‘Well?'
Finally she nodded, blinked away tears of frustration, turned on her heel. On her way out, he softly said, ‘Zek,' and she paused. But she didn't face him. ‘Zek, you have a great future. Remember that. And really, that's the only choice you have. A great future — or none at all.'
Then she left and closed the door behind her.
She went to her own small suite of rooms, the austere quarters she used when she was not on duty, and threw herself down on her bed. To hell with his report. She'd do it in her own time, if she did it at all. For what use would she be to Gerenko once he knew what she knew?
After a little while she managed to compose herself and tried to sleep. But though she was weary to death, she tried in vain.
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday, 11.45 P.M. — fifteen minutes to midnight in Hartlepool on England's north-east coast — and a thin drizzling rain turning the empty streets shiny black. The last bus for the colliery villages along the coast had left the town half an hour ago; the pubs and cinemas had all turned out; grey cats slinked in the alleys and a last handful of people headed for their homes on a night when it simply wasn't worth being out.
But in a certain house on the Blackhall Road there was a muted measure of activity. In the garret flat, Brenda Keogh had fed her baby son and put him down for the night and was now preparing herself for bed. In the hitherto empty first floor flat, Darcy Clarke and Guy Roberts sat in near-darkness, Roberts nodding off to sleep and Clarke listening with an anxious awareness to the timbers of the old house creaking as they settled for the night. Downstairs in the ground floor flat, its permanent ‘residents', two Special Branch men, were playing cards while a uniformed policeman made coffee and looked on. In the entrance hail a second uniformed officer kept his vigil just inside the door, smoking a slightly damp and ill-made cigarette while he sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and wondered for the tenth time just what he was doing here.
To the Special Branch men it was old hat: they were here for the protection of the girl in the garret flat. She didn't know it, but they weren't just good neighbours, they were her minders. Hers and little Harry's. They'd looked after her for the better part of a year, and in all of that time no one had so much as blinked at her; theirs must be the cushiest, best paid number in the entire length and breadth of the security business! As for the two uniformed men: they were on overtime, kept over from the middle shift to do ‘special' duties. They should have gone off home at 10.00 P.M., but it appeared there was this bloody maniac on the loose, and the girl upstairs was thought to be one of his targets. That was all they'd been told. All very mysterious.
On the other hand, in the flat above, Clarke and Roberts knew exactly why they were here — and also what they were up against. Roberts uttered a quiet snort and his head lolled where he sat close to the curtained window in the living-room. He gave a grunt and straightened himself up a little, and in the next moment began to nod again. Clarke scowled at him without malice, turned up his collar and rubbed his hands for warmth. The room felt damp and cold.
Clarke would have liked to put on a light but didn't dare; this flat was supposed to be empty and that was the way it must appear. No fires, no lights, as little movement as possible. All they'd allowed themselves by way of comfort was an electric kettle and a jar of instant coffee. Well, a little more than that. Comforting too was the fact that earlier in the day a flame thrower had been delivered to Roberts, and both men had crossbows.
Clarke picked up his crossbow now and looked at it. It was loaded, with the safety on. How dearly he would love to sight it on Yulian Bodescu's black heart. He scowled again and put the weapon down, lit up and drew deeply on one of his rare cigarettes. He was feeling tired and miserable, and not a little nervous. That was probably to be expected, but he put it down to the fact that he'd been taking his coffee blacker and blacker, until he felt sure his blood must now be at least seventy-five per cent pure caffeine! He'd been here since the early hours of the morning, and so far — nothing. At least he had that much to be thankful for.
Down in the entrance hall, Constable Dave Collins quietly opened the door of the flat, looked into the living- room. ‘Stand in for me, Joe,' he said to his colleague. ‘Five minutes for a breath of fresh air. I'm going to stretch my legs down the road a bit.'
The other glanced once more at the Special Branch men at their game, stood up and began buttoning his jacket. He picked up his helmet and followed his friend out into the hall, then unlocked the door and let him out into the street. ‘Fresh air?' he called after him. ‘You're joking. Looks like there's a fog coming up to me!'
Joe Baker watched his colleague stride off down the road, went back inside and closed the door. He should by rights lock it but was satisfied to throw home the single, small stainless steel bolt. He took his seat beside an occasional table bearing a heap of junk mail and some old newspapers — and a tin of cigarette tobacco and papers! Joe grinned, rolled himself a ‘free' one. He'd just smoked the cigarette down when he heard footsteps at the door and a single, quiet knock.
He got up, unbolted the door, opened it and looked out. His colleague stood with his back to the door, rubbing his hands and glancing up and down the road. A fine film of moisture gleamed black on his raincoat and helmet. Joe flipped the stub of his cigarette out into the night and said, ‘That was a long five —‘
But that was all he said. For in the next moment the figure on the threshold had turned and grabbed him in hands huge and powerful as iron bands — and he'd taken one look at the face under the helmet and knew that it wasn't Dave Collins! It wasn't anybody human at all!
These were his last thoughts as Yulian Bodescu effortlessly bent Joe's head back and sank his incredible teeth into his throat. They closed like a mantrap on his pounding jugular and severed it. He was dead in a moment, throat torn out and neck broken.
Yulian lowered him to the floor, turned and closed the door to the street. He pushed home the light bolt; that would suffice. It had been the work of mere seconds, a most efficient murder. Blood stained Bodescu's mouth as he snarled silently at the door of the ground floor flat, He reached out his vampire senses and sent them beyond the closed door. Two men in there, close together, busy with whatever they were doing and totally unaware of their danger. But not for long.
Yulian opened the door and without pause strode into the room. He saw the Special Branch officers seated at their card table. They looked up smiling, saw him, his helmet and raincoat, and casually returned to their game
— then looked again! But too late. Yulian was in the room, pacing forward, reaching a taloned hand to pick up a service automatic with its silencer already screwed in position. He would have preferred to kill in his own way, but he supposed that this was as good as any. The officers had barely drawn breath, were scarcely risen to their feet, before he'd fired at them point-blank, half-emptying the weapon's magazine into their cringing, shuddering bodies.
Darcy Clarke had been on the point of falling asleep; perhaps for a little while he had been asleep, but then something had woken him up. He lifted his head, all of his senses at once alert. Something downstairs in the hall? A door closing? Furtive footsteps on the stairs? It could have been any of these things. But how long ago — seconds or minutes?
The telephone rang and shocked him upright, rigid as a pillar in his chair. Heart pounding, he reached for the phone, but Guy Roberts's hand closed on it first. ‘I woke up a minute before you,' Roberts whispered, his voice hoarse in the darkness. ‘Darcy, I think something's up!'
He put the handset to his ear, said: ‘Roberts?'
Clarke heard a tinny voice from the telephone, but couldn't make out what it said. But he saw Roberts give a massive start and heard his whooshing intake of breath.
‘Jesus!' Roberts exploded into life. He slammed the phone down, came rearing unsteadily to his feet. ‘That was Layard,' he panted. ‘He's found the bastard again — and guess where he is!'
Clarke didn't have to guess, for his talent had taken over. It was telling him to get the hell out of this house; it was even propelling him towards the door. But only for a moment, for his talent ‘knew' that there was danger out there on the landing, and now it was heading Darcy towards the window!
