David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good (34 page)

       
I did the
maths
.

       
“Your husband was
ex-army?” I said.

       
“Forty Second Commando,
Royal Marines,” she said. “As if that means anything to you.”

       
“It means an awful lot
to me, ma’am. My father fought in the same war as your husband, and I’m an
officer in the Royal Navy, myself.”

       
The old lady glared at
me, but she didn’t speak.

       
“Can I help you find a
cab, or anything like that?” I said.

       
“Ridiculous,” she said
to herself, turning away and resuming her snail’s pace. “He should have killed
them. Should have tortured them...”

       
I watched her shambling
progress for a few moments, then picked up the champagne and started towards
the building. I took two steps. Then I stopped. And took out my phone.

       
There was something in
the way they the guys had behaved that bothered me. Nothing about the encounter
felt like an accident, right from the outset when they’d walked straight up to
me, as if I was a target. So I called my control and filled him in. He gave no
sign of whether he agreed with me or thought I was crazy, but he did put me on
hold while he spoke to the police. Four minutes later he was back on the line.
He said if I could sit on the guys for another quarter of an hour, they’d be
scooped up by the Met and held until a couple of our people were available to
have a word with them.

       
From what I’d seen of
the guys, I would guess they’d had pretty miserable lives up to that point. And
I was certain that things were going to get worse for them over the next few
days. The Navy interrogators would give them plenty to think about. Whereas me,
I was left with only one thought.

       
We were only yards away
from where Melissa had picked me up on our way to
Luton
.
She’d known what time I was likely to arrive home, having asked me to buy the
champagne. And she was the only one who knew my address.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Melissa texted me just after 4.00pm.
She
said she’d finally got hold of
Leckie
, that he was
happy to help, and the meeting at her place was still on. That left me plenty
of time to wonder whether she was setting me up for a second bite of the
cherry. It also left me plenty of time to walk, so I left my apartment at a
quarter after five and set off towards St Paul’s. The area around the cathedral
was clogged as usual with packs of tourists, necks craned back, gawping up at
the dome. I weaved my way though them and started across the Millennium Bridge,
then turned right in the shadow of the Tate Modern and dropped down to the side
of the river. The Thames Path narrowed drastically as I followed it west,
leaving me to run a constant gauntlet of joggers and bike riders until I was in
sight of the OXO Tower.

       
The note Melissa had
written for me gave an address on the second floor of one of the buildings
directly behind the main complex, but finding the correct door took more than a
little luck. I finally located it, but when I hit the call button on her
intercom I didn’t get a reply.

       
I waited a moment, then
started to work my way through the buttons for the other apartments in the
building. I’d only tried three when the main door buzzed open. Civilians and
their attitude to security never cease to amaze me, but you can’t say they’re
not useful.

       
I stepped into the
hallway. Four people were waiting for someone to emerge from one of the ground
floor units, so I skirted round them and made my way up the stairs. I followed
the numbers until I found the door to Melissa’s apartment. It was standing open
an inch, so I carefully placed the bottles of the champagne on the ground, drew
my Beretta, and went inside without knocking.

       
The main living/dining
space in Melissa’s apartment was lined with
windows which
bathed the old, golden brown exposed brickwork with light. The room was double
height, and a ladder led up to a sleeping
platform which
spanned the entire width at the far end. An archway led to a small kitchen on
the right. I heard footsteps from inside it, and then someone appeared.

       
It was Tim Jones. I’d
been surprised to see him when we’d first met in Melissa’s room at St Joseph’s,
too. I was glad things didn’t turn out the same way, though, if only for the
sake of her furniture.

       
“David,” he said,
bringing his right hand out from behind his back, complete with his Sig Sauer
pistol. “Thank goodness it’s you. Is Melissa with you?”

       
“No,” I said. “I’m
supposed to meet her here, at six.”

       
“I was too. But she
brought the meeting forward half an hour. She said she had some new
information. Something we needed to talk about.”

       
I pulled out my phone
and saw another text from her on the screen. It said the same thing, and added
that in light of what she’d found, she’d asked
Leckie
not to come. I must have missed it arriving in the noise from the street.

       
“How did you get in?” I
said.

       
“There was no answer
downstairs when I buzzed,” he said. “So I waited till someone else came out,
and sneaked through before the main entrance closed behind her. Then I came up
here and found Melissa’s door standing open.”

       
“When was this?”

       
“About half an hour
ago.”

       
“Is there any sign of
her?”

       
“No. I’ve looked
everywhere.”

       
“Any sign of a
struggle?”

       
“Not that I can see.”

       
“Have you called the police?
Or your office?”

       
“No. She told me we had
to keep this meeting absolutely secret.”

       
“She was right,” I said,
turning back to my phone. “But I have a feeling the ground rules have just
changed.”

       
Before I could key the
three nines I heard footsteps outside in the corridor. There were three sets.
They were heavy. And coming in our direction. Fast. I paused. They continued to
come closer, then stopped right outside the door. I moved to my left –
the hinge side – and signaled to Jones to go right. Five seconds passed
in silence. Then the door was flung back into the room, arcing around on its
hinges, its handle smashing into the wall. Three men followed through the open
doorway. The first came straight ahead, stopping in the
centre
of the room, his head snapping from side to side. The second peeled off,
heading towards me. The third went to the other way, straight at Jones. All of
them were over six feet tall. They were wearing desert boots, jeans, and army
surplus style DPM jackets. They all had shaved heads. And they were all
carrying guns.

       
“You,” said the first
guy, with his eye on Jones. “Drop your weapon.”

       
Jones opened his fingers
and let the Sig slip through, landing grip-first on the floor, next to his
foot.

       
“Good,” the guy said.
“Now, both of you.
On the floor.
Right now.”

       
I started to lean, as if
I meant to comply with his instructions, but when my head was low enough I
lunged forward, slamming it into the second guy’s solar plexus. The force
pushed him back a couple of steps, so I straightened my waist and whipped my
neck up as hard as I could. I timed it just right, catching the guy’s chin with
the back of my head. His knees buckled and he went over backwards, hitting the
floor hard. I followed in, kicking the gun out of his hand and stamping down on
his throat before he had the chance to react.

       
I quickly scanned the
room, and saw Jones lying face down on the floor with his arms and legs spread.
The third intruder was standing over him, with a Colt Delta Elite aimed at the
back of his skull. The first guy - the one who’d spoken - was still in the same
spot. His arms were folded across his chest, with his gun in his right hand,
and his expression looked almost bored.

       
“Stop,” he said. “Put
your hands behind your head. Then get down on your knees.”

       
I didn’t move.

       
“Do it now,” the guy
said, taking a step towards me and lowering his hands to his sides. “Because if
you don’t, your friend is going to get a bullet between the ears in the next
five seconds.”

       
“I want you to be very
clear about something,” I said. “I’d never do anything to hurt a friend, so
there’s no need for you to do anything hasty. But there’s something I don’t
understand. How will the person holding my friend know whether I’ve done what
you told me?”

       
“What kind of stupid
question is that? He can see you.”

       
“He can? How? Is there a
concealed camera in here? Are we under covert surveillance? Have you set up
some kind of on-the-fly video conferencing?”

       
“He’s standing right
behind me. He’s not blind. He has a gun in his hand. And it’s pointing at your
friend’s head. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”

       
“Yes please. I love
diagrams. And actually, I think a good diagram could help all of us, right now.
Because that guy on the floor?
He’s not my friend.”

       
“Don’t try to bluff me.”

       
“I’m not. I think he’s a
slimy, brown-nosing corporate schemer. The first time I met him I broke a chair
over his head. Psychologically, he’s toast.”

       
“He did,” Jones said.
“It’s true. I may never recover.”

       
“See?” I said, taking a
step towards the guy. “His bottle’s gone. He’s useless now. He might as well
shoot him. I think you should. In fact, give me your gun, I’ll do it for you.”

       
“Hold it,” the guy said.

       
I stopped. I was two
yards away from him, and four from the guy standing over Jones.

       
“Now, get over there,”
he said, nodding towards the wall at the far side of the room.

       
“Over where?” I said.

       
“There,” he said,
stretching out his right arm and gesturing with the gun.

       
I took half a step
forward and grabbed his right arm, just below the wrist. I held it immobile,
the gun pointing safely at the wall, and jabbed him below the rib cage with my
right hand, knocking the wind of him. Then I brought my hand up, smashing into
his jaw from below. I stepped in towards him, ducked slightly and spun round so
that my right shoulder slotted in place below his armpit. Then I straightened
my legs and pulled down with my left hand, lifting him off his feet. I was
still turning, so I pushed back hard with my left leg, building the momentum
and smashing his body into the guy who was covering Jones.

       
The two intruders went
down in a tangle of limbs, rolling sideways away from us. Neither of them kept
hold
of their weapons. Jones’s guy ended up on his front,
and for a moment he was still. The other one scuttled sideways and started to
scramble back to his feet.

       
“Take him,” Jones said,
kneeling up. “I’m on mine.”

       
“I’m not a control freak
like you,” I said, stepping towards the first guy, who was fully upright again.
“I don’t need you to kneel with your hands behind your head. You can stay
standing, if you like. Or sit. Or lie down. You can even contort your body into
some weird fairground sideshow position, if it makes you happy. As long as you
do one thing.”

       
“What?” the guy said.

       
“Co-operate. Tell me:
Where is the woman who owns this apartment?”

       
The guy sprang forward,
feinting to hit me in the face but really aiming a heavy blow at my stomach. I
ignored the first, blocked the second, then snaked my right leg behind his
knees and hooked his feet out from under him. He landed flat on his back, and
as he hit the floor I heard a gunshot behind me. I spun round, fearing the
worst, and saw Jones five feet away from me. He was on his feet. His Sig was in
his hand. The smell of cordite reached my nose, and I followed his gaze down to
the floor. The guy who’d been on top of him was lying there, on his back,
twitching slightly, with a gaping hole where his right cheek had been.