(1995) By Any Name (12 page)

‘… Known as John West. Six feet four inches, well built, blue eyes, black hair, scar on right leg, right shoulder, left forearm… ’

Given the description he wondered if they expected him to run around naked, or were inviting the public to apprehend and undress him. As the newscaster droned on, the short hairs prickled on the back of his neck. ‘… wanted for questioning in connection with four deaths.’

Four!

‘… Believed to be travelling with a female hostage. Five feet eight inches tall with grey eyes, dark hair. Last seen in the Brighton area, possibly heading for one of the sea-ports.’

The newscaster switched to the next topic, details of the funerals of the security personnel killed in the plane crash in Scotland. The news was followed by a discussion between Roman Catholic and Anglican Bishops on whether or not Jesus Christ had advocated celibacy. Flicking through the channels again, West found one that was playing jazz. Turning the sound down low, he switched his headlights to full beam.

The road ahead was clear. His lights illuminated an overhead bridge, but no signs. Had he taken a wrong turn? How could he? He’d had no route in mind.

Somehow he knew that one of the most scenic routes to Brecon was via Merthyr; skirting the reservoirs below the Beacons, on the narrow, winding road that went past the Storey Arms – old coaching inn no longer, but Youth Hostel. He also knew that the ancient coaching road, now reduced to a rough track, still struck out along the hillside to the side of the building.

Encouraged by the flash of memory, he turned off the radio and drove on in silence lest Elizabeth wake and hear further mention of the four dead. The last thing he needed was to feed her existing suspicions that he was a cold-blooded murderer.

He saw a turn signposted for Merthyr, and remembering the Storey Arms, took it. At five o’clock, with the wind howling mercilessly down the slopes of the Beacons battering against the car and pelting rain into his windscreen, he passed the old inn.

It looked exactly as he’d recalled it in his mind’s eye.

He even took the risk of pulling into a lay-by beyond it and looking back.

Mist obscured the topmost shadows of the Beacons, yet he could have traced their outline on the back of his hand, so certain was he of their height and shape. To his left he saw the ghostly silver ribbons of a frozen waterfall. Not far now, six miles as the crow flies and a little longer by road through the village of Libanus… he sped on, and there, shining ahead, were the lights of the roundabout marking the entrance to Brecon town.

Disregarding the signs for the bypass, he pulled into a lane beside Brecon golf club. He checked his rear-view mirror and was startled by the sight of Elizabeth sitting upright.

‘We’re in Brecon,’ he told her. ‘But I’ve no intention of untying you, yet. Don’t waste any effort trying to attract attention to yourself or the car. There won’t be many people around at this time in the morning.’

She stared at him through round, imploring eyes.

He turned away from her and reversed the car down the lane. Twin rows of grey-stone houses bordered the road leading into the town. On the right was the site of a centuries-old prison and the boundary wall of a churchyard littered with gravestones. A few gleamed dirty-white in the darkness, and in the centre of the litter of marble and granite stood the church itself, rebuilt by the Victorians – as so many others had been in the area. He knew its name without reading the board. St David’s, Llanfaes. Ahead was the bridge that spanned the river Usk. On the far side was the town centre. He dropped his speed. His intention had been to cruise the streets in search of something familiar. But once over the bridge, he swung the steering-wheel sharply to the right, and turned up an alleyway barely wide enough to accommodate the estate car.

Elizabeth continued to sit upright in the back, wondering if he had any idea where he was going.

Towering above them, on the left was a solid wall, to the right a lower one but it was still too high to see what was on the other side. A gap appeared in the left wall, she saw a curved wall built from red bricks and a sign, PRIVATE CAR PARK.

West brought the steering wheel down sharply, and drove up a slope into a small yard.

On their right stood the square outline of a building that resembled a Dickensian warehouse, with two wooden doors and a casement window set in the front.

The headlights picked out frosted glass in the casement and the outline of a light behind a bell-push.

Negotiating slowly and carefully West drove around the side of the building and down another short lane bordered by high walls. He halted in front of a pair of solid-looking wooden doors. After a few moments of hard work with the scalpel he opened them. Returning to the driving seat, he drove the estate car into a large garage.

Elizabeth breathed in slowly and deeply to ward off a panic attack. If he left her here, bound and helpless, without access to food or water, how long would it take her to die? She almost preferred the thought of a bullet.

West left the headlights on, and climbed out of the car. She watched his fingers move over the rough, uneven wall. Digging his fingers around one large stone, he eased it out and plunged his hand into the cavity behind. When he replaced the stone she could see the silver glint of keys in his hand. He slipped them into his pocket. Moving to the rear of the car he opened the tailgate and lifted out the cases.

She continued to sit bolt upright. He disappeared and returned to the car several times removing boxes and suitcases on each trip. Finally, when the car was empty he opened the passenger door and helped her out. Slicing the rope around her ankles, he guided her outside. After locking the garage he led her into the warehouse building. One of the two doors was open, although everything was in darkness.

‘There’s a steep flight of stairs ahead,’ he informed her.

She mounted them slowly. She heard the grate of bolts ramming home, and the click of locks snapping shut as he closed and locked the doors behind them.

Taking her arm, he propelled her down a long passage. A window set high on their left shone marginally brighter than the surrounding darkness. He opened a door.

‘Bathroom.’ He switched on the light and cut her bonds. Walking in ahead of her, he pulled a curtain across the window. She noticed that the curtains were thick, almost blackout quality.

He left and she pulled down the hated gag. The area around her mouth was raw. She washed her hands and face. When she came out, she saw that West was holding the gun again. He opened one of the doors set in the corridor behind the bathroom. It was furnished with twin beds, neither made up. He walked across the room and opened another door. A small room, barely larger than a cupboard, housed a single bed, chest of drawers and wardrobe. Opening the wardrobe doors he removed a couple of blankets and a pillow. He threw them to her and left the room. She heard the key turning, and looked around. Apart from a tiny window high above her there was no way out.

She stood on the chest and peered through the glass. An outside light illuminated the top of a wall opposite, but she could see no windows in its blank expanse. Taking the blankets and the pillow she curled up on one of the beds – and slept.

Elizabeth woke feeling dirty, stiff, aching and itching.

The rough woollen blanket had irritated her skin. She stretched and shuddered when her naked leg touched the icy mattress. The room was bathed in a soft grey light and it seemed like a long time since she had seen daylight. She left the bed and tried the door handle. It was still locked. She tapped tentatively and waited but there was no answering sound.

A key turned a few minutes later and the door opened. West walked in. He smelled of soap and toothpaste and was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a blue and black check lumberjack shirt.

‘Coffee?’

She took the mug he handed her and wrapped both hands around it in an attempt to siphon some of the warmth into her chilled body.

‘I’ve left the suitcase of women’s clothes in the bathroom for you.’

‘I see you’ve regained your memory. Tell me, did you ever lose it?’

‘I still don’t know my name.’

‘No?’ she mocked sceptically. ‘That’s why you drove directly to this place and why you knew exactly where to get the key.’

‘I have no idea how I knew those things.’

‘I’m in desperate need of a bath. And before you say a word, I know you have a gun.’ She finished the coffee, handed him the mug and walked towards him.

He stepped back to allow her to pass. Entering the bathroom she pulled back the curtain from the window. It was set as high as the one in the room she’d slept in. And, all she could see was another solid wall. Recalling the steep flight of stairs she had climbed the night before, she decided against trying to open it. Later, when she was clean and warm again, she’d think about escaping.

Dressed in jeans that were too large for her, a white cotton shirt and thick Aran sweater, Elizabeth left the bathroom, and made her way past a row of cupboards that lined one side of the long corridor leading to the front of the flat. Two doors faced her at the end of the passageway, both were closed, and when she tried the handles they refused to open. However one door on her left was open. Blissful warmth belched out to greet her when she walked in. An electric heater had been turned full on to warm a large square kitchen, fitted with gleaming black and white units and an enormous black ash table. West was standing in front of an eye-level grill, turning slices of bacon with a fork. Toast popped from a toaster.

‘Breakfast?’

She didn’t answer, hating the thought of being indebted to him for anything.

‘The news will be on in ten minutes. I thought we’d take this into the living room and eat in front of the television.’

On her right was a serving hatch, through its open doors she saw a room furnished in the same harsh masculine style as the kitchen. Grey carpet, black leather suite, black ash storage and display units, and French doors framing an exquisite view of a river wending its way through lush green countryside that somehow managed to look inviting even on a damp November afternoon.

‘Aren’t you afraid that if I go in there, I’ll open those French doors and start shouting for help?’

‘All I ask is that you eat this,’ he heaped four pieces of bacon and two slices of toast on to a plate,

‘and watch the news. If you want to leave afterwards, you can.’

‘You mean I can go?’ she asked in amazement.

‘I mean it.’ He pushed the plate into her hand.

‘There’s frozen butter if you want it. Cut it with the cheese slicer.’ He picked up his own plate and went into the living room. She realized she’d been wrong about the door. It had been closed, but not locked. She wondered about the door next to it. The door she presumed led to the stairs and the outside.

The living room was as warm as the kitchen, an electric fan heater, jewelled with fake coals had been turned up to full heat. West laid his plate on a black-tiled coffee table, and flicked through the television channels until he found a twenty-four hour satellite news programme. She gazed around the room, and decided that her first impression had been right. It was definitely a masculine room; not a picture on the wall, not a single photograph, no ornaments, nothing remotely personal in sight. Plain cupboard fronts with small, minimalist handles. Bare shelves. A black-ash sideboard. Grey velvet curtains.

‘Who owns this place?’ She sat down and sandwiched the bacon between the slices of toast.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Let’s listen to the news.’

She sat back and watched the logo of the news channel fill the screen. It faded into the familiar photograph of “John West” a lingering shot of bewildered blue eyes and tousled black hair. A voice-over supplied further details of height and appearance.

She looked across to where West was sitting, the food untouched on his lap. The picture dissolved to a studio shot of the newscaster.

‘… John West now wanted in connection with four murders… ’

She dropped the sandwich back on her plate. She hadn’t made a sound but he held up his hand to silence her.

Their food grew cold, congealing in puddles of grease on their plates as photographs of Corporal Summers and Sergeant Manners filled the screen, the voice-over supplying brief outlines of their personal lives, their wives, their children…

Elizabeth’s plate clattered to the floor. She stared, horror-struck when a photograph of Dave Watson filled the screen.

‘Mr David Watson, consultant psychiatrist in charge of the John West case, was found murdered in the hospital basement yesterday morning. He had not been seen since his registrar, Dr Elizabeth Santer, was taken hostage.’

Dave’s photograph was superseded by that of the paramedic West had hijacked to take them to Brighton.

‘Matthew Benedict was found dead of a gunshot wound in the back of his own ambulance… ’

The final item was a filmed interview at the bedside of the private West had shot in the leg as they’d descended the hospital stairs.

‘I’m lucky to be alive… ’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ West said flatly.

‘I shot to incapacitate, not kill.’ He stooped to pick up Elizabeth’s plate, tossed the sandwich back on to it and laid it on the coffee table.

‘… but that paramedic was alive when you closed the ambulance doors, I saw his chest moving. And Dave was alive when I left the canteen. I’ve been with you ever since… ’

‘Now do you believe I didn’t kill those guards?’

He dropped his plate on to the table alongside hers, and hobbled over to the French doors. Mist was rising from the river, clouding its banks, and veiling the woods. He tried to imagine the scene as it would be on a fine day. He must have seen it. The river a deep sky-reflective blue, the trees clothed in their summer finery.

He heard her move behind him, sensed her standing close. The tension between them was palpable. He turned to face her. ‘I swear I don’t know who I am. I only know that someone wants me dead enough to kill everyone I come into contact with. And that means you could be the next victim. I’m sorry; I never intended to endanger your life.’