The Borgia Ring (29 page)

They dashed through the sitting-room and into the hall. There was no sign of Mrs Ketteridge or Rainer. A loud clanking sound came from the landing outside the door. Pendragon moved slowly along the wall of the hall with Turner beside him. They reached the door and saw three armed policemen emerge from the lift, four more appearing at the top of the stairs. Two of the cops crouched with their pistols pointed directly at the plainclothes policemen. Pendragon and Turner put their hands up instinctively. Then the cops relaxed and lowered their weapons.

‘What’s happening?’ Pendragon snapped. Then, whirling
round, he noticed an Emergency Exit sign at the end of the landing. ‘They’ve gone down there!’ he yelled to the armed unit. ‘A man and a woman. The woman is Mrs Pam Ketteridge, the man Max Rainer. He’s dressed as a woman. Mrs Ketteridge has a firearm and has taken him hostage. Go!’ He spun round to check on Jez Turner. ‘Sergeant, are you okay?’

Turner was pressing his hand to his neck. ‘Just a couple of nicks.’

‘Good. Let’s go!’

They took the stairs, racing down three at a time. Emerging through the front doors, they arrived just in time to see an old Volvo tearing towards them. It missed the kerb by a few inches and screeched away. In the streetlights and neon glow, they could see Pam Ketteridge at the wheel. Rainer was in the passenger seat, unconscious, his head lolling forward. It was raining heavily.

Climbing into the squad car, Pendragon grabbed the radio. ‘All points,’ he said, breathing heavily. He was silently directing Turner, waving his hand in front of him as he spoke. ‘A silver Volvo 340, registration
GOLF
,
HOTEL
,
ROMEO
, 9, 0, 6,
YANKEE
. Repeat:
GOLF
,
HOTEL
,
ROMEO
, 9, 0, 6,
YANKEE
. Last seen heading south along Aldersgate Street. Two occupants, Max Rainer and Pam Ketteridge. Mrs Ketteridge is carrying a firearm. Rainer is wearing a potentially lethal ring. Approach with extreme caution. Repeat: approach with extreme caution.’

Turner spun the car on to the main road, the siren blaring. He tore down Aldersgate Street, the wipers on max, and they caught a glimpse of the Volvo ahead. It was weaving between the other cars, setting off a fanfare of car horns and a screeching of brakes. A few hundred metres along the road, Pam Ketteridge turned left, racing along London Wall. Reaching Bishopsgate, she threw the car hard left again and then immediately right. Thirty seconds later, she was on Whitechapel Road.

Turner was keeping up with the Volvo, but Pam Ketteridge was driving so fast in the heavy rain, he could not gain on her.

‘Where do you think she’s heading, guv?’

Pendragon shook his head. ‘I just don’t know. I think she has somewhere in mind, she’s not just running.’

‘But she’s a nutter.’ Turner didn’t take his eyes from the road.

‘Yes,’ Pendragon replied. ‘She’s probably insane, but she has a clear purpose. She’s working to an agenda.’

‘Yeah, the Lord’s. Hallelujah!’

Pendragon twisted in his seat. ‘Right again, Sergeant. That’s it! She’s going to her church. What did she say at Rainer’s place? She needed to take him to “Our Lord” before she killed him? The church at the end of her street is the Church of Our Lord of Bethlehem. That’s where she’s heading!’ He snatched at the radio. ‘Suspect is heading for the Church of Our Lord of Bethlehem, Manning Street. Repeat: Manning Street. We are currently two minutes away. Report status.’

A moment passed and then, one by one, five patrol cars and a helicopter called in with their positions and ETAs. ‘Red Alpha 3 will be there first,’ Turner said. ‘The chopper should be overhead any second.’ And with perfect timing, they both heard the police helicopter shoot over the car, heading directly east to the church on Manning Street.

The Volvo slowed as it hit Mile End Road, then tore out of the traffic on to the wrong side of the road. The headlights of another car raced towards it. The driver caught sight of the Volvo, slid his car to one side and screeched to a halt just in time for the Volvo to slip past and overtake two cars on its side of the road before accelerating through a red light and narrowly avoiding a side-on smash with a van.
Barely slowing, Pam Ketteridge spun the car left into a narrow street off Mile End Road.

A few seconds later, Turner had made it to the narrow street just as the red tail lights of the Volvo vanished to the right. He made the corner and twisted the wheel, letting the power-steering ride. Ahead was another squad car, but no sign of the Volvo.

‘She’s changed her mind,’ Pendragon said, thrown forward as Turner slowed. He gripped the dashboard. ‘There! A turning on the right. See it? Go.’

Turner slammed his foot down and the car roared forward. Pendragon was on the radio again, giving fresh instructions. ‘Red Alpha 3. Try to head her off at Lemmington Road. Blue Beta 2, get back on Mile End, heading east.’

The chopper roared low overhead again, a massive searchlight sweeping through the night. Turner swung the wheel right, then hard left. For a couple of anxious moments they lost it. Then Turner pulled on to a main road heading north and they caught sight of it again. The Volvo hit a huge puddle and sent a plume of dirty water high into the air.

A hundred metres down the road the Volvo spun 180 degrees before tearing down a side street. A car that had been behind it shuddered to a stop, but the driver behind him could not stop in time and aquaplaned straight into the back of the stationary vehicle. The crunch of metal and the screech of tyres cut through the night and the two cars stuck together, danced across the tarmac and slammed into a wall on the other side of the road.

Turner braked hard and managed to avoid smashing into them before spinning the squad car down the side street. The rear lights of the Volvo were directly ahead and started to bounce as the car hit a roughly tarmacked lane. Turner and Pendragon hit the same stretch, and were thrown
around inside the squad car. Mud splashed up the windows.

Then, suddenly, the chase was over. A short distance ahead, glaring red brake lights came on. As Turner tried to stop their car, its wheels losing purchase and sliding in the mud, the driver’s door of the Volvo flew open. Pam Ketteridge emerged wearing a long, lightweight coat. It flapped around her as she ran round to the passenger side, opened the door and dragged Rainer out. She didn’t even bother looking at the police car slithering to a halt along the lane. Rainer, his wrists bound, struggled to get out of the car and then fell into the mud with a pathetic squeal. With remarkable strength, Pam Ketteridge dragged him to his feet. In the headlights, Pendragon and Turner could see Rainer caked in mud, his long wig matted with brown slime.

The squad car stopped a metre behind the Volvo, but Pam Ketteridge had vanished into the shadows together with Max Rainer.

‘Where’ve they gone?’ Turner asked, exasperated.

The two policemen ran into the gloom as the chopper appeared overhead. Its powerful beam swept across the muddy lane, picking out two figures no more than thirty metres ahead.

Pendragon and Turner ran as fast as they could. The torrential rain had soaked them through in seconds. A hundred metres along the track, they saw Pam Ketteridge veer off to the right with Rainer in tow, and it was only then that Pendragon and Turner realised they were on the banks of a river. The light from the chopper dimmed for a moment as it circled round. Then the landscape was ablaze again as it turned back towards them, its searchlights cutting away the darkness.

Pam and Rainer were on a bridge over the river. She had her captive on his knees and was standing over him, her
pistol at his head. Water rushed under the bridge, sending up spray that caught in the lights of the chopper.

Pendragon looked down and saw they were next to a weir. Rain slammed into the swollen brown water. They ran on to the bridge as the chopper ascended, dispersing the floodlight, the sound of the rotors diminishing.

‘Mrs Ketteridge … Pam!’ Pendragon shouted.

She looked up, but appeared not to see him. Rainer was shaking, his face contorted as he whimpered.

‘Pam,’ Pendragon repeated, ‘put the gun down. We can sort this out. Rainer will spend the rest of his life in prison. Believe me.’

Pam Ketteridge turned to Pendragon again and broke into a huge, manic grin. ‘Prison, Chief Inspector? Yes. Prison.’ Then she turned back to Rainer. He looked up at her. Water splashed over them. His wig was lank with spray and stuck to his smeared face.

She took the gun from Rainer’s head, and for a second his expression changed. Despair and terror slithered into guarded relief. Then she shifted the pistol to her left hand, reached into the pocket of her long coat with her right, and withdrew a crucifix. It was metal and at least twelve inches long. The bottom of the cross tapered to a point. With lightning speed, Pam lifted the crucifix. ‘O, Lord,’ she said, ‘Thy will be done.’ And she plunged it deep into the side of Rainer’s neck, ramming it in with such force it sliced through his windpipe and emerged the other side. He fell back, legs splayed and back arched. Swivelling on to one side, he tumbled from the bridge into the crashing water.

Pendragon and Turner stood paralysed with shock. Three uniformed officers had appeared beside them. They could hear the men’s heavy breathing.

Pam Ketteridge was smiling and staring up at the sky, rain
falling into her eyes and running down her neck. She was covered with blood washed pink by the rain. She turned back to Pendragon and Turner, her face aglow. For a fleeting moment, she looked twenty years younger.

Then, as if in slow motion, she transferred the pistol to her right hand and shot herself in the mouth.

Sue Latimer opened the door to her flat and broke into a smile. ‘Jack,’ she said and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed and stepped back, clutching her side, a pained expression on her face.

‘Still hurting then,’ Pendragon said and surveyed her face. She had a large plaster at her temple and her cheek was bruised.

‘What have you got there?’

He looked down at the objects in each hand. ‘This,’ he said, handing her a small plastic cylinder, ‘is some chicken soup from my favourite deli. They tell me it is just the thing for a broken rib. And this … well, can I come in?’

‘Sorry, Jack.’ She opened the door wide and he placed a large box on the kitchen counter.

‘This
you
have to open.’

‘What is it?’ Sue said, her eyes sparkling.

‘Here, let me help the invalid,’ Jack said, and handed her a pair of kitchen scissors from a drawer. She cut through the paper and peeled it away to reveal an expensive-looking turntable. She clapped her hands together in delight. ‘Oh, Jack. That’s so thoughtful of you.’ She went to kiss him and stopped herself, then blew him a kiss. ‘Thank you.’

‘A pleasure,’ he replied. ‘I’ll set it all up for you. I noticed when I was here for dinner that you have a CD player. It’s
easy to connect this to it and then you can hear music how it was meant to be heard – on vinyl.’

Sue looked at him doubtfully and led the way to the sofa. ‘So,’ she said, sitting down slowly, ‘the ring has been lost … again?’

‘Looks like it. Pam’s body has been found, but there’s no sign of Rainer.’

‘But how on earth did he come by the ring in the first place?’

‘He insisted he was guided to it by the “divine Lucrezia”.’

‘Yes, of course. He would.’

‘In actual fact, he went about it like a professional archaeologist. We found a set of notes in his lab. Apparently, about a year ago he stumbled upon an ancient private journal in the archives of the British Library. It was written by a nobleman named Thomas Marchmaine who described how his close friend, William Anthony, had been murdered at an inn called the Grey Traveller. He had been killed the day he received a mysterious ring from Queen Elizabeth I herself; a reward for saving the Queen’s life. The ring was said once to have been owned by none other than Lucrezia Borgia. Rainer then found the location of the Grey Traveller from local records. He learned an old Victorian house stood on the site and persuaded the owner to sell. Rainer was also a close friend of the CEO of Bridgeport Construction. He knew the company was looking to develop sites around Mile End Road. It was as though he had set up his own professional dig. Professor Stokes is in raptures. Can’t believe the material Rainer had in his little lab.’

Sue was shaking her head. ‘Classic obsessive behaviour. It’s such a shame the man’s dead. He would have made a fascinating case study.’

Pendragon raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s one way to look at it.’ Then, brightening, he said, ‘As you pointed out in the
restaurant last night, it’s not exactly been a normal week. I’m meeting the team for a little celebration. Are you feeling up to a drink at the pub?’

‘You joking? I’d love to. I can’t stand being housebound, broken rib or no broken rib.’

They walked the short distance to the pub. The small garden at the front was dotted with tables accommodating families, kids diving into packets of crisps while Mum and Dad enjoyed a leisurely Sunday lunchtime drink in the summer sunshine. The public room was packed, as usual, and noisy. Customers lined the bar. A small crowd had gathered around the dartboard at the far end of the room, and a rerun of Saturday’s Premier League game was playing on the plasma screen. As Pendragon walked in he could hardly believe that only a week ago he had been in this bar when they’d learned of Tim Middleton’s murder. The past seven days had sped by.

He caught sight of the team from the station. Jez waved them over and pointed to a couple of chairs. A cheer went up around the table as the others saw the Chief Inspector, and as he lowered himself into his seat he felt Rob Grant slap him on the back.

‘Thanks,’ Pendragon said and looked round at the smiling faces. ‘I think we’ve had what they call a result.’

‘So, it’s your round then, guv,’ Ken Towers announced.

Pendragon laughed and turned to Sue, shaking his head.

A few minutes later, he was back at the table with a large tray crowded with glasses. Roz Mackleby was trying desperately to clear a space, telling Turner to give her a hand. Jack handed Sue her drink first. When everyone had a glass, he raised his. ‘Congratulations on a job well done,’ he said. ‘Cheers.’ He sat down and took a gulp of his beer.

‘Back just in time, sir,’ Turner declared.

‘Oh?’

‘Ken reckons he has the conundrum to beat all conundrums.’

Pendragon turned to Inspector Towers as he took another sip of beer. ‘Let’s hear it then.’

‘Not only is it the best, it’s also very topical.’

‘Ooooh!’ three of the team around the table cooed in unison.

‘Okay. A man goes to a party and drinks some of the punch. He leaves early. Everyone else at the party who drinks from the same punch bowl subsequently dies from poisoning. Why did the man not die?’

‘What? I would have thought that was bloody obvious!’ Jimmy Thatcher declared. ‘The first guy poisoned the punch after he drank from it, and then left.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jimmy! Give me a little more credit, please.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll just shut up,’ Thatcher said, embarrassed, and took a large mouthful of beer.

The table was silent for a moment.

‘So, the first guy, he’s not a murderer? Remember, you have to answer truthfully, Ken,’ Mackleby said.

‘I know that. No, he’s not.’

‘Someone else put some poison in after the first guy drank from it?’

‘Nope.’

‘Guv? You’re being awfully quiet,’ Turner said suddenly. ‘You heard this one at university too?’

Sue grinned and looked at Jack. He drank some more before answering. ‘Actually, no. I haven’t heard this one before. But I think I could have a shot at the answer.’

Everyone turned to him.

‘I think the poison in the punch was actually contained in
ice cubes. When the first man drank from the punch bowl, the poison wasn’t able to work. But later, when the ice had melted, it got into the punch and killed the other drinkers.’

Pendragon put his glass down and all heads turned to Ken Towers who was hiding his face behind his own beer glass. Then he groaned and lowered his glass. ‘I bow to you … o, master,’ he said, and looked up as a figure approached the table behind Pendragon.

The DCI felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Superintendent Jill Hughes standing just behind his chair. ‘Shame you can’t solve real crimes so fast,’ she said, grinning. ‘Mine’s a gin and tonic, thanks, Jack.’