‘Do you copy?’
‘Possible intruder action,’ came the reply. ‘Proceeding with caution.’
There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Torches played over the walls and between the banisters.
The looters looked at each other in horror. They forgot about Ben and Eva and scrambled up the stairs again. Something glittery slid out of the man’s pocket and caught on the edge of the banisters for a moment, then slithered into the blackness.
The footsteps stopped. There was a scraping noise as something was picked up off the floor. ‘Sir, we’ve got what looks like a very valuable necklace here. There are looters in the store.’
There was a loud crack. It was the kind of noise that not many people hear in real life, but when they do they know exactly what it means. It was followed by a smell of smoke and gunpowder, like a firework going off.
They had just been shot at.
Chapter Thirty-one
Eva hared up the steps towards Ben, who immediately caught her panic. He followed her through a pair of fire doors, barely thinking, taken over by an instinct to run.
Whoever the soldiers caught first they would assume had stolen the necklace. And technically Eva and Ben were looters because they had taken things from the store, even though it was for survival.
They were running for their lives. They pushed past racks of skimpy gym clothes and trainers. At least they gave them some cover. The looters had disappeared.
In front of them they saw a window. It suddenly shattered and they heard a shot from behind.
If they carried on rushing around like this, they would just run into more trouble. Ben needed to think.
He spotted a rack of black rugby gear and rugger-tackled Eva into it. In their black drysuits they blended in, and they watched the soldiers hurrying past, shouting, pushing racks of clothes aside with the muzzles of their guns. The three of them passed close to where Eva and Ben lay huddled, and headed off towards the cash desk and some changing rooms.
Ben waited until they were out of sight, then pulled Eva up. There was a fire exit opposite him. He fell on the door and pushed the bar open.
They ran down the stairs; Ben’s brain was racing even faster than his feet. They had to be quick, now that they were out in the open again. Down one flight he saw the entrance for the country clothing section, just as the soldiers entered the top of the stairwell.
Ben grabbed Eva and tore off her hood. He threw it further down the steps, so that the soldiers would think they had just carried straight on down. She stopped and looked at him, her hair springing out in tight corkscrew curls, her eyes wide with the sheer panic of the chase. So that’s what it’s like to scalp a Teletubby, thought Ben, and dragged her into the country clothing department.
They ran past racks of tweed and Barbours. Ben saw another fire exit and ran for it. Down another flight of stairs and they shouldered open another door, and found themselves out in the street.
Ben had never been so grateful to be back out in the rain again.
They were in Lower Regent Street, which sloped down into the grey water. Just below them, on the tarmac, lay a small dinghy. Ben sprinted towards it, pushed it into the water and pulled Eva in.
He had a moment of déjà vu: it was like his cousins’ boat in Macclesfield. The starter cord in the same place, the tiller the same. Ben pulled the starter cord and it started first time. He guided it slowly out into the water.
Then he flopped back and relaxed, exhausted. The chase was over. They’d got away.
For once the rain felt refreshing. Running in the drysuit, especially with thermals on, was hot work.
‘Handy boat,’ said Ben. ‘I wonder who it belongs to.’
‘Hey, look,’ said Eva. She pointed back at the shoreline, where Lower Regent Street rose up out of the water.
Two figures in black were standing at the shore, watching Ben and Eva in the boat. The looters.
‘Ah,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s hope we don’t meet them again. They probably won’t be very friendly.’
‘I bet they stole it,’ said Eva. ‘Who knows who it really belongs to?’ She shifted a small rucksack out of the way to sit more comfortably.
The three soldiers came out of the fire exit and surrounded the looters, guns held up to their shoulders, ready to fire. Those few moments watching Ben in their stolen boat had cost the looters dearly.
For a horrible moment Ben thought they were going to be shot there and then. But then, reluctantly, they put their hands up.
Eva shook out her hair and settled back. ‘Serves them right,’ she commented. Her restful pose didn’t last long. Suddenly she wrinkled her nose and sat up. ‘It smells filthy out here.’
Now that she mentioned it, Ben had to agree. It reminded him of a camping trip he’d taken with his cousins last August. The tent with the chemical toilet had got so smelly they decided they’d rather go in the bushes.
‘Where are we going?’ said Eva.
For a moment Ben’s mind was a blank. He knew he’d been going somewhere, but the excitement had driven it out of his mind. Then he saw a road sign. Buckingham Palace to the right, Charing Cross to the left. Of course.
‘Charing Cross,’ he said. ‘Someone should be waiting for me there. I hope …’
Francisco heard movement outside the station. Something stirring the water very slowly, like a boat.
He looked through the arches and saw a figure in a dark jacket moving outside. He seemed to be sitting astride a big motorbike and moving it very slowly through the water, seesawing from side to side as though he was pushing it with his feet.
He squinted at the hat the man was wearing. White and red checks. A City policeman.
Quite an enterprising policeman. He was using the heavy motorbike as an anchor to enable him to make his way across the current.
Francisco thought quickly. Had José remained in captivity? Had he had to confess about their rendezvous location?
Why was a policeman coming in here now?
Francisco checked the clip of the Beretta and clicked the safety catch off with his thumb. He stayed where he was, sitting in the locker. It was good cover. Besides, if he moved, the policeman would hear the splash.
He glanced at the white puff in the water: the body of the tramp lay face down, nosing against a news stand. If the policeman saw that, his suspicions might be aroused. Francisco was ready to drop him.
The policeman reached the arch and dropped the motorcycle. It crashed against the wall and subsided into the water.
Interesting, thought Francisco. He didn’t think policemen were generally that careless with property.
The figure stood at the archway and looked around, then stared over at the left luggage lockers.
Francisco stiffened.
The policeman waded forwards and took his hat off.
Francisco put his gun down and called out in Spanish. ‘José, you idiot. I nearly shot you.’
José grinned. ‘Better late than never.’ He splashed over to Francisco and they embraced.
Francisco examined José’s costume. ‘Good outfit. It fooled me.’ Only now did he notice that José didn’t have the right trousers to go with the police jacket, but they had been almost covered by the water.
José shrugged. ‘It’s been useful.’ He opened their locker and looked in.
Francisco patted his pockets. ‘I’ve got the maps and some basics.’ He handed José a Swiss Army knife.
José put it in his pocket. ‘Have you got your cuffs off?’
Francisco showed him his wrists, still bloodied under the cuffs. ‘Made a bit of a mess. Wish we’d packed some antibiotics. What did you do with yours?’
José held up his wrists. His cuffs were still there too. ‘Boltcutters.’ He rummaged in the locker. ‘Did you take all the money? You could at least give me some.’