‘Looks like they cleared out,’ said Walter, retreating outside. ‘She was frightened, was Corla, maybe made a wise move.’
Hector nodded and said, ‘I think he’s gone higher.’
Walter nodded and said, ‘Agreed. You go on, I’ll follow,’ and Hector hit the stairs running, but before Walter could follow, the door to another flat opened a tad. Eyes peered out, and the door opened further, and Corla appeared and whispered, ‘In here, Walter.’
Walter went inside and Corla hurriedly shut the door.
They were all there, Corla and the nieces, and Chantelle’s toddler, Ben. The door to one bedroom was wide open and inside, two young men were there, busy, headphones on, tape and CD decks all over the place, computers by the dozen, big small and modern and alive, and Walter heard a jingle being played; Dee Bee Cee – the continuing sound of free pirate radio, and then one of the lads said, ‘We are interrupting this programme to bring you a special news report. The man known as the baseball bat murderer is being chased as we speak by police through Portobello Towers. More news as soon as we get it, but for now, steer well clear of Portobello.’
One of the young men came to the door and checked out the suspicious looking stranger, and pushed the door closed.
Corla said, ‘Ignore them. They’re good boys. Have you caught him yet?’
‘Not yet, but we will, I think he’s gone up on the roof.’
Corla nodded and said, ‘He’s here to kill me. You know that, don’t you?’
‘He’s not going to kill anyone. I’m going after him,’ and Walter headed for the door, Corla following.
‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘He’s very dangerous.’
‘I know that. We have two officers down.’
She let him out and closed and locked the door.
Up top, Hector had reached the top floor. There was a small narrow fire escape door with a metal bar across it, half way up. He pressed the bar and the door flipped open with a soft clang. He went through, and up six breezeblock steps to the left, and he was out on the roof.
There was not much there, just a flat pitched roof with a single small building on it, not much more than a big square box, located immediately above the non-working lifts. Probably contained all the elevator gubbins that were currently on strike. A minute later the Guv joined him out on the roof.
Walter glanced around, surveying the scene. It was a great view up there, and for once despite being one of the murkiest Novembers on record, it was a clear day. He could see for miles, the River Dee winding its way through the old city, and North Wales beyond, the snow-capped mountains of Snowdonia away in the distance, but he wasn’t there to admire the view.
Away to the right was a suspicious looking radio aerial, a lashed up effort on the corner of the building, held together with black electrician’s tape, no doubt pumping our Dee Bee Cee’s exciting exclusive. The only other thing on the roof was the small boxy building.
‘Have you looked behind that?’ asked Walter, pointing.
Hector shook his head.
‘Do it now!’
Hector nodded and ran to the building and went behind it, and disappeared from view for a matter of seconds, as if he was visiting the dark side of the moon, and then reappeared, shaking his head.
He returned to Walter, and said, ‘What now?’
Walter gazed at the small building, his mind running on overtime.
‘On the top of it, Hector. Check out the top.’
Hector grinned and muttered, ‘You could be right,’ and he took a run at the building, and jumped at it, his right foot hitting it half way up, his hands reaching high, grasping for the top, as he grabbed the roof, and heaved himself up, athletically, not a problem for a six foot fit man like Hector Browne.
He jogged into the centre of the small add-on building and turned and grinned back down at Walter and said, ‘Nothing here, Guv. Not a thing!’
Walter nodded too and said, ‘Come on down.’
Hector turned around and held onto the side of the topmost roof and kicked off and jumped down backwards, as easy as an Olympic gymnast dismounting the bars.
JENNY REACHED THE TOP floor, breathing hard, but only through physical effort. She saw the open door that led up onto the roof, but another narrow door at the far end of the corridor caught her eye. It was blowing to and fro and something about it didn’t look right.
She ran along the corridor and pulled the door open and looked around. It was the traders’ staircase, and she paused and listened. She could hear muffled voices somewhere down below, men’s voices, and then the echoing sound of steps on the concrete stairs. Were they coming up or going down? It was hard to tell.
She shouted down the stairs, ‘Guv?’
A quick reply hurtled back: ‘Fuck off!’
Jenny didn’t recognise the voice and started down the stairs, running, so much easier going down than coming up. She yelled, ‘Stop! Police!’ and caught them within three floors. Two late teenage boys, close cropped hair, not a surplus ounce of weight on them, insolent attitude, but nothing Jenny hadn’t seen and heard a hundred times before.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘We’re going to work. What are you doing here?’
‘Where do you work?’
‘On the carwash on the Greyhound estate.’
‘Have you seen anyone else, a six foot tall dark haired man, or a big black guy?’
‘Nope and nope. Is that it?’
Jenny nodded and muttered, ‘That’s it,’ and she turned and hurried back up the stairs.
One of them said, ‘She’s a frigging nutcase!’ And they laughed over-loudly and hurried on down.
UP ON THE ROOF HECTOR said, ‘What now?’
‘If he’s not on the lift shaft roof, and he’s not behind the building, the only other place he could have gone is in one of the flats, or over the side.’
‘Brave man if he has,’ said Hector.
‘You take north
