She put both hands into her bag and stood. I heard a metallic click. I saw the black Baby Browning pistol as she finished cocking it.
Training said go left; instinct said go right.
I went right, diving behind the couch.
A shot cracked through the air.
I crouched low and hooked my hands underneath the couch, where the fabric was stretched tight over the wooden frame. I heaved, upended it towards Cowan, and leapt to my feet.
I saw a flash of purple, heard a crash, and smelled cordite thick in the air. Cowan sidestepped neatly and raised the Browning, pointing it at my chest. She was three metres away and I was stuck in the corner of the room. There was nowhere to go.
I gritted my teeth.
The front door imploded, flying through the air behind Cowan. She turned, following the noise.
I dived – wrapped my arms around hers – and lifted her off the ground.
Another shot rang out.
Cowan and I landed on her front door. I groped for the pistol in her hand while trying to keep her arms trapped. She screamed and struggled. A second later I heard Lawson: “I’ve got her. Let her go.”
I relaxed my grip and pushed myself off her, avoiding her flailing feet.
Lawson had Cowan’s right wrist twisted up her back and he slipped the cuffs on in a single, practised motion. I saw he’d kicked the pistol back into the lounge, and I left it there.
“Armed police! Armed police!”
Better late than never. I stepped into the lounge to give the arriving cavalry some room, and raised my hands. There was another crash, more cries from the police, and a plainclothes officer burst into the lounge from the kitchen, his Heckler & Koch trained on me. He lowered it, nodded, and shouted: “Clear!” I put my hands back down.
“Clear! Clear!” I heard from the doorway.
While the Firearms Officers continued their drill, Lawson lifted the Olympic athlete to her feet like a rag doll.
Marie Hardy marched in with another detective as Lawson finished cautioning Cowan. “Put her in the car and get a CSI out here!” she snapped at her companion. He took Cowan’s arm and escorted her out. “Alex, you could’ve been killed! What the hell were you doing?”
He pointed at me. “Saving his arse. I was closest. An extra few seconds could’ve made all the difference.”
He was right about that.
Marie glared at me, frowned, and pursed her lips. “Piss off, both of you.”
I followed Lawson. Burley Lane was already turning into a miniature circus as curious neighbours emerged from their houses. Cowan was placed in the back of an Astra which had been left in the middle of the road. I saw Lawson had moved his Audi closer; the driver’s door was still open. Two Firearms Officers returned to the Astra and the detective started talking on his mobile phone. We reached Lawson’s car, but I stopped him before he climbed in.
“Alex.”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.” I offered my hand and he took it, his grip predictably vice-like. “If it hadn’t been you coming through that door as quickly as you did –”
“You’d be dead as disco. Get over it. I got you in there in the first place, so I think we’re even.”
“Thanks. I just need to make a quick call before we go.” He shrugged. “And make sure you take her necklace off her. I think you might find the souvenirs there.”
“Fine, but we’ve got the weapon now.” He sat in the car and shut the door.
I walked to the back of the Audi to make sure I was out of earshot and dialled a number on my mobile.
“Garth, is that you?”
“Yeah, it is. You can go ahead with the story. Cowan was arrested five minutes ago.”
I terminated the call while Fielding was in mid-exclamation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lawson dropped me off outside Emperor’s Wharf at ten-past two on Monday morning. I was physically and mentally drained. I felt even more drained than I had during the months at Sangin, or on my longest manhunt with Shabs, which took thirty-two days. It was Cowan, of course. She was a green on blue just like the others, but I’d never had any feelings for any of the rogue cops I’d killed. And she was worse than them, because at least they were fighting for a cause, however misguided. Cowan just killed for pleasure. She was evil – beautiful, seductive evil – and I’d wrestled with her words even since she’d uttered them. If I hadn’t had Lawson and co. waiting in the wings, would I have let her seduce me? I’d never know. Life was much simpler in the Helmand. That’s why I stayed so long.
I staggered up the stairs. I was going to knock back the biggest slug of Drambuie I could manage, collapse on my bed, and sleep for a week. I reached the top floor, opened the door, fumbled for the light...closed the door, threw my suit jacket on the table, and locked myself in. I undid my laces, kicked off my shoes, and dropped my phone in the fruit bowl. I took a step towards the sink, decided I’d drink from the bottle – heard a click and a creak.
Siân? Surely not.
I turned to see Putnam framed in my bedroom door. He was dressed in black from head to toe again: black-framed glasses, black polo neck, black cargoes, black boots. His gloves were also black, and so were the Glock 17 and silencer held loosely at his hip.
The cotton-wool cloud in my head cleared instantly.
“Hands up.”
I raised my palms slowly.
“The old ones are the best, aren’t they?” He smiled, seemingly without malice.
My mind raced. Surviving this was going to be a matter of brains, not brawn. I had at least two cards to play.
“I’m not going to risk getting anywhere near you, so take off your shirt.”
I complied.
“Drop it on the ground.”
I did. Only two ploys, unfortunately neither very strong.
“Trousers next. Slowly.”
Brains first, then brawn: if Plan A and Plan B failed, my final chance was to get to my phone.
“Drop them next to the shirt.”
I thought he was going to have me strip off completely so I’d feel vulnerable. It’s amazing how effective this simple strategy is, even with people who are comfortable with their bodies.
“Hands up again. Turn around, slowly.”
Having run through Plan A to C, I was hoping I wouldn’t be found dead in my briefs and socks. Briefs or naked would be okay, but not the socks. Give me some dignity in death.
“That’s a nasty scar on your quadricep – bullet wound?”
“AK47.”
“What about the shoulder?”
“Shrapnel – RPG.”
He nodded. “Ironic, isn’t it? You survived all that and yet you’re completely at my mercy.”
“Sartre called it contingency.”
“Did he? No wonder he was a genius. The SIG Sauer is still in the shoebox in the loft, so there’s no way you can get to it. The only gun available is in my hand, cocked, and pointed at your chest. Do we understand each other?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep your hands where they are. Slowly turn around and walk into the lounge, to the couch on the left. When you reach it, turn around again.”
I wondered how long he’d been in the flat and what he’d been doing there as I followed his instructions. His knowledge of the SIG suggested he’d been there a while, but there was other evidence to the contrary.
“Sit down, lean back, and link your fingers behind your head.” He had followed me, but maintained the distance between us. He was standing at the far corner of the coffee table, about three metres away. “Good.”
Time for Plan A. “Either Bell’s gone back on his word or you’re freelancing. Going back on his word is bad for business, so my guess is that he doesn’t know you’re here. He’s not going to be happy when he finds out.”
“Correct on both counts.”
“Then what do you want?”
He ignored the question. “Mick is getting soft in his old age. Too much golf, t
oo many soirees with the rich and famous, and just too much money to be made going straight. After LAS, he should’ve killed you, Collier, and Siân. People have been talking for months – one more show of weakness and the Pakistani gangs from Bradford are going to move in. I’m not going to let that happen.”
“You’re going to take over from Bell?” I asked.
“If I have to. But I get the feeling he’s ready to let someone else take charge of the sharp end.”
My spirits sank. Not only was Plan A down the drain, but Putnam was obviously here to kill me. Time for Plan B. “Have you forgotten what I said at the Quays?”
“There was no letter.”
Fuck. He was brighter than Bell or perhaps Bell was really going soft and had been looking for an excuse to let me live. “You can’t be certain. Is it really worth the risk?”
“You’re right, I can’t, but if there ever was a letter – which I doubt – it would be destroyed now.”
“A few hours ago, I closed a big case for the Major Investigation Team. It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow. Every cop in the country will be hunting my killer.”
Putnam smiled, and reached his left hand into the pocket on his left thigh. He drew out a photo and tossed it onto the table.
I leant forward. The angle was bad, but it looked like a photo of Collier with a bullet in his head. Perhaps two, it was difficult to tell with all the blood.
“I flew in from Dublin yesterday.” He glanced at his watch, which was also black. “I mean Saturday. It’s lovely this time of year. Dangerous, though.”
Plan B gone. Perhaps I wasn’t going to get out of this after all. “If you’re not scared of Bell or the cops, why are we having this conversation?”
“I want to know where Siân is.”
“Do you really think I’m going to tell you?”
“I spent five years in la Légion étrangère. I could make your death very long and very unpleasant.”
“You can torture me all you want, but I’m a screamer.” I grinned and nodded towards the flat behind me.
“I’m not going to be able to persuade you to log into your laptop, but where’s your phone?”
“It’s in the fruit bowl, but it’s also password protected.”
Putnam waited a few seconds before scrutinising the fruit bowl. “Then we have reached impasse.”
Time for Plan C. “No, we haven’t. I’ll trade.”
He smiled. “With what? Your life already belongs to me.”
“I know, but I’ll give you Lawson for Siân. The cop who was at LAS with me. You’re not going to find Siân anyway, and killing a cop will do a lot more for your reputation.”
I could see he was interested. “If I’m not going to find her anyway, why give me Lawson?”
“Three reasons. First, it will give Siân a little more time to get as far away from you as possible. Second, he’s part of the reason you’re here. If he hadn’t upped the ante in LAS, nobody would’ve been shot. Third, I just don’t fucking like him. He dropped me off. He’s hardly had any sleep all weekend, so he’ll be out for the count for hours. But you won’t take my word for it. You’ll do a recce and put a plan together, and that will take at least a day, three if you’re careful.”
“We’ll see. How are you going to give me Lawson?”
“His address, and the access code to the building.”
“You’re not stupid enough to try it on with me, are you?” he said.
“I’ve got nothing to lose, but I’ve got nothing to gain either. I’ve read your file. I’m no good with the hand-to-hand stuff and you have the only gun, right?” I pointed up to the ceiling.
“Where does he live?”
“Around the corner, in the Mount. Five minutes’ drive or fifteen minutes’ walk. The number is a hundred and something, but I can’t remember it all. The address is on a scrap of paper in my jacket pocket. Inside left, I think...maybe right.”
“Stand up, slowly. Turn around. Take two steps to the left – slowly. Stay there.”
Putnam was keeping me in his line of fire. I heard him move the jacket, and the rustle of leather on fabric. “There’s a pen and a diary, nothing else. Is it in the pocketbook?”
“I might have put the scrap in the book.”
There was silence, then more leather on fabric.
“Nothing.”
“It must be in my wallet.”
“Which is?”
“Back-right trouser pocket.”
“Step to your left.”
I moved, hands still behind my head.
Two seconds later, I heard Putnam’s voice from the other direction. He’d moved back into the lounge, near the sliding door to the balcony – as quick and silent as lightning. “Turn around. Keep your hands where they are and take one step forward. Another.”
I was level with the kitchen counter. “Wait! I remember where I put it.”
“You’re trying my patience, Hutt. Just give me the fucking address or I’m going to go after Siân as soon as I’ve killed you.”
“It’s in the fruit bowl, at the bottom. Right here.”
“Step back half a pace. Step to your right.”
Plan C was working better than expected. I was side-on to Putnam now, which meant I presented the smallest possible target. Given that he was an ex-soldier and that there were only five paces between us, though, it probably wouldn’t help much. But Plan C was entirely reliant upon Putnam being a military man.
“Get it for me – slowly.”
I lowered my hands from behind my head as ordered. My left hand moved the mobile to one side, and my right forefinger slipped into a ring. My left hand pushed the Jaffa oranges and Granny Smith apples aside until I had a firm grip on the L109A1.
“Here it is.”
I pulled the pin with my right hand, lobbed the grenade up with my left, and squatted down so fast my arse bounced off the kitchen floor.
There was a metallic pop as the safety lever sprung free from the cast-iron shell.
Putnam’s training told him that everybody in the open plan space and balcony was either going to die or wish they were dead. There were two consequences: he didn’t need to shoot me any more, but he did need to bug out.
He dropped the Glock and reached for the sliding door.
I pushed up with my thighs and leapt up onto the sofa on the left. The grenade plopped down on the other one.
Putnam wrenched open the glass door and kicked the furniture out of the way.
I let my momentum carry me forward and when I was about to topple over, I launched myself at his back from the sofa. He was moving forward, headed for the railing, so I landed low on his back. A metal chair flew off to my right as Putnam’s legs and abdomen were crushed against the rails. He swung round and hammered me in the head with his right elbow, but the blow glanced off the back of my skull. I grabbed his knees rugby-tackle fashion and stood up. He pitched over the edge and grabbed my head with one hand and shoulder with the other. As gravity took its toll, he hurled me over the railing with him.
There were two floors below, plus car park, plus flood defences. It was at least a fifteen-metre drop to the river.
Putnam flipped me over in a complete somersault and I just had time to ball-up to avoid landing flat and face-first. The impact was not unlike being hit by a Rocket Propelled Grenade, but at least it knocked me vertical, head-up-feet-down. My eyes and mouth clenched shut, my muscles froze at the shock of the cold water. I sank fast and felt Putnam’s knees knock my spine. I forced my eyes open – couldn’t see anything. I felt Putnam’s gloved hand on my cheek as he reached to choke me from behind.
We were both still sinking and I used the slight gap that had opened between us to slip behind him. I locked my legs around his waist and my left arm slid up his back. He knew what was coming and twisted violently, turning us upside-down. I ignored my disorientation, hooked my left elbow under his chin, grasped my right bicep with my left hand, and hooked my right forearm across the ba
ck of his skull. Once the hold is in place, it normally takes five to ten seconds before your opponent loses consciousness. I could hold my breath that much longer, but I couldn’t get the lock on properly.
We’d stopped sinking, and were right-side-up again. I could see a faint light through the dark water above. Putnam was fighting furiously, trying to scratch my eyes, hindered by his gloves. There was still space between my left arm and his throat – if I couldn’t close it, the contest would be won by whoever could survive the longest without oxygen. My lungs were already fit to burst. Putnam relaxed for a split-second. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but then I felt a fingernail gouge skin from my right cheek, a finger on my eye socket. I couldn’t move my head out the way without releasing the choke.
When his finger touched my right eyeball, I twisted my body left, let go the lock, and hooked my right leg around his neck. He’d turned inwards, so I didn’t know what hold I had, if any. I grabbed my right ankle with my right hand and used all my strength to crush whatever part of Putnam was trapped behind my knee. A gloved hand grasped a fistful of inner thigh, just missing my testicles. I seized two of the fingers with my left hand and snapped them back until I felt a crack. I didn’t know which way was up any more. My lungs were on fire. I couldn’t fight the breathing reflex.
One one-thousand.
I hung on to my right ankle.
Two one-thousand.
I hung on to the broken fingers.
Three one-thousand.
Putnam was struggling like a madman.
Four one-thousand.
I didn’t let go.
Five one-thousand.
My lungs detonated in my chest.
Six one-thousand.
I let go, pushed off from Putnam, and headed for what I hoped was up. I couldn’t control the reflex any longer and swallowed a mouthful of Ouse. I kicked and flailed frantically and my mouth began filling again. Then I saw light and burst from the surface. I choked, gasped, bobbed back down. I swallowed more river and burst free again, arms flapping and feet treading water. My chest was heaving and all my strength seemed to leave me at once. I was terrified I’d feel hands on my legs dragging me down, but I was too weak to move.
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