30
It was raining even harder when I got outside. I looked up and down the street but could see no sign of Carla. It was quiet out there tonight. The traffic was running smoothly and there didn’t seem to be many people about. About fifty yards away I could make out a black cab waiting to turn right into a side street, and I wondered if she was inside it. I didn’t bother trying to find out, knowing it would be gone long before I got there, and instead lit another cigarette and stood where I was, trying to take in what I’d just heard. She’d stitched me up perfectly. I’d genuinely thought there’d been a shared attraction when all the time her sole purpose had been to throw me off track. And it had worked, too. Far too easily.
There was a bus shelter across the road and I jogged over to it, fiddling around in my pocket for the mobile. When I reached the shelter I dialled Malik’s home number. His wife answered after a couple of rings. I’d met her once or twice in the past, and when I came on the line she asked me how I was. I told her I was fine, but that it was urgent I talked to him. ‘It’s about a case we were working on.’
‘I don’t like him getting too many calls at home, Dennis. He works hard enough as it is.’
‘I know, I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
Reluctantly, she went off to get Malik and he came on the phone a few seconds later.
I didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Carla Graham. You were right about her. She’s a conniving, cynical bitch and she was involved in the Miriam Fox murder. I don’t know how or why, but she’s definitely involved. I think it might be something to do with blackmail. Drayer, that poet guy we met when we went round to Miriam’s flats, he remembers seeing her—’
‘Whoa, Dennis, slow down. What is this? When did you see Drayer?’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw two figures walking towards the bus shelter. They both had their heads down, which I thought was strange. They were ten yards away and walking purposefully.
‘Just now. Two minutes ago.’
Eight yards. Seven yards. They both had their hands in the pockets of their long coats. Malik was talking into my ear. Suddenly I wasn’t listening any more.
Six yards. One of them raised his head, and our eyes met. I knew straight away that he was here to kill me.
There was no time even to freeze with the fear that shot through me.
Keeping as casual a face as possible, and still clutching the phone to my ear, I turned slowly on my heels and then, without warning, broke into a manic sprint, the adrenalin coursing through me. I dropped the phone in my pocket as I ran, sneaking a rapid peek over my shoulder. My movement had caught them by surprise, but only for a second. One pulled a sawn-off shotgun, the other a revolver. They lifted them in my direction, still walking purposefully, not even breaking stride. And still only a matter of yards away.
I didn’t think. I just didn’t have time. Reflexively, I veered sharply right and began running across the road. A car was forced to brake suddenly, its tyres skidding on the slick tarmac. I heard the driver shouting something angry but unintelligible.
An explosion shattered the night air and something whistled past my head. I kept running, keeping low, trying to move in a zig-zag pattern to make it more difficult for them to hit me. More shots, this time from the revolver. Close. Far too close. Any second now and I was going to get a bullet between the shoulder blades.
I could hear them right behind me, charging after me across the street. I hit the pavement on the other side and ran, crouching, using parked cars for cover. The shotgun blasted its load again and a shower of glass from a rear windscreen sprayed the ground. There was no way I was going to outrun these boys. They knew it. I knew it. All I could do was to keep going. With my head down and my body straining forward, I continued down the pavement as fast as my legs would carry me, knowing that all this effort was probably going to be in vain but too desperate to care.
From somewhere in the direction of the Gallan club I heard a woman scream in terror as she saw what was happening. For a split second I imagined her standing horrified above my bullet-riddled corpse. At that moment I was so frightened I could have pissed my pants.
Then, without warning, I caught a glimse of a man in a suit running across the street in an effort to get between me and my pursuers. He was holding something up in his right hand. A warrant card. He must have been a member of my surveillance team.
‘Police, police! Drop your weapons!’
He’d got onto the pavement behind me and was standing in front of the gunmen. Ahead of me, on the other side of the street, I could see his partner – a shorter, fatter guy who looked a few years older. I recognized him straight away as the guy at the bar in the Chinaman the previous night. The Coke drinker who never liked to talk politics. He was waiting to cross the road to apprehend me, but a car speeding down the street was holding him up.
‘Police! Drop your weapons now!’
It was the tall one again, but his voice betrayed his desperation as he suddenly realized he’d almost certainly bitten off more than he could chew. I kept running, but briefly turned round. He was ten yards behind me and the gunmen had stopped in front of
