Die Twice (30 page)

I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. ‘When? When was that?'

‘A couple of weeks back.'

‘Before Miriam's murder?'

‘Yeah, yeah. It would have been.'

‘Why didn't you tell us this when we came round to visit you last week?'

He sensed my displeasure. ‘Because, you know, well, you only seemed interested in what male visitors she'd had, and I couldn't even have told you if she'd been at Miriam's place or not. I just saw her and I thought she looked nice. And then I sort of forgot about it until tonight, when I saw her with you. There's no problem, is there?'

I shook my head, focusing my mind elsewhere. Putting together the final pieces. It was a while before I spoke. ‘No. There's no problem.'

‘Is there anything wrong, man? Are you OK?'

I nodded slowly, and looked away from him. ‘Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit tired, that's all.'

So Carla had been lying again. I should have known her story was bullshit, but maybe I'd been concentrating on too many other things to have seen the holes in it. I looked at her once again, and this time she looked back. I think she must have seen something in my face that told her I knew, because her eyes widened. Drayer turned round to follow my gaze and started to say something, but I wasn't taking any notice. Then Carla's eyes widened even further – she must have recognized him too.

I pushed past Drayer and strode up to the table, slamming the drinks down on it.

Carla stood up, the concern etched across her face. ‘Look, I can explain. I didn't want you to know that I'd paid her—' I grabbed her tightly by the arm and pulled her towards me. ‘Dennis. You're hurting me.'

‘You're fucking right I am. You've played me for a fool, Carla.'

‘Let go of me,' she hissed, eyes narrowing. ‘I admit it, I lied. I did meet her, but—'

‘You didn't just meet her, did you? You killed her. Either that or you know exactly who did.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?' Her expression was one of utter astonishment, but I wasn't falling for that one again.

‘When we were talking this morning, you said to me you didn't want Anne Taylor to end up like Miriam Fox. Dead in a back alley with her throat cut. Those were your exact words. Remember?'

She tried to shake her arm free. ‘I told you to let go—'

‘But the only people who could possibly know that Miriam Fox had her throat cut were us – the police – and the murderer.'

‘No, no, no.' She shook her head wildly. ‘I don't know what you're talking about. You … you're accusing me of killing that girl. You bastard!' She yelled out these last two words, and people started turning round to look at us. Then, with her free hand, she reached down, picked up her drink, and chucked the contents of it in my face.

The alcohol stung, and I blinked rapidly, momentarily releasing my grip on her arm. Before I could recover, she pushed me back into one of the chairs, turned and stormed out.

But I wasn't letting her go that easily, not until I'd found out what had really happened. I stood back up, rubbing the stinging alcohol out of my eyes, and started after her, but I'd made only five paces when a big guy with thick dreadlocks stepped in front of me and blocked my path.

‘All right, mate, leave her alone.'

‘Out of my way. I'm a police officer!' I snapped, realizing as soon as the words were out that this was not the sort of venue to be declaring your links with the oppressive capitalist system.

‘Well, fuck you, then,' he said evenly, and punched me on the side of the head.

I stumbled back while his rake-thin girlfriend grabbed hold of him and told him not to get himself into any trouble. He started telling her to leave him be, but he never finished the sentence because I came forward with my trusty little truncheon in hand and smacked him round the face with it. He went down hard, hitting the floor with a satisfying thud, and his girlfriend screamed. I kept walking, keeping my head down, making for the door, once again caught completely unawares by the speed and direction of events.

30

It was raining even harder when I got outside. I looked up and down the street but could see no sign of Carla. It was quiet out there tonight. The traffic was running smoothly and there didn't seem to be many people about. About fifty yards away I could make out a black cab waiting to turn right into a side street, and I wondered if she was inside it. I didn't bother trying to find out, knowing it would be gone long before I got there, and instead lit another cigarette and stood where I was, trying to take in what I'd just heard. She'd stitched me up perfectly. I'd genuinely thought there'd been a shared attraction when all the time her sole purpose had been to throw me off track. And it had worked, too. Far too easily.

There was a bus shelter across the road and I jogged over to it, fiddling around in my pocket for the mobile. When I reached the shelter I dialled Malik's home number. His wife answered after a couple of rings. I'd met her once or twice in the past, and when I came on the line she asked me how I was. I told her I was fine, but that it was urgent I talked to him. ‘It's about a case we were working on.'

‘I don't like him getting too many calls at home, Dennis. He works hard enough as it is.'

‘I know, I know. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.'

Reluctantly, she went off to get Malik and he came on the phone a few seconds later.

I didn't beat about the bush. ‘Carla Graham. You were right about her. She's a conniving, cynical bitch and she was involved in the Miriam Fox murder. I don't know how or why, but she's definitely involved. I think it might be something to do with blackmail. Drayer, that poet guy we met when we went round to Miriam's flats, he remembers seeing her—'

‘Whoa, Dennis, slow down. What is this? When did you see Drayer?'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw two figures walking towards the bus shelter. They both had their heads down, which I thought was strange. They were ten yards away and walking purposefully.

‘Just now. Two minutes ago.'

Eight yards. Seven yards. They both had their hands in the pockets of their long coats. Malik was talking into my ear. Suddenly I wasn't listening any more.

Six yards. One of them raised his head, and our eyes met. I knew straight away that he was here to kill me.

There was no time even to freeze with the fear that shot through me.

Keeping as casual a face as possible, and still clutching the phone to my ear, I turned slowly on my heels and then, without warning, broke into a manic sprint, the adrenalin coursing through me. I dropped the phone in my pocket as I ran, sneaking a rapid peek over my shoulder. My movement had caught them by surprise, but only for a second. One pulled a sawn-off shotgun, the other a revolver. They lifted them in my direction, still walking purposefully, not even breaking stride. And still only a matter of yards away.

I didn't think. I just didn't have time. Reflexively, I veered sharply right and began running across the road. A car was forced to brake suddenly, its tyres skidding on the slick tarmac. I heard the driver shouting something angry but unintelligible.

An explosion shattered the night air and something whistled past my head. I kept running, keeping low, trying to move in a zig-zag pattern to make it more difficult for them to hit me. More shots, this time from the revolver. Close. Far too close. Any second now and I was going to get a bullet between the shoulder blades.

I could hear them right behind me, charging after me across the street. I hit the pavement on the other side and ran, crouching, using parked cars for cover. The shotgun blasted its load again and a shower of glass from a rear windscreen sprayed the ground. There was no way I was going to outrun these boys. They knew it. I knew it. All I could do was to keep going. With my head down and my body straining forward, I continued down the pavement as fast as my legs would carry me, knowing that all this effort was probably going to be in vain but too desperate to care.

From somewhere in the direction of the Gallan club I heard a woman scream in terror as she saw what was happening. For a split second I imagined her standing horrified above my bullet-riddled corpse. At that moment I was so frightened I could have pissed my pants.

Then, without warning, I caught a glimse of a man in a suit running across the street in an effort to get between me and my pursuers. He was holding something up in his right hand. A warrant card. He must have been a member of my surveillance team.

‘Police, police! Drop your weapons!'

He'd got onto the pavement behind me and was standing in front of the gunmen. Ahead of me, on the other side of the street, I could see his partner – a shorter, fatter guy who looked a few years older. I recognized him straight away as the guy at the bar in the Chinaman the previous night. The Coke drinker who never liked to talk politics. He was waiting to cross the road to apprehend me, but a car speeding down the street was holding him up.

‘Police! Drop your weapons now!'

It was the tall one again, but his voice betrayed his desperation as he suddenly realized he'd almost certainly bitten off more than he could chew. I kept running, but briefly turned round. He was ten yards behind me and the gunmen had stopped in front of him. One was looking round him at me, and I could sense his urgent desire not to let his quarry disappear.

There was a second's silence. instinctively I slowed down as the drama played itself out. On the street cars were stopping to get a look at what was happening, allowing the other copper to cross. He ran towards me, but he too was watching his colleague. It looked like the whole street was.

The shotgun barked again, and the man who'd tried to prevent my execution flew backwards through the air. He seemed to hover above the ground for an indeterminate but memorable period of time before hurtling downwards with a crash, as if an invisible hand had tipped him out of its palm. He lay there, not moving.

His colleague froze. Still in the middle of the road. And then he put a hand to his mouth as the shock of what he'd just seen hit him. He tried to shout something, something that could give him some control over a chaotic situation, but nothing came out.

And before he'd even moved, my pursuers came after me again, the shotgun guy reloading and running at the same time. His friend with the handgun was ferociously quick. He came at me in huge bounds, reminding me bizarrely of one of the two-legged hunting dinosaurs in
Jurassic Park,
and there was a fixed, maniacal smile on his face. For a moment I felt like I was in some sort of slow-motion nightmare, that whatever I did, however fast I moved, he was going to catch me. But I kept running, knowing there was no choice, not daring to look back as the shots cracked around me. And as I ran, my lungs and throat filled up with phlegm and I couldn't breathe. I knew I was just seconds away from the end.

There was a yelp and the sound of someone slipping, and I looked over my shoulder to see handgun man falling onto the wet ground, holding the gun up in the air. Relief didn't even cross my mind. The one with the shotgun was right behind him, and by now he'd reloaded. He jumped over his colleague, then stopped, lifted the weapon to his shoulder, and prepared to fire. Eight yards separated us. Even though I was still running, he couldn't miss.

Coming up on my left was a Chinese takeaway. It was my only chance. I flung myself forward onto the pavement at just the moment he pulled the trigger, taking it at a roll. The shot flew shrieking over my head and into the distance, and I was immediately back on my feet and charging at the takeaway door like a runaway bull. He fired again, but I'd already hit the door at a dive. It flew open and I fell inside, hitting the tiled floor elbow first, ignoring the pain that shot right up my arm.

I wanted to lie where I was for a couple of seconds and get my breath back, and it took a huge effort of willpower to force myself to my feet. I heard footsteps on the pavement outside and I knew that they were only seconds behind me. The lone customer in the place – a middle-aged man with a checked shirt and an expression of sheer dismay – stood watching me silently. Behind the counter, the young Chinese server, who couldn't have been a day over eighteen, looked just as confused by the whole situation.

I turned round as shotgun man appeared at the door. He levelled the weapon, the customer swore and fell back onto one of the chairs, and I charged the counter. The Chinese guy shrieked and dived out the way as I rolled over it like it was an assault course obstacle, crashing down the other side. The shotgun barked again and the glass covering the menu board above my head exploded into a hundred pieces that fell about me like jagged snowflakes as I wriggled maggot-like across the floor.

The door marked ‘Private – Staff Only' was my only means of escape. I headbutted it open, crawling on my hands and knees, and desperately pushed my body through. I was in a small corridor leading through to the kitchens. Back in the shop, I could hear shouting and the sound of someone else coming over the worktop. I ran forward into the kitchens where half a dozen Chinese in chef's whites were busy at work. They all turned round as I charged in, and one jumped in front of me.

‘No, no. Not allowed. No customers!'

I looked round desperately for an exit door, knowing I had seconds.

The chef, who just about came up to my chest, grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket. ‘No customers! You must leave!'

He began pushing me backwards, and another younger chef armed with a wicked-looking meat cleaver started coming round the main worktop. I spotted the back door behind them in the corner. It was held slightly ajar by a piece of cardboard. I felt a surge of relief and panic in roughly equal measure.

Hearing the rapid footfalls in the corridor behind me, I screamed something incoherent and pushed the chef aside. He fell into a load of pots and pans and cried out. The other chef, the one with the cleaver, went to raise it above his head, and I thought momentarily that this would be a very stupid way to die, cut down by an irate kitchen worker while fleeing a professional assassination team.