lashing out with the bar as he did so and catching me across the arm. I fell back to the floor, my vision becoming fuzzy and my head aching like mad for the second time in a few days. I wanted to lie down, to go to sleep. I could hear the killer running down the stairs, heard him confront the boyfriend, heard Grant cry out as he came off worst, and knew without a doubt that if I stayed where I was and gave in to the temptation to close my eyes, then not only would I go to prison for the murders I was wanted for from three years ago, but I'd also go down for the ones in here. Because I was the one left with the murder weapon and a houseful of corpses.
Using the banister for support, I got to my knees, and then my feet. Andrea had stopped gasping now and her eyes had closed. It was possible she was still alive, but if she was, it was purely academic. Even in the gloom I could see the blood everywhere; could smell the sour, inevitable approach of death. There was no hope. She was gone.
But there was no time to ponder the injustice of her murder. I had to get the hell out of there. I looked round for the.45 but couldn't see it. I squinted, finally spotted it in the corner of the landing, and staggered over to retrieve it. My head did some sort of internal somersault as I bent down and picked it up and I had to steady myself against the wall to stop myself from fainting. I wanted to puke. Badly. But vomit leaves DNA, and I couldn't have that.
I swallowed, made for the stairs, staggered down them, the darkness ebbing and flowing in front of me. Made my way along the hallway towards the second set of stairs, holding the gun unsteadily in preparation for any last-ditch ambush by the killer.
Grant's body was sprawled backwards on the staircase, his right leg bent at an awkward angle, one foot propped against the banister. His face was a mask of blood, his hair thick and matted with it where he'd been bludgeoned with the iron bar. A slither of white was showing where his skull had been exposed and flecks of blood dotted the bare wall behind him.
That could have been me. But no, he'd wanted me alive. Wanted me set up for these murders. Which meant…
The Lord alone knew what it meant. I swallowed, resisting once again the urge to vomit, and tried to step over Grant's body, stumbling as I did so and tripping over his leg.
I fell down four stairs, my head pounding like someone was using a pneumatic drill on it, which they may as well have been, forced myself back to my feet, and made for the door.
I banged against it harder than I'd been expecting, and fumbled for the handle, finding it after a couple of seconds and giving it a hard yank.
A welcome blast of icy London air smacked me right in the face, and my vision seemed to clear a little as I made my way down the steps and started off down the street, trying to stay upright, trying to put as much distance between myself and the murder scene as possible. Four people dead, just to keep one mouth shut. I was getting close. I had to be.
When I got to the main road, I fell onto one knee, jarred it, tried to get up, saw the whole world melt in front of me, and vomited ferociously.
I vaguely recall a car pulling up and being lifted to my feet and pushed into the back of it. I vaguely recall there being two men in the front as it pulled away.
Then I lost consciousness.
35
I was in a darkened room, lying on my back on a single bed. The bed smelled clean. My jacket and shoes had been removed and a light duvet covered me. I tried to sit up, but the effort made me dizzy and I lay back down again. I felt my head. It had been expertly bandaged, but I didn't think I was in a hospital. There were no monitors beside the bed, no wires or drips, nothing like that. Just a plastic chair, which my jacket was neatly folded over, and a second wooden chair near the door. I looked at my watch. Ten past three in the morning. The curtains weren't pulled and outside the night was dark. I wondered where I was, and whether whoever had picked me up on the street earlier had seen the gun I was carrying, or informed the police.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with my predicament. Who'd known that I was going to see Andrea Bloom? Emma had; so had Jamie Delly. I'd asked Emma not to say anything to Barron, but it was possible she'd let slip something. It was also possible that someone was bugging her phone. Theo Morris of Thadeus Holdings? Nicholas Tyndall? The list of suspects was still too long, but it was narrowing. Unfortunately, so were my options.
There was movement on the other side of the door and it opened. A slightly built black man in his sixties came in. He had a kindly face and I knew straight away that he wasn't going to give me trouble.
He smiled when he saw I was awake. 'I've got something for you,' he said in a quiet voice. The accent was West African. I'd worked with a Nigerian guy back in the late Eighties and he'd sounded very similar.
As he approached the bed, I saw that he was holding a small, horn-shaped flask made of some kind of wood. It had a metal lid on it, and looked old. With surprising strength, he lifted me up by the back of the head and propped me against the pillow. 'Drink this,' he whispered and placed the flask to my mouth, removing the lid.
I was thirsty and my mouth was dry, so I did as he said. The taste was unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Vaguely salty, like weak Bovril, but with an underlying sweetness as well. I glugged the whole lot down, and he removed the flask.
He stood there watching me for a few seconds. 'Do you start to feel better?' he asked at last.
I sat up further in the bed. 'Do you know what? I think I do.' And I did. The thickness in my head was dissipating fast and I suddenly felt far more alert. 'What is that stuff?'
'Medicine,' he said.
'It's a lot more effective than paracetamol. You ought to market it to the drugs companies.'
He continued to smile. 'Are you ready to get up? There is someone who would like to see you. He is in one of the other rooms.'
'Who is it?' I asked, slipping out of the bed and grabbing my shoes, but he ignored the question and opened the door, waiting while I pulled them on.
'Your jacket and gun will be safe in here,' he said, and beckoned me to follow.
Intrigued, and feeling better and better as the medicine or whatever the hell it was kicked in, I stood up and followed him out of the room, the dizziness slipping effortlessly away.
We were in a long corridor with expensive parquet flooring and doors to the left. To my right, a single long window offered a panoramic view of the blue darkness and occasional lights of the sleeping city at night. In the near distance were two tower blocks, surrounded by a carpet of low-rise buildings. I guessed that we were at least six floors above the ground ourselves. I tried to get my bearings, but I didn't recognize the view. I was somewhere in London, but that was about all I could tell you.
I walked along the corridor behind my new friend to another door. He knocked slowly three times, as if it was some sort of signal, and the door was opened by a tall, grim-faced black man who wore sunglasses even though the room behind him was only dimly lit. The man stood to one side, out of view, and my guide turned and beckoned me to follow him inside. I knew then, of course, who I was going to see and I wasn't sure whether I should have been thankful or petrified. Probably the latter, but I followed him into the room anyway, figuring that I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter.
The room was huge, with windows on three sides, although black drapes had been pulled down to shut out the city's light. Candles on ornate holders of varying sizes had been lit all round the room, bathing it in a flickering glow. Shadows ran and jumped across the walls, from which strange, tribal masks and the heads of exotic animals stared out menacingly at all those who entered. Low futon-style sofas and large patterned cushions were scattered about the room, and at the far end, sitting on a low wicker chair with a high back like a throne, was a well-built and handsome black man somewhere in his early thirties, drinking what looked like a coffee and smoking a cigarette. Sitting like grim guardians on either side of the chair were two dolls, much larger than but very similar to the one that had been left on Emma's bed, which told me something I already knew.
The man in the chair smiled and motioned to one of the sofas next to him. At the same time, my guide left the room, shutting the door behind him, while the man in the sunglasses melted effortlessly into the shadows
