Cobweb (26 page)

Except for a bouncer-type who had hold of me by one wrist, Sapphire had been overlooked. I twisted free and in a moment I shall remember with mixed emotions for the rest of my life slammed my fist right into the middle of du Norde's pudgy, grinning face. The impact of the blow tore right up my arm; agony in my hand came seconds later, but I was avidly watching the way his nose had gushed crimson, all the way from his mouth to his chin.

Then someone must have hit me, for everything went black.

H
ow sad, I thought, for us to die in a ditch, really or metaphorically, after all we had achieved together. What a shame that the reconstruction I planned to write of Derek Harmsworth's last days would remain an author's flight of fancy even though murder would probably be confirmed once the DNA results came in. His killer would get away. Brocklebank would sell up and leave the country, no one suspecting that a man in receipt of a couple of million pounds for a thriving hotel business was the local linchpin of serious and organized crime, just the kind of person SOCA had been set up to deal with.

I was shut up in some kind of darkened room, tied down to what was probably a bed, some tape across my mouth. Even though I was blindfold the cloth was not very tight and by looking down my nose and moving my head I could see a strip of light that seemed to be shining through underneath a door. My head and legs were the only parts of me I could move, but I kept quite still for a while as every time I did a wave of nausea swept over me and I was terrified of choking to death with my mouth covered should I vomit. My right hand was pure agony and felt swollen.

Where was Patrick? Was he here? Already dead? By not drawing his gun for fear of innocent people being wounded or killed he had risked his own life.

Some indefinable while later, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, I tried wriggling downwards, finding that by pressing myself into the mattress my bonds – thickish rope – became quite loose. Then something gave way altogether, it all went very loose and, moments later, with what was left of the bindings under my chin, I was almost free.

Sitting on the end of the bed seconds later, forgetting, I nearly screamed with pain as I tried to remove the cloth from around my eyes with my right hand, so yanked it off with the other, on the verge of tears. Then I dealt with the tape over my mouth.

Groping, and not daring to fumble for light switches with my sound hand while keeping the other protectively close to me, I carefully explored my immediate surroundings. I was convinced that I was still in the hotel. The tiny strip of light shining underneath the door helped slightly; at least it prevented me from blundering into the larger items of furniture such as an armchair and the other bed in what was a twin-bedded room. No one was lying on it.

I came to a door – a bathroom? If so, and if this was indeed a hotel room, would a light come on automatically and an extractor fan start up if and when I opened it? Hesitating, I leaned against the wall feeling sick, muddle-headed and very weak, the whole of my right arm aching. Finally, desperate for a drink of water, I opened the door. No automatic light, no fan.

Mostly by feel, I ran the cold tap, almost dropped a glass beaker in my clumsy haste and then filled the basin and gratefully immersed my right hand. I was convinced I had broken some bones in it, but after a couple of minutes the pain subsided a little. I discovered that I could move my fingers and thumb without any horrible stabs of agony.

To call the police, or Greenway, had to be the next priority.

I went over to where I could just make out a window and carefully peered through a chink in the curtains. I saw that I was on the second or third floor of a modern extension that had to be situated at the rear of the older building, of which I could just see a corner. Below me was a car park – not the one where we had left our vehicle. There were hardly any cars in it, tall lamps starkly providing illumination and the whole area resembling the desolation around a derelict factory. King – Brocklebank – probably used the business for money-laundering and in that sense it was a factory.

The two opening windows were locked, so there was no point in further wasting time on them. I went to the door, tried the handle as a matter of course and, astoundingly, this was not locked, proof that whoever it was who could not tie knots had been in a hell of a hurry to leave.

I opened the door and a quick glance left and right down the lighted corridor outside told me two things: first, the time – it was one fifty in the morning; and second, that while the lifts were to the right, the stairs were in the other direction. I have a theory that crooks, being basically lazy – too lazy to earn an honest living anyway – always use the lift.

I pushed the door almost closed and retrieved my bag, which I had spotted on the chair. My mobile phone had gone, of course, as had the keys for the hired car; but my purse was still there, complete with money and credit cards. All I had to do was find a public phone. Did hotels still have such things?

Closing the door as silently as possible behind me, I made for the stairs. There was no sound but my feet on the carpeted floor and the distant hum of air-conditioning units. Still feeling dizzy and sick I found it impossible to walk in a straight line and kept hitting the walls. Hopefully, any hotel guest who saw me would think the lady drunk. I had absolutely no intention of throwing myself on the mercy of any strangers I met for fear of them being part of the whole crooked set-up. But I saw no one.

The stairs were reached through double doors, which seemed to be surprisingly heavy, but I leaned my whole weight on them and finally got through. I would now have to be exceedingly careful or would tumble down them and that would be that.

Somewhere below and in the distance a man screamed.

Such was the shock of the ghastly, raucous sound that, standing on the top step, my legs almost gave way. Desperately I clung on to the handrail for a few moments and then took a deep breath, hung the strap of my bag around my neck to leave both hands free, whispered a little prayer and started to go down.

There had been a sort of echo in the cry, as though it had emanated from an area with plain or bare walls. A storeroom on the ground floor or in the basement? A kitchen or laundry room?

I carried on going down, my feet reluctant to be placed securely on the treads, always wanting to slip over the edges. Under my breath, I swore at them – swore at everything to do with this cursed place, cursed it to hell.

The man screamed again, in desperate agony.

Somehow, forcing myself to stay focused on what I was doing when all I really wanted to do was cry and beat my fists on the walls, I reached the ground floor. The stairs carried on descending, but uncarpeted, and there were more double doors off to the right with a ‘
STAFF ONLY
' notice on them. I pushed my way through and stood quite still, listening. There was not a sound, not even of distant voices. In a small side room were vacuum cleaners, laundry trolleys and a row of pegs with overalls hanging on them. I took one and slipped it on over my dress. Hardly a real disguise, but at least it stopped me feeling so shivery.

Then, exercising extreme caution, I peeped though the door that led into the public part of the hotel, immediately realizing that I was a matter of twenty yards from the private lounge to which we had been taken. The lights were dimmed now. Then a shadow came into view as someone approached from around a corner and I shot back through the door and into the cleaners' store. But no one came; whoever it was must have walked by and not come this way. I went back and looked again and the corridor was deserted. Then, gathering myself together, as it were, I went as quickly as I could to the door of the lounge. This was do-or-die stuff, literally, as for all I knew King might be in there with his entire contingent of henchman. I had a purpose – unless, that is, my judgement was as seriously impaired as my co-ordination.

Ready, if necessary, to endeavour to flee in the direction of the main entrance, I went straight in. All was in darkness, but I felt for, and found, light switches and flicked them down. The room was empty. I went over to the writing desk I had previously noticed at the opposite end of the room to where we had been sitting and, one-handed, started yanking out and raking through the drawers. The first few, side drawers, were empty, but the large top one contained papers, writing materials, a wad of money and several old newspapers with certain paragraphs marked with a highlighter pen. The other side yielded a cashmere sweater, a miniature bottle of whisky, two glasses and several boxes of cigars. Then I saw it, under my nose all the time: Patrick's knife lying on the gold-embossed red leather by an antique pen tray.

No Glock, though, my real objective.

No time to search any more.

As I went back, my legs still refusing to obey orders to the letter, and had reached the top of the uncarpeted stairs, the scream rang out again. I glanced at the knife in my hand, the blade hidden inside the silver handle, the work of an Italian craftsman, the object I had always hated, refused to touch, knowing what it had done. It features in all my nightmares and represents the part of Patrick that I have always refused to think about.

Not any more.

The vital need for caution and silence steadied me and I went slowly down, holding on tightly to the rail with my left hand, the knife, heavy, tactile, perfectly balanced in my right, the pain just about tolerable. A cold draught of air came up to meet me, bringing with it a smell of gas. Then I heard voices.

The stairs went down to a small and gloomy cellar-like area, the only light coming from somewhere off to the left. I peered around and saw a long straight corridor, doors off to both sides, all seemingly closed, a single bulb in the ceiling providing the illumination. Round to the right more stairs descended, these being stone and worn. A very faint light from below shone on the risers as they twisted down in a spiral out of sight.

Voices again.

I removed my shoes, something I realized I should have done before as I instantly felt I had better balance, abandoned my bag with them and began to go down. There were no handholds here, so all I could do was touch the wall for support. It was cold and clammy as though the stone was sweating. I was sweating too.

The stairs went down and down and as they did and the area opened out, the wall disappearing on the inner side, the light became brighter. Seeing a floor looming up below me, I crouched low to look in case someone spotted my feet but could only see more stone walls. I reached the bottom. There was a strong smell of gas here.

Ahead of me was what had obviously been the cellars of the old manor house. These did not appear to be particularly extensive, although the light I had seen shining up the stairs did not penetrate all that far and was actually coming through a window set high up in a wall and a door, which was ajar, around to my right. Aware that people were very close by, just on the other side of the door, I tiptoed up the stairs again for a short distance to see if I could lean over and look through the window. In real danger of losing my balance and toppling into the stairwell beneath, I did so.

A museum-piece of a Victorian kitchen lay before me, reduced to authentic sepia tint by the filthy and cobweb-laced glass through which I was observing it. A cast-iron range, tables, dressers, shelving, gas stoves, even pots and pans – everything dust-covered, it was all there. This otherwise domestic scene was marred by the fact that a group of men – I could recognize the one calling himself Rex King despite the dirty glass – were utilizing it as a torture chamber.

As I watched, someone threw most of the contents of a bucket of water over a man who was tied, naked to the waist, face up on to the largest kitchen table. Patrick jerked, shuddering, and then coughed and spluttered as he was given the rest of the pailful in the face. King then leant over him and I saw his lips move as he said something. He received a spat-out mouthful of water right between the eyes.

They burned Patrick again on the stomach with what looked like a glowing piece of metal and again he cried out.

With the same kind of murderous detachment that had taken me over when I had punched Theodore du Norde I darted down the stairs, into the room and swept my hand up all the ancient metal light switches on the wall just inside the door. Instant and utter blackness. Men raved and swore and crashed into things and, in the darkness, having planned my exact route – not a direct one by any means – I sprang the blade of the knife. Holding it in front of me, reasoning that anyone who got in my way would spit themselves on it, I went my circuitous route to the big table. The smell of gas was really strong in here.

There was one bad moment when I went full tilt into the side of a dresser, but the layout of the room was in my memory as clearly as a photograph and the next time I encountered a solid object it was the table. Left-handed, I succeeded in locating the first two ropes, which were secured around the table legs, and cut them – the knife was awesomely sharp – then someone groped for and grabbed my other arm and twisted it.

When the man she loves is being tortured and someone who is directly or indirectly responsible then lays hands on
her
and hurts her badly, a woman really can stab whoever it is with a real desire to kill. I felt the blade grate between ribs and then the weapon was almost torn from my grasp as the man collapsed at my feet.

Ducking beneath the table, which I had been half-leaning against while all this was going on, I felt for and found the two remaining ropes and sliced them through. The floor was wet and slippery and I almost fell over as I stood up again. Thinking that I would have to assist Patrick in some way, I discovered that the table had been vacated in almost the same second that we collided face to face. It had to be him, as he had no shirt on. I ran my hand down his arm and pressed the knife into his hand.

‘Remind me to buy you some flowers,' he said, kissing me quickly and slightly off course on one eye.