‘How’s your shoulder?’ Robert was clutching the top of his left arm.
‘All right. You get hit?’ He bent down to examine Rose’s foot. They had dropped behind a chimneystack and were now out of firing range. ‘It hasn’t gone right through the leather.’
On the far side of the roof Zalian pulled himself up, unfastening the line as he did so. He ran on ahead across the wide sloping grey tiles to the connecting building which was a full floor higher. Reaching its base, he fired a line from the metal disc in his pocket, hooked it and allowed the device to haul him up the twenty-foot-high concrete wall. ‘Come with me,’ he called. ‘They’ll try to follow. We’ve got to outdistance them until it’s safe to get you back to the ground.’ He threw the disc down to Robert, leaving it attached at the top of the wall.
‘He knows the territory, Robert. Without him we’re dead,’ said Rose, looking around anxiously. ‘Let’s do as he says.’
Robert hooked the disc to his belt and flicked the button which recalled the line, using his legs to keep him from being dragged against the wall as he rose. Two men, dressed in dark shapeless clothes and hoods, appeared at the edge of the roof. Robert threw the line down to Rose just as the poisoned coins began to pock the wall. In her panic to get to the top, Rose pushed her disc switch hard to allow the fastest rewind possible and shot straight up the brickface as if fired from a slingshot, very nearly flying straight over, to be caught instead by Zalian’s powerful arms.
Ahead of them was a vast expanse of black and grey rooftop where several buildings were connected in a sprawling terrace. In seconds they were running as fast as they could to the far side.
‘They’ll just keep coming after us!’ shouted Rose. ‘I’m getting a stitch.’
‘I have something for this,’ Zalian called back. ‘Stay close.’ He withdrew from his supply bag a larger version of his pocket line-gun and loaded a cartridge into it. Carefully aiming at the broad face of a glass-pillared office block situated further along on the north side of the Strand, he lined up the magnifying sight on the gun barrel until he had located a connecting bar on the opposite wall and fired. Incredibly, the line connected with a thud, across a distance of three hundred yards.
‘How?’ was all Robert could say, his mouth falling open in amazement.
‘Laser light,’ said Zalian, pointing to a tube the thickness of a pencil soldered along the top of the gun. ‘You fire when the light hits your target. We’ve got a couple of these, stole ’em from the Oxford Street Christmas light show last year.’ He grinned. ‘Come on.’
Zalian clipped the line from the gun to the parapet of the building with practiced speed, then attached Robert’s line and pushed him off. He had no time to take up the slack in the cable and Robert dipped alarmingly over the road.
‘Don’t ever get your belt-line twisted, or it’ll stop you dead,’ he said, checking Rose’s belt. He paused for a second and looked at her, screwing up one eye. ‘Under any other circumstances I’d take you on a night tour of the city,’ he said with a sour smile. ‘You’re a born natural.’
Rose smiled nervously back and lowered herself over the edge of the building. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I may take you up on it, if we live to see the dawn.’
She kicked away from the wall with her feet and dipped out between the buildings. Ahead, Robert had crossed the Strand and was nearing the office block. Zalian was just about to attach his own line when one of the hooded men came at him from across the roof. Whirling, he pulled his pocket line-gun free and fired it at the running figure, hitting him square in the chest. The impact threw the man from his feet, knocking the breath from his lungs. Two more hooded figures appeared, one of them a woman. Both stopped to take aim and fire their coin-guns. Zalian felt one pass by an inch beyond his face as he launched himself free and flew across the broad city street.
‘My God, they’re going to cut the line,’ screamed Rose, pointing back at the roof they had just left. Robert had just hauled her up over the side and detached her line. Two dark figures were bent over the chevroned moulding along the top of the far building as they tried to free the cord from its mooring, but Zalian’s weight on it prevented them from doing so. One of them produced a knife and began to saw at the line. Zalian was still only two-thirds of the way across.
‘Get ready to grab him as he comes in,’ called Robert. On the other side, the dark figures hacked at the cable frantically, while on the line below them, Zalian was beginning to slow down. Rose outstretched her arms and leaned as far as she dared over the edge of the roof. They succeeded in cutting through the cable moments too late. The cord whipped free with a sharp snap just as Robert and Rose grabbed Zalian’s arms and hauled him up to safety.
‘They’ve cut themselves off,’ said Zalian, laughing hoarsely. ‘Only we have the laser guns, thanks to Lee. Keep moving, though. There could be others around and we’ve still a way to go.’
Shaking with nervous excitement, Robert reached out to Rose and Zalian, who supported him as they half ran, half walked, moving swiftly across the tiles and away from danger.
‘All right, slow down. We’re safe now.’ Zalian turned to face them, walking backwards. ‘This is where I have to leave you. There’s a fire escape over there.’ He pointed across to a set of grey metal railings. ‘It’ll take you down into Covent Garden. Don’t let anyone see you descend.’
Rose was still trying to catch her breath. It was Robert who spoke. ‘The book. What if we give it to you for safekeeping?’
‘That may not guarantee your own safety now. But it could save the lives of others.’
‘Shall I give him it, Robert?’ Rose leaned forward with her hands on her knees. Robert nodded reluctantly and passed the notebook from Rose to Zalian, who immediately began to flick through it. For two or three minutes all that could be heard was the rasping of breath and the traffic below as the doctor shone a pencil torch on the rumpled pages. Then he slowly closed the book and looked up with a scowl on his face. ‘It’s not here.’
‘What’s not there?’
‘The plans to the New Age. This is just full of minor details about us.’
‘That’s the right book though, isn’t it?’ asked Robert.
‘It’s one of them, all right,’ said Zalian. ‘Somewhere there’s a second volume to this.’ He held the notebook up and turned it over. On the back, they could see something that neither of them had noticed before. A large number ‘1’, drawn in faint green pencil.
‘Oh, Jesus. I think I know where the other one went.’ Robert turned to look at Rose. She suddenly looked very uncomfortable.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘You remember I told you about the elderly relative taking Charlotte’s belongings away?’ Rose’s look of discomfort had turned to guilt. ‘I gave her a hand with the boxes. She couldn’t manage. One of them was overloaded. Some stuff fell out…’
‘Including the notes I found.’
‘It’s possible. I just remember picking up an exercise book and putting it on top of the box.’
‘I thought you said she didn’t take any books with her?’
‘This wasn’t a real book, just a notebook.’
‘Wait,’ said Zalian. ‘How can you remember so clearly?’
‘I noticed it at the time because it had a big number “2” on the front.’
Zalian and Robert groaned simultaneously. ‘You’re going to have to get it back,’ said Zalian. ‘Tomorrow morning. Now I must go and make sure that the others have reached headquarters safely.’
‘Wait!’ Robert shouted after him. ‘Are you ever going to tell either of us what this is all about?’
‘Let’s hope you never have to know,’ called Zalian, striding away across the roof. ‘If we fail, you’ll be reading about it in the papers. Get me the other notebook, then we’ll talk.’
‘Come on, let’s get down from here, Robert. I’m exhausted.’ Despite the cold December night Rose’s face was running with sweat. Streaks
of soot contoured her shining cheeks. By the time Robert had turned back, Zalian had vanished from sight, hidden among the turrets and escarpments of the city.
Together they stood looking out across the roofscape as their heartbeats slowed and their breath finally subsided to a natural rhythm once more. In the distance, the misty lights of the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree twinkled. The strains of a carol could be faintly heard—‘Silent Night’.
‘Listen to that. It’s as if the whole thing never happened,’ whispered Rose. Aching and enervated, they levered themselves onto the fire escape and began the slow climb down to street level, as the ochre moon bore silent witness to their secret journey.
Thursday 18 December
Chapter 24
Morgue
Nobody patronized the Capricciosa for the food, which mainly consisted of soggy pastas, leaking Chicken Kievs and indifferently prepared veal cutlets. They came for the ambience, which was created by day-glo murals depicting street scenes of Palermo, and flamboyant singing waiters, who made sexually suggestive advances with their peppermills and who were able to make many of their female patrons dismiss the poor cuisine and even tip heavily by handing them a carnation and a cheeky line about their sexy eyes.
Ian Hargreave and Janice Longbright ate at the Capricciosa for neither reason. They came there because the chef was still prepared to cook a meal after midnight and because it was close to the morgue. Janice loved eating with Ian, who would fill these mealtimes with anecdotes and questions on all manner of subjects. She found his restless, enquiring nature extremely appealing. She only wished he would take their relationship more seriously, by asking her to move in with him.
Tonight, Hargreave was quieter than usual. He stared in fascination as Janice tucked away the last of her profiteroles. Her appetite was prodigious, which befitted a woman who looked as if she still might have a ration-book tucked about her voluptuous person. For weeks now he had wanted to ask her if she would consider becoming engaged to him, but so far he had been unable to find the right time and place to attempt this momentous request. Consequently the pair of them kept the conversation circling around every subject but the one they most wanted to talk about.
‘I always like a heavy meal before a visit to the morgue,’ said Hargreave finally. ‘It pays to line your stomach.’ He watched as Janice creased her napkin to a point and wiped flecks of cream from her perfectly formed upper lip. ‘This makes corpse number four. One a day.’ He signalled for a waiter. ‘Young male of mixed descent, found over in the city’s financial district. That’s why it’s better that we see what we’re dealing with tonight, before the papers start speculating. One more story from Cutts suggesting a rooftop sniper and we’ll have a panic on our hands.’
‘The BBC covered it on the national news tonight, did you see?’
‘No, I was downstairs running through the Missing Person computer checks.’
‘Have you spoken to Cutts?’ asked Janice, pushing her plate away. ‘He seems to know more about what’s going on than the police. I’d like to know who he’s talking to.’
‘I was thinking of pulling him in, but you know he’ll never reveal his information source. As it is, there’s evidence falling out of the sky all over the bloody city. It’s just that none of it seems to lead anywhere.’
Earlier that evening, identification of the remaining victims had finally come through. As Hargreave had suspected, each one had been officially registered as a Missing Person some while before his death.
‘It seems as if the more you find out, the less you’re sure of,’ said Janice. ‘You know that our beloved assistant commissioner has already suggested posting teams on the rooftops at strategic points around the West End, don’t you?’
‘So he told me. We’ve been randomly pulling in every kid with a criminal record that we can lay our hands on and what do I keep hearing? “Oh, yeah, there’s something big going down, but I dunno who’s involved.” “What sort of something big?” “Dunno, just something I heard.” “Who did you hear it from?” “Can’t remember.” Well, we’ll have to see if we can make some progress tonight.’ Hargreave threw his napkin onto the table and rose. ‘Let’s get out of here before they bring the sweet trolley within grabbing distance of you again.’
—
‘Ah, Butterworth, how very nice of you to join us, lad,’ said Hargreave in a somewhat disrespectfully jolly tone, considering that he was leaning against a drawer containing a dead body. ‘I thought perhaps you were prancing about in some disco, where you couldn’t hear your bleeper.’
‘No, sir,’ said Butterworth sleepily. ‘I was in bed.’ He pulled the waistband of his pyjamas above the belt of his police trousers as an offer of proof.
‘Well, early nights make a man healthy, but in this job you’ll never be wealthy and as for wise, Butterworth…’ Hargreave chuckled. The garlicky dinner and Janice’s company had put him in high spirits. He wondered if he should be a little more wary of teasing the young detective constable, even though the boy’s father would soon retire as commissioner. But Butterworth seemed like a good egg. He could take it. And Lord knows, he needed his ideas bucking up if he was to amount to anything.
‘Well, who knows, you may surprise us all yet. What we have here…’ He paused to prod Butterworth’s podgy stomach with a nicotine-stained finger, ‘is a singularly gruesome sight. What did you have for dinner?’
‘Pork curry, sir.’
‘Just the thing. Cop a look at this. Mr Finch, if you would be so kind.’
Finch, the forensic man, pulled out the drawer Hargreave had been leaning against and unzipped the plastic body bag within to reveal the remains of Nick, late of the 7N Krewe. Peeping out from inside the rumpled grey plastic shroud, the corpse, its red-black skin hanging from it in shreds, was contorted out of all recognition of humanity. Behind them, Janice leaned forward and studied the body with purely professional interest.
‘You’ll never guess where they found this beauty, my boy. Less than two hours ago he was discovered gracing the top of the clock outside the Midland Bank near the Royal Exchange. Finch, you’ve had a chance to look him over, I believe. Anything of interest to tell us?’ Finch walked around to the head of the drawer and bent down, his long nose almost touching the face of the corpse, his knees cracking as he did so. He was wearing the most appalling aftershave in an effort to cover up the smell of the chemicals he had accidentally spilled on his lab coat earlier in the day.
‘Well, despite the cold night air, the body’s still a little warm, pretty much in the early stages of rigor mortis.’ He circled around it, prodding the flesh occasionally with the end of his biro. ‘His rectal temperature…’
‘Is that entirely necessary?’ asked Hargreave, pulling a face.
‘It is if you wish to ascertain the time of death,’ Finch cut in, irritated. He liked Hargreave, but found his flippant attitude infuriating. ‘We subtract the rectal temperature from the normal body temperature and divide by 1.5. Now, you’ll see that the gravitational staining—the sinking of the blood—is around the legs and buttocks, here and here,’ he prodded with his biro, ‘suggesting that he was wedged on top of the clock just minutes after death occurred.’
Butterworth tucked his pyjamas back in and stared at the twisted body, his curry slowly ebbing in the pit of his stomach.
‘There’s an incredible amount of external damage to the body,’ Finch continued. ‘The clavicle is broken, as are the shins and a number of ribs. Many of the main muscles, in particular the transverse abdominal muscle and the obliquus externus, are badly torn. The skin has suffered so many lesions that it’s almost impossible to catalogue them. Many of the wounds have occurred on top of each other, so that we have this muscle damage below skin lacerations and in some cases damage right down to the scapulae.’
‘Which leads Mr Finch here to conclude the cause of death…’ began Hargreave with an unpleasant grin, aimed quite deliberately at making Detective Constable Butterworth feel ill
. The boy’s ashen face had thrown his freckles into such relief that he looked like a measles patient.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that his experience necessarily killed him, so we could assume that he eventually died through loss of blood.’
‘Poor devil,’ murmured Janice, the only person in the glaring green and white room to show any sympathy for the deceased.
‘Mr Finch, be so good as to explain what you imagine his “experience” might have been.’
Finch leaned on the top of the drawer, warming—as it were—to his subject.
‘He’s been dragged over something like cobbles or bricks. There are fragments of stonework lodged under the remaining fingernails and beneath the skin. There are even splinters of wood and glass buried as deep as the ventriculus….’
‘What?’
‘Tummy,’ said Finch, pointing to his own stomach, ‘and there are brick fragments scraping the femur and tibia. As you can see, several shards of glass have pierced the vitreous humour of the right eye, and possibly the back of the socket, and they’ve even gone through the roof of the mouth. He’s bitten his tongue clean through. There’s no evidence of the missing piece. I thought he had swallowed it until I realized that there was something blocking the throat. I haven’t removed it because it’s a little too early to start an autopsy, but I wouldn’t mind ligating the neck and removing a portion of the trachea from below. I think it’s a peacock feather.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Finch leaned forward and grinned horribly. ‘You know, feather from a peacock, Pavo cristatus. Bad-tempered creatures, used to have one in my garden.’
‘But what the hell is it doing down his throat?’ asked Hargreave, staggered. ‘Can you get it out?’
Finch rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know about keeping it in one piece.’
‘I’m not worried about that. I don’t want it as a bloody souvenir.’
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