No Escape (40 page)

‘What’s Shipley got to do with it?’ Fear and confusion were back in his eyes, mixing with the defiance.

‘Do you know where Clare could be, Mike?’

‘Answer
my
questions. What proof, and why should Shipley care?’

‘I had an expert work over my system – a friend of Adam Lerman’s. He traced the cracker to the agency.’ Allbeury paused. ‘Mike, do you have
any
idea where
Clare is? Just so you can talk to her – so
we
can talk to her – maybe help her.’

‘Because you’re so
great
at helping women in trouble?’ Novak said.

The images Allbeury lived with, much of the time lately, of Lynne Bolsover and Joanne Patston, loomed larger, made him shudder, but he pushed them away.

‘You need to find her, Mike,’ he said doggedly.

Something came into Novak’s eyes then, and was promptly blanked out.

‘What?’ Allbeury asked. ‘Mike,
what
?’

Novak took another second.

‘She has a patient,’ he said.

Allbeury remembered Novak mentioning him. ‘The paraplegic?’

Novak nodded. ‘Nick Parry.’

‘Call him,’ Allbeury said. ‘See if she’s there.’ He saw uncertainty in Novak’s face. ‘At least you’ll know she’s safe.’

‘I’m not going to interrogate her on the phone.’

‘Of course not,’ Allbeury said.

Novak half turned, then stopped. ‘Nick Parry plays chess and poker on the Internet.’ He paused. ‘Clare’s told me he considers his PC a friend.’

‘See if she’s there, Mike.’

‘Maybe this is his doing, Robin.’ Hope flared.

‘Or maybe he’s been teaching Clare a thing or two.’

‘It’s probably the other way around,’ Novak said agitatedly. ‘Young guy trapped in his wheelchair, bored out of his mind – it makes more sense than
Clare.’

‘Just make the call, Mike,’ Allbeury said.

Entering the office behind Clare Novak, Lizzie looked around, took in the lamp on the floor on one side, and, on a second desk, a smashed-up computer monitor.

A fight, it seemed, had certainly taken place.

‘Where are they?’ Lizzie’s voice was tense, her weariness almost gone in the presence of a new clenching in her stomach that she recognized as fear.

‘I don’t know,’ Clare said, uneasily, and walked past the desks, past the couch and coffee table to the door beyond a row of filing cabinets, opened it, shook her head.
‘I don’t know what’s going on.’

She turned, moving slowly around the room, looking at the smashed monitor; then, passing Lizzie, a frown wrinkling her forehead, she walked back out into the stone hallway.

Lizzie heard the sound of metal scraping, screeching, and turned around.

‘Oh, my God,’ Clare’s voice exclaimed.

‘What’s happened?’ Lizzie went swiftly to the door.

The lift gate was open and Clare was standing beside the broad open shaft. ‘You’d better see for yourself.’

Her heart starting to thump, Lizzie went out, saw the other woman’s shocked face, her own fear heightening.

‘Just
look
,’ Clare said. ‘And be careful.’

Lizzie approached the dark, gaping mouth of the lift cautiously, put out her right hand to grip the handle of the open iron gate – no padlock on it, she noticed, with a slight stir of
something – and leaned slightly forward over the edge.

The shove in her back was violent and uncompromising.

Lizzie gave a cry, felt her legs going, felt a massive surge of terror and adrenalin kick in, hung on to the gate with both hands, feet scrabbling to stay on solid ground.

Another shove, against her shoulders.

‘My
God
,’ she screamed. ‘What are you
doing
?’

‘Helping,’ Clare said, and began unhooking Lizzie’s fingers from the metal gate.

‘Clare,
no
!’

She twisted and grabbed at Clare’s left arm, and the other woman yelped, and for a moment Lizzie felt she might win, but then Clare pulled clear, and suddenly she was heaving at the gate,
dragging out the concertina, and Lizzie’s right foot lost its hold first, and now only her hands, still gripping the iron, were keeping her from falling.

‘Clare, for God’s sake,
help
me!’

‘I
told
you.’ Breathless now with effort. ‘I
am
helping you.’

She changed angles, heaved at the gate again, slammed the concertinaed metal tighter, trapping Lizzie’s fingers, and Lizzie screamed again.

‘Just one more little push,’ Clare said.

And pushed.

Lizzie plunged into the dark, her wounded fingers clawing vainly at the wall, no hope of gripping now, her right leg scraping something hard, abrasive, as she fell, struck the roof of the lift
two floors down, and passed out.

‘Parry says she’s not there,’ Novak said, putting down the phone.

‘You believe him?’ Allbeury asked.

‘I think so,’ Novak said. ‘I don’t know.’ He sat down on his sofa. ‘You didn’t answer my question about Shipley,’ he said. ‘About why she
should care about anyone hacking into your computer.’

Allbeury’s hesitation was partly for Novak’s sake. Partly because something else had just struck him.

‘Shipley would care,’ he said slowly, ‘for a number of reasons. Mostly, I’d say, she’d care because of my files on Lynne Bolsover and Joanne Patston.’

Novak was silent for an instant, and then rage flared again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Allbeury said nothing, his mind ticking over.

‘Don’t be so fucking
ridiculous
,’ Novak said.

Allbeury wasn’t listening, was too busy remembering.

Other files on his hard disk. On Lizzie and Christopher Wade.

Diary entries too. Logging dinner at the Wades’ flat. And drinks at the Savoy with Lizzie.

And, just like Joanne Patston and Lynne Bolsover, Lizzie Piper Wade was the victim of a violent husband.

‘Oh, my God,’ he said.

‘What now?’ Novak shook his head in disgust. ‘What’s next, Robin? What’s Clare supposed to have done now, joined the fucking Mafia?’

Allbeury took his mobile from his jacket pocket, called home again, heard the recorded message begin and cut the call.

‘We have to leave,’ he told Novak.

‘I’m going nowhere.’

‘You need to come with me,’ Allbeury said. ‘Right now.’

‘You’re not paying for my services now, Robin.’

Allbeury picked up his keys. ‘Do you love Clare, Mike?’

‘Don’t ask such fucking stupid questions,’ Novak said.

Allbeury was already at the door.

‘If you love her,’ he said, ‘you’d better come with me now.’

Lizzie came round, dazed, dizzy, sick with pain.

In the dark.

Almost
dark.

There was some light, from above.

And a curious sound.

It all came back to her, swiftly, terrifyingly. The other woman –
mad
– pushing her into the lift shaft. No accident – oh, dear God,
no
accident. Calculated and
cold-blooded.

She heard the sound again.

She started to tilt her face towards it, up towards the light, then stopped, afraid suddenly, in case she’d injured her neck or back, in case movement worsened it.

Assess yourself, Lizzie.

Lying on her side – on a hard, cold floor – thick dark cabling near her face.

Tentatively she moved her hands, found that they hurt badly, felt swollen, and she knew why, remembered why – the madwoman slamming the iron gate on her fingers – and her left arm,
twisted under the side of her ribcage, felt bad too, maybe – probably – broken.

The ache in her abdomen had gone –
broken bones’ll do that every time
– and at least she could
feel
her arm and hands – and her legs and feet too. Bruised,
of course, maybe cut, but not broken. Most mercifully of all, her back seemed okay.

Thank you, God.

The sound came again. A soft groaning.

Clare.

Lizzie shifted a little, managing not to yelp with pain, but then the steel floor beneath her creaked and swayed a little –
not a floor, the lift roof –
and even as she froze,
the terror sucked a cry out of her.

‘Oh,
Jesus
.’

Not her voice.

Clare Novak’s voice, from above.

Lizzie turned her face carefully upwards.

The madwoman was staring down at her, framed in the light coming through the half-open lift gate two floors up. She was on her knees, clutching at her abdomen.

‘Still with us then?’ Clare said, her voice strange.

Lizzie licked her dry mouth.

‘Help me,’ she said.

‘Why would I want to do that?’ Clare Novak asked, then gasped in pain. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she said again, and her voice, for a moment, was strangled. ‘It’s the
baby,’ she said. ‘I’m losing the baby.’

The struggle, Lizzie thought, the heaving on the heavy gate.

The effort of pushing her into the shaft.

Not the baby’s fault.

‘If you help me get out of here—’ Lizzie couldn’t believe how calm she sounded ‘—then I can help you, Clare.’

The other woman groaned again.

‘Clare, listen to me,’ Lizzie said. ‘Go and phone for an ambulance.’ She felt sweat break out on her forehead, felt sick, suddenly, with the pain in her hands and arm.
‘Clare, please, just
listen
to me. If you phone now, get help now, the baby will probably be all right.’

Two floors up, on the edge of the lift shaft, Clare Novak began to laugh.

The sound jarred in Lizzie’s head, made her feel dizzy.

‘Clare, please,’ she said again. ‘You must get help.’

‘I don’t need help,’ Clare said. ‘And you aren’t getting any. Not from me.’

‘Why not?’ Lizzie knew, even as she asked it, what a foolish question it was, because the other woman had pushed her, fought with her till she’d fallen. Yet it was the question
she wanted answered now, almost more than anything. ‘Why
not
, Clare?’

‘I’ve killed before, you know,’ Clare Novak said.

Down in the dark, more fear crawled into Lizzie’s chest, lay there.

‘Women like you,’ Clare said.

‘You don’t know me,’ Lizzie said.

‘I know about you,’ Clare said.

‘
What
do you know?’ Lizzie asked, bewildered.

‘I know what kind of man your husband is,’ Clare Novak said.

The fear in Lizzie’s chest crawled higher, spread itself around. ‘How do you know?’ The question was out before she could stop it.

‘Ask your friend,’ Clare said. ‘Ask Robin.’

‘Why Robin?’ For a moment, fresh confusion muddied the fear. ‘I don’t
understand
.’

‘The last time,’ Clare said, ‘I was far more thorough, I had time to plan, time to make it right, for the children. That’s why I’m doing it, you see. For the
children.’

The word cut through Lizzie like an axe.

‘What do you mean?’ She tried to sit up, but the pain was overwhelming, made her feel faint. ‘What about the
children
?’

Two floors up, Clare groaned again as another cramp hit her.

Lizzie gritted her teeth. ‘Clare,’ she called.

There was no answer.

‘
Clare
.’ Her chest was tight with fresh panic, the dizziness getting worse. ‘Go and phone for
help
.’ Her head began to spin. ‘For your
baby
.’

‘I told you,’ Clare Novak said, and her voice had grown much harder. ‘I don’t need any help.’

In the Jaguar again, back in the stranglehold of Friday’s late rush-hour, Allbeury looked at Novak, hunched in the passenger seat, fists clenched, face unreadable.

‘Do something for me.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Novak said.

‘Christ, Mike, will you grow
up
.’ For the first time, Allbeury felt real anger with the other man. ‘Whether you believe it or not, I’m trying to help.’

‘Then tell me where the hell we’re going and
why
.’

‘Just do this first,’ Allbeury said, ‘and then I’ll tell you.’ He took Novak’s silence as assent. ‘Take my mobile and find me a number – I think
it’s in the memory.’

Novak took the phone off the hands-free. ‘Name?’

‘Shad Tower,’ Allbeury said. ‘I want the doorman.’

Novak went through the functions, found the phone book.

‘Or it might be under Doorman,’ Allbeury said.

Novak keyed his way back through the alphabetical list. ‘Neither.’

‘Ring 192, see if they have a listing.’

The traffic began to shift.

‘Forget it,’ Allbeury said. ‘We’ll probably be there before we ever get through.’

‘I may as well try,’ Novak said.

‘I said
forget
it.’

Novak slammed the phone back on the hands-free. ‘So now tell me,’ he said, ‘what’s going on in your head.’

Allbeury flashed his lights, hit his horn and changed lanes.

‘And why the hell,’ Novak added, ‘are we going to Shad Tower?’

Helen Shipley, in considerable discomfort, lying on a trolley in A&E at St Thomas’s Hospital, waiting for her leg to be X-rayed, was, above everything, pissed as hell
at being out of it now.

Now, of
all
times.

Should tell Keenan.

Except that Shipley had an idea – bizarre, in the circumstances, and certainly ironic – that at this precise moment Robin Allbeury might possibly be doing a better job than either
she or DI Keenan had been.

She had been off-duty when all this had started, and God knew Keenan hadn’t really wanted to listen to her before.

Right, wasn’t he, as it happens
?

Half right, anyway.

A nurse hurried past.

‘Okay, love?’

‘Do you think,’ Shipley said, ‘I could have—’

The nurse had already gone.

‘—a phone?’

Pissed as
hell.

Lizzie woke, out of an ugly, painful sleep that might, she supposed as she came to, have been another faint.