Tom grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans off the floor and pulled them on, wriggling his feet awkwardly into a pair of sneakers that still had the laces done up. He could hear them coming up the stairs now, their molded rubber soles squeaking on the concrete, doors slamming, shouts of “clear” and “on me” rolling ever closer as they made their way through the maze of offices toward him.
Finally the door crashed open and six black shapes tumbled into the room.
“Armed police! Don’t move!”
Tom put his hands up. No point in arguing, not with these odds.
“Tom Kirk?” asked Daniels. Tom nodded sullenly.
“Of course it’s Tom fucking Kirk,” gasped Clarke. He had appeared in the doorway breathing heavily, his face flushed with the effort of running up the stairs, his tie askew. The armed men stepped back to allow him into the room, still covering Tom with their guns.
“Tom Kirk,” said Clarke between breaths. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Henry Julius Renwick.” Tom’s eyes widened with bewilderment. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.”
Clarke walked right up to him and stood with his nose only a few inches away from Tom’s.
“Anything you do say can be given in evidence against you.” His lips stretched over his teeth in a thin smile. “I’d told you you’d slip up eventually, you smug bastard.”
Tom was stunned, uncomprehending. Uncle Harry? Dead? He had murdered Harry? It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was too awful to even begin to take in. He didn’t believe it. Refused to believe it.
“Clarke, even you know that this is bullshit. I may be many things, but I’m no killer. Harry Renwick and I are almost family.”
“People like you don’t have family.”
“I saw Harry last night, had dinner with him and a friend of his. When I left he was alive. Just ask her.”
“Is that right?” sneered Clarke, walking behind Tom. “Funny that the table was only set for two then.”
“For two? There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Kirk, at least not by us. Because guess whose prints we found all over the place? That’s right. Yours. Yours and Renwick’s. No one else’s.”
Tom could feel Clarke’s wet breath against the back of his neck as he reached into his pocket and took out his handcuffs.
“I’ve waited a long time for this. And believe me, it’s been worth it to see the expression on your face,” Clark hissed.
Tom knew that he should just go quietly. He was outnumbered and outgunned. But the table only set for two? Only his prints at the house? This was an old-fashioned setup and somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to get it right. And Clarke had clearly fallen for the bait. Every instinct that Tom had developed and trained and refined over the years was screaming at him to get out of there and get out of there fast. But if he was going to make his move, it would have to be now.
Clarke grabbed one of Tom’s wrists and began to twist it upward behind his back. Rather than fight him, Tom relaxed his arm so it gave away easily under Clarke’s rough grip. Clarke, who had braced himself forward in expectation of Tom resisting him, overbalanced slightly. Tom immediately snapped his wrist out of Clarke’s grasp and in an instant had spun round behind him, grabbing his arm and pinning it to his back.
The armed men, momentarily caught out by the sudden blur of Tom’s movement, took a step forward and raised their guns as they realized what had happened. Tom sheltered behind Clarke and twisted his arm viciously, causing him to shout out in pain.
“Don’t move. He’s breaking my sodding arm.”
“I’ve got a shot, sir,” one of the men called out to Daniels, aiming just past Clarke’s head.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Clarke screamed at him. “You’ll shoot me, you stupid bastard.”
Daniels lowered his gun and motioned with his hand for the others to do the same, fixing Tom with his eyes.
“Don’t be an idiot, Kirk. We’ve got the place surrounded. Give it up. No one needs to get hurt here.”
“No one will get hurt if you stay back,” Tom responded.
He backed across the room and into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him and bolting it. He pushed Clarke to his knees and bent him forward over the toilet, handcuffing his hands together, so that his arms were stretched forward and joined at the wrists under the soil pipe. He couldn’t move. Clarke was white with fear and rage.
“You bastard, Kirk,” he said, his voice muffled and hollow as it echoed out of the toilet bowl. “You’re dead. I’ll fucking kill you myself. You hear me?”
Tom opened the bathroom window and checked outside. It gave onto a narrow, empty alleyway, a thin ribbon of pigeon-soiled tarmac some fifty feet below. There was hammering on the door.
“Open up, Kirk. You’ve got till the count of ten and then we’re coming in for you.” Daniels started to count. “One… two… ”
Tom jumped up onto the windowsill.
“Three… four… five… ”
He reached out and flushed the toilet before clambering out and sliding down the drainpipe.
A few seconds later and the bathroom door splintered open as three men, led by Daniels, flew in, their guns poised. Seeing that the room was empty, Daniels rushed to the window and looked out, taking in the drainpipe and the now empty alleyway.
“He’s gone out the window. Get everyone outside. We’ll need to lock down the whole area.”
The men trooped obediently out of the room, but as Daniels turned to leave, he heard a coughing and spluttering noise from behind the battered door. Pushing it aside, he saw the back of Clarke’s head, his hair and shoulders soaking wet, his body shaking violently.
“Daniels. Is that you? Get me the fuck out of here!” roared Clarke, the water still swirling only inches from his nose. Daniels bent down toward him and whispered in his ear.
“Nice collar, Clarke.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tom had planned out this escape route when he had first moved in. Old habits die hard. The alleyway led him to a maze of backstreets and passages that eventually brought him out down by the river nearly a mile from his building.
The Embankment was still quiet when he reached it, the odd car and taxi heading toward the City and Canary Wharf, traders rushing to catch the end of the Asian markets or steal a march on the European ones. A few joggers panted past him, nodding to the music playing through the MP3 players strapped to their waists.
As he slowed to a walk, he tried to make some sense of what had just happened. Uncle Harry dead. Himself framed for it. Why?
“Kirk,” a woman’s voice called out. “Kirk, over here.” He looked up and saw Jennifer waving him over from the open door of a black cab. Tom stopped and stared at her accusingly. First Piccadilly, then Harry’s, now here. She was persistent, if nothing else.
“Get in,” she said more urgently now. “They’re sealing off the whole area. You’ve got to get out of London. Let me help you.”
Tom stood there, certain that whatever she wanted, helping him was not her prime concern.
“Listen,” she continued, stepping out of the cab now and shouting over the occasional traffic. “You’ve been set up. I know you didn’t kill Harry. I can prove it. Just get in and I’ll show you.”