The Eyewitness (23 page)

He shuddered as he remembered how she'd punctured her wrist with the nail file. It hadn't seemed like a bluff. What had she seen that she would rather kill herself than speak about it?

As a uniformed beat policeman, Solomon had done his fair share of breaking bad news. He'd turned up on doorsteps in the middle of the night to tell mothers and fathers that their children had been killed in road accidents. He'd explained to a wife how a mugging had turned violent and her husband had been shot in the chest. Told a man that his wife had been raped, then murdered, while he was at work. Explained about drug overdoses and drunken falls and suicides on railway lines. And later, working for the International War-dead Commission, he'd broken the bad news to hundreds of grieving relatives. Almost without exception the reaction had been the same: they'd wanted to talk about what had happened, how their loved ones had died, the memories they had, the way they felt. Talking was part of the grieving process that had to be gone through before they could move on with their lives. Nicole had never talked about what she'd seen. Whatever had happened had been so traumatic that she'd blocked it out. But as far as he was aware, she had only seen her family herded into a truck. The true horror had happened hours later, far from the farm. There'd been violence at the farm, of course men had been shot and slashed with hatchets but Solomon had spoken to survivors of worse massacres and they had always been willing to talk. They'd been driven to tell him every detail, and to implore him for justice.

Nicole's silence made no sense to him.

“Inverness Terrace, yeah?” asked the cab driver.

“Yeah, but drop me in Queensway. Thanks.”

Solomon had finished the last can of beer in McLaren's fridge and there was hardly any milk left, so he spent half an hour in a supermarket stocking up with provisions. He walked back to Inverness Terrace with four carrier-bags, deep in thought. He wanted another crack at Nicole Shala. It was like questioning a suspect: even the most hardened criminal, backed up by his solicitor, could be made to talk, providing you could find the key.

Sometimes it was ego, or a desire to be understood, or an urge to contradict, but handled the right way anyone could be made to open up. They might not confess, they might do nothing but lie, but at least they would start a dialogue.

He unlocked the front door and walked slowly up to McLaren's top-floor flat. He made himself a cheese omelette and toast, drank four cans of McEwan's lager as he watched football on Sky Sport, and went to bed, promising himself that he would go round and see Nicole the next day.

Aleksei Leskov put his hands deep into his overcoat pockets and coughed. He had smoked sixty cigarettes a day during the twenty-two years he had spent as a KGB officer in Kiev, and had cut down to twenty since leaving to set up his own security company. The cough was getting worse but he steadfastly refused to visit a doctor. He didn't trust doctors. His mother had died in a Kiev hospital, from liver cancer. His father had died, under medical care, from heart disease. Leskov ignored the cough and the occasional flecks of blood on his handkerchief.

There were three men with him, men who worked for him and whom he trusted. Two were Russians and the third was from the Ukraine. They had followed the man called Richard Williams from the flat in St. John's Wood to Queensway in two cars. As soon as Williams had climbed out of the black cab two of Leskov's men had followed on foot. It had been easy. The man went to a supermarket, then walked to Inverness Terrace and inside a building that contained several flats. He didn't look round. Even if he had, he would not have spotted Leskov's men. Shortly after he had entered the building, lights went on in the top-floor flat.

Leskov had sent the Ukrainian to check the lock. It was a simple Yale. Any of his men could pick it in under a minute.

They took it in turns to watch the flat, retiring to a pub in Queensway, drinking vodka and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Leskov was on watch when the lights went out. He waited five minutes to reassure himself that the man wasn't leaving the building, then went back to the pub, bought a round of drinks, then sat and smoked and talked until the barman shouted that it was closing time. Then Leskov left with two of his men.

They'd parked the cars in a multi storey close to Whiteley's shopping centre; they threaded their way along the still-crowded pavements and up the concrete stairs to the third level. The Ukrainian opened the boot of one of the cars and pulled the rubber cover away from the spare wheel to reveal four handguns, each wrapped in a piece of cloth.

Leskov gave his men their weapons, then checked his own, a Russian-made semi-automatic, already loaded. There was a silencer for each. The men put the guns and silencers in their coat pockets and the Ukrainian slammed the boot.

Leskov briefed the men quickly. The Ukrainian and one of the Russians were to go into the flat. The second Russian was to wait on the pavement opposite the front entrance to the building. Leskov would wait at the rear. He sent the Ukrainian to deal with the lock while he and the two Russians walked up and down Queensway, looking into the windows of the packed restaurants and gift shops. Once the Ukrainian was inside he phoned Leskov, who sent one of the Russians to join him.

Leskov left the second Russian in Inverness Terrace while he walked down an alley that led to the rear of the terrace. Each block had its own neatly-tended garden. Leskov stood in the shadows and slowly screwed the silencer into the barrel of the gun.

Solomon rolled over, half asleep. His throat was dry and he groped around for the mug of water he'd left on his bedside table. His hand knocked the alarm clock on to the floor. He cursed and sat up. As he bent to pick it up he heard a metallic click from the hallway.

His first thought was that McLaren had got home, but the clicking wasn't the sound of a key being slotted into a lock. It was more persistent. Click, click, click. Solomon rolled off the bed and put his ear to the bedroom door. Click, click, click.

He pulled on a pair of jeans, opened the door and tiptoed down the hallway. The clicking was coming from the front door. As he got half-way down the hall the sound stopped. He froze, and heard muffled voices talking in what sounded like Russian.

Solomon pressed himself against the wall, his heart racing. The front door creaked open. He looked around for something to use as a weapon but the only thing within reach was the telephone.

There were more muffled voices, then footsteps. They were inside. The hallway was T-shaped: one of the small arms of the T led to the front door and the long leg to the bedroom behind him. Two steps and the men at the door would see him.

He tiptoed across the hallway to the kitchen, holding his breath. The floorboards creaked and he froze. The front door clicked shut. He stepped into the kitchen. The floor was tiled so his bare feet made no noise as he padded across to the sink. He picked up a plastic-handled bread-knife and went back to the kitchen door.

He peered carefully around the door jamb. He saw something dark, moving at waist height, and his breath caught in his throat. A gun, with a long, thin silencer.

Solomon's legs began to shake. Why was a man with a gun in McLaren's flat? Burglars in London didn't often carry guns. No one knew that Solomon was staying with McLaren. And surely anyone who was planning to attack McLaren would know that he was out of town. They'd have waited outside until they were sure he was at home.

A floorboard creaked. Solomon gripped the knife so tightly that his knuckles cracked. He forced himself to relax. They weren't burglars and they weren't there for McLaren. That meant they could only be after him, but who knew where he was staying? Only Diane. And Chuck Miller in Sarajevo. A few of McLaren's friends. Certainly no one who would want to do him any harm.

Solomon knew that a knife would be no match for a gun. Or guns. There were at least two men in the flat and Solomon doubted that only one would be armed. Two men, two guns. His best chance was to phone the police but there was no way he could use the phone in the hall, and his mobile was in the back bedroom.

He heard footsteps moving slowly down the hallway. Solomon stepped back into the kitchen. He had only seconds in which to decide what to do. He could stay hidden in the kitchen and gamble that they would go straight to either the main bedroom or the back bedroom. If they went past the kitchen, he stood a chance of running for the door and reaching it before they started shooting. But if they checked the kitchen, they'd have him cold.

His only other option was to confront them in the hallway. He'd have the advantage of surprise, but that was all.

Another creaking floorboard. And a sniff. Sweat was pouring down Solomon's back but his mouth was so dry he could barely swallow.

Russians. It had to be the agency. They must have followed him from Nicole's flat. He dropped to a crouch and moved to the kitchen door, his ears straining for any clue as to how far the men had moved down the hall. He glanced at the knife. It was more than a foot long with a serrated edge, designed for slicing, not stabbing. His eyes sought something else he could use as a weapon. There was a wine rack under the kitchen table and he pulled out a bottle of champagne. Then stood up at the side of the door.

Another creak of a floorboard. The silencer appeared in the doorway, pointing towards the bedroom.

Solomon stepped out of the kitchen and brought the bottle down hard on the man's wrist. The man screamed and the gun clattered to the floor. Solomon brought the bottle up again. The two men in the hallway stood still. They were both big men in long, dark coats. The one Solomon had hit was the bigger, with wide shoulders and a close-cropped haircut that emphasised the bullet shape of his head. The second man had a more angular face. He raised his gun and pushed the first man to the side to give himself a clearer shot.

Solomon threw the champagne bottle at him. It spun through the air and smacked into his face. The man staggered back with blood streaming from his nose. The first was bending down to retrieve his gun. Solomon brought his knee up hard and felt the man's nose break as his head jerked back, but the man had the gun in his hand again. Solomon slashed at him with the knife but it glanced off his sleeve. He slashed again, going for the throat, but the man fell backwards and the blow missed.

The men were blocking the hallway so he couldn't get to the front door. He turned and ran back to his bedroom. As he reached the door, he turned and threw the bread-knife at them, then slammed the door and pushed the bed against it. He knew that it wouldn't stop the two men and the door panels were thin so a bullet would pass straight through. He picked up his mobile phone and tapped out nine-nine-nine, but he'd barely pressed the third nine before a bullet slammed through the door in a shower of splinters and embedded itself in the wall next to the window. There was surprisingly little noise.

Solomon pressed himself into the corner and put the phone to his ear. It was ringing, unanswered. Another bullet thwacked through the door. Solomon heard muffled voices.

“I'm phoning the police!” he shouted.

“Can you hear me? I'm calling the police!”

Another shot. A bullet smacked into the wall by his head. The phone continued to ring out.

Something banged into the door hard enough to jolt the bed. Solomon didn't know if it was a foot or a shoulder, but it was a heavy enough blow to push the bed several inches across the carpet. He pushed it back, tucked the phone into his jeans, bent down and rushed over to the window. He ripped open the curtains and tried to pull up the lower sash. It wouldn't move.

Again the door smacked into the bed, which scraped across the carpet. He kicked it back, then tried the window again. The muscles in his arms screamed with pain. Then he realised that there was a lock at the top of the window. He didn't have the key.

There was another heavy blow to the door, the top panel bowed in and the bed moved several inches.

“The police are on the way!” shouted Solomon. He pushed the bed back against the door.

There was a short silence, followed by a whispered conversation. Then nothing. For a moment Solomon thought they'd gone, but then there were four rapid gunshots, the sound of splintering wood and the window exploded in a shower of glass.

Solomon grabbed for his mobile. A woman was on the line, asking which service he wanted. He shouted his address down the phone then shoved it back into his pocket and headed for the window. He used a pillow to push out the remaining shards of glass. Behind him, shoulders pounded against the door. Solomon put the pillow on the bottom of the window frame and looked out. There was a cast-iron drainpipe some three feet to the left of the window. If he leaned out he'd be able to grab it and climb down the three storeys to the ground.

He swung his legs through the window and reached for the drainpipe. The door pounded again and the bed moved a good six inches across the floor. A gun appeared in the gap. A bullet slammed into the wall by the window.

Solomon grabbed for the drainpipe, his bare feet scrabbling against the wall. The bricks were damp, his feet slipped, and he took all of his weight on his arms. He pushed his knees against the bricks, then managed to get his feet up. He began to move down the drainpipe, hand over hand, trying to keep his arms outstretched so that his weight forced his feet against the wall.

He heard the door being hammered and he moved faster, scraping his knuckles against the bricks. He was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding. He passed a window on his left. The second floor. He looked down. Twenty-five feet. Maybe more. Below was a concrete patio and beyond it a small lawn that ran up to a brick wall.

In the distance he heard a siren. He couldn't tell if it was a police car, a fire engine or an ambulance, but part of him knew it was too soon for the police to have reacted to his call.

Above him he heard the door crash open. Solomon continued to scramble downwards, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then he realised that the texture of the pipe had changed: it was plastic rather than cast iron. A second later, it ripped away from the wall and he fell backwards.