‘I’d have been better off back at Sacramento General,’ he commented.
‘I really do doubt that,’ said Parfit.
There was a knock at the door, and it was pushed open by a feisty individual wearing half-moon glasses. He was breathing hard, obviously unused to climbing the stairs to this attic level.
‘Ah, Parfit,’ he said.
Parfit introduced the two men.
‘Major Michael Dreyfuss, this is Johnnie Gilchrist, a colleague of mine.’
‘How do you do?’ said Gilchrist, shaking Dreyfuss’ hand. Then he noticed the portable TV. ‘Nice-looking model. I’ve one just like it in my own room.’
Dreyfuss tried to avoid Parfit’s eyes.
‘So,’ Parfit said, ‘what brings you so far out of your lair, Johnnie?’
‘I’ll tell you. I’ve been trying to make contact with this man Devereux.’ Dreyfuss and Parfit both looked interested, and there was nothing Gilchrist liked more than an attentive audience. ‘Devil of a job I had, too.’ He turned to Dreyfuss. ‘These days, Major, the international situation being what it is, a diplomat’s life is not easy. Not that it ever was.’ He looked around the room. ‘Don’t believe I’ve been this far north in the building before. But I do recall some story — before my time — of some of the secretaries squeezing out of that skylight to sunbathe nude on the roof. One of them’s supposed to have gotten herself stuck, and—’
‘What about Devereux, Johnnie?’ interrupted Parfit.
Gilchrist hated to have his stories ruined. His eyes blazed away at Parfit for several seconds, then he said simply: ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone? You mean disappeared?’
‘Not in so many words. Apparently he was a bit shell-shocked when the shuttle crashed. So now he’s on extended leave.’
‘Do we know where?’
‘You won’t believe it, Parfit, but it seems he’s gone to London.’
‘London?’
Now Parfit and Dreyfuss exchanged glances.
‘I’m not sure,’ Parfit said, ‘whether that’s to our advantage or not. What do you think, Johnnie?’
‘Well, we can have him traced and picked up easily enough.’
‘Yes, but can he give us the information we need by telephone? I was rather hoping to speak to him in person. Any explanation he can give might be a bit technical, mightn’t it?’
‘Why don’t we get someone who knows about satellites to talk to him for us?’ Dreyfuss asked.
‘Someone like Martin Hepton,’ said Parfit.
‘Hepton?’ Dreyfuss sounded uncertain.
‘He’d be perfect. For one thing, he knows about satellites, and for another, he’s in London.’ Parfit turned to Gilchrist. ‘Get your man Villiers to find out where Hepton’s staying. We need to speak to him.’
‘I’ve just had a word with Villiers, actually,’ said Gilchrist. ‘He said Hepton had mentioned the name of a friend in London. Jill Watson. Villiers didn’t reckon Hepton was headed there, but there’s always a chance...’
Parfit noticed the numb look on Dreyfuss’ face. ‘What’s wrong, Major?’
‘I don’t want Jilly getting mixed up in this,’ Dreyfuss hissed. ‘Anything but that. Keep her out of it, Parfit.’ He grabbed at Parfit’s wrist and held it tight. ‘Keep her out of it!’
21
Hepton went to the door and studied the tiny surveillance screen. It showed the main door of the block, and, at the touch of a button, the interior hallway as well. There was nobody about. It was five o’clock. People would still be at work. More importantly, there was no sign of Harry.
He went back to his exploration of the flat. He found a chef’s knife in the kitchen drawer and slipped it into his pocket. In another drawer he found a large box of matches. He shook it to convince himself of its contents, then slipped it into his pocket too. From the living room’s waste-paper bin he took a copy of the previous day’s Herald, then, so armed, returned to the front door of the flat and opened it.
He looked left and right along the corridor. All clear. Then he stared up towards where the smoke detector sat, a neat little unit flush-mounted into the ceiling. He had noticed it upon arriving. He always noticed ceilings.
That, Martin, he said to himself, is what comes of an adolescence spent staring upwards.
The rolled-up newspaper took a little encouragement, the first three matches failing to catch. He tore a few strips down the sides, then tried again. These strips caught and ignited the rest of the paper. The ceiling was high, and he stood on tiptoe beneath the smoke alarm, holding the newspaper as close to it as he could.
It took forever. His arm ached, and he wondered what he would say if someone happened to emerge from one of the other five apartments along the corridor. But no one did. The paper started to smoulder, the smoke rose, and finally the detector began to whine, setting off alarm bells all around the building.
Elated, Hepton darted back into the flat, stubbed out the flaming newspaper in the sink and poured some water on it. He went back to the video screen at the front door and saw that people were already emerging from their apartments, milling in the main hallway downstairs. He went out onto the veranda and waited. There was a stiff breeze and he breathed hard, staying calm. The Thames was smelling like a sick old pet, but he didn’t mind that. He leaned out over the balcony and peered down onto the veranda of the flat beneath, then pulled himself back. There was no need to be rash. He could take the stairs to ground level, the same as the other inhabitants. He already had the evidence of his own eyes and his continuing life to the fact that Harry did not like a crowd. She enjoyed doing her slaying in private.
Suddenly he heard what he had been waiting for: approaching sirens. He rushed back inside and out into the corridor. A couple of people, looking as though they had been disturbed in the act of coitus, were standing by the lift, their clothes disarranged. The man was frantically pressing at the button beside the doors.
‘I shouldn’t think you’ll get much joy,’ Hepton informed him. ‘These things shut off when there’s an alarm. It’s much safer to use the stairs.’
‘Is there a fire?’ the man asked.
‘Yes, upstairs,’ said Hepton. ‘We’d better hurry.’
The three of them set off downstairs together. At the third landing, they joined a slightly larger group.
‘Is there a fire?’ someone asked.
‘Yes,’ the man with Hepton said, mimicking him. ‘It’s upstairs.’
Between the third and second landings, Hepton, to the rear of the small party, saw that someone was pushing their way back up through the descending group. There was always someone, someone who’d forgotten a treasured memento or the pet cat. He was about to remonstrate when he realised it was Harry. She was pushing hard now, her anger showing. And in her eyes he saw a kind of madness. There could be no doubting: she was out to kill him, witnesses or no.
Then she glanced upwards and, separated from him by only a handful of bodies now, saw Hepton. Her eyebrows rose in victory, and she dug a hand into the pocket of the checked jacket she was wearing. But the hand stuck there as somebody tried to squeeze past her downstairs.
‘You should go back, love,’ someone warned her. ‘Save yourself. Never mind what’s up there.’
Hepton turned on his heel and started up the carpeted steps two at a time, pushing hard as though his knees were mechanical pistons. The banisters were new. Dark polished wood with brass supports. His arms pulled hard on them, heaving his body upwards. He didn’t pause at the third floor — he needed territory he could recognise. Instead he left the stairs at the fourth floor and ran back to Jilly’s flat. Once inside, he closed the door quietly, then locked it. He realised that his right hand was gripping the kitchen knife. The video screen showed him the main lobby on the ground floor. People were beginning to move outside, some of them explaining to a fireman where the blaze was situated. Hepton could no longer hear the sirens and supposed they had been turned off. Well, he couldn’t give them a fire... but fire was useful in other ways.