‘Someone help him,’ the woman sobbed.
He reached the edge of the platform and pulled the sobbing woman out of the way. There was a streak of blood on the front of the train, and through the windscreen glass he could see the driver with a horrified look on his face.
Chet stared down at the track. It was impossible to make out the features on the mangled body that lay there. The side of the face that was visible was just an oozing welt of gore. One arm was pinned behind the figure’s back in a gruesomely unnatural position, the shoulder joint and the elbow obviously snapped and splintered; the other arm was simply crushed.
But Chet didn’t need to see the face. All he needed to see was the prosthetic leg, almost identical to his own. It was still vaguely attached to Doug’s knee, but pointing out at a ninety-degree angle, and split about halfway down.
Dread and anger seeped through Chet’s bones in equal measure. He staggered back from the edge of the platform to allow two Transport Police officers to take his place. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please step back from the platform,’ one said loudly. ‘Please step back — the emergency services need to come through.’
Chet hardly heard them. He pressed his back against a rail map on the platform wall as the chaos unfolded, trying to suppress the sickness, trying to think clearly.
Was his friend dead by coincidence? Like hell he was.
But with the possible exception of Doug’s girlfriend, nobody knew they were meeting. Nobody knew they were there.
Suddenly Chet felt his blood turn cold. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and stared at it.
Somebody must have been listening in to their conversation.
He cursed himself for being so stupid, then quickly fumbled with the handset’s rear panel and removed the battery and SIM card so that the phone couldn’t be tracked. He stuffed the SIM card into his wallet; the phone he could dump when he found a bin.
Quickly he replayed in his head what he and his friend had said on the phone. Would any eavesdropper have known that Doug was an amputee too? Chet didn’t think so. And there was only one conclusion to draw from that…
‘
Then his skin prickled as another realisation hit him.
He’d made more than one call using this phone the night before.
A face rose in his mind. Red hair. A small silver stud in her pretty, turned-up nose.
Suze McArthur.
Chet stuffed the dismembered phone in his pocket and started to push his way hurriedly back along the platform. He had no idea where the young woman lived. He had no idea what she knew. But he had to get to her now. And fast.
Before someone else did.
TEN
Chet had a name. He had a phone number. Ten minutes later, after a call from a public phone box to an old army mate of his who had access to the Police National Computer, he had an address committed to memory.
Flat 6, 124 Wimbourne Terrace, W2. He consulted his mental map of the capital. Suze McArthur, whoever she was, lived on the other side of London. It would take him the best part of an hour to get there, and an hour could easily be too long. He called her number: maybe he could persuade her to get the hell out of her flat. But the phone rang out. Was that good or bad? Chet didn’t know. He slammed the receiver down and limped back to his car. His only option was to struggle through the rush-hour traffic.
It was getting lighter now, but the sky was cloudy and grey. He kept seeing the intruder — her cold face — and Doug’s mangled and broken body. He kept hearing the American voice he’d overheard the day before. Trust me, Prime Minister Stratton. This war is good to go.. the Americans are all on board. The question is, how are you going to get it through…?
There was something more to it than that. There had to be. What else had they been saying in that meeting? What was so important that somebody had tried to kill him, and succeeded in taking the life of his friend? There was only one person who might know the answer to that, and Chet had to get to her soonest.
He lost count of the number of cars he cut up, or of red lights that he ran, or of angry shouts from drivers as he forced his way across London. Even with all that, it was still just shy of 07.45 when he pulled into the top of Wimbourne Terrace, a narrow street of mansion-block flats round the back of Edgware Road tube station.
It was a residential road. No shops or cafes, but still a fair number of people walking along either side. Chet drove slowly down the road, looking out for number 124. It would be on the right, and…
He took a sharp breath.
Number 124 looked like all the other blocks with its black and white chequerboard pathway leading up to an ornate red-painted door with two frosted-glass panels. But on the other side of the road, sitting in a white VW Golf, was a woman he recognised. Dark, wavy hair. A beautiful face. The last time he’d seen her was in the rear-view mirror of his own car, as she stood outside his flat, pistol in hand.
Chet lowered his head as he passed. Had the intruder clocked him? He fucking hoped not.
At the far end of Wimbourne Terrace, some twenty metres away, he pulled into the kerb. He realised he was breathing deeply, trying to keep his mind and body steady. Was she alone? Were there others conducting surveillance on Suze McArthur’s flat? What was her strategy — to wait until the girl left, then follow her? Or was an accomplice already inside?
Whatever was happening, Chet couldn’t just walk up to the door and ring the bell. The woman in the Golf was, to Chet’s certain knowledge, armed; he wasn’t. She was able-bodied; Chet was far from it. He considered moving round to the back of the block to see if there was another entrance, but there was no way he was going to take his eyes off the woman. He needed a distraction. Something quick.
There was a public phone in a Perspex booth a few metres from the car. Leaving the car on a double yellow — there was no other choice — he hurried over to the booth. He looked around, checking for CCTV. Nothing jumped out, not that that meant much. Whether he was on camera or not, he had to act quickly.
He could still see the Golf as he picked up the receiver and dialled 999.
A female voice answered after two rings. ‘Which service do you require?’
‘Police,’ Chet replied.
‘Please hold the line.’
A pause, then a new voice. ‘Go ahead, caller. You’re through to the police.’
Chet affected a note of panic. ‘I… I think I’ve seen someone with a gun.’
‘Where did you see this?’
‘Wimbourne Terrace, W2. It’s a woman. I saw her getting into a white VW Golf.’
‘Do you have the registration number, caller?’
‘No… it’s about halfway up the street.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Just up the road. I thought I should call…’
‘Please tell me what number you’re calling from.’
Chet recited the number displayed in the phone booth.
‘Stay away from the area, caller. A patrol car will be…’
But Chet had already hung up.
He knew the police would be there quickly. Any sniff of gun crime and they were all over it like the clap. Would it be quick enough? He’d have to wait and see. Chet walked back towards where the white Golf was parked. He stopped about twenty metres away from it, on the same side as number 124. From here he could see the entrance to Suze’s building, and also the vehicle. If the intruder made a move, he could intervene. But otherwise he was going to wait.
