The clock behind the bar in The Witch’s Kettle said it was eighteen minutes past four. Only three and a half hours before daylight, but maybe several more after that before the fog cleared.
Gemma pivoted on her stool. A couple of feet away, behind the bar, Lucy was slumped forward asleep, head resting on her folded arms. Across the taproom, only lit now by the faint green glow of the low-key emergency lighting, Dulcie and Sally O’Grady were asleep on the settle, huddled against each other. Ted Haveloc sat across from them in an armchair. His back was turned, but by his slouched posture, he too was sleeping. It was the same with Burt and Mandy Fillingham and Bella and James McCarthy, both duos reclining at opposite ends of the lengthy leather sofa near the door to the vault.
Gemma yawned and stretched, and wondered how long it was since any of these couples had actually slept in each other’s arms. They’d probably be surprised to find they were doing it now, but in her experience unspoken human instinct was an overriding factor in times of fear and stress, and thank God for that.
She dabbled her fingers in the glass of tap-water Lucy had served her earlier, and sprinkled it on her face. She’d been on the go now for over twenty hours, which included the torturous four and a half she’d spent on the fell. Almost certainly the arduous exercise involved up there explained the ache in her thighs, calves and back. Meanwhile, torpor was creeping up again. She was supposed to be on guard duty here. It was essential she stay awake in order to protect these people, but second by second her wakefulness was slipping away.
Gemma stood up, shook herself and rubbed more water on her face.
No one else stirred, which was probably a good thing. As their vigil had worn on, some truly ridiculous suggestions had been made; Mandy Fillingham wondering if they all ought to sit on the roof – even if the killer broke in, he would never know where they were. Gemma had replied that, in the unexpected event the killer did not possess thermal imaging and was not able to pick them off the roof with embarrassing ease, hypothermia would have less of a problem. Burt Fillingham had agreed with Gemma that his wife was talking ‘ludicrous crap’, though Gemma hadn’t actually used that term, and suggested they go on the offensive instead: smash up the furniture, arm themselves with clubs and charge from house to house, banging on doors, shouting, trying to smoke the guy out. It hadn’t taken Gemma to remind him the average bullet would be more than a match for a broken chair leg; Ted Haveloc had made that contribution, pretty scathingly.
At this point Gemma had intervened, advising them to keep the noise down and stay focused on the real problem, which was the dangerous individual outside. Twenty minutes had passed since then, and everyone now was snoozing – aside from Gemma.
She patrolled the downstairs, visiting each and every room, including both sets of toilets, checking every window, occasionally stealing a peek from behind the closed drapes, seeing only the monotone blankness of the fog.
At length, she ventured upstairs, the creak of each tread amplified in the deep quiet. At the top, a single passage ran the full length of the building, various rooms leading off it, all standing open and in darkness. She proceeded slowly, poking her head into each one separately, but always waiting for her eyes to attune before entering to check the window. In most cases, with the exception of Hazel’s flat, they contained nothing more than a sideboard, an armchair and a bed, so it wasn’t like there were many hiding places. Even so, it was a far from agreeable experience, evoking memories of her days as a young constable in Limehouse, where she’d spent many a night shift property-checking at the backs of shopping precincts, along rows of garages or underground lock-ups, or among the sheds on desolate urban allotments. This had been as much to fill the long, lonely hours as anything else, though occasionally she’d discovered a break-in or the odd tramp or junkie dossing where he shouldn’t. Of course, it had never entered her head that she might be about to encounter a deranged killer.
Even now, such thoughts only occurred to Gemma as she approached the bedroom at the far end of the passage, the one with the broken window-catch. Partly this was because it struck her that, in all the fuss, they’d forgotten to nail that offending window shut – but primarily it was because for some reason the door to that bedroom was now closed.
She halted in front of it, wondering if it had been closed the last time they’d looked, which had been at least an hour ago. Her memory was too fogged by fatigue to recall accurately. But it didn’t make sense that this door had been left closed while all the others were open.
She glanced behind her. The corridor dwindled through darkness to the top of the stairs, where only a very faint ambient light filtered up from below. The complete silence down there suggested no one was going to come to her aid quickly if she called out. She turned back to the closed door, remembering the door in Fellstead Grange, how it had virtually been blasted from its hinges. When she’d told Heck earlier there was at least the same chance the perpetrator would attack the pub as there was he’d attack them, she’d meant it truthfully, but perhaps deep down she hadn’t held it as a real and conscious fear. But now …?
‘Oh sod it!’ Gemma blurted, reaching out a weary hand, depressing the handle and pushing the door open, exposing the pitch-darkness beyond.
She wondered what she would do if the window was wide open, but it wasn’t – and neither was there anybody in there, at least nobody she could see.
She circled around the neatly made bed, dropped to her knees to glance underneath it – even though she was barely able to see anything down there – and even checked in the wardrobe, which was the same, though at least she was able to grope around inside, hands bashing the empty coat-hangers. Feeling ridiculous, and relieved she hadn’t called one of the civvies to assist, she closed the room up again, this time making a mental note that she had shut the door, and sloped back along the landing and down the stairs.
Everyone was still asleep, so she lifted the hatch and passed through the bar, intending to get herself another glass of water.
It was in the kitchen where she had her next fright. She was at the sink, filling a glass, when she sensed someone behind her. She spun wildly around – to find Hazel sitting bleary eyed on the floor against the units at the other side of the room, knees drawn up under her chin.
‘You gave me a turn,’ Gemma said.
‘No sign of Heck or M-E?’
‘I wouldn’t expect them for some time yet.’
‘If ever.’
Gemma sipped water. ‘I understand your concern, Hazel, but pit some demented gunman with loads of ammunition and the biggest grudge going – against Heck, with no gun, no wheels, no idea who he’s up against … I still make it even money. And that’s not taking into account Mary-Ellen, who’s just about the most efficient and energetic uniform I’ve come across in quite some time.’
‘Nice speech. I appreciate the attempt to reassure me.’
‘Well that’s partly what I’m doing, but there’s no reason to despair. They’re both good at their jobs, and however late they are, we’ve still got a firearms unit en route.’
Hazel nodded tiredly, as if that was of no consequence at all. ‘Everything alright upstairs?’
‘Won’t deny that I freaked myself out a little bit … but basically, yeah. How come you’ve not got your head down?’
‘Don’t know how anyone can sleep, to be honest. Mind you, they didn’t see what we saw up at Fellstead Grange, did they?’ Hazel struggled to suppress a shudder. ‘I know I look like shit, Gemma, but there’s no way my eyelids are closing tonight.’
‘Laudable ambition.’ Gemma placed her glass of water on the unit, and then slid down until she too was seated on the floor. She yawned. ‘You have my full permission to extend it to me if you catch me nodding off – give me a good hard dig in the ribs.’