by Jane Goodall
Ahead of him was a massive grey wall carved with Egyptian-style pillars. Ivy and other kinds of trailing greenery spilt from the top of it and over the arched entrance way. He looked at the instructions he’d taken down in his notebook, trying to ignore the distant rumbling from somewhere over to the west. The arch led into a walkway lined with low rectangular doorways — the Egyptian Avenue. He strode through and was momentarily startled by a grey figure, lurking between two crooked trees, with an arm raised — apparently in greeting. A stone woman, with flowing stone hair and drapery.
‘Hi there, babe,’ said Logan. ‘Lighten up!’
As he took the next branch indicated on his map, he tried whistling to lighten his own mood, but the wind was getting up again and he couldn’t compete. According to the instructions, the path he was on was actually circular and he needed to find an exit point between the tombs on his left. Sure enough, he spotted a yellow arrow painted on the wall and made his way through the prickly undergrowth, stumbling on broken bits of gravestone that were too submerged in green tendrils to be visible underfoot.
When he came out into the clearing it was a relief to stand upright again and, in spite of the rapidly darkening sky, to be able to see more than two feet in front of his face. He was now looking at a square mausoleum, rising about six feet above the ground. Okay. That’s the stage. There was no sign of anyone else around, and the weather demons were cooking up a storm — the rumbling he’d heard before was replaced by a clean crack, loud enough to make him jump. He went across to the tomb to look at the carvings on the side, and noticed that the rising angels had chains attached to their ankles. Beneath them, almost hidden in the thistles growing from the base of the wall, was a horizontal figure with flames all around it. And above the whole picture, just under the roofline, there were some words: A dead body revenges not injuries.
Very true, Logan thought, except of course that dead bodies sometimes have friends and relatives who get the vendetta happening. Whoever wrote that never heard of the mafia.
Around the other side of tomb he saw two oblong boxes about the right size to accommodate a human corpse, but the lids were off, showing that one was filled with electrical cables and the other with chains. So preparations were in train. Stupid to leave those cables exposed to the weather, though. It was getting darker by the minute and occasional heavy drops were already splashing against the pale stone of the tomb wall. Since no one else was around to do the job, Logan picked up the lid and fitted it over the box, then for good measure covered the other one as well. Now they looked exactly like two coffins: homeless dead in the storm. Because — he was realising as he struggled to get his raincoat buttoned against the rising wind — this was looking to turn into something more than your average storm.
Here he was standing on the set of Taste the Blood of Dracula and here was the thunder and lightning, right on cue. Didn’t look like Mr Ex was going to show. The weather must have scared him off. Logan cast around for some shelter and decided to make a dash for the trees, but was stopped by a blinding flash that cut the air seemingly inches from his scalp.
He stood stunned for a few seconds as a massive tree branch, struck by the lightning, crashed to the ground. Don’t go there, he counselled himself. Oh man, don’t go there. Logan turned and ran in the other direction, remembering that there was a door in the mausoleum. The handle was stiff and slippery with water but, using both hands, he managed to get it to turn. Then he used more force than necessary to push the door open and found himself tipping forward into the strange-smelling darkness.
The door banged shut after him and he had a moment’s near-panic, groping for the inside handle. He wedged the thing open with a heavy stone then retreated further back into the space, away from the squalls of rain, and threw off his raincoat. Sitting on the floor, he pulled the notebook from his coat pocket. Since he was intending to write his article as an atmosphere piece, why not get the atmosphere down on paper while it was all happening? With cold damp hands it was almost impossible to write fast enough to capture the fully formed sentences that flashed into his mind.
What was it that started to give him the feeling that he should be attending to something other than the wild scene he was facing through the doorway? Logan glanced behind him, just to get rid of the nagging impression, but that glance cost him the rest of a good line. Someone was standing there, against the back wall of the tomb. He scrambled to his feet, forgetting that he’d left the pistol in the raincoat at his feet.
‘Jeez. You gave me a fright there! Why didn’t you say something? Johnny, is it? Johnny Mullighan?’
But the man remained silent. Stay cool, Logan told himself — he might be just trying to psych you out. He peered into the semi-darkness, trying to make out the man’s face. ‘I’m Logan,’ he continued. ‘Quite a place for an interview, this. Wish I had a photographer with me.’
As the man stepped forward, the light caught his features full on, but they were not the features of a living face. Logan managed to turn his cry of panic into a cough. It was a mask. ‘Hey! I thought this was a face-to-face,’ he said, raising an arm to grab the rubber and see what was behind it, but as he did so something like a sharp punch in the ribs winded him and caused him to double over. He saw a metal thing poking out from his chest and vaguely registered surprise, puzzlement, then searing pain as a second thrust caught him in the back of the neck.
26
So that’s it, then? Gareth’s words echoed in her head as she waited on the station platform. What did he mean? Just that it was the end of the holiday. Surely that was all. But he hadn’t even walked back to the guesthouse with her to collect her things. He just said he was going for a drink, or several. And she let him go. It was all too much to cope with, somehow, the news about Macready and then Gareth’s reaction to her going. She kept looking towards the platform entrance, thinking he’d appear any minute to give her a great big hug and say, like he did this morning, ‘We’ll sort something out, won’t we?’
But the train came and he didn’t. Looking out through the window at the never-ending green panorama of the Welsh hills, Briony felt as if she was travelling out of a living world and into a bad dream. Life was work, and work was life. Life and death. How close had Macready been, last night?
By the time they reached Euston it was nearly nine-thirty and the light was fading. As soon as she got through the ticket barrier, she made for the nearest phone and rang Steve’s office. She counted the ring tones: ... three, four, five, six. ‘Come on Steve!’ she muttered. ‘I know you’re there somewhere.’
‘Yes?’ snapped a voice on the other end. It was immediately followed by a fit of coughing.
‘Steve. It’s Briony again. Sorry to — ’
‘To interrupt a critical discussion with Pavan? Why don’t you just get on with your holiday, Briony? There’s nothing you can do till you get back.’
‘I am back. I’m at Euston. Meet me at the Drapers Arms, would you? They close late. I’ll buy you a pint.’
‘Of whisky? I’ll be there in half an hour.’
When she got to the pub she found an empty table and stashed the hold-all underneath, so it wouldn’t draw Steve’s attention — or her own. It was starting to feel like a symbol of something bad she’d done. Killed a holiday. And there was its lumpy corpse, full of unwashed clothing.
Steve arrived looking his most dishevelled, with stubble on his chin and purple rings under his eyes, his hair more frayed than usual. He slumped into the chair opposite her as if his last drops of fuel were exhausted.
‘I might have guessed you’d be sprinting back here,’ he said. ‘Where’s lover boy?’
Briony was prepared for this. She shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. If I’m buying the drinks, you answer my questions not the other way around. What’ll you have?’
‘I told you. Whisky. Double.’
‘You sure that’s a good idea?’
‘Do I look as if I can cope without the aid of toxic substances?’
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As she waited to get served at the bar, Briony processed a new concern. Steve. She ordered a single whisky, her own half of shandy and a packet of Benson and Hedges, which she snuck in her pocket.
Steve watched her as she came back with the drinks, transferring his gaze with mock intensity to the whisky glass as she put it on the table.
‘I asked for a double, Briony. Quid pro quo. Didn’t I come running out here at your beck and call? Aren’t I about to cough up pearls of vital info in response to the endless string of questions you’ve got up your sleeve?’ He picked up the glass and downed its contents, then watched as she took a sip of her own drink. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Fire away.’
‘Steve, I’ve had a quick think over there at the bar and I’ve come to a conclusion. On balance, it’s better for you to ruin your lungs than your brain. So, please. Do everyone a favour and keep to your usual poison.’ She took out the cigarettes and put them on the table.
‘Well. You may be right, but the family doctor wouldn’t agree. Couple of months ago he referred my father for a cough that’s turned out to mean lung cancer, and he’s given me dire warnings that I’m heading for the same condition if I go on chugging.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise ... ’
He stood up. ‘Matches. Just a minute.’
He came back with the matches, giving the box a cheery rattle as he put it on the table. Then he unwrapped the cigarettes with a loving hand, put one in his mouth, lit it and exhaled with a theatrical sigh of satisfaction. ‘Now. Macready. I saw him at the hospital a couple of hours ago, and he’s not in too bad shape, considering he lost a couple of pints of blood. He’s got a deep stab wound in the chest and a slash across the side of the neck that’s taken some intricate stitching, but he should mend all right if he’s prepared to follow doctor’s orders.’
‘Was he able to tell you about the attack?’
He drew on the cigarette and inhaled sharply, holding the smoke for a couple of seconds. ‘God, that’s good.’ The smoke came out with the words. ‘The attack. Yes.’ He inhaled again. ‘Macready’s desk faces the window, so he can look out at the garden and he sits with his back to the door. Just a minute.’
He strode across to the bar, came back with two whiskies and placed one of them in front of Briony.
‘I don’t drink this stuff,’ she said firmly.
He gave a lopsided smile and tipped the contents of her glass into his. ‘Nor you do. Would you like something else? Bottle of pop? Raspberry cordial?’
‘I’m fine. You were telling me about what happened to Macready.’
‘Aha. Yup.’ He frowned, as if gathering his thoughts, and the next bit came out at a run. Assailant entered the room without his noticing, proving conclusively that, contrary to his firm belief, Sir doesn’t actually have eyes in the back of his head or ears that serve as long range antennae — so that’s shaken him up as much as anything. But fortunately his reflexes are up to scratch.’
There was a pause and his face went blank, almost as if he’d lost the thread. ‘Macready fell between the chair and the desk, pulling the phone down with him.’ He indicated with a pointing hand, as if envisaging the scenario on the luridly patterned carpet beside him. ‘Grabbed the chair and used it to parry the next thrust ... ’ He dragged on his cigarette. ‘Managed to trip the guy up, and took the chance to dial 999. Scuse me.’ He got up and strode over to the bar again, returning a couple of minutes later with another whisky, a single. ‘See?’ he held up the glass. ‘How’s that for restraint? Now, where was I?’
‘The report in the paper said the assailant was masked,’ said Briony. ‘What sort of mask?’
He coughed a couple of times. ‘Trying to get some clarity on that. Not one of those ... one of those leather things.’ The last couple of words were slurred. He picked up the glass and held it close to his face, sipping between phrases.
Briony was sitting forward in her seat. ‘Then what kind of mask?’
A spasm of coughing interrupted the question and, as Steve tried to quell it with what was left in his glass, Briony dived back to the bar for some water. She placed a jug and two glasses on the table in front of them.
‘Okay, Steve. This is what we’re drinking from now on. And I have to get to the bottom of something that may or may not be to do with this case.’ He stared at her, red-eyed and dogged, with barely enough energy left in the lines of his face to convey the usual irony. She pressed on. ‘I’ve seen the way you look when a case is keeping you working round the clock and it’s not pretty, but I’ve never seen you in a state like this before. You need help, Steve. Professional help. Even I’m enough of a psychologist to see that.’
‘So am I, as a matter of fact. Easier said than done. Help, that is.’
There was silence as he lit a new cigarette and twisted the match out, gazing at it like he’d forgotten she was even there.
‘What’s happened about your flat?’ she asked. ‘You said the socos were doing a lot of work in there. Did you move out?’
‘I was given a room in a Holland Park hotel, at the expense of the Met. Diabolical place. You could hear everything through the walls. Cleaning woman arguing with the owner about her hours, couple next door having a barney about what they were doing — or not doing — in bed. I can give you the details about that, if you like. I remember them vividly. Couldn’t stand it, so I checked out this morning.’
‘So where will you go tonight?’
‘Home,’ he said.
As they came out of the pub, Briony hailed a taxi. She threw the hold-all inside and grabbed Steve by the arm.
‘Come on. I’ll drop you off.’
‘What do you mean, “drop me off”? Since when was Islington on the way from here to Camden High Street?’
‘Get in, Steve! Islington, Wallace Road,’ she instructed the driver. Briony sank back into the seat and closed her eyes for a moment, getting flashbacks of Gareth on the Aberystwyth seafront.
‘You know — ’ Steve’s voice intruded on her train of thought. ‘You know, I don’t think that boyfriend of yours would be too happy if he could see you now, sitting in a taxi at eleven o’clock at night with another man. What would he think about that?’
‘Let’s just leave Gareth out of this, shall we?’ she snapped. ‘That’s my private life. It’s none of your business.’
‘Sorry. But it wasn’t such a brilliant idea of yours, rampaging back to London like this, when we’ve got a nutter on the loose with you on his hit list. I don’t know if you ought to go back to that little flat of yours. In fact I probably shouldn’t allow it.’ The words were slow and slurred, as if he was already half asleep, but he kept on. ‘Seeing I’m the only bugger who actually knows you are back here, planning to tuck yourself up in bed all on your own. What if he’s lying in wait for you?’
‘There’s a patrol on my flat, remember? When I get home, I’ll phone them and let them know I’m there.’
‘Uh-uh.’ The shake of the head was slow and emphatic. ‘Not a satisfactory arrangement.’
‘If you’re going back to your flat, why can’t I go back to mine? We’re equally at risk.’ That wasn’t actually true. Steve was drunk, so he was the one in most danger. ‘What are we going to do then? Are both of us going to try and book in to one of those little hotels? At this time of night?’
‘You said it.’ There was a pause, followed by a low chuckle. ‘What if they’ve only got one room? A double room? Imagine explaining that to the Welshman.’
‘Just shut up a minute, will you? Let me think.’ Her mind was going round in circles.
‘Tell you what,’ said Steve. He leant forward and tapped on the glass panel behind the driver’s head, then raised his voice. ‘Scuse me. Driver! Changed our minds. We want to go to Camden High Street.’
‘That’s the other direction,’ said the cabbie. ‘Means we’ll have to go back all the way around King’s Cross Station.’
‘Sorry,’ Steve said flatly.
> ‘Don’t matter to me. It’s you that’s paying.’
Steve slid the panel shut again and turned to Briony. ‘We’re both going to your flat. It’s the obvious solution. I’ll sleep on the sofa, and you can lend me your old hockey stick for defence.’
*
Accustomed as she was to getting home at all hours of the night during an intensive investigation, Briony had to admit to herself that she was glad to have the shuffling presence of Steve behind her. The shoe shop underneath her flat was a very small business and didn’t have window lights at night, so the street entrance was in a dark spot. Almost as soon as she opened the door, the phone started ringing. Dropping the hold-all, she pelted up the steps and caught it.
‘Where the hell have you been, Briony? I’ve been ringing for the past two hours.’
‘Gareth! Sorry. Sorry.’ She was trying to get her breath back, her thoughts in a whirl, when Steve, lumbering through the door with the hold-all, called out, ‘Where do you want this?’
‘Who’s that?’ demanded Gareth.
Shit.
‘It’s Steve. He’s just seeing me home. We had a late briefing.’ There was silence on the other end.
‘Are you there?’ she said gently.
‘Seeing you home, is he?’
‘It’s because there’s been some — ’ The phone disconnected. ‘Oh shit!’ Briony exploded.
Steve dropped the bag. ‘What’s up? Who was that?’
She sank onto the sofa, hands over her face.
‘Oh dear,’ said Steve. ‘Gareth, wasn’t it? What a stuff up.’
Still covering her face, Briony made an effort to keep her voice low and steady. ‘You have to go, Steve. Now. Go to a hotel, on your own. Get another cab. Please, please — just go.’