Skin (39 page)

It was on the wall above the bed and it was what she should have been looking for all along. Sepia-coloured, about the size of a vinyl LP. A small wall-mounted safe.

‘Oh, Ruth,’ she murmured. ‘You couldn’t have, could you?’

The answer came back instantly:
Of course she did, of course she would have put it here. She knew how precious it was to you, knew you might try something like this.

She straightened, went to the safe and gave it a tug. It was locked tight. Nothing in the Bag of Bollocks would open this number. Only the thermal lance would help her here. And it was still in the car down on the road. She threw the dial from side to side, hit it with the crowbar in her frustration. Hit it again. Then stopped and stood still, listening hard. There was a noise. Coming from the front of the house.

Someone outside had just opened Ruth’s front gate.

She went silently to the top of the stairs and peered over.

A second passed. Another.

Footsteps came around the side of the house, heading for the back. Suddenly panicked, Flea went quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen where the curtains were still drawn. The footsteps had stopped.

Whoever it was must be on the patio. She collected all the gear off the counter, counting it quickly: one, two, three, four, five. After cramming it into the bag, she zipped it up, threw it over her shoulder and headed for the hallway.

Someone put a key in the front door. There was a brief metallic clink as it turned, then the shush-shush of the draft excluder moving on the mat.

She turned back into the kitchen and stood for a second or two sizing it up. Opposite, behind curtains, the broken window stood open. No. It would take too much time to climb up there and drop through. In the hallway the door closed. She opened the oven and pushed the bag inside. Went to the tall fridge. Turned her face sideways, raised her hands and squeezed herself into the gap between it and the wall. She bent her arms at the elbows so her hands wouldn’t be visible and stood there trembling, breathing in shallow pants through her mouth because her ribs were constrained.

Someone came in. A man – she could hear him breathing as he surveyed the mess. He moved around, his feet crunching the glass underfoot, then stopped about a yard away. She could see his foot now, in a clean white trainer, ‘Nike’ written on it. There was a long silence while she listened to his breathing. It was fast, heavy, as if he was excited by what he saw. Or distressed.

He left the kitchen. In the living room she heard him kick his way through the mess. He went back into the hallway and the moment she knew he was at the front of the house she eased her way out from beside the fridge, got the bag from the oven and closed it without a sound. She skirted the broken glass, lifted the bag on to the work surface and hauled herself up.

The footsteps stopped. He’d heard her moving.

‘Hello?’

She pulled the curtain wide and dropped the bag through the window.

‘Hello? Who’s there?’

She looked at the drop. Looked back at the hall. Took a breath. And jumped.

64

Caffery shifted where he sat. His bones were cold, aching. He’d given up searching for a way to get out. How long would it take Turnbull or Powers to notice he was missing and not just AWOL again? How long would it be before the trail led to Beatrice Foxton – the only professional apart from a telephone operator at Control who knew he’d been to the Rothersfield clinic that morning? A day? Maybe more because they didn’t have his phone to go by. And when they arrived, his car wouldn’t be anywhere to be seen. Gerber had taken his keys and would have moved it. Which meant he had probably found the gun too.

But he didn’t intend to use it. Caffery knew Gerber was too clever for that, knew he wanted Caffery to die in the slowest possible way. Maybe for the sake of self-preservation: he could argue that Caffery had fallen into the cesspit and bled to death. Or sadism: the need to imagine a drawn-out death in the cold and dark of the pit. He was a skilled doctor and knew the arteries of the leg would spring back on themselves where they’d been severed, that the blood would clot and Caffery’s leg would heal itself. So he’d inserted those Perspex tubes into the arteries to keep it flowing. He’d wanted to bleed him to death.

Caffery was lucky – the tubes had fallen out – but Gerber would be back eventually. Just to check.

There was a noise overhead. A footstep. The sound of weight on the roof of the tank. Caffery stiffened. Bit down on the instinct to scream at the fucker. He knew what he had to do: he had to let Gerber think he was dead. He got to his feet and moved to the edge of the tank where the ladder was, keeping his breathing shallow and quiet.

There was a pause, a long silence when nothing happened. Maybe he’d imagined that sound. He was about to sit down again, when he heard another footfall. A clunk. Followed by a metallic bang. The sound of the lock on the manhole being tested.

He grabbed the ladder and climbed one or two steps until his neck and shoulders were pressed against the ceiling, his head inches from the cover. Wedging his bad leg back he held himself there, teeth gritted. One hand out and ready. He couldn’t wait at the bottom of the tank for the bastard to come in – it would be shooting fish in a barrel for Gerber: there was one chance and one chance only. Caffery had to go out and take it on the nose. Then, if he caught Gerber in time, he could throw the manhole cover at him. Catch him off balance.

The lock on the cover opened. He waited, trembling in his bat position, hands up hard in front of his face. Adrenalin bolted around his body. He was ready.
Come and get it. Come and get it.

But nothing happened. Nobody came. The manhole cover didn’t open.

There were a few moments of silence, then another footfall. This time Gerber was retreating. He had unlocked the cover but not opened it. Caffery let his jaw stay slack, tried to keep his breathing slow and steady as he tracked Gerber’s movements in his head. What was he planning?

Silence again. He counted to a hundred, listening. The stillness stretched on and on, out of the cesspit, down past the swimming-pool, out into the lane. He counted to a hundred again then relaxed his ribcage, breathed normally.

He dropped off the ladder on to his good leg. Checked his watch. Looked back up at the cover.

What’s he doing? What’s he wanting me to do?

Maybe Gerber had changed his mind about finishing him, knowing the weight of shit that would descend on his head if he added cop-killer to his list. Maybe he was waiting outside to apologize. No. Of course he wasn’t. Caffery knew what was going on: he was being flushed. Gerber had a gun and was waiting for him.

If that was the way it was going to be, then that was the way it was going to be. Simple as that.

He let the second hand move round his watch five times, then pulled himself back up the ladder. On a deep breath he gave the lid a hard shove.

It flew open and rolled away with a deafening clang. Light flooded in. He clung to the ladder, breathing hard, good foot coiled into the rungs, one hand up, ready for whatever came flying at him.

High above him the sky was blue, completely cloudless. He waited, making calculations. The swimming-pool was about a hundred yards from here. There was a pump-house at the deep end, if he remembered rightly. And the maintenance shed with the stepladder in it. There’d be something in there. A hacksaw. An axe, maybe.

Three minutes passed. Then, using his good leg as the dynamo, he vaulted clumsily up and out of the hole, and rolled quickly away. He scrambled head first across the lawn, threw himself down behind the pump-house, where he crouched, hands pressed hard against his leg to stop the wound opening and bleeding again.

It was as hot as an August day: the trees, the hedges, even the grass stood motionless, their outlines a little hazy in the heat. When the pain stopped he raised himself cautiously and looked out at the grounds. Gerber’s car sat in the driveway soaking up the sunshine. Caffery’s own car, as he’d expected, wasn’t there. It had been hidden from anyone standing at the entrance to the house, but from here it was easy to spot: covered with a tarpaulin, its nose pointed up against the doors of a derelict barn about a hundred yards away.

He limped quickly to the car, threw back the tarp and rattled the doors. All locked. He could see through the window that the glove compartment was open, so he’d been right: the bastard had taken the gun.

It felt better to hold his bad leg as he walked, so he gripped it in both hands and half carried it across the lawn, past the swimming-pool to the shed. He found a chisel and a screwdriver on the magnetic tool rack. No axe.

He continued up to the house. The front door was ajar. Using the tip of his finger he pushed it. It swung open soundlessly to reveal the office where the attack had happened. It was empty. The curtains had been half closed, the biscuits swept to one side, and he could see where the great ribbons of blood on the floor and sofa had been hastily scrubbed. He went inside and stood for a while, looking around. Where was Gerber hiding?

He limped to the desk, pulled open the drawers, riffled through the contents, seeing paper clips and pens, old business cards. He straightened and looked at the glass bookcases. In one there was a tooled-leather keepsake box. He took it out and opened it. Inside a plaque read: ‘To Georges, with much love and respect from the staff and patients of St Hilda’s clinic, 1998’. Set into the moulded blue velveteen were six gold-plated surgeon’s instruments – haemostats, tweezers, scissors and three scalpels. Caffery pocketed the scalpels with the chisel, replaced the box and went back to the corridor.

The door to the refrigerator room was closed. He put his ear to it, took a breath, then lightly turned the handle. Just once. Listened.

Nothing. Just the vague electronic hum of a fridge, the tick of a clock.

He rested the scalpel hard and snug in his palm. The chisel was ready too, its handle sticking out of his left pocket. He gave the door a shove so it flew wide open, banging against the interior wall, then shrank back into the corridor, flattening himself against the wall, scalpel at the ready.

Again, nothing. He took a deep breath and swung into the opening, doing a quick 360-degree sweep, checking the ceiling too – he’d been caught out on that one before – then stepped neatly inside, his back to the wall.

The light was off, the room was empty. But the door opposite was ajar. He could hear the distant sound of birds floating down the steps into the room. He went to it and opened it, waiting to see if the sound drew any movement from above. It didn’t. Gerber wanted him here. Wanted him to see the things he’d done. But where was he? Maybe he wasn’t in the building at all. Maybe this was just the beginning of an elaborate game.

Caffery moved around the room, gathering weapons: a long fleshing knife and the awl Gerber had used. It still had a scrap of grey fabric on it. His trouser leg. He put the awl in his sleeve, the knife in his pocket. Feeling as armed as an Apache attack helicopter, he went quietly up the stairs, concentrating on not making them creak. His leg had almost stopped bleeding, yet, even so, when he got to the top of the stairs and looked back he could see one or two dark blood spots. The CSIs would thank him for that – if he survived and they ever got to find out about this place.

A door shut off the top of the staircase, this one also open a crack. He put the tip of the fleshing knife on it and pushed. It swung open with a slow creak. The moment he saw what was ahead he took a step back, letting the fleshing knife come up in front of him.

It was a corridor, a replica of the one below except for one detail. About eight yards away, nearly at the far door, with his back against the wall, sat Gerber.

He was turned slightly away from Caffery, half in profile, one leg crossed over the other. He had changed and was wearing a white shirt and a beige travel coat pulled down off his shoulders. His right hand, nearest to Caffery, was stuffed into the pocket. The other was out of sight, resting near his thigh. That’d be where the gun was. When the door opened he didn’t turn immediately. He continued to stare out of the window, almost vacantly. That was his way, thought Caffery. He was content to sit and wait for his prey, a half-smile on his face. Snake in a hole. He had been clever enough to kill Lucy Mahoney. And Susan Hopkins. Clever enough to almost get away with it.

Caffery kept his back against the wall, out of range. ‘Show me your hands.’

Gerber didn’t react.

‘You heard me. Show me your fucking hands.’

Gerber allowed his right hand to flop out of his pocket, palm up. It was empty. Then he lifted the left about five inches above his thigh. It was holding the Hardballer. But it wasn’t pointed at Caffery. It drooped, hung limply for a second, then fell, clattering across the floor and landing up against the wall, only a foot away from Caffery.

Gerber’s eyes followed the gun but he didn’t make any attempt to pick it up.

Caffery scanned the corridor, the windows and the door at the far end. What was supposed to happen here? That door beyond – was it locked? He looked at the gun. ‘Whatever you think you’ve set up it ain’t going to work,’ he told Gerber. ‘You’re not going to dictate how this ends.
I
am.’