'Open it up,' James Scott told him, watching as Calder turned the key in the lock that secured one of the two metal grilles at the front entrance of 'Loveshow'. Calder hooked his fingers beneath the sliding screen of metal and pushed upwards.
'I thought you were inside,' he said quietly. His hands shook as he tried to find the key to open the door.
'Yeah, you and everybody else,' Scott told him, prodding him a little harder with the 459. 'Come on, get a fucking move on.' He looked to his right and left, satisfied that the gun he held was hidden from the view of any passers-by.
Calder finally found the right key and unlocked the door, stumbling inside as Scott pushed him through the entrance and slammed the door behind them. He winced as he felt that all-too familiar pain inside his head, throbbing and pulsing. His brain seemed to be swelling, trying to burst through his skull.
'How the fuck did you get here?' Calder wanted to know, turning to face the other man, seeing the automatic levelled at him.
'It doesn't matter,' Scott told him.
'Jim, I didn't have anything to do with this,' Calder blurted. 'I don't know what you want with me. I haven't done anything to you.'
Scott thought Calder was going to start weeping.
'I know you haven't,' he said flatly. 'It isn't you I want,' he continued.
'So what are you doing here? Did you escape? How did you get out?' Calder's words were almost incoherent, they were spoken so quickly.
'Rick, just shut it, will you?' snapped Scott, taking a pace towards him. 'Give me the keys.'
Calder handed them over without hesitation.
'Take them, do what you want. Just don't hurt me, please,' Calder babbled, his eyes flicking from Scott's face to the barrel of the Smith and Wesson, 'I'll help if you want, just don't hurt me.'
'Rick, shut up will you,' Scott said wearily.
'I'll shut up, I'll shut up. Whatever you want, Jim. I'll shut up. Don't hurt me, though. I won't say anything else but…'
'For fuck's sake,' hissed Scott, taking another step towards Calder, whose eyes widened in terror. 'Shut up,' he roared.
He struck Calder on the temple with the butt of the pistol, the sound of metal on bone making a sickening thud. Calder dropped like a stone and lay still. Scott leant back against the wall, his breath coming in gasps. There was an ugly cut on Calder's temple, and already the area around it was beginning to darken. A thin trickle of mucus dribbled from his mouth.
Scott gritted his teeth.
Stop this fucking pain.
He sucked in several deep breaths, his hands pressed to his temples, his eyes closed.
He stood there for several seconds, finally taking one last glance down at the prone figure of Calder. Then Scott made his way downstairs.
He slapped on lights as he reached the bottom of the flight. Everything was how he'd last seen it. The bed in the centre of the room, the old chairs and sofas. The fading pictures on the peeling walls. He walked through towards his office, past the changing room, selecting the key to his office. He walked in, looking round.
Scott exhaled wearily and walked across to his desk.
With a shout of anger he overturned it, then snatched up the chair, swinging it wildly around his head, smashing the light bulb as he lashed out. The chair shattered and he was left holding just one of the legs. Brandishing it like a club, he headed back into the other room. There he smashed the nearest picture on the wall, overturned chairs and sofas. He picked up one of the small coffee tables and hurled it across the room, watching as if broke against the far wall. Scott's breath was coming in gasps now as he moved towards the small bar.
He stuck out his hand and, with one movement, swept the bottles from the shelves. They landed on the floor, glass shattering, contents spilling everywhere. He picked up one bottle and hurled it across the room, watching it smash against the far wall. Then another. And another. The place was filled with the sound of breaking glass. He hurled the bottles at the pictures, at the bed, at the walls. When there were no bottles left he ripped the shelves from their brackets, wielding one like a staff, breaking it across the bar top.
Scott picked up a handful of match books. He struck one match and held it close to the others, watching them ignite, then he dropped the flaming bundle to the floor.
The alcohol that had been spilled there ignited immediately, flames leaping up around his feet. He moved away from the bar and lit more matches, tossing them onto the bed, the sofas. All went up with a loud whump. Flames began to take hold now, scorching their way across the floor in the wake of the spilled drink. Like the tentacles of some fiery octopus the flames shot out in all directions, incinerating everything they touched.
Satisfied that the fire had taken hold, Scott headed for the stairs, thick smoke already swirling around him.
As he reached the top of the stairs he noticed that Calder had regained consciousness. He was sitting up, tentatively touching the spot where Scott had hit him.
As he saw the other man he cowered back against the wall.
'Jim, please…' he began.
'If I was you, I'd get out of here, Rick,' Scott told him and headed for the door.
Thick black smoke was already beginning to fill the stairwell behind him.
'Oh Jesus,' murmured Calder, seeing the noxious clouds coming from below.
Scott pushed the door and stepped out on to the pavement, striding across to the Rover which was parked across the street. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine, noticing that, as Calder bolted from the building, the smoke billowed out of the door after him.
The flames had taken a grip. They would work their way up the stairs, destroying everything.
Scott watched for a moment longer then started the engine. As he shifted position slightly he could feel the two pistols jammed into his belt. They had a reassuring bulkiness to them. In one pocket he had the two quick-loaders, in the other a couple of spare magazines for the automatic.
He took one last look at 'Loveshow', smoke now belching from its door, and drove off.
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
'How much further?'
DI Frank Gregson looked at his watch then at the pilot, who adjusted his microphone before speaking.
'Another twenty or thirty miles,' the pilot told him.
Gregson muttered something under his breath and looked out of the side window, watching the cars on the motorway below speeding along. The journey had seemed to take an eternity, although he realised they had been in the air less than forty-five minutes. Already the outskirts of London were appearing below them; the areas of greenery they had passed over when first leaving Whitely were now giving way to more densely populated conurbations.
The steady drone of the rotor blades continued and the maddening sensation of little or no speed only served to exacerbate the policeman's impatience. Again he checked his watch.
He'd called through to New Scotland Yard within minutes of leaving Whitely, to tell them that Scott was loose and probably back in the capital. He had also said that the man was possibly armed and extremely dangerous. Gregson had asked for armed squads to aid in the hunt for the fugitive. The radio had been conspicuously quiet, apart from the pilot picking up flying instructions. Despite Gregson's insistence that someone get back to him with a progress report, nothing had disturbed the airwaves yet.