‘It’s him, Guv, I know it’s him?’ said Karen.
‘Who are you talking about now?’
‘David Baker, of course.‘
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘No alibi for either murder. Fits the description to a T. Never talks about his family and background, typical behaviour of the career criminal, that is, and he’s the only one who wasn’t on the bloody ID parade. And just my luck....’
‘I don’t follow. Just your luck, what?’
‘It’s always the same, Guv, as soon as I get to like someone, I mean really like someone, you know what I mean, it all goes tits up!’
‘Let’s see what we see, eh, before we jump to conclusions again. Can’t we go any faster?’
‘Oh yes, Guv, a lot faster,’ and she flattened the accelerator and the big car bucked and leapt ahead.
THERE WAS A RAGBAG of cars parked outside Portobello Towers. Some working, some not, some taxed, some not, some owned, and no doubt some stolen, but they weren’t there for that.
‘Do you see David Baker’s car anywhere?’
She glanced around.
‘No, Guv, he drives a flash company thing. It’s not here.’
‘Corla said she saw the man walking across the square, maybe he came on foot.’
‘Could be.’
Gibbons and Jenny arrived, Jenny driving, as she mouthed through the glass, ‘Stuck in traffic.’
Walter nodded. Karen’s mobile rang.
They both thought it might be Mrs West.
Karen glanced at the screen and gasped.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s him, Guv.’
‘David Baker?’
Karen nodded, and took the call.
‘Hi, sugar,’ he said. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Karen, sharing a look with Walter. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Baker?’
‘Well, I got to my first appointment a little early, and I was just thinking about you, and I thought how nice it would be to hear your sweet voice, and talk to you for five, so here I am....’
‘And where are you, exactly?’
He glanced up at the old grey building before him.
‘I’m in Crewe, outside Cheshire Oats and Muesli PLC, a very romantic spot, I don’t think. Got an appointment in ten minutes....’
‘You’re in Crewe?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said, why?’
Karen turned to Walter and said under her breath, ‘How far is Crewe from here?’
‘About twenty-five miles,’ said Walter.
‘So if my David is twenty-five miles away, who the hell’s the guy Corla saw crossing the square?’
‘IF he’s in Crewe,’ said Walter, getting out of the car. ‘It’s about bloody time we went and found out what the hell’s going on here!’
‘I’ll ring you back!’ said Karen, cutting DB off, and jumping out of the car, suddenly feeling a whole lot better about things. She slammed the door and beeped it locked, and hurried after the others, who were already closing in on the large dark timber double doors that led into the bowels of Portobello Towers.
Thirty-Six
Gibbons pumped the lift button. Damn all happened.
‘They’re off,’ said Walter. ‘Corla told me.’
‘Fuck!’ said Gibbons, glancing at the stairs.
‘Gibbons and Karen, go on ahead,’ said Walter. ‘And be careful. Jenny, you keep me company.’
‘Which floor?’ said Gibbons.
‘Eight. Number 35.’
‘Fuck!’ said Gibbons again.
‘Language, Darren,’ said Walter, shaking his head. ‘It’s not necessary.’
‘Sorry, Guv,’ and Gibbons and Karen began the long jog up 128 stairs towards the eighth floor.
THE MAN HAD BEATEN them to it by a good twenty minutes. When he arrived on the eighth floor he found it deserted. The door to flat 35 was open and blowing in the draughts that Portobello Towers was renowned for.
He eased the door open and crept inside.
Someone had left in a hurry, almost as if they had been tipped off. They couldn’t have gone far. There were three half full mugs of coffee on the small table. Still warm. The kettle in the kitchen was hot to the touch. The place smelt of baby food. It would have been better if there had been just the one cup, but no matter. It wouldn’t stop him. He thought of settling down and making a coffee, and waiting to see if they returned. But he wasn’t a waiting around kind of guy, always thought it much better to take positive action, to be proactive, in all things.
He returned to the sitting room and gazed around.
Pushed in against one wall was an old-fashioned glass display cabinet, and in the unit were a selection of round glass paperweights, blue and green and aquamarine. Everyone knew they were heavy and made perfect missiles. He opened the doors and picked up two and slipped them in his jacket pockets. Grabbed another two, and kept them in hand.
He stepped out of the flat and paused at the top of the stairs. Footsteps from below echoed through the common parts, coming higher. A man and a woman’s, one light, one heavy, fit people, coming on, silent, not pausing for breath. He could empathise with that, it had been heavy exercise to reach the eighth floor.
He crouched and stared down the stairwell. He couldn’t see them completely, just shadows, and occasional glimpses of hardworking elbows, and fleeting feet, powering the ascent. He could hear them puffing and blowing, the man leading the way, though not by much. The man stood up and thought he’d slow them down. He pulled back his arm and brought it forward, fast and true, and sent the first blue missile hurtling down the stairwell.
It crashed into the black plastic covered metal banister, right beside Gibbons, and exploded into fifty pieces of jagged glass.
‘Fuck!’ said Gibbons, for a third time.
He paused and shook his head. There were shards of coloured glass on his jacket sleeve. He shook them away and checked he wasn’t hit. He seemed okay, and glanced back down, six or seven steps.
Karen was there, lying on her back, across the stairs, one arm dangling through the metal balustrade. There was blood on her face. Gibbons glanced up the stairwell, checking for further incoming fire. He couldn’t see or hear anything at all, no movement; no sign of anyone still being up there, as if they had seen
