I was wearing the black leather jacket I'd bought and the phone seemed to take for ever to find, but eventually I located it and pressed the answer button, putting it to my ear.
'Hello?'
'Dennis? Please…' The words were a terrified, forced whisper.
'Emma! Where the hell are you? Are you all right?'
'I'm at that place I was meant to meet Simon,' she hissed, her voice shaking. 'I'm in trouble…'
I could hear background noise. Footsteps. Emma cried out in fear.
'I'm coming to get you,' I told her frantically. 'Don't worry.'
But I was already talking to a dead phone. I held it to my ear for a few more seconds, waiting until I was sure she wasn't going to make another call, then switched it off.
So she was alive. And Barron was impatient. I had no doubt that it was he who'd controlled that phone call, just to make sure that I took the bait. But at least now I had a chance of success. They wouldn't expect me to be here already. If he'd seen me, he wouldn't have bothered getting Emma to call.
The rear of the building was shabbier than the front, and someone had spray-painted rune-like patterns that may have been gang signs on the brickwork between the ground-floor windows, several of which had been smashed behind the metal security bars. The smoked-glass double doors that led out into the car park had probably been quite plush once, but were now worn and scratched. They were also locked.
I walked round to the other side of the building, looking for another way in, my footsteps sounding artificially loud on the chipped tarmac. The first-floor windows weren't protected by bars, and one was broken, with a single piece of jagged glass jutting up from its base. A drainpipe ran beside it and I contemplated shinning up it and getting in that way, but it felt loose to the touch.
I was going to have to go in the way he wanted me to. I looked at my watch. Five to five. Rush hour. The rain continued to pound down and I knew that this could be Emma's and my final resting place — a bland and derelict building on a lonely industrial estate in the midst of this cold, teeming city. The thought frightened me.
But fear's good. Fear keeps you alive and hones the senses. Fear is what can get you out of these situations.
I started walking again. Slowly and quietly, circumnavigating the building. Time now suddenly back on my side.
When I reached the corner of the wall that faced the building's main entrance, I slowly poked my head round. The double doors were closed, but unlike the back ones, they didn't appear to be locked. Beyond them was darkness, with no sign of anyone. I moved back out of sight, leant down and picked up a loose chunk of cement and chucked it round the corner at the lower part of the doors. It struck with a light tap, and I waited to see if this aroused anyone's curiosity.
Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.
It could have been a trap, but in the end I had no choice. I stepped out of the shadows and, drawing the.45, tried the handle. The door opened with a squeak that probably seemed a lot louder than it actually was, and I stepped inside, half expecting to hear the sound of a weapon being cocked, then the final, deadly explosion of gunfire. But the corridor ahead of me was empty. Half a dozen linoleum steps led up to the next floor. I crept over to the bottom and listened.
Again, nothing. Not a sound.
The steps climbed at rigid right angles between the floors all the way to the top of the building. A dim half- glow from the street lamps outside provided the only light. In the distance, a long way off, I heard the sound of a siren. Nothing moved. I started up the steps, my finger tensing on the trigger of the.45.
The siren faded into the night and the silence grew louder.
I reached the first floor. Above me, shadows from the city ran across the grainy, bare walls.
I kept going, straining to hear any sound from above, and fighting to stop myself from breaking into a run and announcing my presence prematurely.
All my life I've had a ruthless streak, an ability to shut myself away from the suffering of others and not let it get to me. You need that when you're policing the crime-worn streets of London, or when you're living and running a business in the Philippines. Or when you kill people for money. I relied on that ruthless streak now to shut out Emma's suffering, while I concentrated on preparing myself for Barron.
The siren began again in the distance, a long slow whine, joined shortly afterwards by a second. Charging off towards the scene of another bloody crime. It was a noise that reminded me of home. Of life here in the big, violent city. Always some emergency going on. A never-ending conflict between the haves and the would-haves-if-they- could-get-their-hands-on-it, and the people meant to keep them apart — the coppers. Men like Asif Malik, who'd paid the ultimate price for his work in such a thankless job. And once upon a time, men like me, who'd instead been corrupted by it.
I reached the third floor and stepped onto a landing with a large window at the end that looked out onto the industrial estate. A solitary picture — a cheap-looking abstract that was barely visible in the gloom — hung crookedly from the wall. There were corridors to my left and right. The one to my right was where I'd seen the lights earlier. It stretched for about fifty feet, with doors facing each other on either side, all of them wide open, before ending at a windowless wall with part of its brickwork exposed. The second and third doors on the left led into the rooms with the lights on.
Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder and found myself staring back at a perfectly symmetrical corridor going down the other way. Except on this one, all the doors were closed. Barron was not making this very easy for me, but then I'd expected that.
I waited where I was for several seconds, aware that the sirens were getting closer, then slowly walked towards the lights, holding the.45 two-handed in front of me.
I passed the first couple of open doors and peered into empty offices, long since stripped of fittings and furniture. I kept going, conscious of the sound of my footfalls on the linoleum. He had to know I was coming. Even tiptoeing as quietly as possible, my approach must have been audible amidst the dead silence of the corridor.
I came to the second set of doors. To my right, darkness. To my left, light. I took a step forward and looked in.
Something immediately caught my attention. A leg, partly concealed by the angle of the open door.
The sirens had been joined by a third, the whining getting louder as they entered the estate.
A trap. It could be a trap.
With a sudden lunge, I kicked the door wide open and burst into the brightly lit office, gun swinging in a wide arc.
And groaned.
Because I was too late. Had always been too late. And had walked once again into a trap that had been expertly set for me.
40
For a moment, I simply stared at the corpse, unable to move. Full of regret that yet another innocent life had been taken.
Then I shook myself out of my torpor and walked over to him.
DCI Simon Barron was slumped against the wall at a slightly crooked angle, his eyes closed, his white shirt and pale blue tie drenched in blood. I could see that he'd been stabbed a number of times in the chest and abdomen in what must have been a frenzied attack. The entry wounds were clearly visible, and the blood that had flowed freely from them had now coagulated. A pool had formed round the top of his legs and had dyed the edges of his khaki raincoat crimson. His face was white and I guessed he'd been dead a while. An hour or two, at least.
The noise of the sirens was now continuous and coming closer and closer. Through the window I could see the blue and white flashes of light dancing across the night sky above the estate's buildings. The vehicles were on the main road but no more than a couple of hundred yards away, and as I watched the first police car turned into the cul-de-sac and approached the Tembra Software building at speed.
