And as he crouched, the air grew colder; a cold wind seemed to seep into the house.
There were too many doors to choose from. He could just make out three to his right, two to his left. He quickly stepped over into the shadows of the facing wall, keeping his back to it, the palm of one hand pressed flat against its smooth surface, the other holding the knife to his chest, blade pointing towards the ceiling. Which room, which room? The man was there, he knew. Instinct – or perhaps it was more than instinct – told him he was close. But which one?
There was only one way to find out. Regardless of caution, he stepped towards the first door, twisted the handle, and kicked it open. He quickly moved away from the opening and bent his arm around the door frame, his hand feverishly searching the inside wall for a light switch. He found it, and flicked it down. He was blinded by the light and cursed himself for not having closed his eyes first. He blinked them rapidly until the blindness had gone, then swiftly entered the room, his eyes trying to take in everything at once.
It was empty.
The room smelled musty. It contained a large bed, two soft armchairs and a dressing-table. A wardrobe unit extended along the length of one wall and one of its doors was slid open, revealing its emptiness. The sheets on the bed were stretched taut, the covering quilt neatly folded back. A fine layer of dust covered everything and the room had the air of having been unoccupied for a long time.
He went back into the hall and moved along to the next door, now heedless of any noise he might make. He repeated the process, and found the contents were almost exactly the same, except the furniture seemed to have a younger appeal. There was the same feeling of vacuity.
He moved along to the next door, turned the handle and pushed. Nothing happened; the door was locked.
And then he knew this was the one. The answer – all the answers – lay locked away behind this door.
He stepped away from it and brought his leg up, kicking out at the point near the lock with the flat of his foot. The door shuddered but held. He kicked again, exerting more strength this time, the satisfying splintering sound of wood rewarding his efforts. He kicked twice more before the lock finally gave and the door crashed open. Keller stood just outside the opening, waiting for something to happen, some movement, some sign of life. There was only silence.
He reached around the door and swept his hand up the wall, finding and switching on the light in one swift movement. Holding the knife at waist level, the co-pilot entered the room. It was a bigger room than the others and held much more furniture, was more elaborate. A wide rumpled bed took up only a third of the room; a small writing desk stood in one corner, papers and documents strewn untidily across it, a reading lamp lying on its side, ready to fall to the floor. The furniture, two armchairs and a straight-backed chair, looked old and heavy; an immense, ancient-looking wardrobe stood in the far corner, its deep brown mottled wood dull and unpolished. The smell of staleness in this room was different; it was the staleness of having been lived in too much. He noticed the scraps of food on the floor, the torn wrappers, the empty milk bottles. The bucket brimming over with urine, and worse. Nausea hit him and he almost retched. He clung to the wall to steady himself. What manner of creature could live like this?
He forced his eyes up and quickly looked around the room again. The man – if it was a man – was in here; but where? He fixed his gaze on the bed. The rumpled covers spilled over on to the floor, concealing the cavity underneath the bed, making an obvious hiding place. Controlling the sickness inside him, Keller moved towards the bed, crouching slightly, watching for any movement in the bedcovers, listening for the slightest sound.
In the intensity of the moment, he failed to notice his breath frosting as it emerged from his mouth, the room becoming even colder.
Kneeling, he reached out for the tumbled blankets, holding the knife forward, its point aiming straight ahead. With one swift movement, he whipped the covers away from the bed and ducked low to see underneath. But at the same moment he heard a noise from the other side of the room. Confused, he lost his balance and fell on to his side, the weight of the blankets dragging his arm down. He lay there rigid, but no further movement or sound followed. Squinting into the gloom beneath the bed, he saw that no one lurked there. Then he looked over in the direction of the noise he’d heard. It had sounded like a stifled sob, but it could have been anything, for his mind had been too preoccupied on whatever might lie under the bed. Disentangling his arm, Keller rose from the floor, still shaking from the sudden shock. The noise could have only come from one place, the only other refuge large enough to conceal someone. The wardrobe.
As he approached it, he became aware of other presences in the room, pressing down on him, trying to reach him. But his mind could only concentrate on one thing: whoever or whatever waited for him inside that huge, wooden lair. The key of the wardrobe protruded from the lock and he was sorely tempted to turn it and trap this person – this lurking thing – inside. He didn’t, though, for he wanted to confront him, wanted answers. The fingers of his left hand softly touched the wardrobe’s curved metal handle, slipping over and round it, his grip tightening, poised to twist and pull the door outwards. His muscles stiffened and seemed to lose their strength; his legs felt weak, almost unable to support him. Without giving himself any more time to think, he turned his wrist and pulled the door open.
He found himself looking into the twin black holes of a double-barrelled shotgun.
The two close-set apertures pointing up at his face had a hypnotic effect on him. It was only with some effort of will that he forced his eyes down the length of the double-barrels, past the finger that trembled around the two triggers, and into the dilated pupils of the madman.
The man rose slowly as Keller carefully moved backwards, away from the wardrobe, and the co-pilot took in his bizarre and unkempt appearance. He was muffled up in a heavy overcoat and short woollen scarf; one arm hung stiffly by his side and he emerged from his hiding-place with difficulty. There was a stench about him that increased the pungency of the room noticeably; he had obviously not cleaned himself for weeks. His hollowed, drawn cheeks and jaw were unshaven, and his grey hair hung in greasy streaks over his forehead. And his eyelids were kept open by grubby strips of sticking plaster.
He stumbled from the wardrobe, but the shotgun hardly wavered away from a position just below Keller’s chin.
‘So they’ve sent you now, have they?’ The words were slurred, as if the man had been drinking. But among the many smells, there was none of alcohol, nor were there any liquor bottles in evidence.
Keller didn’t reply. He continued to back away, the knife still thrust out before him.
‘They think you’re enough, eh?’ Tears had left paler streaks down the man’s face. ‘Like the other one. You’ll go like the other one.’ His snarling lips revealed yellow-stained teeth. The gun shook in his hand.
Keller only wanted to run now; answers meant nothing if you were dead. He forced himself to speak, just to gain time. ‘You killed Tewson.’ He said it as a fact, not a question.
‘Tewson? Who the hell’s Tewson? Is it the dead man downstairs?’ He seemed to be gaining an aggressive confidence now, almost relieved that he had only been confronted by flesh and blood. What else had he been expecting? Why had he locked himself away like this?
‘Answer me!’ the man snapped. ‘Who was he? Did they send him?’
Keller deliberately kept his voice low and steady, not wanting to excite the man unnecessarily. ‘He was with the AIB, investigating the Eton air crash. But you know about that, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, I know about that.’ A sly look came into his eyes. ‘And who are you?’
‘Keller. I was the—’
‘The co-pilot! The one who escaped. Yes, you’re the one they sent. They said they would.’
‘Who said? Who sent me?’
‘The dead, of course. They said they’d preserved someone to find me. They’d saved someone.�
�� He laughed at the copilot. ‘Well, you’ve found me. Now what?’
‘But who are you? Why should I want to find you?’ Keller had backed towards the door and he risked a quick glance to see how far he was from it. Another six feet at least.
‘You know who I am, liar! I did it! I killed them all!’
Keller stopped moving. Despite the levelled gun, his anger began to rise again.
‘Yes, me!’ The man laughed aloud. ‘Barrett had to be stopped somehow. He was trying to ruin me!’ Tears began to well up in his eyes now, tears that could not be blinked away because of the retaining sticking plaster on his eyelids. ‘The man was wicked. He tried to destroy me, crush the business I’ve worked so hard for! Don’t you know who I am? Pendleton. Pendleton Jets!’
Yes, Keller had heard of him. He was a pioneer of the jet engine, had joined Frank Whittle way back in the 1930s when Whittle had formed Britain’s first turbo-jet company. He must have been a boy then, or early teens at least, and he’d worked his way up until he’d gained enough knowledge and expertise to form his own company. He was almost a legend in the aircraft manufacturing industry.
‘That’s right, Keller. As a pilot you’d have heard of me. Now do you see why I had to kill him?’
Keller shook his head numbly.
Pendleton spat in disgust. ‘Barrett! I had to let him buy into my company years ago, when problems with carbon-fibre fan blades almost wiped me out. It nearly caused the collapse of Rolls-Royce and my company was nowhere as big as that! But dear Sir James came forward, offering money, offering sustenance. In exchange for two-thirds of the company!’ His voice had risen to a scream of rage. ‘What choice did I have? I had to have the new titanium blades. It was either that or nothing at all. Well, I agreed, agreed to that slimy bastard’s proposals. Do you still wonder why I killed him?’
Keller began to move back again, cautiously, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving Pendleton’s, waiting for the finger to squeeze one or both of the twin triggers, waiting for the fiery blast.
‘No. I don’t understand. He saved your company, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes, he saved it. He saved it for himself, so he could steal it once it got back on its feet. My company! The company I’d built myself! All those years – wasted! All my people – sacked! That’s what he intended. The Americans were going to move in, take over lock, stock and barrel, bring in their own people, their own ideas. We would have been a small sub-company, owned by a major concern. It was just a cheaper way for them to get my engines! Do you think I would have allowed that?’
His face was drained white now, and the whole of his body shook with his rage. Keller prayed the gun wouldn’t go off by accident. He stole another inch.
‘He laughed at me, said I was finished. Do you know that? I’ve been ill, all right – but it was caused by him. He said I couldn’t hold on to anything – even my wife and daughter had left me! Sneered at me. Said I was so obsessed by my own engines I didn’t understand what was going on around me. Well, I understood him, all right. I knew he was flying off to the States to complete the deal. He said if I interfered he’d have me certified insane. Well, I’m not insane, and he knew that. Myasthenia gravis. That’s what the doctors call it. It’s not insanity. Do you know what it is, Keller?’
The co-pilot guessed he had less than a yard to go before he was in the doorway. He wasn’t quite sure what he would do then – make a bolt for the stairs, lock himself in one of the other rooms? They were slim chances, but better than being blasted where he stood. He had no doubt in his mind that Pendleton would attempt to kill him. He shook his head in answer to the madman’s question.
‘A neurochemical condition, Keller. It causes progressive paralysis – sometimes fatal. It usually starts with the eye muscles – that’s why I have to tape them open. Looks hideous, doesn’t it? But that’s not madness, Keller. Not madness! If I’d have been well, he would never have tried to do this to me.’
‘How did you plant the bomb?’ Keller’s rage was still there, but survival played a greater part in his thinking. Only two feet to go. Keep him talking.
‘Huh! So easy. I made the bomb myself – it was nothing to a man of my technical knowledge – and bought a briefcase identical to the one Barrett usually carried, one of those wretched slimline jobs. I went to the airport with him, pleading with him up until the last moment. He could have saved himself even then, you see. But he scoffed at me and said it was all for the best, that I would be able to rest, enjoy the money I’d make from the deal, have a chance to regain my health. That hypocritical bastard! I switched cases, gave him mine. He actually smiled and stretched out his hand to shake mine! Can you imagine that, Keller?’
One foot to go.
‘I hurried back home and told my driver to leave me. I wanted to enjoy it by myself. I came into this room, drew the curtains, sat in a chair by the open window. Waited.’
Keller was almost in the doorway now.
‘I’d timed the bomb, you see? I knew the air routes: Amber One, through Woodley up to Daventry, or Green One, through Reading. Either way, it didn’t matter. The aircraft had to pass over Eton, then Dorney. I’d timed the bomb to go off as it passed over here, you see. But something went wrong. The plane crashed before it got here. I saw it in the distance, though – the explosion, the lovely glow in the sky.’
Keller remembered the slight delay they’d had in departure; if it hadn’t been for that, Pendleton’s timing would have been perfect. He paused in the doorway.
‘But all those innocent people you killed with Barrett. Why murder them?’ Keller’s voice was incredulous, not wanting to believe anyone could be that mad.
‘Nobody is innocent, Keller, you should know that.’
‘But there were children on board. Women.’
‘Children grow up into beings like Barrett. And as for women – even my wife and daughter deserted me. They left years ago; probably don’t even know of my ill-health. They left the country. So you see, everyone is guilty, Keller. You. Me. Everyone destroys something in their lives. Haven’t you?’
In his own perverse way, Pendleton was right: we all hated at some time, we all crushed something. But his argument was too broad; it dealt only in extremes. Keller had wondered how assassins of this magnitude justified their actions – the terrorists who killed and maimed so many innocent bystanders with their bombs – and now he knew. Their own madness justified it for them. To them, the whole world was guilty.
He prepared himself to leap into the covering darkness of the hallway.
Pendleton was still rambling on, shuffling towards the copilot. ‘. . . My factory. So many men depended on me for their incomes, you see. I couldn’t let them down. I couldn’t just let my name disappear from aviation history, could I? Don’t move any further, Keller, or I’ll kill you now. And then, the voices . . .’
Keller froze. Pendleton’s tone had hardly changed when he’d warned him not to move, but the menace was all the greater for it.
‘. . . Every night they came to me. Taunting. Whispering. Mocking me. They couldn’t touch me, though. They tried to. They tried to frighten me into accidents, but I was too clever for them. They couldn’t trick me.’
My God, thought Keller. His own insanity had saved him from them. A normal man would have been frightened out of his wits. But Pendleton wasn’t normal.
‘. . . I dismissed my driver, sent my housekeeper away. They assumed it was because of my grief for a lost colleague – a friend. My executives knew better, though. I sent them a letter telling them I was going away for a while. Of course, they panicked. The remaining head of the company couldn’t just disappear in a crisis like this, with the company about to fold and all. They sent people round, but in the end they gave up. They’d always imagined I was eccentric. I couldn’t leave the house, you see. It would have been too easy for . . . them . . . to have got at me. So I hid. But they told me they would send someone. It’s you, isn’t it? The other man was a mistake.’
> ‘Yes, it’s me,’ Keller answered simply.
‘Well then, what are you going to do? Inform the police?’ His voice was chiding. It became a snarl once again. ‘You can hardly do that if you’re dead, can you?’
The co-pilot watched the madman’s finger slowly tighten on a trigger, the knuckle whitening with the tension. He raised the knife in futile defence. Was this the end, then? How ironic to have survived the air crash so miraculously only to be blasted into oblivion by a maniac.
Both men felt the icy wind rushing around the room at the same time. Pendleton’s head swivelled from left to right as the voices came from all corners of the room, whispering, calling to Keller. Rogan’s voice was amongst them, but strangely, the demon’s – Goswell’s – voice was missing. They were pleading, crying for help. Keller understood what they wanted: Pendleton’s death. But what could he do? He was helpless.
The madman’s hand was shaking violently now, and his head jerked from side to side as he screamed for the voices to go away.
Keller took the chance. He pitched himself forward, bending low beneath the raised shotgun, knocking Pendleton back, expecting a roaring blast to take his head off. But the madman’s finger had slipped from the trigger, and the shot never came. They went down in a struggling heap, the older man screaming and kicking out at Keller furiously, his stiffened hand now coming to life and clawing the co-pilot’s face. Keller thrust his elbow beneath the madman’s throat and pushed hard, but the thick woollen scarf prevented any real damage.
The voices in his head urged him on, urged him to kill the man, to end it now. He released his elbow from Pendleton’s throat and grabbed at the shotgun, catching it by the barrel and thrusting it away from him. Pendleton’s breath wafted over him, almost making him vomit; spittle from the screaming man’s throat sprayed him. He raised the hand that grasped the knife and held it over Pendleton’s face. The eyes grew even wider with terror at the sight of the poised weapon. ‘No!’ he screamed, but the voices inside Keller’s head screamed for the kill. Suddenly, one of the sticking plasters that held open Pendleton’s eyes gave way under the pressure and an eyelid snapped shut. It was that pathetic movement that stayed the knife.
The Survivor Page 23