He regarded me solemnly, and I didn't doubt for a moment that he was right. “But if that's the case . . .” I began, my voice tailing off.
He nodded, following my line of thought. “That's right. There are two very different men at work here, Charlotte. I'm afraid there's no doubt about it.”
Twenty-four
By the time WPC Wilks returned from her crafty cigarette, my father had gathered the post mortem reports back into their individual files, and discreetly returned them to his dispatch case.
There was more I wanted to ask him, but felt inhibited by the third set of ears. Wilks tried not to make it obvious that she was eavesdropping, but they were flapping, all the same.
My father left soon afterwards, giving me the sort of impersonal kiss on the cheek you would a maiden aunt. “Take care of yourself, Charlotte,” he told me, his voice serious. “And call your mother.”
“I will,” I promised, and realised that I probably meant it. “Just don't tell her about – this,” I finished lamely. “I don't want her to worry about me.” Or not to care, I added silently.
He nodded and agreed to keep my mother blissfully unaware of my troubles. I almost detected the faintest glint of a conspiratorial smile as he turned away down the stairs.
When he'd gone I sat on one of the window ledges, staring out across the river, lost in my thoughts. It was cold and windy, and by the look of the clouds sweeping across the sky, soon the rain would arrive to make it a hat-trick.
If Angelo had killed Terry, but not the women, then who had done it? And how had they got hold of my voice changer?
On the other hand, if Angelo wasn't Terry's murderer, then who was? I'd been so sure it was the same man that, suddenly faced with evidence to the contrary, I was utterly lost.
I tried to remember who at the club was left-handed, but even that fact escaped me. I couldn't recall ever having noticed Angelo writing anything down. He fought fairly evenly with both hands, and I'd never seen him pull a knife.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, something rang a bell, but the harder I reached for it, the more elusive it became. Eventually, with a sigh, I gave up and climbed awkwardly off my perch. More coffee, that was what I needed.
I tottered through into the kitchen, my aching muscles protesting at the simple activity of refilling the filter machine. The rain started to fall, abrupt and heavy on the skylight over the sink. I had a sudden thought that there was no way I was going to ride up to Devil's Bridge with Clare if I didn't have to.
I moved back through to the lounge straight away, and picked up the phone, punching in Jacob and Clare's number.
Jacob answered, sounding slightly taken aback, but I jumped straight in with my excuses. “Hi Jacob, it's me. Could you tell Clare that I'm not really feeling up to Devil's Bridge today? Would she mind if we called it off?” I paused expectantly. “Jacob?”
“She's already set off,” Jacob said slowly, and I could hear the worry climb in his voice. “She left a good hour ago. I thought the two of you would be up there by now.”
My mouth dried. “Are you sure she was coming straight here?”
“Positive. Look, I'll have a run out in the Range Rover, just in case she's had a problem with the Ducati. You know what the electrics are like on these old Italian bikes. One drop of rain and they give up the ghost,” he said, trying not to sound as though he was panicking. “If she turns up at your place in the meantime, let me know, would you?”
“OK,” I said, and rang off with my own anxiety rising to match. I had just started collecting my gear together when the phone rang again. Wilks looked up from her study of one of my fitness magazines, saw I was closer to it than she was, and went back to her reading.
I was half-expecting it to be Jacob again, to say everything was all right, but it was Clare herself on the line.
“Charlie?” To begin with I was too relieved to recognise her voice to realise that the pitch was slightly off and she sounded strained.
“Oh, hi, I was just about to come and look for you,” I babbled. “Have you had problems with the bike? Have you rung Jacob?” I paused. Nothing. “Clare?”
“Ye-yes, I'm still here,” she said jerkily. “Listen, Charlie, there's someone here who wants to speak to you.”
“Clare, what's the matter?” I said, more warily now. “You sound like you've been crying. Are you OK?”
But it wasn't Clare who spoke. Instead, I heard that metallic voice I'd come to dread.
“Your friend doesn't seem too happy to be here with me,” it said.
The fear laced down my spine, riffling the hairs, causing an involuntary spasm in my hands. “What do you want?” I said sharply. Wilks looked up, but I ignored her inquiring glance.
“What do I want, Charlie? Now that's an interesting question,” purred the voice. “I want vengeance. I want you naked and screaming under me. That's what I want.” The voice halted a moment, then delivered the death blow. “But if I can't have you, I'm willing to take a substitute. Your friend Clare, for instance.”
“Go on,” I said tightly. There were bands round my chest. I couldn't breathe fully. I was gripping the phone so hard it made my hand pulse.
“The New Adelphi. Be here in ten minutes. If you're late, she dies,” the voice commanded, and even the voice changer couldn't disguise the swell of triumph. “Oh, and Charlie, I know your place is crawling with filth at the moment, so make sure you wash before you come. Any sign of the boys in blue and she'll be dead before you make it through the door.”
“If you harm her . . .” I began, my own tone quiet but frozen. He didn't reply to that one. There was just a soft click, and he'd gone.
I put the phone down slowly, and turned to find Wilks at my shoulder, looking suspicious.
“That was him, wasn't it?” she demanded. When I nodded numbly, she turned up her lapel mic to her mouth and started to call her HQ.
It was enough to shake me out of my stupor. I grabbed her hand. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Let go of me, Charlie. I've got to call it in,” she said.
“You don't understand. He'll kill her if your lot show up!”
She gave me a patronising look. “We are trained for this sort of thing, you know,” she said. “Did he tell you where he was?”
Anger star-burst behind my eyes. Without realising I'd done it, I'd shifted my feet into a stance, gauged the distances. “Please,” I said. “Let me handle it.”
She disregarded my final plea, so I hit her, just under her chin with my upswept elbow. Her teeth clacked together alarmingly, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she started to crumple.
I half-carried, half-dragged the unconscious policewoman over to the sofa and left her lying on it. I suppose part of me was hoping she wouldn't hold it against me for ever, but part of me didn't care.
Within seconds I'd grabbed my jacket and helmet and pelted down the stairs to the street. The rain lashed down over my back, sliding under my collar. WPC Wilks's panda car was still parked three cars down, where she'd left it last night, but behind it, rear wheel slanted in towards the kerb, was Clare's Ducati.
When I looked, I found the bike's keys were still in the ignition.
Oh God, I'd never heard her arrive. He must have been waiting around outside the flat. Unwilling to come in and get me because of the obvious police presence. So he'd been waiting for me to come out. And he'd grabbed Clare instead.
Just for a second, I debated on taking the Ducati. It was far faster than the Suzuki, but an unknown quantity as far as handling went. I couldn't risk it.