There was a knock on the door.
Harrison shouted for whoever was outside to enter.
McAuslan stuck his head round the door.
'Someone to see you, Frank,' he said, but before Harrison could speak the visitor had pushed past McAuslan into the room.
David Mitchell strode towards Harrison's desk, the attaché case held in one hand, a large plastic bag in the other.
He seemed oblivious of the presence of the other men in the room. The hit man merely looked directly at Harrison and put down his attaché case.
He took hold of the plastic bag and upended it.
'It's over,' said Mitchell, stepping back.
The severed head of Derek Sullivan rolled out of the bag coming to rest on the bloodied stump, the eyes still open, fixing Harrison in an unblinking stare.
Mitchell glanced at the head and then back at Harrison.
'You owe me some money.'
She thought it must be a wrong number.
Tina had picked up the phone but heard nothing at the other end. She assumed that the caller had realized they'd reached the wrong number and hung up. She replaced the receiver and returned to her bedroom where she continued packing. It was a careful, cautious process but, so far, she'd managed to secrete most of her wardrobe in the attic of the flats. The couple who lived in the apartment opposite her were in Greece for a month's holiday so there were no prying eyes to watch her on her journeys up and down the ladder to the dusty attic, dragging her suitcases with her.
The phone rang again.
Tina crossed the room and lifted the receiver.
'Hello,' she said.
Silence.
She repeated herself.
Still there was only silence at the other end.
She muttered something under her breath and put the phone down once more.
It rang within seconds and she snatched it up, not speaking this time, just listening.
At the other end she heard the unmistakeable sound of low, muted breathing.
'If this is a dirty phone call then you might as well start breathing more heavily than that,' she said. 'And by the way, this phone is attached to an answering machine so everything you say will be recorded ...'
The line went dead.
Tina smiled to herself, satisfied with her small victory.
The phone rang yet again almost as soon as she replaced the receiver.
She snatched it up angrily.
'Now listen you bastard,' she began but the words trailed off as she turned towards the door, the receiver still gripped in her fist.
The handle of the front door was being turned slowly.
Tina slammed the phone down and dialled quickly, her eyes never leaving the door.
She had to get in touch with Harrison, with Carter.
Anyone.
The phone was dead.
She flicked the cradle.
Dead as a doornail.
The door handle continued to turn.
The line had been cut.
Tina dropped the phone and ran towards the front door. She had almost reached it when she realized she had not locked it. She tried to turn the key in the lock, to slip the bolt, but it was useless.
The door swung open.
Paul Gardner and Phillip Walton burst in, Gardner making straight for her.
Tina turned and fled towards the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, wondering who these intruders were.
Terror was filling her now, flowing through her veins like iced water She felt a powerful kick against the door but leaned against it, knowing that she would not be able to hold back the intruders for very long.
Her handbag was lying on the bed.
She could seethe Beretta from where she stood.
There was another crash against the door and Tina was almost sent flying. She dashed away, her hand scrabbling inside her bag, her fingers closing around the butt of the .25.
The door splintered under the sustained attack, flying back on its hinges.
Gardner dashed into the bedroom hardly noticing the gun.
Tina fired twice. The recoil, even from such a small calibre pistol, jerked the weapon in her hand. The butt slammed back harshly against the heel of her hand and she winced but kept her finger curled around the trigger.
The first bullet missed and ploughed into the door.
The second hit Gardner in the shoulder, cracked his clavicle and lodged in the musculature of the stern mastoid.
Blood spurted from the wound and Gardner felt searing pain dart up his neck and jaw. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the wound as Tina prepared to fire again.
Walton blundered into the room, ignoring the pistol which was aimed at him.
Tina tightened her finger around the trigger.
The gun jammed.
She pressed the trigger frenziedly but it would not work, the firing pin would not strike the charge in the shell. She did all that was left to her. She threw the pistol at her attacker.
Walton lunged at her, catching a handful of her hair but she spun round and brought her knee up in his groin so hard that she felt it connect with his pelvic bone. He let go of her hair and gripped his throbbing testicles, letting out a strangled cry. But he blundered on, his teeth gritted against the pain, his free hand snatching the knife from his belt.
Tina dashed into the bedroom and locked the door behind her.
Walton drove a powerful kick against it, cursing under his breath.
This wasn't how they had planned things.
Gardner had managed to drag himself to his feet and he pulled his shirt open, inspecting his wound. It throbbed powerfully and the burning sensation was beginning to spread down his arm. Blood had soaked his shirt and jacket and was still pumping rhythmically from the hole made by the .25 bullet. He moaned in pain but Walton ignored him, more intent on kicking down the bathroom door in his efforts to reach Tina.
Inside the bathroom she looked around frantically for something, anything, with which to defend herself. She threw open the medicine cabinet and found a safety razor. One which Harrison had left there. She gripped it in her shaking hand and waited for the inevitable.
Two more powerful kicks and the door exploded inwards.
As Walton came at her she used the razor in a swatting action.
He raised his hand to protect his face and the blade sliced through the palm of his hand. Blood spouted from the tom flesh and Walton grunted in pain but still managed to strike out at Tina, catching her a stinging blow across the face. One of such force that she was lifted off her feet. As she tried to rise he lunged for her once more, his bleeding hand getting tangled in her hair as he dragged her to her feet.
Tina screamed as Walton accidentally tore her ear-ring free.
The lobe of her ear seemed to burst as the fine silver pin ripped through it. Blood spurted down her blouse and she felt burning pain. He drove a fist into her face, smiling as he felt her lip split under the impact. Her head snapped backwards and she slid to the ground, unconscious.
`Bitch,' hissed Walton, glancing at his lacerated palm. The flap of flesh was moving slowly, opening and closing with each pulse like the gills of a fish. He wrapped a towel around the wound and hauled Tina to her feet. She too was covered in blood, most of it from her torn ear. Part of the lobe hung like a raw bud, the crimson fluid still pumping from it.
`Come on, help me,' snarled Walton, ignoring Gardner's moans of pain.
Together they carried Tina from the flat, down the stairs at the rear of the building to the yard at the back of the small block.
Mark Paxton sat behind the wheel of the stolen Capri, milking reeking yellow ooze from a sore on his cheek, licking it away with his tongue like a gourmet. As he saw his companions approaching he pushed open the back door, allowing them to shove Tina on to the back seat.
Gardner got in beside her; Walton swung himself in next to Paxton.
'Move,' snapped Walton, clutching his tom palm, pressing the blood-soaked towel to the gash.
Paxton drove off.
'Do it now,' Walton said, turning in his seat to look at Gardner who was still moaning quietly as the pain from his shoulder wound raged. His face was deathly pale, covered by a thin film of perspiration. He looked ready to black out but Walton snapped at him once more. 'Come on, do it.'
Gardner nodded slowly, painfully and looked down at Tina who'd been thrown across the back seat like an unwanted mannequin. Her face was bruised and bloody, her hair matted with crimson from Walton's and her own injuries.
Walton glared at his companion who finally nodded again, looking down as Tina moaned softly.
He took the knife and prepared himself.
The case was slightly larger than Mitchell's attaché case. It was pushed across the desk towards the hit man, sliding in some of the spilt blood which had seeped from the severed head of Derek Sullivan. That particular grisly object had been removed - carried to the furnace in the basement and disposed of.
Now Mitchell looked down at the case before him and slowly lifted the lid.
'Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds,' said Harrison. 'That was what we agreed, wasn't it?'
Mitchell didn't answer, but merely pulled one of the fifty pound notes from the nearest bundle and held it up to the light, flicking it with his index finger as if to test the crispness of the paper.
Harrison looked across at Joe Duggan who nodded almost imperceptibly and moved towards the door, blocking the exit.
'You don't have to count it all,' Harrison said to the hit man. 'It's all there.'
'I'm sure it is,' Mitchell said, flicking through another of the bundles.
Duggan reached behind him and carefully locked the door. He watched Harrison, waiting for the signal.
Carter glanced first at the gang boss then at Duggan. At Drake too. Both men had taken up positions close to the door. The driver looked at Mitchell, down at the attach case which carried three of his weapons. Surely Harrison must be aware that the hit man was carrying pistols too. Even if Duggan and Drake managed to get an accurate shot at Mitchell, the chances were that he'd take at least three of the men in the room with him. Harrison for sure.
Carter licked his lips and got to his feet, edging towards one of the windows.
DI Thorpe moved back from the centre of the room.
Mitchell had picked up another of the bundles and was flicking through it.
'What's wrong?' asked Harrison. 'Don't you trust me?'
Mitchell smiled thinly, flipping through more of the brown notes.
Duggan's right hand moved inside his jacket.
'You wouldn't be stupid enough to try and double-cross me,' said Mitchell, still counting.
Carter glanced at Duggan and saw that his hand was actually resting on the butt of his pistol.
Harrison also glanced quickly across at the man, ready to give the agreed signal.
'I'm afraid that Sullivan's driver got rather too heroic,' Mitchell said, matter-of-factly.
'Tough,' said Harrison, edging to one side. He looked across at Duggan again.
Carter moved closer to the window, as if he wanted to be ready to leap from it when the shooting started.
'So, it's all over?' asked Thorpe.
Mitchell turned slightly and looked at the policeman, eyeing him up and down. Then the hit man nodded.
Duggan closed his hand around the butt of the. 357, ready to pull it from the holster. Ready to fire as many rounds as necessary into the hit man's back. He hoped that Mitchell would remain where he was.
Harrison moved another step to the right and nodded at Duggan.
The phone rang.
Mitchell continued counting the money.
No one else moved.
Duggan had the gun free of the holster, was standing there like a puppet without a master, frozen. Waiting for his next instruction.
The phone rang again.
Mitchell continued counting.
And again.
Harrison gritted his teeth and finally moved towards the phone. He snatched up the receiver.
Duggan holstered the revolver.
Carter saw the look of fear on the other man's face as he
stared at Mitchell's broad back. It looked as though the chance had gone.
Then, suddenly, all thoughts of Mitchell were forgotten as Harrison slumped down in his chair, gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles threatened to burst through the skin. The colour had drained from his face as surely as water drains from a sink when the plug's removed. He was deathly pale as he sat listening, his lips moving soundlessly as if he were repeating what was being said to him. Finally he sat back in the chair, allowing the receiver to drop from his slack grasp.
`What's wrong, Frank?' asked Drake.
He opened his mouth to speak but no words came forth. The gang boss was gazing straight ahead, his eyes wide, almost entranced. Harrison's shallow breathing became deeper and, gradually, the paleness of his skin began to be replaced by a reddish glow of rage.
Even Mitchell stopped counting the money long enough to look at him.
`Tina,' said Harrison softly and now it was Carter's turn to look aghast at the gang boss.
'What's wrong with her?' the driver demanded, not caring if the concern in his voice was noticeable. 'Frank, who was that on the phone?'
Harrison didn't answer, he merely looked at McAuslan.
'The phone box across the street,' he said quietly. 'Now. Check it out.'
'Frank, what the hell is going on?' snarled Carter as McAuslan unlocked the door and hurried out.
The other men could only stand mystified as the gang boss continued to gaze into empty air, his hands clenched into fists.
Mitchell finished flicking through the bundles of fifties and closed the lid.
'This
isn't
over,' Harrison said, looking at DI Thorpe.
'What's it got to do with Tina?' Carter yelled at him.
Harrison turned towards the driver, ready to tell him when McAuslan returned clutching a small package about six inches square, clumsily wrapped in newspaper.