Yes. Yes. Yes.
He was so relieved. He had done it. He had survived an encounter with Godzilla.
Elated, Anthony ran back around the mirror to gloat. Job done.
Only it wasn’t.
The man bunched up in the foetal position at Anthony’s feet was not Roger Hunter.
Chapter Sixty-two
Reilly found Gardener on the floor, hunched up, his hands near his head but not covering it. His senior officer’s face was damp; his eyes were closed and slightly inflamed. He had a syringe in his shoulder with the plunger pressed home. His hat was turned upside about eighteen inches away from him, close to a can of pepper spray. He was unconscious.
“Stewart,” he called. He didn’t receive a reply and he didn’t think he would.
“What happened to you, son?” he said quietly, checking for a pulse. It was good. Gardener was still breathing.
Not knowing what was in the syringe, Reilly was very reluctant to move his partner. Who the hell had put Gardener’s life in danger? Roger Hunter? Reilly doubted it. Though he suspected Roger was responsible for the carnage, he really didn’t think he would put an officer’s life at risk and, in all honesty, Roger’s beef was not with the police.
That left Anthony Palmer. Perhaps he’d decided he had little left to lose and was prepared to go out in a blaze of glory.
Whoever had done it, sitting here trying to figure the matter out wasn’t helping either him or Gardener.
He pulled out his mobile and called the station. When the desk sergeant answered, Reilly went straight into the conversation.
“It’s DS Reilly. I have a man down.”
“Who?”
“The boss man, DI Gardener. We’re in pursuit at the industrial units in Harrogate. The St. James Business Park, about three miles out of the town centre on Grimbald Cragg Road. No idea what’s wrong but he’s unconscious with the biggest syringe I’ve ever seen sticking out of his shoulder.”
“Ambulance on its way.”
Reilly broke the connection. The music started again.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said to himself, glancing upwards. “If I find out who is responsible for this fucking racket I’m going to stick that syringe up his arse.” He glanced at Gardener. “Never mind what he’s done to you.”
Reilly checked his position. He was alone. He grabbed his phone and called Dave Rawson.
“What’s up?” asked Rawson.
“The boss man’s down, I need you in here, now.”
“Oh, Christ. Colin as well?”
“No, leave him at the door.”
Reilly called Bob Anderson next and issued the same instructions: Anderson in, Thornton out.
Reilly checked Gardener’s pulse again – still good. God only knew what was in the syringe but if luck was on his side it may only be a sleeping compound.
The question was, what did he do now? Stay with his friend and partner, or go in pursuit of the maniac responsible?
Chapter Sixty-three
Anthony was terrified, and in more trouble than he’d ever been in his life.
He was trapped in a maze of mirrors with literally no way out that he could see, being pursued by a madman, intent on ending everything; and he’d lost the only defence he had – the syringe and the pepper spray. He was being forced to listen to the world’s unluckiest song. To top it all, he’d probably killed someone.
Anthony snorted and rubbed the tears from his eyes. He’d turned left and right so many times in an effort to leave he was now dizzy, with no idea where he was. He glanced upwards but the criss-cross beams and the domed lights gave him no indication.
He stood in front of a mirror, glancing at the reflection. What a mess. He was thinner than usual, with his blond hair spiked up in places. His glasses were smudged, and his complexion as rough as sandpaper. The latest fashions that he was normally up to date with had gone. He now wore jeans and trainers with a black T-shirt and a padded jacket.
He glanced upwards once again, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
The music stopped and a voice broke the silence.
“Where’s your needle, Anthony?”
Anthony’s testicles shrunk, his spine bent, and his stomach swelled. His legs felt hollow but heavy. His bottom lip quivered.
“Turn around, son. Face up to your mistakes.”
Anthony did as he was told, slowly. What he saw took him close to fainting, and the brink of madness. He remembered thinking a short while ago – before he’d committed murder, again – that the last thing he wanted to see now was a clown.
“Oh… My… God!”
“Yes, Anthony, you might well need the help of your God to get out of this one.”
Roger’s laugh almost suited his demonic appearance. Dressed in a one-piece maroon suit, he had one hand on a false extended belly, and the other pointing directly toward the mirror, as if taunting. His face was bizarre: a long crooked nose, hollow eyes like that of a skull, and heavy make-up made him completely unrecognisable. God only knew what he had used to create the sweet, sickly smell.
Anthony backed away immediately, into the mirror, which was pretty solidly embedded into a wooden panel wall about twelve feet square. The rest of the area had more mirrors, and there were a number of entrances. With nowhere to go – it wouldn’t matter because Roger would find him anyway – he stood with his back to the mirror and his arms by his sides, his hands pressed so hard against the surface they were white.
Roger moved closer, to within six feet of Anthony. “But before we get to the point of you praying for help, I have a question for you.”
Anthony didn’t reply.
“Just tell me why, Anthony?”
He found his voice, however faint. “Why, what?”
Roger raised his hand and pointed his
