muster, slapping the steel disc across the floor. It skittered over the polished bathroom tiles like a hockey puck and thudded into the towels which had fallen against the far wall.
Berta released a howl of fear as the armed officer darted in and brought his knee up hard into the assassin’s stomach, punching the breath from him. The man landed hard on the floor as May twisted the bomb’s safety timer back.
“Some help up here, please,” he shouted, untying Berta’s ankles and pushing her from the room, out of harm’s way. As officers thundered up the staircase and prepared to take their prisoner, May leant against the wall to regain his breath, and realized how very, very tired he had suddenly become.
Behind him, still connected, the bomb’s countdown read-out zeroed itself, jumped back to override: mins: 5:00, and began to flicker downwards once more.
“Take him downstairs quickly,” May told his men as he passed them on the stairs. “There’s still one assassin loose, in or around the house. Nobody’s safe until he can be found.”
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
51
The Finger of Blame
“Can we go in yet?” complained Nigel Whitstable. The colours in his sweater were starting to blur together. Several of the younger ones had started to cry. “This is an absolute bloody outrage.” Nigel looked around, as if noticing the police cars for the first time. “It would help if you were to explain what you’re hoping to achieve with all this…ridiculous fuss.”
Bryant and Sergeant Longbright were busy trying to settle as many of the children as possible in the cars. Most were treating the evening as an adventure, and had to be slapped away from the dashboard instrumentation.
May led Charles Whitstable’s sobbing mother out to join the group as the remaining police gathered around to help the family. Berta looked fragile and rather pathetic in the rain. As Bryant backed out of the last car he realized that everyone was staring at him, waiting to be told what to do next.
In this brief instant, for the first time, he almost felt sorry for them. Huddled together in the downpour with no coats or jackets, frozen, sopping wet, confused and utterly miserable, the Whitstables looked a hopeless lot. Whatever else happened he would always remember them like this, the bedraggled dynastic dregs, suspicious of everyone, capable of complaint but little else, waiting for someone stronger to direct them.
The moment was broken by Nigel Whitstable, who had come to the boil again. “When the papers get hold of this,” he cried, poking Land in the chest with a bony forefinger, “you’ll be about as popular as the Gestapo. You’re finished, all of you! And especially those two pathetic has-beens you call detectives!”
Bryant had had enough. He stepped forward and called for silence.
Behind him the neighbours were watching, standing in doorways with their arms folded, or peering from around their curtains. When everyone had finally stopped complaining, the detective began to speak.
“You asked me earlier to tell you the cause of all this. You wanted me to point the finger of blame. I’ll tell you now, if you haven’t already realized.” He drew himself to his full unimpressive height and studied the faces before him. “It’s
There was an immediate uproar. Finally, Berta made herself heard above the furious chatter.
“What on earth are you talking about, you silly little man?” she cried. “We would
“That, Madam, is precisely what caused the problem in the first place,” retorted Bryant, growing heated. “If you want to accuse anyone, accuse James Makepeace Whitstable. If your ancestor hadn’t been so determined to keep your money from the hands of upstarts by killing them off, and if you hadn’t been prepared to pass on his secret from father to son, mother to daughter, then you wouldn’t have accidentally turned this destruction upon yourself.” He strode angrily before them. “My God, instead of helping to cast out the dark and keep the fire of free enterprise alight – that precious symbol of the burning flame none of you professed to have any knowledge of – you’ve all become party to a new darkness. It’s been descending on you all this time, and not one of you noticed. All to preserve the values of your guild. Purity. Decency. The new bright light.” He pointed at each in turn, unable to control the fury he and May had fought to keep in check since hearing of Alison Hatfield’s death.
“You’re supposed to be the apex of civilization, but you’re just the opposite. The only thing at which you all excel is lying – to us, yourselves, and each other. And now that we’ve managed to save the rest of you, you’ll undoubtedly show your gratitude by having us thrown off the force. Well, go ahead, do your worst. Our job is ended here.”
He turned his back on them and stalked away, leaving the bewildered group gaping after him.
“Sir,” called PC Bimsley, “I just saw someone run in through the front door. He’s going upstairs.”
“It can’t be one of us,” said May. “Everyone’s outside now. Looks like you’ve found our last man – you’d better go after him.”
“Yes,
Just then, the entire upper floor of William Whitstable’s house exploded with a deafening roar that bounced off the houses and echoed across the city. The night sky billowed out in a boiling wave, causing their ears to sting. The surrounding trees were filled with the zing of scattering glass. Small pieces of blazing timber fell on the gathered assembly. The air was filled with an acrid stink as flames executed exuberant flourishes in the upper windows.
As the horrified Whitstables picked themselves up off the wet pavement, May climbed to his feet and ran back into the garden, searching for PC Bimsley. The constable was looking up at the roaring building with a dazed expression on his face.
“I wouldn’t bother going in after him now, Bimsley,” May said consolingly. “By the way, your jacket’s on fire.”
Behind them, the top floor of the house burned brightly on, a pyrogenic beacon that ignited the stars and stole the sombre blackness from the night.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
52
Inundation
“Thank God we managed to get everyone out in time,” said May later, as they were heading back towards the PCU’s offices in the Mini. At this hour of the morning it was safe for Bryant to drive, providing you weren’t a cat or a pigeon. “I thought you were a bit hard on them. Did it ever occur to you that it might be just as difficult for them to be who they are?”
“If they don’t like it, they can opt out,” replied Bryant. “It doesn’t work the other way around. The poor can’t choose to be rich.” He stared thoughtfully out at the deserted streets of Camden Town.
“Jerry Gates has been accepted as one of them now. Did you hear Charles Whitstable offered her a job? It will be interesting to see what she decides to do after this.” May blew his nose. “Do you think I’ve caught pneumonia?”
“It’s possible,” said Bryant, never one to look on the bright side. “There’s a distinct chance that I may die in my sleep tonight. I can’t take the pace any more. I’ve got fallen arches, varicose veins, and now my valves feel bunged up. I don’t know how I got to middle age without passing through a misspent youth.”
“I know what you mean. We haven’t done this much running about since that business with the Deptford Demon four years ago.”
“Wait a minute, we can’t go home yet,” said Bryant, slapping the wheel. “We have to pick up Tomlins and bring him in to the station.”
“It’s ten past five, for heaven’s sake. Let someone else do it.”
