Coffin Dodgers (26 page)

I put my hands underneath the window, take a deep breath, and slowly slide it upwards.

If I’ve triggered an alarm or summoned a robot army, it’s happening silently. I count to ten, take another deep breath and give the window a proper shove. It shoots up, but that’s the only noise: no bleeps, no sirens, no robots. Another ten seconds and I’m climbing over the sill and into Adam Everett’s house.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For a moment I’m five again, clambering out of a cooling bath and into a radiator-warm towel. Whoever does Adam Everett’s laundry – somehow I doubt he does it himself – uses the same stuff my mum does.

I’m in a long, rectangular room, maybe ten metres long and four metres wide with a heavy-looking wooden door at the far end. I gently close the window behind me, leaving the tiniest crack so I can get it open again if I have to come back this way. I tiptoe across the floor and towards the door.

I’m about halfway across the room when there’s a huge bang behind me.

I hit the floor, rolling into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Nothing happens.

I wait.

Nothing happens.

It’s a while before I work out what the bang was. It was the central heating boiler kicking in.

I’m very glad nobody I know can see me right now.

The wooden door opens without a squeak and I’m looking at the kitchen. It’s enormous, easily bigger than my apartment, and it looks like something from a spaceship: all dark woods, glossy white doors and expensive-looking appliances. There’s a central island big enough to carve a mammoth on, and the rack suspended above it has enough pots and pans hanging from it to fill an entire department store. Every single one of them is gleaming, so either Everett’s recently gone on a saucepan shopping frenzy, they’re only here for show or Everett isn’t in this bit of the house very often.

The one thing I don’t see is a phone, or a screen, or any other kind of communication device.
 

There are three doors out of here, or four if you include the one I’ve just walked through. There’s a door that takes you outside, and there are two more heavy wooden doors, one towards the rear of the house and one towards the front. I choose the one nearest the front. I reckon if I can find the bits of the house where Everett relaxes or works then I’ll find a phone, and the best views are at the front of the house.

I turn the handle and pull the door open, half-expecting an alarm to go off, but the house stays silent. I’m in a hallway. There’s an enormous wooden staircase and a long corridor to my left, huge windows making the most of the sunrise on my right, and another door directly in front of me. I walk over and open it.

I think this is where the maid sleeps. The room’s pretty big, with a single bed on the left, a tall wardrobe beside it and a chest of drawers on the opposite wall. Everything’s immaculate: the bed is perfectly made, there’s nothing lying around and there aren’t any pictures, photos or posters on the wall. It’s completely impersonal. The only sign that the room is actually used for anything is the phone.

Bingo.

The phone is sitting on a charging mat, on top of the chest of drawers. I pick it up and swipe my thumb across the screen to unlock it. It asks me to enter my PIN code.

This could be a problem.

If the phone works like my one, then the code isn’t just there to keep me out: if I get it wrong too many times it’ll brick the phone entirely, wiping all the data and putting it into a state of suspended animation that can’t be fixed without a visit to a repair shop. The good news is that depending on how it’s programmed, I’ve got between three and ten guesses before the phone locks up.

The bad news is that there are 10,000 possible combinations between 0000 and 9999. And that’s assuming the phone wants a four-digit PIN. If it’s expecting six digits or more then we’re into the millions.

Unless the owner hasn’t set a new code, that is.

This is something Dave’s always banging on about. The most common password, he says, is "password". 12345678 isn’t far behind. And with PIN codes, people tend to stick with the factory settings. That’s why bank cards come with randomly generated PINs, because the banks know that otherwise most of us would just choose 1234. And with phones, 1234 just happens to be the default factory setting.

I punch 1234 into the keypad and press OK.

"Wrong passcode," the phone says. "Try again."

Okay. If it’s not 1234 then it’s definitely 0000.

"Wrong passcode. Try again."

I’m assuming the phone wants a four-digit PIN here. Maybe I’m wrong.

I punch 123456 into the phone and pause before hitting the OK button. This could be my last chance.

I consider my alternatives.

There aren’t any.

I press OK.

The phone lets me in.

I’m about to call the police when I realise that they might misunderstand what’s going on here. To them, it might look like I’m a burglar and Sleazy Bob is the good guy. I decide to call Amy instead and get her to get hold of Burke.

I wish I knew what her number was.

I don’t know anybody’s number. I don’t need to. They’re all in my phone. Unfortunately that’s lying somewhere near my apartment, probably in pieces. And of course nobody makes their phone number public: do that and the spambots will call you twenty-four seven.

I check the time on the phone’s display. If Dave’s on an early shift, he’ll be at work by now. And if he’s at work, I can send him a message.

I flick the phone’s Messages icon and enter Dave’s work address. "It’s Matt," I type. "Need your help. Borrowed phone."

I hit Send. There’s a soft whoosh as the message heads off into the ether. Ten seconds later there’s a ding.

"What’s up?"

"What’s yr number?"

Another whoosh, another short delay, another ding. I click on the number and hit Call. Dave answers on the first ring.

"Dave," I say. "I need you to get Burke. Or get Amy to get Burke."

"What’s happening? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I’m okay. I’m in Everett’s house. Sleazy Bob’s after me with a gun."

"He’s what?"

"It’s a long –"

I can hear crunching gravel. A car is coming up the driveway.

"Dave, I need to go. Call Burke."

I hang up, turn the phone off and drop down to a crouch, creeping over to the window and peeking over the windowsill. Everett’s car is coming to a stop in the driveway and Sleazy Bob is walking towards it.
 

Nobody gets out.

I think Everett – if it’s Everett in the car – must have opened a window, because Sleazy Bob approaches the back door and leans down a bit, one arm on the roof.

After about a minute he stands back from the car and two men get out: Everett from the back and Everett’s driver from the front. I don’t think he’s employed just to drive cars, either: he’s another goon in a suit, with the big shoulders and easy movement of somebody who’s good at hurting people. The combination of a shaved head, a thick neck and a lantern jaw makes him look like a giant thumb in a suit.

Everett and Sleazy Bob walk towards the house, leaving Thumb Guy standing guard next to the car.

There’s no point in opening a window and trying to make a run for it. I’d be caught in seconds. I don’t think going back to the utility room and sneaking out that way is going to work either. I’d still end up on the driveway, and there’s no cover on either side. Thumb Guy would spot me long before I got too far away to catch. Anyway, even if I did get away Everett’s house isn’t really near anything. I think the best thing to do is hide until the Cavalry gets here.

Not in here, though. The wardrobe’s too small to hide in, there’s no space under the bed and there’s nothing else to hide in, on or under. If Sleazy Bob or Everett stick their heads in here I’m finished.

I creep to the door and listen carefully before gently easing it open. I look at the stairs, but I don’t think going upstairs is a good idea: one creaky step or creaky floorboard and the game’s up. I don’t know the layout of the house, and this is no time to go exploring. Remembering all the cupboards I saw when I first clambered through the window, I decide that hiding in the utility room is probably my best bet.

I cross the hallway on tiptoes, listening intently, but I still can't hear any sign that Everett or Sleazy Bob might be nearby. The kitchen door squeaks when I push it and I stop dead, my heart hammering and the blood thudding in my ears. I wait for the shout, for the sound of running footsteps, but there's nothing. I wait a bit longer and push the kitchen door again. It doesn't squeak this time, and I manage to close it silently behind me.

Full daylight means I can see more of the kitchen than before. There's a bowl of fruit on the central bit, black bananas suggesting that nobody's been in here for a few days. Nobody but me, anyway. There's also a granite knife block, black wooden handles coming out of it at forty-five degrees.

That's a thought. Do I need a weapon? Not a knife – I'd never have the guts to use one – but something I could use to buy time if Everett or Sleazy Bob find me. I try a few cupboards and a few drawers, being extra careful to ensure they don't rattle, squeak or creak, but there's nothing more lethal than a spoon. I was hoping for something more substantial, like a rolling pin, but there's nothing that hefty.

I look up at the hanging pots and pans. Most of them are far too big and heavy – some of them are so big you can imagine cannibals cooking a couple of missionaries in them – but there's a wok at the end that could be a contender. Woks are pretty light at the best of times, and this one's pretty small, just larger than a dinner plate.

I reach up and unhook it. Perfect. Heavy enough to hurt, not so heavy that it'll do serious damage, to someone else or to me. I don't fancy pulling a muscle trying to hit somebody.

It's amazing the effect having a weapon has. I know it's just a wok, but it's still a weapon and I feel a lot more confident.
 

I pad across to the utility room, gently close the kitchen door behind me and look for a cupboard to hide in.

Every single cupboard is full. Cereals here, cleaning stuff there, boxes and tins and packets and jars. Clearing enough room to give me a hiding place would take forever.

I look at the slightly open window, but Everett's driver is still out there. Too risky. I sit on the floor, wok in hand, and wait for something to happen.

I don't have to wait long.

I've been sitting for a couple of minutes when I hear the kitchen door squeak. Whoever's in there is doing his best to move quietly, but he's not doing a great job of it: the footsteps are soft, but I can still hear them as they go from one end of the kitchen to the other. The steps stop for a moment, and I try to breathe as quietly as possible.

He's retracing his steps. The footsteps move back across the kitchen, then stop – listening again – and resume. He's coming this way.

I slowly push myself up, taking care not to knock the wok against anything.

The footsteps stop again.

After exactly ten seconds, the door handle turns. The door swings out to the kitchen and I swing the wok into the gap, overarm.

Sleazy Bob goes down like a sack of potatoes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sleazy Bob is lying spread-eagled on the floor. His chest is rising and falling, and there's no sign of any blood. That's a relief. I wanted to stop him, not kill him. He's going to have the mother of all headaches later on, though.

The shotgun's about a metre away, lying on the floor next to the open door. I decide to leave it where it is. I'm not the gun type, and I'd be scared of shooting my own toes off. Anyway, I've already got a perfectly good weapon: a shiny wok with a noticeable dent in it.

I've taken two steps into the hallway when Adam Everett's voice booms from the top of the stairs. "Are you planning to stir-fry me?" He looks amused, not angry. "I've been threatened with all kinds of things in my time, but that's a new one," he says, smirking.
 

Everett walks towards the stairs and I tighten my grip on the wok. He spots the move and lifts his arms from his sides, fingers extended, palms towards me. "I'm not armed," he says. He waves slightly towards the stairs. "May I?" I nod, and Everett starts to walk slowly down the stairs.

"I don't suppose you've encountered the inimitable Mr Hannah?"

I jerk my head towards the kitchen door. "He's in there."

Everett nods. "Hence the dent in your frying pan?"

"Yeah."

As he reaches the last step, I raise the wok in case he tries anything. But instead of lunging at me or pulling a gun from his waistband, Everett sits on the bottom step, his arms hugging his knees, rocking gently backwards and forwards. He doesn't say anything for a while.

"So," he says. "Care to explain what you're doing in my house? Are you intending to beat some kind of confession out of me? Is that the plan?"

"Plan? I didn't plan anything. I was planning to go to my bed until Sleazy Bob broke into my flat and kidnapped me."

Everett raises one eyebrow. "Sleazy Bob? Who is -- ah, okay. So why do you call him -- never mind. He brought you here? To this house?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"He said you'd been ignoring him."

"And you are, what? Flowers and chocolates?"

"More of a sacrifice."

Everett looks astonished. "A sacrifice?"

"Think so."

He shakes his head, sighs, and cradles his head in his hands. He sighs again.

"Hannah doesn't have a key, doesn't know the codes. Neither do you. How did you get in?"

"The window in the utility room was broken."

"Let me guess. The alarm wasn't on."

I nod. "That's right."

Anger flashes across his face and he lets out yet another sigh. "Details," he says. "Always details." The head goes into the hands again. I wait until the silence is uncomfortable before interrupting.

"I've already called the police," I say.

Everett nods. "Mister Burke?"

"He prefers Detective Burke."