by James Oswald
‘Financiers? That sounds very . . . fancy.’ I lean towards him, letting him get another whiff of that expensive scent. ‘Let me guess, then. Not a suit-wearing job, so something in IT, I’d say. Some kind of fancy website? An app?’
‘All three, actually.’ David leans close too, forearms resting on the bar. His shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, and I can see a few wiry hairs escaping from the gap. Not a chest waxer, then.
‘What’s it like?’ I wait just long enough for the confusion to show on his face, put on my best little-girl-lost voice. ‘The apartment, silly. How high up are you? Bet it’s got a killer view. Hey, you don’t live in the penthouse, do you?’
‘I wish. No. That belongs to the bloke who built this whole place, lucky bastard. I’m a couple of floors down, but you’re right, the view’s a killer.’ He pauses just long enough for someone less suspicious than me to think this wasn’t what he was planning all along. ‘You want to see it?’
If I hadn’t seen the view from Roger DeVilliers’ penthouse a few storeys above me, I’d have been seriously impressed by David’s apartment, although whether impressed enough to sleep with him is another matter. It’s worth considerably more than a million and a half too. All of London is drawn out beneath us in twinkling lights, the Thames a darker band reflecting a fat moon. I’m not sure I’d pay that much to live here, but I can see why people would.
Clearly there’s money in the app and website business too, enough for him to have been able to pay an interior designer to outfit the place anyway. I can’t glean any useful information about him from the decor other than that he’s singularly lacking in imagination. A shame, really. A bit more personality and he’d have been quite a catch.
I play the slightly drunk, simpering idiot until my skin begins to crawl. David doesn’t seem to notice, plying me with drink and getting steadily more familiar. He used a swipe card to unlock the lift to bring us up to this floor, then shoved it back in his wallet. That’s in the inside pocket of his jacket though, and he’s still wearing it. I fear there’s only one way I’m going to get him to take it off, but time’s running out and needs must.
‘So, how big is this place? I mean, you weren’t just going to show me the view were you?’ We’re both on a leather sofa that’s a lot less comfortable than it looks. Close up, he doesn’t smell too bad, but it’s a long time since I’ve been this familiar with a man.
‘You want the full tour?’ He leans in and kisses me lightly on the lips. In a movie, I’d probably grab him into a tighter embrace and we’d end up naked on the rug. This isn’t a movie, so I settle for pulling away while at the same time gently easing his jacket off. I let his hands wander a little while I slip his wallet out of his pocket and tease out his security swipe card. Only once I’ve tucked it into my own back pocket do I reach up, take his head in my hands and kiss him hard. He tenses, then relaxes a little. I guess he’s not used to being dominated. I give it a count of five, then pull away.
‘Is there something . . . ?’ His confusion works to my advantage.
‘Bathroom?’ I shove both hands into my lap, shrug and give him my best simper.
‘Oh. Right. End of the hall. Last on the left.’
I lean forward again, brush his lips with mine as I stand up. ‘Be right back. Don’t go anywhere, right?’
41
I thought I’d feel bad about leaving David waiting expectantly for me to come back, but truth is he picked me up in a bar and took me back to his place without even bothering to find out my name. I can’t deny his usefulness as I swipe his electronic passkey on the lift and hit the button to take me down to the basement car park. I was prepared to go a lot further to get hold of one. Desperate times and all.
There are cameras everywhere in this building though. I can see one here in the lift, a smoked glass dome set in the middle of the ceiling. Hopefully the fact that I’ve used an electronic pass will mean no one will pay me any attention. I doubt Roger DeVilliers has people keeping an eye on security for the whole building, just his part of it. Trying to take the lift to the penthouse might set off alarms, but going down to the basement should be fine.
Should be.
A glance at my watch tells me the pubs will be calling last orders now. I’m taking a huge gamble here, but I don’t want to think too hard about how much could go wrong. I don’t know if Izzy is even being held here. All I’ve got is gut instinct and an empty Coca-Cola bottle. I don’t do hunches. Cases are cracked by logic and diligence, painstaking attention to detail, and above all the ability to recognise patterns in amongst the noise. On the balance of probability, Izzy’s in this basement somewhere, locked away. She has to be. But I don’t do hunches.
The lift comes to a halt almost imperceptibly, just a ping to let me know we’ve arrived. I hold the ‘door open’ button down while carefully looking out to see if there’s anyone here, but it seems empty.
The car park’s much as I imagined it would be, concrete pillars and a ceiling that feels low even though it isn’t. I’m surprised how few cars there are here, and how cheap some of them are. This level appears to be all private parking, although I suspect the hotel has a few spaces it can charge guests an extortionate fee to use. Driving and London don’t really mix, so maybe it makes sense this facility is underused.
I find two blacked-out stretch limousines parked together, close by the lift. I recognise the number of the Mercedes that brought me down to London from Harston Magna yesterday. The bigger car next to it must be the one they used the first time. It’s a Bentley, of course. Roger DeVilliers’ own car, at a guess.
A click of a door opening has me scurrying for the shadows, just in time to see Adrian’s silent friend, Tommy, walk across to the cars. From a dozen paces away, he plips the locks and pops open the boot of the Mercedes. I’m positioned so he can’t see me unless he knows to look, but even so it’s unnerving to watch him. He’s not as broad and muscly as Adrian, and he walks with a slight limp that suggests he lost more than just his tongue to the Taliban, but even so he’s a trained soldier, ex-SAS, with plenty of combat experience. I’m no match for him in a fair fight.
Which is why I wait until he’s bent double, reaching deep into the boot of the car to fetch something out.
I step swiftly from my hiding place and smash the boot lid down as hard as I can on him. He must have sensed me coming, as at the last moment he began to stand, but whatever he had picked up must have been heavy. Had he stayed down, the boot lid would have caught him painfully across the back. As it is, it smacks the top of his head with a satisfyingly meaty thunk, and he collapses unconscious.
My heart’s racing, my arms shaking with adrenaline, and all I can think is how fucking stupid what I just did was. So many things could have gone wrong, so many still could.
I check Tommy’s pulse to make sure I’ve not killed him, then fish around in his pockets until I find the keys for the car. There’s another set in there too, presumably for the Bentley or Rolls or whatever it is, and an electronic security pass for the building, similar to the one I nicked from David. I’m half pleased, half disappointed to find he doesn’t have a gun like Adrian, although I do find a couple of evil-looking knives, one big enough to gut an elephant. There’s something else weighing down one of his jacket pockets, and when I pull it out, I find a fully charged Taser. Police issue and highly irregular for a member of the public to be carrying around, close-protection specialist or not. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I shove it into my bag.
The heavy item that Tommy was trying to pull out of the boot turns out to be a faux-leather sports bag. I don’t take him for the gym and squash set, and judging by the weight of it, he’s stolen all the barbells anyway. I haul it out, wincing at the echoes in the car park as it clangs on the ground. No one comes running though, and soon the distant sounds of the city outside reassert themselves. I should be moving, but my curiosity gets the better
of me.
Inside the bag are what can only be described as instruments of torture. Either that or Tommy moonlights as an orthopaedic surgeon with a sideline in joinery. Hammers in various sizes, bonesaws, hacksaws, a blowtorch, a neat little plastic box filled with hobby knives, all these and more are packed inside, rolled in clean cloths. There’s some thin rope, and I take a moment to use it round his hands and ankles before hauling him into the boot of the car. It’s big enough in there for him not to be uncomfortable.
I’m just about to shut the lid down on him and lock it, when I have a thought. Going through his pockets again, I take his phone and swipe it on. It asks for a thumbprint, so I use his tied hand to unlock it. I’ve no idea how long that will last, but it gives me a phone for at least a little while, and if anyone calls to find out where he’s got to, I’ll have some notice they’re looking for him.
Tommy’s security pass gets me back into the lift, but it also opens the fire door just beside it, leading onto the stairwell. I opt for this instead, since that’s where he came from.
The concrete steps end one storey down, so I must be in the deepest depths of the basement. The door here has no security lock, most likely because you would need to pass through several to get here. It opens onto a wide corridor, half a dozen doors spaced equally along either side. They look a bit like my hazy memory, half drugged, from when last I was here, although I can’t be sure they’re the same, or why I would have been dragged past here from the car park on the way up to the penthouse. I’ve got to start my search somewhere though.
The first two doors have labels – ‘Electrical Substation’ and ‘Communications Hub’. The next two are just numbered, as are the following four. The final doors have nothing written on them at all, but when I open the first it reveals a sizeable store room, stacked with maintenance equipment. Across from it, another room is filled with boxes of electrical equipment and metal shelving fixed to the walls.
Two more doors at the far end of the corridor from the fire door and the lift. The first is locked, so I go to the other one. It opens onto yet more storage space, this time empty, so I go back to the locked door. There’s a keyhole, no fancy electronic swipe pad to accept Tommy’s security pass. I’ve got all his keys though. Pulling them out of my pocket, I go through the keyrings until I find something that looks like it might fit, slot it into the hole and turn. It clicks with a well-oiled ease, and I push open the door. Inside, there’s a chair, a desk, a chemical toilet in the far corner beside a sink unit that looks like it’s most often used for rinsing out mops. What there isn’t is any sign of Izzy, until I catch a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye.
Instinct kicks in, and I drop to the floor as something rushes through the air where my head had been. I try to roll before my attacker can come in for another try. On my back, I get a better view of the chair pulled up to the door, the young woman brandishing what looks like a bit of plastic pipe that might sting if she hit me with it but probably wouldn’t do any actual damage. I shove myself backwards as she rushes towards me, arms up to fend off the frenzied blows. I was right, the pipe stings like fuck, but I don’t think it’s going to break any bones.
‘Izzy!’ The shout falls on deaf ears, so I time the next blow and grab the pipe. Slapped against my palm, it sends a jolt of pain up my arm that has me swearing like a navvy, but I manage to keep my grip, tugging it from hers. The initial frenzy of her attack has dissipated now, and she stares at me with wild, confused eyes.
‘I’m not here to hurt you, Izzy. Quite the opposite.’ I throw the pipe to one side, inch my way backwards until I can sit up and get a better look at her. She’s bedraggled; there’s no other way to describe it. Her hair’s a tangled mess of spikes and mats, her eyes sunken and bruised. She looks like she’s not had a square meal in a week or more, and her clothes are filthy. There’s still a spark in her eyes though, and a strength in her voice when she finally speaks.
‘Con— . . . Constance?’ I try my best smile of confirmation, but she’s not finished yet. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
42
‘Not quite the greeting I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.’ I scramble to my feet, rub at my palm, where a pipe-shaped red welt is beginning to show. ‘You want to get out of here or what?’
‘Are you . . . ?’ Izzy seems to be having difficulty stringing words together. ‘Aren’t you . . . ? I mean, are the police here?’
‘Not exactly. And we don’t have a lot of time. Come on.’ I step past her, open the door slowly and poke my head out to see if there’s anyone about. I can’t quite believe that I’ve not been spotted yet, and then I see the light above the lift doors click on, the arrow pointing resolutely down.
‘No time to explain. We’ve got to go now.’
To give her her due, Izzy does what she’s told. We both sprint down the corridor, pushing through the door onto the stairwell as the lift pings that it’s arrived. I close the door as softly as I can behind us, praying we’ve not been heard. Through the reinforced-glass window, I see two figures, their backs to us, walk down the corridor towards Izzy’s cell. Turning to face her, I put a finger to my lips even though she’s not making a sound, then point it upwards. I wish there was something I could block the door with, but the only thing I’ve got is Tommy’s phone. I bend down, jamming it under the door. It might keep them occupied for a minute, but then again they might just take the lift.
I catch up with Izzy at the landing, where she’s about to climb further up. ‘Out here,’ I whisper, and we step out into the car park. The two stretch limousines are still parked close by. There’s no sound from the Mercedes, so Tommy must be still out cold. I find I don’t much care if he never wakes up again.
‘Not that one,’ I say to Izzy as she stares at the blacked-out car. Tommy’s bag of torture implements is still on the ground where I left it. ‘You could shove that in the back of this one though.’
I unlock the Bentley, pull open the driver’s door. Izzy struggles with the bag, but manages to get it in the back, then climbs into the passenger seat beside me as I fire up the engine. It’s an automatic, unfamiliar, but I’ve had enough police driver training to know the basics. As I pull out of the parking space and head for the ramp that will take us up to street level, I catch a glimpse in the wing mirror of the lift door opening, a blond-haired man stepping out. He sets off towards us at a run, so I floor the throttle. This thing might weigh twice as much as my elderly Volvo, but it’s also got twice as much power. With a chirp of rubber on concrete floor, we lurch forward, picking up speed, and soon outpace him.
Another glance and I see him pull out his phone, slap it to the side of his face, and that’s when I realise we’ve still got to get up to street level and out. If Adrian tells security to lock it down, we’re going to be stuck in here.
I have to slow as we approach the gates. It’s nothing as simple as a cheap barrier; that would let anyone walk in from the street. A swipe pad the same as those by all the doors is mounted on a stalk sprouting out of the floor like some improbable mushroom, and once I’ve found the button to operate the window, I reach out and swipe Tommy’s card over it.
Nothing happens.
I swipe it again, and the little red light refuses to change to green. Fuck it. Now we’re really screwed. I can imagine Adrian sprinting after us, waving that gun of his.
‘What’s the problem?’ Izzy’s worried voice reminds me why I’m here.
‘They’ve shut the place down. This card doesn’t work any more.’ I wave it in her face, and then remember I’ve got another one. It’s worth a shot, surely.
‘Here. Chuck this out.’ I throw Tommy’s card at her, slapping at my pockets to find David’s stolen one. An angry blond-headed figure appears in the mirror as I fumble with the slim sliver of plastic, reach out and slap it against the pad. Relief floods through me as red turns to green and the gates swing inwards. I hit th
e central locking button at the same time as I wind up the window, engage drive and surge forward before the gates have fully opened. The thump of Adrian’s fist on the boot of the car is sweet music as we spring out of the building and into the night traffic.
I park the Bentley on a double-yellow line in a back street in Soho, unlocked and with the keys lying on the driver’s seat. I was tempted to take it further out of town, leave it in a less savoury neighbourhood for the local youth to play with, but the longer we’re in it, the more chance of its theft being reported to the police. Right now, I imagine Detective Superintendent Bailey is preparing the nails for my coffin, and there’s almost certainly a warrant out for my arrest. How quickly things go from bad to hopeless.
The black cab back across the river uses up far too much of my remaining cash. I tell the driver to drop us off a few blocks away from Pete’s house, and we go the rest of the way on foot.
‘Where’re we going?’ Izzy asks, the first words she’s spoken since we escaped the tower block. She sounds weak, exhausted and terrified. I can only sympathise.
‘A friend’s house. We can’t go back to my place, and we really can’t go to the police. Not right now.’
‘I thought you were the police.’
‘I . . . It’s complicated.’ I dig around in my jacket pocket for my house keys, glad that no one has realised there are two sets on the keyring and only one fits my own front door. Or at least used to fit my own front door before Adrian had the lock replaced. Nobody has changed Pete’s locks yet, which is a relief. The new number I programmed into the alarm still works too. I lead Izzy through to the kitchen at the back of the house, but when she reaches for the light switch, I grab her arm.