And a deep stab of lust.
Nothing up there, sweetheart!
He knew every inch of this house. Jangling in his trouser pocket, inside his protective suit, were the keys to the roof door and to the locks of all the triple-glazed windows. Her mobile phone was lying on the sofa next to an open folder containing some project she appeared to be working on.
He was aroused now. She had put up a spirited fight, just like Sophie Harrington, and that had been a very big turn-on. He smiled at the thought of the nights he had slept with Sophie Harrington, when all the time she had thought he was Brian Bishop.
But the biggest turn-on of all was now. The knowledge that in a few minutes he would be making love to Detective Superintendent Grace’s woman.
Evil creature.
You’ll think twice before you ever call anyone an EVIL CREATURE again, Detective Superintendent Grace.
He limped forward, his left shin in particular hurting like hell, knelt and unplugged the phone jack from the cordless base station. As he stood up again, he saw a jagged rip in his left leg, just below his knee, with blood leaking out. Too bad, nothing he could do about that now. Carefully, he placed his foot on the first tread of the stairs. It wasn’t so easy in this gas mask, as he could not see directly down in front of him very well.
In addition his balance didn’t seem to have been too good these past couple of days. He was still feeling feverish, and in spite of the medication he was taking, his hand did not seem to be healing up. It had been a big decision, wearing this. He liked the thought that it would frighten the bitch. But most of all, he liked the idea that a third victim found with a gas mask would make Detective Superintendent Grace look a fool, because it would show he had the wrong man locked up.
He liked that a lot.
In fact, the gas mask had been a masterstroke! He had Brian to thank for that – he had found it by chance in a cupboard beside the Bishops’ bed when he had been looking for toys to entertain Katie with.
It was the only thing in his entire life that he had to thank his brother for.
Cleo slammed her bedroom door shut, hyperventilating. In near blind panic, she grabbed the Victorian wooden chest at the end of her bed, and dragged that over, jamming it against the door. Then she threw herself at her large bed, grabbed it by one leg and tried to pull it. But it would not budge. She tried again. It wasn’t moving. ‘Shit, you bastard, come on!’ Her eyes jumped around the room, looking at what else she could use for a barricade. She dragged across her small, black lacquered wood dressing table, then the chair, which she wiggled into the remaining space between the dressing table and her bed. Not brilliant, but at least it should hold long enough for her to dial Roy, or maybe 999. Yes, 999 first, then Roy.
But as she pressed the button to activate the phone, she let out a whimper of terror. The line was dead.
And the stainless-steel door handle was turning. Slowly. Incredibly slowly. As if she was watching a freeze-frame video inching forward.
Then a loud BLAM-BLAM-BLAM as if he was kicking the door, or hitting it with his hammer. Her stomach curdled in terror. The door was moving, just a fraction. She heard wood splintering, and realized to her horror it was the wooden trunk and the chair from her dressing table that were both, slowly, disintegrating.
In desperation she ran over to the window. She was two storeys up, but it might be possible to jump. Better than being in here. At least out in the courtyard, even injured, she would be safe, she reasoned. Then a shiver rocked her.
The window was locked and the key was missing.
Frantic, she looked for something heavy, ran her eyes over make-up bottles, hairspray, shoes. What? What? Oh, please God, what?
There was a metal reading lamp on her bedside table. Gripping it by the top, she swing the flat, round base at the window. It bounced off.
Down below she saw one of her neighbours, a young man with whom she occasionally exchanged pleasantries, wheeling his bike across the courtyard, engrossed in a call on his mobile. He was looking up, as if trying to see where the banging had come from. She waved at him frantically. He waved back cheerily, then, continuing his conversation, headed with his bike towards the front gates.
Behind her she heard another BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.
And more splintering wood.
116
Branson found a small silver, pay-as-you-go Nokia phone hidden beneath Norman Jecks’s mattress and took it over to Grace, who was looking at his watch, fretting. It was now nearly nine p.m. and he was growing increasingly worried about Cleo being alone in her house, despite the relative safety of a gated development.
‘Bag it,’ he said distractedly, thinking he should send a patrol car up to check Cleo was OK.
It was over three-quarters of an hour since Nick Nicholl had phoned the incident room, asking for a search warrant for Norman Jecks’s lock-ups to be typed out and taken to the same magistrate who had signed the one for here. It should have taken a maximum of ten minutes to complete the damn thing, fifteen minutes’ drive to the magistrate’s home, and the signing should have been a ten-second formality. Add a further fifteen minutes to get here. OK, he knew in his impatience he wasn’t allowing for any delays, traffic hold-ups, whatever, but he didn’t care. He was scared for Cleo. There was someone out there. A man he had thought was securely banged up in Lewes prison.
A man who had done one of the most chilling things to a woman he had ever seen.
Because You Love Her.
Just as Branson was sealing the bag, he suddenly remembered the speculation about a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. ‘Actually, hang on, Glenn. Let me see it.’
Under current guidelines, all phones seized should be handed straight to the Telecoms Unit at Sussex House, untouched. But there wasn’t time for that at this moment, any more than he had time for half the new policies that got dreamed up by idiot policy-makers who had never been out in the real world in their lives.
Taking it in his gloved hands, he switched the machine on, and was relieved when it didn’t ask him for a pin code. Then he tried to figure out how to navigate the controls, before giving up and handing it to Branson. ‘You’re the tekkie,’ he said. ‘Can you find the list of recently dialled numbers?’
Branson tapped the keys, and within a few seconds showed Grace the display. ‘He’s only made three calls on it.’
‘Just three?’
‘Uh huh. I recognize one of the numbers.’
‘And?’
‘It’s Hove Streamline Taxis – 202020.’
Grace wrote the other two down, then dialled Directory Inquiries. One was for the Hotel du Vin. The second was the Lansdowne Place Hotel.
Pensively, he said, ‘Seems like Bishop might have been telling us the truth.’
Then a SOCO who had accompanied them into the flat suddenly called out, ‘Detective Superintendent, I think you should see this.’
It was a walk-in broom closet just off the entrance to the kitchen. But it had clearly been a long time since any brooms were kept in here. Grace stared around in amazement. It was a miniature control centre. There were ten small television monitors on the walls, all switched off, a console with a small swivel chair in front of it, and what looked like a stack of recording equipment.
‘What the hell is this? Part of his security system?’ Grace asked.