Kelso faced the others, the weapon weaving before him, almost challenging them to come to him. Henson began to back away, while the two men at the door seemed hesitant. It was Slauden, himself, who moved fast, leaping from his chair and slicing the edge of his hand hard into Kelso’s upper arm, numbing the muscles there. The burning log fell from the detective’s hand.
The two men by the door moved in. Dr Collingbury, who had involuntarily backed into their path, was thrown aside as they lunged at Kelso. He struck one squarely on the forehead, but the blow had little effect. He went down with both men on top and they used their combined weight to pin him to the floor. He knew it was useless to struggle, that he was still too weak from his previous beating, but he fought them anyway, and once more they pounded his body to beat him into submission. He briefly glimpsed Bannen, his face red and blistered, trying to reach him through the tangle of bodies.
‘No!’ Slauden roared. ‘Julian – the injection, quickly!’
Kelso felt his arm wrenched from his coatsleeve, then his shirt ripped at the shoulder. He struggled against them, but his arm was forced to bend so that the veins stood out clearly. The syringe came plunging down and he felt the needle prick his skin. Henson was grinning as he depressed the plunger and Kelso spat in his face.
Dr Collingbury, still on his knees near the door, moaned quietly as he watched what was happening. He turned his head sharply towards the window as the rain beat against the glass with a frantic intensity. The heavy curtains were closed, but they could not muffle the spattering sound and, for one frightening moment, the bespectacled man felt certain the glass would shatter under the fierce onslaught.
April, 1976
She swore under her breath when she saw there was no light shining from the window. Oh Christ, don’t let him be out, not tonight, not when I’ve plucked up the courage to come back! I want him to be there, I need him to be there.
The girl swayed slightly and a middle-aged man passing by almost stopped to ask if she were all right. But the faintest whiff of whisky made him decide not to. Little slut. She was no more than twenty and just look at her! If it wasn’t drink with these kids nowadays, it was drugs. She had no business standing there like that, blocking the pavement, looking as though she could hardly keep her feet. He was close enough to see her features lit by the streetlight, and he shook his head more in sadness than disgust. She was pretty, bloody pretty. What a waste! He hurried by, muttering to himself, but the girl hardly noticed him.
For a while, Sandy was unsure of what to do, then she smiled. She still had a key – Jim had never asked for it back. Of course he hadn’t; he wanted her to come back to him. He loved her still, even after the things she had done. If he didn’t he would have made sure she returned the key.
Sandy crossed the road and a car tooted its horn as it passed dangerously close. Kelso’s flat was on the top floor of a terraced house in Maida Vale, a flat they had shared on and off for six months. The ‘off’ times were not always her fault.
She fumbled in her bag for the keyring, found it, and held it close to her face to find the key that opened the front door. It was larger than the rest and the one to the flat upstairs was next to it. For a brief but unsettling moment Sandy wondered if he had changed the upstairs lock; but no, Jim would never do that to her. Despite his angry words, despite his sullen moods, he would always welcome her back. He always forgave her in the end. This time would be no different, even though they hadn’t seen each other for nearly three weeks.
She inserted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The hall light was on and she could hear music coming from a ground-floor apartment. She closed the door and made for the stairs, almost tripping on the first step and putting a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. What a surprise he would have! What a lovely birthday surprise! She knew that he needed her too and felt sure her absence – the longest she had been away from him – would have made him realize the fact. Okay, she was a neurotic bitch at times, but then, even he had his moments. She’d always forgiven him those.
Sandy climbed the stairs and the higher she got, the more her anxiety increased. She stopped halfway up the last flight and sat there, her back against the wall. Her fingers unconsciously went to her mouth and she bit at the ragged ends of her fingernails. It was a habit that vexed him, but she couldn’t help it; she had told him it was no worse than his chain-smoking and that had sent him into one of his moody silences again. Oh God, what a pair. What a bloody silly, fucked-up couple to be living together. His neurosis might not have been as obvious as hers, but that was only because he locked it inside, hid it away so that no one else even suspected it was there. She was aware, though, because they were lovers – good lovers – and their secrets were shared. If only they could have helped each other.
The girl looked up at the door on the landing above and blinked her eyes to focus on it. She shouldn’t have drunk so much tonight – he hated her drinking – but it had given her the courage to face him again. She was ashamed of what she had done. She was always ashamed. After. She shook her head. Sometimes she was even ashamed before, but it never stopped her. Sandy tasted blood in her mouth and quickly withdrew her fingers; she didn’t want to make him angry any more.
The time-switch controlling the lights snapped off and she found herself sitting in darkness. She didn’t like the dark, but needed just a few more moments to regain her composure. Perhaps he was in, maybe watching TV, maybe in bed, exhausted. His police work kept him up at all hours – another bone of contention between them – and sometimes it was as much as he could do to undress himself before falling into the sack. That, of course, had never much pleased her, because bed, to her, meant something other than just sleeping.
Jim had once told her he had never wanted to join the police force and when she had asked why the hell had he, then? he had become silent, unwilling to talk any more. It had taken many more weeks and many more intimacies between them for her to find out the reason and, even then, the revelation was given grudgingly. He had said that it had been his father’s – an ex-policeman himself – last request just before he died of a heart attack. Jim had joined the police a month after his father’s death. She knew he had no regrets now, and that he had become dedicated to his work; but often he seemed disturbed, perhaps too concerned by the corruption and filth he had to deal with. Maybe more than that was bothering him, but he had always been reluctant to give too much away, even to her.
Be fair, Sandy! Too much concern has always been given to your hang-ups to allow time for Jim’s! She twisted the strap of her bag, pulling the twisted leather tight as though it were a garrotte. He’d been patient, tried to understand, tried to help. But she couldn’t stop herself and finally he had come to realize it. She loved him and their sex was incredible. Incredible but not enough. One man had never been enough. He had forgiven her the first time, but not the next. And the third time had been the limit. Why couldn’t he understand she loved him despite what she did, that physical love-making had nothing to do with her emotions? It was just a need, a craving. Like alcohol. Oh Sandy, what a screwed-up, vicious bitch you are!
She was sharing again. Earlier, alone in the house of a friend who had taken her in, she had started to shake. Three tumblers of whisky had controlled it, four had given her the resolve to return to Jim. Another now would calm her. Why the hell couldn’t she take valium like other women?
Sandy lurched to her feet and made it to the top of the stairs. She switched on the landing light once more and had difficulty in getting the key into the lock. Finally the door opened and she stumbled inside.
‘Jim?’ Sandy waited in the narrow hallway, listening for his reply.
He really was out, probably busy trying to catch the bloody Irish who were systematically blowing up bits of London. In a way it was a relief not to find him there; she had relapsed, wasn’t quite ready for the confrontation. She would beg, plead, promise. No more screwing with others, no more drinking. Well, maybe cut dow
n on the drinking.
She giggled, this time letting the sound go free, for there was no one to hear. She needed another drink to promise to cut down on the drinking.
Sandy found the whisky bottle half full. She poured a small measure into a glass – just a finger full – and jerked it into the back of her throat. She felt better instantly and poured herself another. The lamp she had switched on bathed the room in a warm glow and she settled into the small sofa on which they had made love so many times. The room was untidy, but not dirty, and she wondered how he had got on without her. Pretty well, she imagined. Jim was never that good at looking after himself, but he got by. He always would.
The whisky was slowly sipped, for now the trembling had stopped, she could allow herself to relish the taste. She really would change this time, Sandy promised herself. Their living together had been traumatic – again, not entirely her fault – but no way did she want to lose him. And there was no way the bastard could dump her!
She clenched the glass tightly and drained its contents. It wasn’t just her; he had a lot of things to answer for! His moods, the way he would suddenly make her keep quiet as though he was listening for something, the times he hid things from her. Oh yes, he’d always denied hiding things from her! But things didn’t just get up and walk away of their own accord! And twice she had come home to find her clothes scattered all around the room! How was that for a neurosis? She had picked them up and put them away again, saying nothing when he returned from duty. And he had said nothing. They both said nothing. Christ, what a pair.
There were other, little things that had annoyed her, but they really weren’t worth arguing over. Jim never even remembered having done them, so what was the point?
The only worthwhile point was that she loved him, and wanted to be with him. Not just for a few more months, but forever. If marriage came into it, that would be fine; if not, but they could still live together, then that was fine, too. Sandy looked at her wristwatch. After eleven. Oh come on, Jim, come home now. I need you here.
She shivered and realized how cold it had become. More whisky would make her feel warmer. Again she made it a small measure, not wanting to be too drunk when he returned. A giggle escaped her once more when she had an idea, a lovely surprise for him that would shake the weariness of late-night working from his bones. She placed the glass on the coffee table just in front of the sofa and pulled at her high-heeled boots. Sandy rolled back against the cushions as the first boot came off and was smiling broadly when the second hit the floor. After pulling off her coat, she took another sip of her drink.
Her flared jeans came next, tugging them down over her hips and sliding them from her long, slim legs. She tossed them into the middle of the floor, halfway towards the hallway. Next came her tights, but these she carried out into the hall where she dropped them near the front door. Then down the hall towards the bedroom, lifting her sweater over her head as she went. She paused at the bedroom door to drop the sweater and hesitated before turning the handle.
She frowned. It was that smell again, the foul stench she had complained to the landlord about a couple of times before. She was sure there was a dead mouse or some other creature stuck somewhere in the pipes. The landlord had scoffed at the idea and done nothing about it, had said if it was true, then the body would soon be corrupted to nothing but bones and the smell would disappear. But it was stronger than ever now.
A whoozy feeling came over her and she began to regret having drunk so much. She wanted to be awake when Jim came home. He would see the trail of clothes and know whose they were – he’d better bloody know! He’d follow the trail into the bedroom and then he would be there beside her, forgiving her, loving her, pinning her to the bed with his love rod!
Sandy reached behind and unhooked her bra, leaving it dangling from the doorhandle as she entered the room. Rising excitement and the coldness of the room made her nipples spring forward from the softness of her breasts and she grinned lasciviously when she saw his bed – their bed – in the light from the outside streetlamp. Sandy stopped when she noticed the mound beneath the bedclothes.
He had been there all the time, the bastard! Dead to the world. She giggled. Her cold hands would soon wake him up.
Sandy padded round to the other side of the bed where there was space to slide in. She looked down lovingly at him for several moments, watching the covers rise and fall with his deep breathing. The light was not far from the bedroom window and in the past they had both delighted in the milky whiteness it gave their bodies when they had made love on top of the bedclothes. Her figure cast a shadow over his shape as she quietly moved forward.
She was still smiling when she lifted the bedclothes and slid in beside him.
She lay on one elbow, tensing herself for the moment, enjoying it to the full.
Then she whisked the bedclothes away.
And the figure turned towards her.
She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Her throat was paralysed. It was only when the thing in the bed moved towards her that the scream managed to break free.
Kelso was exhausted but still merry from the birthday drinks he had consumed. He was crossing the road and searching through his pockets for the front-door key when he heard the cry. He looked up just in time to see his bedroom window shatter and the white body come hurtling down.
13
Ellie turned off from the main A-road, switching the Escort’s headlights to full beam to penetrate the blackness ahead. She accelerated and groaned inwardly at the engine’s sluggish reaction: if the police could not afford to furnish their undercover officers with more recent models, then they could at least spend a bit more time and care on their maintenance. The drive up from London in Kelso’s car had made her weary.
She glanced at her wristwatch, angling its face towards the dashboard lights to see. Almost 1.30. Jim would be anxious. Still, it had been worth waiting for the tests on the vole. Ellie had taken the tiny rotting corpse straight to the government forensic laboratory in Stamford Street, Waterloo, before reporting to her senior officer in Fetter Lane, for she had not wanted to delay the analysis for a moment longer than necessary. She was aware that the process could take days, perhaps weeks, if she went through the usual procedures, and she deliberately sought out an old acquaintance, an analyst who had dated her a couple of times in the past. Ellie had found him a little boring and had brought their budding relationship to a swift but tactful conclusion. Now she was glad she had used tact.
Foxcroft, the analyst, had been doubtful and suspicious: it would take some time to discover the information she needed unless she gave him some firm indication of what to look for, and why wasn’t she using the normal channels anyway? It had taken considerable charm and a veiled promise that their relationship might be allowed to blossom once more if he did her this one favour. Foxcroft had nearly fallen through the floor when she told him she would need the analysis later that evening. She had been forced to tell him that she suspected the animal had died of LSD poisoning and his protests had calmed. The vole looked as though it had been dead for just two, maybe three, days so he should be able to find some traces still in the kidney or liver. A urine test would have been easiest, but obviously it was too late for that. He still wasn’t sure if he could carry out the analysis in such a short time, but he would do his best – it really was a hell of a rush. Ellie kissed his cheek for encouragement and said she would return later that night.
Out of loyalty to Kelso, and against her own better judgement, Ellie had refrained from telling her senior officer of their findings and suspicions; she had not even mentioned that she had brought the dead vole in for tests. She felt guilty about her own deviousness, but she had made a promise, one which she intended to keep. Her excuse for returning to London was that she had wanted to find out how the overall investigation was progressing, which was something that could not be discussed over the telephone, and her senior officer, Gifford, thought it a reasonable course of action. He informe
d her that much of the pressure had been taken off the operation when it was learned that the US pilot had suffered a family tragedy the year before – his wife and two young sons had been killed in a road accident – and the plane crash had been deliberate suicide. A letter stating his suicide intention had turned up at his parents’ address in California dated on the same day he had taken up the A-10 for the last time. How regular medical and psychological tests that all pilots were obliged to undergo had not revealed his condition, nobody knew or was ready to accept responsibility for; the mind could deliberately delay a severe shock for its own protection, but the pressure would always build to a breaking point, and no one could predict just when that point would be reached. Although the pilot had suffered acute grief at the sudden loss of his family, he had appeared to recuperate steadily over the months that followed. How much of a part drugs had played in his recovery no one could be sure, but it was generally agreed among the medics on the base that drugs – probably of the softer variety at first – had helped to overcome the mental anguish. Heads were going to roll, that was for sure, and the USAF commanding officer would eventually find himself working at a desk closer to Washington, but at least the authorities had some relief in the knowledge that the pilot’s lunacy was not part of some devious Russian plot. However, it did not explain how such drugs had become available to the pilot, so the investigation still had top priority, although the urgency had diminished. So far, Gifford told Ellie with some frustration, no inside drugs ring had been uncovered. There were a couple of leads, but these only involved service men picking up marijuana while on leave in London. Such offences meant instant court martial, so, obviously, no one was willing to give out information voluntarily.