I was just sitting down at my computer to answer a couple of e-mails when my phone rang. It was Chief Inspector Carlisle.
‘Did you get the tape?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘Very interesting. But you should leave that sort of questioning to the police. You may have damaged the case by locking her in the room like that.’
‘But the police weren’t interested,’ I said. ‘You were too busy elsewhere and Johnson from Thames Valley believed Bill’s death was suicide. If I hadn’t questioned her, no one would have.’
‘Breaking into her house was not very wise either.’
‘I didn’t break in. She had previously shown me where she left the key, so I simply used it.’
‘A technicality,’ he said.
‘Cases hinge on technicalities,’ I said. ‘Anyway, have you caught him yet?’
‘Who?’ he said.
‘Peter Enstone, of course.’
‘Not yet, but we are now officially looking for him. An APB has been put out jointly by the Met Police, Thames Valley and us.’
It sounded a bit like ‘Hawaii Five-O’.
‘What does APB actually stand for?’ I asked.
‘All Points Bulletin,’ he said. ‘It means that various agencies like the police, immigration service, customs and so on get a list of names of people to be apprehended. It should prevent him leaving the country.’
‘If he hasn’t already done so,’ I said. ‘When did this APB get put out?’
‘Only about an hour ago, I’m afraid. The Met went to his home at nine this morning but he wasn’t there. His neighbour apparently told the officers that Enstone had just popped out for a newspaper and would soon be back. So the officers waited for him. They waited for an hour but he didn’t come back.’
God help me, I thought. Of course he didn’t come back. He would have arrived at the newsagents to find his smiling face on the front of The Pump and he would have done a runner.
‘Where else are you looking for Enstone?’ I asked.
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘How about Juliet Burns’s house,’ I said.
‘Ah, Juliet Burns,’ he repeated slowly. ‘And where is she exactly?’
‘Last I heard she was at the Donnington Valley Hotel in Newbury,’ I said, ‘but that was last night. I expect she may be in need of your protection.’
‘I’m sure we can find a secure cell for her somewhere.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ I said. ‘She did help me in the end.’
‘She had better help us, too,’ he said, ‘or I will personally throw away the key to her cell.’
The buzzer sounded on the internal telephone so I went into the hallway to answer it, still holding my mobile.
‘Just a moment,’ I said to Carlisle.
‘Yes,’ I said into the internal system.
‘Charles Rowland down here for you, Mr Halley,’ said one of the porters.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Send him up.’ He was early, no doubt eager to have another go at my whisky.
I replaced the internal phone receiver and spoke again to Carlisle. ‘I must go, my father-in-law has arrived. You will call me if you catch Peter Enstone, won’t you?’
‘Certainly will,’ he said, and we hung up.
I went out to the lift to meet Charles, but it wasn’t Charles in the lift.
It was the smiling man from the front page of The Pump.
Only he wasn’t smiling now.
He held a black revolver very steadily in his right hand and he was pointing it right between my eyes.
Damn, I thought. That was bloody careless.
CHAPTER 21
‘I’ve come here to kill you,’ Peter said.
I didn’t doubt it.
‘Inside,’ he said.
We were standing outside my front door near the lift and, typically, there was no sign of my neighbours when you needed them.
We went in through the door and he locked it behind us. He took the key out of the lock and put it in his pocket.
He didn’t once allow me to get close to him. Never close enough to give me the chance of wresting the gun out of his hand before he had time to use it.
‘In there,’ he said, waving the gun towards the sitting room. He seemed to be looking for something.
‘She’s not here,’ I said, assuming it was Marina he was after.
He ignored me.
‘This way,’ he said, again waving the gun, this time directing me back into the hallway.
We proceeded to go all round the flat until he seemed satisfied that we were alone. I could see the clock in the bedroom. It was only ten to one, it would be at least an hour before Marina and Jenny came back. Would I still be alive by then?
‘Go in there,’ he said, pointing at the bathroom.
I went.
He turned on the light and the extractor fan began to emit a whine. I wished it could extract me from this situation.
The bathroom was a small room about six foot six square. It was built in the interior of the building and consequently had no windows. A bath ran down the wall on the right with a lavatory next to it and there was a wash-basin opposite the entrance. But Peter was most interested in what was behind the door attached to the left-hand wall — a shiny chrome three-bar centrally-heated towel rail about three feet long. There were three yellow towels neatly hanging on it.
‘Catch,’ he said and threw me a pair of sturdy-looking metal handcuffs that he had brought with him in his pocket. I caught them.
‘Put one on your right wrist and the other round the bracket of the towel rail where it is attached to the wall. Shut them tight.’
I managed it with some difficulty. My only real hand was now firmly attached to the heating system. Not a great improvement.
‘Now put your left hand out towards me,’ he said.
I wondered if and when I would not do as he said.
He seemed to sense the thought in me and raised his gun higher, taking deliberate aim at my head. I could see right down the barrel. I speculated about whether I would have time to see the bullet coming before it tore into my brain. I decided that I didn’t want to find out. I put my left hand forward.
He lifted the sleeve of my shirt and removed the battery from my false arm and put it in his pocket. He was very careful never to move the gun line away from my eye and I was equally careful not to make any sudden movement that might encourage him to pull the trigger.
‘Now take that thing off,’ he said, stepping back.
‘I can’t,’ I said.
He held the gun in his left hand and grasped my left wrist with his right. He pulled. I pulled back. I stressed my arm to prevent the false bit from coming off. He pulled harder. The arm didn’t shift.
‘You won’t remove it, it stays on permanently,’ I said. ‘You see those little rivets on either side? They’re the ends of the pins that go right through what’s left of my real arm to hold it in place.’
I wasn’t really sure why I told him the lie. The rivets were actually holding the sensors in place on the inside, the sensors that sat against my skin to pick up the nerve impulses that made the hand work. It was only a small act of defiance, but it was something.
He gave the arm one last violent tug but I was ready for him and the fibreglass shell didn’t budge.
He stood back and looked at me. Then he said, ‘Put the arm out again.’
I did so.
He took the battery out of his pocket and clipped it back into place. I moved my thumb in and out.
‘Grab hold of the towel rail,’ he said. ‘There.’ He pointed.
‘What?’ I said.
The gun came up a fraction.
‘Just do it,’ he said.
I placed my unfeeling fingers around the boiling hot rail and closed the thumb. He leaned forward and removed the battery, dropping it on the floor. Without the battery the thumb wouldn’t move. The hand and arm were locked in place.