Rainstone Fall (24 page)
I stepped back and stood, panting, gripping the struts to either side of the loose tarpaulin. Four feet. Four feet was nothing, a long stride, a hop and a skip, a skip and a jump, a jump and a fall. Unenthusiastically I slashed more of the tarpaulin away until I had a clear opening. There were no snags, nothing my rucksack could catch on. Asimple jump. Less, a hop. On the count of three. One, two, three, four, five. Pathetic. Four feet. Nobody needs a running jump for four feet.
I jumped, with three times the necessary force, and hit the roof running. I was free of the scaffold. Crouching down I worked my way forward over the gently curved roof towards the octagonal central structure of the market. I forced myself to admire the cast-iron construction of the lights. Lovely intricate ironwork, needed painting here and there but otherwise, oh, who was I kidding. I felt naked up here, opposite the old Empire Hotel. Row after row of darkened windows faced my way, watching me scuttle like a big black beetle into the darker shadows at the back. A minute to get my breath back. Another minute to get my breath back. A cigarette, I needed another cigarette. They said an enemy bomber could see the glow of your cigarette from fifteen thousand feet. What about enemy insomniacs in the Empire Hotel? No cigarette, then. Go forward. Stage by stage, up a slate incline, down into a leaded trough. I followed its curve, counted off the three sets of skylights above, reached the end. Nearly the end. Climb up before the end. I had memorized every detail from the aerial photographs I’d found in my guide books. The details were all there, yet the scale was so immensely different it was hard to believe the landmarks when I came to them. Up, passing the last skylight on the left, and down again on the other side, sliding on my bum, feet first, until I reached a parapet, a level piece of masonry, a reprieve. I took my time but tried not to check my watch. Every minute I delayed increased the danger of Annis being discovered clinging to the landing stage. Below. Far below.
A dark chasm opened on my left as I followed the curve of the roof space towards a three-storey addition to the back of the museum, lower than the original and stuck on at a curious angle. Deep below, it created the strangest-shaped, darkest canyon into which Private Investigators traditionally threw themselves head first during sudden attacks of vertigo . . .
Despite the tremor in my legs I managed to walk, as far from the edge as possible, never taking my eyes from the wall ahead. When I got there I leant against it. Wet, but solid. Now I had to get up it. It was only two feet or so higher than me and a round metal vent gave me a good foothold. I pulled myself up on to the next flat bit and lay there for a moment. Two tall chimneys reared to my right. The next bit was easy. Here the roof was constructed in giant steps; I climbed up easily. I had reached the corner where the southern cupola of the museum joined the roof over the upper exhibition space, with its pitched, old-fashioned skylights, beloved of burglars. To reach them, I would have to heave myself up to the flat, outer rim of the roof, twelve feet above me, which would have presented me with considerable difficulties had it not been for the tangle of downpipes, aerials and lightning conductors in the corner. I tackled this climbing frame quickly and methodically, spurred on to greater heights by the closeness of the goal, and heaved myself gratefully on to the roof of the gallery, panting and sweating despite the wet and the wind and the cold fear of being blown off it if I moved even one muscle up here. From this vantage point one could see the river Avon wind its way west through the town, or look south and see the entire length of Great Pulteney Street as far as the Holburne Museum and Sydney Gardens, and the dark mass of Bathwick Wood and Bathampton Down beyond; if one dared look, which I didn’t. When I recovered the will to move it was on all fours and as far as the edge of the skylight. This was where all my theories about the quaint old museum and its robb-ability hinged on the yet unanswered question: were these skylights alarmed or not? I fully expected to set off the alarms as soon as I opened any doors inside – the first on the upper floor, the second on the ground floor – but calculated I’d have just enough time to make my escape before it occurred to the police to surround the place. These were not the kind of calculations made with military precision, they were done on my fingers and quite probably contained a large measure of unfounded optimism. They had also been done before I realized how long it would take me to traverse all that roof space just to get here.
There was no point in delaying. There was nothing to be seen through the streaming wet glass as I peered down, but I knew what was there. Three large iron beams braced the roof structure below the skylights. I counted off the right number of panes and knew I was above the first, nearest the door. Then I attached a professional climber’s suction pad left of centre by pulling the little lever in the device, which created a strong vacuum. These panes were large, heavy duty items, and they were ready to tumble into the void as soon as I completed the cut. I had to cut in two stages to be sure I could hold them. After having scored the glass all around I held tight to the suction pad and tapped the glass. Nothing. I tapped harder. Still nothing. I repeated the cut all around, though it was difficult to see where the diamond had scored the surface before, then thumped the glass hard. No alarms, no whistles or bells. It snapped off and hung heavily but the suction cup held. I levered the glass out and released it on to the roof. I stuck my head into the opening. Warm air rose towards me.
The next part of the pane came away more easily and cleanly. I pocketed the suction cup and glass cutter and, thrusting my arm deep into the opening I had created, chanced a flash of my pencil torch. There was the beam, just below me. I killed the light and swung my legs over the edge, braced myself on the frame either side and lowered myself down until my feet made firm contact with the beam. This felt easier. Even though there was a twelve-foot drop below the beam this was
in
side and inside wasn’t half as scary as
out
side, don’t ask me why. The beam was broad and felt solid under my feet. I managed to persuade my hands to let go of the skylight and straddled the beam. With the pencil light in my mouth I removed the first fire escape ladder from my rucksack, hooked it on to the beam and let it go. It rolled out with a high metallic tinkling sound and hit the hardwood floor below with a startling bang.
My legs took some persuading but I managed to get first one foot on to a thin aluminium tread, then the next. The ladder swung inwards, being designed to work against the walls of a house, but it got me down, next to a glass vitrine full of . . . stuff; china and glass and antique knick-knacks. I had no time to browse. If I had set off an alarm already then I had probably three minutes until the first police car came to a screeching halt in front of the main door. I didn’t bother to take the torch from my mouth and crossed to the double doors. The lock was an old-fashioned one. It engaged bolts top, bottom and sides, effectively defending the door against being rammed open, but it wasn’t sophisticated enough to defeat a man with lock-picking skills. Even my laughable skills. Tim would, no doubt, have been on the other side of the door by now, whereas I had three picklocks inserted and tried and jiggled while first long seconds, then an entire minute ticked away. At last the lock snapped open with an echoing din and I pushed through. I had trouble keeping myself from screaming all the way down the stairs to the next door. I’d gone through the first door and the clock was ticking. No alarm bells. That meant a silent alarm had been triggered at Manvers Street station and police were at this very moment pouring out of the doors towards their cars.
I skidded to a halt in the small lobby in front of the next set of doors. The glass panels tempted me with their apparent fragility, yet smashing all the heavy panes and removing enough of the framework to squeeze myself through would take longer than defeating the lock. Quite apart from being a lot noisier. It was a race against time, a contest, police driver against lock breaker. This was an identical lock to the one upstairs. I already had the right picks out and knew in which order to insert them, only my hands were shakier and my nerves thinner. Sweat was running into my eyes as I stood in the little lobby, my back to the entrance door. One moment all I could hear was the metallic clicking of my picks, then suddenly behind me the sound of an engine and the crunch of brakes being applied hard, car doors opening, muted voices. Ignore it.
The lock snapped open under my efforts, the door yielded to the pressure of my shoulder. I stowed the picks, taking the few steps up into the exhibition space at a run. The piercing beam of my torch picked out the exhibits, scowling shapes with jumping shadows. The little Rodin was there, standing in the centre, in pride of place, waiting for me. I grabbed the dancer by the cold scruff of his neck, pulled him off the plinth and lowered him into my rucksack, secured the top with the speed cords and heaved it on to my back. And I nearly staggered backwards. It was surprisingly heavy for its size and one of its sharp angles poked painfully into my back. I wouldn’t get much running done while carrying this load of junk. Crossing the lobby I could hear voices and the nasal whine of a police radio on the other side of the main entrance door. Ignore it. I climbed the stairs steadily, using the handrail, pacing myself. I had a long way to go carrying this thing and it was no use running out of puff halfway to the boat with the police already here.
Back on the upper floor I pulled the double door shut behind me. I fished my cheap combination bicycle lock from my jacket pocket, slipped it through the brass loops of the door handles, wound it round tight and clicked it shut. That would keep them out until they decided to break the door down or send some poor bastard on to the roof.
This was it. I tugged the escape ladder tight, took a deep breath and started climbing. The heavy rucksack made me swing nearly horizontal as soon as I had both feet on it. It was an awkward operation. Halfway up, my left foot got tangled in the links and treads of the ladder. I couldn’t look down to see, it was too dark and the angle was wrong. My arms started to ache while I thrashed about until at last I was free and could start moving again. Still no noise of pursuit, which was puzzling me but I wasn’t about to complain. I heaved myself up on to the beam, breathing hard, unhooked the ladder and let it clatter to the floor. As I stood on the beam and slipped the rucksack off my shoulders so I could push it out of the skylight I could hear noises below me. Ignore. Once rid of the weight I felt featherlight and pulled myself up easily. The sound of hammering came from somewhere, probably the cops trying to get through the upstairs door, as I let the second ladder roll down the side of the building towards the next level down. I shouldered my burden once more and swiftly climbed down. A vigorous shake dislodged the hooks by which the ladder had held on to the masonry with worrying ease. Leaving it lying where it was, I retraced my steps, down another level, then across the semicircular parapet. The extra weight made the mossy surfaces difficult to negotiate and I slipped back twice before I gratefully slithered down into the leaded trough around the cast-iron lights surrounding the central roof structure of the market.
Here I paused and tried to subdue my breathing so I could listen for any sound below. It remained quiet. Reluctance to move on to the edge of the roof rained down on me like treacle. The longer I cowered in the dubious shelter of the roof’s damp valley the harder it would get. I wanted this done, I wanted to be away. Above all, I wanted to be
down
. I pushed along to the furthest corner. In front and above me the grey giant of the scaffold stood ready to swallow me. I could not afford to stand on the edge of the market roof, in full view of anyone on the ground in the car park, and dither. I’d simply have to do it instantly: line up opposite the hole in the tarpaulin and jump across. Jump. Jump across. Jump across the gap. I stood and stared down into the canyon into which the weight of the sculpture on my back would pull me if I stumbled. The level of the scaffolding was higher than the roof on which I stood, not much but it was enough to make the jump look impossibly hard. Hard. So hard. Too hard. I’d need
wings
to get up and across with this sodding lump of metal on my back. Unslinging the rucksack I briefly wondered how resilient bronze was – didn’t they once make swords from the stuff? – got a good swing on it and flung it across the gap on to the scaffold. It disappeared into the dark beyond the tarp with a reverberating bang.
‘What? No, I heard something . . .’ Voices below and to the left, coming nearer.
‘Check the back entrance to the market.’
‘I already did.’
‘Well, check it again.’
‘Yes, sarge.’
At this distance the combined noise of the wind, rain and river might mask my jump, if I let them come any closer it might no longer. It wouldn’t be long before they got men and lights on to the roof. I could hear a surge of engine noise from the direction of Grand Parade.
‘Super’s just arrived,’ said the first voice.
I jumped. Before I knew it I’d landed awkwardly on top of the unyielding rucksack. During the jump I had the briefest impression of torches being waved about to the left.
‘Did you just hear something?’
I lay very still. My jump had been in the darkest corner of the yard, where the two buildings met. I had been heard but not seen. Now I had to move on before they got bodies down here. The Super? What on earth was Needham doing down here in the middle of the night? They couldn’t have got him out of bed and down here from his house in Oldfield Park this fast unless these days he travelled with a rocket pack. Perhaps he’d been at Manvers Street anyway working on something else. Perhaps he was one of the Friends of Victoria Art Gallery, if there were any. Or perhaps he’d been expecting me.
It is hard to shrug off your paranoia standing three floors up on a narrow scaffold in the dark with a stolen Rodin on your back and police running around below. I moved slowly, setting my feet carefully each time, until I reached the ladder. I was safe from view and the snapping tarp and drumming rain helped mask my descent. No more voices, no sounds at all while I worked my way steadily down the levels.