Gregory's Game (31 page)

Napoleon went over to him and put his muzzle on Patrick's lap, waiting to be stroked.

‘You really like him, don't you?'

‘I suppose I do. I mean, I know what he is, Naomi. I'm not stupid and I know what he's done. Well, I can guess some of it. But yeah, I like him a lot.'

So do I, Naomi thought, though that really did go against the grain. Her old, official self screamed in protest. I used to think the world was black and white when I could still see it, Naomi thought. Now I can't see it any more, I know for sure it's all just many shades of grey.

J
az was in her element. Charles Duncan had given her access to information she'd never have been able to get at in a million years via the police system and hooked her up with experts from his team. They'd set up a Skype link and were cross-referencing locations and land searches.

Rico Steadmann had a series of shell companies through which he bought and sold property, vintage cars, commodities – Jaz knew she would never have tracked them back to him. But that work had been done. Their intelligence said that they should concentrate on ‘North'. That was such a typically southern attitude, Jaz thought. North was a pretty big description. They focused on those properties where Rico had known associates. But it still left a big chunk of data.

‘Warehouses, old commercial properties,' Jaz said. ‘There's something here very close to where Katherine Marsh was found. There's a group of three, due for redevelopment, close to Bernie Franks' pub.'

They matched information to location, to local knowledge. Teams were dispatched. It was impossible to cover everything. Jaz found herself called upon to make decisions. She knew what was at stake, and that the chances of getting it wrong were so high as to be unthinkable.

‘Just do what you can,' Branch told her, when he saw her hesitation.

News of the Phelps shooting reached them. Blood at the scene indicated that someone had been injured and had fled.

‘Phelps was in no position to do the shooting,' Charles Duncan said.

‘You think it was Nathan Crow, or his friend?'

‘That finished the job? No. I think when they left him, Phelps was probably still alive, and probably wishing he wasn't. The best guess is that his boss didn't want loose ends.'

‘Which suggests that we're on to something,' Branch said.

Katherine Marsh had been allowed out of bed. Her feet, badly cut and bruised and still healing, hurt even in the soft slippers one of the nurses had brought in for her. She had walked to the window and stood looking out. The view on to the car park was uninspiring, but pleasingly ordinary. She watched as visitors came and went, taxis dropped off, ambulances passed by on their way to somewhere. She wondered about her husband. Ian was dead. Why was he dead? Had he been shot trying to find Desiree?

Or had something else been happening, something she didn't know about? Kat had trusted her husband, but she'd known he had a strange and mysterious past. That there were many things about him she didn't know – and didn't choose to know. Had that been her fault? Should she have asked more questions?

Her feet hurt and she was sure her left one had started to bleed again. She welcomed the pain. It was real and external and could be fixed with bandages and painkillers or by taking the weight off and sitting down.

Inside, she felt as though something had ripped her apart. She was empty and hollowed out and the space that was left had been filled with something that was both leaden and amorphous. It spread through her, weighing her down, pressing her organs and her thoughts and her emotions into some tiny, intense, painful space.

Where was her child? Was she scared? Was she alive? Did anyone know that she didn't like carrots but would eat her weight in chocolate and cheese if they let her? That she liked her apple sliced and not puréed. That she liked to be sung to and cuddled and …

It was as if Kat's body could no longer hold her upright. She crumpled in on herself, the sudden pain in her abdomen, in her chest, in her head more than she could bear. She bent over, knees collapsing, folded in half and then in half again by the suddenness of the pain.

Hands lifted her; someone helped her back into her bed.

‘Make it go away,' Kat begged, but she knew that nothing could.

F
ourteen hours since Nathan had been shot. It was now mid afternoon. Gregory spoke to Annie. He was improving, she said, and Alec and Harry had arrived.

‘They've been great,' she said. ‘Alec told the neighbour he and Harry were doing some decorating before Molly got back. They even borrowed another pair of steps.'

Gregory laughed. It was a relief to be able to laugh over something.

‘Tell Alec we didn't shoot Phelps,' he said.

‘Gregory, you don't have to do this. Come here, let someone else take over.'

It was tempting, he thought. Far too tempting. ‘I can't,' he said. ‘You know I can't. Not yet.'

‘Take care, then. They'll be waiting for you.'

Pale sun had broken through the thick cloud and the rain had finally stopped. Gregory moved slowly up the fire escape at the back of the building. He'd noticed a window, just slightly ajar on the third floor. Two below the one he wanted. The fire escape was hidden from street view by the angle of the building. The office block, sixties ugly, wedged into a space between much older red bricks housed a couple of law firms, an estate agency on the ground floor and an employment bureau specializing, so the sign said, in Industrial and Warehouse. Gregory just hoped that whoever had their window cracked open would not be in the office when he arrived.

He paused on the fire escape and peered cautiously through. The office was empty, the door open, and he could see two young women chatting in the room beyond. As he watched, one left and he glimpsed the corridor. Slowly, Gregory opened the window and climbed through. He could hear a voice in the office. The woman he had seen was speaking on the phone. Gregory moved towards the door and waited.

‘Just a moment and I'll find that for you,' she said. Gregory hoped that whatever ‘it' was didn't bring her into the back office. He shifted position so he could see her through the half-open door. The woman, humming to herself now, was searching through a filing cabinet. Gregory took a chance; he moved through into the outer office and hurried for the door.

‘Can I help you?'

She had turned as he reached the door. He stood now, door slightly open, his hand on the knob.

‘I think I'm on the wrong floor,' he said. ‘The employment agency?'

She smiled. ‘Oh, you've come up one too far. People do it all the time.'

Gregory thanked her and left. He listened for a moment, heard her resume the phone call. It all seemed kosher, he thought, but alarm bells were ringing. What if she worked for Rico? What if …?

Gregory consciously pushed his fears aside. Annie had been right. He should have given it his best and backed away. But he hadn't and it was too late now.

He ran up the next two flights of stairs, opened the door to Hugh Ryder's office. A secretary looked up, smiling. Then her smile faded as she saw the weapon in Gregory's hand. He gestured for her to go through to the inner office. Her face was white; for a moment he thought she might faint. She opened the door and he held the gun to her back as they went through.

‘He's not here,' she whispered. ‘He went out an hour ago.'

‘Went where?'

‘I don't know. Really, I don't know.'

He sat her down in the office chair, took long cable ties from his pocket and fastened her hands behind her back, arms wrapped around the back of the chair. He used another to lock her wrists to the chair. Then went for her feet. ‘Kick me and I'll break your knees.'

She didn't kick.

‘His appointments for this afternoon.'

‘In the book.' She was belligerent now. Still scared, but also mad as hell.

Gregory flicked through the diary on the desk, aware that he didn't really know what he was looking for. That the man might already have gone. That Desi might already have been handed over.

‘The kid,' he said. ‘Where is she?'

‘How the hell should I know? I don't know anything about a kid.'

He heard a sound in the front office and turned, just enough to keep the door in view. Other paperwork lay scattered across the desk. He eyed it thoughtfully. Listening. The woman was listening too, he realized. She knew.

In the diary was a notation that clearly wasn't a time. Three fifty-two. No one made an appointment for three fifty-two.

On the desk lay a rental contract. A set of car keys. A couple of other legal documents that to Gregory's eyes could have been anything. They reminded him of the guff he had signed when he'd bought his house – his one, benighted attempt at being a regular citizen. Then he spotted something.

Three fifty-two. The number was the same as on the building contract sitting on the desk. Two things occurred to Gregory at that moment. The first was that this had been deliberately left for him to see. That it was just another one of Rico Steadmann's games. The second thought was that this is where he was keeping Kat's child. He was certain of it. The bill of sale wasn't for the warehouse, it was for the little girl. Rico wanted him to see that and to understand and to know there wasn't a thing he could do.

He was aware of the secretary, looking at him. She was laughing.

He was ready when the door crashed back. He came out shooting, hitting one man in the arm and another in the stomach. The second man fell, screaming. The first came on. Gregory shot him again. He fell and this time stayed down. But there were footsteps, running on the stairs. Shouts. Automatic gunfire that ripped through the stud walls. Gregory felt the bullet hit. The sudden fire in his shoulder. He hit the ground and began to crawl.

G
regory knew he had no chance of making it out through the offices; his only option was the fire escape. The likelihood was they'd have that covered too, but what choice did he have?

He'd walked, eyes wide open, into a trap. Now he'd just have to do the best he could.

He felt in his pocket for the second clip. His left arm hung useless at his side, blood dripping from his fingers and on to the floor. He was close to the window now, and above his head the automatic fire ripped the walls apart. He figured he had until it stopped, then they'd be through the door and his chance would be gone.

Desperate, he hauled himself to his feet and staggered to the window, wrestling with the catch. A bullet hit the wall, fractions of an inch from his head. Plaster and glass shrapnel clawed down his face. He opened the window and fell through. Glancing back he saw the secretary slumped in the chair, her face half ripped away by the automatic fire. Then he looked down. Below him the fire escape turned back on itself, blocking his view of anyone coming up from the ground. He knew they'd be there. Of course they'd be there. Fighting nausea and shock, struggling to keep on his feet, Gregory began the descent.

‘Sir, we've got reports coming in of fires at several of the addresses we have. Steadmann's properties. And one report of an explosion.'

Branch turned to the officer. ‘Show me,' he said.

She brought up the computer screen and pointed to the feeds she was tracking.

‘Jaz?'

She nodded confirmation. ‘Two fire officers injured. Three major fires, near as damn it simultaneous.'

As they continued to monitor, another was reported, sixty miles away.

‘He's cutting his losses,' Branch said. ‘Getting rid of whatever he was storing there before we close in.'

‘Reports of a body at one of the buildings. Near the entrance.' Jaz told him. ‘Sir, this does not look good.'

How many shots did he have left? Probably four in this clip, Gregory calculated. True, he'd got the second clip, but with his damaged arm, reloading would be a trial. He'd be slow. It wasn't something he could contemplate without at least minimal cover and there was nothing on the fire escape.

He'd moved as fast as he could, knowing it was only a matter of time before they came after him from above. He fired a warning shot back towards the window. It ricocheted off the metal steps and hit the wall. He stumbled on. Below him were sounds of feet, thundering upward. Gregory knew he was trapped. He looked for another way. He was approaching that window now, the one through which he'd entered the building. Praying that it was still open, Gregory quickened his pace. He reached it just as another burst of gunfire clattered down.

Bit of luck, Gregory thought, those coming down would shoot those coming up and save him some bother. Someone must have recognized the dilemma; he heard shouting, swearing from those below.

Gregory pushed through the window and practically fell inside.

Through the back office and back out into the reception where he'd spoken to the woman. She was still there. She froze when she saw him with the gun and then began to scream. ‘Shut the fuck up and get the hell out,' Gregory snapped at her. She fled and Gregory followed her through the door.

He'd gained himself moments, he thought, before they realized what he had done. Leaving the office, he made it to the stairs. He could hear the woman, still screaming, and other voices now, raised in terror. If they had any sense, Gregory thought, they'd shut up and get out of the way. Someone surely would have called the police by now. He'd almost welcome the chance to get himself arrested. His shoulder was bleeding profusely. He knew he was losing too much blood. His vision was becoming blurred and his ears filled with fog. He made it to the front door and crashed out into the empty street. In the distance he could hear sirens. Behind him gunfire and shouts. He turned away from the sounds and looked for a place to regroup, stumbled into a narrow alleyway between two more buildings and then into a yard. A gate stood open, leading on to a cycle path. The path was narrow and Gregory thought he'd made the wrong call. That he'd trapped himself again. Then he saw another opening, leading off the path and into another yard. More offices, he thought. And industrial bins.