When he saw her, he dumped the bucket on the floor and hurried across. He snatched the phone from her.
‘Who have you called?’ he demanded.
Emma stepped back in terror, the backs of her legs nudging the chair. ‘No-one — ’
‘Who have you called?’
‘No-one, I said.’ Her voice had risen with his. ‘I was going to tell the nanny to take the children and get out.’
‘No.’ James shoved her phone into his own pocket and tossed the water bottle to her. He seized the mop and began swabbing the stained floor. ‘It would just tip him off.’
‘Damn it, James. They’re my children — ’
‘They’re in no danger.’ He scrubbed angrily at the stone, as though peeling vegetables. ‘Tullivant — Brian — isn’t an indiscriminate killer. He’s go no reason to harm them. If you talk to the nanny, she might tell him, and the game will be up.’
Emma had been taking a long draught of water. She lowered the bottle and stared at him. ‘The game?’
James pushed the bucket aside, propping the mop in it. ‘I’m close, Emma. Close to trapping Tullivant. Given all that’s happened in the last few days, he’s bound to slip up. Bound to make a mistake somewhere. Say something he didn’t mean to. Then I’ve got him. Then I can bring him down. Put a stop to all the killing.’ He faced her squarely. ‘But I need your help. You’ve got to go back. Pretend nothing’s happened. Get him to incriminate himself somehow.’
She continued to gaze at him, barely able to breathe. ‘Go back.’
‘You have to.’
‘And carry on as before.’
‘It’s the only way.’ He gave a half-shrug.
‘You must be out of your bloody mind.’
‘Emma — ’
‘You kidnap me. Imprison me in a cellar. Tell me my marriage is a lie, my husband is a multiple killer. And now you want me to return to him, and share a house with him, all so that you can use me to ensnare him for your own ends.’
‘Not my ends, Emma. Those of all of us.’
‘The answer’s no, James. I’m not going to play any part in this. Not for you, not for anyone.’
He sighed. Yet again, the concern on his face looked real.
‘Emma, how else are you going to be able to get your children away?’
Terror for Jack and Niamh blazed within her. Her legs faltered and she sat down on the chair, almost overturning it.
‘You have to,’ she whispered. ‘You, the police… whoever. You have to go in there and get them out. Now.’
‘I’m sorry, Emma.’ Now his gentle tone had an undercurrent of hardness. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Then I’m going,’ she said, rising once more.
‘Emma.’ He stepped between her and the stairs.
‘Get out of my way, James,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll scream. And you said you didn’t want to hurt me. You’ll have to hurt me, badly, to make me stop.’
She made to push past him but he blocked her easily, catching her wrist. Emma opened her mouth to yell.
And heard the noise, faint and distant, yet sharp enough to penetrate the closed door at the top of the cellar stairs.
It was the sound of glass breaking.
‘God,’ James breathed.
Fifty-three
By the time Tullivant reached Fulham, the tracking beacon on the screen had remained stationary for some time, in a location just off Parson’s Green. Tullivant didn’t know the area all that well, so he chose his route by instinct, taking the occasional wrong turn but generally homing in.
Because he didn’t know exactly where he was heading, he knew it was a risk to take the car right up to the location marked by the beacon, in case his arrival was easily noted. On the other hand, he wanted to be close enough to his vehicle to be able to access it quickly if necessary. He zoomed in on the display until the names of the individual streets became visible.
The beacon pulsed alongside one of the streets. It suggested that Emma, or Emma’s phone in any case, was inside a building. And probably a house, since this was a residential area. A safe house of some kind, then. One of many that the Security Service would operate throughout the city, and indeed the whole country.
Compromising, Tullivant pulled over at the side of the road under a street lamp two blocks away, and got out. He considered taking the Timberwolf in its bag, which he had stowed in its compartment under the seat, but decided against it. This was more likely to be a close-range job.
Inside his leather jacket he had a Heckler amp; Koch nine millimetre pistol with a spare magazine.
The few passersby didn’t give him a second glance. Cupping his phone in one hand to shield the blue light from the display, Tullivant headed in the direction of the beacon.
At the foot of a hill, he stopped. It was the end-of-terrace house on the left, if the GPS tracking signal was accurate. And he had no reason to believe it wasn’t.
The house appeared to be in darkness. Heavy curtains hung before all the visible windows, so it was possible there was illumination within which was being prevented from escaping.
After standing completely still for two minutes, absorbing the sights and sounds around him, Tullivant detected no tell-tale signs o an ambush, no obvious security measures.
He crept up to the front of the house, one hand inside his jacket and on the grip of the pistol.
Beside the front door, a frosted glass window gave onto a corridor. He’d been wrong; this window wasn’t curtained. And he could see no light beyond.
Tullivant drew a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves from the pocket of his leather coat and pulled them on. From another pocket he took a balaclava, and he fitted it over his head.
Holding his breath, Tullivant turned the doorknob and applied gentle pressure.
It was locked. There was no sudden blare of an alarm from within.
Tullivant put his shoulder to the window beside the door and leaned. The glass gave a little, creaking, before a splintering crack made him wince at its loudness.
He stopped, listening.
From somewhere inside, he heard raised voices. A woman’s, and overlapping with it a man’s, lower, more placating. Tullivant strained to hear, but was unable to make out what they were saying. There was a door between him and the voices; at least one.
With his leather-clad elbow he knocked out the window glass. The clattering of the shards on the hard floor inside might as well have been a hailstorm on the roof.
The voices had stopped.
Tullivant reached quickly through the smashed window, ignoring the pricks of jagged points against his rubber-clad hands. He groped for the latch of the front door, opened it and stepped inside.
He drew the Heckler amp; Koch and looked around. To his right, a closed door; ahead, a corridor from which several other exits led.
He stood very still, once more absorbing his surroundings, reaching out aurally for the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of the owners of the voices he’d heard.
Nothing.
He stepped down the corridor at a slight crouch, gun held in a two-handed grip.
The door at the far end was ajar, and Tullivant thought he could see the arm of a chair beyond. A living room. But it appeared to be in complete darkness. Beside the door, a flight of stairs led up to the next floor.
He registered the tiny creak of an unoiled hinge an instant after he’d started to turn, his reflexes kicking in and leaving his conscious self lagging. The first door on the right when he’d come in had swung open behind him. Tullivant brought the gun up just as something shot towards him, black and gleaming, and he felt agony burn its way up his right arm.
Fifty-four
James pressed his finger hard and upright against his lips, holding the other hand up in a don’t move gesture.