3 of a Kind (21 page)

‘What’s the point?!’ Clive lost his grip on Knightley’s sleeve and dropped another half a metre, greeted by a second shriek of horror from the crowd assembled below – either due to the impending fall or the view under Clive’s bathrobe, it was hard to tell which. ‘It’s game over, Alan! As usual, you win.’

‘Hold on, Clive …’ the detective repeated.

Security staff ran across the atrium for the lifts.

Suddenly, Jackie appeared like a vision above them, grasping Knightley’s arm with both hands.

‘Till death do us part, remember?’ she panted, bracing herself against the balcony.

‘Thanks, love,’ her ex and current husband both answered in unison.

‘Did you mean
him
?’ asked Clive.

‘Or
me
?’ asked Knightley.

Clive slipped again, screaming and grabbing hold of the belt of Knightley’s bumbag, which had the one
advantageous effect of giving Knightley his other arm back. Knightley gripped the balcony with both hands, slowly raising his chin above the rail, with the presenter still swinging from his lower section like a pendulum. Knightley managed to drag himself up and flop over into the corridor.

Jackie grabbed Clive’s hand and held him steady, until Knightley hauled his attacker the last couple of metres to solid ground, where they both collapsed in a heap. Clive lay flat on his stomach, heaving from exhaustion, then scrambled to his feet, to find Jackie standing before him.

‘Thanks for that, sweetie,’ Clive tittered, adjusting his hair.

‘Don’t mention it.’ Jackie aimed a punch and knocked him out cold.

She knelt down to find Knightley wheezing, prostrate on his back. She quickly checked his pulse. ‘Alan …?’ She bent over him, concerned, preparing to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Then Knightley leaned up and planted a kiss on her lips. Caught off guard, she responded, then stopped herself.

‘Alan!’ she said, recoiling in shock.

‘Yes?’ he replied, without apology.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

‘I just had a near-death experience. I think I saw the light.’

‘Well, we’re not man and wife any more. We haven’t been in years.’

‘If we make it out of here alive, would you be willing to reopen that case?’ he asked.

She paused, confused. ‘Do you really think this is the time?’

‘Is that a maybe?’ he pressed her.

‘Maybe.’

‘You mean, maybe it’s a maybe?’

‘You’re the detective, you work it out.’

A fire exit burst open and a team of concerned hotel security staff rushed into the corridor.

Knightley shook his head, coming to his senses. ‘You’re right, this isn’t the time. I have to find our son.’

He let go of her and she sagged, a little weak at the knees. Knightley jumped to his feet and jogged off down the corridor, leaving his ex-wife presiding over Clive’s unconscious body. Halfway down the corridor, the detective stopped and turned back. ‘One more thing,’ he called out. ‘I suggest you check out of this hotel – at once!’

‘I don’t understand,’ the head of security puffed as he reached Jackie. ‘The elevator’s not stopping at this floor. We had to break the doors down.’

‘I don’t understand either,’ she replied.

The head of security helped her to her feet, then a massive, dripping Scotsman made his way through the staff, arriving at Jackie’s side.

‘Hoots, Jax,’ Bill wheezed.

‘Bill? What happened to
you
?’ She looked him up and down.

‘Ah’ve found Bogna.’

‘You have?’

‘Aye, we were just in the shower.’

‘Well, where is she now?’

‘Doonstairs with Dougal. We’ve got to gie ootta here.’

‘What about Darkus and Tilly?’

‘Ye’ll have to leave it tae Alan. They’re all in the hands of fate noo.’

Darkus faded in and out of consciousness. Brendan Doyle towered over him – his arms and legs spread apart, as coiled and ferocious as the canine beasts that had savaged him.

‘I hold
you
responsible,
Dorkus
,’ he spat.

Darkus raised himself to his feet, wiping a rivulet of blood from his brow, but unable to stem the flow. ‘We couldn’t possibly have known that by using your phone we’d incriminate you … that Barabas King would set the dogs on you. Is that what this is about? A simple matter of revenge?’

‘Revenge?’ Doyle laughed. ‘It was the best thing that ever happened to me. It gave me a purpose. The Combination has given me a purpose.’

‘They recruited you?’

Doyle nodded.

‘To do what?’ Darkus asked.

‘To destroy you.’

‘Don’t you see … it’s all a game,’ replied Darkus. ‘This is a test of some kind. They’re manipulating all of us.’

‘I don’t care –’ Doyle kicked, planting his right trainer in Darkus’s chest and propelling him backwards across the floor. Then Doyle ran and booted him again like a football, catching him in the ribs, sending him rolling across the carpet in agony.

Darkus’s vision flashed white with pain as the intercostal muscles around his chest felt like they’d transformed into six-inch needles. Then he experienced something even more terrifying: Doyle picked him up like a child. Darkus felt his entire weight in the attacker’s hands. Doyle staggered towards the damaged section of window, then kicked at it, over and over again, forming a decent-sized hole. A fine mist of rain sprayed through the gap, on to Darkus’s face, reminding him how high they were.

Then he heard a faint noise in the corridor.

‘Doc …?’ It was his father’s voice.

‘Dad?!’ Darkus shouted back, but it was too late.

Doyle kicked once more, shattering a body-sized opening in the windowpane. Like a babe in arms, Darkus gaped up at Doyle’s neck, which was cross-hatched with scars and pulsing with blood from his exertions. It
wouldn’t have been surprising to find a Frankenstein-like screw protruding from it. Then Darkus realised: the
neck
. It was on the vital centre line. It was still vulnerable, even though the attacker was in total control. Darkus weakly formed the fingers of his right hand into a jab. Doyle started rocking back and forth, as if he was cradling him. Darkus felt one swing, then a second, knowing the third meant he was going through the window. Doyle entered the final swing, just as –

Darkus thrust his fingers upwards into the soft hollow of Doyle’s neck between the Adam’s apple and the sternum: known as the ‘jugular notch’. Darkus briefly felt his opponent’s pulse through the skin, then Doyle choked, gasping for breath and instantly dropped Darkus to the floor.

Darkus winced and painfully rolled to one side as Doyle sank to his knees, clutching his throat.

‘You’re not dying,’ the young detective explained. ‘Your windpipe is compressed and you’re losing consciousness.’

Doyle fell to the carpet, realising that Darkus was correct. This was Doyle’s last thought before descending into total unconsciousness.

Darkus dragged himself to his feet, feeling a stabbing pain in his ribs with each breath. He left his former classmate on the floor and staggered to the door.

Outside, Knightley Senior heard a persistent hammering from one of the rooms. He went door-to-door until he located it, then shouted: ‘Stand back!’

Knightley kicked hard, breaking down the door and finding his son wounded on the other side.

Knightley hugged him hard, until Darkus yelped with pain and his father let go.

‘I’ve either bruised my intercostal muscles or fractured a rib,’ Darkus noted. ‘Or both. It’ll require an X-ray to confirm the diagnosis.’

Knightley looked his son in the eyes and kissed him on the forehead. ‘But you’re
alive
!’ He spotted Darkus’s opponent out cold on the carpet, then guided his son out of the suite.

Darkus looked up and down the corridor. ‘Where’s Tilly?’

Knightley shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

Just then, a welcoming
bing
sounded from a nearby lift. They both turned to observe it as the doors slid open. But no one stepped out. The Knightleys both waited, hearing the pounding of their own hearts. The doors remained open, bidding them to enter.

The duo looked at each other, unsure what to do.

Then they jumped as a macho American voice came over a PA system in the corridor: ‘Alan, Darkus … You have entered the Winner’s Circle. Step into the elevator to claim your prize.’

‘It’s a trap,’ warned Darkus. ‘We always knew it was.’

The message repeated eerily: ‘Alan, Darkus … You have entered the Winner’s Circle. Step into the elevator to claim your prize.’

‘But is it better to run from your enemy … or to face them head on?’ asked his father.

‘For once, I believe you’re correct,’ confessed Darkus. ‘We must face them head on.’

‘Me? Correct? Can I have that admitted into evidence?’

Darkus didn’t answer, feeling the full weight of fate upon them. He stayed shoulder-to-shoulder with his father as they approached the waiting pod and stepped over the threshold. The doors quickly slid shut behind them and the lift ascended.

Darkus watched the numbers flicker, with each ascending floor bringing a sinking sense of dread. They passed the penthouse level and continued travelling upwards.

‘How high does this go?’ asked Darkus.

‘All the way to the top, I guess,’ his father responded.

The lift slowed, coming to a halt. The doors slid open to reveal a silent chamber, shrouded in darkness. The Knightleys stepped out, remaining close to each other, finding strength in numbers, even if that number was only two. Darkus tried to focus in the gloom, observing the four sides of the pyramid, meeting in an apex over what appeared to be a boardroom of some kind. The inclining windows were so high up that the only view was of thunderclouds.

Two henchmen dressed in black emerged from the shadows, holding fluorescent handheld security
scanners. They swept them over the Knightleys’ bodies, top to toe, until the devices displayed a green light, prompting the men to lower them and nod to the unseen occupants of the room.

A flash of lightning illuminated some thirty figures sitting round a long conference table in the centre of the room.

‘Hello, Alan … Darkus,’ a familiar sneer rang out, as one of the figures stood up.

‘Good evening, Presto,’ replied Knightley, recognising his outline.

Darkus watched the theatrically dressed villain lean on the conference table, his Spanish gaucho hat tipped at a jaunty angle, with a feather in the band. A set of sconce lights dimmed up around the room, to reveal the rest of the conference members, including the former British cabinet minister, the female media baron, the prominent American crime figure, and several others that Darkus recognised from web pages and newspapers, but couldn’t immediately identify. Whoever they were on any other day, Darkus knew that he was now in the presence of the shadowy organisation that had haunted his family, and the world, since before he was born.

‘Glad you could make it to our little get-together,’ remarked Presto with a high giggle.

‘So this is the Combination …’ said Darkus, more to his father than to the rogues’ gallery assembled before them.

His father nodded gravely.

‘As usual, your assumption is correct, Doc,’ Presto answered. ‘And guess what? You’re the guests of honour.’ He suppressed another giggle. ‘This is our annual conference,’ he announced. ‘Minus our former number one, Underwood, of course, thanks to your little operation on Harley Street. He’s of no use to us now.’

‘So this
was
a game all along,’ Darkus addressed the conference. ‘To get us here … now.’

Presto nodded. Knightley Senior remained tactfully silent.

‘It was Morton’s idea,’ Presto explained, referring to his boss. ‘If you ever caught him – which you did – the game would commence. And you followed the trail like obedient little mice.’ Presto made scampering motions with his leather-gloved fingers. ‘Three blind mice,’ he added, pleased with his description. ‘Creeping straight into the mousetrap.’

Darkus recalled the chain of events: ‘First Bogna goes missing,’ he noted. ‘Abducted by Sturgess, the paid actor. Then we arrive, and nearly perish in the rental car …’

‘All a test. Arranged by us,’ Presto said proudly.

‘Then we followed the clues through the desert to Survival Town, Area 51, Vegas … past Clive, and Doyle, to here,’ Darkus carried on. ‘But what if we didn’t make it? We could have failed at every turn?’

‘But you didn’t,’ Presto replied. ‘Vegas is the city of games, and you played yours so exceptionally well.’

‘But
why
…?’ asked Darkus. ‘What’s this all about?’

Presto gestured like a mime, holding a finger to his lips, suggesting he couldn’t tell. Not yet.

Darkus desperately searched his mind and his surroundings for answers. He spotted his former adversary, Chloe Jaeger, who smiled and winked cheerfully from her seat.

‘And I suppose you’re “Pam Clorr” of Clorr Entertainment,’ observed Darkus, trying to build his case.

Chloe, followed by Presto, both
shook
their heads
.

‘Wait a second …’ Darkus felt his previous hypothesis explode, his train of thought derail. He had to reassemble the pieces of the case into a new explanation for the facts. He spotted an
empty seat
at the head of the conference table. With Underwood out of action, there had to be a new head of the Combination: a new number one. ‘Pam Clorr.
Pamela Clorr
,’ he murmured, turning the name over in his mind, watching the letters separate and fall apart, before rotating like a small
constellation, reordering themselves around the orbit of a new idea.

His thought process suddenly stopped in its tracks, freezing his entire body on the spot. It was an
anagram
– something so obvious and simple, and yet so impossible to believe. The whole investigation had been a trap from the very beginning.

‘Where’s Tilly?’ he demanded of the room. ‘Where is she?’ he shouted more urgently.

No one answered.

Darkus turned to his dad, grabbing him by the arm. ‘Dad? Pamela Clorr is an anagram … of
Carol Palmer
.’