Half Moon Chambers (27 page)

"I didn't exactly tackle her personally into the
dirt
, but... Yeah, it was a good bust. I'll tell you all
about
it over breakfast."

"Tell me now." His eyes glimmered. "You
can
talk while I screw you. Old times' sake, lover?
No strings, I promise."

I sighed. He still could make heat gather in
me
, stiffen my cock in my jeans. Grateful I'd
untucked
my shirt, I leaned against the wall and
looked
at him. "Get your arse onto that couch and
forget
about mine for tonight, will you?"

"Okay. I could kick myself, though, Vince. I
really
could."

* * *

We both slept late. He was jetlagged, and my
dreams
over the past fortnight had been so vivid
and
sweet I was never in a hurry to wake up from
them
. By the time we met in the kitchen, sheepish
and
rumpled, it was nearer to lunchtime than
breakfast
, and he said he'd take me out.

We ended up in my favourite restaurant, a
smart
Greek taverna round the corner from
the
Bigg Market. The place was expensive, a real treat
on
a copper's pay, but Jack made it clear to me I
didn
't have to think about that. I was sleepy still,
oddly
relaxed, and I didn't protest. I felt as if holes
had
closed up in me, ragged-edged wounds that
had
bled since that night on the quayside. Jack
wore
his aviators and a white open-necked linen
shirt
, and all the waiters stared. I'd used to worry
when
we were out together and he turned on all his
lights
like this, wondering how I looked at his
side
.

If I had my doubts today, he didn't share them.

I had his entire attention. He opened the restaurant
door
for me, pulled out a chair. He listened open
-
mouthed
to my edited highlights from the capture
of
Val Foster, poured me a second shot of ouzo while
we
waited for our mezes; picked out the nicest
black
olives for me when they came.

In fact he was courting me assiduously. The
weirdness
of that should have woken me up, but
the
winter sun blazed warmly through the glass into
the
corner where we sat, and the ouzo was good.

There were classily rendered prints on the walls
of
figures from Greek pottery and vases. Sunburnt
boys
danced lithely with white-robed maidens and
with
one another. The lads were short on clothes,
and
their naked backsides made me think
of
Rowan's charcoal sketches. I'd struggled to see
myself
in those. But Rowan had, and here I was
now
, with handsome Jack Monroe doing
everything
but play footsie with me underneath the
table
. Maybe the pale, unprepossessing creature I
could
see in the mirror over the bar wasn't the
whole
story after all. Jack had run from me
because
he'd been scared, not because I hadn't
been
worth saving.

His toes brushed over my ankle. I spilled a
little
of the ouzo, then steadied myself and sat up.

He had propped his chin on his hands and was
watching
me closely. It wasn't his old look of not
taking
no for an answer. "I wonder what it would
take
," he said thoughtfully, "to get you to forgive
me
. Not about the shooting
--
before that. For not
knowing
a good thing when I had it."

The fiery drink on an empty stomach was
blurring
the edges of my world. I allowed myself
to
picture it
--
so much of my old life returned to
me
. Jack's humour and companionship, all that
great
sex, this time served up with love... It made
for
a hell of a picture, the cover of a glossy gay
lifestyle
magazine. We'd be emerging from the
registry
office, laughing for the cameras, the ink
still
wet on our civil union paperwork, white roses
fresh
in our buttonholes.

A siren wailed once in the distance. I
background
-analysed the sound, my conscious
brain
still occupied with Jack and his wild new
potentials
. It wasn't one of ours. A fire engine
coming
up on traffic, that was, giving a warning
cry
. Another joined in, so much closer it had to be
a
different unit. The roses and confetti vanished
from
my brain, and I turned in my seat to look out
of
the window. First one and then another red truck
raced
past the restaurant, forcing buses and taxis
up
onto the kerb. They screeched round the corner
and
into the Bigg Market. I listened, frowning.

They could be going anywhere, of course. But if
they
were en route to the quayside or one of the
bridges
, the sirens should be fading out by now.

I pushed my chair back from the table. "That
sounds
like trouble."

Jack had been watching me, not the street. He
was
a big kid about planes, boats and cars, and at
any
other time I'd have been flattered that I
interested
him more than a pair of speeding fire
trucks
. "Yeah. Not your trouble, though. Look,
here
's a couple of units from Mansion Street now."

The police cars shot past, and neither did their
sirens
fade. Outside on the pavement, people were
beginning
to turn and follow the sound.

"I think I'll just go and take a look."

"Why? They'll call you if they want you in,
won
't they?"

I couldn't wait around to reply. Probably a
chip
pan was on fire in one of the many kebab
shops
around Half Moon Chambers. Maybe it was
an
exercise. Bill Hodges loved those, and since his
promotion
had sent men and vehicles chasing to all
corners
of the city. I dumped my napkin into the
olives
and got up. In the doorway Jack caught up
with
me. He was gesturing to the waiter to hold
our
table, looking back regretfully at the main
course
just arriving there. "Vinnie, come on! Sit
down
."

"I just have to see."

He knew me pretty well. He probably
recognised
the quiet monotone which meant I was
about
to punch someone. "Okay, okay." He
followed
me outside. "You know what your
problem
is? You're never off duty. You're a copper
down
to the bone, far more than I ever was."

"Whatever." I could smell smoke, acrid and
strong
. A third fire engine yowled past. That was
the
full inner-city complement. Bill never sent all
his
resources out on a drill. I looked up, and a
black
wing veiled the sun, turning the daylight
sulphur
-yellow. I set off with the crowd toward
the
Bigg Market. I knew where the smoke was coming
from
. Half Moon Chambers was ablaze.

Chapter Fifteen

P
olice officers were setting up a cordon
across
the Bigg Market junction. They were trying,
anyway
--
it was lunchtime on a weekday, the
streets
thronged with the scared, bored and
curious
. I should have helped. Normally I'd have
been
waving my badge, shooing chickens, assuring
them
there was nothing to see despite the giant
conflagration
twenty yards down the road. Now I
didn
't give a fuck. If the stupid rubbernecks wanted
to
inhale smoke and die under tumbling masonry,
let
them. I dodged past two uniformed sergeants
and
ran down the cobbles.

The top floor was out of control. This inferno
had
deliberation, expertise written on it
--
flames
like
leaping killer whales were bursting from
every
window. The fire crews had ladders up,
levelling
three sets of hoses at the blaze, but I
could
see from here the fight was lost. There was a
stink
of accelerant. The flats would be
consumed
--
would tumble, plasterwork and paint and
bright
Art Deco tiles, into the floors below. Painted
walls
, human flesh and bone...

I ran into a human barricade. I hadn't seen the
two
firemen converging on me, a solid block of
muscle
and protective turnout gear. I scrabbled for
my
badge. "I've got to get in there."

"Not a chance, mate."

"I'm police. I've got a witness on the top
floor
. I've got to
--
"

"I don't care if you're the Dalai bloody Lama.
No-one goes in." The firefighter holding me took a
cursory
look at my badge, and I tried to plunge
between
him and his colleague. He grabbed me,
hauling
me back. "I'm sorry, all right? There's no
-
one
left alive on that floor."

There was a time for brutal honesty. I knew it
well
enough myself. It worked better on desperate
family
and friends than soothing lies. I heard it,
took
it in, but my body wouldn't listen
--
shuddered
in
the fireman's bruising grip and convulsively
tried
again. "Let me go!"

"Vinnie!" A hand closed on the collar of my
coat
. "Jesus Christ, what are you doing?"

"Do you know him?"

"Yeah. He's Detective Sergeant Carr, out
of
Mansion Street. He's..." Jack dragged me away
from
the firemen. "I don't know what's going on
with
him. Vince, what the hell is the matter?"

I broke away.
No-one left alive on that floor.

There was no-one left alive at all, no-one alive in
the
shell of myself, the ribcage and skull and lungs
that
had made up an entity called Vince and now
were
just rattlebag fragments, breathing and aching
on
their own. I sat down hard on the kerb, my
scarecrow
bones folding up.

"Vince! Bloody talk to me!"

Poor Jack
--
he'd thought he had a chance with
me
. For a sunny half hour on another planet, mildly
drunk
and spaced out, the thing called Vince had
thought
about letting him try. Revelation swept
through
me, a raking force like lightning. I'd given
my
last chance away weeks ago. When had it gone
from
me? In a painted chamber high above this
street
, far beyond the reach of the firemen's tallest
ladder
, crumbling already under its fishtail tiles?

In the dirty alley over the road, when a hand had
closed
on mine and dragged me out of the fight,
then
round the back of Half Moon Chambers and
up
through the rat-run, the drop-down stairs and the
balconies
...

The stairs. I scrambled up, having to use my
hands
to lever myself upright. Rowan wasn't
stupid
. When not set on self-destruct, his survival
instincts
were as good as mine: we'd recognised
each
other, two half-drowned cats in a barrel,
caught
between sink and swim. He was lean and
strong
, and if his own flat lacked a fire escape,
he
'd use his neighbour's. He wouldn't damn well
sit
and wait to burn.

I rushed the fire crew again. Uniformed
police
were in my way this time and caught me
effortlessly
, barely noticing my attempt. They
might
have been lads from Mansion Street
--
I
wasn
't really seeing them, any more than they were
looking
at me. I'd put myself on the other side of
the
line, become a distraught citizen, to be treated
with
courtesy and competent disdain. They were
talking
amongst themselves and didn't miss a beat
while
turning me round and dumping me back
into
Jack's arms.
Bloody lucky this happened on a
weekday
. Not many in the place
--
most of them
out
at work.

I grabbed at Jack to steady myself. "He was
due
back at work yesterday. He might have gone
back
to work."

"Good. That's very nice for him. Who?"

"Rowan. My witness, my..." My mobile was
buried
deep in the pocket of my jeans and I
struggled
to extract it, my fingers damp and numb. I
scrolled
down to his number and hit dial. "He was
there
when Val Foster abducted me. He stopped
them
from hurting me. He saved me." The line
went
dead, and my new hope tried to die with it.

But Foster's gang had taken that handset from him,
hadn
't they? He might not have got it replaced.

I closed my eyes. I was a good copper. My
mind
retained numbers easily
--
registration plates,
phones
. I ransacked my data banks for the poster
outside
the gallery, the one I walked past every
day
. It appeared in red and black on my retina.

Exhibition dates, website, Victorian cat snoozing
on
a windowsill between pots of geraniums, and
finally
the ten-digit string I needed. The first four
were
easy, just the local code. Breathing deep, I
opened
my eyes and punched them in, then the
remaining
six: held the mobile to my ear and
listened
.

The line rang and rang. A cold hypnosis took
me
, a fog of shock. I began to sway slightly in time
with
the dial-out tone. "Answer," I whispered.

"Answer, you shiftless bastards. Pick up the
bloody
phone."

"Who are you trying to call?"

"The gallery. He works at the gallery."

"The one down the road from your flat?
The
Langring?"

"Yes." I stared at Jack. I was being stupid.

The gallery was just down the road from my flat,
and
I could get home in ten minutes from here. It
was
a ten-minute walk. A five-minute run.

I turned and ran. I pelted out of the
Bigg
Market, jumping the police cordon without missing
a
stride. That put me onto Grainger Street, that
elegant
Regency stretch. Dead straight, aimed like
an
arrow into the centre of town. I took off blindly.

For the first hundred yards or so I did well.

I'd used to beat Jack hollow on all our training
sprints
and charity marathons, and my mind had
reverted
to that time, taking my body with it. The
traffic
was grinding to a halt, so I left the kerb and
the
tangle of pedestrians and flew along the narrow
gap
between the two lanes of buses and cabs. Once
clear
of the smoke pall, air filled my lungs in great
frosty
gasps that felt like diamonds and glittered in
my
blood. I could run forever.

The plaza around Grey's Monument was
unsheltered
, open to bitter winds. I hadn't
registered
the cold, the ice that remained in
gleaming
sheets across the pavements even at
midday
. I hit the first of them full tilt and went
flying
, hurling out my hands to save myself. My
brief
flight ended in a bone-jarring crash at the foot
of
the monument steps, and the sun went dark.