Exposure (39 page)

He dialled the number from a call-box. He listened to Julia's message for Ben Harris.

‘Gone for a drink with Felix. I hope you're jealous. Back around nine. I'll call you then. Love, darling.'

The time was just past seven. He went into a patisserie in the shopping centre nearby and had some cakes and two cups of coffee. He never drank on a job, but he loved sweet pastries. Then he went back to Chelsea Green and slumped down in the darkness of a doorway. It was just across the street from the apartment block. The entrance was well lit, part of the security system. That suited him well. One or two pedestrians passed by, but didn't bother to look twice at the figure huddled in a doorway for shelter. London was full of homeless drifters, begging by day and sleeping rough. He had seen a number of them for himself. He wore dark clothes and trainers; the overcoat made him look respectable, as did the fur hat, ear flaps pulled down. The footwear was light and made running easy. If he had to run. He didn't expect to; he expected to walk away from the job and simply disappear into the London murk. Then the first flight home in the morning. He had an open-ended ticket. The killing wouldn't be discovered till he was well
en route
across the skies. A single man and then a couple, followed later by another, came to the apartment block and went inside, but he didn't move. Then he saw what he was hoping for. Three young kids, teenagers, converged on the front door. He had noticed girls and boys coming and going while he was on watch during the day. He moved very quickly, up from his seat on the step and across the street, catching up with them just as the front door opened. One of the girls had a key; as she pulled it out of the lock, he pushed in past her. He said, ‘Thanks,' over his shoulder, and he was past the TV camera in the entrance hall as they followed. He heard them laughing and talking behind him as he hurried to the stairs and began taking the first flight two steps at a time. They'd been too busy to notice him. He'd counted on that. Kids, he thought dispassionately. His would have been just as careless. Hamilton's apartment was on the fourth floor. Top of the building. He slowed his pace and listened for sounds coming from above.

He paused, watching the red eye of the elevator. It stopped on the third floor. He heard teenage voices floating down the stairwell, and stayed out of sight. Then he climbed the last two flights of stairs. An arrow pointed right for two flat numbers. Another arrow indicated one number only, Hamilton's number, on the left. Through glass doors and round a corner. It made an isolated little cul-de-sac on that top floor. The front door of the flat was at the end of a short passage, 403, in gilt bronze figures on a heavy mahogany door. He moved without sound on the thick pile carpet. He noticed the TV eye sunk in the wall above head height. Anyone ringing the bell would be instantly viewed on a double screen inside. One screen for the street entrance, another for the passageway outside the flat. He stood and listened. She had said around nine. It was near that time now. He went back down the passageway. From his observation from outside the building in daylight, he knew the fire-escape must be close by. And there it was. Clearly marked with a red arrow and the warning, ‘This Exit must be kept clear at all times.' It was a simple push-lever model, easy for a young or old escapee to open. He shifted it with one hand and stood for a moment on the narrow iron plaform outside. Heights didn't worry him. The wind was biting up there and he shrugged deeper into his coat. Then he went back inside. He pushed the glass door and let it swing back. It made a definite click as it came to rest. He'd hear that. And he could watch through a crack in the door to the fire-escape and see Hamilton come in. If she was alone, the hit was on. If she wasn't … He never carried out more than one contract at a time. He didn't believe in two for the price of one. He'd seen her meet a man outside. If she brought him back to her apartment then he would slip downstairs and go to his hotel and try the next day. He was calm; postponement wouldn't bother him. He had no nerves, just a dislike of any kind of risk, however minimal. He stepped back onto the narrow fire-escape, the door just an inch ajar, and looked up at the stars in the clear dark skies above him. And waited.

Julia paid off the cab, opened the front door and took the lift up to the fourth floor. It was later than she had intended, long past nine o'clock. She let the glass door swing back behind her and hurried to her door.

She didn't even glance near the fire-exit. Pussy came into the hallway and mewed. She stroked her and went quickly to the telephone to see if Ben had tired of waiting and phoned her. The machine winked at her. She pressed ‘play' and heard his voice. ‘I'm taking Lucy out for supper. It'll cheer her up. I'll ring if we're not too late. Otherwise tomorrow morning. Then home on Friday. No more drinks with other men for you … Bye, sweetheart.' ‘Damn,' Julia said out loud. Damn … just when she needed to talk to him. She wasn't hungry; her stomach was tight with tension. She poured herself a drink and ran a hot bath. She opened a new tin of food and gave the cat an extra feed to make up for being absent. Ben said she was getting fat. Julia was always giving her titbits. He'd said to her once, half teasing, ‘God knows what you'll be like with a child … you'll spoil it to death.' She stripped off her clothes, took the drink into the bathroom and sank into the hot water. A riddle inside an enigma. And it seemed that now there was only one way to prise open that enigma, and solve the riddle. King couldn't control himself with alcohol.

Which was why, since the fatal night with his wife Phyllis Lowe, he had never touched even a glass of wine in forty years.
Get him drunk
. Felix had tossed in the flippant suggestion. She was going back now, her memory in full recall. The bath water chilled without her noticing, the drink was unfinished on the side. He'd told Phyllis that he had murdered the prisoners. In the wild confession that spilled out under the influence of alcohol he had put himself in thrall to her. There were people who lost all control, who couldn't tolerate even one drink. Not alcoholics, but people suffering from a kind of mental allergy. The inhibitions common to normal behaviour were suspended. They were at the mercy of a drug that robbed them of self-will. They were rare cases, very rare, but they existed. Harold King was such a man. The evil was in him; the alcohol made him proclaim it without fear of the consequences. She got out, dried herself, changed into pyjamas. She tipped the unfinished vodka down the sink and heated some hot milk. It might help her to sleep. Ben hadn't called. It was midnight, he wouldn't ring now. She got into bed, the cat curled up by her feet, and lay awake, thinking. How? How to trick King into breaking that embargo … And then, suddenly, the answer came to her.

He had come into the passage; he was getting too cold outside. He checked his watch. Ten to twelve. He went to the glass door round the corner and opened it, watching the lift panel to see if anyone was coming up. The red eye didn't change to green. The block was very quiet. He went to the top of the stairs, and leant over the stairwell, listening. Sound travelled upwards. There was nothing. No voices, no movement. He stayed where he was, making sure that no-one was coming in late. Nobody did.

At twenty-five minutes past twelve, he went back round the corner, through the glass door and came up to the entrance to apartment 403. He wore tight leather gloves. He muffled his mouth with his left hand and struck a heavy blow on the mahogany panel. Then another. And another. And he shouted.

‘Fire! Fire! The block's on fire! Everybody out!'

Julia was half asleep when she heard the hammering on her door. She woke fully and sprang up. She heard the voice yelling, ‘Fire … Fire …'

Fire!
She felt a rush of terror. Four floors up … Oh God … She paused to grab the coat she'd tossed on a chair. The cat … Where was the cat? She couldn't leave it. She was still on the foot of the bed. She grabbed her, breathless with fear, and ran barefoot to her front door. She wrenched the safety chain out of its socket and fumbled with the latch. He heard the movement from inside the flat and he drew himself up; a knife with a thin blade was in his right hand. As Julia opened the door he crouched to spring.

She saw the figure, saw in one second that it was poised to attack her. She gave a piercing scream of terror, and blindly, instinctively, she threw the cat at him. The cat was wild with fear – Julia's fear, communicated in that rush for safety.

It half sprang of its own accord, hissing, teeth bared and claws extended. It struck him full on and it clung to his face, ripping and snarling before he wrenched it off him. He had dropped the knife, and, in the same few seconds, Julia slammed her door shut.

She didn't think; she was so shocked she could hardly breathe. She had slipped and fallen to her knees. She managed to crawl to the door, and it took both hands to slide the heavy chain into place. She began to shake, and she felt for a moment that she was going to be sick. He was out there. Outside the door waiting. He couldn't get in. He couldn't … She couldn't hear anything. No sound. Just that terrible menacing silence with the man who had tricked her into coming out, still there …

She found the keys on the hall table, and, trembling, fitted them into the interior locks and turned them both. The locks and the chain. Nobody could break that door down without a sledgehammer. She stumbled to the sitting room. Her legs were giving way. She calmed herself, or believed she did. There was no fire. There was an alarm system throughout the building, smoke detectors, signals relayed to every flat … There was no danger, except in the passageway outside. The police … She lifted the telephone and dialled.

His face was bleeding. It was on fire from the deep scratches, and blood stung his lip. He didn't waste time. He picked up his knife. He'd failed, and he wasn't going to push his luck. He turned and sprinted down the passage, through the glass door and raced down the stairs, into the entrance hall and out of the front door into the street.

He was gone before Julia had finished locking herself in from the inside. He wiped his face, the handkerchief was stained.

Jesus Christ. A cat … He made for the Underground. A few taxis cruised the streets; one of them might recall picking up a man in the area around the time of the attack. He had asked for a key, explaining that he might be late picking up his luggage. He had paid his bill, and they had left his suitcase behind the reception desk.

He had stayed there on two previous trips to London, one of them connected to his genuine business, and he was known and trusted by the proprietor. A nice, quiet American businessman, a prompt payer and no trouble. A lot of foreigners tried to slip women in past reception. Nothing like that about him.

He looked at himself in the hallway mirror. His nose was swollen and oozing blood from the cat bites. His cheeks were ripped by scratches. He was scarred and thereby recognizable … He opened the case and took out his wash bag. He always carried a small first-aid pack. Plasters, antiseptic ointment, paracetamol. He covered the deep scratch and bite mark across his nose with a plaster, pulled up his coat collar and drew the earflaps over his burning cheeks.

It was safe to hail a taxi and, after a little while, he spotted one in the Bayswater Road. Suitcase in hand and keeping his face in shadow, he said Heathrow and jumped inside … He tossed a double fare to the driver and hurried into Terminal 3. He spent the night in the departure lounage, the cap pulled down over his face.

He boarded the eight o'clock flight to New York, refused breakfast and said he wanted to sleep. He hunched himself in his pillow and dozed.

It was around 10 a.m. New York time when they landed. He collected his car from the Terminal car park, and drove home. A cat. Nobody would believe it. He could hardly believe it himself. He had reason to, when the bites on his face turned septic a few hours later.

‘Now,' the WPC said, ‘is there anyone you can stay with tonight?'

Julia was drinking hot sweet tea. She had made her statement to the police who arrived after the emergency call. The building had been searched, the caretaker roused from his bed, and the immediate neighbours woken and asked if they had seen or heard anything. Nobody had. They suggested it was more likely to be a burglar who'd been prepared to turn very nasty once inside, and Julia found herself agreeing. They would dismiss any suggestion of a more sinister motive as hysteria on her part. She was much calmer now; the woman police officer was good at her job, quiet and reassuring.

‘You don't want to be here on your own,' she said. ‘You've had a nasty experience. And a lucky escape, if you look at it. We'll be going soon, now the building's been searched. An officer from the Crime Squad will be down to see you tomorrow morning and we'll test for fingerprints. Isn't there a woman friend you could call on? We'll drive you wherever, don't worry about that.'

‘I'm all right,' Julia insisted. She wouldn't call Ben. She wouldn't panic him in the middle of the night. And she wouldn't call anyone else. She had to keep the incident quiet.

‘I could try a man friend,' she said. ‘He's just a friend, but we were having a drink earlier this evening. He might come round.'

‘Good idea. I'll get the number for you.'

Julia didn't mean to do it, but when Felix arrived she burst into tears. He was round at the flat within twenty minutes. He looked tousled and dishevelled. He had only just sent the redhead home in a cab an hour before the telephone call. He had been sleeping the sleep of the just, as he liked to say, labouring the joke. The just after …

The police left them. Julia sat and cried and tried to tell him what had happened. He put a brotherly arm round her and let her go over it again and again, reliving the few nightmare seconds when the man loomed up at her, arm upraised.

‘He had a knife, I'm sure of it,' she whispered. ‘I'm sure I saw something in his hand …'