Incinerator (22 page)

“No credit.” More laughter.

I recognized one voice anyway. Dean was playing cards, and losing. His opponent had a deep gravelly voice and an accent that sounded Mediterranean—Greek, maybe? His voice was good-humoured and amused right now, but something told me you didn’t want to be around when he stopped laughing. I suspected that was the big bald guy with the moustache and the rings. There was a third man in the room who seemed younger, with a high-pitched giggle that somehow sounded foreign as well.

“Look, here, right, it’s a Rolex, all right? Deal?”

“I have watch.”

“It’s a fucking Rolex, it’s worth six grand!”

“Not to me. Is worth maybe one.”

“Hell, fine, deal!”

From what I could hear Dean would soon be reading the time off his mobile phone, if he managed to keep hold of that. I moved out quickly and tiptoed down the hall in the other direction from the voices, keeping clear of the carpet. Walking on it would have muffled my steps, but my sneakers might well have left prints or damp marks.

The first door I came to was open, revealing a narrow staircase heading downwards, to a cellar or an old scullery. I wasn’t sure about going down there; chances were there’d be no other way out. Then again, it wasn’t likely anyone would be sleeping in the cellar. I might have more chance to look around without being caught.

The staircase was solid and barely creaked under my weight. I expected to see low-ceilinged rooms piled high with junk or papers or maybe rows of wine racks, but instead
I found myself in another long corridor. This one looked newly decorated, with vinyl flooring and a row of doors off one side, each with a window at eye level glazed with wired glass. Every door, I noticed, had a bolt on the outside, although none of them were bolted right now, as far as I could see. On the wall by each door was a light switch.

I glanced into the nearest room, a small bare cube with pale green walls and a ventilator but no window apart from the one in the door. It reminded me too much of a room in my old youth detention centre—a sink, a plastic chair, a single metal bed with a quilt rolled up at the foot of a thin mattress. I could guess what that bucket in the corner was for. The wired glass in this door had crazed where someone inside had rammed something hard into it—the leg of a chair, I guessed. Maybe this place had once been a special school, but even the grimmest special schools didn’t have cells in the basement—these features were a recent addition to the house. It looked more like a prison, waiting for a fresh crop of inmates. But where did they come from, and where did they go?

I was about to turn back for the stairs when I
noticed one door at the far end of the corridor was still bolted shut. Jesus, I thought, there’s someone locked in here? That was bad news. I had no idea how I was going to get out of this place, and if I tried to help anyone else we’d both be caught. Should I run for it, get help? But I knew that wasn’t really an option. I crept up to the door and pressed my face to the wired glass.

The only light in the cell came from the hall where I was standing, and it was hard to see anything beyond my own reflection. I could just about make out a figure asleep in the bed. This cell wasn’t as bare as the others; a track-suit lay folded neatly on the bedside chair, and there was even a TV on a little table, plugged into a DVD player, although there seemed to be more books scattered around than DVDs. After staring very hard I realized the prisoner was a woman, small and slight, with blonde hair that hadn’t been washed in a while …

I scrabbled at the bolt and nearly slammed it back before I remembered where I was and eased it home softly instead. Turning the handle slowly I opened the door, glancing over my shoulder before I crept inside, terrified
now of getting caught. The room was stuffy and smelled of stale breath and piss, but the woman slept on. I reached out to touch her shoulder, and her eyes opened, and she scrabbled backwards in the bed as if I had come to kill her. I couldn’t risk her crying out, so I clapped my right hand over her mouth, and she twisted her head and sank her teeth into the heel of my right hand. I gritted my jaw and bore the pain, whispering urgently, “Nicky—

Nicky, it’s me! It’s Finn!”

Either she heard what I was saying, or she recognized me from the taste of my blood, but Nicky finally heard what I was hissing at her, and I felt her relax. When she opened her teeth I tugged my hand away, and she flung herself at me, her arms so tight around my neck I nearly choked. But I could feel the fear and relief in her slender body, and I gave her a moment to realize that I was really there and that she wasn’t dreaming. I knew that at any minute Dean or one of his friends could come downstairs, but I sat there and held her for as long as I could, because I’d wanted to take her in my arms long before I’d lost her.

Finally she pulled away, but before she could
speak I raised a finger and held it to her lips. I had as many questions as she did, but explanations could wait. She flung the bedclothes aside, grabbed the sweatpants from the plastic chair and pulled them on. I ducked down and felt under the bed for shoes, and found a pair of expensive trainers—the ones she was wearing when she was abducted, presumably. Nicky snatched them from me and tugged them on while I checked the corridor to see if anyone had heard us.

The starkly lit passageway was still empty. When I stepped outside Nicky followed me, wide-eyed, and tense as a wound spring. I raised a hand to indicate she should wait a second, then ducked into the cell next door, where I grabbed the pillow from the unmade bed. There were no other props I could use, and no time to set up anything more elaborate anyhow. While Nicky stared at me, clearly desperate to run, I returned to her cell and stuffed the pillow under the blankets, hastily arranging them to try and make it look like Nicky was still asleep, curled up and facing the wall. The finished arrangement would barely have
fooled a two-year-old, I thought, but it was better than nothing.

I rejoined Nicky outside the cell and slid the bolt home on her door. I felt her hand slip into mine as she led me stealthily up the corridor towards the stairs, but although I could tell how frantic she was to escape I couldn’t let her lead the way. I knew the simplest way out would be the way I had come in, and that she couldn’t know that. At the foot of the staircase I tugged her hand to slow her down, moved past her and led the way up the steps, holding my breath, expecting every moment a creak underfoot that would betray our presence.

I had left the door at the top of the stairs ajar, and now I pulled it open a little further and listened. I couldn’t hear Dean any more, just what sounded like the guy with the rings having a discussion with the younger guy in some language I didn’t recognize. The double doors of the room they were in hung slightly open.

I beckoned Nicky to follow me, stepped out into the hall and tiptoed up the corridor to the door I had entered by. That’s when I heard a chair pushed back, and footsteps approaching,
and a foreign expression used in a way that sounded very much like “see you later.” I was two-thirds of the way to the second door, and there was no time to turn back.

I dashed forward, praying my soft footsteps would be lost under those of whoever was coming. I made it to the second door, stepped inside, and pushed it nearly shut just as I heard him emerge from the large room and close the doors behind him. I prayed Nicky had had the presence of mind to step back inside the doorway that led to the cellar stairs.

She hadn’t.

I could tell, because the young, dapper guy who had just appeared paused by the room I was hiding in, looked down the corridor towards Nicky and smiled. He was tanned and fit, with eyes so brown they were nearly black, a smart blazer and jewellery that made him look like a talent-show host. He said nothing, but ambled towards her, and I knew I only had seconds before he called out to his big mate with the rings to tell him what he’d found. Maybe I could take both of them, I thought, but I didn’t know how many other
men were in the building. I opened my door again and silently stepped out into the corridor behind Talent Show Tony.

Nicky was staring at him like a rabbit with its leg in a trap would stare at a fox, but in one glimpse I knew that she was standing like that to distract him, because she didn’t even glance past him towards me. Talent Show Tony had raised a finger and was waving it from side to side, like he was about to say, “Ah ah ah, naughty,” when my arm snaked round his neck and my other hand clasped the back of his head. I squeezed his throat, hard, and pushed his head forward. He grabbed at my arm and started to claw at my face, wriggling and thrashing, but I screwed my eyes shut, braced my feet and leaned back. I had so much height on him his own feet barely touched the ground, and I held my own breath while he struggled for his. Stop fighting it, I thought, don’t kick anything, don’t make a bloody sound. He tried all of that, and when he realized I was too strong for him he tried to kick the walls and stamp to summon help, but he’d left it too late. He was too weak, and growing weaker by the second.

Nicky was watching him, wide-eyed and motionless. I caught her eye, glanced down and jerked my head. She frowned, not comprehending. “Feet!” I hissed. By now Tony’s body had sagged and his head was lolling. I grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him backwards while Nicky seized his ankles and lifted his feet high enough not to drag on the carpet. The three of us staggered along, still trying not to make a noise, but when I reached the side room and backed into the door it flew open and banged on the abandoned trolley. I kept going, dragging the unconscious Tony inside—he seemed to weigh a ton now—while Nicky grabbed the door and shut it, turning the handle so it clicked home almost silently.

I bent my knees, lowered Tony to the floor on his side, and finally let myself breathe, straining to listen beyond my own gulps for footsteps in the hall or a voice calling for him. We waited like that for ever, it seemed, but no sound came. Just the two of us breathing.

Shit—it should have been three. I knelt and laid my forefinger on Tony’s carotid. No pulse.

“Damn,” I murmured. I rolled him over onto his back, laid my left hand on his heart,
and braced my right behind it, before Nicky grabbed my shoulder, and shook her head. I couldn’t believe what she seemed to be saying—that she wanted me to let him die? I frowned at her, but her face was set, bleak and merciless. I realized she was right—if I did bring him back, he’d only raise the alarm—but I’d never meant to … I looked up at her again, searching for pity or a spark of compassion, and saw neither.

The decision had been made; no time now to agonize. I started to go through Tony’s pockets. He was still warm, and I pushed to the back of my mind the thought that he would soon grow cold and rigid. His trouser pockets held a smartphone and a bunch of keys on a ring with a fat plastic fob bearing the Merc logo. Of course—he was the driver of the Merc. It was him who’d thrown that cup out the window after picking up Dean and the bald guy near Sherwood’s office.

I offered the keys to Nicky—I still hadn’t learned how to drive—and she took them while I checked his other pockets. The wallet in his rear trouser pocket was stuffed with twenty-pound notes and held a European
driving licence; I stuffed the notes into my pockets and dropped the empty wallet beside the body. His smartphone was brand-new and top of the line, but pressing the power button revealed it was locked. I kept it anyway. When it rang I’d know they’d started looking for him.

I turned to the window, flipped up the latch, and eased the pane upwards. Fresh air billowed in, cold and damp. Poking my head out I looked both ways, but saw no one. When I turned to urge Nicky through I saw she had picked up the plastic chair that had been lying in the corner and was wedging it under the door handle. It was a good idea; it would at least slow down the discovery of the body. I’d always admired the way she kept her head under pressure, and seemed to think two steps ahead of everyone else.

I went first, then helped Nicky clamber out through the window and down; her grip was still strong—she hadn’t been locked up long enough to lose her muscle tone—and immediately led the way towards the front of the building where the cars were parked. The gravel under our feet seemed to crunch more loudly now than when I’d arrived, but
I guessed she was deliberately walking with firm, loud strides, rather than wasting time and raising suspicion by trying to sneak across the car park unheard. I followed her, mimicking her brisk but relaxed footsteps. As we approached the Merc she flicked the remote and I heard the locks click open. We both slid inside at the same moment, not even glancing back at the house. She slipped the fat key into a slot on the dashboard—it was one of those all-electronic keys—and turned it. The engine fired up instantly, and she reached for her seatbelt. An electronic chime sounded and I squirmed, looking around for the source—was it an immobilizer or something?—but Nicky just murmured, “Seatbelt, Finn.”

Sheepishly I pulled my belt across and clicked it home while Nicky found a button on the side of her seat and moved it forward. Power seats are all very well and flash, I decided, but they’re no help when you’re trying to make a snappy getaway. However, Nicky seemed completely unflustered; when she had the seat where she wanted it she adjusted the rear-view mirror, pulled the gear lever back, threw her arm over the back of my seat, looked
over her shoulder and reversed out as smartly as if we were leaving the car park of her local supermarket. She slipped the car into drive and moved off, sending up a spray of gravel as we pulled off the forecourt and onto the driveway, but that was pretty much how Talent Show Tony would have taken off. He too would have weaved and swerved like this to dodge the potholes in the gravel—he’d liked to keep his Merc spotless.

“Are you OK?” Nicky asked me after a few moments. Her eyes flicked between the driveway ahead and the rear-view mirror.

“Me?”

“About Tony.”

“Who’s Tony?”

“The man you just …” She glanced at me.

“He was really called Tony?”