Dmitry checked his mirrors again and sedately pulled back into the traffic flow.
He hit one of the speed-dial buttons on the cellphone sitting in its holder on the dash. In the ear-piece of his Bluetooth headset Dmitry heard the call connect and begin to ring.
It was answered with a short female, “Da?”
“It is done,” Dmitry said by way of equally short reply then hit End without waiting for a response. He smiled into the empty car.
“And now it begins.”
33
Getting down from the roof did not present Kelly with as much difficulty as getting up there. Rooftops were her playground and she knew how to pick her way across fragile slate and tile using the timber skeleton underneath. In this case, staying low and avoiding the skylights she shadowed the ridge line to the end furthest away from the entrance.
The next building was butted up against the one she’d escaped from but was one storey lower. Kelly dangled herself carefully over the gable and edged her way down the brickwork by fingers and toes until she was on the lower level. Her arm throbbed fiercely all the way.
This building was occupied so in a better state of repair. It was also reasonably compliant with the current regulations regarding fire escapes—in this case a sturdy metal staircase. Fortunately this was mounted on the far side, so while the occupants gaped out of the windows at the activity below, Kelly was able to slip past on the opposite side of the building without being noticed.
Good job too, Kelly thought. Even without her tattered oversuit she knew she must present quite a picture of a fleeing fugitive. She half-ran, half-tiptoed her way down the old cast-iron treads, moving as fast as she dared.
The pull-down ladder at the bottom was rusted closed and refused to open out all the way to the ground but jumping the last few feet and rolling through the impact was a small price to pay for freedom.
Kelly dusted herself down and walked quickly east trying not to look guilty as another police car came barrelling into the estate. She crossed the road, trotted past a modern-designed junior school and yet more developments of high-rise flats. Half a glimpse of the river and the prices rose accordingly, even out here.
All the way her mind keened for the dead boy she’d left behind. He’d been gauche as a puppy in some ways but as close to a friend as Kelly allowed herself these days, and fervently loyal. She remembered his attack on DI O’Neill at the hospital in defence of Ray. Had he tried to protect her too or was he always the intended victim?
Aware of Tyrone’s crush on her she’d tried to be gentle of his feelings. And now he’ll never know what it is to fall in love—properly truly in love.
Eyes blurring, Kelly turned down the first available side street and headed along its length, past the doorway to a small swimming baths that let out a damp belch of heavily chlorinated air across the pavement.
The street was long and straight enough for Kelly to keep a wary eye out for anyone following. As far as she could tell, she was alone.
An abandoned shopping trolley next to the fence at the far end sparked an idea. She hurried through a half-empty parade of new shops and crossed over the Inner Dock using the Pepper Street bridge, making for the supermarket on the other side of the railway line.
She grabbed a bottle of cola and ducked into the customer toilets as soon as she was inside the store, locking herself into the disabled cubicle which had its own sink. The blood on her bare arms and hands had dried and without an abrasive cleaner the cola was the most effective thing she could find.
She was thankful that she always kept her wallet in a back pocket rather than a handbag which would most likely have been left in the van. At least she had a bit of cash on her even if it wasn’t enough to get her much beyond south Croydon—never mind South America.
Even the thought of exile made her sink down onto the closed lid of the toilet, her knees suddenly rubbery.
I am not running away, she told herself sternly. This is a tactical retreat.
She made sure she brought the empty cola bottle out with her to pay for. No point in getting nabbed by in-store security. In the clothing section she picked up a cheap baseball hat and a hooded sweatshirt discarding the labels in the first waste bin she came across once she was through the self-service checkout and back outside.
The disguise, such as it was, would not hold for long. As soon as they ran her prints and DNA through the system it would light up like Bond Street at Christmas. All she needed to gain was a little time and distance to find somewhere safe to hide at least until she could get her own blood sample tested—and by someone she could trust over the result.
She bought a Day Travelcard from one of the machines in the Tube station at Coldharbour and boarded the first northbound Docklands Light Rail train that pulled in.
Kelly sat next to the window, swaying to the motion as the train briefly picked up speed again. Her face was turned to the glass so that she watched her own reflection more than the shifting scenery outside. She wasn’t sure she either liked or recognised who she saw there.
She watched the reflections of the other passengers as they got on and took the seats around her, too. Nobody seemed to be paying her undue attention.
Good, so they haven’t put it together yet or they’d be screaming it from the rooftops.
The DLR train was heading for Bank station. There she hopped across onto the Central line for West Ruislip and rode it out to Hanger Lane, close to the McCarron office.
She had hesitated briefly over going back there but by the time she’d changed trains her mind was made up.
It’s not like I have many options.
She walked the short distance from the station down to the office keeping her cap pulled down, her hood up and her hands stuffed into her pockets. Her arm under the makeshift dressing had subsided into dull painfulness and she still had a vile headache. It had receded with the adrenaline of evading capture but now it was back with a vengeance and making up for lost time.
Kelly reached the office doorway and let out a long shaky breath as she slipped the keys from her pocket. She hoped the place was empty, weighed up the risk and thought it likely. The chatty woman who’d given her location to Matthew Lytton worked from home. With Ray in hospital the rest of his crew had been working flat out, taking it in turns to pick up messages from the answering service while they were out on jobs.
Today, she recalled it was the turn of Les and Graham. They were Ray’s most experienced team and specialised in what were referred to round the office as Hoarding Houses which made up a big chunk of the firm’s business. They should be down in Purley clearing a place that had belonged to an elderly eccentric who didn’t seem to have thrown anything away during the thirty years leading up to his death. Les’s estimate had run to five one-ton skips needed to cart away the accumulated rubbish. This had included what seemed to be at least twelve months’ worth of the old guy’s own faeces, carefully bagged and labelled.