He could still see right into the glass-fronted entrance hall and suddenly, a man came down the stairs, dark- suited and with striking white hair. He stood talking to Molly for a moment or two and Youngblood crouched in the shadows and waited. After a while, they moved through a door to the left and he got to his feet and went closer.
He stood in the shadows at the bottom of the steps and waited behind one of the pillars. Within a few minutes, the door opened and Molly and the white haired man came out and went upstairs.
Youngblood stood there, a frown on his face, wondering what to do next, realising for the first time, and with a kind of wonder, that up until now, Drummond seemed to have been making all the decisions. It was something as prosaic as a sudden increase in the force of the rain that decided him. He ran up the steps quickly, pushed open the heavy glass door and went inside.
It was as quiet as the grave and he hesitated for a moment and then crossed the foyer and went up the marble stairs. He reached the landing above and had only taken a couple of steps along it when Molly screamed.
Youngblood turned instinctively to run and then she screamed again and this time called his name. Perhaps what happened next was a reflex action-perhaps it was a product of pride or even shame or of the colossal vanity that knowing her good opinion, refused to let her find him wanting.
He flung open the leather-covered door and went in crouching, aware only fleetingly of the macabre backdrop to what was taking place. Pentecost had Molly back across the bench, a hand at her throat, the scalpel raised threateningly.
As she screamed again, Youngblood grabbed Pentecost by the shoulder, swung him round and knocked him backwards across the bench. The girl flung herself into his arms, her face twisted and ugly with fear and as he patted her reassuringly, Pentecost scrambled to his feet and pulled the revolver from his pocket.
The first clear emotion that exploded in Youngblood's brain was one of anger at his own stupidity in getting involved, and yet in the same moment the over-riding instinct for self-preservation at all costs that was his most outstanding characteristic made him hurl the girl from him and start for the safety of the door.
Pentecost fired once, the bullet drilling a neat hole in the thick glass plate of the tank and formaldehyde jetting out in a bright stream.
Youngblood straightened slowly and Pentecost said, 'That's better. Hands on head.' He gave the girl a quick push forward. 'Now start walking, both of you. I'd like to say do as you're told and you won't get hurt, but my old granny always taught me to tell the truth.'
Youngblood moved along the corridor, the girl at his side, her face white. There was no sign of Drummond, but that was only to be expected, he told himself bitterly. The sound of that shot was enough to make anyone run for cover.
They went down the stairs under Pentecost's direction and through a large iron barred door at the back of the hall. When Pentecost switched on the light, Youngblood found himself standing on a landing at the top of a flight of steps dropping down into what obviously had been a wine cellar at one time. Now it was painted neatly in white and black. There was a complicated switchboard on one wall and several steel oven doors in another. Youngblood didn't need anyone to draw a picture for him. This was undoubtedly the crematorium and in spite of the oppressive warmth, he was suddenly cold as he went down the steps.
'That will do nicely,' Pentecost said and he moved round to face them, a slight smile on his face. 'You know where you are?'
'I don't need any blueprint,' Youngblood said.
Pentecost reached for a switch on the wall. There was a sudden roar and when he swung back one of the oven doors, they could see flames shooting from all sides of the brickwork through a heavy, armoured glass door.
'Ten minutes,' he said. 'That's all it takes and afterwards, a handful of ashes.'
The girl gave a sudden desperate sob and half collapsed against Youngblood so that he had to catch her. Pentecost circled them warily and stood with his back to the stairs.
'This is what I call the full treatment,' he said. 'For most people it's a privilege that costs two hundred guineas. You're getting it for free.'
Behind him Chavasse vaulted the rail, landing with a soft thud. Pentecost started to turn, but he was too late. Chavasse moved in fast, sliding an arm around the man's neck and wrenched the revolver from his grasp.
He staggered forward, gasping for breath as Chavasse released him with a shove and Youngblood swung him round, his face white with rage and fear.
'You bastard!' he said. 'You dirty bastard!' He grabbed Pentecost by the shirtfront and hit him again and again in the face with his right, solid, heavy punches that drove him to his knees.
Chavasse forced his way in between them, pushing Youngblood back against the wall. 'All right-that's enough. We want to talk to him!'
'You took your own sweet time getting here, didn't you?' Youngblood said furiously.
Chavasse ignored him. He heaved Pentecost to his feet and shoved him into a chair that stood beside a small deal table. Pentecost seemed completely dazed and wiped blood from his mouth mechanically with the back of one hand.
'My name's Drummond and this is Harry Youngblood,' Chavasse said. 'Perhaps you've heard of us?'
Pentecost nodded. 'You're the two who escaped from Manningham hospital yesterday. I read about it in the paper.'
'Were you expecting us?'
Pentecost hesitated and Youngblood took a step forward, right fist clenched. 'Let me speak to him.'
Pentecost shrank back defensively, one arm raised. 'There's no need for that. I'll tell you anything you want to know.'
Chavasse nodded to Youngblood. 'All right, give him a chance.' He repeated the question. 'Were you expecting us?'
Pentecost shook his head. 'I had a phone call this afternoon so I was expecting somebody. I didn't know it was going to be you two.'
'Who gave you the order?'
'He calls himself Smith. That's all I know about him.'
'Can you describe him?'
'Good looking, well spoken.' He shrugged. 'You'd think he was upper-crust until he starts to work.'
Youngblood frowned across at Chavasse. 'Mackenzie?
'It certainly sounds like it.' Chavasse looked down at Pentecost again. 'Are you expecting him?'
'He didn't say anything definite.'
Youngblood had walked across to inspect the ovens and now he turned. 'Do you treat everyone Smith sends you like this?'
Pentecost shook his head. 'I pass most of them straight through.'
Youngblood stared at him in genuine horror.
'The people you passed on,' Chavasse said. 'What was their destination?'
Pentecost didn't even hesitate. 'I used to leave them at a crossroads five miles from here. They were usually picked up by the same van.'
'You stayed to watch?'
Pentecost nodded. 'I wasn't supposed to know the destination, but I took the registration number and got a friend of mine with the right contacts to check it for me. The van belongs to a bloke called Bragg. He runs a small boatyard at a little place on the Dorset coast near Lulworth called Upton Magna. It's about ninety miles from here.'
Youngblood turned to Chavasse excitedly. 'That sounds promising, Drum. It could be the end of the line.'
Chavasse nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off Pentecost's face. Quite suddenly he rammed the barrel of the revolver against the man's head and thumbed back the hammer.
'You bloody liar!'
