“Don’t worry,” I said. “Leckie’s just putting on a show. He wants to rattle you.”
“What do you mean?” she said. “Leckie’s...”
Then the crane itself began to move, drowning out the rest of her words. The track nearer us was locked, but the one on the opposite side must have been engaged because the entire vehicle was slowly rotating. It kept turning, practically on the spot, tearing up the ground beneath it, until it was facing directly towards us. All of a sudden the lack of a wrecking ball didn’t seem like such an obstacle.
The Beretta was in my hand, but I had no shot into the cab. Moving closer wouldn’t help, unless I could make it all the way to the crane’s bodywork, climb up on it, and fire through the broken window. But that wasn’t a viable option, either. I’d be too exposed for too long to stand a realistic chance. The only way to stop whoever was at the controls would be to gain some height. Not too much, or the cab’s metal roof would protect him. The first floor window would probably give the right angle. But getting there quickly enough was the problem. I could climb back in through any of the ground floor windows, but as far as I knew, the only staircase was at the far end of the wing. I’d have to run all the way back there, go up one floor, and run all the way to the front again. I could move fast, when the occasion called for it. But it would still take too long. The crane would be able to reach the building in half the time. That would leave a square hole in the stonework, rather than another round one. But the distinction would be purely academic as far as Melissa was concerned.
“You pull,” I said, leaning closer to her ear and taking hold of the spike that was still hanging from her right wrist. “I’ll work on the mortar. Together we’ve got a much better chance.”
Melissa started to strain against the shackle, and within a couple of seconds blood was beginning to seep from a fresh wound on her left wrist. I had nothing to show for my efforts. I was trying to dig away at the point where the iron stem disappeared into the masonry, but was making no impact at all.
“Time for brute force and ignorance, again,” I said, letting go of the metal and casting around the immediate area for a suitably sized piece of brick or stone. “I need something to hit that thing with.”
I spotted an ideal brickbat about twenty-five feet away, and as I moved across to grab it the sound of the crane’s engine grew suddenly louder. The driver must have been revving it hard. I turned to look, and it gradually returned to idling speed, like a petulant beast that demanded attention. I stood perfectly still and watched for half a minute, and the note didn’t change. Then I took a step towards Melissa. The noise instantly increased, and the crane began to move. Slowly at first. Almost imperceptibly. But my eyes weren’t playing tricks. Its speed was increasing. It was heading directly at Melissa. And the shackle was still holding firm.
The crane’s speed peaked at maybe four miles an hour. The kind of pace that would drive you insane if you were caught behind it on a public road. But to me, at that moment, it felt like a meteor couldn’t travel faster. Or be harder to knock off course. I couldn’t shoot the driver. I couldn’t get to a place where I even had a chance of shooting him. And even if I could be sure of killing him - if the rock in my hand was magically transformed into a grenade, for example - there was no guarantee that would stop the crane’s relentless, grinding, forward progress.
Melissa was thrashing wildly from side to side now, pulling with all her strength. Blood was pouring from her wrist and I caught a glimpse of shiny white bone gleaming through a wide gash in her skin. The crane had already halved the distance between its starting position and her. She had twenty seconds left before it would crush her against the stone, no more, and the way she was acting showed she knew it. She put her right foot on the wall at waist height, then her left, so that all her weight was on her wrist. Then she started slamming herself backwards, bending at the waist and pushing with her legs like a naughty toddler trying to escape a parent’s iron grip. It must have been absolute agony. And it was all in vain, because despite everything she tried the shackle refused to yield.
I knew there was a risk of her being hit by a ricochet or a fragment of flying stone like the informant had been, but we were both running out of options. So I raised the Beretta and aimed for point where the shackle was anchored to the wall. I fired. And missed. She was in a blind panic now, gyrating like an ancient berserker, and I’d pulled the shot for fear of hitting her directly. Which gave me an idea. It was a desperate one. Something that might make her hate me for the rest of her life. But with ten seconds left to save her, I didn’t think I had a choice.
I took a step to my right, to change the angle. Then I fired again. And this time I hit my target.
Melissa’s left wrist.
Chapter Forty-One
The bullet severed Melissa’s hand and she fell back, hitting the ground hard before I could get close enough to catch her. The best I could manage was to grab her under the arms and drag her sideways, a second before the crane slammed into the wall. Dark arterial blood was pumping from the mess of ragged, torn skin and splintered bone of her now shortened left arm. Her face was pale, almost green, and her eyes were glazed and unfocussed. I pulled off my belt and looped it round her bicep. The crane’s engine had stalled in the impact, but I could hear blocks of dislodged stone still raining down on its bodywork. I pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight, and kept on increasing the pressure until the flow of blood from her wound had slowed to a dribble. Melissa groaned, just once. Then I heard two other sounds. Footsteps, close behind me. And a shotgun cartridge being crunched into place.
“Leckie?” I said, slowly raising my hands.
“Is she all right? Don’t let go of her. We’ve got no time. We need to...” he was saying when I dived away to my right, rolling over and reaching for the little .22 to replace the Beretta which I’d dropped when I was stopping Melissa’s bleeding.
A gun fired behind me. But it wasn’t the deep boom of a shotgun. It was the lighter snick of an automatic pistol. I spun round, still on my knees, and saw Leckie lying face down on the ground. About fifteen feet away. He had a single bullet hole in his smart blue overcoat, located neatly between his shoulder blades. Another man was standing behind him, twenty feet further back. It was Tim Jones. He was breathing heavily. His face was bruised and battered. And his Sig Sauer was in his right hand.
“So much for Stan Leckie,” he said, striding forwards and putting two more bullets into the back of his head. “May he rest in pieces.”
“I guess you weren’t as far from London as you thought,” I said.
“I guess not. And you’re welcome, by the way. I’m happy to help you. Specially after you came back to Melissa’s to help me, yesterday.”
“Let’s just call it square,” I said, standing up, tucking the .22 into the back of my waistband and retrieving my Beretta. “Now, where’s your car?”
“Over there,” he said, nodding towards the hole in the perimeter wall. “Why?”
“Melissa’s hurt. We need to get her to hospital.”
“Where is she? What happened? Is it serious?”
I guessed it was natural he’d ask. If he’d arrived after the crash, he wouldn’t have seen the crisis develop. Or how it was resolved. And the crane would have obstructed his view of Melissa from the spot where he’d stood to shoot Leckie.