Not Dead Yet

by Peter James

  Whiteley looked up at the icon. ‘How’s it feeling, Gaia? Is it nice to be with your number one fan? Is it nice to be adored? Hey?’

  She tried to respond but only a gurgling croak came out.

  ‘Did you ever think what you would be if it wasn’t for me, and all the others? Hey?’

  ‘Why don’t you give her some slack, or take the noose off, so she can answer you?’ Grace said calmly.

  ‘Haha! Very funny, Detective Superintendent!’ Anna retorted.

  ‘What is it you want from Gaia, Anna?’

  Grace was poised, ready, like a coiled spring. Listening. Waiting for the next crack. He didn’t know if his plan would save her but at this moment he was totally out of alternatives, except to try negotiation with the man. With only minutes, maybe only seconds, left to do it.

  After some moments’ silence, Whiteley responded, staring directly back at him. ‘I want her to say sorry.’

  Grace felt a tiny ping of hope. ‘Sorry for what, Anna?’

  Whiteley looked up at her. ‘You know, don’t you, Gaia?’ Then he looked back at Grace.

  ‘Take the noose off,’ Grace said firmly but pleasantly. ‘Let her speak to you.’

  Suddenly, in a very masculine voice, Whiteley snapped at him, baring his teeth in an animal snarl. ‘Anna won’t take the noose off. Stop bullying her!’

  Grace stared back at him. ‘Bullying, did you say?’

  Whiteley looked up at Gaia again. Anna spoke. ‘All you had to do in the lobby of The Grand Hotel was smile and say hello. Instead you humiliated me. You snubbed me in front of everyone. You made me look a fool. You made me a Ubu, didn’t you. Useless, Boring, Ugly. You pretend to love everyone, but you’re just a greedy bully, really, aren’t you, Gaia? So how does this feel now? I bet you wish you’d been nicer to me in The Grand, don’t you?’

  ‘Give her a chance to talk to you, Anna.’

  Whiteley snapped his head round and glared at Grace. ‘Anna’s not talking to you,’ he said in his Eric Whiteley voice.

  Then he turned back to Gaia and it was Anna speaking again. ‘You see, Gaia, you’re not as special as you think. Anyone can be you if they have enough make-up on. They all thought I was you! I could have done the rest of the film and they’d never have known! You’re not very special at all really. You’re just lucky and very cruel and very ungrateful.’

  Grace was looking at the wire again. And trying very subtly to signal to Gaia. He looked pointedly down at the trapdoor, at the warning sign, then jerked his eyes over to the right. She clocked him, in a fleeting, puzzled glance before his eyes went back to Whiteley.

  ‘You know what they say, don’t you?’ Anna Galicia’s voice asked her. ‘Be careful how you treat people on the way up, because you never know who you’re going to need when you’re on the way down.’ Whiteley lifted a hand from a bolt, and pointed at the trapdoor. ‘On the way down! Gettit?’ Anna’s voice suddenly cackled with laughter. ‘Gettit?’ he repeated to Gaia. ‘How will that feel for you in your last few seconds? Dying with your number one fan! But we won’t tell anyone, will we?’ Again he raised his hand and formed his fingers into the symbol. ‘Secret fox!’

  ‘Anna,’ Grace said, ‘I have an idea. If you gave Gaia your phone, she could call anyone you wanted and tell them whatever you would like her to say. She could apologize to the newspapers, the radio, television, her Twitter followers, her Facebook fans – she could tell the whole world that you really are her number one fan. That all she had been doing was testing you. Because she has so many imposters claiming to be her number one fan, she had to make sure you were the real one. And she is sure now. No one else would be willing to die with her. That is real love, Anna, and she knows that now. You can film her telling you that with the camera – put it on YouTube!’

  He saw the sudden change of expression in Whiteley’s eyes. Like a cloud moving away from the sun. They shone briefly and he smiled, like a child who had just been given a new toy.

  For an instant.

  Grace caught Gaia’s eye again, moved his eyes to the right. She frowned. She didn’t get his plan.

  Then Whiteley’s face turned to hostility again. ‘You’re lying, Detective Superintendent. This is all bullshit. You’re lying!’

  ‘Ask her,’ Grace said. ‘Go on!’

  ‘Stop bullying me.’

  There was another crack. He saw the alarm on Whiteley’s face.

  This was the moment.

  Grace raised his voice, deliberately, in anger. ‘I am not bullying you! You are not ugly, boring or useless – that’s what they called you at school, isn’t it? Ubu?’

  Whiteley froze for an instant. He looked panic-stricken. In Anna’s voice he said, ‘That’s – that’s what they called Eric. How do you know? How do you know that?’

  ‘I found out, okay? Someone told me. Give Gaia the phone. Let her start telling the world that you are none of these things. She’ll tell her fan club that you truly are her number one fan. You’ll be a hero! Wouldn’t it be nicer to be a living number one fan than a dead one?’

  ‘Anna doesn’t think so, I’ve just asked her,’ Whiteley said in his male snarl.

  ‘The phone!’ Grace jabbed a finger at it. ‘Give her the phone!’

  Whiteley’s snarl turned to a whine. ‘You’re bullying me.’

  ‘GIVE HER THE SODDING PHONE!’ Grace bellowed at the top of his voice.

  It threw Whiteley for an instant. He turned, almost like an automaton, reached out for the phone and picked it up. Then he froze, confused, his arm momentarily suspended in mid-air, as Grace launched himself forward.

  Grace took one step, then sprang off his right foot in a long-jump stance and landed with both feet exactly where he had aimed, in the centre of the trapdoor, inches from Gaia. He heard a loud crack, and felt the wood splintering instantly beneath him, his legs plunging through. But he barely noticed, barely heard Whiteley’s yelp of surprise, he was totally focused on positioning his hands on the floor either side of the trapdoor, directly beneath Gaia so his shoulders would take her weight.

  For an instant he was aware of hands grabbing his right leg, sliding down it, and a deadweight that was pulling him down, with Gaia’s feet pushing down on his shoulders. He scrabbled desperately with his fingers to keep a grip on the floor, oblivious to the splinters ripping into his skin and under his nails, just concentrating in these few split seconds on stopping himself – and equally importantly, Gaia – plunging through the open hatch. His arms were being pulled out of their sockets.

  He could feel the weight of her feet on his shoulders even more heavily now. She was pushing him down. He was going. His hands were stinging like hell and he was struggling to keep a grip. He was being pulled down by his right leg, his hands dragging across the wooden floorboards. He heard Whiteley screaming. The weight was pulling him further down, down, too much for him to hold back. Then he felt hands sliding down his ankle. Heard Whiteley screaming pitifully for help again. Then, suddenly, like a hooked fish that has freed itself from a line, he felt his right shoe come off, and the weight was instantly gone.

  He kicked out, but was just kicking air. His feet dangling over the forty-foot drop, he was acutely aware that only his hands, which were still sliding agonizingly across the wood towards the rim of the hatch, were holding him. And Gaia’s weight on his shoulders was pushing him down. He kicked out, desperately trying to find something for his feet to grip on, in case by some miracle there was a ladder beneath him. Gaia’s feet kicked, wildly, stamping on him as she scrabbled for grip on his shoulders. Pushing him down further, his hands slipping, slipping, his feet flailing in the air.

  His arms and shoulders were in agony. He tried desperately to pull himself up, but the more he pulled, the more Gaia pushed down with her full weight. His arms were starting to give way and he didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to hold on.

  Can’t fall. Can’t fall. Can’t fall. The words played in his brain like a mantra. Can’t fall. Can
’t fall. Can’t fall.

  He thought suddenly of Cleo. Of their unborn baby. Of all the new life that lay in front of him. He was not going to die. Not going to.

  ‘Gaia,’ he yelled. ‘You’re going to kill us both! Get off me, get on to the floor, there’s enough slack in the wire, trust me!’

  His hands slipped further, agonizingly, across the boards.

  Further.

  She pushed even harder on his shoulders. She was clearly in total hysterical panic, beyond any ability to hear him.

  He was going. He could not hold on any more. His fingertips were sliding over the raised edge of the rim.

  Then, suddenly her weight lifted off him. It was gone completely. But he still could not hold his own body up; his fingers were slipping. Slipping. He did not have the physical strength in them, nor the grip, to hold on any more. Somehow, he had to haul himself back up through the hatch, but he couldn’t. His arms were spent. He didn’t have the energy. For an instant he thought, it would be easier to fall. Simpler. Just let go.

  Then he saw Cleo’s face again. Saw the bump. Their baby. Their life.

  But his fingers slipped further. His body hung from them like a lead deadweight. He felt his fingertips right on the edge. They were losing their grasp. His legs bicycling in the air below him in the hope, again, of finding something, miraculously, to save him.

  Slipping.

  Oh shit, no, no, no. This was crazy. This was not how it was going to end. He fought back, with every ounce of strength he had. But he slipped further.

  Then, suddenly, an iron clamp closed around both his wrists.

  The next instant he was hanging, swinging from his arms. Moments later he was being pulled, very slowly and very firmly, upwards. He smelled the sour breath of a heavy smoker, looked up, saw a nicotine-stained moustache and heard the voice of the security guard.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he wheezed, ‘I’ve got you!’

  Moments later he felt a second pair of hands gripping him, securely, under the arms. Near by, he heard a woman sobbing hysterically.

  119

  Seconds later, Roy Grace’s feet touched the floor, safely away from the hatch. He barely noticed he was missing a shoe. His hands were raw and bleeding and he had splinters up inside his nails that hurt like hell, but he barely noticed that either at this moment. His sole concern was for Gaia.

  She was kneeling, supported by a male and a female police officer who were gently working free the noose around her bleeding neck. She was sobbing and shaking.

  ‘Do you want to sit down, sir?’ the guard with the moustache asked.

  The other held on to him with a steadying hand. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine – is Gaia all right?’ he called out. ‘Is she all right?’

  The woman officer said, ‘Yes, she’s okay, she’s in shock. I’ve radioed for an ambulance.’

  ‘Shall we get an ambulance for you, too, sir?’ one of the guards asked.

  Grace shook his head, still getting his breath back. Then he saw the state of his hands. ‘I think I need tweezers,’ he said distantly, staring at Gaia again, trying to make sense of these last few moments. He stared at the four-foot-wide rectangular hole where the trapdoor had dropped down.

  ‘You’ve a nasty gash on your face.’

  He put a hand up and it came away covered in blood. ‘You came in good time, guys. Thank you – for – getting me out of there.’

  ‘I used to be a bit of a weightlifter in my army days, sir. You were nothing compared to the weights I used to do.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’

  ‘Take it as a compliment, sir.’

  Grace gave a wry smile, then crossed over to Gaia. Their eyes connected and for an instant, her sobbing ceased.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  Through her tear-stained face she managed a weak smile. ‘Yes, guess I’m just a little wired.’

  Grace grinned. Moments later he heard footsteps, and Glenn Branson charged into the room, then stopped and stared, open mouthed at Grace, then Gaia, then Grace again. ‘What’s happened? You all right? Everyone all right? Chief?’

  The helicopter clattered past overhead, making conversation momentarily impossible as the din of its engine and blades echoed around the bare walls and bare floor. ‘We’re okay,’ Grace said.

  Branson looked around wildly. ‘Where’s Whiteley? They said he was up here.’

  Grace dropped down on his knees and crawled towards the edge of the hatch.

  ‘Careful, sir!’ one of the guards said.

  Grace carried on to the edge, and looked down. Then he backed away and turned to the DS. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Kitchen?’

  ‘What – what’s – like – who’s with him? What’s he doing there?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he’s not doing – he’s not cooking dinner.’

  Ignoring his bleeding face and increasingly painful hands, Grace hurried down the spiral stairs with Branson close behind. When they reached the bottom, they ran along the corridor, into the Banqueting Room, where there was a bizarre mix of men and women in elegant Regency clothing mingled with the film crew who were mostly in jeans, trainers and T-shirts.

  Larry Brooker called out, ‘Detective Grace, can you tell us what’s—?’

  Grace ignored him, pushing the door open and running into the first of the kitchen rooms. It was a small, bare space, with beige walls and brown linoleum on which stood a stainless steel trolley that reminded him of a mortuary gurney. He looked up, but there was no hatch above, just a low ceiling.

  Followed by Branson he pushed open a sludge-coloured door and went into the next room, which was similar, but smaller. There was a faint smell of human excrement. He crossed over and opened another door, which was slightly ajar. Both men recoiled at the sight.

  ‘Jesus,’ Branson said.

  There was a strong stench of fresh human excrement.

  Grace stared levelly ahead. At the man who had nearly killed Gaia, and had come close to killing him, too. He shot a quick glance up at the smashed ceiling, fifteen feet above, which Whiteley had crashed through, and saw the guard with the moustache, forty feet above that, peering curiously down. Then, holding his breath for some moments against the smell, he looked ahead again, at the bizarre sight in the centre of the room.

  The wig had gone, and was lying a short distance away. A balding, middle-aged head, with grey hair, protruded from the neck of the elegant Regency dress. Whiteley appeared to have hit the floor feet first, then collapsed back against a stainless steel sink, which was supporting him, giving the illusion he was sitting upright of his own accord. The scarlet dress lay pooled all around him, as if carefully arranged so as not to get creased.

  Two pale-coloured sticks, each about eighteen inches long, rose up through rips in the dress below his midriff, like a pair of ski poles. Except they had blood and small strips of sinew and skin on them. Grace realized with horror what they were. The lower sections of the man’s legs, driven up through his knees by the impact.

  The stench of excrement was even worse now. He walked over, and looked at Whiteley’s make-up-caked face. The man was blinking, non-stop, three or four blinks a second, as if some wiring loop inside his head had short-circuited. Tiny moans were coming from his mouth, which was opening and closing slowly, gormlessly, like a goldfish. Grace took hold of Whiteley’s wrist and found a pulse. He did not bother to time it, but could tell it was dangerously low. ‘He’s still alive, just. Call for an ambulance.’

  Branson, staring bug-eyed at the stricken man, pulled out his phone.

  120

  ‘Would she have done the same for you?’ Cleo asked.

  ‘That’s not the issue.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It was my job to protect her.’

  ‘You’re a trained hostage – and suicide – negotiator. You told me once, Roy, that part of what you were instructed was never to put your own life in danger. Well, you just did, didn’t you? Again.’

/>   It was a warm Friday evening, a glorious summer night, and to celebrate Cleo’s last day at work before maternity leave, they’d booked a table at a country restaurant they liked called the Ginger Fox, a short drive out of Brighton. Cleo liked to remind him that with the birth of the baby increasingly imminent, each quiet dinner out together might be their last for a very long time. Roy never took much persuading. There were few things he enjoyed more in life than sitting in a restaurant with Cleo, with some good food and a decent glass of wine.

  He ran the shower, removed his tie with difficulty, as his hands were so painful, and had several deep splinters still embedded in them. He took off his suit jacket and trousers, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks. He was hot and sweaty, and felt drained after what seemed like a very long week. And an even longer past two days.

  Two press conferences in the past twenty-four hours; a referral to the Independent Police Complaints Authority, because he had been directly involved in the serious injury of a suspect; an enquiry by Professional Standards as to why he hadn’t brought up the issue of the information Kevin Spinella kept obtaining, much sooner than he had. Plus he had all the paperwork dealing with Operation Icon to go through. And as a bit of icing on the cake, there were major issues with the playing fields that the police rugby team, which he managed, would be using when the season started.

  On top of everything else, he’d had to travel up to London today, as he’d been called as a witness earlier than he’d expected in the Carl Venner trial. Except, having got all the way to the Old Bailey, he was told he now would not be needed until next Tuesday.

  A shower, followed by a blast out into the countryside in Cleo’s Audi TT with the roof down, a cold beer and a few glasses of wine and he would feel a lot better. He might even treat himself to a cigarette. One big advantage of Cleo’s pregnancy was there were no drink-driving issues, no arguments about who would drive home.