by Ian Rankin
Then it struck him: Harry knew that Hepton had come to Jilly’s flat. Therefore she would know Jilly’s name …
And Jilly’s name was engraved on the front door’s silver nameplate!
Cautiously, Hepton took a few paces towards the door. He could hear no sounds. Maybe Harry had taken a wrong turn. He pressed his ear to the door. Still no sound. Then the world exploded.
The solid wood of the door splintered just a few inches to his right, beside where the battery of indoor locks was placed. There was a roaring in his ears, the result of the explosion. Another gunshot splintered more wood and severed the first lock’s mechanism.
Hepton walked backwards into the kitchen. The pot was bubbling on the hob, and he lifted it with both hands grasped around the handle, walking back into the hallway just as a third shot severed the final locks and Harry’s foot kicked the door open. She saw Hepton directly in front of her and raised the pistol, but then saw what he was holding …
Some of the water sloshed out onto Hepton’s hands and wrists, scalding him, but he felt no pain as he held the pot out to one side like a tennis player preparing a double-handed return. He swung it forward, then jerked it back again. Harry was already half turning away from the water, and it caught her sideways on, spraying her clothes and her hair, splashing across one cheek, one ear, one tightly shut eye. She gasped, and Hepton threw the pot down, starting towards her. But her survival instinct was as strong as his, and blindly she brought the gun up and started firing. Firing wildly, but even a wild bullet was lethal.
Hepton dodged back into the flat, slammed the door shut again and ran. His eyes were focused on the open French doors. Then he was out on the veranda, and there was only one route possible. He swung one leg over the edge of the balcony, then the other. Crouched, gripping the steel rail, he let his feet slide off into space. He gained momentum, swinging his legs, the edge of the veranda hard against his stomach, then took one last swing outwards, started in again and released his hands. Like a high jumper, he felt his backbone graze the rail of the balcony below. Then his feet touched its solid floor and he pulled himself upright. Only to stare at the French doors, identical to Jilly’s in every way except one.
They were firmly locked. He cursed. Somewhere above him, Harry had stopped shooting and was screaming instead.
‘I’m going to kill you, Hepton! Going to shoot you to hell, you bastard!’
He looked left and right and saw with relief that the next apartment along had its windows open to the elements. There was no time to waste. He climbed nimbly onto the rail and leapt across the four-foot gap, landing safely and darting inside just as Harry arrived at the veranda diagonally above and, her sight restored, but still hurting, fired two shots into the balcony floor behind him.
He ran through the living room and pulled open the door into the hallway, taking the stairs down three at a time until he arrived in the lobby.
‘Look, there he is now,’ the man who had been standing at the lift said to a fire officer. He was pointing at Hepton.
‘Excuse me, sir, I believe you know—’ the fireman started, but Hepton simply pushed him aside and walked quickly from the building.
There were two fire engines parked outside, their blue lights flashing but the firemen themselves looking relaxed: just another false alarm. A bright red MG turned the far corner and began speeding towards the block. It was Jilly. He waited until she had almost pulled up next to the fire engines, then leapt forward from the crowd. She saw him and stopped the car, rising from her seat.
‘Martin! What’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’ He heaved himself into the passenger seat. ‘Just get us out of here.’
She hesitated, wanting to know what was going on.
‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and his voice frightened her. She started the car off, did a three-point turn and, watched by the huddle of neighbours, drove back the way she had come. Hepton tried scanning the rear of the car, both sides and the front all at the same time.
‘Martin?’
‘What?’
‘What the hell are you up to?’
‘Just keep driving. I’m looking for a black Sierra.’
‘You mean that woman Harry?’
‘Yes. She came to the flat. She’s just tried to kill me.’
‘Christ.’ Jilly’s face lost a little of its colour. ‘Did she start the fire?’
‘What?’ He looked at her, then grinned. ‘Oh, no, I did that. Don’t worry, all I did was set the smoke alarm off.’
‘So you could make a getaway?’ Jilly seemed impressed. ‘That’s brilliant, Martin.’
‘It might not have been if you hadn’t shown up.’ He noticed that his hands were stinging, and examined them. White blisters were appearing where the water had scalded him. Jilly grimaced.
‘Those look sore.’
‘They’re nothing,’ said Hepton, meaning it. He hoped Harry was in agony.
‘So where to now?’ asked Jilly.
‘A hotel, I suppose.’ He was still checking for a tail. ‘I can’t believe there isn’t someone on to us. Drive into town, Jilly. That way maybe we can throw them off.’ Looking out of the side window, he saw a red Vauxhall Cavalier driving very fast in the direction from which they were coming. Detectives, he guessed. On their way to a fire that never was. With any luck, they’d pick up Harry. But he doubted it.
‘Well I must say, Martin,’ said Jilly, attempting levity, ‘this isn’t the way I usually end my working day. Normally it’s a gin and tonic at the wine bar.’
Hepton turned to her again. His look was contrite. ‘I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in this, Jilly.’
‘I’m not.’ She was smiling. ‘Besides, I haven’t told you yet what I found out about your civil servant.’
‘You mean Villiers?’
‘Who else? Martin, you’re not going to believe it.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, your description of him was spot on. You know you said you thought he had some kind of military background? He was in the Royal Marines until not too long ago. A major, to boot. Pretty high up. There was a fight on Brown Mountain – at least I think that’s what it was called. Anyway, somewhere on South Georgia. Villiers led his men into what turned out to be a trap. A lot of them were killed. It was hushed up here, of course. Bad for morale.’ Jilly was warming to her story, and as she continued, she pushed a little harder on the accelerator. ‘Villiers seems to have snapped. He’d seen plenty of action. Oman in the fifties, Belfast in the sixties and seventies. But something happened to him in the Falklands. After he saw his men die, he just couldn’t stop killing the enemy, and when the enemy were dead, he turned on his own men. Kill crazy, they call it. Apparently it happens sometimes.’
‘Christ,’ said Hepton quietly.
‘He was a good soldier, too.’ Jilly slammed her foot on the brake as a red light loomed. She idled the car and turned towards Hepton. ‘They had psychiatrists on him from the minute he landed back home. He seemed normal enough by then, but nobody was taking any chances. Bad for public relations, having a killer in your midst.’
‘So they pensioned him off?’
‘One of the disabled. They even gave him a medal, I forget which. It’s in my notes.’
The car started off again, turning left at the lights.
‘And the government hired him?’
‘Well, yes, in a way. The Foreign Office gave him a job. His actual title is pretty vague, but he knows his stuff: countries, political climate, that sort of thing. God only knows why it had to be him you saw when you visited the FO.’
‘Because,’ said Hepton, ‘he’d been expecting me.’ His voice was level. ‘He’d figured out, you see, that I was curious and that my curiosity would probably lead to Mike Dreyfuss.’
‘But how could he know?’
‘He’s a cunning little bastard. Cunning enough to string us along, because he doesn’t know we know about him. That’s our big card. Meantime, he
’ll probably want to know just how much I know.’
‘What about this Harry, though? She just wants you dead, period. Isn’t she working for Villiers then?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Hepton thought it over. ‘No, I’m sure she is working for him. Or, at least, they are both working for the same ultimate employer.’ Harry’s words were coming back to him: my employers, who are, ultimately, your employers. But what did it mean? ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘I think Harry’s become … what was that phrase you used? Kill crazy? Yes, that’s what she is. Kill crazy.’ He examined the cars moving past them. Then he turned to Jilly again. ‘How did you find all this out anyway?’ He was both impressed and curious to know.
‘A guy I met at a party,’ Jilly explained. ‘One of the old guard of Fleet Street hacks. He’s been around a bit, reported from Afghanistan, Belfast, Beirut, that sort of thing. It’s a passion with him, the military. He’s written a couple of books. He was able to tell me some of it off the top of his head. The rest he got by making a few phone calls. That’s what you call a network. Every good journalist needs one.’
Hepton’s mind was still trained on Villiers. ‘Yes,’ he said vacantly. A network … ‘Anything else?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’ Jilly sounded slighted. She was checking in her rear-view mirror.
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. Thanks for …’ She was still staring in the mirror. ‘What is it?’ He turned and caught a glance, three cars back, of a dark-coloured Sierra. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, gripping the seat with his hands.
‘Is that her car?’ Jilly asked, her voice level.
‘I think so.’ Hepton looked back again. The dark car was in the process of overtaking one of the vehicles between them. He let out a sigh of relief. ‘No, it’s okay. It’s not a Sierra. It’s a bloody Cavalier.’
Jilly’s shoulders relaxed too. She was nearing another set of lights. ‘I think there’s a shortcut here, unless they’ve blocked it off.’ She signalled left and squeezed the MG into an alleyway. The high buildings either side seemed purpose-built to hem them in. There was a screech of tyres behind them. The Cavalier was following, speeding up. Hepton remembered the night Harry had tried to run him down in an alley almost as narrow as this, and every bit as deserted. Then he recalled that he had seen the red Cavalier before: hurrying towards Jilly’s flat as they were making their getaway.
‘They’re chasing us!’ he called.
Jilly responded to the Cavalier, pushing the MG down a gear and hitting the accelerator. They were running now, careering past parked cars, braking hard to take an almost impossibly tight turning into a two-way street. Hepton held on, teeth clamped together. Jilly was a good driver, but not good enough. They weren’t going to shake the Cavalier. It was mere yards behind them now, and he peered through its black-tinted windscreen. Two men. Definitely men, though he couldn’t have said more than that. Not Harry, then.
The extended blaring of a car horn brought his head round to the view to the front of the MG. It took him a moment to realise that the horn was their own, and that the heel of Jilly’s left hand was hard against it. She had turned the headlights on full-beam, too. The traffic was becoming clogged. She scraped past a bus, paintwork peeling like confetti, but ahead the lights were at red, and the traffic was at a standstill in both directions.
‘Hang on!’ Jilly yelled, throwing the MG to the right, braking hard as she did so and spinning a full one hundred and eighty degrees. On the other side of the road now, the Cavalier roared past them, braking hard itself. There was a squeal as the driver threw his wheel round, bumping onto some central bollards. These stopped him, and he reversed, the traffic cursing angrily all around him. Jilly glanced back to see that the Cavalier had lost a lot of ground, and let out a whoop.
‘Where did you learn a stunt like that?’ Hepton gasped. His heart felt like a bird in a cage too small for it, fluttering against the bars. The breath came from him in short bursts.
‘I didn’t,’ Jilly answered, clearly enjoying every moment of this. ‘Put it down to instinct.’
‘Fine. But every traffic cop in the area’s going to have our description and registration in about five seconds flat.’
‘Five seconds? Don’t talk daft.’
‘Haven’t you heard of car phones?’ Hepton yelled. ‘Half those BMWs you just nearly totalled will be on them right now.’
‘What are you saying, Martin? That we ditch the car and walk?’
‘Just get us away from here,’ he said, looking back again. ‘And fast.’
Jilly looked in her mirror and saw that the Cavalier was not about to give up the chase. In fact, it was gaining at a steady rate.
‘Bastards!’ she yelled. The lights ahead were turning red. She held the horn down again and pulled the car into the middle of the road, passing the waiting line of traffic. There was a no-right-turn sign, so she threw the car to the right just as the other traffic was responding to the green light. Hepton looked out of his side window and saw a motorbike messenger heading straight for him. On Jilly’s side, a white van was already braking, but too late. The front of the van hit Jilly’s door, sending the sports car scudding sideways, where it collided with the bike. The driver was thrown clear, rolling like a pro. Another day in the city. Jilly tried to keep the MG moving, but her front driver-side wheel had buckled. The car protested, growling meanly.
‘Last stop,’ she said, face pale. The Cavalier was manoeuvring slowly, gingerly past the stalled traffic. Drivers were opening their doors to take a look at the mad bastards who had caused the accident.
‘You ought to be fucking well locked up!’ the van driver screeched. The bike courier, however, was casually examining some scuffs to his leathers, uninjured himself. Jilly got out of the car. So did Hepton. The Cavalier stopped beside them. Hepton’s hand went into his pocket and found the knife he had taken from the kitchen.
‘We could run for it,’ Jilly said, but her legs were shaking wildly.
The doors of the Cavalier opened and the two men got out. Hepton recognised one of them. It was Sanders, the man from the Foreign Office. Sanders turned to his partner.
‘You better stay here, Clive.’ He surveyed the chaos. ‘Try to clear this up with the police when they arrive.’ Then he nodded in Hepton’s direction. ‘I’ll take these two back with me in the car.’
The other man nodded slowly, not looking at all happy with his allotted task, but unable or unwilling to protest.
‘Where are we going?’ Hepton asked as he and Jilly walked to the car. His grip on the knife relaxed.
‘I’m getting you out of this,’ Sanders said, indicating the scene around them. He was shaking too, obviously not used to car chases and crashes. ‘I would have thought that was reason enough for you to be grateful.’
‘It is,’ said Jilly. Even her lips had gone white with shock.
‘How did you find us?’ Hepton asked.
Sanders shrugged. ‘I used a bit of initiative. Besides, what other leads did I have? All I knew about you, Mr Hepton, was that you had a friend in London called Jilly Watson who worked on the Herald. It wasn’t too difficult to find out where Miss Watson lived. Then when I saw you racing away from the scene like that …’
‘Someone tried to kill me back there,’ commented Hepton, seeking a reaction. Sanders raised an eyebrow, nothing more. Hepton decided to try another tack. ‘I lost your first tail, though, didn’t I?’
‘First tail?’ Sanders seemed genuinely puzzled. Hepton beamed. He’d been right: Villiers was using the department for his own ends, without everyone knowing about it. Sanders, for one, didn’t seem to be aware of the tail. He would bear that in mind.
‘I’d still like to know where we’re going,’ he persisted.
‘There’s an old friend who wants to speak to you,’ Sanders answered, his irritation showing.
‘Who? Villiers?’
‘Mr Villiers, yes. Indirectly. But someone else.’
‘Who?’ Jilly asked, wondering herself now;
the mention of Villiers bringing with it a renewed sense of menace.
‘A Major Michael Dreyfuss,’ said Sanders, sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘Now come on …’
22
George Villiers was frowning when they arrived at his office. One hand rested on the telephone in a manner suggesting his frown had something to do with a recent call. He looked up as Hepton and Jilly entered. Sanders stayed outside, closing the door on them. The evening light was a deepening orange, casting long shadows in the room and creating a nimbus around Villiers’ head.
‘You really have caused us a great deal of trouble,’ he stated. ‘God knows whether we can keep it out of tomorrow’s papers.’
‘Blame your henchmen,’ said Jilly, sitting down without being asked. She had regained her composure during the drive to Whitehall. Indeed, having realised that she was about to get away with breaking every traffic regulation in the book, she was on something of a high. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. ‘They were like maniacs,’ she explained, studying Villiers. ‘Martin’s life is in danger, and then they came racing after us. What were we supposed to do?’
Villiers’ face showed no emotion. He turned to Hepton, who was about to sit down.
‘Is your life in danger, Mr Hepton?’
‘Oh yes,’ Hepton said quietly.
Villiers appeared to ponder this, then picked up his telephone and waited.
‘A pot of tea,’ he ordered when the line was picked up. Then he replaced the receiver.
‘What’s this about Mickey?’ Jilly asked.
‘Mickey?’
‘Major Dreyfuss,’ Hepton explained.
‘Ah.’ Villiers paused. ‘Sanders told you then.’
‘He wouldn’t say anything other than that.’ Jilly was up on her feet again. She was nervy still; that much was more than obvious. Hepton hoped she could keep in control. It was a kind of madness to have come here, and yet it felt like the right course of action. The questions still needed answering, and who better than Villiers to do it?