“Don’t worry about it,” Mel said, dismissively. Thankfully, living on the top floor, she couldn’t hear what went on down here, but she felt a twinge of sympathy for the man who was sandwiched in the middle flat.
“I’m Mel, by the way,” she said, figuring that she ought to introduce herself as they did live in the same house. “I live in the top flat.”
“Rodney,” he said. “I live in the bottom flat.”
Mel laughed, thinking he was making a joke, but then she realised he was being serious, and the penny dropped that he was a bit simple.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
The voices inside were becoming more heated, with a deep-voiced man shouting aggressively at a woman. “Is everything alright in there?” Mel asked, concerned. Some of the language was quite strong, and the woman had started crying.
“Sorry,” Rodney said, slipping the key into his door and opening it inwards. “I’ll ask them to keep it down.”
Mel was still standing on the stairs as he slipped into the flat, and from her elevated position, she was afforded a brief glimpse inside. What she saw nearly caused her legs to buckle, and she had to grab hold of the bannister to steady herself.
A gigantic black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks had been looming over a woman who was cowering on the floor. One hand was raised above his head, as though he was about to strike her, the other was clutching his stomach protectively. Layers of thick white bandages were wrapped around his shirtless torso.
Mel had instantly recognised the brutish face. She had seen it a number of times during the past week or so, while its owner had been a patient in one of the private rooms outside her ward at the Royal London Hospital. It belonged to Claude Winston, the cop killer.
◆◆◆
“Please! Mr Winston,” Rodent pleaded as soon as he’d closed the door. “You need to keep the noise down. The lady in the top flat was just asking if something was wrong and I’m worried that she might call the police.” He turned to Garston for support, but none was forthcoming.
Winston bounded across the room and tore open the door into the hall. There was no sign of anyone so he slammed the door shut and stormed back into the lounge. “If she does, I’ll hold you personally responsible,” he snarled.
Garston checked his watch. Rodent was late – again. He had been nearly an hour late coming back from his errands this morning, and when he’d finally turned up, the stupid boy had forgotten the medical supplies and had had to be sent back out for them.
“Claude, put your sweater on,” Garston said. “Rodent’s right, we can’t take chances.” They hadn’t planned to leave for another couple of hours, but there was no point in waiting any longer, especially not with Winston being in such a volatile mood. He had just threatened to beat Angela to a pulp simply because she’d forgotten to put sugar in his coffee.
All of their planning and hard work – all of the money he had forked out – would be for nothing if they ended up getting arrested because a nosey neighbour had called in a suspected domestic disturbance.
“Since when have you been the one giving the orders, nephew?” Winston demanded, turning on him in an instant.
“Since you put me in charge,” Garston said, keeping his voice level even though his temper was in danger of bubbling over. “Rodent, get Claude’s things. They’re in a rucksack on the bed. Angela, help him put his top on, and be careful not to disturb his bandages.”
Garston watched as Rodent scuttled off to load up the car and Angela fussed over Winston. His uncle seemed to have calmed down now and he was talking to her as if nothing had happened. The man was clearly psychotic, and he had to be treated with kid gloves, especially as he still had the Brocock revolver and access to forty rounds of ammunition.
Five minutes later, they were climbing into the red Rover, with Claude and Angela cramped in the back and Rodent and Garston sitting in the front. With a careful glance over his shoulder to make sure that nothing was coming, Rodent indicated and pulled out, pushing and pulling the steering wheel through his hands the way he had read you were supposed to do in the Highway Code. When he finally got around to taking his test, he thought he would make a very good driver.
◆◆◆
Mel locked and bolted the door to her flat the moment she got inside. Standing with her back pressed against it, her head spun as she tried to bring her spiralling thoughts back under control. How the hell could Claude Winston be in the same house as her? It seemed inconceivable. What had the toothy boy said to her out in the street? ‘I’ve had some friends staying with me for a couple of days, and I think they’re starting to go a bit stir crazy…’
She did a quick calculation. If they had been here a couple of days, it meant that the most wanted people in London had been hiding out in the ground floor flat, right under her bloody nose, since Monday afternoon, and to have done that, they would have had to have come here straight after decamping from the hijacked helicopter.
“Shit!”
This was just insane; thinking about it blew her mind.
She clamped her hand to her mouth, wondering what to do. Obviously, she needed to call the police, but was it wise to do that from inside the flat? Maybe it would be better – safer – to grab Dave and get away from this place first. She could just as easily ring the fuzz from the call box on the other side of the park.
The sound of the street door slamming down below interrupted her
