“How many other people are with you?” I said.
The guy looked blank, and didn’t respond in any way.
“There’s you, this dead guy, the guy who hired you, and a girl,” I said. “How many others are here? Answer in words this time.”
“None,” he said finally, in a surprisingly low, gravely voice. “We were told to guard the gate.”
“What about the other gates?”
“There’s only one other gate. It used to be the main entrance. It’s blocked now. And there’s no one on it. Are you called Trevellyan?”
“I am.”
“I was told to say, he’s expecting you. The guy from the hospital. And he thought you’d come in this way.”
“What were you supposed to do about that?”
“Stop you. And take you to him. He said he was putting on a show, specially for you to watch.”
I thought of the three holes punched in the solid stone wall, and wondered if this guy had been on the gate that day, too.
“How generous of him,” I said. “Only, I’m afraid there’s bad news. The show’s going to be canceled.”
“It is?” he said.
“It is,” I said, raising the Beretta again. “Which means your gate keeping services are no longer required.”
Chapter Forty
I made my way across the parking area towards the gap between the back of the main building and the old workhouse asylum. It looked like only one car had been there recently, based on the tyre tracks in the soft ground. One car, and one other vehicle. Something wide. And heavy. And that rode on caterpillar tracks.
I retraced my steps, looped back around the hill of rubble, and found my way to the passageway that Melissa had used as shelter from the sniper. That should have given me a view through to the main building, in theory. But in practice, it didn’t. The far end was blocked by something. A mobile crane. One that had seen better days. Its maroon bodywork was dull and dented, and all the windows in its cab were broken. It was certainly in bad shape cosmetically, but I couldn’t tell what state its mechanical parts were in. All I could see was that its boom was extended at a sharp angle. Whether anything was attached to it was a whole other question.
Approaching the crane from the passageway was out of the question, so I pulled back again and worked my way round to the route Pearson and I had taken to reach the west wing of the main building. Common sense told me I’d be no use to anyone with a volley of bullets inside me, but the delay this detour caused was agony. It felt like it would have been quicker to crawl across the Sahara Desert. The only saving grace was that the security guard I’d spoken to seemed to have been telling the truth, and I didn’t encounter anyone else lurking around the far boundary of the grounds.
I slipped into the west wing through the same entrance I’d used last time, and wasted no time in leaving the room and crossing the hallway. The inside of the building smelled worse than before, and the door at the bottom of the stairs - which I hoped would lead to the main part of the building - was very reluctant to open. When it finally gave way the air quality didn’t improve, but I stepped through anyway and found myself at the start of a long, straight, bleak corridor. I turned to my left and made straight for where I hoped the entrance to the central block would be. I kept going until I reached a doorway. It led to a hallway that was identical to the one I’d come from, so I crossed my fingers and took it. I could see daylight to my left, so I followed it to the remains of a window, trying to ignore the uneven black stains on the floor and fresh, satanic graffiti on all four walls.
Another line of anaemic bushes gave me a degree of cover as I made my way along the outside of the building, parallel to where I’d been before. This time, though, a view of the battered crane had replaced the informant and his motorbike. For a moment I wondered whether he’d really approached Leckie, who’d staged his murder in front of our eyes so he’d look innocent. Or whether the whole episode was a stunt from the beginning, to distract us from Leckie’s real goal. And then such hypothetical thoughts were pushed away. But not by me, deliberately. By the sound of breathing. It was human. Heavy. And close.
I continued past a patch where the plant cover thinned alarmingly, and kept one eye firmly on the crane. And I was encouraged by what I saw. For two reasons. There was no sign of anyone in the cab. And nothing lethal was attached to the heavy cable that was dangling from its jib.
The breathing grew louder the closer I crept to the end of the wall. I paused for a moment, to bring my own respiration under control. Then I stood up straight. Raised my Beretta. Stepped around the corner. And came face to face with Melissa.
She was standing with her back to the wall. Her arms were stretched out on both sides, at shoulder height. Her wrists were held by crude iron shackles that stuck out from the stonework. There was a vacant pair of shackles to her left, between us. And to her right, the line of three craters whose previous occupants had been pulped by a swinging mass of steel.
There was only one question in my mind. Was she trapped there, herself? Or was she there to trap me?
The reason she was facing me rather than looking straight ahead turned out to be simple. She was straining with all her might to free her right hand. I could see the iron digging into her flesh. Her skin was tearing, and blood was dripping down to the ground from her wrist.
I felt like I had my answer.
“Melissa, stop that,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re hurting yourself. Let me help.”
“David, what are you doing here?” she said. “Get out of the way.”
I could see tears in her eyes, but before I could reach the shackle she gave a last almighty heave and tore it free from the masonry.
“Jones called me,” I said. “He told me there’d be a trade, for you. Are you OK?”
“So far,” she said, raising her blood-soaked hand. “Don’t worry about this. There was a method. Look closely - the wall was damaged when that nearest hole got smashed in it. You can see little cracks running across. They reached the place where my right wrist was attached, so I figured it would be the easier one to get free.”
“That’s smart. Do the cracks reach your left one?”
“No, sadly, they don’t,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the enormous spike that was still attached to the dangling shackle. “So it’s time for phase two. Dig for victory. I’ll soon get this other one loose.”
“It’ll take ages,” I said. “See how deep that thing went in? Here. Let me help.”
“Not a chance. You need to take cover, somewhere, and...”
Her next words were interrupted by the sound of a huge, dog-rough diesel engine spluttering into life. It was coming from the crane. We spun round together, to look, but I still couldn’t spot anyone in the cab.
“What’s he doing?” Melissa said, glancing nervously at the gaping holes to her right.
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s just trying to scare you. The wrecking ball isn’t even attached. He didn’t have time. And if he pokes his head out to take a shot, it’ll be the last mistake he ever makes.”
As we watched, the crane’s jib started to move. It was turning anti-clockwise, away from the asylum building, and kept going until it was sticking out sideways at ninety degrees, the cable swinging harmlessly in impotent circles below it.