A Good Day To Die (19 page)

Three minutes later, a blue Golf pulled into the street and slowed down.

When it was no more than ten yards away I stepped out into the road and waved at her. The Golf came to a halt and I strode round to the passenger door and jumped inside. Something by Coldplay was playing on the CD.

'Thanks,' I said with a weak smile, immediately pushing myself right down in the seat so that
my head was level with the top of the dashboard.

'Oh, God,' repeated Emma Neilson, staring at me wide-eyed. 'I can't believe I'm doing this. What is it you've done? Oh shit, forget that. Don't tell me.'

Even from my cramped position and after the drama that had unfolded over the last couple of hours, I couldn't help noticing how nice she looked. She was wearing the same suede jacket she'd had on the previous night, but underneath it was a pink or lilac halter-neck top that showed just enough pale midriff to be tasteful. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, accentuating her girlish appearance, and the nervous expression on her face made me want to put a reassuring arm around her and tell her not to worry, everything would be all right. Not that it was looking too promising at the moment.

'I'll explain everything when we get back to your place,' I told her.

'I'm not sure I want you to. I think I'd rather not know.'

'It's not as bad as it looks,' I continued, which was one of the bigger lies I've told in my adult life.

She fixed me with a suspicious expression, then turned away to concentrate on the road ahead while I continued to push myself even further down the seat and counted the seconds to our destination.

22

Five minutes later, Emma pulled into a parking space. 'It's just round the corner from here,' she explained, 'but I'm afraid you're going to have to walk.'

I managed to squeeze myself out of the seat and onto the road, putting on my glasses at the same time. Having also lost the cap, I was now looking significantly different than I'd been during the shootout. It always amazes me what a couple of props can do.

We were on a typical Kensington street. Wide, grand and very well lit, with immaculately kept, five-storey whitewashed Georgian townhouses on either side. London for the millionaires and the tourists.

'You don't live in one of these, do you?' I asked, following her through the rain.

'Not quite,' she answered, without turning round.

I pulled out the business cards I'd retrieved from the wallet and examined them in the light of the street lamps. I raised my eyebrows. A clue. It wasn't a lot, but it might be something.

I put the cards back in my pocket.

After a minute or so, Emma turned into a narrow, cobbled cul-de-sac of pretty, painted mews houses. She walked up to the second one on the left (it was painted a deep red colour) and unlocked the front door. Feeling sheepish and more than a little unwelcome, I followed her in.

The front door opened straight into the living room. It was a striking place, like something out of an MTV video. The walls were a soothing pale orange; the furniture (the sofa, two chairs and a footrest) a brighter orange; and the carpet, along with the dining table and chairs on the far side of the room, were a matt black. It sounds awful, particularly when the fact that it was a mess was taken into account (there were books, CDs and two fullish ashtrays hanging about, none of which were orange or black), but somehow it worked. I liked it, in spite of my better judgement. Maybe it was because it demanded attention. A flight of well-polished wooden stairs at the far end of the room led up to the top floor.

'Nice house,' I commented, but she ignored me as she pulled off her jacket and picked up a half-glass of red wine that was on the floor by one of the chairs.

'Do you want a drink?' she asked without looking at me.

'Please,' I said, realizing suddenly that I was very thirsty.

'There's beer in the fridge.' She nodded towards an open door that led off from the right of the living room. 'Or there's wine on the top. The glasses are in the cupboard above the sink.'

I walked through without bothering to remove my coat or gloves. Somehow I didn't think she'd be too pleased if I made myself at home. I heard her phone ring in the living room.

The kitchen was small and modern, with appliances that looked brand new. Evidently they'd upped reporters' wages since the last time I'd been round these parts. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in one, repeated the process, then finally filled the glass from the bottle of red wine sitting on the worktop. An Australian Shiraz from the Barossa Valley. I took a sip, felt myself relax, then walked back into the living room, where Emma was still standing.

Only this time she was pointing a gun at me - the second one in less than two hours. London, it seemed, was getting more dangerous than Manila.

The gun was a small-calibre revolver, a .22 or a .32, and she was holding it as if she knew what she was doing. Not the most lethal weapon in the world, but more than enough to bring down a fully grown man at close range, particularly one who'd
been through what I had in the past couple of days.

'Who the hell are you?' she demanded, looking and sounding significantly less girlish and vulnerable than she had done a few minutes ago. Her soft elfin features were suddenly taut and focused, the big round eyes narrowed to slits.

I told her that I was exactly who I said I was. Mick Kane. The expression I adopted was one of righteous indignation, but I was pretty sure I wasn't convincing her.

'What's the name of Asif Malik's uncle?' she continued, without relaxing her grip on the gun. 'The one who's supposed to have employed you to find his killer?'

'Mohammed,' I said reflexively, 'and he's not his actual uncle. He's his second cousin or something. They just call him uncle.'

She shook her head dismissively. 'You're lying. I just took a call from one of my sources. There's no private investigator in the whole of South-east England called Mick Kane. I think you'd better try again.'

I suddenly had a huge and terrible desire to unburden myself, to tell her exactly who I was and why I was here. And I almost did it. Almost.

But not quite.

'My name's Mick Kane and your source is wrong.' I nodded towards the gun. 'And aren't those things illegal round here?'

'Very much so. And it's illegal to shoot people,
too, but if you try a bloody thing on me, I'll be breaking two laws rather than just the one. And I'm not bluffing, either.'

'I can see that.'

'And in case you're in any doubt, this is real. It's a Colt Diamondback LR. A limited edition. It was a gift from my father for my eighteenth birthday.'

'Shit, and I only got a pair of jeans and a V-neck jumper.'

'Don't try to be funny. I know how to use this thing. I grew up on a farm and I could fire a gun before I could count to twenty. I shot competitively right up to the day they made it illegal. I even go to France sometimes for a bit of target practice. That means I won't miss. Understand?'

'I think we're getting off on the wrong foot here. I came to you because I needed your help. I still need it. And I've got no intention of hurting you.'

'Who are you working for?'

'I'm not working for anyone.'

'I don't believe you.' She was about to add something else, but at that moment the lights went out. All of them.

Everything fell silent. The curtains were drawn and only the faintest glow filtered in. We were only ten feet apart, but I could barely see her in the gloom.

'Don't move,' she said, 'I'm still pointing this thing at you.'

'I know. I can see.' The gun hadn't moved but
she'd subtly changed position so her face was pointed towards the door. 'Do you often get power cuts?' I asked.

'No,' she said, and for the first time since she'd pulled the gun, there was uncertainty in her voice. 'I can't remember the last one, and I've been here two years.'

'Then it seems like a very unfortunate coincidence, if you believe in such things.'

She took a tentative step towards the door, turning her head so that I was back in her field of vision. 'This had better be nothing to do with you.'

'How could it be? I'm in here with you.'

'Why are you whispering?' she demanded.

'I'm listening.'

'Do you think--'

The front window exploded, the sudden crackle of breaking glass shattering the room's eerie quiet.

Instinctively, we both dropped to our haunches, and I reached for my .45, dragging it free with an angry tug and pointing it at the window.

The curtain hadn't moved. I waited for the second shot, wondering why they hadn't tried to take us out earlier when we'd been coming from the car.

Five seconds passed and still the second shot didn't come. I could hear Emma's breathing. It had accelerated with the surge of adrenalin but was still under control. I admired her for that. She didn't speak, and I could see in the gloom that her gun
was also pointed at the window. You had to give her ten out of ten for guts. Most people would have been curled up in the corner, shaking with fear.

I let another five seconds pass, and asked her in a whisper whether she was all right.

'I've been better,' was the answer, but the uncertainty remained in her voice.

I moved towards the front door, keeping low, and only raised myself to my full height when I got there.

'Where are you going?' she whispered.

'I don't think it was a bullet,' I answered. 'It didn't sound right. I'm going to go and take a look.'

'They might still be out there.'

'They won't. Not now. The window made too much noise. And if they wanted to kill us, they'd have done it when we were on our way in.' But I wasn't as confident as I sounded. I listened at the door, but couldn't hear anything. I told Emma to move to one side so that I could open it up without exposing her to danger, and she did as she was told.

Stepping to one side and keeping close to the wall, I turned the handle and let the door swing slowly open. The only noise came from the traffic out on the main road.

I peered round inch by inch, keeping the gun pressed against my hip.

The narrow cobbled street was empty, with no sign of the assailant, or anyone else reacting to the commotion. But what caught my attention were
the lights that were on in the windows opposite. Coming out further, I saw that the houses to either side also had power. I was trying to work out exactly what that told me when I spotted the brick lying on the ground amongst shards of glass a few feet away. A hole several inches across and surrounded by spider's-web cracks had appeared in the window where the brick had made contact, but the safety glass had been strong enough to deflect it.

There was a note attached to the brick by two elastic bands. I leaned down and removed it, then retreated inside and shut the door behind me.

'Is everything all right?' Emma asked from somewhere in the darkness.

'It was a brick,' I answered, slipping the .45 back into my waistband. 'Whoever chucked it's gone.'

'Not exactly sophisticated.'

'No,' I said, 'I suppose it's not.' As I spoke, I unfolded the note and tucked it under my armpit, before producing the box of matches I'd bought in the pub the previous night and lighting one. I retrieved the note and read it in the match's small light.

Two words, typed in bold, large font.

Look upstairs

The breath stopped somewhere in my throat and I could feel my stomach constrict.

'What are you looking at?' she asked, coming up behind me. 'Don't tell me that was attached to the brick?'

I blew out the match and refolded the note, pushing it into my jacket pocket, then turned to face her. She was standing a few feet away, the pale contours of her face just visible in the darkness. I couldn't see the gun but assumed it was down by her side.

'Stay down here,' I told her. 'I need to go upstairs.'

She started to protest but I moved past her, fumbling my way over to the staircase and banging into the sofa on the way. I didn't want her to follow in case of what was up there, but it was clear from the sound of her footsteps that she wasn't planning on hanging back. As I reached the staircase and found the banister, she asked me again about the contents of the note.

This time I told her.

She cursed under her breath, but stayed behind me as I reached the staircase. 'I should go up first,' she whispered. 'I know where I'm going.'

'No way,' I said, and made my way up the stairs, thankful that they weren't creaking. As surreptitiously as possible, I brought the .45 back out, hoping that Emma wouldn't see it.

And then when I was close to the top of the staircase, the power came back on. I had to blink rapidly to reaccustom my eyes to the light and immediately
thrust the gun out in front of me in case this was some sort of trap.

But it wasn't. No one suddenly appeared. No shots rang out. The whole upper floor was quiet. It also looked remarkably ordinary, in so far as anything in Emma's house looked ordinary. It was a lot tidier than downstairs, and there was no obvious sign of intrusion. The walls were painted the same orange as the sitting room, and several abstract paintings - little more than symmetrical patterns created in black and white - hung from the available spaces, along with an expensive-looking metallic silver clock shaped like a very thin oblong. Three doors, all painted white, were positioned round the small square landing.