the windows and a London Bolt over the main entrance. She had upset plenty of people through the newspaper, but none had ever dared to turn up at her house – the press made too powerful an enemy. She never felt unsafe here, but it was still like being shut in a cage.
The shadow cut reflections from the glass for a moment, and she realised there was definitely someone outside.
He was standing outside with his back towards the house, his hands clasped together. This time he wore a spectacular dress cape with a triangle of crimson satin lining exposed, as though he had dressed for an audience with her. He was taller than she remembered. He turned and rang the doorbell with the polite apprehension of an Internet date.
She thought of calling the police and warning them first. There was a problem with that, though. The local cops hated her after she had approved the publication of an article exposing the sex lives of two female sergeants, both of whom were now being investigated. She thought of calling Toby, her ex-husband, then realised that he was still in Geneva on business.
The Highwayman rang again. If she let him escape, she would lose the greatest journalistic chance of her career. He had never directly attacked a victim before, so he was likely to be unarmed. And he was waiting for her, trusting her.
She withdrew the bolt and opened the door.
Whenever she had commissioned features on the Highwayman, she had asked her writers to exaggerate his height and sinister presence. Now she saw there was no need to do so. The tip of his tricorn hat almost grazed the top of the doorway. He stepped into the hall, his face lost in shadows, took another pace towards her, and froze. There was an unnerving stillness about him, a dead heart of indifference that made him more dangerous than she had ever imagined a human being could be. She knew at once that his masked eyes had seen men die.
She had an idea. Without removing her gaze from him, she slowly reached for her mobile and speed-dialled the number of the Peculiar Crimes Unit. The Highwayman remained motionless, studying her as if watching an alien species.
DS Janice Longbright answered on the third ring, calling her by name; it had come up on her screen.
“He’s standing right in front of me,” Ramsey murmured, daring him to move. She had rarely been granted a chance to describe evil at such close quarters, and was determined to make the most of the opportunity. “He’s taller than I expected, around six two, broadchested and rather sexy. The outfit has been modified from ordinary motorcycle leathers. The buckled knee-boots come from a Goth store called Born in Camden. He’s not wearing his gloves. The back of his left hand is badly stained with your man’s indigo dye. He has dark chin stubble, but it looks like he’s wearing make-up.” She found her old investigative powers returning as she studied him. “Brown eyes, still and rather dead, pointed chin, straight black hair, the kind of pale skin that suggests Eastern European extraction. Wait, I think the hair’s a wig.”
“You must leave while you still can,” said Longbright urgently. “He’s far more dangerous than you realise.”
“I don’t imagine he’s armed.” She tried to sound braver than she was. “I think he realises I’d give him a good kicking in a fair fight.”
“Janet, you have to stop this and get out right now. He has every reason to hurt you.” While she spoke Longbright was trying to raise the alarm on her mobile.
“No, he doesn’t want to hurt me.” She smiled at him confidently. “He’s hardly moved a muscle since he stepped into the room.” She moved a little closer. “There’s a strong intelligence working behind his eyes. I think we’re just going to have a little chat, as equals. Wait a minute.” There was a brief silence. “Well, I’m damned, it’s not a man at all – ”
The handset fell to the floor with a clatter. A moment later, it was gently replaced on its base.
¦
Bimsley and Mangeshkar took the young Indian DC’s Kawasaki 500 and took off, coasting around stalled traffic at Hyde Park Corner, hitting seventy in the deserted backstreets behind the Brompton Road. As they roared into the quiet cherry-tree-lined street off the King’s Road they could see that the communal door to Janet Ramsey’s apartment building was still open.
Bimsley had no qualms about kicking in the locked front door, but Meera stopped him. “She might be behind it,” she warned, calling to Ramsey and getting no response.
“I’ll do it gently,” Bimsley promised, but as he leaned on it, the door swung in.
Ramsey was lying at the foot of the stairs, her cracked forehead still wet with a vivid slash of blood. Mangeshkar checked for vital signs as Bimsley reported back.
“She’s still breathing,” said Meera. “He’s not here. But he’s messed up badly this time.”
? Ten Second Staircase ?
43
The Dynasty
While the staff of the PCU worked on through the rainy Saturday night, Janet Ramsey reached stable condition at the Chelsea Hospital. Her X rays revealed a single wound: a skull fracture caused by a sharp blow to the head.
Early on Sunday morning, Banbury enlisted Kershaw to take photographs and conduct further analysis at the editor’s apartment.
“She fell from the top to the bottom,” Banbury told his colleague with certainty, clambering to his feet after examining the attack site. “Seven stairs, enough to increase her weight-mass fatally. She’s lucky to still be alive.”
“High heels, old chap, hardly surprising she couldn’t keep her balance.” Kershaw checked the screen of his digital camera, playing back shots. “She’s an old-school journo, hasn’t been out of cocktail outfits since her days of attending mayor’s banquets for the provincial press.” He looked around at the pastel cushions, ribbons, and flowers disapprovingly. “Janet Ramsey has a secret – despite what she publishes in
“Good for me; soft surfaces hold more fibres.” Banbury hated examining hardwood floors because fresh evidence became balled up with older detritus and gathered around the edges of the room. “Let me see the fissure on her forehead again?” Banbury’s partner turned his camera around to reveal the uploaded photographs taken by the admitting doctor. “Can you enlarge the contusion area and lighten it a little?”
Kershaw worked the camera controls. Together they examined the damage that had placed Ramsey in a coma. “Three leaves,” Kershaw muttered.
“What are you saying?”
“You can clearly make out three
“Over here.” Banbury pointed to the antique ironwork railing that stood a few feet beyond the front door. After Kershaw took shots of the area, Banbury sprayed Luminol on the stairway and lifted impressions from the points of the fleur-de-lis. “Looks like she fell headfirst down the steps and banged her forehead against the railing. The force would have been enough to dent her skull. The brain is probably bruised, and there could well be bone splinters in it, so I imagine she’ll be too whacked out to be interrogated just yet.”
“She was in the bedroom when she phoned the sergeant,” said Kershaw, thinking aloud. “The Highwayman rings her doorbell – the second time he’s done so – and this time she lets him in. She calmly fronts him out, but then he makes a move towards her, as if he’s going to attack, and she jumps back – ”
