There was something more worrying; she guessed he had continued to watch them all, tracking her from the Unit to the teacher’s flat to the cemetery, just as she knew that she was now in the greatest peril. Here was something he could not afford to have exposed, a piece of his past that would give them the key to his nature. He remained quite still, watching her and waiting, but a single sliver of street light flickered through the trees and caught the silver skewer as it slid gently down from the sleeve of his jacket, into his waiting fist.
Did he think she hadn’t seen it? She had not taken her eyes from his; her peripheral vision had picked up the movement. PCU members were not licenced to carry weapons, but back in the days when she had carried a handbag, Longbright had always kept a brick in it. She wished she had it with her now.
She realised she had been forced into a narrow corner where two high walls met. It was almost as if the grave had been designed to draw her here. There was no way back, only forward through him. Absurdly, the warbling song of a thrush rose in the branches above her to end on a high, watery trill. She looked up and saw the boughs extending beyond her reach to the wall.
In the moment she glanced away he moved, passing through the bracken without making a sound. Did he reckon she was going to jump and somehow clear him? He obviously doesn’t know how much I weigh, she thought, stepping back onto his father’s grave, raising her heel onto the headstone and lifting herself straight over the wall behind as he suddenly grabbed at her left leg.
Too late, though – she was over, dropping into a back garden of sheds and ponds, stone swans, a heap of children’s toys in circus colours. But he followed her over as she ran for the next garden, and suddenly they were performers in a bizarre suburban steeplechase, hurdling one garden fence after the next, stumbling, falling, rising again.
This should be the other way around, she thought, me bloody chasing him. But she had seen the damage the skewer could inflict, and had not been taught any manoeuvre that could beat its speed and dexterity.
He was at her heels, faster, lighter, and suddenly straight ahead was a garden fence that could not be jumped because it was buried within an immense juniper bush, and there was nowhere else to run.
She saw his arm lift and his fist arc toward her throat, and moved just enough for the skewer to stick in her padded jacket, slicing the kapok and stinging the flesh of her shoulder. But it was easily removed to use again, and as he did so she realised she was stuck, her heel wedged into the soft lawn, anchoring her to the spot. She felt sure she was about to die.
But Mr Fox had stopped, too. Frozen, he was looking past her with surprise on his face.
She turned to witness the same sight, a father surrounded by a rippling skirt of children, flooding out of the patio doors with murder in their eyes. And as the shout went up, “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” she realised his worst fears of attention and exposure had surfaced.
Even as she called back “I’m a police officer,” she knew they would not catch him this time, because he had already spotted an escape route across the roof of a shed, into the alley beyond, and she was calling after him as she ran, the tables turned, as she transmitted to any unit in the area, Anyone come in, help.
But he was fleet-footed and light – then gone.
Too late, she knew, too damned late, even if someone picks up the call right now. He’s away. This won’t be over until he’s tried to spill more blood.
She stopped and dropped her hands to her knees, fighting to regain her breath as the excited children appeared and swarmed around her.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
33
Accidental Death
Back in King’s Cross, underneath the closed Thameslink station, Dan Banbury was wedged inside the green plastic bin, grunting and complaining while Bryant and Hale trained their flashlights on him.
“No signs of violence on the body from what I can see, not that I can see anything. They haven’t got an extension cord long enough, can you believe it? We need to get him over to Camley Street. Giles is waiting for the delivery. He wasn’t thrilled about being dragged back to work at this time of night. Don’t come any closer if you’re not suited up. I don’t want your leavings all over my site.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” grunted Bryant, flicking off his flashlight to leave Banbury floundering about in the dark. “What the hell did Hillingdon think he was doing, playing silly buggers down here? John, where are you?”
“Over to your left,” May called. “The dust’s thick and undisturbed in this part. We’ve got a single set of footprints. Looks like he was alone.”
“So he boarded the last train by himself, somehow managed to pass through a number of solid walls, and wound up wandering about in a disused tunnel, whereupon he fell asleep and died for no reason.”
“That’s about the size of it,” called Banbury. “I’ve got his mouth open. There’s a strong trace of alcohol, and something else on his skin that I can’t place. Might be aftershave, I suppose. At least the mice haven’t been at him. The body position is suggestive. I’m wondering if he crawled in here just to stop the room from spinning. Come on, give me a hand getting out.”
“What are you saying – the booze made him haemorrhage?”
“There’s no blood or vomit that I can see. Perhaps he simply suffocated. Or suffered some kind of delayed allergic reaction to an ingredient in a cocktail. Anaphylactic shock. It happens. His hypostasis appears normal, which means he wasn’t moved after death. I’ll need to take samples and do the tests tonight, so I’ll be a while.”
“Come on, is that all you’ve got?” Bryant groused. “You’re telling me he couldn’t handle his drink? How am I supposed to fit that in with my theories?”
“You know the trouble with you, Mr Bryant?” Banbury called back.
“Why does everyone want to tell me what the trouble with me is?”
“You don’t communicate with other people. You develop these so-called theories and keep them all to yourself. How do I know what to look for if you don’t give me a clue about what’s going on in your head?”
“I don’t wish to make suggestions about what you should be finding,” said Bryant testily. “If I do that, the investigation is compromised. I want you to make deductions I can corroborate without twisting the facts to fit.” He had been accused of forcing his theories on others in the past, and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.
“I’m just here to assess the crime scene, if that’s what it is. At the moment I’m looking at a verdict of accidental death, although maybe some decent lighting will reveal something I’m missing at the moment.”
“Any money on him?”
“Why?”
“He could have been mugged earlier, suffered some kind of a stroke and lost his bearings down here.”
“He’s got a few loose coins. No phone, no asthma inhaler.” Banbury passed a wallet out to them. “Take a look at that, if you’re wearing gloves. It was in his jeans. No money in it, no credit cards, so maybe it was a robbery. He’s not wearing a coat. Sweat-marks on his shirt. He overheated. Probably threw off his top layers.”
“See if you can find them.”
Bryant flicked open the wallet and pulled out a handful of paper scraps, reminders to go to the bank and collect shopping, nothing of use. “Matthew Hillingdon is supposed to be in Russell Square, not the arse-end of King’s Cross.”