Gregory fed the papers into the fireplace and watched as the greedy flames devoured the documents, the edges curling and turning brown before disintegrating in the heat.
Beyond the room, he could hear Rossiter getting closer, the police no doubt at his heels, trying to hurry him along.
He cursed under his breath as a page fell from his fingers, bent down to pick it up and glanced at the numbers across the paper.
All their work. All this time.
‘Shit,’ he mumbled, screwing up the page in his hand and tossing it onto the fire.
He peered over his shoulder as the footsteps drew nearer, then turned and dropped the stack of documents into the grate and stirred them with the poker.
He glared at the hearth. The problem with old stately homes was that the chimneys were never swept as often as they should be. The draw wasn’t enough to fan the flames, and smoke began to billow out into the room.
He coughed and moved back to his desk as the door opened.
‘What’s the meaning of this interruption?’ he demanded as Rossiter stood to one side to let the police detective and his colleague over the threshold. His mind worked as he spoke. Two armed special response officers stood in the hallway outside. No doubt, the detective had more men posted by the front door and around the building. He congratulated himself at having the foresight to light the fire as soon as Rossiter had hammered on his office door and announced the police were about to descend on them.
He glanced towards the hearth, the smoke increasing in density, then back at the detective.
It was too late. The man had followed his gaze and now moved across the room to the grate.
Gregory watched as Lake crouched and began to pull pages from the flames, salvaging as much as possible. Soot and ash covered the hearthrug.
‘Hey,’ exclaimed Rossiter, ‘that’s original nineteenth century – you can’t do that!’
‘I can, sir,’ said the detective. ‘And I will. Destroying evidence is a crime.’ He looked over his shoulder, his eyes finding Gregory. ‘As I’m sure you’re both aware.’
Gregory recovered quickly. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Detective, accusing a parliamentary candidate of a crime is extremely serious,’ he said, coughing to clear the acrid smoke from his throat. He moved towards the window and released the safety catch before shoving the sash frame upwards, allowing fresh air into the room.
‘No!’
Lake realised too late what was happening.
As the morning breeze seeped through the gap, the flames caught in the hearth, freshly fuelled by the fresh air filling the space. The remaining documents began to burn quickly, easily.
One of the other police officers joined the detective, and between them, they tried to pull more evidence from the flames.
Gregory glanced over at Rossiter, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. He didn’t feel so confident as his boss. Many of the more important accounts were now lying, singed, on the floor in front of him.
He wiped a trace of sweat from his top lip with a handkerchief and looked away.
Lake cursed and eased himself upwards from his crouched position, then glared at Gregory. ‘Gather what we have, constable. Take it out to one of the cars and tell the driver not to let the documents out of his sight.’
Once the constable had left the room, the detective turned back to Rossiter. ‘Sir, we’ve reason to believe that there may be other people here. Perhaps not of their own volition?’ He cocked an eyebrow.
Rossiter shrugged and said nothing.
‘What’s going on?’ said Gregory, stalling them for as long as possible. ‘What on earth are you doing here, forcing yourselves into Mr Rossiter’s private residence?’
‘We didn’t force ourselves,’ said Lake. ‘Mr Rossiter here answered the front door and invited us in.’ He turned to the politician, who nodded.
Gregory cursed under his breath. ‘Then you won’t mind if I call our legal representatives,’ he said.
‘You can, once I ascertain that no one is being held in this building against their will,’ replied the detective. He turned, ignoring Gregory, and spoke to Rossiter. ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving us the guided tour, sir.’
He gestured towards the door.
‘I’ll join you,’ said Gregory, moving from behind his desk. The last thing he wanted was Rossiter opening his mouth and making a disastrous situation worse for both of them. Already his mind was working quickly, trying to fathom how on earth he was going to extricate himself from the situation and create a modicum of distance between him and his employer.
***
Gregory’s fears were realised as he trooped after Rossiter and the police officers towards the back of the house.
The man cheerily pointed out antiques, extolling the history of the building as he strolled ahead of them, seemingly oblivious to the seriousness of the situation.
Rossiter had been acting strange ever since they’d finished torturing the old man, and Gregory suspected that his boss had taken even more of the strong painkillers he was quickly becoming addicted to.
What’s he doing?
He became more concerned as he followed the small group through to the back of the house, and then his heart lurched.
Rossiter was headed straight for the kitchen instead of taking the police round to the other side of the house as they’d agreed before the detective had knocked on the front door. Which meant their security team wouldn’t have had time to remove the Irishman from the premises.
He stumbled forward. ‘No!’
Rossiter flung open the door, stood to one side, and ushered the police into the room.
Gregory ran a hand over his face as he leaned against the doorframe and wondered what was going through the senior police detective’s mind as he surveyed the gloomy space.
Mackenzie Harris sat in a chair in the middle of the room, his face bruised and bloody. His hands were folded in his lap and he peered up at the detective through puffy eyelids. One eye was red and weeping.
Two men in jeans and black sweaters stood with their backs to the wall opposite, the taller of the two with a knife still in his hands, both of them with their jaws open in shock.
Remnants of rope lay scattered on the floor around Mack’s feet, and he rubbed at his wrists as he blinked and stared up at the newcomers.
‘I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad to see the police,’ he said, then turned his head and spat on the floor, blood mixing with his saliva. ‘What kept you?’
Lake turned to face Rossiter. ‘You’d better explain yourself, Mr Rossiter – or should I address you as Terry Hollister?’
The politician baulked at the use of his real name, and then pointed at Mack. ‘This man was caught trying to break into my house,’ he said. ‘My security people took the appropriate action.’
Gregory closed his eyes. We’re dead men.
‘Appropriate action?’ the detective said. ‘Explain to me how you consider this,’ he waved his hand in Mack’s direction, ‘appropriate action?’
Rossiter smiled and moved to the butcher’s block in the middle of the room. ‘He was carrying this,’ he said and turned.
Gregory’s ears filled with the noise of three armed response policeman simultaneously raising their weapons and aiming them at Rossiter, who held up a revolver, its grey surface catching the sunlight beginning to pour through the kitchen window. He turned it in his hands, a wild look in his eyes.
‘Put the gun down, sir,’ said the detective, his voice strained. ‘Right now.’
‘But don’t you see?’ said Rossiter. ‘He came here to kill me. We had to stop him.’
‘Sir, put the gun down.’
‘Ian, please,’ begged Gregory. ‘This has gone too far. Do what he says.’
Rossiter’s eyes met his, before he swung the gun and rested the barrel under his chin.
‘Sorry, Malcolm.’
‘No!’ yelled Lake.
Gregory flinched as the gun went off and closed his eyes.
A shocked silence filled the room, and then everyone began to talk at once.
Lake began barking orders, the tactical team aimed their weapons at Gregory’s two security men, shouting at them to kneel on the floor with their hands raised.
The other officers began to clear out of the room, talking into their radios, their faces pale but their actions efficient and precise.
Gregory leaned against the wall, his legs shaking, his mouth open, and his mind still trying to process what he was staring at.
He’s gone.
Rossiter’s body had collapsed to the floor, blood pooling from the gaping wound in his skull.
Red and white spatter covered the stainless steel front of the oven and marble bench top, dripping down the cabinet doors to the floor next to the body.
Most of Rossiter’s face had disintegrated under the force of the blast, and Gregory turned away, sickened.
He became aware of movement from the other side of the room and watched, horrified, as Mack staggered forward.
He leaned over and spat at Rossiter, his spittle landing on the dead man’s feet. ‘Good fucking riddance.’
Gregory’s head jerked towards the Irishman, a moment before he launched himself across the kitchen at him.
‘You bastard – you ruined everything!’ he screamed.
Two policemen moved in front of him, their bulk blocking his way, forcing him to a standstill, before one of them unhooked handcuffs from his utility belt and slipped them over the press secretary’s wrists.
Terror filled Gregory’s veins. Without Rossiter to protect him, his chances of surviving prison were slim.
He shook off the constable’s grip on his shoulder, his upper lip curling. ‘Get your hands off me.’ He pivoted until he faced Lake. ‘I’ll have your career for this,’ he snarled.
‘I doubt it,’ said Lake. ‘I’ve just lost one suspect. I have no intention of losing you.’ He stepped closer. ‘Malcolm Gregory, also known as Peter Hardcastle, I’m arresting you under suspicion of holding a man against his will and torture. You’ll also be asked to provide a statement explaining your involvement in the fatal shooting of Amy Peters, Mr Rossiter’s driver, and his bodyguard on Monday.’
The detective turned to one of the constables standing next to him. ‘Take him away,’ he said, before looking at Mack.
‘You’re coming with us, too.’