Chameleon (25 page)

Jamieson turned the corner and looked along both sides of the street. There was still no sign of Thelwell's Volvo. He pulled in to the kerb and paused with the engine still running while he thought what to do next. Live jazz music was coming from a bar some fifty metres down the street. He found the tune familiar but the title eluded him. He ran through a few possibilities in his head before remembering that it was Cherokee.

Jamieson was vaguely aware that his action in stopping had been misinterpreted by a black girl wearing a tight white sweater under an open leather jacket and a black woollen mini skirt. She started to cross the road towards him. Through the open window on the driver's side he could hear her thick thighs rubbing audibly together. He smiled thinly and held up his open palm to signify that she was not the object of his desire and the girl retreated with a sullen shrug. Jamieson felt embarrassed by the incident. He found himself wanting to apologise. He was about to move off again when the passenger door of his car was suddenly pulled open and a male voice said languidly, 'Run out of petrol have we sir?'

The sneer in the voice immediately put Jamieson's back up as had the man's action in opening the car door. Apart from anything else it had startled him. 'No we haven't,' he replied, maintaining the plural for the benefit of the man he knew was about to announce his credentials as a police officer.

The anticipated warrant card was flipped open and the sneering voice continued, 'Then just what are we up to sir might I ask?'

Jamieson read the relevant credentials from the card. The man was a detective constable. 'We are working,' said Jamieson, presenting his own ID. 'We are working for the Sci Med Monitor and we could get very annoyed if some half-arsed detective constable were to fuck up our investigation. We would like to be alone.'

'Sorry sir,' replied the constable his manner changing immediately. 'I thought ...'

'I know what you thought,' said Jamieson. 'I'm going to be in the area for a while.'

'Very good sir.'

'Have you seen a green Volvo estate around here?' asked Jamieson.

'Lots,' replied the policeman.

'I wouldn't have thought there would be too many down here,' said Jamieson.

'You'd be surprised,' said the constable. 'Apart from the yuppie evening visitors who come down here to eat and savour the 'danger' there are lots of well-heeled folk who actually live down here. It's become trendy to return to the heart of the city ever since Prince Charles said so. The Volvo mob have been moving in in a big way. They live in converted warehouses and mews garages. They need the estate car to take the Labradors for a shit up in the park. I sometimes think that the whores round here will soon have daylight running lights.

Jamieson did not smile. He was thinking about what the man had said. He was considering the possibility that Thelwell might actually have his own flat in the area. That would have distinct advantages for a killer. It would be much more convenient than killing from home. It would be somewhere where he could change his clothes, wash, brush up after the event. He wouldn't have to go home with blood stained clothes and, from what he had heard about the victims, there had been a lot of blood around. It might even make sense on a psychiatric level. Thelwell might be suffering from a split personality. The flat might be a base for his other self. Mr Hyde's place.

Jamieson continued to wind his way through the back streets, finally drawing to a halt when he found a parking place that was being newly vacated by a white Golf GTi that took off as if it had been entered for Le Mans. He backed into the space and switched off the engine. He rested his arms on the steering wheel and gazed out through the windscreen as he contemplated failure. It had started to rain again so he turned on the intermittent cycle on the wipers. He smiled wryly as he remembered telling Sue how simple it would be to follow Thelwell. He had been wrong. He had lost him.

The prospect of giving up and returning to the hospital was uppermost in his mind when a green Volvo suddenly crossed at the junction some fifty metres away. It happened so quickly that he did not get a look at the driver. Knowing that it would take a bit of manoeuvring to get his own car out of the small space he had just backed into he jumped out of the car and ran down to the junction to see where the Volvo was heading. It turned left half way down the street. Jamieson swithered on going back for his car but then gambled on the Volvo being near its final destination. He ran down to the intersection where he had last seen it and sneaked a look round the corner. He was looking into a broad, dark cul-de-sac, the end of which comprised a tall, picket fence which fronted a builder's yard. The green Volvo was parked to the left of the gate which carried a notice saying that it was in use 24 hours. The car was empty.

The question now was, where had Thelwell gone? Jamieson looked up at the windows on both sides of the street. Thelwell had not had time to walk more than half way back along the lane he reckoned. That narrowed the choice down to one of four doorways leading to the tenement flats above. As Jamieson considered he heard the sound of conversation coming up behind him. He looked round. A soldier, obviously very drunk, was being supported by a girl half his size who was doing her best to keep him upright. They turned into the lane. Jamieson, who had moved back into the shelter of a shop doorway, watched their unsteady progress until they had passed. He was about to move out again when the soldier fell to the ground.

'Oh my God,' exclaimed his companion in a broad local accent. 'Come on! Wake up! You can't sleep here!' Her voice changed to cajoling when this didn't work. 'Come on my lovely. Up on your feet. We are going to have a party remember?'

The soldier gave a drunken giggle but made no attempt to get up. 'Have a party,' he repeated drunkenly. Then in a sing song voice he started to chant, 'We're going to have a party ... we're going to have ...'

The whore with him finally lost her temper after failing to get him to his feet for the third time. 'If you think I've carried you all this way to have you flake out on me you've got another think coming sonny Jim!' she ranted.

Jamieson could see that she was searching through the soldier's pockets. He watched her remove his wallet. 'Put it back!' he hissed from the doorway.

The whore was startled and frightened. 'Who's there?' she demanded shakily. 'Where are you?' She got to her feet and looked about her nervously 'Oh my God!' she exclaimed as fear of the unknown got the better of her. She flung the wallet at the soldier and took to her heels.

Jamieson moved the soldier to a sitting position on the pavement and put the man's wallet back in his pocket. He decided that that was the best he could do in the circumstances and left him to continue along the lane. He still had no real idea what he was going to say or do when he found Thelwell but he suspected that he might have plenty of time to think about it. He found another doorway and decided to wait there until Thelwell reappeared.

After half an hour of moving from doorway to doorway to aid his circulation Jamieson had a stroke of luck. He saw what he felt sure was Thelwell's silhouette against one of the lighted windows above. He walked over to the relevant building and tried the entrance door. Another piece of luck; it was unlocked. He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him, holding his breath as he released the handle with painstaking slowness.

The possible stupidity of his action was becoming more and more apparent to him as he put his foot on the first step. He might be about to confront a psychopathic killer with little more than the hope that the man would fall at his feet and confess everything. The thought made him tense all his muscles. He had to be prepared for anything that might happen but as long as Thelwell did not have a gun or a knife he should not pose too much of a problem. After all, he, Jamieson, had the element of surprise in his favour. The fact that all the lights in the stairway had suddenly just gone out argued against that.

Jamieson stood stock still in the darkness. He was half way up the third flight of steps but the blackness was so complete that he could almost feel it. He desperately wished that he had a match or cigarette lighter with him. There was a smell of dampness in the stair well and the cold was tangible against his face when he moved. Suddenly there was a shuffling noise somewhere above him and he drew in breath sharply. 'Is that you Thelwell?' he demanded, annoyed that his voice had developed a slight tremor. Silence. There was a sound on the other side of him, another shuffling of feet. 'Stop playing games Thelwell. The game's up!' said Jamieson sounding a lot more courageous than he felt. Silence.

Jamieson took a step back down the stairs, feeling for the step below with the toe of his right foot. He was trying to move as quietly as possible but his heart was beating so fast and so hard that he felt sure that it must be clearly audible. He kept his back against the wall to ensure that there was at least one direction that an attacker could not approach from. He could not come from directly in front either he reasoned for that was where the railings were and on the other side was a thirty foot drop into the well of the stairs. He had the feeling that there was more than one of them in the darkness. They were approaching him from above and from below on the stairs. Nerves wanted him to say something out loud again but he steeled himself to keep quiet and not give away his own position too accurately.

'Psst,' said a voice above him like sibilant snake.

'Psst,' answered another voice from below.

They were playing with him! thought Jamieson. The bastards were playing with him! Fear and fury vied within him as he fought to remain calm. His stalkers could not see him any more than he could see them, he reasoned. Slowly he reached out with his foot again for the next step down but this time it was pulled away from him with a sudden violent tug. He crashed heavily down on to the stone steps with his cheek taking the brunt of his fall. His head filled with stars and the pain made him cry out loud. A fist smashed into his right kidney making him cry out again as he tried to roll himself into a ball for protection. He swung his fist backwards hoping to make contact with something and he did but there was no power behind it and in reply a foot crashed into his stomach taking the breath from him.

'Get his arms!' rasped a voice in the blackness.

Jamieson felt his arms being pinned behind him as he was dragged to his feet and more blows thudded into his body. As he felt himself being pushed against the railings the thought that they might be about to push him over the banister into the stair well and almost certain death bred new strength in him. He lashed out with the heel of his right foot and caught one of his attackers below the knee cap. The man yelled out and released his grip on Jamieson's arms so that Jamieson was able to pull back a bit and turn round. He took a swipe at his other attacker but failed to make any contact whereas something heavy and hard hit him on the side of the head and the strength drained from his limbs.

'Break the bastard's neck!' Jamieson heard one of the voices say as he struggled to remain conscious.

'We're gonna do this right!' said another voice.

'I'll cut his balls off!' said the first voice again.

Jamieson heard the metallic click of a knife being opened in the blackness. Blind panic fuelled him with enough energy to wrench his right arm free again. He swung his fist with all his might and this time it connected but only with the wall. Another violent blow to his head snuffed out all consciousness before the pain in his hand had even reached his brain.

Jamieson came round with a blinding headache. He felt as if two hydraulic rams were trying to push his eyes out of their sockets and the merest movement of his head exacerbated the pain to such a point that consciousness threatened to leave him again. In the moments when he could think clearly, those when he lay absolutely stock till and kept his breathing to a minimum, he deduced that his hands were tied behind his back and that he was lying on a rough blanket that was none too clean. There was a smell of stale sweat in the still air and a faint, seminal odour about the room. But at least he was alive. Pop music was being played somewhere in the distance and a young girl's exaggerated laughter drifted up from the street below.

The fact that he was still alive was something that Jamieson found surprising. Come to think of it he couldn't understand any of it. There had been two attackers and neither of them had been Thelwell. He was quite sure of that. So who had assaulted him and why? Psychopaths didn't have accomplices? It didn't make sense.

Jamieson heard footsteps on the stairs and felt afraid. He was facing the wall when he heard the door open behind him. This wasn't by design; the pain in his head had prevented him from turning over; he hadn't moved more than a few centimetres since he had regained consciousness. The light clicked on and he focussed on faded green wallpaper in front of his face. Behind him he heard more than one person come into the room.

'He's still out,' said a voice.

'Turn him over,' rasped a second voice.

A hand gripped Jamieson's shoulder roughly and stars exploded in front of his eyes as he was rolled over on to his back. He grimaced and let out a whispered curse in the form of an appeal to the Almighty.

'He's awake,' said the man at the foot of the bed without any emotion. 'He's conscious.'

Jamieson opened his eyes with pained slowness and looked at the speaker. He was a tall, powerful looking man aged about thirty and dressed in an expensive leather jacket and open necked shirt which looked as if it might be made of silk. But the expensive clothes could not mask the rough features or the scowl that looked as if it might be permanent. The other man was a full head shorter and dressed in a pin stripe suit which seemed a shade too tight for his expanding waist line. His thin lips were disguised to an extent by a bushy, black moustache which also interrupted a scar line that ran down the left side of his face and turned in to finish in the centre of his chin. Both men had a Mediterranean look about them although they sounded local.