The sergeant cried out as Bryant staggered to his feet and called for help. Officers were pouring into the rainswept garden. Two of them pulled Longbright free, grabbing the assailant by his wrists and forcing him to release the knife, which spiraled harmlessly into the turf. Bryant caught Longbright as she slipped back, the front of her sou’wester slashed apart. He tore open the raincoat and examined the wound. The flesh of her chest had been cut, but not deeply. The heavy material had absorbed the brunt of the attack.
“Thank God I wear an upholstered brassiere,” she told him breathlessly, somewhat amazed by her escape.
“You’re going to have a small, intriguing scar,” he said, tousling the sergeant’s wet hair. “Aren’t you glad I made you wrap up warm?”
Shocked by her brush with death, Longbright looked back at the anguished young Asian twisting in his captors’ arms.
“There are four more on the loose,” Bryant said urgently. “I think one’s already inside. Look at the roof.”
As Bryant loped off in the direction of the front door, Longbright looked up and saw the smashed glass of the skylight lying on the tiles.
Land was returning to the patrol car when he rounded the end of the garden wall and walked directly into an elderly Indian gentleman. His shout of surprise alerted the men in the car, who ran to his help just as the killer lashed out at the soft flesh of his throat. The superintendent stumbled against the wall, gasping for breath as his attacker surrendered. “I did not want to do this!” shouted the old man. “I am paying the debt for my son!” The officers led him away.
As Bryant pushed open the front door of the house, Susan Whitstable hit him on the head with an omelette pan. “I’m frightfully sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I thought you were one of them. Why are you making so much noise outside? The children are trying to sleep.”
“Where’s my partner?” asked Bryant, rubbing his skull and shoving past her to the foot of the stairs.
“We have enough trouble keeping track of our own people without having to find your staff for you,” Susan said, walking back to the dining room still clutching the pan. As Bryant began to climb the stairs, his torch beam faltered.
“Oh no, not again.” He felt sure that somewhere up above, the spirit of James Makepeace Whitstable was watching over the house, enjoying their battle to hold back the darkness. Upon reaching the landing he found himself without any light. From somewhere further along the hallway came the sound of scuffling. Then a hand shot out and pushed him back against the wall.
“He’s got Berta Whitstable tied up in there,” whispered May. “I think he’s arming some kind of explosive device. I saw him detaching a large wired object from his belt.”
“I wondered if they would resort to something like that,” hissed Bryant. “Nothing short of an explosion would get rid of this lot. The orders came in to remove all of the remaining Whitstables tonight. What can we do?”
“Go back downstairs and start getting everyone out of the house as quietly as possible. Send one of the armed officers up. No more than one, though. I need the element of surprise, but I daren’t tackle him alone. Berta’s still in there, and he could trigger the device.”
Bryant ran down the stairs and opened the living room door. Everyone was seated around one of the girls, who was reading aloud.
“I want your attention,” said Bryant, stepping into the centre of the circle. “
“We’re reading
“Scrooge beats Tiny Tim to death with his crutch,” said Bryant maliciously. “Now, I want you all to move outside as quickly and as quietly as possible.”
There was a chorus of protest. “But it’s
“Have the girls got time to go and change?” asked Susan, indicating her offspring with the omelette pan.
“Everyone must go right now, in the clothes you’re wearing.”
“I’m wearing a Cecil Gee sweater,” complained Nigel Whitstable. “If the colours run I’m sending you the bill.”
“If you’re not all out of this room in twenty seconds, I’ll have you dragged out,” Bryant warned, hoisting two of the smaller children to their feet. “You shouldn’t be listening to Dickens at your age, you’re too impressionable.”
“Daddy says we can do whatever we please because you’re public servants!” said Berta’s granddaughter, Delilah Whitstable. The others started to file out, complaining as they went.
“He does, does he?” Bryant looked for her father as he lifted the child into his arms. “I must remember to see if his road tax has expired.”
Outside, in the dark, in sliding sheets of rain, Longbright stood alone, watching the trees for movement. She wiped her torch against her sodden trousers. When she raised the beam, she saw the assassin walking towards her from the end of the garden. Tall, middle-aged, and sickly, he was nevertheless dangerous. In his left hand was a long-handled weeding fork, presumably all he could find in the gardener’s shed.
She walked towards him, wary but unafraid.
He came to an unsteady halt and peered at her. The rain had plastered his hair flat, giving him a skeletal appearance.
“You are Whitstable?” he asked awkwardly.
“No, I’m a police officer, and you must put down your weapon.”
He seemed so pathetic that she almost felt sorry for him. Lumbering at her, he raised the red metal fork, but long before it could connect she clouted him with the house brick in her hand, stone cracking against bone. Knocked from his feet, he fell into the weeds, raised himself on one arm, then dropped.
Longbright tossed the brick aside and walked away. Usually, she kept one in her immense handbag, but tonight she had left the bag back at the unit.
Upstairs, May and the constable had been discovered. The assassin was standing in the bathroom doorway, unsure of his next move. Behind him Berta lay whimpering on the tiled floor with a towel knotting her ankles and a flannel stuffed in her mouth. In front of her was a heavy six-inch-thick steel disc, joined to an electronic detonator. After appraising the situation and recognizing the conditions of a stalemate, the assassin knelt and calmly continued setting the detonator.
“We have to get him to hand her over,” May whispered to the constable. “He’s going to set the thing off without worrying about himself.” During his career in the force, May had never encountered the most dangerous kind of assassin: a fanatic prepared for glorious sacrifice, unconcerned for his own survival. At this point in the twentieth century, such people were still a rarity. “Can you pick him off from here?”
“I can’t be certain, sir. He’s too close to the woman.”
“Then hold your fire. Wait here for a minute.” May slowly crept forward, his eye fixed on the detonator.
“Your orders were wrong!” he called suddenly, making the assassin start and Berta Whitstable flinch. “You’re not supposed to hurt these people. I know that’s what you’ve been told to do, but the command has been canceled. Please, don’t move.” Knowing he could not dissuade, May spoke to divert. He directed the armed officer to edge towards the assassin, who looked up only briefly before returning his attention to the bomb.
“Stay there and keep me covered,” May told the officer, lowering himself slowly to the ground with a grunt. “And to think my mother told me I’d be happier in a desk job.”
He began to move forward, one foot shifting quietly in front of the other. The assassin finished twisting the wire caps of the detonator shut. He turned a switch, set the box down and took a step back, bracing his wasted body for the worst. Behind him, Berta spat out the flannel and began to scream.
Judging by the size of the casing, the bomb blast would be too big to contain by simply throwing himself on it. May looked at the floor, judging the positions of assassin and captive. Towels had been dragged from the rail above the radiator; several had fallen on the floor. It was all he needed to see.
The assassin was still staring at him, waiting for the safety countdown to end, when May threw his torso forward. Moving with a speed that surprised them all, he slid into the bathroom with as much force as he could
