Cell (29 page)

She began exercising. Drawing her knees up into a pyra
mid, forcing herself to do that twenty times. The exercise
was seeming easier. Now for her hands. She clenched and unclenched her fingers thirty times. She worked her arms,
drawing them up, pressing them down another thirty times.
She thought of using the knife to weaken the ropes tying her
hands, rejected the idea. He hadn't tested the rope yet, but
he might do when he returned.

She had worked out two options for dealing with him,
according to the circumstances. One essential was to make him lose his temper, that cold-blooded control she'd seen in
those eyes. What had worked wonders for her were the two
glasses of water, removing the dehydration. Earlier, for a short time, she had experienced a sensation of overwhelming despair. Now she was feeling a sense of cold fury, an
urge to kill if necessary. That was what they had planned
for her.

Then an alarming thought occurred. Supposing he came
back with someone else? She could never tackle two of them. Maybe she did need the Beretta. No, she couldn't
risk the noise of two shots. She relaxed as she heard
the rusty key turning in the door. A matter of life or
death.

He came back alone, repeated the same drill, locking
the door on the inside, leaving the key in the lock. No
more water this time. As he came over to the bed she
blinked, hoping to hide her drastic change of mood. He
sat down again.

'I am Mohammed. So you know who you are talking to. Best to be polite, friendly. What does Tweed know about us?'

He'd thrown the question at her without warning. This
was going to be different. She looked puzzled. His right
hand reached forward, stroked her face, then suddenly
slapped her with such force her head jerked sideways. Her
controlled cold fury was not disturbed.

'Who is us?' she asked quietly.

'Who is he investigating?'

'How would I know?'

'I'll cut your face to ribbons. No man will ever want to
look at you again.'

The same smooth voice. No emotion. In his right hand
he held a large curved knife. He raised it, the tip close to
her face.

She broke down. Her expression betrayed hideous fear.
She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. She
swallowed. She opened her mouth again and this time she
spoke in a shaky voice.

'I will tell you everything I know. Give you all the
information I have. But please . . . please . . . put that
knife away. My brain is locked. Put the knife away.'

He lifted the back of his T-shirt, slipped the weapon back inside the hidden scabbard. She sat up straight. Mohammed
leaned closer to her, his eyes staring into hers. Now was the moment. As she'd sat up her right hand had slipped underneath her thigh, had grasped the stiletto-like knife.
She leaned closer, rammed the knife into him, between his
ribs, with all her force.

For a moment he couldn't believe it. He glanced down
at the handle protruding from his body, then he let out an agonized groan as blood spurted, poured down over his
T-shirt. It was a large bed and she had been dumped on the side nearest the door, leaving half the bed unoccupied. She
heaved her whole body upwards, lifting him, then swung
sideways. They ended up with his body on the unoccupied
area with her on top of him, her knee pressing the knife
in deeper. Both her hands, close together, grasped him
round the throat, pulled him towards her then shoved
him backwards. One side of his head struck the plaque, the other side crashed into the stone wall. She heard an
unpleasant sound
-
bone breaking against the stone. He
lay motionless.

Still kneeling on him, she used her knife, jerked savagely
from his body, to sever the rope round her wrists, then the rope pinioning her boots. She was free. She was about to jump off the bed when she stared. Where one side of his head had struck the plaque there was a large hole, maybe three feet wide. The plaque had disappeared. She realized it was hinged, opened inwards.

She wiped her knife clean on the coarse duvet she had
lain on, climbed off, slithered under the bed, found the flashlight which had clicked off. She turned it on, stood on her side of the bed and peered down into a tunnel.

She was startled by what she saw in the light's beam.
A few feet below her was a stationary flatbed trolley on
wheels. It was perched on a narrow rail line. She aimed the
light down the tunnel, which was oval, built out of stone,
sloping downwards until it reached a point where the angle of the rails became steeper. She switched off the flashlight
and closed her eyes to accustom them to the dark. In the
distance she saw a blurred glow, circular in shape, the end closed off with a wire screen. Presumably for ventilation.

She had a brief thought that the escape route was via the
heavy door Mohammed had entered by. The key was still on
the inside of the lock. She rejected the thought. Attempting
that route, she would probably run into a gang of armed thugs. She dropped through the three-foot wide opening
on to the trolley. It remained stable as she landed, bending
her knees, relieved to find them working normally.

Switching on the flashlight, she examined the contents
of the flatbed. Again she was startled. Old bound books
covered with mould.
Tom Jones, Vanity Fair,
etc. Old
technical manuals on how to fly a jumbo jet, each one torn in two. It was a rubbish trolley - their method of
getting rid of what was no longer needed. So where was
the dump? Presumably beyond the end of the tunnel.

She took the precaution of easing the Beretta out of her
boot, pushed the weapon firmly down inside her denims, leaving the handle protruding. There was a large lever
protruding from the side of the trolley. Taking hold of
it, she moved it forward slowly. The trolley began sliding
forward. Downhill. She pulled the lever back and the trolley
again became stationary. She had only pushed it forward
half-way.

She settled herself in a seated position after making a
space by pushing aside the rubbish. Then she pushed
the lever forward and she was moving slowly downhill.
In the space she had cleared she saw a large red stain which she was sure someone had attempted to clean.
Blood.

The cold was intense. As she approached the section
where the line became a steeper gradient, she pulled the lever back, stopped the trolley moving. She aimed the flashlight at the bottom of the tunnel. The exit was barred
by the screen of strong-looking wire. She would never get
out past that. She felt she must escape quickly. As if to confirm her fears, she heard the distant sound of voices echoing down the tunnel. She looked back and her vision was hit by a blinding searchlight.

'Damn you all to hell,' she said under her breath.

She aimed the Beretta. One bullet did the trick. Above
the eerie echo of her bullet she heard glass shattering. The
searchlight went out. She swivelled sideways off the trolley
into a narrow space between the rail and the wall of the tunnel. Her hand reached out, grasped the lever, shoved it
forward as far as it would go. The trolley took off almost like
a cannon-shell, racing down the much steeper gradient. It
hit the wire screen, which swung open outwards. It must
be hinged like the plaque.

She crawled down the tunnel as fast as she could. Sooner
than she'd expected she reached the opening. Icy cold. A
dense fog. As she crawled into the open air a shaft of
sunlight penetrated the fog. She saw the trolley bumping
its way down a shallower slope. Below it was a gleaming
lime pit. She was just in time to see the trolley plunge into
the large pit, its rear wheels upended, sinking out of sight.

Move!
Where was she? Instinct told her to turn left. She
stumbled over a branch. Picking it up, she used it to test
the ground in front of her, walking parallel to where she
thought the lime pit was located. The ground was rough but her boots helped her to keep her balance.

She could see nothing beyond the fog. Then a broad
beam of sunlight penetrated the fog below her, illuminating
a huge abandoned quarry. She heard a rattle at the top of the
quarry. Someone up there? She paused, watched as a large
boulder slowly toppled from the summit, falling down to
join a heap of large rocks at the quarry's base. No sign of
anyone. The quarry was unstable.

She plodded on, always using the branch to test the
ground ahead. After a while she decided to move up the slope very cautiously. The fog was thinning, was soon a
trailing mist. She saw an ancient one-storey building ahead.
It seemed familiar. She climbed more quickly, paused, gasped with relief. It was the rear of Mrs Gobble's shed.
She was still in Carpford.

In her haste to reach the front she nearly stumbled,
recovered her balance. Taking out the padlock, she threw open both doors, praying. Parked inside was her car. She
nearly wept.

25

The car started first time. She drove out and turned left,
the quickest way to leave Carpford. The mist had cleared
from the plateau. If anyone tried to stop her she would
drive straight over them. Between Mrs Gobble's shop and
Drew Franklin's concrete cubes she saw two figures walking
along the road towards her. Tweed, shoulders sagging, behind him Beaurain, erect. She jammed on the brakes,
jumped out.

Tweed was already rushing towards her, relief written all over his face. They met and he threw his arms
round her. They stood there, hugging each other, her face
buried against his chest. She was crying now as he stroked
her hair.

'Tweed,' Beaurain told her, 'has almost been out of his
mind with anxiety.'

She eased herself out of Tweed's grip and flung her
arms round the Belgian. 'God! Am I glad to see you
two.'
Tweed produced a handkerchief. She released Beaurain
and mopped her eyes, her face. She was
shaking with
relief.

'How are you?' Tweed asked gently. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm bloody hungry.
Starving!'

'That calls for a full breakfast at the Peacock,' Beaurain
decided. 'I'll drive. You sit in the back with Tweed.'

She had her arm round Tweed as Beaurain drove them in
her car out of Carpford. At one point Newman, standing by
the road, grinning, waved, one thumb up. She waved back and managed to smile. A few feet away Marler, smiling,
gave her a little salute as they passed.

Beyond Marler she saw Harry and Pete, who also waved
and grinned. She was startled but waved back. Then they
were out of Carpford, descending the hill and past the obtruding rock where Mrs Warner had disappeared.

'How many of you were up here?' she asked.

'Everyone.' Tweed was calmer now. 'When I got back
from dinner with Eva Brand and read your note I sent up
a rocket. I called Buchanan and he's up there, calling on
people. I was going to rip the place apart.'