‘Just take the call,’ she had said, exasperatedly, not for the first time.
He had ignored her, followed his own procedure. She had shaken her head. Bet he demands an invoice every time he makes a cup of tea at home, she thought.
‘No,’ he had said. ‘It’s this one.’ And had dug down into his trouser pocket, pulled out a second mobile. An old black clamshell.
Two phones. Jessie shook her head.
He listened, asked a couple of questions, and Jessie became curious, despite herself. Deepak took out his notepad, wrote something down. Jessie tried to see what it was, but he kept it angled away from her.
Sometimes she wanted to kill him.
He ended the call slowly, almost ritualistically, and pocketed the phone.
‘Two phones?’ she said.
He nodded.
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t be too careful,’ he said. He patted his pocket, checked the notepad, entered something into the sat nav, put the car back in gear. When a space in the traffic appeared, he pulled out.
‘Can’t be too careful?’ Jessie laughed. ‘What, like the American cops that used to carry two guns? One a throwdown piece, for shootouts.’
He said nothing.
‘That’s you, is it? The British equivalent? What you going to do, call someone to death?’
‘That was the station,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘They’ve traced the car.’
Jessie was suddenly all business. ‘From outside the cottage? The one that was there when the cottage went up?’
He nodded.
‘And?’
‘It’s registered to … ’ He glanced at his notepad. ‘Michael Sloane.’
‘Right. Good. We got an address?’
‘On the pad. I’ve taken the liberty of keying it in. I presumed you would want to go there and question them.’
‘Absolutely. No time like the present.’
They drove on.
‘Sloane … Michael Sloane … ’ Jessie frowned. ‘Why does that name mean something? I’ve heard it before.’
Deepak nodded. ‘I agree. Can’t remember where, though. Shall I pull over, ma’am? Make a few calls?’
‘No, just keep going. We’ll do it later.’
‘You’re the boss.’ He kept driving.
Deepak annoyed the hell out of her. But she had to admit, he was a damned good copper. In fact there was no one she would rather have alongside her.
She smiled to herself. Well, perhaps Mickey Philips …
43
The Golem cursed and stopped walking. Such a simple mistake. An apprentice’s error. Why would they need elaborate security systems when they could have attack dogs?
He looked round once more. Saw a curtain being dropped back into place in the caravan. Glanced at the house. Saw the person at the downstairs window look out, hurry away again. Saw activity. The laptop being closed up. Someone getting ready to leave in a hurry.
No change of plan. He made for the house. Quickly.
As he reached the corner, he heard something. The dogs’ barking changed in tone. Lower, growling. Then he heard a gate opening. By the time the Golem realised what was happening, it was too late. The dogs were free and barrelling towards him.
He looked round. He wouldn’t reach the car in time. There was no other shelter, no hiding place. They would catch him. He gave another glance round for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, fight them off. Found nothing.
He stood, braced, as the two slavering animals bore down on him, jaws apart, ready to pounce, to tear him to shreds.
He closed his eyes. Centred himself. There was nothing he could do about the physical contact, the pain. That was going to happen. The sooner he accepted it, embraced it, the sooner it would be over.
But he could do something about the noise. Most people, when faced with an attacking dog, were terrified. He knew that. And it wasn’t just the open jaws and the anticipation of pain that terrified them; it was the noise too. The barking, growling, howling. That was what scared people. But the Golem wasn’t people. He kept his eyes closed. Focused. Channelled. Blocked out the sound.
He opened his eyes once more. The dogs were still coming towards him, but he could no longer hear them. And if he couldn’t hear them, then he could think. And if he could think, then he could strategise.
The first one, a slavering black and mustard Rottweiler, jumped up at him. It was huge, almost the same height as him at full stretch. But the Golem wasn’t going to allow himself to feel scared or intimidated.
As the dog jumped, he pulled back his arm, brought it forward. Hard. Landed a punch on its neck. The dog’s legs immediately went limp and it fell to the ground, dazed. The Golem kicked it in the head, hard as he could. His steel-reinforced boot connecting with the dog’s skull, the bone splintering, crunching as it hit.
The dog lay twitching, spasming.
The Golem knew he would get no more trouble from that one.
He turned to the other dog. He had no opportunity to defend himself this time. Would just have to take the pain.
The second Rottweiler was on him. Its jaws opened, distended, clamped down on his left forearm. The pain coursed through him, hard and fast, like he’d grabbed an electric cable.
He tried to ignore it. Couldn’t. Screamed.
Hearing that, the dog bit down harder. Tried to wrestle him to the ground, rip his arm off in the process.
The Golem resisted, pulled the opposite way. He could feel flesh and muscle, skin and sinew tear away from his bone as he did so. The blood pumped out, soaking his shirt, filling the dog’s face, its eyes. The dog tasted it, got high on the bloodlust, bit down all the harder. Pulled more ferociously.
The Golem saw the figure from the window move outside. The target was getting away.
He brought his right arm over, bunched his fingers into a fist, brought it down hard on the dog’s snout. The dog roared, either in pain or anger, he couldn’t tell, but didn’t let go. He hit it again. The jaws loosened slightly. Pursuing the advantage, he forced the dog to the ground. It struggled, tried to get away. He pinned it down with his legs.
He managed to get his fingers into the dog’s mouth, pushing back against its teeth. The dog squirmed, tried to wriggle away. The Golem wouldn’t let it. Despite the pain making him light-headed, he held on.
His fingers pushed against the dog’s top jaw. He used his left arm to pull its lower jaw down. He could feel the teeth sinking further into his flesh the harder he pulled down. He focused, concentrated, tried to ignore the pain.
Kept his mind on his goal. His target.
The target must not escape.
He pushed further. Heard, felt something tear in the dog’s face. Kept pushing. More blood, the dog’s this time, as he prised its jaws apart.
He felt its grip on his arm loosening, heard a whimper from within its throat. He kept pushing.
The dog realised it was beaten, let go.
The Golem pulled his arm from its jaw, let the dog slump to the ground. It lay there, whimpering.
He looked over at the house. His target would be getting away. He glanced down again to the dogs. They were both in pain, dying. He couldn’t leave a wounded animal in that state. He knelt down beside the first one, looked into its eyes. Snapped its neck. Did the same to the second.
Then stood up.
Target in his sights.
44
‘There,’ said Mickey, pointing at the screen. ‘That’s her.’ Grainy CCTV footage showed Marina standing at the counter of the service station, looking around anxiously, handing over her card, getting out as quickly as possible, not even waiting for her receipt.
‘She seemed to be in a hurry, I remember that about her.’ The woman who had served her was speaking. She was big, heavyset. Anni thought she looked like a farmer’s wife. Probably was.