Play to the End

by Robert Goddard

  But he never said or thought anything of the kind. Because, when I opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat, I knew, with the shock of sudden self-awareness, that I wasn’t going to tell him. I wasn’t going to breathe a word.

  “All set?” he asked, glancing round at me.

  “All set.”

  We drove west along Kingsway through the chill and empty night. The Regency terraces of Hove gave way to the red-brick semis of Portslade. Ian kept assiduously to the speed limit. Nothing was said. The journey stretched into the darkness beyond the amber coronas of the street lamps.

  Some time after the road veered away from the shore, he turned off into the drab hinterland of Fishersgate. We went under a railway bridge and turned west again along a residential side street, ending in the closed gates of a small industrial estate.

  “Here we are,” he announced, pulling in some way short of the gates.

  The jumble of brick-built warehouses and workshops within was deserted, the run-down look of most of them suggesting they contained no riches to make breaking in worthwhile. The close proximity of housing and the height of the fence were powerful deterrents as well.

  “You’re not going in here, are you?” I asked. “It only takes one insomniac to look out of the window…”

  “Follow me,” said Ian, opening his door. “You’ll see.”

  We set off on foot, Ian carrying on one shoulder an old rucksack, which I assumed held the bolt-cutters and any other tools he reckoned we might need. An ill-lit path led off beside the garden wall of the last house before the gates to a footbridge over the railway line, with steps down from the bridge onto the empty eastbound platform of Fishersgate station, a small unmanned halt. I lagged behind as Ian started down the steps from the bridge. The platform below us was fenced off from a strip of no-man’s-land between it and the perimeter fence of the industrial estate. But there was nothing to prevent Ian scrambling over the railings near the bottom of the steps and dropping down into the strip. He signalled for me to follow, which I did, so much less adroitly that he had to give me a hand. We were trespassing now. And we’d soon be doing a lot worse than that.

  The fence round the industrial estate was topped with razor-wire. There could be no question of climbing over it. We crouched at its base in deep shadow, listening and watching, just in case. But nothing stirred. There were no insomniacs, no late-night prowlers—other than us. Ian pointed to the warehouse whose side wall was facing us and whispered, “That’s it.” The shuttered entrance was no more than twenty rubbish-strewn yards away. He slid the bolt-cutters out of the rucksack.

  That’s when I heard the rumble of an approaching train. Ian heard it in the same moment and crouched lower, pulling me down with him. There was a spark from the conductor rail somewhere behind us, then the train was rushing past through the station, its thinly peopled carriages brightly lit. And then it was gone again, surging on towards Worthing.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ian as we cautiously raised our heads. “No-one will have seen us. And even if they did…”

  He left the thought unfinished and started at the fence with the bolt-cutters. The wire yielded easily and within a couple of minutes he’d cut a large semicircle in the mesh. He pulled it back and held it there for me to crawl through, then scrambled after me.

  We picked our way between a rusting skip and a pile of old car tyres to the front of man mountain’s warehouse. There we paused again, ears and eyes straining in the darkness. But there was nothing to hear or see. The premises around us hardly warranted guard-dog patrols. And we were out of sight of the nearby houses. I began to feel fractionally less anxious. There was clearly no-one about. Maybe man mountain hadn’t thought we might try something like this. Or maybe, it occurred to me, the warehouse was a deliberate blind.

  There was only one way to find out. Ian flicked on his torch and trained the beam on the padlocked hasp securing the wicket-door, then handed the torch to me and fastened the jaws of the bolt-cutters round the U-bar of the padlock. It put up stiffer resistance than the fence wire. Ian’s forearms shook as he strained to pierce the steel, his breath steaming in the torchlight.

  Suddenly, the steel gave. The U-bar snapped, the padlock fell to the ground and the hasp flopped forward. Ian shoved the bolt-cutters into his rucksack, flicked the hasp fully back and cautiously tried the handle below it. The door opened. He took the torch from me and stepped through. I followed, pushing the door shut behind me.

  The torch beam moved around the interior. Quite what I’d expected I couldn’t have said, but there was certainly no sign of Derek. The place looked like it had once been used for car repairs. I glimpsed an inspection ramp and a rack half-filled with tyres. Towards the rear was a small, partitioned-off office. But Derek’s face did not pop into view at the window.

  The torch beam moved back to the door. There was a panel of switches beside it. “Try them,” said Ian. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  I pushed one of the switches down. It controlled a fluorescent light fitted to one of the beams above us. The tube flickered and hummed into action. I pushed another switch, activating a second light. The shadows retreated.

  But no secrets were revealed. The warehouse was bare and dusty, ancient car-repair equipment abandoned in its corners. We stood where we were for a moment, gazing about us in search of something, anything, that might suggest we were on the right track. But there was nothing to see. And nothing to hear either. If Derek was really being held here, even bound and gagged, he’d surely have made some noise. Yet there was none.

  We moved past the office to an open door at the rear of the warehouse. Ian stepped through with the torch and almost immediately retreated, shaking his head to me. I went back to check the office, even though I could see through the window that it was empty, save for one broken-backed swivel chair. There was nothing else.

  “Looks like we’ve drawn a blank,” I murmured to Ian as I joined him in the centre of the warehouse.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You can see for yourself.”

  “He’s here. I know it.”

  “There’s no-one here except us.”

  “There has to be.”

  “But there isn’t.”

  “Hold on. What about those?” Ian pointed to a row of four steel plates, set in the concrete floor. “Covers for an inspection pit, do you reckon?”

  “Must be, I suppose.” I caught his gaze. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking we should take a look at what’s under them.”

  He moved to the rectangle covered by the plates and prised up the ring handle countersunk in the one farthest from the entrance. A gentle tug didn’t achieve anything. The plate was evidently heavier than it looked. Ian braced himself and pulled harder.

  For a shard of a second I thought some creature—a mouse maybe—had raced out from under the plate and sped towards the wall. Something certainly flew faster than my eye could follow in that direction, then straight up the wall. There was a loud cracking noise above us. I looked up and saw the descending shadow of something large and heavy. I opened my mouth to shout a warning to Ian, who was standing directly beneath it. But he’d already seen it coming and was throwing himself clear.

  Too late. With a deafening crash, a pear-shaped lump of concrete large enough to be used as a wrecking ball slammed into the floor. Ian screamed and fell, his trailing leg caught beneath it. The rope that had held the ball aloft wound down after it into the cloud of dust raised by the impact. The ball wobbled and rolled clear of Ian, then threatened to roll back again. I rushed forward and held it off him, then looked down into his white and grimacing face.

  “Jesus Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  My gaze moved to his right leg. The curvature of the ball meant his foot and knee had escaped injury, but his ankle and lower shin were a bloody pulp. The angle of his foot and the jagged spike of bone protruding through a blood-dar
kened rent in his jeans told their own story. “I can’t hold this for long,” I shouted down to him. “Can you move?”

  “Not…” He dragged himself a short distance across the floor, shuddering with the effort. “Not…far.”

  But it was far enough. I let the ball roll back into position and knelt beside him. There was sweat beading on his forehead. He was shivering, his breaths coming fast and shallow.

  “Some sort of trap,” he said, forcing the words out. “Very…fucking clever.”

  “Your leg’s a mess. Broken…and then some.”

  He nodded, absorbing the information. “Is there…much bleeding?”

  “Not so very much, no.”

  “Let me see.” Pushing himself up on his elbows, he squinted down at his leg. “Christ. That doesn’t look good.” He slowly lowered his head to the floor. “Raising the cover…released a rope. I saw it. But not…quickly enough.”

  “Me too.”

  “Safe…if you tie it off on the wall first. Otherwise…” He shook his head, willing himself to concentrate. “What’s in the pit?”

  For a moment, I’d forgotten that was what we were supposed to be finding out. I kicked the loosened cover aside and peered in. Neatly stacked plastic bags of white powder met my gaze. I pulled up the other covers to reveal more of the same. “It’s a drugs cache,” I said. “There’s a lot here.”

  “Fuck,” was all Ian managed by way of reaction.

  I knelt back down beside him. “I’m going to call an ambulance,” I said, pulling out my mobile and glancing at the wound in his leg. “There’s nothing else for it.”

  “Don’t.” He grabbed my arm. “We’ll both be arrested.”

  “We have no choice. You can’t stand up, let alone walk out of here.”

  “No. But…you can.”

  “I’m not leaving you in this state.”

  “You have to.” He coughed, wincing from the pain that must have been increasing all the time. “I’ll call the ambulance.” He thrust his free hand into the pocket of his fleece and pulled out his own mobile. “And I’ll tell the police the truth. Except…I’ll say I came here tonight…alone. I’ll say…I didn’t tell you…what I was planning to do.”

  “You think they’ll believe you?”

  “I don’t know. But…they’re likelier to…than if they have us both down…as burglars…or worse…trying to talk our way out of trouble…aren’t they?”

  “I’m not sure. There has to be—”

  “I don’t have the strength to debate it. It’s what we’re going to do. You’ll back up…my story…when the police…question you…won’t you?”

  “Of course. But—”

  “That’s good enough.” He pressed the button on his phone three times and stared up at me. “You’d better get moving.”

  The fact that leaving Ian to wait for the emergency services to show up made sense didn’t make it easy to do. He was in a lot of pain and his condition wasn’t going to improve until he got the medical attention he badly needed. But he was right. By staying, I’d only be asking for trouble. Whatever I could do to redeem the situation couldn’t be done from a police cell.

  The sirens were yowling closer through the still air when I scrambled back through the fence and hauled myself up onto the steps of the railway station footbridge. I stood at the top of the steps for several minutes as they drew closer still. The flashing lights of police car and ambulance began to strobe through the darkness beyond the rooftops of the nearby houses. They were almost there. I walked to the other end of the bridge and down the steps into the next street, dialling Ian’s number on my mobile as I went.

  “Yuh?” He sounded gruff and breathless, but alert.

  “The cavalry’s arrived.”

  “So I hear.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll make it, Toby. Don’t worry. And don’t phone again…or do anything stupid…like contacting…the hospital. OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Be seeing you.” With that, he rang off. And I hurried on into the night.

  It was a long, cold walk from Fishersgate station to the Sea Air. I had time to think, time to put what had happened into some kind of logical framework. Ian Maple would be all right, or as all right as somebody could be facing a long stay in hospital and interrogation by the police. Their first thought was bound to be that he was involved in drug trafficking. I could talk them out of that, of course, as I intended to. But they only had our word for it that man mountain was associated with Roger Colborn. Drugs and prostitution could be seen as the beginning and the end of it. We hadn’t found Derek Oswin, after all. We couldn’t even prove he needed to be found. And we certainly couldn’t prove Colborn was responsible for his disappearance. But we could put some pressure on him. We could oblige the police to ask him a few awkward questions. It wasn’t much. But it was better than nothing. Colborn had been using man mountain to do his dirty work. That was clear to me, even if it wouldn’t necessarily be clear to the police. What we’d stumbled on at the warehouse was likely to put man mountain behind bars, however, and therefore out of action. Colborn wouldn’t be able to call on him any longer. He was going to be on his own. And I was betting he wouldn’t like it.

  I trudged up Madeira Place more than an hour after leaving Fishersgate station, chilled and weary, as barely able to put one foot in front of the other as I was to piece together the consequences of our bungled night’s work. I slid my key into the door of the Sea Air and pushed it open, eager to reach the sanctuary of my room.

  Then I stopped. There was an envelope lying on the doormat in front of me. It hadn’t been there earlier. I picked it up, carried it to the hall table and switched on the light. There was no name or address on the plain brown manilla envelope, no clue as to who might have dropped it through the letterbox. The contents were bulky, sharp-edged and solid to the touch. I tore the flap open and slid them out.

  Three dictaphone microcassettes, held together by a rubber band. Not two, the number stolen earlier, but three. I snapped the band off and looked at them. They were all the same brand. There was no way to tell which two were mine and which the odd one out. Except that two had been rewound to the start of the tape. I hadn’t done that. It was as simple a message as could be devised. They’d been listened to and then discarded. Returned to me, almost scornfully.

  The third had tape wound onto the right-hand spool. Not much, but some. This was another kind of message.

  I hurried up to my room, slid the cassette into the machine and pressed the REWIND button. Within seconds, the tape was back to the start. Then I pressed the PLAY button.

  And heard Derek Oswin’s voice.

  “Hello, Mr. Flood. Sorry…about all this. I’ve got us both…into a l-lot of t-trouble. The thing is, well…I’ve been told…to say this to you. Drop it. Everything. S-s-stop asking questions. L-leave it alone.” He gulped audibly. “If you d-do that…and go quietly back to London on Sunday…they’ll let me go…unharmed. And there’ll be no danger…to Mrs. Flood. That’s all you have to do, Mr. Flood. Nothing…at all. Otherwise—”

  I poured myself some whisky and listened to the tape again. Derek sounded strained and nervous, as well he might. I didn’t feel too good myself. The glass trembled in my grasp and the whisky burned in my throat. Colborn was determined to stop me digging out the truth, because the truth had the power to destroy him. I was close to the answer, too close for his comfort. Listening to the tapes must have confirmed his worst fears, hence the change of tactics. Trying to buy me off hadn’t worked, so now he meant to scare me off. And, just in case I didn’t care what he did to Derek, there was an additional threat he could be certain I’d take seriously. To Jenny. So much for his claim to be genuinely in love with her, to be a better man because of her. Maybe he was bluffing. But he knew I’d never call his bluff. Because I do love her. I would never do anything to endanger her.

  Some time tomorrow, the police will come to me and ask me to corroborate Ian M
aple’s story. How can I do that without effectively rejecting Colborn’s ultimatum? Calling off the search for the truth is almost as difficult as going on with it. And judging what’s best is more difficult again. But I’ll go on making these recordings. That’s one decision I have made. I’ll have to take better care of them, of course. I’ll have to carry them with me to make sure they don’t fall into the wrong hands a second time. In one way, they’re a liability. But they’re also a true and accurate record of events. I may have need of that when this is all over. Colborn thinks he can force me to do his bidding. Maybe he’s right. We’ll see. But, even if he is, that may not be enough. We may have passed the point of no return. If so, doing nothing won’t be an option. For either of us.

  FRIDAY

  I was roused this morning by Eunice knocking at the door of my room and calling my name. The sleep I came out of was so deep it left me confused and woolly-headed. Memories of the day and night before reassembled themselves scrappily in my mind. I’d lain awake till God knows when, debating with myself what I should and shouldn’t have done. Then, at some point I couldn’t recall, a trapdoor had opened, plunging me into oblivion.

  “Toby, Toby,” came Eunice’s voice. “Are you awake?”

  “I am now,” I muttered, scrabbling for a sight of the alarm clock. The time apparently, was eight minutes to ten. I felt like I could have slept till noon. “What is it?” I shouted, gravel-throated.

  “There’s a couple of policemen downstairs. They want to speak to you. It’s urgent, they say.”

  They’d come, as I’d known they would, come with their battery of questions, to which I had no better or safer answers after sleepless hours of reflection than I had before. “What’s it about?” I asked, sitting up woozily and silently congratulating myself on my disingenuousness.

  “They wouldn’t tell me. Just insisted they had to speak to you.”

  “All right. I’ll come down. But…it’ll take me ten minutes or so to wash and dress.”