Shit. Tensing, Napper realized that he had left both his radio and his pepper spray in the Corsa. He glanced down the alley, trying to distinguish the remaining figures in the other car.
Catching the direction of Napper’s gaze, the guy let the hammer swing limply at his side. ‘What are you doing?’
Napper held up his hand in a conciliatory manner. ‘Just taking a piss, mate.’
Grimacing, the guy took a step forward. ‘Fucking filth. What are you doing here?’
The guy knows who I am. How does he know that? Has he seen me before?
The questions could be saved for later. Keeping his eyes on the hammer, the sergeant moved on to the balls of his feet as he quickly contemplated his options for escape. There was no way he could get back inside his car without taking some heavy blows. But if he could somehow get himself back to the main road, he was fairly sure that he would be safe. If he had to make a run for it, he decided he would go left. It was maybe two hundred yards to the end of the alley and he had a start on his would-be attacker. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his system and knew that he would be able to out-run the fat bastard. The people in the car shouldn’t be a problem, either. By the time the driver realized what was going on and started reversing down the road, the sergeant would be free and clear.
That was the theory, anyway.
Fear mingled with excitement as Napper’s heart felt like it was about to jump out of his chest. Stop thinking about it, he admonished himself. Just run. Taking a couple of deep breaths, the sergeant watched the guy edge closer. Go, go, go. With a grunt, he pushed off, slipping between the Vauxhall and the garage, heading for the traffic on the Uxbridge Road.
‘Hey. Fucker!’
Head down, arms pumping, the sergeant saw something fly past his left shoulder, clattering across the cobbles before bouncing into the gutter. Rather than try and chase after him, the bloke had thrown the hammer. And missed. Heh, heh, Napper chuckled, fuck you, you fat bastard, I’m outta here. Lifting his right arm in the air, he gave his attacker the one-fingered salute while careful not to slacken his pace. Focused on the end of the alley, he lengthened his stride, planting his left foot straight into a pothole about a foot deep. ‘Aargh.’ Sticking out his arms, he cushioned his fall as best he could as he went arse over tit. Sprawling across the cobbles, he slammed head first into a row of wheelie bins with a sickening thud.
For a moment, there was silence as he felt the cool of the stone against his cheek. Up, up, up. Shaking himself out of his daze, Napper struggled to his feet. Foot to the floor, he tried to resume his flight but was halted by the intense pain shooting up his left leg. Supporting himself on one of the bins, he looked despairingly towards the safety of the main road. Standing unsteadily on his one good leg, he turned to look back down the alley at the hulking figure of his assailant. Pausing only to bend down and recover his weapon, the man moved steadily towards his prey.
The clock high on the wall said that it was well after three in the morning. After a couple of hours’ dozing on a chair in the corridor, Umar Sligo felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of bulls. What he needed was a minimum of twelve hours’ uninterrupted sleep in a nice, warm bed. But, like someone once said, you can’t always get what you need.
Yawning, he pushed open the door to Interview Room 4 and stepped inside. Nodding at the WPC sitting in the corner, he placed two small paper cups on the desk and pulled out a chair.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ Melissa Graham picked up the nearest cup and took a tentative sip of the steaming coffee. ‘Urgh.’
‘I know,’ Umar replied, sitting down, ‘it’s terrible.’
‘At least it’s hot.’
Melissa seemed to be holding up reasonably well, under the circumstances. He knew that she had already made an initial statement. DI Postic had called it a night and gone to get a few hours’ kip. Unless anything interesting came up while the DI was in the Land of Nod, she would probably charge Melissa later in the morning. Every police officer was the same: you go for the obvious answer until proven otherwise. It seemed an open-and-shut case.
Melissa’s clothing had been taken away for forensic examination. Sitting opposite Umar, she was wearing a cheap pair of jeans and a shapeless red sweatshirt. It wasn’t a good look.
Leaning forward, the sergeant placed his forearms on the desk and clasped his hands together. ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you. I am not part of this investigation, so I had to get the permission of the officer in charge. And I also had to wait until you’d seen a lawyer.’
‘I’ve spoken to a lot of people already,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t remember all of their names.’
‘That’s understandable.’ Umar sat back in his chair. ‘It’s quite a situation you find yourself in.’
‘But why would anyone want to kill . . .’ her voice trailed off. Sniffing, she wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve. He could see that she was working hard to try to hold back the tears.
Umar gave her a supportive smile. ‘That’s what I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘I thought that this wasn’t your investigation?’
‘It isn’t. But I am a policeman. And the only reason I’m allowed in here at all is because you want to talk to me.’
Placing the cup on the desk, she shot him a hurt look. ‘You want me to confess?’
‘I want you to tell me precisely what happened,’ Umar said gently. He pulled out a small black notebook and a biro from the back pocket of his jeans and tossed them on the table. ‘If your story is going to check out, we need to find some evidence to support it . . . quickly.’
Walking out of the police station, Umar saw Sergeant Lawrence Shames coming the other way. As he bounded up the stairs, there was a spring in his step suggestive of a man contemplating a quick win in a big case.
‘Did you see her?’ Shames asked, stopping on the top step.
‘Just spoken to her.’
‘And?’
Umar tapped his notebook against the back of his free hand. ‘And nothing, really. She says she walked in and found them there. Tried to revive the boyfriend, which is how she got covered in his blood. Doesn’t have any idea who might have done it.’
‘There you go,’ said Shames cheerily, patting him on the shoulder. ‘We are sorted on this one.’
‘What about the forensics?’
‘Ach, we’ll have to wait and see, but you know . . .’
‘Yeah.’ Umar did know. The wheels of justice were moving fast and it would take something spectacular to slow them down.
‘What are you going to do?’
Umar made a face. ‘Not much. I’ll speak to a few people. But it’s not really my investigation.’
‘That’s right,’ Shames headed inside the station, ‘and don’t you forget it.’
FORTY-TWO
No trains were listed on the electronic indicator. However, the board above the platform helpfully reminded her that the time was now four fifty-eight and thirteen seconds. The first service of the morning should arrive in around twenty minutes. Shivering in the pre-dawn gloom, Chantelle Malloy gazed vacantly at the lights burning in the office block across the road. From this distance, the large, squat building which housed a large part of the BBC’s London operations looked like it was made of tinfoil. At this time in the morning, the place would be largely empty, but still, most of the windows were shining brightly. Stupid bastards, she thought, what a waste of electricity. Haven’t they heard of global warming?