‘I say, PC Sissons, is it?’ he asked.
The young, ginger copper was wriggling on his waterproof. He nodded.
‘See this here…’
Finch was bare-headed and exposed to the elements. He held his wrists up. Right on cue, aided by the rain, a crimson trickle turned south towards his cuff and then splashed onto his trousers.
‘I’m in a spot of bother. Any chance you could take the right one off?’
Sissons didn’t know what to do. His superior, Coates, was locked in a heated discussion with Jennings – someone, Finch realised now, who may have been working against him. Distracted, the detective waved a hand at Sissons to say that it was okay.
‘I’ll have to cuff you to the seat,’ said Sissons, indicating a metal bar in front of them.
Finch nodded. Sissons reached for the keys.
The rain lashed harder still. It was now sweeping over in great icy sheets.
‘Jennings, I said West Carriage Drive,’ barked Coates, gripping the brim of his hat.
‘But sir, our orders were to return straight to Scotland Yard.’
Added PC Webb, ‘We go that way we’ll run straight into the traffic around Kensington. It’ll take us forever.’
Sissons took his key to Finch’s right handcuff.
‘Jennings, that’s an order. West Carriage Drive!’
‘But sir—’
‘Now!’
‘Sir?!’
It was Sissons this time.
‘Not now.’
‘SIR!’
Coates turned.
But Finch was already running through the park gate, through the torrents…
* * *
Annie tried the door. Inevitably it was locked, as was the concealed door by the fireplace. Frantically she banged on the window, but to no avail. The sashes on both the room’s windows were screwed shut. The glass appeared to be double-… triple-glazed… virtually soundproof. She whacked the panes with a marble ashtray… toughened too.
There was a cabinet against one wall. Its top half was a bookcase, containing all twenty leather-bound volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The bottom drawers were locked.
In the corner was a writing desk, a bureau. On it, and in its drawers, she found a couple of fountain pens, a bottle of ink, pencils, thick wedges of writing paper, envelopes and assorted stationery. But there was no key.
She reached into her hair, fastened up at the back, and released two pins. She went to the concealed door, set flush within the wall, complete with wallpaper and dado rail to disguise it. As she suspected, the door contained a straightforward rim lock. Calmly, but as quickly as she could, she put one hairpin into the bottom of the keyhole and moved it to the left, taking up the tension. The second pin she inserted into the round hole at the top of the lock and scratched away at the lever within.
It would open eventually, she knew. It was a matter of patience. She remembered how her brother had shown her. Some locks would give straight away. Others, like this… you would have to keep at it, scraping away until it yielded. But the lock was narrow and the pins too thick. She went back to the desk. She rummaged around. In a shallow tray drawer there were some pencils, a sharpener, a pink rubber eraser and, in their own section, some paperclips. She took two and bent them out straight. They were made of steel wire, not easy to refashion. But they were thinner than the hairpins.
She went to the door and tried again. She couldn’t get the correct purchase with the upper lock pick. It would take longer than she thought.
Knock-knock.
A rapping on the main door made her stop. She sprang back to the settee. She watched the glass doorknob turn, hastily refastened her hair and hid her new makeshift tools in her skirts.
It was a male arm that opened the door. She heard the man’s voice in the corridor and a volley of Slavic orders. Into the room, duly instructed, came a maid – a plain-looking, scrawny woman in a grey dress and white apron, probably in her thirties, who carried a tray bearing a selection of sandwiches, a small copper samovar, a plate, cutlery and tea paraphernalia.
While the door remained held open slightly, she set the tray down on the coffee table.
‘For you, Miss,’ she said, her accent heavy.
Annie wondered whether she could physically get the better of her. Charge the door. But her captors would have thought of that. Was it worth the gamble? Probably not. She still stood a better chance of getting out of there by picking the lock.
The woman, with her stooped posture and tied-back dark hair fussed over the food and arranged the crockery. She checked over her shoulder, then looked up at Annie with dark eyes.
‘I think you’ll find the Russian ham most delightful.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
Annie went to the window. There were others in the courtyard milling around the vehicle – members of staff, men in suits, women in finery. They were waving as the ambassador’s vehicle motored out through the main gates. There was a line of Metropolitan Police vehicles waiting to escort it. The sky above was dark, foreboding.
The maid left and the door was relocked from the outside.
Annie went back to the concealed door and tried her implements again. She was making good progress but then a paperclip snapped. She tried another and it broke too.
A violent shudder hit the windows. The rain was suddenly lashing hard.
One by one the paperclips failed. Unwilling to gamble the last two, she slumped on the settee. She took the cup and poured herself some black tea from the small tap on the ornate samovar.
And then she saw…
It was what the woman had said – to try the ham. For there, amid the sandwiches, poking out, just about visible beneath the thick, seeded bread, between the pink meat and the green pickles, was the head of a black latch key.
Outside, the motorised procession was moving off, the sudden downpour playing havoc with the open-topped vehicles in which police capes were donned and ambassadorial umbrellas hoisted. The wrought-iron gates swung closed quickly as the valets dashed to get back inside. Amid its escort, the polished red limousine moved down the street.
The key fitted the lock. She pushed the door open.
Her boots… She was still in stockinged feet. She snatched them up from beside the fireplace and went through. She was at the top of a long, narrow, wooden staircase that led down to ground level. Not one that switched back, but that was a continuous flight, probably concealed within a false exterior wall. It smelled of wood, damp and dust, just like a cellar.
There was no lighting. When she closed the door again, it was dark. She relocked the door by touch and pocketed the key.
There was enough light creeping round the door frame at ground level for her to just make things out. As she inched her way down her eyes grew accustomed. She felt bizarrely and momentarily like Alice, on her adventure to Wonderland. There must have been at least fifty steps. She had descended from what she calculated was the second floor.
At the bottom, she tried the handle. It was unlocked. She opened it just a thin crack. She was at the side of the building, between the embassy and the line of small fir trees screening the building next door. There was no one around. She pushed it further. She was still within the compound but there was clear courtyard between her and a small iron-railing access gate, about ten yards away. The rain pelted hard and splashed up from the cobbles.
If it were locked, she could still climb over, she thought. A couple of elderly women hurried past, arm in arm, beneath their shared brolly. A greengrocer’s wagon trundled along, laden with sodden cabbages. It was that close she could smell them.
Boots in hand, she crept along the edge of the building, stockinged feet in the puddles, the water cascading down from the overflowing guttering. There were no windows to be seen from. The only question was what lay around the corner. Would she have to run for it, or casually stroll on over? She could hear nothing. She hoped it would be the latter.
She counted down
in her head – one… two… And, on three, stepped out.
And there, standing before her, blocking her path, collar turned up, hat brim wilting and with a small automatic pistol in hand, was the lavender man.
Chapter Forty
Finch ran along the wide tree-lined avenue that led towards Kensington Palace. He was already soaked to the bone, struggling for breath, his heart beating overtime on the sheer excess of adrenalin.
The rain came in proverbial stair rods, an explosive cloudburst that had the water splashing up hard on impact with the ground, creating a foot-high veil of spray. People out for an afternoon constitutional or casually walking their dogs had morphed into huddled clumps of forlorn humanity, gathered around the tree trunks, seeking vain shelter under near leafless branches. An umbrella, blown inside out, its spokes bent, canvas ripped, cartwheeled across the path.
In his days as a runner, he had been taught how one used one’s arms as much as one’s legs – and so he pumped his fists high, swinging his elbows back and forth, in strong, defined arcs, helping to lift his body and increase his stride. But his shoes were ill-suited – too tight, hindering. The rainwater tugged at him, slowing him.
He threw a look over his shoulder. Sissons and Webb were after him. Webb was a big man and not moving well. And Sissons seemed to be in the wrong profession altogether. But they were not far behind. Detective Coates and his obstinate driver, he guessed, would be trying to intercept him by car, cutting him off at one of the park’s exits.
Finch pushed hard and, despite his physical limitations, moved fifty-plus yards ahead of the coppers. But then came the police whistle. Webb had it to his lips and was blowing furiously – bad in that it would draw attention, but good in that it would slow the policeman’s advance. Though its sound was muffled by the downpour, Finch thought he heard another echo from somewhere. It was a constable’s call to Mecca. The cry would resound from one bobby to the next.
‘Police! Stop that man!’ Webb was now yelling to no one in particular, placing too much faith in the apprehending abilities of drenched old ladies with sodden Yorkshire terriers.
Finch cut left past the Round Pond. The tight shoes were giving him cramp in his arches. And his breathing… He didn’t know how long he could sustain the pace. In an ornate, glass-panelled public shelter, children clutched toy yachts, corralled by their mothers and nannies. He needed to get out of the park. Speed dropping, he veered straight for the Serpentine. His body hurt so much, more pain simply didn’t matter.
There was an excited scampering. A drenched springer spaniel ran alongside him – white with liver markings – having abandoned its ball, and its owner, for an evidently more exciting game of chase. It barked joyfully. A man was calling it back. The dog persisted then returned.
The rain was so thick now, visibility was impaired. In the deluge, paved pathways had become rivers. Finch sloshed on. He couldn’t see the policemen any more. Had he lost them?
But then, up ahead, on the humpback bridge over the water… A helmet.
The other whistle.
Another policeman was sprinting down towards him.
‘Stop. Police!’
Finch changed direction, but this one was too fast. He was charging full pelt. Finch had lost momentum. He was struggling. The policemen’s feet thundered as he made up ground.
Come on! Push yourself!
And then… Finch was hit, hard, round the thighs – a full-on rugby tackle. Finch was slammed to the ground. The man was on top of him, trying to spin him over, to snap on the handcuffs.
The presence of a cuff on Finch’s left wrist momentarily confused him and gave Finch a precious second. He kicked hard with his right foot. With a sickening crack, Edward’s hand-made, ill-fitting shoe connected with the bridge of the copper’s nose.
The man rolled over in the mud. Finch couldn’t see for a moment, but he was on his knees, dazed, clutching his face, blood dripping between his fingers.
Finch slithered then found his feet. He was off.
‘I’ll get you, you bastard!’
The indestructible policeman staggered up, caked in brown, and was after him again.
Evasive action…
There were rowing boats in a line at the lake’s edge, loosely tethered, abandoned as people sought shelter. It was a gamble. Finch tugged free the rope on the first one, jumped on board and kicked off from the concrete surround. The boat glided out while he rammed the oars into their rowlocks. The boat was already several inches deep in rainwater.
He thought for a second of Nathan Cole and it drove him on. He pulled hard, for all he was worth, getting good traction, churning forcefully, the surface of the lake pitted, as if the heavens were raining stones.
Shit!
But the policeman didn’t follow. He was running back over the bridge to cut him off on the other side.
Finch, you idiot.
Facing backwards to row, he could see Sissons and Webb approaching from the rear. A pincer movement. They had him on either bank. But they – all of them – had made a strategic error.
He simply jumped overboard. The water was barely up to his thighs. Finch waded the few slimy yards to the far end, furthest from them, where a woman huddling with her sodden poodle merely regarded him with bemusement. He had put distance between himself and his pursuers again, now running back round the waterside paths to catch up.
Yet… as he climbed out through the sludge, he saw the black police Ford now haring over the same small bridge, then down the carriageway, the way that Coates had wanted to go originally. It screeched to a halt.
‘Finch!’ Coates was calling. ‘Don’t be a fool!’
The driver, Jennings, got out, flung the door wide and leaned on it. It could only mean…
‘Wait!’ he could hear Coates implore.
But there was an orange flash…
BANG!
…as a police revolver was discharged in his direction.
Shit!
Finch ducked. He could hear the bullet thud into a tree.
BANG!… Another one.
It clanged into a drainpipe on the pavilion.
The low building would give Finch cover. He doubled round behind it, facing back. To his left was the Gothic steeple of the macabre Albert Memorial; across the road from it, the great dome of the Albert Hall.
I need them back in the car, not chasing me on foot.
He couldn’t see the others, but they must be there, close. Sure enough, he heard more shouts, more whistles and then… thankfully… the car door slam and the vehicle screech off.
Filled with flashbacks to South Africa, Finch, heart in mouth, turned and charged across the no man’s land of the sanded bridleway that ran along the southern edge of Hyde Park. He had underestimated the heavy going, becoming bogged right down in the middle. Had PC Jennings been more patient, Finch would now have been an easy target.
The whistles were getting closer. As he extricated himself, he ran though his options. He could jump on a bus, but it was still too far and would make stops. Or…
The police whistles were nearer still. There would be others on the beat rushing to join in.
And then… a taxicab!
He climbed over the railings, nearly spearing his groin. He made a crazed dash into the road, waving his arms in the air, almost causing the horse to rear up.
‘Oi, steady on!’
He tucked the handcuffs away.
‘Sloane Square. As fast as you can. Emergency!’
The rain now was so hard, it hurt.
He heard a tinny-sounding bell and the parping of a horn.
‘Cor, what’s his game?’ asked the cabbie.
Finch looked round. The Ford had cleared the park and was less than two hundred yards behind and closing fast. The coppers pursuing on foot were now climbing over the railings after him.
‘My horse, mister. I’ll do what I can but she don’t like the rain.’
‘Please, just go!’
* * *
/>
Mordecai waited. Of all the weather conditions, this was the worst. Not just a typical London drizzle, but something biblical. Ominous. On the one hand it would slow his quarry, but it added a whole new dimension to his marksmanship. It would test his skills to the limit.
His heart jumped with every new vehicle that turned the corner into the square heading east. One, two, then three police cars. But he knew his target. It would appear soon. He had studied the vehicle at close quarters through the embassy gates – a shiny red Mercedes-Benz, German of all things. (‘We may detest their Kaiser,’ the rich man had told him, ‘but their motorcars are sublime.’) He knew every inch of its shiny metallic form and could pick out the ambassador easily.
But now he understood why the thick-necked Brute was there. He saw him again through the scope. He was nodding. At first he thought that the mission had been aborted. But surely such a decision would have been conveyed to him personally. No, it was something more fundamental. He was telling him that the car was rounding the bend. It was next…
* * *
‘Emergency!’ repeated Finch.
‘Whatever you say, boss,’ shrugged the cabbie and twitched his whip.
Had they seen him?
The forlorn, bedraggled horse trotted on and the cabbie veered right, across Knightsbridge, onto Sloane Street. Away down the Brompton Road stood the honey-hued edifice of the new Harrods department store.
The Ford was honking and ringing its bell. Finch looked back at it through the rectangle cut into the canvas. The rain drummed hard.
The car had some sort of device, a pair of mechanical wiping arms that swept back and forth across the windscreen – but they were beating in vain against this deluge. It splashed through the great puddles that had spread across the tarmacadam, beeping its way, the driver yelling at the horses and carts it was weaving around, hitting them with spray.
They passed the gardens of Cadogan Place.
‘Faster!’ yelled Finch.
The Cold North Sea Page 32