The sky was so densely packed now that it looked like all the clouds in London had huddled together to watch me. Canary Wharf was still blinking, its top only just fitting beneath the static, weighty ceiling, the underside of which was layered with blacks and greys, smeared with a filthy orange from the lights of the city below. The cold night air was breathless as a vacuum, the wind cowering in a corner somewhere, refusing to come out.
I was on Narrow Street again, where I’d parked in a residents’ zone. Cherie was in the house so she wouldn’t see the Mazda, or if she did it would be the next day before she did so. It wouldn’t matter then. Nothing would.
Mike had seen sense eventually. I’d played the message back and we’d both listened to Mrs Winter’s soft, excited tones, telling me that Cherie had returned, though it was probably a bit too late now, wasn’t it? I hadn’t expected her to mention where she lived but nevertheless I was relieved when she didn’t. I didn’t want Mike to have it. Mike wanted me to give him the address, telling me he was going to finish the girl himself. It was his right, he said, and I suppose it was. But I wouldn’t do it. Mike thought that I just didn’t want to give him my trump card, that I was afraid he’d shoot me anyway, before going round there. It wasn’t that. I didn’t think he really would have done it, not after I’d mentioned Ally. The reason was the girl. Mike just might have been able to get through the window but that would have been the easy part. The girl was good. She was smart, strong and she was trained. What’s more she’d killed people, she’d have no block against doing that. Mike wouldn’t have been able to get to her without her knowing. No way. I wasn’t absolutely certain I could do it myself. He’d have had to barge the door down and hope to get lucky, which was no way to do it. The odds were that she’d have taken him out. If he really cared, I told him, he’d let me go up there. If he really wanted to get the person who had murdered his wife. There was a mixture of shame and relief on his face as he handed the gun over.
I stood in the same pub opposite Victoria Place. It was still busy, even though it was close to eleven on a Tuesday night. I leaned on the same pillar, drank another Coke as the crowd around me murmured. If anyone thought it strange that a lone man had come in three times that evening and just stared out of the window into the darkness, no one said anything. Across the street the living-room window was dark, as were all the windows on the floor above. Just one light showed in the entire house, behind the curtains of the dormers on the top floor. The loft. I kept my eyes on it, trying to press them through to see inside. At eleven-fifteen, just as the pub was emptying, the light went out. A switch seemed to click inside me too. Everything that had happened seemed suddenly to be distilled into the dark square I was looking at. It had all been reduced to that room. To what was going to happen inside. I felt calm but fired, empty of confusion, of any doubt. All I had to do was follow the path that was laid out for me.
I didn’t leave it long. Just another forty-five minutes standing behind a goods van, using one of its mirrors to make sure no one left the house. No one did. When I was ready, I walked across the square and made my way along Victoria Place.
Casually I turned down the alley at the side of Number 14. I was inside the toilet within five seconds. I pulled the window down and reattached the catch bracket to the top of it. I reinserted the window locks and replaced the small plastic caps. I wiped the sills down for prints with toilet paper, which I screwed up and dropped into the bowl. I put the long slim key back into the cabinet next to the romance novel. I did these things quickly and efficiently. When I was done I stood very still by the toilet door.
I stood for perhaps a minute, my breathing light, listening for any sounds coming from inside the house. An old clock ticked loudly from the kitchen to my right, underlined by the low, monotonous hum of a fridge. There was nothing else, no stereo, no TV. No footsteps. Making as little noise as I could, I pushed the door open and peered out into the hall, where I’d been earlier, and saw that it was dark, darker than it was outside. I walked out into the hall and made my way to the foot of the stairs, where I stopped and listened again. Nothing. Nothing at all. I peered above me, craning my neck into the black, curving stairwell.
Knowing that the stairs creaked from the last time I went up them, I kept to the edges, taking them four at a time, hauling myself up with the sturdy oak banister on my right. I caused a couple of deep wood groans but no louder than the ones the house must have given out itself during the course of the night, once the central heating was off. Though my heart stood still, no doors opened, no one came out to see who was there. I carried on. When I was two-thirds of the way up I looked over the top step, towards the door above me, the loft door. There was no light coming from underneath it. I kept my eyes on it, watching for any movement from the other side.
She was in there. She had to be. I’d seen her light go out. She hadn’t left the house. Even if she’d used the back door she would still have had to come out onto the street, unless she’d hopped over the back wall, like she had when she’d got into the Lindaeur Building. I told myself she wouldn’t have done that. Why would she? She didn’t know I was there.
Without making any more noise, I made it up to the landing I’d rushed up to earlier. I stopped and listened again but could hear nothing from behind any of the four doors surrounding me or the one above. Staying focused on that one, I slipped my feet out of my trainers. Without making a sound I carefully shrugged off the coat I was wearing and set it down on top of the ottoman I’d noticed last time. The folded pile of washing was gone. Slowly I reached into the side pocket of the coat and slid out the Beretta, the 9mm. I held it in my hand, feeling the weight of it. It was light for a handgun but it still felt heavy. Real guns always do. Especially if you’re about to use them. I clicked the safety. A movement to the right caused me to duck and swing the weapon round fast, my finger closing on the thin piece of tempered metal, about to squeeze, taking the pressure right up to the edge.
The cat had jumped onto the ottoman and was scampering along it towards me. Before I could move, it had rubbed the top of its head on the barrel of the gun, emitting an electric purr as it arched its back. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I picked the cat up with my free hand and set it just inside the open door of a bathroom, pulling the door to.
I made my way back across the landing, then up the final staircase.
The door in front of me was newer than any of the others I’d seen in the house. It was painted white with four rectangular panels and a cheap aluminium handle. It didn’t look too strong but I was hoping that that wouldn’t be an issue. Rather than the structure, or the chances of getting through it, I was more interested in the lock. There was a keyhole three inches below the handle. In my back pocket I had a set of picklocks, which I’d taken from my office, fifteen turners on a ring like a set of miniature Allen keys. I also had a small plastic bottle of cycle oil. I bent down to the keyhole and squatted on my haunches.
Yes. I was very glad to see that the key wasn’t in the lock. If it had been left in on the inside I’d have had to push it through. I was telling myself what a break that was when I froze. Through the keyhole I could see a very short passageway with a louvred door on either side: a bathroom and an airing cupboard by the looks of them. At the end of the passageway was a room, dark but for the dim light from a lamp post outside. Two dormer windows on the far wall were curtained but there was a door between them, obviously leading out onto a roof space or balcony. Halfway between the passageway and the door was an armchair in silhouette.
It was facing away from me. What had stopped me was the fact that the armchair was occupied.
I blinked to make sure. I could see the top of a head over the back of the chair. It couldn’t have been anything else. I realized that the shape sticking out to the side was too sharp for a cushion. It was an arm, the edge of an elbow. Cherie was sitting in the dark. She was looking out of the window, her back to me. I listened. I couldn’t hear a sound. I stood up from the keyhole and stepped back.
I couldn’t use the picklocks, not if she was awake. She might be asleep but I wasn’t going to take the chance unless she was in bed. No matter. I could wait on the landing, or in the spare room I’d seen, for an hour or two. Except…I closed my fingers round the door handle. There was no key in the lock so maybe she’d left it open. There could have been a bolt on the inside, which she’d engaged, but I could give it a try. Why not? With the Beretta in my right hand I pushed the handle down with my left. It moved silently until it would go no further. I changed the direction of the pressure I was applying and the door moved a millimetre out of its frame. It wasn’t locked. Slowly, without a sound, I pushed it open further, away from me.
The gun felt solid and powerful in my hand. The floor in front of me was carpeted and I took a step, branching my legs out so that my Levis wouldn’t rustle, my eyes on the shape in the armchair. I took another step. Cherie didn’t stir. Maybe she was asleep. I could smell something familiar, a perfume of some sort. Ignoring it, I moved the gun until it was pointing at the top of Cherie’s head. My fingers itched and a wave of relief flooded down through me. Josephine Thomas. Ally. Denise Denton. Jen. It was over. Whatever happened now I’d done it, she was dead. I thought about just pulling the trigger. But I could only see the top inch or so of her head. I had to get closer. And maybe I could even get her out of there. Maybe I could gag her and get her down the stairs. Then she would have just disappeared, her body found in the Thames in a week or so. No mess. Maybe, but I’d take no chances. She moved and I’d just do it. I took another step. The smell again. Not perfume but aftershave. Something was coming to me. Where had I come across it before? In her bedsit, yes. And? In the gym. The guys, the ones she’d massaged. But what was it doing here?
I stepped into the room itself. The aftershave bothered me but I didn’t have time to worry about it. Out of the darkness something hard rammed down on my wrist, sending the Beretta crashing to the floor. I turned towards the blow but before I could bring a hand up I felt a flashing pain beneath my left eye that sent me hurtling backwards. Behind me was a chair, probably put there so I’d stumble and I did, going over backwards, falling into what felt like a dressing table. Bottles and small boxes came down on my head. I heard the hurried shuffle of footsteps and caught a glimpse of a dark shape, moving in front of me. I moved quickly but by the time I’d managed to turn the figure was straightening up from the centre of the room. It moved to the wall. Cherie flicked the light switch and became the second person that night to point the Beretta at me.
‘You can move now,’ Cherie said. But she didn’t say it to me.
She said it to Sharon.