Red Crystal (61 page)

A man could give his soul for this, Nick decided, no trouble at all. A warm flat – at least it would be in a moment, when the electric fires had done their job – fish and chips from down the road, and a hot bath within half an hour. Already the geyser was hissing and roaring, spitting its thin jet of steaming water into the tub below.

But most important of all –
vital
– the prospect of catching Gabriele. By this time tomorrow it should all be over. And, though it never paid to count one’s chickens, there was reasonable hope for optimism.

Two. At the bridge in St James’s Park. A man wearing a red scarf. With a bit of luck they’d pick him up at the airport and tail him all the way there, just to be sure. In his mind he gave Desport another pat on the back. It was quite a coup. And, since Desport had passed the information direct to Nick, some of the credit would undoubtedly rub off on him.

If all went well.

One thing was certain: once in the trap Gabriele would never escape. The place was going to be crawling with men – and marksmen. Would she try to shoot it out? If so, she’d be dead in an instant. All things considered, it might be for the best. He caught himself thinking: What’s one more death?

Yes. They would get her. One way or another.

God, he was going to sleep like a baby tonight. The tension that had gripped him for days had eased, leaving him pleasantly, languorously weary. He dug into the grocery bag and found himself a beer. The phone rang.

It was Conway. ‘A possible sighting in Earl’s Court, at a cheap rooming house. Had second thoughts about a room and scarpered. But the ident is far from certain. The geezer thought the face was right but the hair was the wrong colour. Could have been a wig of course. Anyway, Kershaw’s put ten cars in the area and started a house-to-house.’

Nick considered. It
could
have been Gabriella. Although a cheap rooming house in Earl’s Court was hardly her style. Which might have been the reason she tried it. Perhaps she had nowhere else to go.

‘Keep me posted, will you?’ he asked Conway, and rang off.

He wandered across to the record player, deep in thought. Eventually he selected
Norma
with Callas and Corelli, and listened to the familiar melody of the overture. He turned up the volume – to hell with the neighbours for once. He placed the next disc – which went to the end of Act II – on the spindle, ready to drop, so that he would have a good hour’s listening while he was in the bath.

He took the beer into the bathroom and stripped off. The water was only about eight inches deep. Good enough.

He stepped in and uttered a sigh of bliss. He lay back and felt the water creep up his body. It was so deliciously hot it was almost unbearable. He knew what was going to happen; he was going to fall asleep. But he didn’t care. It was irresistible.

‘
Sediziose voci, voci di guerra
…’ Norma’s entrance. Callas’s raw sensual voice filled the flat, rising effortlessly above the belches of the geyser. He shivered. He couldn’t begin to imagine how it must feel to sing like that.

At last the water covered his body. He turned off the geyser and slipped into a doze that glowed with warmth and peace. He reflected that this was the closest to heaven he was ever likely to get.

Yet a deep unease nagged at him. It was the stakeout, of course. He would worry about it until the very last moment, until he actually saw her walk into the trap.

There was a lull in the music. A sound intruded. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and tried to identify it. It came from downstairs somewhere. Then he had it. Someone was at the street door buzzing the flat below. That was the trouble with these houses. You could hear everything.

He woke once, briefly, when side one came to an end, but then the next disc dropped and the rich music swelled into the room and resonated through his mind, expunging all thought, and he slept again.

Gabriele stood on the front steps. She took another look at the names by the door. Flat 3: Ryder.

Riley. Ryder.

It
had
to be him.

She went down the steps and examined the house from the street. Lights were burning on the second floor and she could hear the faint sound of opera music. It
had
to be him. Right there. And not expecting her.
Hardly
. He’d probably forgotten that she had this address. The knowledge gave her a curious thrill.

Now, to get in. She’d tried ringing the bells of the other three flats, but there was no one in. She purposely hadn’t rung his bell: he might call out of the window. Or there might be a scene at the door. People might notice.

Besides, she wanted to surprise him.

There was no obvious way up the front of the house, which was anyway too public. The narrow street was residential, with rows of small working-class houses on either side: the sort of street where people were nosy.

Even at that moment there was the sound of voices and a noisy group emerged from a house two doors away. As they passed they gave her a curious glance.

It would have to be the back then.

The house was on a corner. She went down the side and had a good look. Rows of back yards stretched out behind the houses. Easy. She hoisted the holdall over the wall and, gritting her teeth, let it drop. There was a dull thud. With an effort she pulled herself up and over the wall. The holdall was lying on concrete. Taking the rifle out of the holdall, she strapped it over her back. As an afterthought she tore off the hot uncomfortable wig and jammed it in the holdall with everything else.

She examined the back of the house. There was a door. She tried it. Locked. She looked up. At the first floor level there was an open window and, just to the left, a drainpipe. She hid the holdall behind some abandoned sheets of wood in the yard and, with only the rifle against her back, pulled a dustbin across to the drainpipe and climbed on top of it. The window wasn’t far. She gripped the drainpipe and slowly began to pull herself up.

Suddenly a door opened and she froze. It was next door. There was the sound of scurrying paws and a dog started yapping noisily. A shaft of light sprang out into the darkness. A voice called, ‘Bisky? Bisky? Come here! Good girl!’

The dog stopped yapping. Gabriele twisted her head round and looked down. The dog had its nose up, sniffing the air, trying to catch her scent. It growled threateningly, then thought better of it and scampered inside. The door closed. Gabriele took a couple of deep breaths and continued her climb.

She pulled herself up level with the window and reached a foot across to the sill. So far so good. Now she had to find a handhold. She put her arm out and grasped the rough brick corner of the frame. Not good enough. Still holding on to the drainpipe with her left hand she shifted her weight as far as possible across to the sill and stretched her hand out further. At last she managed to get two fingers over the top of the open window. It wasn’t much. With her heart in her mouth, she pushed away from the drainpipe and pulled herself across. For one moment she swung outwards, her left foot scrabbling for the sill, her weight hanging over the yard below. But then she managed to get her left hand over the window and pull herself in. She stood on the sill, shaking and hot with fear.

She gave herself a moment, then pushed the sash window fully down and climbed in. As she descended into the dark room her foot upset an object which fell with a great thud to the floor. She remained still, listening, but there were no lights showing and no one came.

She dropped to the floor and found her way across the room and into a tiny hall. She listened at the front door and, satisfied, turned the lock and opened the door a fraction. Light streamed in from the stairs and communal landing. There was no one about.

Putting the door on the latch she stepped out and pulled the door to behind her. She ran lightly up the stairs. There was only the one door on the top landing. Flat 3. The music was very loud.

She examined the door. Strong, with a Yale lock. She felt along the top of the door frame, in case there was a key hidden there. There wasn’t.

She padded back downstairs and into the empty flat, closing the door. There was two options: force her way into the flat by shooting open the door – which was out of the question because the whole street would hear – or simply knock and wait for him to come to the door. But it
wasn’t
the way she wanted to do it.

She gritted her teeth. There had to be a way.

She went back to the window and, climbing on to the inner sill, stuck her head out.

Ah. The
next
window.

She dropped down again and, going quickly into the next room, pulled open the window.

A back extension – traditional in many mid-Victorian terraces – abutted the wall just inches from the window. As usual, the extension was only two storeys high. The roof was just inches away. The roof pitched up to a ridge – a ridge which ran very close to a second-floor window. She examined it carefully. The only problem might be the window itself.

She went back into the flat and, risking a light, rummaged through the tiny kitchenette. Thrusting a collection of knives, tin-openers and skewers into her back pocket, she killed the light and went back to the window.

Getting across to the roof was the tricky bit. She had to put a foot on the open window frame, lever herself up, and scrabble across to the roof, trusting her weight to some ancient guttering.

Once safely on the roof, the worst was over. She waited for her heart to stop pounding before climbing upwards to the ridge and the waiting window.

She pushed the handle of a tin-opener under the window frame and levered it downwards.

The window gave a fraction. She pushed the lever further in and got her fingers underneath the frame.

There was no resistance. The window slid up several inches.

The exhilaration pounded in her chest. Carefully, she pushed it completely open and climbed in.

The dream had been going so well. He was somewhere nice, somewhere warm and cosy. There was a fleeting image of Coniston, in the Lake District, where his parents had once taken him on a rare holiday. They were sitting in some tea-rooms which they had reached after a long tiring walk in the hills. He remembered the strangeness of those rugged hills and his feeling of puzzlement at the sight of all that wilderness. Nothing in his life had ever suggested that such places existed.

But then the memory was slipping and the mood changed. There was a coldness around him, and a deep worrying silence. He was back at the farmhouse. The army chap was announcing that more bombs had been discovered: it wasn’t over yet, he said in his rather pompous voice, not by a long chalk. This time there were many more hostages. Nick discovered more and more of them in the bedrooms upstairs, each attached to some even more ghastly device. Time was running out but there appeared to be no way of helping them. It was extraordinary, but no one seemed to be concerned. All they were interested in was getting organized. More and more equipment kept arriving. Nick shouted out: For God’s sake can’t we save
anybody
? And the army chap replied: Shouldn’t think so. Better get clear.

The feeling of impotence was infuriating. He wanted to
make
these stupid people do something, to shake them until their teeth rattled, to scream at them.

Suddenly something made him wake. He opened his eyes for a moment.

He took a deep breath. It was only a dream …

The water had gone cold. The music had stopped. In a moment he would get out. He dozed again, trying to channel his thoughts away from the morass of the nightmare.

Christ – !

Something jabbed into his head, cold and uncomfortable.

For a split-second he convinced himself it was part of the nightmare.

But then he woke with a violent start that sent his body arcing out of the water.

Christ!

He didn’t need to look round.

He
knew
.

His heart pounded in his ears. His mouth hung open. One thought leapt burning in his mind.

It was
her
.

And she was going to kill him. In cold blood.

He stayed completely still, his mind racing.

She spoke. He gave another involuntary start.

‘
Frightened
, are you?’

He forced himself to speak. ‘Yes. Of course.’ The gun was pressed hard against his head. He couldn’t see her: she was to one side and slightly behind.

‘Think I’m going to kill you?’ The voice was low and ragged.

He whispered, ‘Probably.’

‘Too right. Nasty little gigolo. Sell yourself for anything, wouldn’t you! Cheap bastard.’

He licked his lips and said carefully, ‘I didn’t know who you were when …’

There was a nasty silence. ‘
When you screwed me
.’

‘I never looked on it like that.’

‘
Like what?
’

‘Like just a screw.’

‘No? Well,
I
did!
I did!
It was just a screw!’

He blinked agreement. She had to be humoured, but not too obviously.

‘
Well?
’ she demanded.

He thought desperately, trying to guess what she wanted him to say. But it could be
anything
. He stayed silent.

The voice came from close by his ear; he could feel her breath. ‘Don’t you want to know how long you’ve got?’

Thoughts flashed through his mind: a yes and she might say five seconds in which case he’d rather not know; a no and she’d tell him anyway. Better to say nothing.

She prodded the gun barrel further into his temple. He cringed, his eyes tightly shut.

She said, ‘
Now!
Yes, why not! How’s it feel, you bastard, to be on the point of having your brains splattered over the wall?’

Nick felt sick. His stomach turned to water. He began to tremble violently.

Christ – he couldn’t cope with this
.

She was still speaking. ‘You were my unfinished business, you cheap bastard. I didn’t want to go without attending to you. Just so you couldn’t screw anyone ever again.’