He was pondering this problem when he noticed the gossamer-thin cable snaking out from the uppermost cornerstone of the Ritz to a building at the end of Jermyn Street. It certainly wasn’t a communication line or an electrical cable because it was simply tethered to the wall. Puzzled, he turned around to face Piccadilly. After a break across the roof, the cord reconnected at the far end of the Ritz, where it ran across the road to Stratton Street. Butterworth’s eyes widened. ‘Come on, Bimsley,’ he said. ‘I think we’re onto something.’
Bimsley was sitting on the tarmac rubbing his kneecaps. Slowly he unfolded himself and rose to his awesome height. ‘It’s all right for you,’ he grumbled. ‘You’ve got a jumper. I’m perishing. Is that police issue?’
‘No,’ admitted Butterworth. ‘My gran knitted it for me.’
‘If I’d known it was going to be this cold,’ said Bimsley, rubbing his ears, ‘I’d have brought a balaclava.’
Still grumbling, he tripped at the top of the fire escape and would have hurled them both to certain doom had Butterworth not grabbed hold of the railing in front of him. After this, the young detective constable moved back until he was a good six feet away from Bimsley, just in case the latter’s ungainly pace sent him cartwheeling off into space. As they left the roof of the Ritz, Butterworth revealed his thoughts to the constable in a manner policemen usually reserve for explaining the zebra-crossing code to mixed infants.
The boy—for despite his size, he was a boy—grew excited at the thought of closing in for a kill and lost control of his limbs to an alarming degree, so that by the time they had succeeded in climbing to the roof of the gallery on the corner of Albemarle Street, Butterworth had decided to stay so far out of Bimsley’s reach while he charged the roof in search of the enemy that their conversation had to be conducted as a shouting match.
Methodically they searched the roof among the conduits and geometric outcrops of brick for a continuation to the cable that had been sighted from the Ritz and quickly they found it. That was not all they found. For, slithering along the line at great speed to arrive on the roof in a tumble, like parachutists coming in to land, came all manner of people. Butterworth’s heart went into freefall as the extraordinary army plunged down and landed all around him. He turned about to locate Bimsley, who was standing immediately behind him looking as if he was about to catch a basketball in his mouth. Both of them remained rooted to the spot as the black-jumpsuited swarm passed by on either side.
Spice, Simon and the rest of Zalian’s team entirely failed to acknowledge the presence of the two policemen as they raced across to the far side of the roof, shouting to one another. Several of them appeared to be wounded. Droplets of blood were scattering onto the tarmac as they ran.
Bimsley threw a couple of desultory punches at the passing figures, but mercifully failed to connect. Moments later amidst a chattering of steel and a hiss of cable the band had launched off and away in the direction of St James’s Square, leaving Bimsley and Butterworth standing alone and bewildered on the gallery roof.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ said Butterworth, amazed. ‘They didn’t even stop. Why on earth did you try to hit them?’
‘I’m allowed to,’ said Bimsley indignantly. ‘I’m a policeman. We could have arrested them for trespassing.’
‘Did you see how fast they were moving? As if the devil was after them. We’re going to need reinforcements.’ Butterworth scratched his head and stared off at the retreating figures who were even now barely discernible as they passed against the granite fascia of the Ritz. He unclipped his micro-transmitter and flipped it onto an open line, but before he could make a report there was a sudden clattering noise behind him and within seconds the roof was full of people again.
They were skinheads by the look of them, scrambling and sprinting between the conduits in pursuit of the first group. They wore a different style of uniform, black with a red slash across the chest. One of them kneed Butterworth in the groin as he passed, only to be grabbed around the shoulders by Bimsley, who lifted him high in the air, turned him upside down and dropped him on his head. By the time Butterworth had managed to undouble himself and rise from the gravel, they too had gone over the side and away towards the lights of Piccadilly.
‘I got one!’ shouted Bimsley, pleased with himself, hoisting the dazed boy into the air. Still clutching his crotch, Butterworth raised his head in time to see the skinhead twist his arm into his suit and flick out a blade. He wriggled in the policeman’s tight grasp and suddenly slashed the knife in an arc at the surprised Bimsley, who hastily dropped his catch and jumped back. Bimsley looked down to find his uniform gaping open in a slit. A button fell to the ground. He released a bellow of rage and threw himself towards the boy, who brandished the knife first in one hand, then the other, bouncing lightly forward on the balls of his feet like an extra from West Side Story.
‘Put it down, boy,’ called Butterworth ineffectually as Bimsley bodyslammed the skinhead with such force that the knife was sent skittering across the gravel. The young detective ran after it, but as he bent to retrieve the weapon there was another sound from behind, as two more skinheads dropped to the roof. The odds were changing too fast. Bimsley rolled away from his quarry to face the newcomers, which allowed the boy to leap to his feet and sprint for the side of the building.
‘Come on,’ he shouted at his partners as they reached for their coin-guns, ‘leave them. We’ve got to get back to Chymes.’ Momentarily unsure, the skinheads finally dropped their hands from their suits and ran to join their friend. Seconds later, Bimsley was behind them and closing fast. Butterworth’s throbbing groin prevented him from bolting after his attacker. He watched as all three reached the edge of the roof and jumped clear to the next across the alleyway at the side of the gallery. Bimsley was lumbering close behind, almost within grabbing distance of the last man, then he too was at the edge, but was surely moving too slowly to make the leap.
Butterworth watched in horror as Bimsley threw the vast mass of his body into the air and vanished with a surprised shout over the side of the building. By the time he had caught up to the edge, Chymes’ men had vanished into the night. Filled with dread, Butterworth peered down to the floor below.
His partner was hanging by his forearms from the ledge formed by a keel moulding above a window, a couple of feet down from the parapet of the roof. Butterworth gave a small scream. ‘Don’t move!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming over to get you!’ He turned around and ran back, drew a deep breath, then dashed for the chasm between the buildings. Landing heavily, but in one piece on the far side, he reached down to Bimsley, then thought better of it. How could he ever lift the man up? He had to weigh two hundred and fifty pounds at least.
‘I’m slipping,’ Bimsley pointed out. To confirm his point, one arm slid from the window ledge and he dangled awkwardly out over the street. Butterworth searched around desperately, as if expecting to find a lifebelt posted somewhere.
‘Aaaah!’
He stuck his head over the side in time to see Bimsley’s other arm vanish from the ledge. He was now hanging by his hands. There was nothing for it but to try and pull him up. Butterworth knelt down and wedged his knees behind the parapet, then reached over as far as he dared to go. ‘Give me your hand,’ he called. The boy responded and grabbed out with a meaty fist. Butterworth felt as if he had suddenly hooked a marlin and was half pulled over the edge himself.
‘Christ,’ he grunted, straining with all his might to keep from toppling, ‘you weigh more than my car.’ The pain in his arm was agonizing, but after what seemed an eternity Bimsley managed to hoist one tree trunk of a leg onto the ledge. Half-righting himself, he reached out and grabbed Butterworth’s other hand. At this particular moment the young detective had not been braced to take on an additional hundred pounds, with the unfortunate result that he was jerked sharply off his feet and sailed cleanly over the parapet with a shocked squeak.
The circus life had never held much ap
peal for Butterworth. The antics of acrobats had always bored him. He was beginning to wish he had paid them more attention now, as he hung from Bimsley’s hands a hundred feet above the pavement. The policeman’s knees were hooked to the ledge above. Butterworth felt himself slipping as Bimsley’s palms began to sweat. He tried to swing his feet at the window beside him, but the movement caused Bimsley’s hold on the ledge to grow more tenuous.
‘Stop fidgeting about,’ shouted Bimsley. ‘I’ve got a good mind to let you go. Any judge would sympathize.’ His grip on the ledge slipped another couple of inches as his jacket turned inside out and fell over his face. Butterworth looked down. He regretted that he hadn’t really lived enough to have his life flash before his eyes. His arms felt as if they had been torn from their sockets. Another few seconds and it would all be over.
‘I can’t hold on any longer,’ grunted Bimsley, muffled by his jacket.
‘You have to. I can’t get near the window to break it.’ Butterworth kicked out his legs and the pair of them slipped further, trapeze artistes breaking apart.
‘I don’t want to die, at least not holding on to a complete wanker like you,’ was the last thing that PC ‘Mad Dog’ Bimsley managed to say before his foothold on the ledge broke and the two of them fell bellowing into space.
They hit the curved canvas entrance canopy of the art gallery with such force that they completely demolished it, rods and guy wires lashing and springing in all directions. Bimsley’s fall was broken to some extent by the tensioned canopy before he tore through it and landed jarringly on the pavement. Butterworth’s fall was broken by landing directly on top of Bimsley’s stomach. As miles of canvas poured down on top of them, Bimsley realized that the fact they were both still alive would allow him the privilege of beating his partner senseless, just as soon as he recovered from the unconsciousness he now felt rapidly approaching. The material floated down over them in a shroud of purple stripes like a collapsing parachute and Butterworth’s clouding thoughts adopted the nature of a serious change in his career plans.
Chapter 42
Unmasked
White eyes rolled up into dead flesh. Lee turned aside, sickened. The roof was awash with the girl’s blood. Her naked body, torn open and abused, had been thrown aside like an abattoir carcass that had slipped its hook. Lee and his krewe had reached the dirt-encrusted gables of Soho’s Brewer Street as they covered the final sector of the night’s search area. The body they discovered there had wounds so horrific that Lee had prevented the others from passing near it. Morale within the group was already at an all-time low. This was the last thing any of them needed to see.
He wondered if Zalian was aware of the extravagance of his enemy’s obscenities. The body glowed a luminous white in the bitter chill night, glued to the brickwork in coagulated gore. Lee tore his eyes away to where the other members of the search party stood, disturbed and restless. There was a bad presence here. They could all feel it. ‘OK, gang, let’s move out.’ He turned from the body and clapped his hands together. ‘Nathaniel’s waiting for us.’ As the group behind him prepared to leave the roof, Lee turned to take a final look at the dead girl.
‘If you want her, you can have her. But you have to really want her.’
The voice sent nails of fear scratching under his skin. Slowly he raised his eyes from the corpse.
Rising between the turrets of chimneys, the hooded figure of Chymes addressed him. Lee lowered his hand slowly, until the tips of his fingers rested on the handle of his dart-gun.
Chymes walked slowly forward with broad, measured steps. In his gloved steel hand he held a silver harpoon locked into a crossbow. ‘You wouldn’t get that thing halfway out of your pocket before I hit you, boy.’
Chymes’ step never faltered as he drew nearer. The harpoon glinted in the moonlight. Lee looked back at his krewe. Three of them had their guns raised, but no one dared to fire. Who could tell how many men he had covering him from the nearby rooftops?
‘Where is Zalian?’ The vast black cloak cracked and flapped around Chymes’ leather-clad legs.
‘You’ll never find him.’ Lee was surprised to find himself shaking.
‘I don’t think you realize your position. If you tell me the truth I may only blind you. Let’s try it again: where is Zalian?’ Chymes raised the harpoon until the tip of it was level with Lee’s eyes.
‘Tell him, Lee!’ called Little Jo, the youngest of his team. ‘If you don’t, I will.’
‘Take her advice, Lee. This battle need not concern you. Your surrender is a foregone conclusion. This is now between myself and your master.’
‘He’s not my master. We are all equal.’
‘How very democratic. But hopelessly weak. Where is he?’
‘You’ll have to kill me before I tell you.’ Lee stood his ground, icy droplets of sweat running between his shoulder blades. Chymes’ finger slowly tightened on the trigger of the harpoon.
‘He’s on top of the Stock Exchange!’ screamed Little Jo in near hysteria. Chymes’ face remained hidden within the hood, but Lee could sense his smile of triumph. He slowly lowered the glittering harpoon. On cue, a dozen of his men rose from the mortared stacks of the roof behind. Their heads were shaved, their faces blank and sickly. Realizing the hopelessness of a victory when faced with Chymes himself, Lee had earlier instructed his krewe to take flight in such a confrontation and now as a single body they did so, leaping for the overhead cables of the run. Two were felled immediately, one by razor-coin and the other by Chymes’ crossbow, before they had a chance to reach the lines.
Knives drawn, Chymes’ men ran forward and attacked in a hand-to-hand assault, sending their opponents sprawling to the ground in their blood frenzy. One of them lifted Jo, the girl who had cried out, above his head and was about to throw her screaming into the street below when he was floored with a mighty kick in the stomach from Mack, Jo’s seven-foot friend and protector.
Lee hurled himself at Chymes, reaching him before he had a chance to reload the crossbow. The hooded man did not flinch a muscle beneath the thud of Lee’s fist. It was as if his body had been constructed from a resilient metal alloy rather than flesh and blood. Lee realized that such an attack could only result in his own death and pulled away with a yell, slipping free as Chymes reached out to grab him. But he moved too slowly. The leather glove connected instantly, seizing Lee by the throat and raising him from the ground. Pain burst into searing light before Lee’s eyes as his windpipe was slowly crushed. Chymes raised his head and laughed, low, slow and mirthless. ‘Keep struggling,’ he whispered. ‘It’s much better if you struggle.’
Lee swung his leg high and kicked Chymes squarely in the chest. Thrown back, his hood fell to his shoulders. Lee cried out as he recognized the face of the man who had once been in his own krewe.
Chymes released his grip in order to pull back the hood, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Lee ran for the edge of the roof and had managed to throw a line over the cable before Chymes succeeded in recovering his balance. As he sped away down the line with the remaining members of his team he saw the bodies of his two friends lying dead in the street below, gashes of blood filtering from the sidewalks, a police car screaming to a stop in front of a corpse and through them all he saw the face of Chymes, the face of the man he and Zalian had once trusted as a brother. The man who they thought would one day lead the Roofworld on to even greater glories.
Chapter 43
Turning Point
‘They’ll be on their way here right now, Simon,’ said a voice at the back. ‘There isn’t time. Let it drop.’ The knife caught the light of the bare overhead bulb as it pressed against Zalian’s throat. Nobody moved. The thickening silence was broken by someone coughing.
‘He’s going to level with us, or we’ll all stay here and wait for Chymes together.’
‘His men outnumber us by five to one,’ said Lee. ‘They know that we’re on the roof of the Exchange. It’ll be a slaughter.’ He step
ped forward into the shifting light thrown by the overhead bulb and grabbed Simon by the arm, lowering his voice as he spoke. ‘We’re wasting valuable time. Come on, let him go.’
‘Not until he tells me why he won’t lift a finger to save himself—or us.’ Simon pressed the knife against flesh and pulled Zalian’s head further back. Lee took an elaborate step away, aware of what Simon could do when he was antagonized. He had returned to the roof with his krewe to find the young punk standing over the doctor while he sat hunched at the computer console, half-asleep. On a nearby chair lay the doctor’s drug paraphernalia, a piece of silver foil containing brown powder, a spoon, spent matches and a needle. It was clear that Zalian was in the grip of severe narcosis.
The remaining members of the Roofworld had grouped outside and were crowding around the door of the conduit. Some of those present were wounded and there were others who had yet to return from the night’s search. All could feel the tension that was building inside the little room, a hostility that threatened to tear the exhausted gathering apart.
‘What do you expect him to do, Simon?’ said Lee tiredly. ‘Every time we run into Chymes we lose more men.’
‘That’s because we have no overall strategy, no plan. We’ve got no leader, Lee, look at him.’ He pointed at Zalian, who sat silently staring at a patch on the floor between his feet. ‘Rose says he turned off the transmitter last night. It’s all right for us to fight Chymes for him, but he doesn’t have the balls to face the man himself.’
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