Corpse in Waiting (28 page)

‘Around ten days ago.'

We took our leave and duly drifted off.

‘Sometimes things drop right into your lap,' Patrick said.

‘We're giving priority to searching the Bayswater flat,' I reminded him.

It was situated, like thousands of others, on the very top floor of a terraced Victorian house. In case Alexandra was at home Patrick first rang the door bell. When there was no response we went down a side way at one end of the row of houses that led into another narrow lane that gave access to the rear. But not vehicular access: everyone had to park in the street. The backs of the properties were the usual muddle of added-on bathrooms, kitchen extensions, conservatories, garden sheds, bins, children's swings, and rubbish, each one surrounded by a brick wall of medium height, some topped with trellis for extra privacy. We were making for the seventh one from the end.

There were gates in the end walls, the one we wanted open and falling off its hinges. Unlike most of the others that I had glimpsed in passing the garden was hardly able to deserve the name, consisting mostly of long grass and weeds with hugely overgrown privet hedges. I thought no one was about and then as we walked down the path and approached the back door a middle-aged woman emerged.

‘What do you want?' she asked, no doubt grumpy because of having been caught with her hair in rollers. ‘I don't know you.'

‘Police,' Patrick said, waving his ID in her direction. ‘Have you seen Alexandra Nightingale lately?'

‘Who?'

‘Alexandra Nightingale. She lives in the top flat.'

‘Oh,
her
. No, not for ages. But that's nothing new. She's only around sometimes. Doesn't speak, you know.'

‘Have you seen her with anyone here?'

‘No, I've hardly ever clapped eyes on her at all.'

‘There's concern for her safety and she's not answering the outside bell. Perhaps you'd be good enough to let us into the front hall so we can see if she's at home.'

‘But if you've already tried ringing her bell—'

‘We have keys,' Patrick interrupted quietly.

The woman led us through her untidy, drab, fishy-smelling home and without another word let us out through the front door. It banged resoundingly behind us.

‘You'd never believe this was a fashionable part of London, would you?' I said in a loud voice.

Patrick uttered a noise not unlike a cat fight and made for the stairs.

‘You said you'd climbed in through a window before,' I remarked.

‘With difficulty and not in broad daylight,' came the reply. ‘I know we don't want any more children but it was an extremely tight squeeze.'

I'm afraid I giggled.

It could have been the last laugh, ever.

Patrick's skeleton keys quickly dealt with the locks on the door of the top flat.

‘Alex?' he called. ‘Are you there?'

There was utter silence within.

We entered. The door opened directly into a large studio room. It was attractively furnished with two sofas in a pretty shade of deep pink, a coffee table, a workstation with computer and, along one wall, there was a divan bed covered with a throw that matched the sofas. In a corner was an Alan Kilmartin designed kitchen unit exactly like the one in his office. Further exploration revealed a separate shower room and toilet, the window of which was not properly latched, presumably the one Patrick had climbed through – I saw what he meant, it was only around sixteen inches wide – and a couple of large built-in cupboards mostly full of clothes.

‘There's usually a door on to a roof area—' I was saying as several men burst through exactly that having thrust aside a concealing curtain. The room filled with them.

‘Go!' Patrick shouted to me. ‘Go on! Go!'

The last, and latest, rule of engagement: Ingrid does not get involved if there are these odds.

One of them was already standing between me and the front door. I employed my usual recipe for this and kicked him where it hurt most, dashed past the stricken and gasping result and out on to the landing. Half a house-sized oaf was waiting there so I repeated the exercise, missed but he shimmied out of range, overbalancing slightly thus giving me time to belt back inside and into the toilet, slam the door and lock it. I was trying to shut my mind to the hell that was taking place in the main room.

Already someone, no doubt Oaf Two, was trying to kick the door in. I stood on the toilet seat, opened the window wide and started to wriggle through it. If a six foot two bloke of slim build could get through it then so could I. But I am not so slim and my bosom was still generous after having Mark. The door was bouncing in its frame. Then it crashed inwards and the moron tumbled in with it. This provided the impetus I needed and with an involuntary shriek of pain as I felt I was skinned fore and aft I half fell out of the window, almost getting hung up on one foot, and landed in an untidy heap on a platform of the fire escape a couple of feet below. There had been a sound as of a sack of bones hitting concrete as my pursuer cannoned at speed into the loo.

Moments later I was dashing down the stairs. The car was several streets away and I was praying that no one was lurking in the side way. To be on the safe side and having run down the garden I turned the other way, hoping the little lane did not come to a dead end. That was all I thought about, that was the rule, one half of the partnership must come to no harm in these circumstances: not only could they get help but because of the children.

The path came to a T-junction and I turned right, desperate to avoid ending up in the same road. I tore on. Then I was running between the blank side walls of houses again, my footsteps echoing hollowly. Bursting out on to the pavement in another street I stopped dead. There were plenty of people and traffic about, no one suspicious-looking. I carried on running, knowing roughly where I was and feeling for the spare car keys in my pocket. We always carry a set each in case of emergency.

Almost setting off the alarm in my haste I threw myself into the vehicle and started it, freaking out in case they had spotted the car, mud or no, and Oaf Three was somewhere nearby. No one materialized and I tried to calm down as I drove away. Breaking all our rules I returned to the road where Alex's flat was and braked hard at what I saw, causing the driver of the car behind to blare his horn. I pulled over, into the entrance to a car wash, ignoring his obscene gestures as he drove by.

Outside the house two cars were double-parked, several men in various states of disrepair getting into them. Of obvious injuries among the limps and winces, one appeared to have a nose bleed, another was holding his arm as if it was broken and a third, Patrick, was being supported by two others and, as I watched, he was tipped unceremoniously into the back seat of one of the cars. The vehicles were driven in my direction so I shot into the car wash, causing another driver to sound his horn.

The traffic was too heavy for me to be able to follow them but I did have allies.

Michael Greenway was out of breath slightly as though he had had to run to where he had left his phone. ‘He's what?' he demanded to know. ‘Sorry, the bloke next door's started a mower and I can't hear you.' A few seconds later, ‘Right, that's better.'

‘Patrick's allowed himself to be taken,' I said again. ‘For heaven's sake get someone to watch the entrance of Descallier's house for two cars going in. Now. I got the reg of one of them and half of the other.' I gave them to him, repeating them when Greenway had hurried indoors to find pen and paper.

‘I'll get on to it right away and ring you back.'

This he did when the car wash staff were getting a little restless at my continuing and profitless presence.

‘It's a dreadful risk,' was his opening comment. ‘Suppose they've no intention of taking him there? They might just put a bullet in his head.'

‘He'll be banking on them wanting to find out why we were in the flat – how much the police know. I have an idea he'll then play on one advantage he has – that several criminal and terrorist organizations have put a price on his head. He's worth a hell of a lot of money to a crook.'

‘How much?'

‘A million dollars is being offered by one outfit.'

‘Bloody hell!'

I went on to give him a full account of what had occurred.

‘Do you have a base?' Greenway then went on to ask. ‘Where are you staying?'

‘We were at Patrick's club last night. But I don't think partners are allowed to stay there without members being present.'

‘In the circumstances you shouldn't be in the city on your own. Go back to the place we had lunch – I'll book you a room there and fix it that someone's around to watch your back. I'll get on to people involved with the investigation and we'll go from there. Shall I meet you at the hotel at around six? Meanwhile I'll call you as soon as I know if those vehicles turned up.'

It was as if someone else had conducted this conversation and concisely reported what had taken place that afternoon, another person, not me, not the one half off her head agonizing over her husband's safety.

EIGHTEEN

I
t being Sunday and everything police-wise short-staffed and manic – at least, that is what the man said – I ended up by having a Commander as bodyguard, Greenway himself. But the fact that he seemed preoccupied when we met told me that there were undercurrents in all this, he was working on something. I already knew that both the cars I had seen had entered Descallier's property but whether there were listening devices in the house or not Greenway had not revealed. I had to know.

‘You would tell me if planted bugs had picked up . . . well . . . things you perhaps wouldn't want to upset me about,' I said.

He emerged from his reverie. ‘You mean screams if they were torturing him?' he replied gently.

‘Yes.'

‘The phones are bugged but there are no mikes in the place. I don't actually know if anyone's listening to mobile phone conversations but did make it clear that I wanted every last piece of useful intelligence relayed to me immediately. Those indoors might be suspicious that the landlines are being monitored because no calls in or out have so far mentioned visitors – not even any remarks that might be construed as containing code words. Personally I don't think any of them – except possibly Descallier himself – are bright enough to go in for things like that.'

‘They won't be expecting any more visitors,' I said.

‘And you think they might be getting some?' he enquired coolly.

‘A section of the rear boundary fence was brought down a short while ago when an oak tree in the royal park was blown down. I checked before I came here as to whether the fence had been repaired. It hasn't. That might make what you're planning a little easier.'

He stared at the floor for a moment, his big hands clasped together and then sighed, ‘You're a mind-reader.'

‘Not at all, just a student of human body language.'

‘I think it's important to have a very low profile look at this place. Especially in view of the fact that this character seems to have a lot of clout. Going against the rules, I know but I've never achieved anything by sitting on my backside on the sidelines.'

‘I'll come with you on one condition.'

‘Hell fire! I wasn't going to take you at all.'

‘You have to and I was going to have a look round anyway. I'm the only one who can work with the way Patrick does things.'

‘Ingrid, he could well be hurt and incapable of doing anything.'

‘Those are my terms,' I told him.

‘Look, I might not have a bloody price on my head but I've been involved in some pretty hairy cases along these lines.'

‘And I promise I'll never tell
anyone
you went into a serious criminal's HQ with only a subordinate's wife as back-up in the most unprofessional and reprehensible fashion.
And
that you were actually
her
back-up.'

He gazed at me, open-mouthed.

‘Not a soul,' I assured him.

‘Ingrid . . .'

‘You'll have to do exactly as the pair of us tell you.'

Any doubts he might still have been harbouring – and again I was admiring the man enormously as what I was asking of him was very unreasonable – appeared to be allayed when we met again in the hotel car park at a little after ten thirty that night. He was duly attired in dark clothing, a navy blue Met action kit of some kind. I was similarly dressed in tracksuit and black trainers and had the Smith and Wesson snugly in its original shoulder harness that I had adjusted to my size. This was no time for handbags. Just to be on the safe side Patrick's spare knife was in my pocket.

‘I have to know if you're armed,' I said.

He shook his head. ‘No.'

‘Patrick's Glock 17's in the Range Rover.'

‘Best not to. I'm not a great shot.'

‘Please carry it. At least you'll have it if it's needed.'

This took a few minutes as I had to fiddle with that harness as Greenway is broader than the usual wearer.

‘We'll take your car,' I said.

The night was still and fine with no moon. Perfect.

I had no doubts at all about Greenway's reliability and desperately needed his presence although wondering if this intention of his was a little highly irregular macho stuff; an attempt to rescue the somewhat dark and deadly ex-MI5, ex-undercover army officer from the crime-lord's stronghold. And, ye gods, if he flopped somehow he would never be able to look Patrick in the eye again and from his point of view their working relationship would be in tatters. Two objectives for me then, assuming the man in my life was still alive.