The unmarked cream-colored Rover sedan pulled up in front of the last house on Windsor Road. The property was a large mock Tudor detached, recently painted white, with an expanse of open space rolling down the hill next to it. The London sun was just rising and picking up the dark glistening green of the wet grass. Fingers crossed, it promised to be a rain-free day.
“Nice place,” Inspector Grayson said, peering up at the closed curtains upstairs from the passenger seat. He was a middle-aged man with a soft pink face and thinning blond hair. His unimpressive build was hidden in a beige raincoat.
“You’re in Finchley now, sir,” Campbell said at the wheel, putting on an upper-class accent. “Thatcher Country.”
“Are the constables in place?”
“Yes, sir. One around the back. And Higgins for backup.”
“Higgins the sprinter,” Inspector Grayson said. He craned his neck, peered down the hill. Ah, there she was, long and lean, in her police blues, standing by the playground. Looking smart in a woman’s police bowler, with its red-and-white checked band. Stamping her feet in the cold. He could see her breath. “Very good.”
“Do you want me to come with you, sir?”
“No,” Grayson said. “Top brass wants to play it low key.”
“Typical. He’s got a ‘sir’ in front of his bloody name; he gets special treatment.”
“I’ll signal if I need help.” Grayson showed two fingers. “Two fingers behind my back.”
“Right you are, sir. Good luck.”
“Right.” Inspector Grayson got out of the Rover, adjusted his raincoat.
Up to the door of Sir Ian Ellis’ house.
Rang the bell.
“Who on earth is that?” Sir Ian said, waking up.
“How should I know?” his wife said, burying her head under the covers. One pink curler stuck out.
The doorbell rang again.
“You going to get that or not?” his wife said into her pillow.
Sir Ian sighed, climbed out of bed, yanked on his dressing gown, stepped into leather slippers. Went over to the window. Pulled the curtain open no more than an inch or two.
And jumped when he saw the Rover parked out front. A figure at the wheel. He didn’t know anyone with a Rover like that.
He let the curtain narrow an inch and peered down by the front door.
Another man he didn’t know, in a raincoat. Looking up now. Squinting. Not smiling.
Sir Ian’s heart played an unpleasant rhythm. He took a deep breath.
Friend or foe? He couldn’t imagine them being friends. He didn’t have many to begin with.
The police.
“Eloise,” he hissed. “Get up!”
“What is it now?”
“The police. At the door. Go tell them I’m not home.”
“Christ, Ian.” She sat up, looking as rumpled as the bed. “What have you done now?”
“I don’t know.” But there was plenty to answer for. That bloody Brenda Pike girl. He never should have trusted Ev. Bloody oaf. Ev was going to be his ruin if he wasn’t careful. “Go on—please!”
“Right.” His wife climbed out of bed, fumbling for her spectacles. She pulled on a fluffy blue robe, frouffy slippers with heels. Went downstairs. Meanwhile, Sir Ian dressed quickly, got his passport, secret stash of money, American Express checks from his locked desk in his study where he kept them in case of emergency. He laced his walking shoes. Threw on a sweater and a car coat, because one never knew where one might end up. All the while he listened. At the front door, Eloise talking to the police.
“My husband’s not here,” Sir Ian’s wife said.
Inspector Grayson put his badge away, came out with a warrant. “We have a warrant for his arrest, madam.” Behind his back he showed two fingers. He immediately heard the crackle of the police radio in the car, then Campbell getting out to assist.
“But my husband’s not here!” Sir Ian’s wife shrieked, a little too loud. Sending a signal? “You can’t come in! Do you have any idea who we are?”
Upstairs, that was all Ian needed to hear. Time to leg it. He ran to the back of the house, scrutinized the backyard from behind a curtain.
Down there by the shed at the back, a police constable. Bloody hell. Ian took a deep breath as his heart hammered, then dashed into the next bedroom, the one over the garage. It was a bit of a jump from there to freedom, but he could manage it. How many times, in his mind, had he planned this? Now the time had come.
He should never had used Ev again, not after he killed that silly girl for him. Tried to pin it on Steve Cook.
While the police entered the house downstairs, he quietly cranked open the window, stepped out onto the narrow ledge over one side of the garage. Feet slipping on wet stucco. Not a good feeling. Not at all.
The constable by the shed saw him. Came quickly toward him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Bit of an emergency!” Sir Ian shouted. “The house is on fire.”
“I don’t think so,” he said drily, picking up his feet into a run.
There was a bushy hedge over the tall fence, next to the park. Ian was ready as he’d ever be. He was already plotting how to get to Wales. Then the boat to Dublin. Then, who knew where? If nothing else, he’d be rid of Eloise. Small mercies.
It crossed his mind that he was about to do what Steve Cook did all those years ago. Flee. A chill of realization shuddered through him.
“Sorry, laddie!” One story up, Sir Ian jumped off the ledge, just missing the fence, thank God. Landed on the hedge on the other side and it heaved with his weight, dumping him unceremoniously on the grass. Ouch. Rougher than he liked, but his fall was broken. Leg throbbing. Nothing else, he didn’t think. He was in luck.
He got up, panting.
The police constable in his garden on the other side of the fence was on his radio now. “He’s done a runner! Jumped the flippin’ fence! Heading for the commons.”
Sir Ian actually laughed as he tore down the common space toward the playground. It would take more than PC Plod to stop him. Still a trick or two left up old Ian’s sleeve.
And froze when he saw a beanpole of a police constable, female, coming at him like a whirlwind. A police radio in her hand. She raised it as she ran.
“Got ’im!” she shouted in a South London accent. Her checked hat flew off.
Good Lord!
Ian spun, frantic. He aimed for the other side of the park. Hendon Lane beyond. It would have to do.
And ran for all he was worth. Which wasn’t much, compared to the thumping strides of the gazelle looming up behind him.
“Stop! Police!”
He did not heed her words.
She leapt on him from behind, grabbed him, twisting him hard, taking him down to the wet grass with a wallop that ended with a pop somewhere in his shoulder. Now that did hurt.
“Good morning, sunshine!” she said in his ear. She had minty breath.
His head rang with the impact. And up the hill, coming toward them, he could hear the other officers whooping with glee.