She should have learned that from being inside, if nothing else.
The sign above the double doors lied. When Kelly reached them they were firmly locked, providing no way out. She turned, began to head for the other end.
If they were locked too she was going to have to go back inside, try and find another way that didn’t involve going out past the security man on the desk. She broke into a jog. This was all taking far too long.
As if providing an answer to her prayers the far doors opened and a man came through. Kelly dropped back to a fast walk not wanting to give him cause for a second glance.
He was young, bearded, wearing a black leather coat that bulked out his shoulders. His hair was long enough to wave slightly as he moved.
As he moved . . .
Something stabbed into Kelly’s subconscious with enough of a jolt to make her gasp. A memory that was somehow deeper than a memory. More an inbuilt sense of fear, a primeval instinct.
Predator.
Her body language must have given her away. At the very moment the word formed in her mind she saw the change in him. He abandoned all pretence of being just another visitor there by chance and became the hunter, arrowing in on her.
He was already closer than she was to the door she’d last come through and she knew the one behind her was locked. It only took a fraction of a second to realise she had only one option left.
Kelly put both hands on top of the railing and launched herself over into the space below.
49
Dmitry darted forwards and made a grab for the woman’s hooded sweatshirt as she jumped. His fingers just brushed the small backpack she carried then she was plunging downwards away from him.
Holy Mary, she has a death wish!
The irony of that thought did not immediately occur to him as he hit the railings leaning out to watch her descent. It was at least five metres to the ground and he expected the worst.
To his amazement she landed feet first, neat as a cat, onto the lid of a big green wheelie bin that was directly below. The plastic deformed like a trampoline to break her fall. She catapulted from there to the ground with hardly a break in stride and took off running.
For a second it was all Dmitry could do to watch her go with his mouth open. He closed it with a snap, slapped the railing hard with both hands in sheer frustration and sprinted back the way he’d come. As he did so he reached for the baton in his jacket pocket.
Nobody had warned him he was after Catwoman.
OK bitch, let’s see you dodge this.
50
Kelly bolted through the deserted parade ring keeping close in to the line of the building so she’d be harder to track from above. At least she was out in the open although she wondered if that was a good thing or not. Every instinct screamed at her to go to ground.
She’d had no clue when she made her desperate leap what lay beneath. It was entirely by chance that she’d landed squarely on the lid of the bin squashing it inwards as she did so. A foot or so either way and she’d be on her way to hospital by now. Or prison.
Or—if the mystery man had succeeded in getting hold of her—more likely to the mortuary.
A cold shiver sliced across her skin. She’d no idea who he was but at the same time she did know him. She just didn’t know how.
She ducked into a tunnel that led under the stands and out towards the car park and the exits. At the far end was a set of iron gates. Even from here she could tell they were padlocked shut.
She cursed and spun. As she did so she saw a door bounce open further along the stand maybe a hundred yards away. The man in the leather jacket emerged, head swinging as he searched for her.
Kelly retreated into the tunnel again, looked in vain for other doorways leading off it. There weren’t any.
Double stupid . . .
Looking over her shoulder she ran towards the gates. If she’d any hopes that the padlock might be looped through just for show they were dashed as soon as she got close. The lock was snapped firmly shut and threaded through a hefty piece of chain.
Kelly grabbed the padlock. It was old, oiled but worn. She scrabbled out of her pack and dug right to the bottom of the lining for a couple of the grips she’d taken out of her hair.
She prised one of them almost straight and stripped the blob of protective resin off the end with her teeth, spitting it out. Then she knelt to the padlock trying to remember all the secrets her last cellmate had taught her during long days of boredom about the gentle art of lock-picking.
Awkwardly she wedged the end of one grip against the central tumbler to hold it under tension and slid the straightened end of the other into the barrel of the lock itself, raking the pins. It was a tricky balance of force and persuasion not helped by sweaty hands and the rampant fear of imminent discovery.
“Come on come on!” she muttered as she fumbled, almost weeping as the hairgrip slipped. She wiped her hands on the leg of her trousers and tried again.
Then behind her she heard the grit of approaching footsteps suddenly echoing loudly in the tunnel. The rhythm of them changed, picked up, as their owner began to run.
Kelly risked a glance over her shoulder, saw the man in the leather coat closing rapidly, and gave the lock one last frantic try.
51
Dmitry brought the baton out of his pocket and flicked it upwards to send the inner segments shooting into place.
The woman was on her knees by the gates, facing away from him. He stopped a metre or so from her and laid the baton across her shoulder just at the vulnerable juncture with her neck.
“Stop,” he commanded. “Let me see your hands.”
She froze. Then very slowly she brought both hands up and out to the sides. There was a piece of crumpled wire of some sort in one of them and he realised what she must have been trying to do.
He smiled, slid the baton under his arm and reached for the tie-wraps instead. Nice and quiet.
“Picking locks is not quite so easy as they make it seem in the movies, huh?” he said, leaning forwards to grab hold of her arm. “OK let’s go. Up.”
She lurched as she rose, stumbled against the gates and put her hands out to steady herself. Dmitry let go briefly. As he did so she whirled, whipping her arm round.