It was too late for stealth. Rocco straightened up, walked past the startled man, and opened the door. He stepped through and pulled it closed behind him, his instinctive timer for unfolding disaster beginning its countdown. Odds-on the man would wonder who the tall stranger was. He might reason that a white employee was another one of the bosses here, and therefore of no concern to him. Or he might see an opportunity to win points by raising the alarm.
He chose the second option.
As Rocco stepped clear of the building, a shout came from inside, followed by a chorus of calls and the clang of an alarm bell.
Rocco measured the distance to the fence, judging the likelihood of scaling it before any of the guards appeared. No chance. He could already hear the sound of running footsteps approaching from the front. That would be the gate security guard. Given the right circumstances, he’d counted on using a spare pallet to boost himself over from this side. But that option was now dead. Instead, he turned and ran for the skip he’d used before and slipped underneath the tarpaulin. Squirming down beneath the layers of debris and construction cast-offs, he closed a hand over his nose against the swirl of dust rising to meet him and waited to see if his luck would hold.
A murmur of voices approached and moved past. Someone gave a cursory prod into the skip with a length of wood, then a shout from nearby distracted them.
The rope and grappling hook had been spotted.
Other voices issued orders until Lambert’s voice called for quiet and organised a sweep of the outside of the perimeter fence and along the canal. Rocco heard a rattle as the gate in the fence was unlocked and the voices faded as the guards moved away.
A vehicle approached the front of the building. It slowed momentarily, then came on and stopped. A car door slammed and the vehicle moved away. Then the hum of the heating system ceased and silence descended on the site.
They were listening for him. They knew he was still around.
But they hadn’t locked the gate behind them.
He felt the beginnings of cramp in his leg where his calf muscle was twisted. Stifling the desire to stay where he was, he eased himself upwards until he could see over the edge of the skip. He could just see the security guard sitting in his hut, but nobody else. They must be out of sight behind the building. As he moved to straighten his legs and get a clearer view, his shoulder brushed against something. It was a small strip of aluminium sheeting. Before he could stop it, it slid gracefully from his shoulder, paused on the edge of the skip, then fell to the ground with a sharp clatter.
A dog barked, the sound descending to a growl deep in the back of the animal’s throat, and Rocco felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. It was close, barely fifty metres away. Men he could handle; dogs, though, were altogether different.
And now they knew exactly where to look.
There was nothing for it. With the guards now fully alert, he would have to make a run for it and take his chances. But he needed an edge. He felt around his feet and came up with a short length of aluminium piping. It would have to do. Taking a deep breath and lifting the tarpaulin, he heaved himself over the edge of the skip. He hit the ground at an angle and grunted with pain as his shoulder collided with a short stack of wooden pallets.
He turned and ran towards the fence.
Shouts came from behind him, and a torch beam flicked across the ground between him and the fence. It wavered for a moment, then came back. Suddenly his own shadow was in front of him, stretching out to touch the wire before he did.
Then came another bark and a snick-snick sound. It was the dog chasing him across the tarmac.
There was no time for finesse. More voices were joining in, and he could see movement in his peripheral vision as someone angled across to intercept him. He charged through the gate, slamming it shut behind him just as the dog jumped. It crashed against the mesh with a yelp and snarled in frustration, flicks of spittle touching Rocco’s face.
He took the pipe and pushed it through the mesh of the gate, then leant his full weight against it, bending it round the upright and forcing it into the mesh on the outside. They would get it free eventually, but not before he’d got a good way along the canal.
He jogged away, listening for sounds of pursuit, but there were none.
He came to the lock and moved quickly across the top of the gates and down the other side. Stopped dead.
Two men were on the towpath, blocking his way.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The nearest man was Metz, idly swinging the length of steel he’d used on the unfortunate worker in the factory. The other man was further back, indistinct and slight. Then he moved and Rocco recognised the slim figure of Detective Tourrain.
They had deliberately let him think he was free and clear; that he’d fooled them all. Then they had come out here and waited for him to show up.
‘Well, well,’ said Metz. ‘Looks like we’ve found our intruder. Let’s see who you are, shall we?’
Rocco studied the ground the men were standing on. They were on a broad patch of flat grass by the side of the lock basin, too narrow for him to force his way past. The canal lay on the right, the level three to four metres below the edge, the rush of water muffled by the deep stone walls. To Rocco’s left was a thick hedge, then a slope with an indistinct tangle of bushes and undergrowth offering no clear way through.
If the two men came to him, where the ground was narrower, they would eventually hamper each other. Unless they opted for guns. Somehow he didn’t think they would; guns were noisy and they were too close to town, and he was sure they had orders to dispose of any intruders without trace.
He heard a metallic snick from behind Metz. Tourrain, holding a long-bladed knife. It gleamed dully, polished and deadly.
Rocco felt a coldness wash over him. So this was their plan. No attempt to argue against what he had seen, no ducking behind the certificate they had used so far to give them the protection of the Ministry of Defence. He had witnessed too much and there was only one way for this to end.
He studied Metz, the more dangerous of the two men. He was a brawler, with little finesse or style about him, and would rely on strength and brutality to carry him through, just as he had when dealing with the illegal worker. For him, doling out punishment would be a pleasure, as automatic as breathing.
Tourrain, though, was different. He was a policeman caught in a bad situation, but carrying a weapon made purely for killing. And judging by the way his body was moving and flexing excitedly in the gloom, he was desperate to use it. As a cop facing exposure and arrest, he would see only one way out of this situation: to kill the intruder and dispose of the body.
As both men moved towards him, unwittingly giving up the advantage of a flatter, wider ground, the breath hissed between Rocco’s teeth. He reached for his gun… and felt his gut go cold. It wasn’t there. He must have dropped it going over the wire or climbing in and out of the skip. He waited until Metz had moving further ahead of Tourrain, then moved forward to meet him. Metz stopped instantly, on the defensive. Tourrain did the same, although he stayed back slightly instead of drawing level with his colleague.
‘You’re under arrest, Metz,’ said Rocco. ‘And you, Tourrain. There’s no way out of this for you.’
The sound of his voice seemed to throw both men off their stride. They were probably accustomed to their victims pleading with them, he decided, or shouting abuse in desperation or anger. Not talking to them in calm, confident tones. Or, for that matter, walking towards them without the slightest display of anxiety.