‘Come on,’ said Guy. ‘Let’s go. Give me the gun. I’ll cover them.’
‘No, I’ll keep it.’
Guy reached out towards the weapon. Owen pulled it away. ‘I said, I’ll keep it. If anyone’s gonna shoot these fuckers, it’s gonna be me.’
Guy stared at his brother, who stared back. He wasn’t going to budge. Guy shrugged. ‘OK. The car’s outside. Let’s go.’
Owen waved the gun at Ingrid and me. Reluctantly we stood up and followed Guy out into the hallway and down the stairs, Owen a couple of feet behind us.
Guy was first through the door on to the street. Everything was quiet. I looked for Owen’s black Japanese four-wheel drive, but I couldn’t see it.
‘Where’s the car?’ Owen asked.
‘Just round that corner,’ Guy replied, pointing to an alley on the other side of the road.
We crossed the street.
Then several things happened at once. Everything exploded in a bright whiteness. Guy screamed, ‘Down!’ He dived to the ground, pulling Ingrid with him. As I dropped too, pressing my face against the hard road surface, I heard the sharp crack of two shots, then a sharp scream from Owen behind me, and the clatter of his gun falling to the tarmac.
I rolled over. I saw Owen slumped in the road, an outstretched hand reaching for the gun, only inches away from his fingertips. I scrabbled over to it and snatched it away from him. All around me I could hear the sounds of running.
I pulled myself to my feet, still holding the gun. I looked down at Owen, illuminated by the bright lights. Blood seemed to be pouring out of two holes, one in his shoulder and another in his side. Policemen wielding rifles and handguns and wearing bulletproof vests bent over him. A siren wailed with increasing intensity as an ambulance barrelled down the little street towards us.
I turned to look for Ingrid. She seemed unhurt, but she was shaking violently. Wide-eyed, she staggered towards me and I wrapped my arms around her. She clung to me, tight.
Guy was hovering behind the group of policemen who were surrounding his brother, watching them as they tried to stanch the flow of blood. I recognized one of them: DS Spedding. Seconds later they were joined by paramedics in green overalls. Within a minute, Owen was on a stretcher and being lifted into the ambulance.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Guy asked Spedding, whose hands were covered in Owen’s blood.
‘He’s still alive. He’s bleeding heavily, but he’s a big strong guy. He’s got a chance.’
Guy tried to get into the ambulance with Owen, but Spedding stopped him. There were questions to answer.
I walked over to Guy. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. Spedding stepped back.
‘Thanks, Guy,’ I said.
He tried to smile. ‘Did I fool you?’
‘You fooled me. I knew you were a good actor.’
‘I had to be to fool Owen.’ He turned to watch the ambulance disappear up the road, siren blaring. ‘I hope he lives.’
I hoped so too. For Guy’s sake.
‘I had to do it, Davo. When I saw he really meant to kill you, that even I couldn’t talk him out of it, it all suddenly clicked. He may be my brother, but he’s evil. I’ve tried to hide from that fact all my life. Blame my parents, blame anybody but Owen. So it was up to me to stop him.’
‘I thought you were away a long time.’
‘I called Spedding. He was pretty quick in the circumstances. I knew I couldn’t keep Owen waiting too much longer.’ He shook his head, looking along the street to where the ambulance had long since disappeared. ‘I wish he’d given me the gun.’
Spedding approached us. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, but I have some questions I have to ask you.’ He drew Guy a few yards away and began asking them. Other policemen talked to Ingrid and me. After half an hour or so, they let us go.
‘I’m off to the hospital, now,’ said Guy. ‘To see how Owen’s doing.’
I glanced at Ingrid. ‘We’ll come with you,’ I said. I didn’t give a damn what happened to Owen, but I did care about Guy. He needed all the support he could get.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and turned to the small group of policemen who were still busy milling about the road. Spedding had already left, so he spoke to a uniformed sergeant.
A moment later he rejoined us. ‘Owen’s been taken to St Thomas’s. The copper said they could give us a lift, but we’d have to wait a few minutes. So let’s just grab a taxi.’
He headed off rapidly towards Farringdon Road, and we followed him, keeping our eyes out for black cabs with orange lights on. There were none.
‘Damn,’ Guy said. He was getting impatient, and began walking down towards Smithfield. He waved at an empty cab with its light off, but it ignored him and drove on. I was reminded of Hoyle’s prayers for a recession.
We paused at a crossing. Guy was suddenly struck by something. He turned to me, frowning. ‘You know, you were wrong, Davo.’
‘About what?’
‘About Owen. And the note to Clare.’
‘What do you mean? He admitted he wrote it.’
‘No, he didn’t. When I asked him, he said, “Maybe.” He was trying to be mysterious. Having his own little joke.’
Guy saw my scepticism. ‘Think about it. Think of the words in the note: “unsolicited offer”, “purchase the company”, “pursuing discussions with other potential investors”. That’s not Owen.’
It was true. They didn’t sound like Owen’s words.
‘Did you see the note Owen wrote to Henry?’ Guy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Was it anything like that?’
‘No. It was just a couple of lines. I can’t remember it exactly, but it was something like: “Give Ninetyminutes the money, or else.” ’
‘And another thing. I know Owen didn’t kill my father.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but Guy stopped me. ‘It’s not just that he was with me at the time, I know he didn’t hire anyone else to kill him, either. He was genuinely surprised when he heard what had happened. But someone murdered Dad. Someone ran him down, on purpose. And someone wrote that note.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a taxi with its light on speeding past us. But I was too stunned by what Guy was saying to react.
Guy’s frown deepened. ‘Where’s Mel?’
‘She’s with Clare,’ said Ingrid. ‘At Howles Marriott.’
‘Oh, my God,’ I said. Suddenly, I saw it. Guy was right. Of course Owen wouldn’t have written a letter like that: it was written by a lawyer. A lawyer who would do anything to help Guy. Anything.
‘What time is it?’ Guy asked.
I checked my watch. ‘Ten to twelve.’
‘Jesus.’ Guy looked up and down the street. No sign of any more free cabs. We were now quite a distance from Britton Street and the remaining police. ‘Come on! Let’s run! It’s only half a mile to Mel’s office.’
Guy set off, with Ingrid and me in hot pursuit. We ran along Charterhouse Street, across Holborn Circus, down Shoe Lane, and into the rabbit warren of streets and squares between Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. Guy ran fast and it was all I could do to keep up. I wasn’t as fit as I used to be; my heart was soon pounding and I was gasping for air. But I kept up, just. Ingrid wasn’t far behind us.
We reached the entrance to Howles Marriott. A security guard looked up from his desk, startled.
‘Have you seen Melanie Dean?’ Guy asked, fighting for breath.
‘She just left a moment ago.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. With another lady.’
‘Shit!’ said Guy. ‘Look. Call the police. Tell them there’s a murder about to be committed. There’s a dangerous woman out there and she’s almost certainly armed.’
The security guard’s jaw dropped. He didn’t move.
‘I’m serious. Do it!’