Running Scared (30 page)

My visitor had remained by the kitchenette, his hands folded in the stance of the professional bodyguard. He was a big fellow in a dark suit, balding but with his remaining fairish hair tied back in a ponytail. His skull appeared to be perfectly round like a football. He wasn’t so young – I supposed him in his forties – but as solid as a brick barn. I hadn’t seen a Mercedes car on my way home – but no doubt that was parked nearby, possibly in the next street.

‘Switch the light out,’ he ordered in the same expressionless tone he’d used throughout our short conversation. For all that, it was an educated voice. ‘And sit down there – on that sofa. We’re going to have a talk.’

Chapter Fifteen

Once I’d switched out the light, the basement room was plunged into gloom, made worse by the fact that the medicine cabinet still blocked the small garden window. Ridiculously, I found time for a spasm of embarrassment. He had probably seen and guessed the reason for that pathetic attempt at barricading myself in. Totally futile, as it turned out. This fellow hadn’t needed to break in by burglars’ methods as had his Spanish-speaking colleague. This was the man who’d got into the shop, and, on the night the Spaniard (as I thought of him) had been trying to get in here, had effortlessly entered Mrs Stevens’ Putney home. There he’d drawn a blank. Here the Spaniard had also been unsuccessful, thanks to Bonnie. He hadn’t even got in. Ponytail had been forced to come here and try himself. I fancied a hierarchy was emerging. This sinister intruder, with whom I shared the darkness, was Grice’s lieutenant, entrusted with his messages and orders. The other guy was a regular foot soldier. That Grice had sent his right-hand man suggested Foxley had been correct. Grice was taking personal control, albeit at one remove. Foxley would be pleased about that. I wasn’t so sure.

I glanced towards the window. Up there, out in the street, it was still comparatively light, that steel-grey moment before dusk falls. Down here, I could barely see my visitor.

He had moved, taken a chair over by the television, which put him between me and the only exit. As my eyes adjusted to the poor light, I could make him out better but he was still little more than a silhouette.

I couldn’t see his face and was glad of it. His voice was frightening enough.

Though Foxley had warned me that someone would contact me soon, I hadn’t – and Foxley hadn’t – bargained for it being as soon as this. As a result I was unprepared. In stage terms, I hadn’t had time to learn my lines or rehearse. The interview would have to be conducted off the cuff. It would have to be a
tour de force
of improvisation. If I got it wrong, if he guessed I’d been primed by the cops or that I was uttering the smallest lie, he’d kill me. I found I was holding my breath and forced myself to breathe as naturally as I could in the circumstances, but my chest was rigid and it felt as natural as being in an iron lung must be. Even Bonnie had fallen silent. From the bathroom came only an occasional whimper and desultory scrabble at the door. She, too, was listening.

‘Do you know why I’m here?’

I started. I hadn’t expected a question. It was a clever one, straight to the point. It allowed for no evasion. If I lied, he’d know straight away.

‘I can guess, I think,’ I said. My voice sounded as if it were being forced out of a bag, like piped icing. ‘Is it to do with the roll of film?’

‘Yes.’ I’d given the right answer. There was a touch of approval in his voice. I’d be a fool to bank on it. ‘Do you have it?’

‘Not here,’ I croaked.

‘I know you don’t have it here,’ he replied, now sounding reproachful.

Of course he knew. He’d used his time to search the place, just as he’d searched the house in Putney. It didn’t look upside down because only careless, amateur searchers (or those bent on vandalism) leave a place looking as if it’s been done over. The professional has been through your gear and you never know it. Mrs Stevens had guessed only because she was super-tidy and he’d made the error of leaving the loo seat up.

At the thought of him, searching methodically through my gear, the sick feeling returned. He’d been through everything, my clothes, including my underwear. My bed, looking under the mattress and inside the pillowslip and duvet cover. In the bathroom, unscrewing my tube of toothpaste and tin of talc. In the kitchen, shaking out the contents of the coffee jar, the packet of tea. Everything had been touched by him and soiled by him though he’d left no sign, not even a fingerprint, that was for sure.

‘You’ve searched,’ I said dully. ‘Did you search the flat above the shop, too? After you knocked out my friend?’

‘The Indian guy? He didn’t have it.’

Yes, he’d calmly stepped over Ganesh’s prostrate body and gone through Hari’s flat. That must have taken a bit of time. There are a pile of papers to do with the business up there. At any moment, Ganesh could’ve regained consciousness but, thank God, he hadn’t.

‘How did it come into your possession? Did Coverdale give it to you?’ Ponytail asked next.

‘No, he didn’t. He hid it in the old washroom at the shop the morning he stumbled in. The morning you—He was being chased. The washroom’s been renovated since. That’s when it came to light. It was in an old envelope, tucked behind some pipes.’

He thought that over and must have accepted it. His voice went back to being expressionless. ‘The person I’m representing would like the film. Can you get it?’

‘Yes.’ That was true. Foxley had promised that.

‘He is a fair man and will pay you for your trouble. A thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money. I’m sure you can use it.’

Yes, I could. But I’d rather earn it a different way. Come to that, the police would take it off me in due course, even if all went according to plan. They’d say it was evidence. I wondered if I could argue the case for being allowed to keep it. Then I thought wryly, why worry about that, Fran? A chance would be a fine thing.

‘A thousand?’ I said wistfully. It wasn’t difficult to get the tone right. It came naturally.

‘That’s right. You agree?’

I hesitated. I wasn’t acting. It was real. I was about to take the plunge. ‘Yes, all right. I know you’ve been looking for the film but – but what about the bloke you – who was found dead outside my door here? I don’t want to end up the same way. Don’t take this wrong, but how do I know I can trust you? Look, I want to trade, but I’m not going to agree to hand over the film to you in some place, say like this flat here, where it’s just you and me, like this. I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m trying to look after myself.’

I felt his anger though he hadn’t moved. I hurried on. ‘I’m not trying to shake more money out of you. You can have the film for a grand. That’s fine by me. But I want to hand it over to – to the person you’re representing, himself. That way, I’ll know he’s got it and that nothing’s gone wrong. See, you say you represent him, but maybe you don’t. Maybe you represent someone else. I don’t know, do I? I give the film to your boss or no one, right?’

‘You are not in a position to make conditions,’ he said tersely.

But actually, I thought he was bluffing there. I was. I had the negs – or knew where they were. I was prepared to play along and return them for a grand in cash. They didn’t want more trouble either, according to what Foxley had said. I hoped he was right. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘just explain that to your principal, will you? You’re right, I could use the money. I don’t want the film. It’s no use to me.’

He was hesitating. ‘My principal may wish for some evidence that you do actually have access to it.’ Sarcasm entered his voice. ‘Since we don’t know we can trust you, either.’

Tricky. I could hardly send him down the nick to ask. But if Grice himself were to come, he’d have to be persuaded. I gambled. ‘I did get it developed,’ I admitted.

At my words, he moved. He was across the room and towering over me in a split second. Bonnie, in the bathroom, began a determined attempt to scrape her way through the door, whining hysterically. He snatched me up off the sofa in a single move, holding my arms in a painful grip. I hung between his hands like a rag doll, helpless and wondering if I hadn’t made the worst mistake of my life. But he had to know. If I handed the goods over, they’d know at once they hadn’t got a film but a set of developed negatives. Explaining that if they were unprepared would be well-nigh impossible. They’d be sure it was a double-cross.

‘Hold on!’ I gasped. ‘I’m not making trouble! When I got it printed up I didn’t know, did I, that it’d be of interest to you? I thought it might tell me whose it was, but it didn’t. I didn’t – don’t – know the people in the snaps. I only ever wanted to give the stupid thing back to its owner and if you want it, you can have it!’

He dropped me. I fell back on the sofa in a heap like the victim of a session on the rack. I was sure my shoulders were both dislocated. He still loomed over me.

‘Where are the prints?’ His voice was low and harsh.

‘With the negs. Except one I’ve got here in my pocket. I meant to – to put it in a safe place with the others, in case the owner came asking, you know. Somehow it got left out. Look, it’s only a holiday snap, what’s the fuss?’

I was doing my best to sound thick, but I wasn’t sure he’d bought the explanation. He held out his hand silently.

I fumbled in my pocket and gave him Joleen’s print. He took it to the window and held it so the street lighting fell on it. I heard him give a little grunt. He put it in his inside pocket and turned back.

‘How many of these prints do you say you have?’

‘Four. Most of the film was unused, I swear. There were only four pics on it. You’ve got one print there, the three others are with the negatives, but not here. Look, I nearly threw them away! They’re not interesting or anything.’ I crossed my fingers beneath the cushion.

‘The prints must be returned with the negatives, including any blanks that you may still hold. If we were to find you had held any back, we would be seriously displeased.’ The threat in his voice when he said that would’ve chilled anyone’s blood. It froze mine.

‘Look,’ I said pleadingly, and that wasn’t acting, either, ‘I really do want to give you the lot, get rid of it all, get the money, and then hear nothing more about it. I swear, I never wanted to get involved in any of this in the first place.’

That all rang beautifully true because it was. He was convinced at last. ‘Very well. I’ll tell the person I represent what you’ve said. I’ll be in touch with you again. You’ll speak to no one meantime.’

He stepped towards the front door, it swung open and he was gone, just a shadow on the basement steps. Despite being a large man, he moved almost silently, like a panther.

I got up by dint of pushing myself off the sofa with my hands. My legs were like jelly. I stumbled towards the bathroom and opened the door. Bonnie rushed out but I had no time for her. I staggered to the washbasin and threw up violently.

When I’d retched myself just about inside out, I went back to my living room and tried to think straight. I ought to let the cops know that someone had been in touch, but I was afraid to leave the flat. They knew I had no telephone here and they might be watching to see if I went to phone anywhere else – or went to see anyone else. I couldn’t involve Daphne, and a public telephone box would be a dead giveaway. I’d have to wait until Ponytail got in touch again with details of the exchange arrangements.

Going to bed that night took some effort of will. To begin with, there was the picture in my head of Ponytail searching through the bedding. It wouldn’t go away although I stripped pillowcase, sheet and duvet cover and put them to wash. Even if I’d been able to push away that image, the pain in both upper arms reminded me of my visitor. I showered, hoping that would make me feel better, and eventually crawled into bed around midnight. Bonnie hopped up on the duvet and settled down by my feet. I had discovered that Bonnie liked sleeping with people. I suppose it was because her original owner had been living rough.

In my bedroom under the pavement, sometimes I could hear feet walking overhead. Mostly it was a silent little cubbyhole, at times uncomfortably tomblike. Although there was a ventilation grille in the door to prevent my suffocating, I always propped the door open. I just didn’t like being shut in there.

Perhaps Bonnie and I were both exhausted by the day’s turn of events. At any rate, we both fell asleep.

I was awoken by a whining in my ear and opened my eyes to realise Bonnie was on the pillow, standing over me. She licked my face.

I sat up, startled and confused, wondering if this was a dream or, if not, what on earth was happening. Above my head, feet stamped back and forth. There was the noise of a powerful motor, something like a pump. Lights flashed across the overhead glass circle like the strobe lights in a disco. Voices were shouting and behind it all was an eerie trickling noise like running water.