Safe House (28 page)

A period of between three weeks and two months was a relatively long time for a public locker to be in use. I’d seen the girl in the yellow T-shirt checking the changing cubicles in the swimming pool. Maybe they checked the lockers as well. Maybe the staff carried out an audit of all the lockers that stayed locked after closing time. Maybe if a particular locker stayed locked for too long it was opened with a master key and the contents were junked or placed in lost property and a new lock and key was fitted so that the locker could be used again.

I thought that made sense. And if so, I might really be screwed. Because I doubted the staff organised the lost property by locker number. They probably just kept it in one big pile. And since I didn’t know what it was I was looking for, I couldn’t just wander up and ask for the property in question to be returned to me.

I looked at the key some more. Then I sighed and picked up my holdall and retraced my steps as far as the bottom of the stairs. I walked through the door marked
Gym
and found myself in a small anteroom with a deserted wooden counter. The counter had an open appointment book laid out on it. A biro had been attached to the book with a length of string and Sellotape. I scanned the left-hand page. According to the book, there were four people inside the gym.

I passed into the corridor beyond and heard the pulse and thump of workout music. Fast. Energetic. Coming from the floor above.

I was all set to enter the male locker room when I stopped in my tracks. I was an idiot. I’d almost overlooked the most basic of things.

If Laura had given Lena the key, the chances were it wouldn’t open a locker in the men’s facilities. It would be next door. In the
women’s
changing room.

Chapter Forty-one

I listened from outside the door to the women’s locker room. It was hard to tell if there was anyone in there. I decided it was best to just open the door and try my luck. If there was someone inside, I could act like I’d made a mistake. It wouldn’t be hard to do.

I opened the door and entered with my head down. There were no screams or squeals of complaint. I raised my eyes. Nobody there.

Part of the floor was tiled. The rest was covered in black plastic matting. There were slatted benches against the wall and clothes hooks above the benches. There were toilet and shower cubicles away to my left. A bank of lockers ahead of me. Not many. Sixty at most. There was a number 36. It was down on the floor and it was shut fast. There was no key in the lock. I dropped my holdall to the floor and went down on one knee. My key eased inside no problem at all. I turned it to the right and heard the clatter of a coin dropping inside the mechanism. I pulled on the key and the door swung back without any resistance.

There was only one item inside the locker. A computer memory stick. It was purple and about the size of a lipstick canister. There was a label stuck to one side. It had my sister’s handwriting on it.

For Rob. 9A13D21A.

I looked hard at the writing. It was like a message from another lifetime. A precious artefact that might never have been discovered. I wondered how long ago Laura had written my name on the label. I wondered if she’d ever truly believed that it would find its way to me.

But the ladies’ locker room was no place to linger. I needed to get to a computer and see what was on the memory stick. My laptop was gone but Mum had a desktop PC in her office. If I timed it right, I could use it without being disturbed.

I unzipped my holdall and dropped the memory stick inside and was just in the process of standing when the door to the locker room swung back.

A man filled the doorway.

He was the bald-headed gent I’d seen upstairs. He scanned the room quickly, then stopped with a jerk when he saw me. He looked from my face to the open locker to my holdall. He stared at the holdall very hard. Then he slipped a hand inside the back pocket of his grey suit trousers and showed me some kind of ID.

‘Security services,’ he said. ‘Step away from the bag.’

I didn’t move. Didn’t flex a muscle.

‘Security services.’ He jabbed his ID at me like it was a weapon. ‘Sir, I need to see what’s in the bag.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I said.

‘Give it to me.’ He flipped his billfold closed and stuffed it back inside his pocket.

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

He checked over his shoulder, then took a step inside the room. The door swung closed behind him.

‘I told you. Security services.’

‘British government?’

He nodded. Edged towards me, his shoes squeaking on the tiles.

‘This is the Isle of Man,’ I told him. ‘You don’t have authority here.’

‘Hand me the bag.’

I flattened myself against the wall of metal lockers behind me.

‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re the brother. What did she give you?’

‘Back up, old man.’

He paused. He was gauging the distance between us. Gauging me. He was assessing our comparative sizes. Not too difficult to spot the differences. He was giving away a few inches in height. A stone or so in weight. Maybe twenty-five years in age. Set against that was the arm I had in a sling, under my hoodie. Two arms against one could compensate for a lot of disadvantages.

Then two things happened very fast. His right arm bent at the elbow and he reached his hand inside his jacket. And I dropped the holdall and pushed off from the bank of metal lockers and launched myself across the room.

I crashed into him, jolting my ribs, and drove with my legs to push him back towards the door. The door opened inwards. No give in it now. It was as good as a wall. His head whiplashed against the wood, bending his lower spine the wrong way against the handle. My busted shoulder flared with pain.

His hand was squirming inside his jacket. He was still reaching for whatever he had in there. I pinned him with my weight. With my arm in the sling. We were both one-handed now.

I have size twelve feet. They’re good and solid. I lifted my right foot in the air and stamped it down on his toe. He yelled. I held him up. Then I stomped on him again. This time, I stepped away and he buckled at the waist. His head came down. My knee came up. It hit him full in the temple.

I moved aside and let him fall. He was groaning but his hand was coming out of the jacket. Something heavy in it. Something black. The butt of a gun. It was all I needed to see. I lifted my foot and drove down on his elbow like I was aiming to stamp a spike into the ground. There was a moment of resistance, then his hand bent badly against the floor with a loud
snap
and his elbow rolled and he tumbled round after it, screaming wildly. Not good for his hand, I didn’t think. Not good for his elbow.

I stepped back and fumbled in the pocket of my jogging trousers. My hand came out with the can of pepper spray Rebecca had given me. I flicked off the cap with my thumbnail and let him have it. The spray wasn’t a fine mist. It was a brown liquid squirt. It spattered his forehead. His eyes. His nose.

He yowled and clasped his hand to his face. Tried to use the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the fluids away.

I stood there panting for a moment, watching him suffer. The moment was short. I didn’t want to be found with a man in agony on the floor in front of me. I didn’t want to be detained with the memory stick. I had no way of knowing if my attacker was working alone or if he had back-up somewhere.

I dropped the spray canister and grabbed my holdall. I hauled back the door and hurried away from the gym.

The rear exit of the sports centre looked clear. I burst through and climbed the perimeter railing and jogged across the running track and the athletics field. I checked over my shoulder. Nobody behind me. Nobody following. I was breathing hard. It was difficult to run with the holdall in my hand and my other arm in the sling. My shoulder ached. My ribs throbbed. My lungs burned. I was trembling with fear and adrenalin. My bruised leg felt numb and aimless.

I crossed the far side of the running track. Slowed as I approached my van. I staggered forwards and pointed my keys. The indicator lamps flashed. I opened the driver’s door and drew back my arm to toss my holdall inside. But the holdall was snatched from me. Unseen hands seized the back of my neck and the top of my head and drove my skull into the side of the van. There was a fierce, splintering pain in my head.

Then there was nothing at all.

Chapter Forty-two

Lena had been thinking very carefully about the tinted window and the soundproofing. She’d been analysing the properties of the single pane of glass and the soft foam tiles. She’d been comparing and contrasting their weaknesses and their strengths. She’d formed the conclusion that they were just about the best combination of materials she could possibly have hoped for.

The textured foam was perfect because it did exactly what it was designed to do. It trapped noise. It literally sucked soundwaves inside its millions of tiny porous openings. It absorbed sound completely.

She could vouch for how good it was because she couldn’t hear anything outside her room. No traffic noise. No aeroplane engines. No neighbourly commotion. And not the slightest peep from the man who was guarding her.

The man wasn’t a fan of classical music. On her way back from the bathroom, as he handed her a plastic bottle of water and a dry croissant on a paper plate, she noticed that he’d retuned the radio to a sports discussion show. That made her think that the two men were minding her in shifts. Taking turns. But now that the door had been closed and locked behind her, she couldn’t hear a sound from the radio or the man. Not a thing. She could have been in a cave deep underground. She could have been at the bottom of the ocean.

And it stood to reason that the effect worked both ways. It had to. The foam tiling was there to stop her screaming for help. To swallow all kinds of noise. The type she might be expected to make. And the type she might not.

The window was different. The window was fulfilling a role it hadn’t been intended to perform. It had been adapted to the requirements of the room. First, the original fixture must have been taken away. The original fixture would have been installed with hinges so that it could be opened to allow fresh air inside. That was no good. The new window had to be a solid sheet of glass. That way, whoever was inside the room at any given time couldn’t drop a note to the street below, or wave an arm outside in the hope of alerting someone to their plight.

Second, before the replacement glass was installed, the exterior surface had been covered in an opaque adhesive film. This was a back-up move. It was intended to stop anybody looking inside from another tower block and seeing what the room was being used for. And it was designed to make it very hard for a prisoner to signal through the glass to the wider world. The wall switch for the electric bulb in the middle of the ceiling had been installed outside the room for the exact same reason.

Lena could see the appeal of the film. She could understand the logic behind its use.

But she could also appreciate its weaknesses.

She guessed that the film had been applied to the glass many years ago now. The window was single-glazed, and that probably made it at least fifteen years old. The film would have been pressed down tight and smoothed around very deliberately to prevent air bubbles forming. Then the whole thing had been installed in the window frame with the film on the outside so that a prisoner couldn’t peel it away. It had been subjected to years of sunshine and wind. Over time, the sun and the wind would have dried the bonding agent between the film and the glass. The molecules themselves would have knitted together until it was almost impossible to tell where the glass ended and the film began.

And the film was still sticky. Yes, it had peeled away in the top left corner, but nowhere else. In fact, Lena was of the opinion that the film was probably responsible for stopping the hairline crack in the glass from spreading very far.

The sticky film and the hairline crack were going to help her. They were exactly what she needed.

Lena was finally ready to act. She’d done all the thinking she would ever need to do. She gathered up the duvet in the pink coverlet and spread it out as best she could and held it up against the window with her good hand. The duvet draped downwards over her wrist in a rough triangle. That was OK. She really only needed it to cover the middle of the glass because she figured that would be the weakest point.

She took one step backwards from the window and placed all her weight on her back leg. She turned her foot sideways on, so that it would give her a better foundation. Then she lifted her front leg in the air and practised the move. When she was satisfied with her balance and her positioning, she drew a sharp breath and clenched her teeth and lashed out fast. She kicked as high as she could. As hard as she could. She felt the glass crack right away. She felt the flex and the resistance of the film. She tottered backwards and placed a little weight on her front foot and marvelled at how well the duvet had smothered the pain in her heel and muffled the noise of the glass breaking. She was as sure as she could possibly be that the man wouldn’t have heard a thing.

A starburst of splintered glass was adhering to the film, exactly as she’d planned. Not a fragment had dropped. There was no way it could have gone better. The shards were long and jagged and just waiting to be plucked free. She wrapped the duvet round her hand and set to work.

*

Menser was in severe discomfort. Unremitting agony. He’d staggered as far as a shower cubicle. Shut and bolted the door behind him. Fumbled for the cold feed and stuck his head beneath the icy flow, letting it douse his skin. The sudden cold was like a fearsome slap but warm water would be no good – he needed to close his pores, not open them.

He hugged himself tight and blinked furiously, ignoring for the moment what the brother had done to his wrist. He was blinking because he knew his tears would help to flush the chemicals from his eyes. His skin was burning very badly. It was itching intensely. That was why he was clutching himself so hard. If he let go, the temptation to scratch his face would overcome him again. He’d spread the contaminant around. Force it into his skin. Make the pain a lot worse.