spending his day running round a Swiss mountain in the cold and rain — with a bit of luck the blue-blooded bastard might even catch pneumonia.
As Falkirk disappeared among the trees, Carlyle slowed his pace even further. It took him another couple of minutes to reach the edge of the forest. Peering into the gloom, he could see that it was composed of a mix of pine and spruce trees, planted closely together in precise rows. Hesitating, he looked back the way he had come. Rose had disappeared inside the building. Surely, someone must have called the gendarmerie by now. Assuming that the cavalry would be coming from Villeneuve, situated just down the mountain by the side of the lake, or maybe from Montreux next door, the police should be able to reach the clinic in ten minutes or so. But when he listened for the sound of sirens, there was nothing.
Bloody cops, Carlyle thought. They are all the same the world over; always taking their own sweet time; never around when you need them.
He tried to imagine what Falkirk’s plan of action might be. To his right was a narrow, muddy path leading deeper into the forest. Carlyle could make out a number of footprints, although he had no idea whether any of them belonged to Falkirk. Careful not to lose his footing, he set off again.
Less than twenty yards into the trees, he could no longer see back to the open ground at the edge of the forest. Apart from the path he was following, the inspector had no sense of where he had come from: it was just trees, trees and more trees. They all looked the same to him. Surrounded by nature, he suddenly felt rather sorry for himself.
Any feelings of self-pity were cut short when a lump of wood was smashed across the back of his head. Carlyle staggered forward. A second blow sent him to his knees and he felt cold mud seeping through the fabric of his trousers. He stretched his hands out in front of him to halt his fall, but a third blow sent him down fully. The last thought to pop into his head, before the lights went out, was,
A boot in the ribs brought him back out of the blackness. As he came to, Carlyle realised that he had mud in his mouth, a piece of twig up his nose, and the mother of all headaches. Blinking, he waited for another kick. When it did not come he lay still, trying to clear his head. He listened as hard as he could, but still there were no sirens. A bird squawked overhead and he heard footsteps approaching from somewhere behind him.
‘On your feet!’ Falkirk grabbed him by the hair and, with a grunt, pulled him upright. Feeling a serrated blade against his neck, Carlyle found his feet. Looking down along the end of his nose, he recognised the familiar red handle of an outsize Swiss Army knife.
‘Rather appropriate, don’t you think?’ Falkirk remarked grimly. His pupils seemed as big as pennies. For the first time, it occurred to Carlyle that he might have a real problem on his hands.
‘You are about to be done in by the finest technology that the Swiss have to offer,’ Falkirk continued. He pulled the knife from Carlyle’s neck and waved it airily above his head. ‘It was either that or drowning you in chocolate.’
‘There are worse ways to go, I suppose.’ The inspector gingerly felt the back of his head. Even more gingerly, he gave it a gentle shake. The pain bounced around his brain for a few seconds, then resumed its residency in the base of his skull. He tried to step away casually from his drugged-up captor, but Falkirk skipped forward, pressing the knife firmly against his windpipe.
‘This is getting out of hand,’ Carlyle coughed.
‘You should have left me alone,’ Falkirk snarled.
‘What are you on?’ Carlyle asked, injecting as much reasonableness into his voice as he could manage. ‘Crystal meth? Speed? Cocaine?’
‘Poppers,’ Falkirk replied casually.
Poppers, okay. Carlyle struggled to sift through what he knew about poppers — amyl nitrite, used to enhance sexual pleasure. As far as he could recall, they weren’t supposed to make you violent. ‘Look,’ he said quietly, taking each word slowly in case he had called it wrong and Falkirk tried to chop out his Adam’s apple, ‘we have to go back. This needs to get sorted out. It
‘No!’ A look of panic flashed through Falkirk’s eyes as he flicked the blade away from Carlyle’s chin and thrust it twice into the inspector’s stomach, sawing at his ribcage.
‘Fuck!’ Carlyle staggered back, holding his gut.
He looked down, expecting to see his own entrails spilling through his fingers. Almost disappointingly, there wasn’t that much to see — and only a little blood. The pain, however, was intense.
How fucking banal.
THIRTY-THREE
Tripping over an exposed root, Carlyle fell backwards. Looking up, he focused on a patch of grey sky between two trees. I need to see blue sky, he thought, spitting out a lump of phlegm. I need to see blue sky again before I die.
Falkirk fell on top of him before the inspector could move. With one hand on Carlyle’s neck, he brandished the knife in front of the policeman’s face. ‘You should have done what you were told and left well alone,’ he hissed. ‘Because now you will die.’
Feeling all the energy drain from his body, Carlyle closed his eyes and waited. Still there was no sign of sirens coming to his aid.
What he did hear was the click of the safety-catch on a semi-automatic being released.
‘Get up!’
Carlyle opened his eyes to see Ihor Chepoyak pulling Falkirk up by the collar of his T-shirt. Dressed in full combat gear, complete with green and black face-paint, Ihor had the barrel of a Fort-12 CURZ pistol gently caressing the Earl’s temple.
‘Throw away the knife.’
Doing what he was told, Falkirk threw the Swiss Army knife into a muddy puddle about three feet away. ‘What are
‘I’m here to kill you,’ Ihor said, almost apologetically.
‘Why?’ Falkirk asked, his bottom lip visibly trembling now.
‘Why? Why?’ Ihor made a face. ‘This is not like one of those movies where you have to explain everything just to give the victim time to escape. What does it matter anyway? Your life has less than a minute left to run. Less than ten seconds, in fact.’
‘But-’
‘But nothing.’ Ihor pulled the trigger, and the crack of the 9mm Kurz round sent the birds flying from the surrounding trees. Slowly, Falkirk keeled over into the undergrowth, a surprised look on his face.
Ihor turned to Carlyle. ‘Not at all like the movies, huh?’
‘No.’ Thinking of Shen and Merrett, Carlyle remembered rule number one — always humour the man with the gun. ‘When it comes to the cinema, I’ve always been a fan of more violence and less dialogue myself,’ he said.
‘Me also,’ said Ihor.
Now at last he could hear the fucking sirens. This had been a truly outstanding effort by the Swiss police.
‘Time for me to go,’ Ihor declared. He saw Carlyle eyeing the Fort-12 nervously. ‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned, ‘I’m not going to pop you. Olga gave me strictest instructions that you were not to be hurt.’
Feebly trying to massage away his headache, Carlyle rubbed the back of his neck. Not hurt was stretching it a bit, but at least he was still alive. ‘Olga?’
The sirens grew louder.
‘She likes you,’ Ihor smirked. ‘It is your good fortune that you are already married!’
The sirens suddenly stopped and were soon replaced by shouting and a general commotion somewhere in the
