David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good (43 page)

       
“Can’t you just tell me
who he was?”

       
“No,” I said. “I can’t.
Because he didn’t exist.”

The car that pulled up outside Cromwell Tower eleven minutes later
looked just
like
a standard, silver, 5-series BMW.
There was nothing on the outside to suggest it was anything out of the
ordinary. But as soon as I touched the accelerator, it was clear that the Navy
mechanics had weaved their usual magic under the skin. It had taken the MI5
driver, Pearson, thirty-three minutes to pitch and roll his way from London to
Luton
in his big Range Rover. I shaved a full six minutes
off that time. And I didn’t need a moment to regain my land legs when I
arrived, either.

       
It stood to reason that
Leckie
wouldn’t want any random passers-by to wander onto
the site and see what he was up to. He was bound to have the place guarded, or
at least kept under observation, so I only allowed myself a single drive by. No
one was visible at the main gate, but I saw two men standing just inside the
perimeter by the hole in the wall that Pearson had driven through to park. They
were wearing security guard uniforms, and they matched the company
Leckie
used at St Joseph’s. That was smart. It told me I
was on the right track, and everyone else to keep out.

       
I kept going for another
quarter of a mile, then pulled the BMW over to the side of the road and added
it to a line of parked cars. Then I called Jones. He didn’t answer straight
away, so while his phone was ringing I screwed the suppressor onto the barrel
of my Beretta and made sure the switchblade was easily accessible in my pocket.

       
“I’m nearly there,”
Jones
said when he finally picked up. “Traffic was worse
than I thought. How are you doing?”

       
“Good,” I said. “How
long till you’ll arrive?”

       
“Twenty minutes?
Twenty-five, at the outside.”

       
“OK. See you there.”

I knew the textbook option was to wait for Jones. And if he’d said he
was five minutes down the road I probably would have done.
But
almost half an hour?
While there was still the slightest chance Melissa
was innocent and in danger, I figured Jones could catch up in his own good
time. And if she was neither, there was no point in anyone else getting caught
in her web.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The walk back to the hole in the wall would normally have taken around
five minutes, but that day it took me ten. Not because I dawdled.
But because I didn’t stay on the pavement.
I only followed
it as far as the rear corner of the wall. Then I checked for cameras. Or
sensors. Or anyone
watching.
The coast seemed to be
clear, so I took a moment to find suitable hand and foot holds in the weathered
stone surface and pulled myself up high enough to peer over to the other side.

       
There was no one in
sight, so I slid over the top of the wall and dropped down behind a rough stack
of rustic, reclaimed bricks. They’d have been worth something in a buoyant
economy, but as things stood, it looked like no one could even be bothered to
steal them.

       
The patch of scrubby
ground between where I’d landed and the heap of rubble I’d seen last time was
clear, so I drew my Beretta and crossed the open space. I got to the far side,
unnoticed. I knew that if I skirted round to the right of the mound, I had a
chance of moving deeper into the workhouse’s grounds without encountering
anyone. If I’d just been there for covert surveillance, that’s what I’d have
done. But standing back and watching wasn’t on the agenda, this time. I was
there to get Melissa out, and whether that meant rescuing her or arresting her,
I couldn’t afford anyone blocking my exit route.
Or raising
an alarm.
Or calling in reinforcements. In fact, in the circumstances,
an early look at the opposition could be beneficial. It could tell me what kind
of
organisation
I was facing.
And
if I could find someone who was prepared to spill a few beans, a lot more
besides.

       
I moved round to the
left of the mound and, as expected, I saw the two security guards. They didn’t
see me, though. They were looking in completely the wrong direction. I guess
they were expecting me to approach them from the street, because I closed to
within ten feet before either one of them reacted. And by then, it was far too
late.

       
Sometimes the best way
to loosen a person’s tongue is to draw things out for as long as possible. Put
them off balance. Disorient them. Twist their perception of the situation so
much they end up thinking that talking’s their own idea.

       
Other times I just rely
on brute force and ignorance.

       
I raised the Beretta and
shot the first guy right between the eyes. Blood and bone fragments showered
the side of his friend’s head as he turned to see what was happening. Then I
stepped closer to the first guy’s crumpled body and fired another shot into his
skull.

       
“Is
Leckie
here?” I said.

       
The guy who was still
alive turned to face me. The scarlet spatter stood out vividly against his
suddenly pale skin, and even such a gentle movement sent it dribbling down
towards his chin.

       
“What?” he said.

       
“Stan
Leckie
,” I said. “Is he here?”

       
“I don’t know who that
is.”

       
“The guy from the
hospital. St Joseph’s.”

       
“Oh. Yes. He is. He
hired us. He brought us here.”

       
“Is there a girl with
him?”

       
He gave another nod, and
I noticed his pupils were growing wider by the second.

       
“Where are they?” I
said.

       
The guy stuck out his
arm and pointed to the area at the back of the main building. That’s what I’d
feared, but my heart sank nonetheless.

       
“How many other people
are with you?” I said.

       
The guy looked blank,
and didn’t respond in any way.

       
“There’s you, this dead
guy, the guy who hired you, and a girl,” I said. “How many others are here?
Answer in words this time.”

       
“None,” he said finally,
in a surprisingly low, gravely voice. “We were told to guard the gate.”

       
“What about the other
gates?”

       
“There’s only one other gate.
It used to be the main entrance. It’s blocked now. And there’s no one on it.
Are you called
Trevellyan
?”

       
“I am.”

       
“I was told to say, he’s
expecting you.
The guy from the hospital.
And he
thought you’d come in this way.”

       
“What were you supposed
to do about that?”

       
“Stop you. And take you
to him. He said he was putting on a show, specially for you to watch.”

       
I thought of the three
holes punched in the solid
stone wall
, and wondered if
this guy had been on the gate that day, too.

       
“How generous of him,” I
said. “Only, I’m afraid there’s bad news. The show’s going to be canceled.”

       
“It is?” he said.

       
“It is,” I said, raising
the Beretta again. “Which means your gate keeping services
are
no longer required.”

Chapter Forty

I made my way across the parking area towards the gap between the
back of the main building and the old workhouse asylum. It looked like only one
car had been there recently, based on the
tyre
tracks
in the soft ground.
One car, and one other vehicle.
Something wide. And heavy. And that rode on caterpillar tracks.

       
I
retraced my steps, looped back around the hill of rubble, and found my way to
the passageway that Melissa had used as shelter from the sniper. That should
have given me a view through to the main building, in theory. But in practice,
it didn’t. The far end was blocked by something.
A mobile
crane.
One that had seen better days.
Its
maroon bodywork was dull and dented, and all the windows in its cab were
broken. It was certainly in bad shape cosmetically, but I couldn’t tell what
state its mechanical parts were in. All I could see was that its boom was
extended at a sharp angle. Whether anything was attached to it was a whole
other question.

       
Approaching the crane
from the passageway was out of the question, so I pulled back again and worked
my way round to the route Pearson and I had taken to reach the west wing of the
main building. Common sense told me I’d be no use to anyone with a volley of
bullets inside me, but the delay this detour caused was agony. It felt like it would
have been quicker to crawl across the Sahara Desert. The only saving grace was
that the security guard I’d spoken to seemed to have been telling the truth,
and I didn’t encounter anyone else lurking around the far boundary of the
grounds.

       
I slipped into the west
wing through the same entrance I’d used last time, and wasted no time in
leaving the room and crossing the hallway. The inside of the building smelled
worse than before, and the door at the bottom of the stairs - which I hoped
would lead to the main part of the building - was very reluctant to open. When
it finally gave way the air quality didn’t improve, but I stepped through
anyway and found myself at the start of a long, straight, bleak corridor. I
turned to my left and made straight for where I hoped the entrance to the
central block would be. I kept going until I reached a doorway. It led to a
hallway that was identical to the one I’d come from, so I crossed my fingers
and took it. I could see daylight to my left, so I followed it to the remains
of a window, trying to ignore the uneven black stains on the floor and fresh,
satanic graffiti on all four walls.

       
Another line of
anaemic
bushes gave me a degree of cover as I made my way
along the outside of the building, parallel to where I’d been before. This
time, though, a view of the battered crane had replaced the informant and his
motorbike. For a moment I wondered whether he’d really approached
Leckie
, who’d staged his murder in front of our eyes so
he’d look innocent. Or whether the whole episode was a stunt from the
beginning, to distract us from
Leckie’s
real
goal.
 
And then such hypothetical
thoughts were pushed away.
But not by me, deliberately.
By the sound of breathing.
It was human. Heavy. And
close.

       
I continued past a patch
where the plant cover thinned alarmingly, and kept one eye firmly on the crane.
And I was encouraged by what I saw.
For two reasons.
There was no sign of anyone in the cab. And nothing lethal was attached to the
heavy cable that was dangling from its jib.

       
The breathing grew
louder the closer I crept to the end of the wall. I paused for a moment, to
bring my own respiration under control. Then I stood up straight. Raised my
Beretta. Stepped around the corner.
And came face to face
with Melissa.

       
She was standing with
her back to the wall. Her arms were stretched out on both sides, at shoulder
height.
Her wrists were held by crude iron shackles that
stuck out from the stonework
. There was a vacant pair of shackles to her
left, between us. And to her right, the line of three craters whose previous
occupants had been pulped by a swinging mass of steel.

       
There was only one
question in my mind. Was she trapped there, herself? Or was she there to trap
me?

       
The reason she was
facing me rather than looking straight ahead turned out to be simple. She was
straining with all her might to free her right hand. I could see the iron
digging into her flesh. Her skin was tearing, and blood was dripping down to
the ground from her wrist.

       
I felt like I had my
answer.

       
“Melissa, stop that,” I
said, stepping closer. “You’re hurting yourself. Let me help.”

       
“David, what are you
doing here?” she said. “Get out of the way.”