Two-Way Split (27 page)

The holdall sat on the table like an ugly brown bag of conscience. A face with the fat cheeks of Hilda Pearce was starting to form on the damn thing. Well, Robin had had enough. It wasn't going to distract him any more. He had to stop this, force himself to concentrate and come up with a plan to kill Eddie.

It was no good. He couldn't think with that thing staring at him.

He hid the bag in the bedroom.

Back in the sitting room he tried his hardest to focus on Eddie, but something else was starting to worry him. He'd done his best to avoid thinking about it, but it wouldn't go away. When he'd arrived home the door to his flat was open. Just as well, since he seemed to have mislaid his keys. For a moment, when he checked his pockets outside the main door, he had imagined he'd have to trek all the way back to Eddie's and get Carol's spare set.  Of course, the police would have arrived by now, since the last thing he did before driving home was to call them and report a disturbance. It had taken him a hell of a long time to get home, though.

Thankfully, the old Henderson woman downstairs had buzzed him inside. When he got upstairs he found his door ajar. Nothing was missing. He struggled to remember if he'd locked up when he left, but his memory was hazy.

Luckily, he kept another set of keys in a drawer in the kitchen.

Shit. He needed to relax. All this thinking was doing him no good at all. Just making his headache worse. There was a lot on his mind and it was no surprise that he couldn't remember leaving his flat. He must have forgotten to close the door behind him. That was all there was to it. Had to be.

Relax. Let it rest.

He lay on the floor and started humming Mozart's A minor Piano Sonata. After the first movement, he fancied a change of mood. Mozart was too camp. He sang some Bach. A couple of fugues followed by a two-part invention. Then Beethoven's "The Tempest"
Sonata. Impossibly hard for an untrained voice like his, but he gave it a damn good shot.

When the phone rang, he'd just reached the end of the first movement and had filled his lungs to begin the slow movement. Getting up off the floor required a huge effort. He contented himself with raising his head. The phone continued to chirp. Eventually, he uncurled himself and sat up. His muscles ached. He felt like he hadn't slept for a week.

Slowly, he got to his feet and walked over to the phone. When he picked it up, something crawled out of the receiver and dropped to the floor. He jumped on the disgusting, black thing. Crushed it with his heel. Ground it into the carpet.

He guided the phone to his ear. "Hello," he said.

"It's me. Please don't hang up. I have something important to tell you."

This was not good. This was not good at all. "Who are you?"

"Stop pretending you don't know."

"Go away. I don't know you."

"Play it your way. How about Carol? You know her?"

"Leave me alone."

Robin dropped the phone. It lay on the floor but he could still hear the voice. He picked up the phone and placed it on the cradle and the voice disappeared. Clever. He picked up the phone again and listened. Two voices. Pure sound, communicating by maintaining a constant interval of a major third.
Dial tone
. The words sprang into his head. He shook the phone and was surprised when nothing fell out of it. He placed it to his ear again and listened. Same story. Dial tone. He placed the receiver back in its cradle.

It rang instantly.

Don was back. "Please don't hang up."

"What do you want?"

A short pause. "You think you killed her."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't. It was Eddie."

Robin's fingers formed a gun. It was a familiar shape. Someone else had done that. He said, "Bang. He's dead."

"Not when I last saw him."

"As good as. Why do you say he killed Carol?"

"I saw it with my own eyes."

"You're wrong."

"I know why you might think that. After all, he told the police it was me. But he'd be unlikely to admit it to you. I tell you, Robin, I'm a witness."

"A witness?"

"I can confirm that Eddie killed Carol."

"But he couldn't have. I did."

"You have to help me, Robin. We have to help each other. The police think I killed her. God, this is such a mess."

"I killed her. Not Eddie."

Silence.

Then Don said, "Try covering for him all you like, but you know you didn't kill her. Think about it. You saw her breathe just before you left. Remember? Eddie came back. Eddie killed her. Listen to me. I was there. I saw his fingers wrapped around her throat. He was choking your wife, Robin."

"Why are you making this up?"

"Why would I lie? Look, she was still alive when you disappeared. Do you believe that much, at least?"

"Suppose it's possible."

"Well, she's dead now and the man responsible is the same man who hit me on the head and knocked me out. Eddie."

"What did you see?"

"She wasn't making any sound, but her legs were moving. She was kicking. I tried to stop him." He sighed. "I failed, sorry. In the end, I thought he was going to kill me, so I ran away. He chased me and fired a couple of shots. I think he told the police I killed her. It's my word against his and I can't take the risk. I'm a fugitive. But you can help me, Robin. Together we can destroy the man who murdered your wife and tried to frame us for it."

Robin licked his lips. Was it possible he hadn't killer her.

Don said, "Will you meet me somewhere? Let me convince you I'm telling the truth."

Robin said, "I'm going psychotic cooped up here. A minute ago I saw a leech crawl out of the telephone."

"I hate when that happens."

"I need to get out of here."

"Sounds like it. Meet me for a beer?"

"Never touch the stuff these days."

"Coffee, then."

"Okay, but you have to promise me one thing. You'll help me kill Eddie."

"My pleasure."

"Okay. Where do you want to meet?"

"Filmhouse café?"

"When?"

"Soon as you can get here."

When the phone rang again, Robin thought Don had forgotten something. He was surprised when Eddie's voice said his name."Who do you think it is?" Robin asked him.

"There's a very fine question. Look, you're ill. I don't blame you. I got rid of her handbag. Hopefully, the police will take a while to trace her and it'll buy us some time. We've got to run. I need my money."

"I've no idea what you're talking about."
Right. Pretend you're my pal, take the money, and then kill me.

"I'm talking about Carol, you twat."

Robin didn't answer.

"Can you meet me somewhere with the money?"

Robin said, "Carol's dead."

"She meant a lot to me. But if you just give me the money, I'll keep my mouth shut."

"Did you kill her?"

"The fuck are you saying, Robin? That won't wash. Your prints are all over her. You got the money? I'll settle for my share and Carol's. You can keep yours."

Silence filled Robin's ear. It hurt.

"I'm coming for the money," Eddie said. "You got it?"

"Did you try to kill Don? Did you try to shoot him?"

"Of course I didn't try to shoot him."

"Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't do that to you."

"You saying you didn't try to kill him?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. What makes you think I did?"

"I'm going out, Eddie."

"Stay where you are. I think I should come over."

"The money's not here." Robin had to think quickly. "It's somewhere safe. I've got to fetch it. It'll take a couple of hours."

"I'll come with you," Eddie said.

"You can't. There's a dead body in your flat, Eddie. You have to stay out of sight. Did you kill her?"

"What's going on in your head?" Eddie sighed. "About three o'clock?"

"Three thirty. And phone me first to check that I'm back."

"Robin, you sure the money's stashed somewhere safe?"

"Every penny." Robin put the phone down.

2:00 pm

Pearce dragged the heel of his boot across the gravel. The pistol was digging into his back again. He looked across at Robin Greaves's flat. If he waited until dark he could climb the scaffolding. It looked easy enough. Just above head height, a metal ladder was tied horizontally across three standards. Once he managed to pull himself up to the platform, he could free the ladder and use it to get to the second floor. He didn't need a ladder, really. He could probably climb up the lugs. The problem wasn't getting up there. The problem was what to do when he got there. You see, he'd have to shoot Greaves through his sitting room window, and he wasn't sure what effect glass had on the trajectory of a bullet. He could smash the window first, but that would warn Greaves and Pearce doubted he could hit a moving target. To be realistic, the only way he could be sure of killing Greaves was to have the Tokarov's muzzle pressed against the scumbag's forehead when he pulled the trigger.

Scaling the scaffolding wasn't an option. He needed to find a way to get inside the building.

Robin Greaves wasn't at home. Or if he was, he wasn't answering his door. Ideally, Pearce would pick the lock and wait in the empty flat for Greaves to return. Then he'd grab him and unload a couple of shots into the murdering bastard's skull. Unfortunately, Pearce had no idea how to pick a lock. It was the sort of topic that had often come up in jail, but Pearce had never paid much attention. No, the best he could do was break down the door. He knew how to do that all right. But if Greaves returned home to find his front door kicked in, he'd take one look and run.

Pearce considered whacking him in the street. That would work. Wait until he saw Greaves strolling along the road, then head towards him. When he was close enough, reach behind his back, yank the gun out of his belt, and bang, bang, one dead fucker. A great plan, were it not for its single fatal flaw. In the post office, Greaves had worn a balaclava, so Pearce didn't know what the little shit looked like. Pearce knew his general size and shape, knew what he sounded like, but he could pass him in the street and not know it. So much for that idea.

Perched on a low wall on the opposite side of the street, Pearce had detected no movement from inside Greaves's flat. He was pretty sure Greaves had gone out. Pearce had buzzed his entry phone several times. No response. He'd dialled directory inquiries and got Greaves's phone number and tried that too. Several times. Again, no response.

Pearce fingered the pistol through his t-shirt. The gun was awkward and clumsy and uncomfortable. He nudged the barrel over to the right. When he moved forward, it slipped back again. If only he could wait inside, hide somewhere and ambush Greaves as he unlocked his front door. That was the answer. And if nobody could see him, he could take the damned gun out of his belt.