Red Crystal (62 page)

The gun was pulled away from his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the barrel travelling down over his stomach.
Down
.

He stared in horror.

Dear God, she was going to kill him in stages. The pain. And it would take a long time to die
.

She was putting the gun barrel into the water. On to his flesh.

He closed his eyes, crying to shut out the wall of fear. Then, through the panic, a part of his mind rallied.
Say something! Something to distract her!

What was it
she’d
said? Some words echoed in the back of his mind. He clutched at them.
I didn’t want to go without attending to you
.

Sure that even now it was too late, he babbled, ‘
You can’t go!
’

‘What do you mean!’ She gave a nervous contemptuous laugh. ‘I’ll go just as soon as I’ve finished with
you
, bastard!’

He took a few deep breaths. He had her attention. He said more steadily, ‘They know all about it.’

There was an electric silence.

‘Know –
what
?’ Her voice was high-pitched and unsteady.

‘You’re meeting a courier. Tomorrow at two. In St James’s Park.’

Nick gave it a moment, then risked a slight turn of his head.

She was staring through him, grey with disbelief. She looked very different: ravaged, drawn, older. She stood back, letting the gun barrel fall slightly.

She hissed, ‘
How?
’

He made his voice more relaxed. ‘A tip-off. From Paris.’

‘
Paris?
’

She seemed to dissolve before his eyes, swaying slightly, her shoulders falling forward.

‘
Who in Paris?
’

He must be careful here; she mustn’t know the truth or his instincts told him she’d kill everyone in sight including herself. He said, ‘I don’t know.’

The gun came up and jammed into his temple again. ‘
You do! Tell me!
’

‘The courier! The courier was a traitor!’

She breathed, ‘The
courier
! I don’t understand …’

He said quickly, ‘I’ll offer you a deal. I’ll get you out of the country in return for my life.’

The gun was pulled away from his temple. He turned and looked straight at her. He had to make her believe him. He repeated, ‘I’ll get you out.’

At last she seemed to absorb what he had said. She shook her head. ‘I could never trust you!’

‘Why not? It’s a fair deal. I’ve only got my job to lose and I’ve lost that already.’

‘Your job?’ she asked vaguely.

‘Of course. Because of you.’

She was hardly listening. She was clutching her forehead, a deep frown of concentration on her face. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came.

Suddenly she exclaimed, ‘No! You bloody bastard! You’ll try to trick me! You’re a pig, just another pig!’ Her mouth was screwed down at the corners in an ugly grimace. ‘You’re out to kill me. Just like the rest! You think you have the right to persecute and rape and
humiliate
people.’

He thought: She’s mad.

What should he say next? He wasn’t sure any more.

He ventured, ‘I know ways of getting out of the country. Places where they don’t check too closely—’

‘
Where?
’

‘The Liverpool-Belfast Ferry. Once in Northern Ireland it’s easy to get into the Republic. From Dublin you can fly to lots of places.’

She glared at him with an expression of deep uncertainty. He wished she would believe him: it was undoubtedly the safest route.

She whispered, ‘What about papers? A passport?’

‘Surely your friends can get you one. Send it to Dublin?’

‘And money?’

‘I can get some. Take a chequebook anyway.’

‘Transport?’

‘There’s a friend’s car that I often borrow.’

‘How do I know it isn’t a police car?’

‘There’s no radio in it.’

She nodded slowly, the fear beginning to recede from her eyes. She appeared to be coming round to the idea.

‘Why do
you
need to come along? Why shouldn’t I go
alone
?’

Nick thought: Because if you leave me here, you’ll leave me dead. But aloud he said, ‘You’ll need someone to drive you on to the ferry in Liverpool. They’ll be watching it. And again, possibly, at the Irish border.’

‘But they’ll have missed you by then!’ she accused. ‘They’ll be looking for you too!’

‘Not if I phone and say I’ve got flu.’

Suddenly she laughed nervously. ‘I like the idea of you getting me out. It seems
right
somehow. After all, you got me into this mess.
Bastard!
’

He tried to make light of it. ‘It was my job—’

‘That’s what the SS used to say when they sent the Jews to the gas chambers.’

‘I never meant to harm anyone …’ It was a nonsensical remark. But anything to keep the conversation going.

There was a shrill jangling.

They both jumped.

The telephone rang again.

It would be Conway.

Gabriele was pointing the gun at him again.

He said quickly, ‘If I don’t answer they’ll know there’s something wrong.
They know I’m here!
And it would be a good time to tell them I’ve got flu!’

She seemed to be thinking frantically, her eyes darting from side to side. Finally she shouted, ‘All right!
All right!
But one –
one
– wrong word and I’ll blow your head off.’

The phone kept jangling.

Nick climbed slowly out of the bath. Gabriele retreated a little, both hands on the rifle. His flesh crawling, Nick walked carefully out of the room. He felt Gabriele taking up station behind. He advanced to the phone and stood dripping in front of it. She nodded. He picked it up. As he put the receiver to his ear the gun jabbed into his temple.

Conway’s cheery voice said, ‘What were you doing – getting well earned rest or something?’

‘Having a bath.’

‘About time too. Anyway, here’s the latest. The ID in Earl’s Court looks a little more positive. She had a holdall which tallies with the one she was carrying when she left the flat in Chelsea Manor Street. I’m going up there now. Wanna come along?’

‘No, I’m too tired, old boy. In fact I’m not feeling too well. Flu or something. I think I might have to crash.’

‘What’s with this “old boy” business? You gone posh or something?’

Nick said coldly, ‘No. Er – when are we due back on duty?’

‘God – don’t ask me!’ Conway exclaimed. ‘Since when did we ever work
hours
?’

‘Oh. Seven o’clock, was it?’ Nick nodded gravely.

‘What on earth? You’re not making any sense, old mate. Don’t tell me,’ Conway exclaimed conspiratorially, ‘you’re otherwise engaged! Why didn’t you
say
so?’ He chuckled, already losing interest. ‘Don’t know how you find the energy.’

Nick’s heart sank. The gun jabbed into his head. She was signalling angrily. He had a last attempt. ‘Look – can you get Andrews to fill in for me tomorrow?’

There was a short silence. Nick could almost hear Conway working things out. Nick thought: Come
on
. Come
on
.

‘Who the hell’s Andrews?’ Suddenly Conway got on to the right track. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘No, not in the slightest,’ Nick said casually. ‘Bye. Got to go now.’

Nick put the phone down. He noticed his hand was shaking. For something to say, he murmured, ‘I got rid of him as quickly as I could.’

‘Who was it?’ she demanded.

‘A colleague.’

‘How do I know you haven’t warned him?’

‘You heard what I said—’

‘Get dressed! We’re going this minute!’

Nick thought: Conway, dear plodding Conway. Please understand. May God beam down a great shaft of illumination upon your brain.

O
LD BOY, INDEED.
Conway thought: Huh!

But then it had been a strange conversation all round. Ryder was obviously overtired. What
had
he meant with that seven o’clock business? There was no chance that Conway was going to be around at seven the next morning. He was going to be in his bed, snoring loudly, and nothing but nothing was going to get him up any earlier.

Besides, like he’d said, when did they ever have fixed hours? And Andrews? Who the hell was he? Perhaps there was someone of that name in Kershaw’s team. Because there certainly wasn’t in Special Branch. Or was there?

Conway couldn’t think straight any more. No sleep. Bad food. Small brain. He left his office and went to the nearest coffee machine. Blasted coffee. Never knew if it was going to do you any good. He sipped at it. It tasted like old cardboard. Or maybe that was the cup.

He went back to his desk and started sifting through some papers.

After a moment he gave up. It was no good. That conversation kept coming back into his mind. It worried him.

Why would the presence of a woman make Ryder sound so strange? Even allowing for the astonishing possibility that, after a week without sleep, Ryder was capable of a romantic evening?

And that proper tone. The ‘old boy’. It wasn’t in character. Normally, he would have expected Ryder to give him a polite ‘Sod off’ or something similar. After all, they were good friends.

And why, in their earlier phone call, had Ryder asked Conway to call back if he knew he was going to be busy?

Finding a piece of plain paper, Conway jotted down what he remembered of the conversation. Then he underlined the remarks that had seemed strange. Particularly that one when he’d asked: Everything all right? And Ryder had answered: No, not at all. Or was it: No, not in the slightest.

That damned seven o’clock.

What
could
he have meant?

He looked at his watch. It was seven. In the evening.

Now
.

He should ring back.

He reached for the phone, then hesitated.

Extremely nasty thoughts had whistled into his mind. And if they were in the slightest bit right, then the last thing he must do was call back.

Getting hastily to his feet, he grabbed the piece of paper and made for the stairs at a run.

He could be making a fool of himself, of course. This might be the largest dose of egg that he’d ever got splattered on his face. But better that than—

Anyway, he had a feeling about this one.

It took a moment for him to identify what it was that made him so sure. Then he had it.

It wasn’t just the oddness of the answers, nor even that dreadful ‘old boy’. It was that appalling politeness. Not Ryder, not Ryder at
all
.

Nick dressed as slowly as possible, but even then he couldn’t draw it out for longer than five minutes. She watched his every move, getting increasingly impatient. He tried making conversation but she silenced him with a motion of the gun.

As he picked up his wallet she demanded, ‘How much is there?’

He counted the notes. ‘Fifteen pounds.’

‘
God!
That’s not going to get us very far, is it!’

‘I
told
you, I’ve got a chequebook.’ Immediately he realized he’d used the wrong words and the wrong tone. She wouldn’t like remonstrations. He braced himself.

‘I
know
you’ve got a bloody chequebook!’ she said furiously. ‘But is it going to
work
? What happens when we try to get cash? They’ll phone your
bank
, and then they’ll know
exactly
where we are!’ She paused for breath. ‘Give me a jacket!’

He found an old denim one and threw it across the floor to her. Picking it up, she draped it over the rifle. ‘Now where’s this car?’

‘It’s usually parked further up the road, outside the friend’s house.’

‘Will it
be
there?’

‘He only uses it at weekends.’

‘What about keys?’

‘I have some. They’re in the hall drawer.’

She gestured him into the hall. She said, ‘Pull the drawer out slowly and empty the contents on to the floor.’

He did so and the keys fell out, followed by a flurry of papers and library tickets.

Slowly he bent down and picked up the keys.

‘Have you got a gun?’ she demanded suddenly.

He shook his head.

She gave a short laugh. ‘What, not even to use against dangerous terrorists?’

‘There’s a firearms squad. They’re specially trained …’

‘Okay. Let’s go.’ She waved the gun in the direction of the door, and stepped back. She was no fool. She always kept her distance when he was about to move. Not that he felt like being brave. Not yet anyway.

As he opened the front door he tried to think of a reason to delay her.

He said, ‘I might have some more money in the bedroom. I’m not sure …’

She was instantly suspicious. ‘Get out!’

He almost argued, but sensed it wouldn’t be wise.

As he stepped into the hall the gun jabbed into his back.

He tried to work out how long it would take to reach the car. No more than three minutes. Even if there
was
a team on the way they’d never get here in time.

Hopeless.

They began down the stairs. There was a sound from below. They both stopped dead. There were noises of doors opening and closing, then silence. The occupant of the ground-floor flat. They started down again, passing the first-floor landing, down to the ground floor.