enough trouble as it is without adding murder to your crimes. If you drop your weapon, then this will end peacefully. If you don’t, then you risk being shot.’
‘Retreat now or I kill him. I mean it!’
‘Don’t do it, Miss Toms. You are surrounded. It won’t do any good.’
And then my heart sank as, still pointing the gun at the naked man’s head, she stepped out of the room and into the hallway.
For a second she looked confused, then the confusion turned to annoyance. Slowly, the barrel of the gun moved round so it was facing me.
There is no feeling in the world more hopeless, more desperate, more frightening, than when you are standing looking at the end of a gun that’s held steadily and calmly by someone you know is going to kill you. And impotent, too. It’s an impotent feeling realizing that nothing you do or say, no pleading, no begging, nothing, is going to change the dead angle of that weapon, or prevent the bullet from leaving it and entering your body, ripping up your insides, and ending every experience, every thought, every dream you’ve ever had. You think about people you care about, places you’ve been to that you liked, and you know you’re never going to see any of them again. Your guts churn, the nerves in your lower back jangle so wildly that you think you’re going to soil yourself, your legs feel like they’re going to go from under you like those newborn calves you sometimes see on the telly. And your eyes. You know that your eyes betray your sense of complete and utter defeat.
You are a dead man, and you know it.
And then two things happened.
First, Jack Merriweather sat up, rubbing his head and uttering the immortal words, ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Second, the naked man kicked out with his right leg and struck Elaine Toms in the calf of her left one, knocking her off balance. She slipped, then fell forward, and the gun went off, the bullet ricocheting off the carpet before flying harmlessly into the ceiling. She landed on her front, gun arm outstretched, but still holding it. As she tried to right herself, I took my chance, running forward and stamping as hard as I could on her wrist. She yelped in pain, but didn’t release the gun, so I stamped again, and this time she did. I pulled it up by the barrel, stepped back, resisting the urge to kick her in the face for scaring me senseless, and turned the gun round. Toms massaged her wrist, wailing in pain and accusing me of breaking it, while Merriweather continued to rub at his head and face, smearing the blood over it, still unsure, it seemed, about what was happening. The naked man simply sat where he was, shivering and silent.
‘All right,’ I said, holding the weapon gingerly, and praying that no one chose this moment to make a break for it, ‘everyone stay where they are.’
‘I need a cloth for my face,’ said the naked man, and slowly got to his feet. ‘Please.’
He stood where he was for a moment, wiping the blood from his eyes. Something about him looked familiar. Very familiar, though the beard made it difficult to tell for sure.
In the distance, I could hear the sirens. ‘Just stay where you are for a moment, sir.’
‘Please, I need water.’ He stumbled forward into the room from which Elaine Toms had just emerged. At the same time, she started edging along the floor in my direction, eyes watching me like a hawk in search of a weakness.
I pointed the gun directly at her head. ‘Do not move,’ I told her.
‘The man with no clothes’, she said, motioning over her shoulder, ‘is Max Iversson. He’s wanted for murder.’
Iversson. Shit!
I heard a window opening in the other room, and the sound of someone clambering out. A second later, a noise like a crash came from outside. I stayed put, hoping he wouldn’t get far without any clothes, knowing that I had to make sure Toms didn’t escape. I cursed myself for not clocking Iversson immediately. It’s amazing what some blood and the Grizzly Adams look’ll do to a person’s face.
Toms looked like she was going to make a break for it. ‘You’re letting him get away,’ she said mockingly.
I smiled at her, holding the gun steady. ‘Then I’d better make sure I don’t make the same mistake with you.’
She gave me a very unladylike sneer but didn’t make any move. At the same time, the sirens seemed to close in from all sides, cars screeching to a halt in front of the building. There was a loud bang as the front door to the building was forced, followed by the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs.
The cavalry had arrived.
Wednesday, three days later
Gallan
‘So, Jack, tell me. Why were you in Elaine Toms’s apartment armed with an illegal handgun and silencer?’
Merriweather looked at his solicitor, who gave a slight nod, then back at me. ‘No comment,’ he said, scratching absentmindedly at the plaster on his broken nose.
‘How do you know Elaine Toms?’
There was a pause. ‘No comment.’
‘Is it through Dagmar Holdings?’ Again, he looked at the solicitor, a bald, pinch-faced individual with outsize glasses and an officious air. This was the infamous Melvyn Carroll. Again, he gave that little nod.
‘No comment.’
‘What do you know about Dagmar Holdings?’
‘No comment.’
I sighed. ‘You’re not helping us much here, Jack.’
‘Or yourself,’ added Knox, who was sitting beside me. ‘You’re facing very serious charges. Charges that carry a substantial prison sentence. We’re talking years, Jack, not months. Years. I suggest you think about that next time you get asked a question.’
Merriweather yawned ostentatiously. ‘Are you lot going to charge me with anything or are you just going to sit here wasting my time?’
Melvyn Carroll leant forward. He smelt strongly of eau de cologne. ‘My client insists he has done nothing wrong, and, as he has informed you repeatedly, has nothing further to say on the matter. I would therefore strongly request that you let him go.’
Knox and I looked at each other, then back at Merriweather. Jackie Slap stared straight ahead at me, his eyes cold. His expression was a simple one. It said: You can’t touch me. I held his gaze, looking back at him expressionlessly. The room was silent for several seconds as the two of us stared each other down. Carroll opened his mouth to say something, but it was me who spoke first.
‘What do you know about the murder of Robert Jones?’ I asked, and something in Merriweather’s expression cracked. The composure was restored within the space of a second, but it was too late. I’d caught it. I knew I was on the right track.
He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know nothing about anything like that. Never heard of the bloke.’
‘You’ve never heard of Robert Jones, the paper-boy who got murdered six months ago?’
‘Oh yeah, yeah, that. I heard about it, but I don’t know nothing about it. Why should I?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Carroll. ‘What has the murder of a paperboy got to do with the charges my client is being questioned in connection with?’
‘We think Mr Merriweather may be able to throw some light on the child’s murder,’ said Knox, emphasizing the word ‘child’.
‘Look, don’t try to fit me up with something like that!’
‘No need to shout, Jack,’ said Knox.
‘I’m surprised you thought you hadn’t heard of him,’ I continued, ‘because it was, and is, a very high-profile case, and the last place he was seen alive, before he was so brutally murdered, was Runmayne Avenue where an
