Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) (15 page)

Carruthers was scrabbling backwards, trying at the same time to get to his feet. Nick stepped forward and with one hand grabbed his collar and hauled him upright, his other hand drawn back in a fist. Then he saw them, Carruthers’ men, pushing through the crowd.

              Carruthers spat a tooth from his bloody mouth. “Nick, we need each other now. My word is my seal. You get me those photos, I leave you and your friends alone,” he panted. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and looked in shock at the blood then winced as the pain finally caught up with him. The men were nearly on him. A group of men who’d been sitting near Nick got up to intercept them, their faces grave, bodies tensed. One smashed a bottle and looked at Nick.

              Time seemed to stand still as Nick battled with his rage. These boys – Nick saw them in here all the time, talked to them regularly – they could take Carruthers’ men. He could take Carruthers, beat it out of him. But then what? He looked around. What would it achieve? Apart from some grim satisfaction. He needed to play the long game. The clever game. He shook his head at the man and the group slowly backed away glaring at Carruthers’ three men who now stood in an uncertain semi-circle around their boss and Nick. Nick shove Carruthers away, sending him sprawling into one of the men’s arms. With a flourish, Nick pulled out the papers he’d been carrying from Stephen’s and thrust them angrily into Carruthers’ surprised hands.

              “Your word hasn’t been worth a damn so far, but mine is,” he growled. “There. See if you can do any good with those, but I doubt it. I’ll get your pictures. You’ve got my word on that. Then we’ll settle this.” Nick spat on the floor, shouldered past the silent drinkers and headed out into the fresh-aired embrace of the street. He didn’t have a plan yet, but he would do. His mind raced and he breathed deep to clear the tobacco fug of the pub, the taste of the Scotch, the bitterness of his rage, all of it. It was only the rage he couldn’t quite shake by the time he was almost out of sight.

              Behind him the bewildered drinkers filed out of the doors and watched him go, a lonely figure striding up the road into the gloaming dusk. They pointed slyly, cast sideways glances and spoke in exaggeratedly hushed whispers about the unexpected spectacle they had just witnessed, speculating furiously on its meaning. Meanwhile the vanquished and groggy form of Carruthers was helped unsteadily into a waiting car, which squealed off leaving a hubbub of frenzied chatter hanging in the air.

              As Nick stalked away, Nick the Luger weighed heavy in his pocket. Someone was going to be sorry.

CHAPTER 16

Nick finally stopped walking when he realised he wasn’t quite sure where he was going. His mind was clouded with rage and he’d had to steam out of there to avoid it getting any worse and him doing something he’d really regret. He’d wound up doubling back on himself as he’d pounded the pavements with anger-weighted footsteps, and as he looked around he realised he was at the rear of the hospital, almost at Goodge Street and nearly as far down as Oxford Circus. He cut through an alley and saw the comforting glow of The Green Man public house ahead of him. He loved this place. It was just enough off the beaten track to attract people who wanted to find it, but keeping footfall trade away. It looked like it hadn’t been touched since Victorian times; a small ground floor dominated by an old dark wood bar, complete with Bacchus carvings leering down joyously over the drinkers. A couch in one corner, a few table and chairs and a cosy, enclosed drinking area round the back of the bar. Scarred, uneven floorboards dusted with sodden sawdust constituted the flooring, the gaps in the aged planks wide enough to see the chinks of light from the cellar shine through when someone was down there. The interior still held the ornate designs so popular in Victorian times, during the age of the great gin houses; bloomed mirrors behind the bar cast incomplete reflections. The exterior windows were patterned with frosted glass. Inside, a once fine but now incomplete chandelier twinkled irregularly in the centre of the bar room, while gilt fitting around the walls threw more low light into the dark depths of the bar. The rear wall of the back area, lined with battered green banquettes for the serious drinkers, was dominated by a large dark oil painting portraying the very scene directly below it. The place had a comforting smell. The double entries meant, unlike many pubs, the fresh air could circulate freely, pulling out the worst of the stale cigarette smoke, so it was left with a more benign odour than most similar places. It had something for everyone: raucous at the front of house, the serious business of serious drinking at the back, and upstairs, in the small snug, where Nick wanted to head to now, a place for the really serious drinker looking for meditative contemplation, away from the distractions of street level and the buzz of the bar.

              Nick managed to negotiate his way through to the bar without too much trouble. With a pint in hand, he climbed the turns of the narrow staircase and entered the carpeted realms of the snug. Spying an empty seat in the form of what had once been a fine, green, high-backed, leather armchair, Nick folded into its embrace. Lighting a cigarette, he watched the match burn out in his fingers, taking a deep drag of smoke. The smoking helped his breathing relax into a steadier rhythm, vital if he was going to get thoughts of what he should have done to Carruthers out of his head and concentrate on the matters at hand. He took a gulp of his beer.

              Clearly, Stephen was now in danger, if what Carruthers said was true. Either Carruthers had taken him, which was unlikely, but not impossible, or worse, Jurgen had tracked Nick and grabbed Stephen. That didn’t bear thinking about, but that was the problem; Nick had to think about it as a distinct possibility. Nick slipped downstairs and out to a phone box. He dialled Stephen’s number, but it rang and rang. Morosely he headed back into The Green Man.

Clearly Nick’s first priority had to be the safety of Stephen and Clara. To ensure that, he needed to get the films to Carruthers. He could slip to Euston now and get the Ramona pictures from the locker, but how to get the other films off Jurgen? He had no idea where to start looking for the man. He’d probably be trying to get the films to his contact, or get out of the country with them himself. He certainly wasn’t likely to be anywhere easy to find. Carruthers would have already checked up known addresses; there was little point Nick duplicating that work. Besides, Carruthers probably had a better idea on more of those addresses than Nick did.

              The Brigadier was now out of the picture. Nick could imagine that he’d been spirited off somewhere safe with his family until this blew over. Nick doubted Johnson would have a job where secret documents passed his desk again. In any case, his only connection to this had been Ramona and she was dead, so that was a closed avenue.

Nick drained his pint. There was little he could do about Stephen until he tracked down Jurgen, but what about Clara? Nick’s unease grew as he thought about her. He didn’t want her mixed up in this, but Jurgen and Lucia knew about her and Nick, and he’d sent Stephen off to warn her. Now the old man had been picked up, but Nick didn’t know if that was before or after he’d seen Clara and had a chance to warn her. Or even if he’d seen her at all. Stephen had been going to her apartment, and the fact that Carruthers had indicated he hadn’t got Clara yet told Nick that she wasn’t there, which in turn meant Stephen probably hadn’t got to her either. Whichever way you looked at it, it wasn’t good. She didn’t deserve to be drawn into something like this.

The slight fractures in their relationship were due mostly to Nick’s reticence to talk to her about his past. He’d struggle to get beyond it, not because he didn’t want to tell her, to unburden himself, but because he was terrified it would change her perception of him and pollute her innocence. Now he’d put her in the direct line of fire, albeit unknowingly. She had no idea there may be people out to hurt her, and Nick now had no idea where she could be. She should have been at home at that time, without a doubt. She had a few friends she could have gone to see, but if she went home, Nick gave a start. If she went home, Carruthers’ goons would be waiting to pick her up. Chances are she would go home at some point tonight. She should be working and that would mean she’d have to get ready. Nick had to assume she’d got the note he’d sent telling her not to go to his place.

              He finished the dregs of his ale. He hated not having a plan, but he was just going to have to take this one step at a time and see where he ended up. She should start work at ten; it was only just past seven now. He had to get to her place and wait. After that? After that he’d have to see. There were too many permutations, too many uncertainties. He’d have to start with this. That’s what they’d learnt in training: in the absence of anything else, go with what you have. That’s what Nick would have to do now, make sure Clara was safe then plan his next move. He got up and headed out into the growing gloom with a heavy heart. He wasn’t feeling nearly as good as he had been earlier. Not by a long shot.

              First Nick swung by the station. He still had the key and as he approached the lockers, he felt a surge of hope. At least he had these pictures. It might be enough to get Carruthers off the case and let the whole thing quieten down. As he neared the row of metal doors, though, his heart lurched. As he got close he could see that although some unused lockers hung open, one was slightly buckled and bowed. Before he even reached it, he knew. Of course, the key had been in his pocket the night he’d been captured by Jurgen. They’d searched him and left it, but it had the locker number on it. His optimism crashed. He had to assume that Jurgen now had everything Nick needed to make the people he cared about safe again, and to return Nick’s life to normal. The only ace he’d thought he was holding was gone. He wasted no time heading to Clara’s, drawing curious glances as he jogged the short distance to her block from the station.

              The entrance to Clara’s block was on a residential road. It was pretty quiet, almost devoid of the passing footfall running off Tottenham Court Road across to Gower Street. That meant there were no convenient places, bars or cafes, for Nick to while away the time. It was going to be a long wait. As Nick rounded the corner he clocked the saloon car straight away. It sat parked at the far corner, near the junction to Gower Street. Nothing unusual in that. The road was lined with neatly parked cars, but that was the only one with someone sitting in it. Thankfully the road wasn’t that well lit. Nick was just another passing shape, but he cursed silently. He knew the flat would be watched, but he’d hoped he might be able to slip into some cover and wait. He now had a problem: a man walking along the road without stopping wouldn’t arouse suspicion; one dodging into a doorway and not coming back would. The presence of the cars didn’t present any clues for him either as to Clara’s whereabouts. She could still not be there, or have come back and be inside, with the guy in the car waiting to pick her up as she came out. Either way, Nick was going to have to make a decision on it right now.

He hadn’t slowed his pace as he’d rounded the corner into the road. He was on the opposite side to Clara’s block. Chances are that the guy in the car would have Nick’s description, but it was dark and he would be looking out for a woman anyway. Nick crossed the road purposefully and marched up to Clara’s apartment building like he was going in. He stepped into the small entrance alcove, shielded from view from the car in the street, and pushed her bell. He waited. Nothing. Nick shuffled his weight from foot to foot impatiently and looked at his watch. He pressed the buzzer again, longer this time. He heard a crackle. Someone had picked up, but no one spoke. Nick waited.

              “Hello?” It was a man’s voice. Nick could hear footsteps from behind the front door of the block, racing down the apartment stairs. Clara wasn’t there, but they were waiting for her. He stepped back, turned and sprinted around the corner. As he turned, he heard the front door open and a shout of annoyance.

              “Which way?” a man shouted urgently. There was another muffled shout, but Nick was already around the next corner, away from the pounding footsteps now stretching down Tottenham Court Road in pursuit. The residential streets mingled with hospital buildings and university tenements meant that the area was criss-crossed with small alleys and cut-throughs. Nick had no trouble losing the pursuers and coming back to the other end of Clara’s street. He peered carefully around the railings of the building at the corner. The car that had had a watcher in stood empty. The person from it was at the far corner, the one Nick had dipped around only a few minutes ago. Nick shot over the junction to the far side of the road and ducked down some steps leading to a basement area of the building opposite. He was now just behind the car, on the opposite side of the road to Clara’s building. From here he’d be able to watch both the entrance to the building and the guy watching. Settling down on the cold of the concrete step to wait, Nick allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction as the man at the corner was joined by another man. Clearly they’d had no luck. Both men walked back up the road, with one ducking back into Clara’s block and the other continuing up, almost to where Nick was. He saw a short man, older. He looked bored. Nick wondered what he might have done to end up on a job like this, this late in his career. Sitting outside some woman’s flat all night waiting for her to show was not something the older guys normally liked to pull. The man got into the car and shut the front door with a slam. He started the engine and for a moment, Nick thought that he might be about to leave, but the car stayed where it was. The man flapped his arms around him. Nick could just make out the odd jerky motion and he realised that the guy was cold.

He should try sitting on this step, Nick thought. But this was good – an amateur. A parked car with a running engine was just bad field craft, unless you needed to make a quick getaway, but this guy was just trying to get warm. After a few minutes he turned the engine off and seemed to settle lower in his seat. Nick wouldn’t be surprised if the guy fell asleep; he looked the type and the car would be a warm fug by now.

              Time passes slowly when you’re sitting on a damp concrete step in the dark, and you don’t have a drink and can’t strike a cigarette. The guy in the car hadn’t moved, but Nick guessed from the lowered position of his head that he was dozing. By contrast, Nick felt fresh. The long sleep he’d enjoyed had really done him some good, which was just as well because he had a feeling it was going to be a long night. Nick shifted his weight and stretched his legs out to shake off the numbing cold that was seeping into his bones. He rearranged the greatcoat around him and moved his position slightly to change the angle on his neck. He was pretty sure that if Clara was coming, she’d be here by now. The Blue Rose opened in half an hour and she was normally there well before opening. The ball of unease he’d managed to screw down to golf ball size started to inflate again in his stomach and he began to fidget nervously, looking at his watch every couple of minutes. If they were watching the club as well she might get picked up going in there, but Nick couldn’t be in two places at once, and for the second time that night he faced a basic decision tearing him in half again. To stay or to move on? In the event, he gave it another five minutes. With a grimace as his knees complained bitterly about supporting his weight again in their chilled state, he silently slinked away, up the staircase and round the corner. It took him less than another ten minutes to hit the top of Dean Street.

              There was no parking on Dean Street, but he’d noticed a suspicious-looking car on the way over there, a couple of streets away, and sure enough he passed a man aimlessly loitering around the top end of the street. He was pretending to be engrossed in watching the traffic on Oxford Street, and busily looking at his watch, no doubt eager to be anywhere else but stuck on a chilly street corner late at night. As he walked past the man, whistling gaily, Nick could see another equally out of place individual standing down at the junction leading to Soho Square. Carruthers wasn’t taking any chances, but his men must be spread pretty thin. He’d staked the most obvious places, but where had he missed? Trouble was, Nick didn’t know either.