Gallows View (28 page)

Mick gobbled up another mouthful of pills and went over to the window again. It was dark outside and the tall sodium lights glowed an eerie red the way they always did before they turned jaundice yellow.

Still no sign. Mick started pacing the room again, one batch of amphetamines wearing off and the new ones beginning to take effect. Sweat prickled on his forehead and skull, itching between the spikes of hair. His heart was pounding like a barrage of artillery, but he didn’t feel good. He was worried. Where the hell was Trevor? The bastard was supposed to arrive two hours ago.

As the lights yellowed like old paper, Mick got more edgy and jittery. The room felt claustrophobic, too small to contain him. His
muscles were straining at his clothes and his brain felt like it was pushing at the inner edges of his skull. Something was going on. They were onto him. He looked out of the window again, careful not to be seen this time.

There was a man in a homburg walking his Jack Russell. He’d been walking that dog for hours up and down the street by the edge of The Green, under the lights, and Mick was sure he kept glancing covertly towards the house. A little further into The Green, where the lights of the posher houses at the other side seemed to twinkle between the leaves and branches that danced in the breeze, a young couple stood under a tree. The girl was leaning against the tree and the boy was talking to her, one arm outstretched, supporting his weight on the trunk above her head. Sure, they looked like lovers, Mick thought. That was the idea. But he wasn’t fooled. He could see the way she kept looking sideways at him when she should have been paying closer attention to her man. He was probably speaking into a walkie-talkie or a microphone hidden in his lapel. They were communicating with the dog-walker. And they weren’t the only ones. Deeper in the trees, what he had thought to be shadows and thick tree trunks turned into people, and if he listened closely enough he could hear them whispering to each other.

He put his hands over his ears and retreated into the room. He put a loud rock record on the stereo to shut out the noise of the whisperers, but it didn’t work; they were in his head already, and even the music seemed part of a sinister plot. It was meant to put him off-guard, that was it. He snatched at the needle, scratching the record, and returned to the window. Vigilance, that was what was called for.

Nothing had changed. The man with the dog was walking back down the street. He stopped by a tree, holding the leash loosely and looking up at the sky as the dog cocked its leg. The couple on The Green were pretending to kiss now.

Perhaps there was time to get away, Mick thought, licking his lips and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He had to get himself ready. They probably didn’t even know he was there yet. To escape, though, meant leaving the window for a few minutes, something he couldn’t bear to do. But he had to. He couldn’t let them catch him unprepared.

He dashed upstairs to Lenny’s room first and pulled out the heavy gun from under the mattress; then he went into his own messy room and took all his cash out of its hiding place, a hollowed-out book called
The Practical Way to Keep Fit
. He had almost a hundred pounds. It should be enough.

Rushing back downstairs, he grabbed his parka from the hook in the hall, shoved the gun and money into its deep pockets and went back to watch from the window. Now he was ready. Now he could take on anybody. The familiar effect of the pills was returning. He felt the weight of the big gun in his pocket and waves of adrenalin surged through his veins, flooding him with a sense of power and well-being. But he had to do something; he had so much energy it was boiling over.

The man with the dog had gone and the young couple had moved to another tree. They thought they could fool him, but he wasn’t that stupid. The Green was full of young couples now. They leaned against every tree, pretending to be kissing and feeling each other up. Mick felt a jolt of energy in his loins as he watched the erotic tableau of shadows.

When the police car finally came, he was ready. He saw its headlights approaching slowly, dispersing the watchers on The Green as its beams sought the right house, and he left softly by the back door. He had a plan. There was only one sensible thing he could do, and that was get out of Eastvale, disappear, go down to join Lenny in London for awhile. To get out of Eastvale, he had to cross The Green, then the river, and walk up around the castle to the bus station at the back of the market square. It was no good running east; in that direction there was nothing but fields and the long flat vale; he would be an easy target out in the open there.

Cautiously, he edged down the back alley to the end of the block, where a narrow snicket separated two terraces. As he crept out into the street again, he was about four houses north of the police. Now all he had to do was disappear quietly into the trees and he was home free.

He crossed the street without attracting any attention and stood on the verge of The Green. The police were still knocking at his door and trying to peer in through the windows, the fools. A few more paces and he would be among the shadows, the shadows that belonged to him again.

Suddenly, a voice called out behind him and for a moment he stopped dead in his tracks, feeling the adrenalin prickle inside him.

“Hey, you!” the voice called again. “Stop where you are! Police!”

For a second he thought it was all over, that they had him, but then he remembered he had an edge—the gun and the power he felt crackling inside him. The new plan came as a brainstorm, and he laughed out loud at the beauty of it as he ran across The Green with the police close behind, still shouting. He would never make it to the bus station, he knew that now, and even if he did they would be waiting for him, talking to each other on the airwaves. So he had to improvise, try something different.

The light was on. That was a good sign. Without hesitating, he leaped up the steps three at a time and ran his shoulder into the front door. It didn’t give at once. The police were clearing the trees now, only about seventy-five yards away. Mick took a few paces back and crashed into the door again. This time it splintered open. The woman, alarmed by his first attempt, was peering, frightened, through a door in the hallway. Mick rushed in, grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to the front window. The police were halfway across the street by now. Taking out his gun, Mick smashed the window and held Jenny up by the hair.

“Stop!” he screamed at them. “Don’t move another inch! I’ve got a gun and I’ve got the woman, and if you don’t do what I say I’ll fucking shoot the bitch.”

Even Robin’s voice was different. It had lost its timbre of shy cheerfulness and become forced and clipped.

Sandra edged backwards until she could feel the screen against her back. She was almost perfectly lined up with the projected model, whose image was wrapped around her body, the girl’s face superimposed on her own.

“Robin,” she said as calmly and quietly as she could manage, “you don’t really want to do this, do you? Don’t let things go too far.”

“I have to,” Robin said tersely. “It’s already gone beyond.”

“Beyond what?”

“Beyond where I thought I could go.”

“You can still stop it.”

“No.”

“Yes, you can,” Sandra insisted gently.

“No! Can’t you see? I have to go further, always further, or it’s no good, there’s no point. When I watched you, Sandra, watched you undressing in your bedroom, it was the best, it was just like . . . I didn’t think I could go any further than that. I didn’t think I could ever go any further. Do you know what I mean? The ultimate.”

Sandra nodded. The model’s face remained still and detached, fixed on that far-off memory. Sandra felt as if she were tied to the screen by the projection. She wanted to tell Robin to turn it off but she didn’t dare. The way he was talking, he was beyond reason. There was nothing she could do but keep asking him calmly to put the knife down and stop. But she knew he wouldn’t. He’d gone too far now, and he could only go further. He’d made his greatest step and the rest would have to follow.

He was coming closer, the projected model bending around the knife blade, throwing its shadow onto Sandra’s chest. She was backed up as far against the screen as she could get.

Robin stopped, still at an angle so as not to block the image projected on her. “Take your clothes off,” he ordered, twitching the knife.

“No,” Sandra replied. “You can’t mean it. Put the knife away, Robin. It’s not too late.”

“Take your clothes off,” he repeated. “I do mean it. Do as I say.”

It was futile to protest any more. Sandra clenched her teeth, holding back the tears, and brought her trembling hands to the buttons on her shirt.

“Don’t hurry,” Robin said. “Take your time. Do it slow.”

Each button seemed to take an eternity, but finally the shirt was undone. She dropped it on the floor and waited.

“Go on,” he said. “The jeans.”

Sandra was wearing tight Levis. She undid the top button and pulled down the zipper. It wasn’t easy, but she managed to fold them over her hips and get out of each leg while still standing up.

She stood before Robin in her white bra and panties, shaking all
over. The image was still wrapped around her and now it seemed welcome, offering her a little covering, some protection. Robin pulled the slide out of its slot, and the bright, piercing light of the lens pinned Sandra to the screen. She put up a hand to shield her eyes.

Robin said nothing for a long time. He seemed to be just gazing at her, a slender figure with long, blonde hair and shapely long legs. He was awestruck. She could feel his eyes as they slid over her body, probing every curve, every shadow. She noticed that the hand that held the knife was trembling.

“Now the rest,” he ordered in a voice that seemed caught deep in his throat.

Sandra started to obey.

“Slower,” Robin commanded her.

Finally, she stood naked in the harsh glare of the slide projector. Now she made no pretence of not crying; her shoulders shook and the tears flowed down her cheeks, fell onto her chest and trickled across her breasts.

Suddenly, Robin gave a strangled cry, dropped the knife and hurled himself down on his knees in front of her. The abruptness of his action shocked Sandra out of her fear. He put his arms around her hips and buried his face in her loins. She could hear him sobbing and she could feel his warm tears. Quickly, she stretched out her left hand to grab the camera that Robin had left on the table beside the screen. Then, with both hands, she lifted it high in the air and brought it down hard on the top of his head.

It was quiet in Banks’s office. He sat smoking a cigarette, feeling very pleased with himself, waiting to hear from Hatchley and Richmond. Opposite, Trevor sat sullen and withdrawn, while his father seemed nervous, tapping on the edge of the desk and whistling between his teeth.

There was a soft knock at the door and Sergeant Rowe’s grey-haired head popped around, indicating that he had something to say.

“Phone call,” he said in the corridor, looking worried. “Your wife,
sir. Said it was urgent. She sounded very upset.” Banks had asked that all calls be intercepted while he was interrogating Trevor; he hadn’t wanted to be interrupted.

Puzzled, and worried that something might have happened to Brian or Tracy, he told Rowe to keep an eye on the suspect for a few moments and ducked into the nearest empty room to take the call.

“Alan? Thank God,” Sandra breathed. Rowe was right. Banks had never heard her sound like that before.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It was Robin, Alan. The peeper. He came here. He had a knife.”

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m all right. A bit scared and shaky, but he didn’t hurt me. Alan, I think I’ve killed him. I hit him with the camera. Too hard. I wasn’t thinking. I was so frightened and angry.”

“Stay there, Sandra,” Banks told her. “Don’t move. I’ll be over in a few minutes. Understand?”

“Yes. Hurry, Alan. Please.”

“I will.”

Banks got Rowe out of his office again and told the sergeant that an emergency had arisen and he had to rush home.

“What about those two?” Rowe asked.

“I’ll be back,” Banks said, thinking quickly. “Have Sergeant Hatchley call me at home when they get back with Webster. And don’t, under any circumstances, let the two kids see each other.”

“Right, sir, got it,” Rowe said. Banks could tell that he wanted to ask what was wrong or offer some sort of sympathy, but discretion got the better of him and he went back into Banks’s office, shutting the door softly behind him.

Banks got as far as the front door before PC Craig, on temporary desk duty, shouted after him.

“Sir! Inspector Banks, sir!”

Banks turned. “What is it?” he snapped, still edging towards the door.

“A call, sir. Sergeant Hatchley. Says it’s an emergency.”

Banks was in two minds whether to take it or not, but his professional instinct made him reach for the phone. At least Sandra wasn’t in immediate danger any longer. A minute or two more wouldn’t hurt.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“The kid, sir. Webster. He gave us the slip.”

“Well, go after him.”

“It’s not as simple as that. We know where he is.”

“Get to the bloody point, Sergeant,” Banks growled. “I’ve got one bloody emergency on my hands already.”

“He ran across The Green and broke into a woman’s house, sir. He’s got her held hostage there. He’s got a gun.”

Banks felt his stomach tighten. “Which house?”

“It’s that doctor woman, sir. The one I saw coming out of the super’s office.”

“Christ,” Banks gasped, rubbing his free hand over his eyes.

“But there’s more, sir. He says he wants you there. He asked for you and said if you didn’t get here in twenty minutes he’d kill the woman.”

Banks had to think more quickly than he had ever done in his life. It was probably no more than a split second before he gave Hatchley his instructions, but in that period Banks felt as if he had been to hell and back. The two women flashed before his eyes. If he deserted Sandra when she needed him, he thought, things might never be right again; she would never fully trust him. If he didn’t go to help Jenny, on the other hand, she would surely die. Banks reasoned that Sandra would, somehow, understand this if she knew, that his duty was to try to save a life rather than console his wife after she had already succeeded in freeing herself from a dangerous, terrifying situation. Though he was thinking specifically that it was Jenny in danger, that he couldn’t let Jenny die, he knew he would also have to go even if it was a stranger Mick Webster had taken hostage. It was personal, yes, and this intensified his concern, but his job demanded that he do the same for anyone. Somebody, however, would have to go to Sandra. There was always the chance that the man would return to consciousness again. And if someone else dealt with it, then it would be official business. It was official anyway, he realized. It had gone too far to be covered up as easily as the peeper episode. No matter who went to Sandra now, all the details would have to come out.