He listened to her walk into the kitchen.
“So,” he said, as soon as she was gone. “Start talking.”
They talked until the tea was cold, Tansey-Williams firing questions and Black listening silently as the Director General told him of Quayle’s run with Morton’s daughter and Pope’s involvement.
“It’s not Quayle,” Black said.
“You seem pretty positive of that.”
“He only became a factor because Burmeister went after Morton’s daughter. Hardly surprising with three Fairies turning up.”
“And Pope?”
“Like Jonno told you. He was doing his job. So you’re back to square one. Except that there’s a man hunt on for the wrong bloody man. Christ! This is elementary police work. Where was Quayle when the killings took place? What does his doctor say? Has he an alibi?” He was shouting it now, the anger and frustration bursting out. “What the hell has been going on for the last week?” He swung his hand and knocked his children’s beaker off the small table, its bright red straw rolling across the floor, tea gurgling out onto the carpet as Mrs Black stepped quickly through from the kitchen.
He cooled just as quickly and took a breath.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“I think you should leave now,” Mrs Black said to Tansey-Williams, her expression saying it was not a negotiable issue.
“Of course,” he said standing. Then he looked down at Adrian Black and thought for a second. “I’d like a friend of mine to have a look at you. He’s the best in the country and I need you back at the office. In the meantime, I’ll send something over for you to get your teeth into – and a pair of eyes to be at your beck and call.”
“Long Knives?” Black asked, his voice husky.
“You want it?”
“That’s like asking me if I want to see again.”
Across the small room, his wife gave a look that verged on despair.
It was just after four the following morning, his second night lying awake at home, that he heard the noise. He lay absolutely still, listening to his own heart beat, as he tried to fathom it. A scrape, a squeak perhaps. He tried to think where the young policeman would be, walking a lonely beat around the house. Maybe it was him. Then he heard another noise and the hair on the back of his neck rose. So did the impulse to tear the bandages of his eyes. He checked himself and sat up, then dropped bare feet to the floor, reaching for the bedside drawer and the gun that was always there. I have no sight, he said to himself, justifying the action, but I am familiar with the house. I know which stair squeaks and which door creaks. It’s my house.
He was easing the drawer shut when his wife woke, instantly aware that something was wrong.
He turned his head her way and put one bandaged finger to his lips.
“What?” she whispered. Then, seeing the dark glint of the gun in his hand, she continued, “Oh Ades, no, please…”
“Stay here,” he whispered, the gun heavy and painful in his light grip. “I’ll be all right.”
“Darling, please don’t go. There’s a policeman somewhere. Let him! Please, he can see...”
But Black’s mind was made up. “Stay here,” he said with a dreaded finality, ‘until I’m back.”
Making his way to the open bedroom door, he sliding one foot ahead of the other, pleased when his hand found the banister rail exactly where it should have been. I should have a shotgun for this, he thought. Mustn’t fall over the dog!
He moved down three steps very quietly and raised his hand to where he knew the electricity junction board was, feeling for the mains switch and easing it into the off position. He had become good at picking the source of sounds in the last week and, as he moved downward, he hoped there was no moon to shine in the kitchen windows. The gun was in his hand, his forefinger bandaged and tight on the trigger guard.
He stopped to listen every few feet, his heart beating loud as he strained to hear. This time I have a gun, bastard, he was thinking. I have a gun and it should be as black as pitch. Ears straining, he moved onward until his left hand hit the rounded end of the banister. Keeping low, he eased around it, the gun pointing down to where he knew the passage was.
It was quiet, too quiet.
There was a draught now, cool air moving. He had listened to Mary lock up before they had gone to bed. She was the wife of a security man. She didn’t leave windows open.
He moved down the passage and into the living room, dropping down on his knees and swinging the gun back and forth as he turned his head, listening for movement. A smell now. Rich and warm, almost sweet. Familiar but not. He slid forward. Still too quiet. Come on, you bastard, he pleaded silently. A window’s open. Make a sound, just a little sound... He waited for a full thirty seconds, rock steady, and then – beginning to doubt his senses – he crawled forward again.
The smell was stronger.
His heart was thumping.
His knee hit something wet.
He reached out with his left hand palm upward, to allow the exposed skin on the back of his hand to do the feeling for him. Whatever this was, it was wet, warm and slippery, bristly and hairy. The smell was now pungent in his nostrils.
Oh Jesus, oh Christ, oh no, please, you fucking bastards. Oh Jesus no, not the dog, not Wellie…
Then his hand felt the note in the blood, and he retched with the smell of guts and blood and intestines, giving a full blooded roar of hate and anger and frustration and pain.
The door crashed open and he turned, the gun coming
