the police swarming all over the place. I don’t know what you’ve done and I don’t want to know. But, for me, this is where it ends. Now.”
Lamelle nodded. “Okay Dennis. But the thing is, do you realise you’ve just assaulted this guy and he has reasons for wanting me arrested?” He pointed towards me. “If you let him go he’ll tell the police you helped me. They’ll come calling here, and you’ll be in the kind of trouble you can’t talk your way out of. We have to get rid of him.”
“What are you talking about, get rid of him!” Hartby was shouting, his hair dishevelled, his hands waving around. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, but count me out of it. This man came here uninvited, broke into the empty flat upstairs, so I quite rightly subdued him. If he goes to the police, that’s what I’ll tell them, since that’s exactly what happened. You go, now. I’ll keep him here for an hour, then I’ll release him and he can do whatever he wants. You’ll have a head start.”
“Sorry Dennis, but I can’t let that happen. Sure, I have to get away, but first he has to be silenced.”
/> Dennis glared at him. “Don’t be so ridiculous. Just get out of here. Now. Just go.”
“Don’t let him go,” I said. “He’s the Bible Killer. You’re protecting someone who’s murdered at least four innocent women and is wanted for the attempted murder of another and for my abduction and attempted murder. By now the police will have got enough evidence to hold him for trial. Help me now, and I’ll speak up for you. But if you help him escape you’ll be aiding and abetting a killer. That means a long custodial sentence.”
“Oh God,” Hartby sat down, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Why did I get involved in all this? I should have insisted on calling an ambulance when you came here. I knew I should have done that.”
“But you wanted the thousand quid for the patch-up job.” Lamelle snarled.
“I wanted to save your life as a stopgap until you could get proper help. You were bleeding to death.”
“And you were greedy.”
Dennis sat still, shaking his head slowly. “If I’d known you were the animal whose been murdering all these women I’d have gladly let you die.”
“Shut up and pull yourself together.”
“I’ve never been more together in my life.”
Dennis was surprisingly agile for a heavy man, and he’d made it to the door within seconds, and we heard his footsteps clattering down the stairs.
Lamelle ran after him. I struggled to my feet and tried to shuffle after them, but I only made it halfway across the room before I tripped and fell flat on my face, still attached to the wooden chair. I heard Dennis’s scream, then a thumping sound.
Roger Lamelle came back, the kitchen knife’s blade covered in blood. He went into the kitchen and rinsed it, returning a moment later.
“Got a car here?”
I nodded.
“Good. Now, I’m going to untie your feet and we’re going to walk downstairs, go to your car and you’re going to drive me away. I’d like nothing better than to kill you now, but as you see,” He held up his bandaged stump of hand. “I need a chauffeur.”
“That wound’s bleeding badly,” I observed, as he sliced through the rope around my ankles. “Is it likely to get infected?”
“Shut up.”
“I’ve heard that septicaemia can kill you–”
He punched me in the face with his good hand. Then held the knife against my throat. “So now you’re going to get up slowly and walk in front of me, out of here and down the stairs.”
“You haven’t got a hope of getting away. If you give up now, there’s a chance they could re-attach your fingers.”
“Don’t be so bloody stupid! What’s the point of having a functioning hand if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison? Thanks to you they’ll have searched my house by now, I may even have left DNA at the murder scenes – fact is I sometimes got so excited that I got carried away – I was at the heights of erotic ecstasy. And I needed release. I wanted to leave some physical token of myself beside those women. I didn’t think precautions were necessary, because everything worked perfectly due to the fact that no one had linked me to any of the murders, so how could they ever match up my DNA? For God’s sake I was above suspicion until you started interfering.”
“So you’re going to run forever.”
“It’s better than the alternative. Besides, before I came to intercept you in Wales I took the precaution of emptying my bank accounts into my secret Swiss account, just in case something went wrong. And I’ve been working a rather clever scheme for some time involving a hefty chunk of hospital finances I had control over, and I’ve managed to channel several millions of NHS funds into my own accounts, as a precaution against my needing to make a quick getaway like this. I simply have to hide out, then get the money and I can buy false documents and get out to Argentina or Brazil. And I happen to know a bit about prosthetic hands – they can do amazing things these days, computer-controlled devices that can almost mimic the real thing. I can never practise medicine again, but I’d decided to retire anyway.”
“You can’t get away.”
“Slobodan Milosevic disappeared for years, and an army was looking for him. He was a doctor too. Police have limited resources, and a short memory. Plus I’m a chameleon, I can adapt to any situation. And you forget, I was born lucky.”
It was difficult to walk with the broad knife blade resting against my throat, Lamelle behind me. When we reached the bulk of Dennis Hartby’s body I had to weave around it as best I could on the narrow staircase. Lamelle quickly cut the bonds holding my hands behind my back, seizing one arm and twisting upwards, and returning the butcher's knife blade across my throat.
As we approached the entrance lobby the door opened and Caroline entered. When she saw me coming, Lamelle’s knife held against my throat, she screamed and ran forwards.
“No closer!” Lamelle yelled.
“Get back, Caroline,” I called, my throat’s movement causing the blade to press into my neck. I worked out the chances of reaching up with my one free hand, but knew that my throat would be slit within a second if I tried. “He’ll cut my throat.”
“Yes I will do that, Caroline,” Lamelle yelled. “Do as he says.”
As if in a trance she moved slowly backwards out of the door and we followed.
Outside on the pavement, it had stopped raining. It was completely deserted. Tears were forming in Caroline’s eyes as she stared at the knife against my neck. I felt it bite into the flesh once more.
“Where’s your car?” Lamelle asked.
“Across here.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, eyeing Caroline and talking to her. “I’ve had a better idea. You’re going to drive me – not him.”
“No!” I protested.
The knife pressed harder.
“I make the decisions. She drives me. You stay here. You won’t alert the police, because you know I won’t hesitate to kill her if I see a police car on my tail.”
“Who’ll drive you then if you kill her?”
“I’ll continue on foot. At least I’ll be well away from here.”
“Yes.” Caroline stepped forward. “Let him go. I’ll drive you. But if you use that knife on him I won’t.”
“But he’s the Bible Killer,” I shouted desperately. “He enjoys killing women!”
“I’m driving you,” she said, walking in front of me, and staring Lamelle in the eyes. “Let him go. I’ll do whatever you want, but let him go!”
In that moment I realised she knew what she was risking. She could easily have walked away, refused to drive and let us go off, but she was tougher than that. And she was prepared to risk her life for me.
“Caroline, run, run now, forget about me – he won’t kill me yet, he needs someone to drive him–”
“I will kill you in a flash, Jack. As you say, my chances of escape are diminishing by the minute and I may as well go down in a blaze of glory.”
“I told you,” Caroline said slowly, staring into the beast’s eyes. “If you kill him I won’t drive this car. You’ll be stranded here on your own.”
Lights were going on in the flats beside and above us, someone opened a window. A man was looking down at us, calling over his shoulder. Behind us, I could hear footsteps running down the stairs and calling up that there was a body. The police would be on their way in minutes, and Roger Lamelle knew it.
There was nothing I could do to stop them leaving. When we arrived at Caroline’s car, she took the keys from my pocket, unlocked the doors and got in the driver’s seat, all the time watched by Lamelle, who still held the knife to my throat. When she started the engine, he opened the passenger door and kicked me forwards so I fell to my knees, and then he leapt into the passenger seat. When I got to my feet and tried to grab the door and stop it shutting, he kicked me in the face and slammed the door. As the car roared off I caught a glimpse of the knife’s point pressed into the side of her chest.
Kneeling in the gutter I knew that I’d never see Caroline again
. He’d taken her because he knew he was finished, and he could enjoy the pleasure of one last killing.
I got to my feet. The car’s brake lights were receding in the distance.
Then I remembered Hartby, whose body was lying on the stairs.
It was a long shot, but it was a chance. There was a row of cars parked in the road, any one of which might belong to the late doctor.
So I ran back into the house, ignoring the people who were standing ineffectually above, staring down, calling out questions, glaring at me. I knelt beside Hartby’s body and felt in his pocket, and pulled out a set of keys. There was a black fob, and a key inscribed with the word Audi.
Back in the street. I pressed the button on the black fob. At once a grey Audi’s hazard lights flashed twice and there was the familiar click click of unlocking doors.
I raced round to the driver’s door, jumped in, started the engine, pulled the automatic car’s gearbox into drive and roared away.
Chapter 19
LIFE, DEATH AND RASH DECISIONS
Accelerating hard. 40... 50 ... 60... 70... And still no cars in sight. I’d lost them. God, if only I’d been seconds faster. I pictured Caroline, dead for real this time at Roger Lamelle’s hands. Had they turned off the main road?
Then, to my relief, I saw red tail-lights in the distance. Slowed down to match their speed. And, sure enough, I recognised the number plate. It was Caroline’s car. I was too far away to see anything but two heads in the front of the vehicle. Caroline was driving at thirty mph, the correct speed for the city. I resolved to stay back. On no account could I risk Lamelle knowing I was following. I was too busy concentrating on driving to ring Stu or the police. Besides, I had the feeling that there was no time to waste trying to involve anyone else.
Keeping well back. Continuing along the suburban road heading south, towards the edge of the city. Luckily there were plenty of streetlights, and Hartby’s nondescript Audi wasn’t likely to be recognisable, as it might have been in daylight.
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