No one would dare take the risk.
Miller had taken the risk, and look what had happened to her.
They’d have a couple minutes before someone phoned the police and a few minutes more before the police actually reached the scene. Plenty of time in which to take care of business. And if any do-gooder wanted to take part, well, Elliot would encourage them to walk away. He tapped the hammer in his hand.
WHITE VANS had disturbed Sarah ever since she saw The Silence of the Lambs. One could never trust the driver of a white van whose back contained unseen cargo. As the van pulled up beside them, Sarah wondered if it was now her destiny to be thrown into the back of the van.
To die in the dark.
She caught a glimpse of the profile of the passenger, and then the man turned and looked down into the small car. There was a single moment of recognition before the van door opened and the sharp-faced man leaned out, a hammer raised in his left hand. “Owen!” Sarah shouted.
The hammer smashed into the windscreen, spiderwebbing it, showering the front seats with tiny flecks of glass. Owen screamed, jerking on the wheel and sending the Civic into the heavier van, metal crumpling before the lighter car bounced off. He crashed into it again, showering sparks across Elliot, who was clinging to the door by the seat belt.
“Keep driving. Keep driving!” Sarah shouted as she smashed at the windscreen with the Broken Sword, punching a hole through the frosted window.
The white van smashed into the Civic, and Sarah watched as the older man who’d punched her in the chest with the pliers leaned out to slam the hammer onto the car roof, rupturing the metal. A third blow completely shattered the driver’s window, crystalline shards speckling Owen’s ashen face.
“Brake,” Sarah shouted, “brake!”
Owen slammed on the brakes, and the Civic screamed to a halt. There was a sudden crash as a car ran into the back of the Civic, followed by a lesser crash as another car stopped short. And another crash after that. A domino effect. The van shot past before the driver realized what had happened. It took him twenty yards before he slammed on the brakes, white smoke cascading from the van’s tires. Its reversing lights flared white.
Owen spun the wheel, cutting across the road, horns blaring, metal and glass crumpling and shattering, as drivers stood on their brakes, most of them too late.
“You’re good,” Sarah gasped.
“Far too many hours of Xbox with my nephews.” Owen grinned as he shot past the reversing Volkswagen and out onto Kensington High Street.
The white van attempted to follow them. It mounted the pavement, scattering late-night strollers, and bounced back onto the road again.
Twisting in her seat, Sarah watched as the van shot forward, but by the time they turned onto Kensington High Street, she’d lost sight of the van. “Dump the car,” Sarah said decisively.
Owen wiped the back of his face with his hand, blood from his nicked cheeks and forehead staining his hand. He could feel glass shards in his face. “Forget it. I’m not leaving this car. I saved for two whole years to buy it.”
Sarah caught a flicker of movement behind them. She twisted in the seat to look through the rear window, seeing the van dart through the light traffic behind them. “They’re back.”
“I can see that.”
“Then drive faster,” Sarah ordered.
“This is as fast as we can go.”
Moments later, the van roared up and slammed into the back of the Civic, crushing the bumper to shards.
Owen grunted, seat belt biting into his chest and stomach, feeling the long muscles at the back of his neck tighten, knowing he’d suffered a mild whiplash. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly, he could feel his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms.
Where were the police?
The van struck the car again, sending it careering across the road. The rear bumper struck a lamppost, and as the metal pole buckled, the fluorescent bulb exploded into a shower of sparks.
Owen quickly reversed the car and got back on the road. He drove through a red light with the van in close pursuit. A black Mercedes coming through the green light struck the van just above the rear wheel, the heavy car spinning the van ninety degrees. The middle-aged Mercedes driver looked on in shocked amazement as the van drove away, leaving a litter of broken metal and glass in the middle of the street. He had just enough presence of mind to note the license plate number before he phoned the police from the car.
“THERE IT is!” Skinner pointed.
The Civic was parked at the entrance to Derry Street, lights on, right indicator flashing. Both doors were open.
Elliot leapt from the van even before it had stopped moving. He darted past the car, ducking to glance inside. It was empty.
No Miller.
No bag.
No sword.
Holding the hammer in both hands, he hurried down the narrow street. Skinner drove slowly past. The narrow street opened out into Kensington Square. Skinner stopped and climbed out of the van, the chain dangling from his fist. He waited while Elliot came running up. “They could have gone anywhere,” the skinhead mumbled.
Elliot raised the hammer, and for a single moment, Skinner thought he was going to hit him.
“What are we going to do?”
Elliot didn’t know. His employer was going to be livid.
“You can tell the boss we did our best. It’s not our fault they escaped.”
“Then whose fault is it?” Elliot snarled.
The skinhead looked at him blankly. Then he shrugged. “What are you going to tell him?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Elliot flung the hammer into the van and climbed in. He had a large sum in used notes in his apartment and a variety of passports. If he left now, he could be far away before his icy-voiced employer even knew what had happened here tonight.
MOVING QUICKLY, huddled together like any late-night lovebirds, Owen and Sarah tried to conceal their terror as they hurried down the steps into Kensington High Street tube station, catching one of the last trains of the evening.
Friday, October 30
41
Do we have an ID on the corpse?”
“He was a skinhead. They discovered that…when they found his head,” Victoria Heath added.
Tony Fowler cut across Earls Court Road without bothering to signal, leaving horns blaring in his wake. He was in a pissy mood. It was seven in the morning, and he and his partner were running on fumes. “When did the call come in?” The bodies were starting to pile up, and there was no sign of Miller. “Around midnight. There was an incomplete call to 999. The operator didn’t get the full details, but caller ID identified the full address. A unit drove by to investigate and gave chase to some men running from the building.” Sergeant Heath leaned forward and pointed to the right. “It’s down there.”
“Halloween isn’t until tomorrow and already everyone’s gone crazy.”
“In all fairness, last night was a busy night,” the sergeant continued, glancing down at her notebook. “Chelsea lost two–nil to the Villa, and there were a lot of disappointed fans. Seventeen arrests. Then there was a multiple pileup on Earls Court Road, which effectively closed off this whole section of roadway. It was close to two thirty before the unit returned. They spoke to the complainant, the landlady who lives in the flat above the basement apartment. Turns out she’d been talking to one of her tenants who said she’d encountered a stranger on the steps earlier that evening asking after the man in the flat. Landlady hadn’t thought too much of it until she heard the screams….”
“And by then it was too late.” Fowler sighed. “When will the public ever fucking learn? Phone us sooner, not later.”
“The problem is even when they do phone us, it takes us nearly two and a half hours to get there,” Victoria reminded him. “The call came from Owen Walker’s cell phone, the graduate student renting the apartment,” Victoria added.
“Walker? Any relation to Judith Walker?”
“The boy’s American, but we’re checking it out. He works for a local consulting firm. Been living here for three years.” She squinted, trying to read her own shaky writing. She was on her third cup of coffee and had copied the notes over the air from an officer already at the scene.
“What happened then?”
“When the officers reached the apartment, they found the window in Walker’s sitting room broken. They shone a flashlight through the window and saw a pair of legs on the floor. They pushed open the door, and inside they discovered the body of an unidentified male. He’d been disemboweled and decapitated by a sharp weapon. Possibly a sword,” she added with a sour smile.
“A sword?”
“A sword.”
“I don’t fucking believe it,” Tony Fowler whispered, easing the car into the curb behind the coroner’s car. “Any connection to Miller?”
“Too early to say. Boyfriend, maybe?”
“Was there any sign of the Miller woman?”
“None.”
GAVIN MACKINTOSH was peeling off his rubber gloves when the two police officers entered the apartment. The Scotsman’s face was drawn, deep shadows under his eyes. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asked.
Tony Fowler stopped beside the corpse, pulling down the zipper on the body bag to look over the chilling wounds. Then he stood and looked around the room. “No blood,” he said finally.
The Scotsman nodded. “Under normal circumstances, I’d lay money that our dead friend wasn’t killed in this room, that he’d been butchered somewhere else and his body transported here. However, these are not normal circumstances. I don’t think there’s too much doubt that he fought and died here.”
“But where’s the blood?” Victoria Heath murmured.
“Exactly!” Mackintosh snapped. “Where’s the blood? He’s been gutted like a fish and bled out. This place should be swimming in blood. He’s had his throat cut while still alive. Blood pumping from the arteries under pressure should have sprayed the walls and ceiling.” All heads turned to look up at the ceiling. “So, what’s the connection between this guy and the body I looked at earlier?”
“The sword,” Tony Fowler said.
“The sword.” Mackintosh smiled wanly. “They were both killed with the same weapon.”
“The same killer?” Victoria muttered.
“That would be a logical assumption.” The Scotsman nodded. “I’m glad I’m not a cop.”
THE LANDLADY’S name was Diane Gale, and although she felt sorry for the young man in the basement flat, who seemed to have been kidnapped or murdered—or possibly both—by a homicidal maniac, she was enjoying her fifteen minutes in the spotlight. She was also keeping a tight rein on what she said; after all, surely one of the tabloids would be prepared to pay good money for the story, and she didn’t want to give it all away for nothing.
“I’ve given my statement to the other officers,” she said, striking a pose in her colorful kimono when the tired-looking man and the masculine-looking woman appeared at her door, both holding police ID in their hands.
“This will only take a minute, Mrs. Gale,” Tony Fowler said easily, ignoring her and stepping into the hall.
“It’s Miss, actually,” she flirted.
“Miss,” Tony corrected himself. “I am Detective Fowler, and this is my partner, Sergeant Heath. First I would like to thank you for your invaluable assistance. If more of the public were like you, our job would be made a lot easier.” He managed to make the words sound sincere.
They followed the attractive septuagenarian into a tiny sitting room that was dominated by an enormous piano. On the far wall was a new flat-screen television. Toothy breakfast-time announcers listed the overnight stories and disasters in fifteen-second sound bites. Miss Gale turned off the television as the smiling weather girl appeared.
“Miss Gale, what can you tell us about the young man who lived downstairs?” Tony Fowler said immediately.
“He was an American. Quite lovely. Rather handsome. Frankly, I wish he were twenty years older and I were ten years younger. Shame. Still, he always paid his rent on time.”
“Did he have any girlfriends…or boyfriends?” Victoria Heath asked quickly.
“Well, of course. He was stunning; there were always young people coming and going. Young people do like to entertain. But there was no one special, if you know what I mean.”
“Any of them skinheads?”
She looked shocked. “Absolutely not. There are no skinheads in this establishment.”
Heath and Miller looked at each other.
“Did Owen shave his head?”
“He most certainly did not. He had a very nice head of hair.”
“What about family?” Victoria asked.
“Just an aunt. His parents are both dead; such a shame. I cooked him a Thanksgiving dinner last year, a real American tradition, and he got rather weepy when talking about them.” She took a deep breath. “It seems that—”
“Is his aunt English?” Tony interrupted.
“Yes, yes, of course, she lives—”
“Do you have a name for this aunt?” Victoria interrupted. “We’ll need to contact her.”
“Of course. She’s a big-time children’s author, you know. I have every one of her Dark Castle series. Here, I’ll show you, they’re autographed and everything.” Diane Gale reached up to the bookshelf and pulled down a brightly illustrated children’s book. She smiled broadly as she opened the book so the two police officers could read the signature. But the smile faded as the officers turned and hurried out of the room.
A UNIFORMED officer stopped the detectives on the steps. “Excuse me, but there’s a constable here I think you should talk to.”
The detective and sergeant followed the officer across to one of the police cars, where a young, red-faced officer was standing, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “This is Constable Napier, he’s with the local station.”
“What can we do for you, Constable?”
“I was on my way to this address to talk to the owner of a red Honda Civic, registration number—”
Fowler raised his hand. “The point?” he snapped.
“The car, registered to a Mr. Owen Walker, was found abandoned at the corner of Kensington High Street and Derry Street. We believe, judging from the damage to the car, that Mr. Walker had been involved in a multiple-car crash. We initially thought he might simply have driven off, but we’ve established the existence of bloodstains on the upholstery. We think he may have been injured.”
Fowler caught the older officer by the shoulder. “Get Mackintosh. Tell him to meet us there. You”—he grabbed the younger constable by the arm—“take us there immediately.”
“It’s Miller, isn’t it?” Sergeant Heath asked.
“Has to be. She probably kidnapped the boy and was driving away in his car when he struggled, the car got out of control, and crashed.”
Victoria Heath nodded, but it didn’t make sense: Sarah Miller was a petite five feet four, while Owen Walker, according to the description they had, was a six-foot all-American athlete. It made absolutely no sense.
Fowler snapped, “Contact HQ. Tell them to make an addition to Miller’s sheet. She should not be approached. Use extreme caution.”
“I wonder where Owen Walker is now?” Victoria Heath whispered.
Fowler grunted. “Dead. Or if he’s not dead, then she’s probably torturing him to death right now.”
42
The deliciously aromatic smells of roasting coffee and burning toast awakened him from his troubled dreams. Owen rolled over and struggled to sit up in bed. He brushed hair out of his eyes, groaning aloud as his hand grazed his battered cheek. The entire right side of his face was hot and felt swollen to the touch, and he could feel hard points of glass beneath the skin.
So it hadn’t been a dream.
The wild car ride had chased him through his dreams, only now the cold-eyed man with the hammer hadn’t p
ounded the windscreen and bashed on the roof; he had been striking him directly with the hammer, the blows cracking bones and breaking skin.
Owen barely remembered the tube ride to Notting Hill Gate. He’d made the journey slumped up against Sarah, numbed by the events of the evening, his bruised face nestled against her shoulder to hide the cuts. He’d taken Sarah to the flat of a friend in Notting Hill, just off Portobello Road. Joyce was one of a string of women he was dating. She was away for the week and had given Owen a set of keys so that he could feed her cats.
A shadow loomed in the door, and his heart lurched as he remembered the shadowy figures of the previous night.
Sarah tapped on the door with her foot before stepping into the room. She’d recently showered, and her long red hair was plastered close to her skull; her eyes, which had seemed so dead and lifeless the previous day, were now brighter. The pink towel clung to her shapely body, and Owen averted his eyes in embarrassment. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited until he had straightened the pillows and pulled the sheet up over his groin before placing a tray on his knees.
“I haven’t had breakfast in bed for a long time.” He attempted to smile, but it pulled the skin on his face. With his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, he sipped slowly, feeling the scalding liquid burn his tongue. He sighed and sank back onto the pillow.
“How do you feel?” Sarah asked.
“How do I look like I feel?”
She grinned quickly, her face suddenly girlish. “Like shit.”
“Exactly how I feel.”
She leaned forward to examine the tender flesh on his cheek. “I cleaned it as best I could,” she said, “but there may be some glass still in there.”
Owen shook his head. “I don’t remember you doing that.” He suddenly lifted the covers and looked under them. He was naked. A blush washed up his cheeks and was instantly mirrored on Sarah’s face.
The Thirteen Hallows Page 14