by David Wood
“Come on!” Rose said, her voice strained with panic.
Crowley judged his timing as well as he could. “I’m coming!” Then he ran at the kitchen door, holding the chair out in front of himself like a lion tamer. His timing was good, meeting the intruder right in the kitchen doorway. The chair legs rammed into the man’s arm, chest and face and Crowley threw his weight behind it, sent the intruder stumbling over backwards with a yelp of pain. The pistol in his hand boomed, but the bullet went high, bit a chunk of plaster from the wall above the cooker. Crowley slammed the kitchen door closed to buy them seconds, then bolted after Rose, slamming the back door behind him too.
Rose was already halfway down the cool gray concrete steps of the rear stairwell. Crowley hammered after her.
“Did he get you?” Rose called back. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. He missed.”
They swung on the banister to make the turn at the next floor at top speed when a bead of light appeared at the kitchen door of the flat below Rose’s. Crowley didn’t even pause. He ran at the wood, pushed it wide as he grabbed Rose by one arm and hauled her back to bring her with him.
A middle-aged man in a pale blue turban stumbled back into his kitchen, face crumpling into outrage.
“Don’t make a sound!” Crowley said, injecting as much pleading into his voice as he could. He closed the man’s door. “Lock that! Stay silent.”
The sound of Rose’s own back door came from above, banging back and echoing in the bare stairway. The turbaned man hurriedly locked his door, but Crowley was already moving, puling Rose along.
“We’re so sorry!” Rose said as she stumbled past the shocked resident.
She shook her arm free, ran close behind Crowley as they crossed the living room and Crowley pulled open the front door. They hurried out, Crowley throwing a last apologetic look back to the turbaned man, who stood with his mouth open in stunned confusion. Crowley quietly closed the man’s front door and Rose pointed to another door at the end of the hallway.
“Front stairs!” she said.
He nodded and followed, pleased she was so self-assured, so focused. She was clearly not the type to panic, immediately seeing his plan in the man’s flat, working with him smartly, pointing out stairs rather than running for the elevator. As they hurried down the stairs, Crowley nervously glanced up, hoping the intruders didn’t have anyone else in the building, waiting out front of Rose’s flat. He’d seen at least one other man inside as he’d attacked with the chair, but there had been three in the alley. Could there be another one up there? Or outside on the street?
They flew down level after level, taking two or three steps at a time, using the bannister for control. Crowley followed Rose, marveled at her pace and athleticism. She looked good, sure-footed at every turn.
“Where do the back stairs come out?” he asked.
“Alleyway, other side of the block. Bins and stuff back there.”
“So if they go all the way down, they’ll have to come right around the building to catch up?”
“Right. There’s a laneway almost directly opposite the front of this building. When we get out, run hard straight for it.” Rose allowed herself a glance back. “You won’t outrun me, so go hard. It’ll take us directly away from them.”
He saw fear in her eyes, but there was a fire of determination too. “You got it.”
They barreled out of the stairway, across the lobby and burst out of the front doors. Crowley braced for a fight, quickly scanning left and right for the possible third attacker, but no one waited for them. A couple walking hand in hand on the footpath jumped aside, startled, as Crowley and Rose pounded across the street between a slowly moving red bus and a white panel van coming the other way. A heavyset, shaven-headed man leaned out of the van window to yell abuse as they sprinted away, zigging left and right to enter the laneway Rose had mentioned.
Crowley glanced back and saw no one in pursuit, then picked up his pace as Rose streaked away from him. She really did have a hell of a turn of speed. He wondered if maybe she was right when she said he wouldn’t be able to outrun her. He’d taken it for rhetoric, but had to smile at the truth of her words.
The lane was mostly dark and they hammered through pools of wan light under small streetlights, then came out onto a much larger, well-lit street. Traffic was a little heavier, but no pedestrians traveled the footpath.
“Ease up,” Crowley called. “I’m pretty sure we’ve lost them.”
Rose slowed to a jog, but kept moving. Crowley respected that and ran along beside her.
“What now?” she asked.
“Well, those guys are clearly determined to get their hands on you.”
She looked over at him, fear stamped on her features. “Those were the same guys from the alley?”
He nodded, put a hand briefly on her shoulder as they jogged. “It was. I’m sorry.”
“So I ask again, what now?”
Crowley thought for a moment. “Well, you can’t risk going anywhere you would normally go. If they found your home they could potentially find anywhere else connected to you. For now, you’d better come back to my place. We’ll settle down and figure out what to do next.”
Rose nodded, then stepped up to the curb and waved at a black cab coming along the street, the light on its roof bright in the night. The cab pulled over and they climbed in, slumped gasping beside each other on the back seat. Crowley gave the driver his address in Deptford and the man gave them a brief salute over the back of his seat and pulled away.
Two burly men stood at the end of the alleyway behind Rose Black’s block of flats and turned left and right, looking up and down the intersecting road. One of the men swore elaborately, slammed his fist into a wooden fence beside him, then shook the hand in pain and frustration.
“I can’t believe they got away again!”
The other man shook his head, pocketed his small revolver. “Damn it, Jeffries, I told you we should have brought more men.”
Jeffries turned on him. “Well, Patterson’s knee is messed up from where that bitch kicked him earlier and there wasn’t time to call in anyone else.”
The two men stood indecisive for a moment, then Jeffries spat and stalked around the building, heading for their car parked half a block away out front. “Walter, we can’t tell Landvik she got away again.”
Walter followed, caught up in a few quick strides. “You’re right there. He was mad enough already, yeah?”
“Cold fury,” Jeffries agreed. “Really quiet and still, like, you know?”
Walter smirked. “Yeah. I know.”
“Who the hell is that guy who keeps saving her?” Jeffries asked through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know, but he’s really starting to make me angry. We need to find out.” Walter pulled a phone from his pocket, dialed a number. After a moment, he said, “Dean? It’s Walter Brown. I’m here with Rob. No, we didn’t get her. That bloody hero got in our way again and they legged it.”
He paused listening. Then, “Well, I’ll tell you exactly why I’m ringing you. I don’t care how much your knee hurts, we have to find out who Rose Black’s man friend is and we have to find out as much about him as we think we know about Rose.”
There was the sound of a raised voice at the other end. Jeffries reached out. “Give me that.” Brown handed it over and Jeffries slammed it to his ear. “You listen to me, Patterson. We need to get both these renegades in hand very quickly or a sore knee will be the least of your problems. Landvik will be wearing very personal parts of our anatomies as jewelry if we don’t deliver them soon. So get dressed. We’re picking you up in ten minutes.”
Chapter 8
Holm Institute Laser Therapy Clinic, Dulwich Village
Rose walked along the main street of Dulwich Village, enjoying the sunshine and bustle of daytime after the threats and violence of the night before. Low rise brown brick buildings, wide footpaths and welcoming shops lined either side of the road, the
area far more suburban than the tall, cramped city of London, yet only a twenty minute cab ride from Crowley’s narrow Deptford townhouse.
Arriving at his place the night before, well after midnight, exhausted and nauseated from adrenaline, it had seemed like her life was irrevocably altered. And while that might still be the case, at least the light of day and pleasant tree-lined pavements did something to inject hope back into her thoughts.
Spending the night at Crowley’s had been weird. The man was the next thing to a complete stranger, but Rose liked him. Trusted him. He was every bit a decent guy and had actually saved her arse twice. Then opened up his home to her. His place was neat and ordered, something of military precision about the sparseness, but it was homely nonetheless. He had two rooms upstairs, one a decent-sized bedroom, the other a study with a fold-out sofa bed. He had insisted she take his queen-sized comfort and he opened up the sofa bed for himself. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but once ensconced into the comfort of sheets and quilt, exhaustion had won out and she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Crowley woke her the next morning with tea and toast, offered her anything else she might want: coffee, eggs, cereal. He apologized for his lack of other breakfast choices. Rose smiled at the memory. He was a strange guy, hard and strong, but somehow vulnerable and nervous too. She had to admit it was almost certainly because he had taken a fancy to her, and she didn’t really mind that. She certainly appreciated that he hadn’t tried to act on it in any way, that he remained the perfect gentleman.
After eating and showering, she insisted that Crowley go to work, she would be fine. He tried to head her off, offer more help, but she pressed her case. Reluctantly he agreed, after ensuring she would contact him at the slightest hint of trouble. He offered to drop her off at the clinic, but she waved that off too and caught a cab after ringing the museum and calling in sick. She assured them it was only a virus or something and she should be back in a day or two. She desperately hoped that was true, though something made her think it really wasn’t. Regardless, for the time being, she needed to be back in control, at least for a little while. Grateful as she was for his help, Rose wanted to feel like her own hand steered her ship for now.
She paused in the dappled shade of a flowering cherry tree outside a clothing store, tipped her face up to the late summer sun filtering between the green leaves. The air was still redolent with traffic fumes and refuse, but not nearly so strongly as it was in the city. She could smell the trees and various aromas of baking and cooking too. Much as she enjoyed life in Fulham, she often yearned to move somewhere a little more suburban like this, south of the river. More than an hour on two or three trains to get to work and back was less appealing. Her parents regularly hassled her to move nearer to them in Bromley, even further south. That would only make her journey to work more like an hour and a half on trains.
She shook her head gently, looked around. All this suburban speculation was no doubt born of the stress from the night before. Moving out of the city was unlikely to move her away from whatever violent men were chasing her, however much she fantasized. She needed to find out just what was going on.
Another hundred yards’ walk led her to the front door of the Holm Institute Laser Therapy Clinic. It seemed like any other unassuming shopfront along the street, but was clinically bright and clean inside, modern and sharply decorated. A young blonde with a million watt smile sat behind a brushed aluminum reception desk.
“Good morning. How can I help you?”
Rose returned the smile, though hers dimmed in the presence of the effervescent receptionist. “I’d like a quick word with Doctor Zochowska if I may? I saw her last year and just wanted to follow something up.”
“The doctor is in this morning. Just give me a moment to see if she’s available. Your name?”
“Rose Black.”
The blonde nodded, gestured to a series of white leather chairs along the window, dappled in light from a wide venetian blind.
Rose took a seat, thumbed through a glossy copy of Country Living magazine, shook her head at the ostentatious claims on the cover of the House and Garden magazine next on the pile. The receptionist murmured quietly into her telephone for a moment, then turned her smile back to Rose.
“The Doctor will be out in a moment, Ms. Black.”
“Thank you.”
It took a few more minutes for Zochowska to appear, but when she did she looked exactly as Rose remembered. Small, thin, severe angular features, ash-gray hair pulled back in what had to be a painfully tight pony-tail. She wore a white lab coat over a navy blue skirt and suit jacket. But for all her austere appearance, Rose remembered her as a warm and friendly woman.
“Miss Black.” Zochowska offered a hand and shook with friendly firmness. “Good to see you again. I’m sorry we couldn’t help you before. What brings you back?”
“I just had a few questions.” Rose frowned, suddenly not sure where to begin.
Zochowska waved a hand back the way she had come. “Let’s go into my office and sit down.”
Once the office door was closed and Zochowska returned to her desk, Rose took a deep breath. Maybe start a little more generally. “Have you treated anyone else with a distinctive birthmark like mine?”
Zochowska’s eyebrows rose. “Miss Black, lots of patients have distinctive birthmarks. But obviously I can’t discuss them with you, or anyone, for confidentiality reasons.”
Rose had expected an answer like that, but pressed on regardless. “But have you seen anyone with a birthmark like mine? You remember the eagle shape of mine, the size of it?”
“I remember it very well, Miss Black, and I have records of our consultations, but I simply can’t discuss other patients with anyone.”
Frustration boiled up in Rose, her volume rising with it. “Doctor, please, it’s very important. Has anyone come to the clinic asking about a birthmark like mine?”
“Even if they had, I couldn’t tell you. There are confidentiality rules and laws, Miss Black.”
“Didn’t confidentiality go out the window with the well-publicized data breach you guys had?” Rose realized she was shouting, her frustration giving way to fear that the men on her tail would catch up again, that she would have no further information, nowhere to turn. She had to learn something, find some way to protect herself.
Doctor Zochowska stood half out of her seat, shocked and surprised by Rose’s outburst, her expression wide with concern. “Miss Black, please calm down. I would help if I could, but my hands are tied. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Yes, I could very well be! I really need to know, Doctor.”
Zochowska went to the door, held it open. Her face had hardened again. “I’m very sorry, Miss Black, but I just can’t divulge any information. If you are concerned about anything, go to the police. If there’s something here that will help, and the police are involved, they may be able to request information. But confidentiality laws often block even law enforcement. I’m afraid my business hands are tied here.”
Rose stood, paused half out of the office. “Maybe you need to spend more money on your systems then. Perhaps I’ll get the information I need if I hack in as well, instead of asking nicely.” She knew she was being unpleasant, irrational, but she didn’t care. Fear and frustration made her want to lash out at Zochowska’s calm, so-called professional, indifference.
To her credit, Zochowska looked away, unable to hold Rose’s furious gaze. “I’m truly sorry I can’t help,” she muttered at the carpet.
Rose stomped from the office back out toward the reception area, mind whirling with confusion. As she reached the end of the corridor, she saw the sign for a toilet and went in. She leaned on the sink, took a few deep breaths to calm down. She certainly hadn’t handled that very well at all. Could she have approached it differently? Short of holding Zochowska by the throat and threatening further violence unless information was forthcoming, she couldn’t imagine any other cours
e of action.
She cupped cold water from the tap into her palms and washed her face, trembling slightly with frustration. She had nowhere else to turn. Maybe she should call Crowley, ask if he had any ideas of further leads she could follow up.
When she emerged from the toilet, she glanced back down toward Zochowska’s office and saw the door standing ajar. Narrowing her eyes, she crept quietly back toward it. The doctor wasn’t there, the room empty and inviting. What chance might she have of quickly checking through the computer files, finding anything useful? She took a tentative step into the door when Zochowska’s sharp tones made her heart slam in her chest.
“Is there something further I can help you with?”
Rose turned an angry glare to the woman, though she knew deep down it wasn’t fair. None of this was the doctor’s fault. But nothing in Rose’s life seemed fair right now. “Just watch the news,” she snapped, not sure what she really meant. She just needed to score some kind of juvenile points against the woman standing in her way.
Zochowska frowned, but said nothing. Rose turned and stalked back up the corridor to the reception area. She braced herself for the bubbly, blonde receptionist and the young woman’s artificial good cheer.
But the receptionist’s face was serious as Rose emerged into the sunlit area. Her eyes darted left and right nervously.
Rose opened her mouth to speak, but the receptionist shushed her and stepped forward and pressed a small fold of paper into Rose’s palm with trembling fingers. The receptionist leaned close. “Don't read it until you're outside. And be careful.”
She turned away, sat at her desk, and busied herself typing something into a Word document open on her computer screen. Rose stared for a moment, but the woman showed no signs of making any further eye contact.
“Thank you,” Rose whispered, and hurried out, the bright, warm day unable to melt the chill running up her spine.
Chapter 9
Camberwell