Red Crystal (38 page)

Then, instead of her bedroom, she was in a prison cell. She looked for Stephie, but there was no one else there, and she realized that she was on her own. And always would be.

Last night it had been worse. She had been making a bomb. Everything had gone fine until she connected the timing device. It started ticking and wouldn’t stop. She tried to get out of the room, but the door was locked. She tore at the parcel, but she’d wrapped it too well and couldn’t find the wires. In horror she’d watched the contacts closing on each other.

Then she’d woken, gasping for breath.

With a vast relief she’d realized that Nick was there beside her, breathing quietly. Gratefully, she’d moved over until her body lay close to his, and she was at peace.

The car was a two-year-old Ford Capri with thirty thousand miles on the clock. It was pale blue with wire wheels and a slight dent on the rear near-side wing. It was perfectly unremarkable.

‘It was used in a robbery in March,’ explained Kershaw. ‘Mechanically sound. Oh, and we’ve put on some new plates, just in case someone somewhere thinks of checking against the stolen list.’

Nick went round the car and peered inside the wheel arches. Opening a door, he leant in and checked the interior.

‘You won’t find anything,’ said Kershaw. ‘It’s all too well hidden.’

Nick nodded. Wherever they were, the listening devices and radio bleepers had been properly concealed.

‘I might as well go then.’

He got in and Kershaw slammed the door.

Kershaw said through the open window, ‘Well, we’ve done all we can.’

‘Let’s just hope he shows.’

Kershaw said a heartfelt, ‘Yes.’

Nick could imagine the pressure Kershaw was under. The man must have everyone from his immediate boss to the Assistant Commissioner breathing down his neck.

The first car picked him up the moment he left the garage. It was a green Vauxhall Victor. As he came to Hyde Park Corner it peeled off and a white Morris took up station behind. A third car took over north of the park. They were using this trip to test the radio tracking device.

As he made the final turn into Tulip Street the last car, a dark blue Mini, left him and sped straight on. He parked immediately outside the house. The street was very quiet. One resident had the bonnet of his car open and was tinkering with the engine. Another was up a ladder repairing a window. It was a typical Sunday afternoon.

As Nick got out of the car he glanced up and down the street. Wherever the watchers were, he couldn’t see them. Unless the man under the bonnet was part of the team. Or the one on the ladder.

Nick let himself into the house. Bet and a group of her friends were in the smoke-filled living-room, stuck into some red wine. He gave Bet ten pounds for rent and use of hot water and explained that he’d be moving out, probably that night. She said he was welcome any time.

The party went on into the evening. Nick managed to nurse a single glass of the rough red wine for two hours, then took it into the kitchen and poured it down the sink. Whatever happened he must keep a clear head. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten since morning and, finding some cheese and bread, ate it hungrily.

At ten he listened for the front door and tried to suppress the awful suspicion that Wheatfield wasn’t going to turn up.

At ten-thirty the party broke up and one by one the guests left the house. At eleven Bet and the other residents drifted upstairs to bed.

Nick sat on his own, feeling sick at heart. Wheatfield wasn’t going to come.
Oh God
.

He tried to read but the words skipped in front of his eyes. Finally he lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, thinking of what other leads he had if this one failed. Gabriella, that was all. Gabriella and her friends, whoever they might be. It wasn’t much. It was
damn all
.

Twenty to twelve.

Damn all.

A key sounded in a lock. Nick lay motionless.

A door was opening. The front door.

A floorboard creaked in the hall. A movement from the doorway. Someone was coming into the room.

Nick put his head up over the sofa. ‘Hi,’ he said casually.

It was Wheatfield. He could have shouted with relief.

Wheatfield came round the sofa and stared down at him.

‘I got it,’ Nick said calmly. ‘It’s just outside. A Ford Capri.’

‘Okay.’ Wheatfield looked relaxed, unworried. He obviously had no suspicions. ‘It works all right, does it?’

‘Should do. It’s not very old.’ Nick swung his feet to the floor and stood up. ‘I’ll show you how to start it.’

Wheatfield followed him out. Nick showed him how to start the car without an ignition key. Wheatfield practised connecting and disconnecting the necessary wires, which Nick had extended and led through from the bonnet to the interior.

Wheatfield was ready to go. ‘Thanks. It’s appreciated.’

‘No problem. Can I ask what it’s for? I mean, I wouldn’t mind being in on the fun. You know.’

Wheatfield paused and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps next time. It’s a bit late now, for this time … But you’ll hear about what we’re doing okay.’

‘Great. Soon?’

‘Yeah. Tomorrow.’

Wheatfield slammed the door shut. The engine fired. He fumbled with the switches on the dashboard and found the lights. The car moved forward and out into the street. Wheatfield did not look back.

Nick gave it a few seconds, then, going into the house for his bag, let himself out again and ran to the corner of the street where Conway was waiting with the engine running.

T
HE TRAFFIC WAS
unexpectedly light for a Monday morning and Gabriele found herself driving north up Bow Street earlier than she’d intended, at a quarter to ten. On the left was the tall neo-classical façade of the Royal Opera House, incongruously grand for such a minor street. Opposite was Bow Street police station and just beyond it, the magistrates’ court.

She took a careful look at the entrance to the court. There were no police in sight and no cars parked outside.

She drove on across Long Acre into Endell Street. She parked a few yards up, on the left-hand side, so that the Fiat was pointing north towards New Oxford Street.

She waited impatiently, her eye on the rear-view mirror. At five to ten a delivery van came bumping up the street and parked immediately behind her, blocking her view. She cursed and, looking at her watch, tried to work out if she had enough time to do a circuit and find a better parking place. The decision was made for her by the sight of an approaching traffic warden. She started the car and, turning right, drove round the block into Drury Lane and Long Acre. Coming to the junction with Bow Street she glanced sideways and gripped the wheel more tightly.

There he was.

A car was parked in front of the court. A Ford Capri. The unmistakable figure of Max was just getting out.

Right on time. Good dependable Max.

In a few minutes he would come looking for her.

To the right the delivery van was still parked at the beginning of Endell Street. It would be too awkward to stop behind it; she didn’t like the idea of being boxed in. She continued down Long Acre for a few yards and stopped behind a row of cars parked on meters. The position was good. When Max came round the corner he would only have to look up the street to spot the Fiat.

She waited, keeping a careful watch in both directions.

She imagined Max putting the note on the windscreen – saying the car was broken down – opening the boot, turning the parcel upside down, walking away.

A horn sounded. A lorry was blocking the road near the junction with Bow Street. The traffic was slowing down to a crawl. She glanced at the cars slowly approaching from the opposite direction. One was indicating a left turn into Endell Street.

She stared.

No, it wasn’t possible.

For one amazing moment—

She shook her head. She obviously had him on her mind. She was imagining things.

But for that one instant the front-seat passenger
had
looked amazingly like Nick. Ridiculous. The man, whoever he was, was in shadow now, bending his head down, holding something to his mouth. He looked as if he were eating.

Ridiculous, she repeated. She just had him on his mind.

She took a quick look in the mirror. No Max.

Then she glanced back at the traffic.

The car was almost opposite her now, moving very slowly. The passenger looked up and the light fell full on his face.

His face
.

Gabriele gaped. The car passed by.

She twisted violently round in her seat. The car drew up beyond Endell Street and reversed back round the corner out of sight.

Nick.
What the hell?

Nick. What was he
doing?

She gaped.

Whatever was happening, something was wrong, appallingly wrong.

An idea shot into her mind and she grabbed at it. The pigs. It was the pigs. They’d got him! They’d forced him to tell. She said out loud, ‘
Oh Christ!
’

But then in her mind’s eye she saw his face again, sitting in the passenger seat, looking composed, the hand held to his mouth, holding something.

Something with a wire hanging from it
.

Then she knew.

The shock hit her like a punch in the stomach.

For a split second her mind was frozen. Then she looked in the mirror. Max. He had just appeared round the corner. Max, whose every move was being watched. Max, who had spotted her in the Fiat and was even now quickening his pace.

With a shaking hand she turned on the ignition. She slipped the car into gear and, using her indicator, pulled firmly out into the road. A car braked suddenly to avoid her, but luckily did not sound its horn. She accelerated rapidly down Long Acre.

No car pulled out behind. No one followed.

Nothing.

Only Max standing stock still on the pavement, staring at her.

Nick said, ‘Something’s up.’

Wheatfield had paused, like an animal scenting the wind. Nick couldn’t work it out. What had changed? One minute Wheatfield had been quite happy, now he obviously had the wind up. For an awful moment he thought Wheatfield might have spotted him, but he’d been very careful to keep his distance and Wheatfield had never once looked this way.

‘I think he’s going to bolt for it.’

Conway whispered, ‘Yeah.’

Wheatfield was looking wildly about him. He was badly frightened. Suddenly he began to move. Fast.

Nick spoke into the mike and told Kershaw, ‘He’s off. West down Long Acre.’

The acknowledgement came back. Nick watched two of Kershaw’s men fall in a safe distance behind Wheatfield; then, a few seconds later, Kershaw’s car went by.

Simultaneously Kershaw’s voice came over the radio. ‘He’s obviously abandoned the Capri. There could be a bomb in it. Proceed with bomb clearance procedure
now
. Get everyone away from that damned car!’

Nick nudged Conway. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ Conway fired the engine and they shot forward into Long Acre. As they turned west to follow Kershaw, Nick saw the beginnings of all hell breaking loose in Bow Street as they cleared the area around the Capri.

Ahead, Kershaw’s car had slowed right down so as not to overtake the men on foot. Nick could see Wheatfield in the distance. He was half walking, half running, and looking frequently over his shoulder.

Nick sighed heavily. He couldn’t think what the hell had gone wrong.

Wheatfield reached the junction with St Martin’s Lane and stopped, waiting for a break in the traffic. He turned and took a long look behind him. The two followers did their best to look inconspicuous as they closed on him.

Suddenly Wheatfield seemed to panic. One moment he was poised in a loose crouch, the next he was off, sprinting across the street, his long hair flying behind him. Nick gripped the seat. There was a loud hooting and a car braked as Wheatfield shot in front of it and ran for his life towards Leicester Square.

Nick said, ‘Oh shit!’ He could have wept. All that planning for nothing.

Kershaw’s voice came over the air. ‘Take him!’

With a screech of tyres Kershaw’s car accelerated across the junction. Conway stepped on it and, hand on horn, jumped the lights. Ahead, Kershaw’s car swerved on to the pavement beside two other squad cars. Men were already pouring down into the Underground.

Conway pulled in behind Kershaw’s car and turned off the ignition.

There was a heavy silence, then Nick said wearily, ‘What happened, Conway? What the hell went wrong?’

Conway shook his head. ‘He just sussed us, that’s all.’

‘Balls. There was a bloody
reason
, I know there was. Something
happened
—’

‘Or maybe didn’t happen!’ ventured Conway.

Nick looked at him and blinked. ‘Yes. Maybe that was it.’

They brought Wheatfield out of the station ten minutes later, his face bloody, his arm twisted half-way up his back. Nick watched with mixed feelings. They may have caught themselves an Indian, but they’d probably lost all hope of finding the chiefs.

Victoria hoisted the shopping on to her left arm and pushed the key into the lock. As she opened the door she heard a sound from inside the flat. Giorgio was back.