“That must make you the oldest team on the force.”
“Not if we keep lying about our ages.”
“I bet you’ve worked on some really exciting cases in your time.”
The detective’s eyes caught his. “There’s been the odd trunk murder I wouldn’t have missed for the world.”
“Mr Bryant, if you were a criminal, how would you go about getting inside the house?”
“Me?” He thought for a moment. “First of all I’d wait until the initial activity had died down, say around about now. This is the danger time. Everyone’s getting tired, and the family are starting to feel a little safer again. They’re lowering their guard. Some of them have probably left the room, because they won’t be told what to do by a stupid policeman. Security’s a bit looser now. The other officers are thinking we’ve got it wrong, that nothing’s going to happen after all. That’s when I’d make my move. I’d come in disguise, as someone in a position of trust. Say, a copper.”
“One of the ones guarding the house?”
With one thought between them, they started to run back through the flooded garden just as the first shot was fired.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
50
Glorious Sacrifice
One of the constables was holding him down on the grass when they arrived. The young Asian man was wearing a standard police-issue navy-blue raincoat and cap, and had been stationed alone at the side of the house.
PC Bimsley, clearly elated by his newfound respect as a useful member of the force, had spotted the bogus officer reaching into his jacket as he crouched beside the parlour window, studying the family through the curtains.
“It was his shoes, Sir,” said Bimsley, panting. “Black plimsolls.”
“Well done, Bimsley,” said Land. “You can take your foot off his throat now.” Together he and Bryant helped the silent figure to his feet, and the detective superintendent pulled him close to get a good look.
“Look at his eyes, Raymond.”
“My God.” Land took a sharp step back. Their captive’s eyes had an opaque, filmy appearance, as if they had been boiled dry.
“The poor bugger’s blind, and he still turned up to fulfill his duty,” said Bryant. “When you take him to the van, be careful with him, Bimsley. He may try to harm himself.”
The constable tried to move his prisoner, but the man refused to budge. Suddenly it was as if a plug had been disconnected, for the assassin dropped silently to his knees and fell forward onto his face in the grass.
“He’s in a trance state.” Bryant was fascinated. “It’s a complex Eastern ritual based on a combination of scientific and occult principles involving hypnosis, local medicines, and invocations. I’ve read a lot about it, but never actually seen it in action.”
“Christ Almighty, Bryant, this isn’t Open University,” fumed Land. “We’ll have to take your word for it. I’m a pragmatic man. I like my explanations clear-cut.
“Sir, there’s a call for you in the car,” said Sergeant Longbright, who had just arrived from the hospital. Bryant walked briskly around to her vehicle, slid into the passenger seat, and pulled the handset free. “Bryant.”
“Sir, this is Mr Rand at the guild.”
“Has the tontine device burned itself out?”
“Yes, Sir. The damage is shameful. After all these years…” The old Indian sounded disappointed that the astrolabe had been shut down. Even though he was merely a maintenance engineer, Rand possessed the true spirit of the guild craftsmen. “I have been trying to decode the final set of transmissions. The calls went to North London, seven of them in all. I think I can get the addresses of the recipients.”
“Give them to an officer after you’ve finished talking to me,” said Bryant. “What about the targets?”
“That’s why I called you, Sir. It’s all of them.”
“What do you mean? The whole Whitstable family?”
“That’s right, Sir, every single one.”
Bryant thought fast. The machine’s final command had fallen on the alliance’s anniversary. In its attempt to clear away its enemies in one broad sweep, the misaligned device had targeted the wrong group.
“Thanks for the warning, Mr Rand. There’s something I wanted to ask you earlier.” It had bothered him when he’d first seen Rand’s office, but the question had been pushed from his mind by more urgent matters. “When you need supplies for the maintenance room, who approves the orders?”
“Mr Tomlins, Sir. I report only to him.”
Bryant had been convinced of the guild secretary’s involvement at some level. Tomlins had tried to obstruct the investigation right from the start.
“Do you have a way of contacting him at home?”
As Rand was giving him the address, Bryant kept the front of the house in view through the rain-smeared windscreen of the car. There was a sudden flash of movement as someone darted between the bushes. Leaving Rand holding on the line, Bryant ducked out of the vehicle and began to run back to the house.
“You there, look out!”
The constable turned in time to deflect the blow but could not avoid it altogether. He slipped backwards and fell into the grass, his attacker landing squarely on top of him. Before Bryant could reach the fighting pair, Longbright ran forward. She swiped the assassin a hefty blow across the back of the head with her torch.
“Duracell batteries,” she said, rolling the inert body off the squashed constable. “Very dependable.”
“Seven assassins,” said Bryant, fighting to regain his breath. “Of course, it has to be seven. The Stewards.”
“Don’t put this man anywhere near the other one,” he told the sergeant. “You’d better call for another secure van. We’re going to need it.” He left them and walked off along the side of the house, shining his torch into the bushes. The rain was growing heavier once more, and the beam’s visibility was reducing to a tunnel of grey mist. Bryant wanted to check that May was all right inside the house. There were still five more assassins to be located.
At first, he assumed that the figure walking briskly towards him across the lawn was another officer. Then his torch picked up a streak of steel in the figure’s left hand, and he realized that he had located the third assassin. This one was bull-necked, younger, fresher.
He looked back at the side of the house, but the remaining officers had moved to the front where they were presumably helping Sergeant Longbright with her prisoner.
Bryant had no weapon on him of any kind. He was alone.
He felt a cold prickling behind his knees and at the back of his neck as he realized the recklessness of the situation in which he had placed himself. He had done the exact thing he had warned others against. The assassin was almost upon him as the detective backed up against the brickwork and shone the torch at his assailant’s eyes. For a moment the man faltered, blinded.
Bryant rolled away from the wall and ran up on to the lawn.
The wetness of the grass had greased the slope. His foot slipped beneath him and over he went, painfully on to his knees and then his back, helplessly spread before his attacker. The assassin stood over him, swaying slightly in the rain. Then he dropped forward, the knife raised at his waist. Bryant felt the cold hand of death seize his heart.
Suddenly there were two of them, one clinging to the back of the other. Longbright had seized her chance and was attempting to haul the assassin over on the garden steps. “Run, Mr Bryant!” she shouted as their protagonist’s left arm flew up and his blade slashed the air, striking at Longbright’s chest.
