CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

SHAUN HUTSON

MONOLITH

Fiction to die for...

Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2015

Monolith Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2015

Jingle Bells Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2015

Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

CONDITIONS OF SALE

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

www.caffeine-nights.com

www.caffeinenightsbooks.com

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-907565-69-4

Cover design by

Mark (Wills) Williams

Everything else by

Default, Luck and Accident

Also by Shaun Hutson:

ASSASSIN

BODY COUNT

BREEDING GROUND

CAPTIVES

COMPULSION

DEADHEAD

DEATH DAY

DYING WORDS

EPITAPH

EREBUS

EXIT WOUNDS

HEATHEN

HELL TO PAY

HYBRID

KNIFE EDGE

LAST RITES

LUCY'S CHILD

NECESSARY EVIL

NEMESIS

PURITY

RELICS

RENEGADES

SHADOWS

SLUGS

SPAWN

STOLEN ANGELS

THE SKULL

TWISTED SOULS

UNMARKED GRAVES

VICTIMS

WARHOL'S PROPHECY

WHITE GHOST

Hammer Novelizations

TWINS OF EVIL

X THE UNKNOWN

THE REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN

This novel is dedicated to my wonderful daughter Kelly.

It's not enough and it never could be but it comes with all my love as ever.  Thank you.

Acknowledgements

Writing a novel can be great but it can also sometimes be like pulling your own teeth out with rusty pliers so here are some people who supplied anaesthetic this time around.

A huge thank you to my agent, Brie Burkeman, who has shown faith in me that I honestly don't deserve.

My publisher, Darren Laws who has similarly displayed patience and encouragement far beyond the call of duty. A big thanks to everyone at Caffeine Nights obviously.

Thanks are also due for different reasons, to Cineworld Milton Keynes and all the management and staff there (Mark, Adam, Tammy, Mel, James, Barry, Alun, Dani, Phil, Phillip, Kirsty and everyone else I've forgotten or who doesn't work there anymore!) and also The Broadway Cinema in Letchworth.

Extra special thanks to Rod Smallwood and everyone at Phantom Music and, of course to Steve, Bruce, Dave, Nicko, Adrian and Janick. Still the best.

My biggest thanks go to my Mum for so many reasons.

Thanks is too inadequate a word to say to my daughter, Kelly who has just about managed to help me keep my sanity. She has taught me so much about so many subjects I probably should feel inadequate and ashamed but all I feel is an incredible sense of pride in her and everything she does. Even if she has stopped me drinking milk!

A special word of thanks too for Craig Hogan of course.

And of course to you lot, my readers who have stuck by me from the beginning. For your patience, your support and your faith I thank you.

Let's go.

Shaun Hutson.

MONOLITH

Shaun Hutson

‘When you have eliminated the impossible, what remains,

no matter how improbable, must be the truth …’

Arthur Conan Doyle.

PROVOCATION

LONDON; JUNE 1933

The window exploded inwards showering glass in all directions.

Seconds later another impact against the large expanse of glass caused more of the crystal shrapnel to erupt inwards, spraying the interior of the building.

Two more bricks followed, each one shattering more glass.

The little man on the stairs had heard the first crash and that was what had woken him, by the time he heard the second he was already out of bed and heading for the top of the stairs. Despite the fear he felt he knew he had to get down to the scene of destruction, to see exactly what was going on and, if possible, to prevent more of it.

He had felt fear like this before and he swayed uncertainly on the narrow wooden steps, dreading what might await him but knowing he could not hide from it.

He had hidden too much during his life already.

Either run or hidden. Those two methods of existence were becoming much too large a part of his way of life and he’d hoped that they had ceased. The sounds from below him now told him that they had not.

He wiped his face with one shaking hand and advanced further down the stairs, ears alert for more sounds. When none came he swallowed hard, wondering if the ordeal was over. Hoping that it was.

He rubbed his hands together now, large liver spots visible on the thin flesh of both. A legacy of his advanced years. He moved with surprising assurance for a man in his mid-seventies though, just the occasional pain of an arthritic left knee slowing him down.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for interminable moments then moved towards the door opposite him, selecting a key and pushing it into the lock. He unfastened the door and waited a second before he opened it.

Even through the gaps in the frame he could feel a cool breeze blowing and he shook his head and clucked his tongue as he realised what must have been done inside the shop itself.

Sure enough as he emerged into the area beyond the door he felt the breeze more strongly and saw that it was indeed coming through the shattered front window.

There were several bricks or lumps of concrete lying on the floor and he knew they had been used to inflict the damage.

A quick glance around the inside of the shop told him that nothing had been stolen. That had not been the motive behind the attack. The glass display counters were untouched. Whoever had broken the windows had done so in a display of pure anger and aggression but not coupled with a desire to rob him too. He wasn’t sure whether he should be thankful for that or not. At least if they’d robbed him then the ordeal may be over but, he reasoned, once the windows were replaced again then they could repeat their frenzied attacks again and again. It would become a cycle of destruction and renewal.

As it had been before.

He wandered over to the broken window and peered out into the narrow street but it was silent, wreathed in blackness as it stretched away on either side of him. There weren’t even any lights glowing in any of the other windows that he could see through his thick spectacles. The night sky was the colour of burned wood, pure black apart from a sprinkling of stars but there were clouds gathering to the East, buffeted by an increasingly strong breeze.

He sighed and ambled over to a cupboard near the front door of the shop. From inside he pulled out a broom and he began to sweep up the broken glass, pushing it all into a pile so that it could be gathered up and collected more easily.

The task caused him to stop for breath on more than one occasion and once he actually leaned against the nearest glass counter for a moment to regain his composure, feeling a little dizziness.

This wasn’t right, he told himself. He shouldn’t have to endure this. No one should. And yet the overriding emotion he felt wasn’t anger but sadness. Of course there was annoyance at the stupidity and ignorance of those who would cause such damage but he also felt sadness that people found it necessary to act like this against him.

When he’d collected all the glass together he put it carefully into a cardboard box and carried it to the rear of the shop. He’d dispose of it later he told himself, after he’d contacted the police. Not that they would be able to do anything. After all he had seen no one attack his shop, he could identify no one, give them no names. Was it even worth bothering the forces of law and order?

There was a way to fight back, a way that only he knew.

Perhaps that time had come.

ONE

Jessica Anderson woke with a start and sat up.

She looked around, her gaze darting back and forth inside the bedroom. Then the headache hit her. She’d been safe while she’d been asleep, cocooned from the pain but now, as she rubbed her eyes and blinked hard, she felt the thumping at the base of her skull.

Jess murmured something under her breath and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table beside her. She took a sip then swung her legs out of bed, sitting on the edge for a moment as she composed her thoughts and tried to think if she had any headache tablets in her handbag. Where, she thought for that matter, was her handbag? She stood up and padded naked across the bedroom towards a chair in one corner of the room where she finally caught sight of her bag. It was just visible beneath her jeans. Her knickers were lying close by, discarded on the floor.

Jess smiled to herself as she picked up her clothes from various parts of the room and dumped them in an untidy heap on top of the bed. She pulled on her top and sat on the bed rummaging through her bag, satisfied when she eventually found some paracetamol. She pushed two of the 500mg capsules from their plastic strip and swallowed them with more of the water. As she turned back to the pile of clothes beside her she noticed something on the other pillow of the bed. It was a small handwritten note which she picked up and glanced at.

HAD TO GO TO WORK. COFFEE IN THE KITCHEN.

CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE. THANKS

FOR LAST NIGHT. YOU WERE AMAZING.

Jess smiled and began dressing.

When she was, she set about looking for her shoes, realised they were still in the living room and decided she’d get them later. She wandered into the kitchen and selected a mug from the wooden tree on one of the worktops while she waited for the kettle to boil. When it did she made herself half a cup of coffee and sipped it as she stood leaning against the worktop, her mind anywhere but the small kitchen she now stood in. At least her headache was beginning to lessen. It had subsided into a dull pain rather than the thumping she’d felt on waking. That, she reasoned, was something. She glanced again at the handwritten note she still held then pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans and headed for the living room.

Sure enough one of her shoes was near the door the other one under a small coffee table. She couldn’t remember taking them off just as she couldn’t remember taking her clothes off but then again there wasn’t a great deal about the previous night that she did remember. Jess pulled the shoes on, ran hands through her shoulder length hair and headed for the front door.

As she reached it she pulled the handwritten note from her jeans and scanned it once again.

CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE.

There was a small table close to the door. Jess folded the note, placed it carefully there then walked out.

She had barely made it out of the door when her mobile rang.

TWO

The tower rose from among the other buildings along the banks of the river Thames and loomed above them like a giant surveying a kingdom of dwarves.

Despite the fact that it had only stood for eight months such was its size and presence many who looked upon it could not remember the skyline without it.

Forty-three storeys tall with the first thirty-three of those floors intended as offices for any business rich or vain enough to seek sanctuary within its walls and the other ten floors intended for the kind of apartment buyer who didn’t blanch at the thought of such exorbitant prices for property. It was a monument to the obscenity of wealth or to the glory of capitalism. A sure sign and lasting testament to the fact that money could indeed buy absolutely anything.

That was how some sections of the media viewed the construction. Some had praised its classic design and welcomed its building because of the amount of jobs it had created within the capital. When it was completed and inhabited both by the businesses who were to move in and also by those residents lucky enough to afford accommodation there upwards of one thousand people would be employed to ensure the efficient running and maintenance of the monolithic structure. At least three times that number would live and work within its walls.

Others had dubbed it the most appalling eyesore ever to pollute the London skyline. No one seemed to remember exactly who had called it a concrete and glass boil on the backside of a changing city and the person who had christened it the glass penis had also been forgotten but the name stuck as a source of amusement and derision dependent on who was using it.

So resplendent in its opulence was the tower that some said it should just as easily have been constructed from money. It was a monument to commerce and to everything that vast wealth could accomplish and achieve.

It was wealth on a scale that few could ever appreciate or understand. The building costs had run into billions and the tower still wasn’t complete. Twenty four hours a day people were inside or outside in some cases putting finishing touches to the huge edifice. Rumour had it that the building wouldn’t even be completely finished before its inaugural opening which was drawing ever closer. However, such was the speed with which it had been constructed that many suspected this crucial deadline would be reached one way or another. Perhaps some corner cutting might be involved, some cost saving exercises that would enable the tower to be opened with the pomp and circumstance that was expected at the appointed time. Press releases from the owners of the building had certainly been consistent in their confirmation that there would be no deviation from the date originally given when the building would become fully functional.

And there were large parts of it that were still yet to become so. From the basement car park to the upper floors of the residential area there were jobs to be completed. Some small and some major and yet the fact that work was still continuing with an opening day deadline approaching fast didn’t seem to bother anyone connected with the ownership of the tower or if it did at the moment they were keeping quiet about their concern.

However, as night crept across the city and the sky darkened not everything within the tower was silent.

THREE

‘Send it down, Bob.’

Mark Bishop jammed the two-way radio back onto his belt and stepped back from the sliding metal doors that masked the lift shaft.

From behind those doors he heard a low whirring sound and he looked up at the bank of numbers above the entrance, each of them lighting in turn as the descending lift passed the floor.

There was a harsh metallic shriek that made Bishop wince and he reached again for his two-way.

‘Fucking thing’s stuck on twenty-four,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

There was a crackle of static from the two-way followed by another voice.

‘I know. Same as before,’ the voice intoned.

‘I’ll walk up and have a look,’ Bishop said, wearily. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m inside. There was no problem until it got to twenty-four.’

‘Open it up and I’ll be there in a minute.’

Bishop sighed and headed towards the end of the long corridor he now stood in. Through a set of double doors he emerged into a stairwell which he hurried up before stepping out into another corridor on the floor above. As he strode along he saw a man dressed in dark blue overalls like his own step into view from the open doors of the lift.

‘From thirty-two down to twenty-four it was fine,’ the other man said shaking his head.

‘Might be a sensor inside the shaft playing up,’ Bishop suggested.

‘I hope it’s not the fucking guide rails,’ Robert Wilkinson offered looking towards the open mouth of the lift doors and the car beyond.

‘No, there’d have been something in the reports before now,’ Bishop insisted. ‘That’s a big job isn’t it? If it’s the guide rails they’ll have to re-set the whole fucking shaft. Somebody would have noticed that before now.’

‘The others are fine,’ Wilkinson told him. ‘So are the scenic ones on the outside. It’s just this shaft and from thirty-two down to twenty-four. The lobby up is alright. It’s just coming down.’

Bishop nodded again.

‘Do you want to leave it until tomorrow?’ Wilkinson enquired looking at his watch.

Bishop hesitated a moment then shook his head.

‘No, we’ll try and sort it now,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of overtime isn’t it? All comes in handy.’

Wilkinson raised his eyebrows.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘How do you want to do this?’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of the recalcitrant lift and looked at Bishop.’If we move it up slightly, I’ll have a look inside the shaft,’ Bishop said and his companion stepped back inside the lift and opened the panel on the left hand side of the sliding doors. He pressed a button and the lift rose a few feet. Bishop stepped forward and peered into the darkened maw beyond. He looked up towards the bottom of the lift car and then down. From his vantage point he could see right to the bottom of the lift shaft twenty-four storeys below.

Inside the shaft it smelled of oil and fresh concrete. He slipped a torch from his belt and shone it over the guide rails that ran down either side of the shaft. The metal glinted in the glow of the powerful beam and Bishop swept the light around in a wide arc aiming it at areas he needed to scrutinise.

He muttered something to himself under his breath then stepped back and looked up in his companion’s direction.

‘It’s not the rail,’ Bishop proclaimed.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Wilkinson replied, only his feet visible from where Bishop was standing.

‘It must be the sensor or one of the cables.’

‘Do you want me to check on top?’

‘Let me have a look at the sensor first.’

There was a narrow ledge running around the inside of the shaft that was barely wide enough for a man to rest the whole of his shoe but Bishop seemed unintimidated by the lack of space or by how high up he was. As he stepped into the shaft he could hear the cables above and below the lift clanking softly in the breeze that was circulating within the vertical concrete corridor.

‘Switch the power off, Bob,’ Bishop shouted, his voice echoing inside the chamber.

There was a drone and then silence.

He moved further out onto the ledge.

FOUR

Standing in the motionless lift car Robert Wilkinson could hear the grunting and muttering from his colleague below him in the shaft and he smiled thinly to himself as the litany of curses continued, floating up on the cool air inside the shaft.

Wilkinson glanced out of the open doors towards the corridor that stretched away into the building itself. He tried to imagine what kind of person would be working or living in such sumptuous surroundings once the tower opened for business and residents. He earned a decent living but he knew he’d never come even remotely close to the kind of money that was earned by the workers who’d flock to these offices or the owners and renters who would inhabit the apartments above.

Rich bastards.

He smiled to himself. He couldn’t imagine any of them crawling around in a lift shaft at two in the morning. People like himself and Bishop were paid to take care of tasks like that.

They had worked for the same contractors for the last six years and the two of them had become something approaching friends. Perhaps friendship was too strong a word to describe their working relationship. They spent their work hours together and occasionally they would eat a hurried breakfast or lunch together but they never socialised out of work. He didn’t even know that much about his companion he realised. Other than the fact that he was married with a teenage daughter and a son of eleven (and that he was a Leyton Orient supporter) Wilkinson knew little about his colleague’s background or how he spent his life when he wasn’t working and the exchange of knowledge had been similar. Wilkinson didn’t speak much about his small family of eight-year-old twin girls and he divulged even less about his partner who had presented him with them. The two men had exchanged stories about parenthood naturally and each knew the other’s views on most subjects but they had never visited each other’s homes or spent time together unless it had been to do with work.

Wilkinson had lots of acquaintances like that. People he liked and got on with but who he wouldn’t consider as close friends. Other than his partner he confided in no one and he got the impression that Bishop was the same. Perhaps that was why they got on so well he reasoned. They were very similar in a lot of ways even if those ways were unspoken.

‘Anything?’ Wilkinson shouted, dropping to one knee and lowering his head towards the bottom of the lift.

‘I don’t get it,’ Bishop called back. ‘The sensor’s working, there’s nothing wrong with the track on either side and the cables are fine.’

‘Something up top maybe?’

There was a moment’s silence then Bishop called back.

‘It must be,’ he conceded.

Wilkinson nodded to himself and straightened up.

‘Bob,’ Bishop called again. ‘Check the panel inside will you? Something might need replacing.’

To the right of the sliding doors inside the car there was a control panel and it was towards this that Wilkinson now turned his attention. He removed the faceplate and regarded the wires and switches behind it

‘It looks fine,’ he called back, running one index finger over some of the wires as if to reassure himself of his diagnosis. He closed the panel and began screwing it back into place. ‘I’ll check the cables up above when I’ve done this.’

‘Right,’ Bishop called back. ‘I’m coming out now.’

The lift suddenly dropped like a stone.

FIVE

Even if there had been some kind of warning of what was going to happen neither man would have been able to prevent it.

In the shaft, Bishop was aware of a rush of cold air but that was all.

He was half way between the shaft and the corridor when the full weight and force of the falling lift hit him.

There was no pain as it cut through him, pulverising his body and sending sprays of blood and viscera in all directions as if it had been fired from some macabre garden sprinkler. With such force and weight on the body even bone was shattered with consummate ease, the sound of the cracking quickly eclipsed by the high pitched scream of the lift as it rushed down the shaft and plummeted towards the ground.

Failsafe devices mounted in the rails on either side of it did nothing to stop the descent and the speed was so incredible that sparks flew from the metal as the lift fell.

Inside the car Robert Wilkinson felt the initial drop and in that split second he knew that his companion was dead unless he’d managed to pull himself clear of the shaft in time.

That thought occurred to him briefly and then his mind focussed on what was to be his own fate.

He had no idea how fast the lift was falling but twenty-four storeys would be negotiated he guessed in a little under ten seconds.

Wilkinson shot out a hand and hit the emergency button but he knew it was a futile gesture and he had performed it purely through instinct. The miniscule shred of hope that he could stop the lift before it slammed into the concrete below drove him to make that movement.

He wanted to scream for help but knew that too would be useless. Nothing that he could do would stop the passage of the falling lift. He looked up and then down not really knowing why. Perhaps some twisted blackly humorous part of his mind thought that he could jump seconds before the fatal impact. That was what happened in films or comedy shows wasn’t it? Just before the lift hit the bottom of the shaft you were supposed to jump and the collision would have no effect.

It was one more shred of hope to cling to he supposed as he pressed himself back into one corner of the lift, his arms outstretched on either side of him.

He spoke the name of his partner just once. He said her name under his breath through lips that were already paper dry with terror. He wished he was with her now not here in this metal coffin that was about to slam into the ground doing Christ knew how many miles an hour. He wanted to hold her again and tell her that he loved her. He wanted to hold his twin girls and hear their laughter and to hear them tell him that they loved him. He tried to picture all of his family together in his mind, held there like some kind of mental snapshot. All of these thoughts crowded into his consciousness as the lift hurtled ever nearer to the ground.

He wondered why his past life didn’t flash before his eyes.

He was shaking madly now, entering the early stages of shock at the realisation of what was to happen to him.

You’re going to die.

He closed his eyes more tightly and tried to prevent himself from screaming. Not that it really mattered any more.

His final thought was simple.

Please don’t let it hurt.

The lift had increased its speed to just over ninety miles an hour by the time it smashed into the concrete at the base of the shaft.

ISOLATION

LONDON; JUNE 1933

No one but the old man ever entered the cellar.

The two people who sometimes helped him out in the shop had no need to descend into the subterranean room; everything they needed to perform their duties was on the ground floor.

For the most part he was alone in the shop anyway, just as he was alone in the small flat above the business so he had no need to explain why he was the only one allowed to go into the cellar. Not that anyone would have been in any great hurry to explore the large dark underground area anyway, he reasoned.

It was damp down there and the smell was sometimes overpowering. A dank musty odour of wet stonework and mould and occasionally of sewage. One of the waste pipes in the street had ruptured a while ago and residents of the area were still waiting for it to be fixed. Exactly how much human waste was leaking into the cellars of his and other houses in the vicinity no one knew but the authorities seemed content to allow the festering filth to keep voiding from the damaged conduit. The old man didn’t know if other residents had the same problem because he rarely spoke to anyone who lived near him.

But the smell didn’t bother him, just as the darkness didn’t. When he made his sorties down in to the subterranean room he carried just one lamp with him, the sickly yellow light giving him enough illumination for what he needed to do. He had heard movement down there and he was sure there were rats or mice, possibly both, either living down there or using the cellar as some kind of temporary shelter. There were stories that some of these creatures grew to unnatural sizes and he had actually seen one that he would have sworn was close to a foot long including its bald, scabrous tail but even the thought of sharing the room with rodent and vermin didn’t bother him and they never came near him when he was down there, frightened off by the glow of his oil lamp.

And then there were the spiders. Webs so thick they looked like muslin were spun all over the ceiling of the cellar, particularly thick at the four corners where it seemed such was their density they were actually holding up the brickwork in places. The old man wondered how big spiders would have to be to create webs of such thickness and complexity. He also wondered what they fed on because there couldn’t possibly be enough flies or other insects down there to satisfy the appetites of arachnids of such obviously large size. Perhaps he thought, smiling, they ate the mice.

The smell, the rats, the mice and the spiders, all combined to make the cellar a forbidding place to anyone but the old man who never seemed to bother he was sharing it with so many other creatures.

The darkness seemed to welcome him, sliding a black conspiratorial arm around his stooped shoulders every time he entered the cellar and the old man liked that feeling.

When he was down there he would occasionally hear people on the street above passing and sometimes he heard them when they spoke but most of the time he paid them little heed. What they had to say didn’t interest him. When he was in the cellar he had only one thing on his mind.

Now he stood outside the cellar door and selected the large key he needed to unfasten the padlock that helped to make the underground room so secure. A padlock and two deadbolts as well as the lock on the door itself all combined to make access to anyone other than the key holder impossible.

One of the people who sometimes worked for him had asked him once what he kept down there but the old man had merely smiled and waved away the question and it had not been raised again.

He removed the padlock, unlocked the heavy door and slipped the two deadbolts, the sound echoing in the silence. He turned up the lamp he was holding, held it higher above his head and pulled open the cellar door. It took some strength to do it but the old man managed without a problem.

The hinges needed oiling and squealed in protestation as he pulled the door open wide enough to allow him access. He stood at the top of the flight of stone steps for a moment, the odour filling his nostrils then he closed the door behind him again, locked it from the inside this time and made his way down the stairs.

As ever the blackness welcomed him.

And it wasn’t the only thing that welcomed him.

SIX

Sirens in the London night were nothing unusual Jessica Anderson was thinking as she made her way past two middle aged men standing in the doorway of the pub in St. Martin’s Lane.

The emergency signal was like a soundtrack for some parts of the city after dark.

One of the men leered openly at her and nodded. His friend just grunted into his drink. Jess forced her way out from the noisy confines of the building and onto the street where she almost collided with some tourists who were standing immobile outside the entrance consulting a map and babbling on in what she thought was a Scandinavian accent. Why did people stand in doorways while they figured out how lost they were? Why did they suddenly stop dead while wandering along pavements? Jess ignored the urge to ‘accidentally’ barge into them as she made her escape from the pub.

She had barely stepped outside and reached for her cigarettes when her mobile began to ring.

Muttering irritably and with an unlit Silk Cut still stuck between her lips Jess dug in her pocket for the phone and looked at it.

She smiled when she saw the caller i.d. was showing Spike.

‘Hey, you,’ she said, wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear while she tried to light the cigarette with a disposable lighter she had in the bottom of her handbag. ‘What have you got?’

The Scandinavians turned and glanced at her as if she was speaking to them, perhaps puzzled by the Irish lilt to her accent. For a second they thought about asking her directions then thankfully moved on. Jess returned her attention to the phone call.

‘Two ambulances, two cop cars and a fire engine heading for the Crystal Tower,’ the voice at the other end of the line told her.

‘Why?’ Jess enquired. ‘What’s happening?’

‘A nine, nine, nine call came in about thirty seconds ago from some cleaner at the building reporting an accident. It sounds pretty serious, could be fatalities. I heard the cop cars responding on their radio.’

‘Thanks, Spike. Anything else happening I might be interested in?’

‘It’s pretty quiet tonight so far. A couple of car smashes in the West End and a break-in at one of the riverside suites at the Savoy. One of the occupants was attacked when he disturbed the thief. Nothing else for you. Not much blood and guts around tonight.’ He paused to sneeze loudly.

‘Bless you,’ Jess smiled.

‘How many accidents is that since they started building the Crystal Tower?’

‘Too many. I think they’re well into very high double figures now. I’ll check it out. Thanks again.’

‘You owe me lunch.’

‘Yeah, me and everyone else you’ve called with the same information.’

She smiled and snapped the phone shut cutting him off.

As she stuffed it back into her pocket she moved nearer to the roadside shooting out a hand to attract the attention of an approaching taxi. As it swung into the kerb a man in his late twenties ran in front of her and put his hand on the door handle. He turned and smiled at her.

‘You don’t mind do you, love,’ he said. ‘But this is an emergency.’

‘I do mind actually,’ she snapped. ‘I saw it first.’

The grin dropped from the man’s face and he backed off as Jess barged past him and clambered into the back of the taxi.

‘Sorry,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘Fucking slag. What’s wrong with you, you miserable bitch is it the time of the month?’

Jess raised the middle finger of her right hand towards him as the taxi pulled out into traffic.

‘Prick,’ she murmured under her breath.

The driver glanced over his shoulder at her.

‘Can you take me to the Crystal Tower please?’ she asked, frowning as she noticed the No Smoking sign on the glass partition between herself and the driver. She pushed the cigarette back into the packet and settled back into the seat as the driver guided the cab through the traffic.

The journey took less than twenty minutes.

SEVEN

‘I thought this place didn’t open for another few months,’ the taxi driver said as he looked for a convenient place to drop Jess off. He glanced ahead towards the looming edifice of the Crystal Tower which speared upwards into the night sky.

‘It doesn’t,’ Jess told him, digging into her bag for some money to pay him. ‘But I’ve got some work to do here.’

‘What do you do?’ the driver wanted to know.

‘I’m a photographer,’ she told him.

She glanced at the meter, saw how much the fare was and then clambered out pushing a twenty at the driver before he could announce how much she owed him or make any enquiries about her profession. She didn’t wait for him to give her the two pounds change, merely thanked him and hurried across to the pavement where she strode towards the building she sought.

There were several emergency vehicles parked outside all with their flashing blue lights now turning silently. Using the Leica D-Lux she always carried on her she pulled the camera from her jacket pocket and took some shots of the outside of the tower then she quickly selected a Canon SD790 which she took from her handbag as she approached the main entrance of the building. There were two policemen outside in what appeared to be deep conversation with a couple of paramedics.

Jess noticed a small white van parked a hundred yards from the building with SKY TELEVISION OUTSIDE BROADCAST stencilled on its side.

Spike had called others apart from her she thought as she drew nearer to the cluster of uniformed figures barring the way into the Crystal Tower.

She hesitated and watched the little group for a moment, noticing that a small gathering of passers-by, obviously attracted by the arrival of so many emergency vehicles in such a short space of time, had begun to collect close to the high temporary fence that surrounded the approaches to the Crystal Tower.

She took some pictures of the group just for the hell of it and then noticed with delight that the two policemen were moving away from the building entrance, one of them towards this steadily growing throng and the other in the direction of a nearby police car. The paramedics had disappeared back inside the Crystal Tower so, for the time being the entrance was unguarded.

Jess took her chance.

She slipped through the main door and into the spacious lobby of the building the sound of her heels echoing on the cold stone floor. She was struck immediately by the sounds coming from her left. She could hear voices and what sounded like the mechanical grinding of machinery. With one hand on her camera she headed towards the sounds, moving up a small flight of steps and around a corner until she found the source of the noises.

There were several men in uniform, some of them firemen others paramedics and policemen. She could also see others dressed in dark blue overalls and even a couple of men in expensive looking suits who seemed to be directing operations like soldier ants amid a swarm of workers in a freshly disturbed nest. All of these men were moving about amongst each other talking and pointing agitatedly in the direction of what Jess swiftly realised was a bank of lifts. She took several shots of the organised chaos around the lift doors then moved closer, trying to see through the melee of uniforms.

It was from one of those shafts that smoke was billowing.

Jess took more pictures.

‘Who are you?’

The voice came from behind her and she spun around to see a tall man with rimless glasses and pinched features standing before her. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit that fitted him perfectly but looked less than impressive because of the flecks of dandruff on the shoulders.

‘How you get in here?’ the man persisted and Jess detected more than a hint of an accent. Eastern European she guessed.

‘I’m with the Health and Safety Department,’ she lied effortlessly. ‘We heard about the accident and they sent me down here to get some pictures.’

The man looked at her blankly for a moment then shook his head.

‘Where is identification?’ he said, sharply.

‘I left it in my car,’ she told him, shrugging. ‘I only need to take a few more pictures and I’ll be out of your hair.’

The man looked puzzled.

‘How many were injured?’ Jess went on, nodding towards the lift shafts. ‘I was told four.’

‘Two killed,’ the man said, frowning. ‘Not four.’

‘Do you know their names?’

‘Identification,’ the man snapped. ‘Now.’

Jess knew she was on a loser now.

‘I’ll go back to my car and get it,’ she told him, stepping away but turning one last time towards the lift shaft from which the smoke was still rising.

As she did she saw two paramedics emerging carrying a stretcher. Exactly what was on it she couldn’t be sure but, from where she was standing it looked like a mound of raw meat wrapped in dark material.

Jess pointed the camera in that direction and fired off several shots.

It was then that the man in the charcoal suit grabbed her by the shoulder.

EIGHT

It was Jessica Anderson’s turn to protest.

The man in the charcoal grey suit half-lifted and half-pushed her towards the lobby muttering something in his own language as she struggled to wriggle free of him.

‘Take your fucking hands off me,’ she snarled, pulling away and almost dropping her camera.

‘You are reporter,’ the man rasped dismissively.

‘So what if I am?’

‘I should have told police,’ he continued as they reached the lobby.

‘And you should be careful I don’t call immigration,’ Jess hissed as he pushed her away.

‘Now get out of building, whore,’ he snarled.

She glared at him for a moment then quickly aimed the camera at him and took his picture.

‘Fuck you,’ he said and watched as she walked towards the main doors, brushing at the sleeve and shoulder of her jacket in the process as if to wipe away the imprint of his clutching hand.

When she hesitated he took a few menacing steps in her direction but Jess merely waved a dismissive hand in his direction and walked out. She headed for the pavement beyond the high wire fence, pausing to light a cigarette. Once lit she checked the photos she’d taken, scrolling through them and nodding to herself approvingly. She paused at the ones of the misshapen mass on the stretcher.

She increased the size of the image but still it was difficult to make out exactly what was being removed from the shaft. From the quantities of crimson she pretty sure that the pulverised mess was the remains of a man but there was little in the picture to identify it as such for sure. She took a long drag on her cigarette then blew the smoke out her gaze still fixed on the shots she’d taken.

‘Very moody,’ a voice behind her said. ‘Very Annie Liebovitz.’

She turned in the direction of the voice, a smile flickering on her lips.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘Same as you, my job, or what passes for it,’ Alex Hadley told her, returning her smile. He nodded towards the cigarette she was smoking. ‘Have you got one of those to spare?’

‘I thought you’d given up,’ she told him, offering him the packet and her lighter.

‘I have. Well, given up buying anyway,’ he said, taking one of the Silk Cut and lighting it. ‘I just bum them where I can.’

Jess watched him as he sucked hard on the cigarette then handed her the lighter again.

‘They’ll kill you, you know,’ she told him. ‘That’s what everyone tells me.’

‘At least they’re quiet,’ Hadley offered. He nodded in the direction of the Crystal Tower. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I got a call to say there’d been another accident in there,’ she told him, gesturing towards the tower. ‘I came down to check.’

‘Who told you, Spike?’

She nodded.

‘Fucking hell, he must be the richest man in London,’ Hadley grunted. ‘Every newspaper and TV station around pays him for information.’

‘He’s reliable.’

‘He should be after all these years. It’s a wonder he’s not deaf by now listening to those police and emergency broadcasts every night of the fucking week.’

‘It was you who put me on to him in the first place.’

Hadley raised his eyebrows.

‘Do you want to get a drink and we’ll have a chat about what’s going on in there?’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s a place just up the road we can go.’

‘You don’t drink any more,’ Jess reminded him.

‘Come on.’

Jess hesitated.

‘Are you coming?’ Hadley enquired.

‘I should get home,’ she insisted.

He was already walking slowly up the road. Jess waited a moment longer then followed, hurrying along until she was walking next to him.

‘I’ll get them in,’ Hadley told her sucking on his cigarette.

Jess nodded and walked on.

NINE

Alex Hadley was approaching his fifty-third birthday but looked older. He was a thick set man with short greying hair and a thin face that made him look malnourished. There were bags beneath his eyes but the pupils themselves still carried a spark that seemed to have deserted the rest of his frame.

He had the longest fingers Jess had ever seen and those fingers (pianist’s fingers Hadley liked to call them) were now clasped around a mug of tea that he was staring into as if the answers to all of life’s great mysteries lay at the bottom.

The café where they sat smelled of strong coffee and fried food. There were two large metal urns perched on the counter one filled with tea the other with coffee. Above these hovered a veil of thick steam that hung there like some kind of toxic cloud over a recent nuclear accident. On the wall above was a chalk board menu with an array of fare on it guaranteed to give any health food fan a heart attack. Fried bacon, fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bread. Everything was fried it seemed. Jess was glad she hadn’t asked for cake to go with her tea in case that was fried too. There were pieces of cake rotating slowly in a cabinet in one corner of the café none of them looking very fresh. This place conceded nothing to modern fads where eating was concerned. There was no de-caffeinated coffee available. No vegetarian option. Some places offered a healthy option on their menu. The healthy option as far this café was concerned simply involved eating elsewhere. This eatery was twenty years behind the times Jess thought but that was probably why Hadley liked it because so was he.

She’d known him for more than ten years, ever since she first joined the paper. He’d been one of the top dogs then. An important man within the paper itself and also within the industry but not any more. He’d had his day and looking at him now across the scratched and scored Formica tabletop Jess could see every disappointment and setback was etched into his features. It wasn’t pleasant to see and even less so because she remembered him for what he’d been. She didn’t like what he’d become. She felt sorry for him but she realised how much Hadley would have hated that reaction if he’d known. He needed a break not her pity.

‘You really know how to show a girl a good time,’ Jess said, smiling and motioning around the café.

‘My speciality,’ he said, sipping at his tea.

‘You know that asking a woman of thirty-five to have a drink with you at your age officially qualifies you as a dirty old man,’ she grinned.

‘Fuck off,’ Hadley grunted. ‘It never used to bother you.’

Jess lowered her gaze for a moment then drummed on the mug with her nails before looking at Hadley again. He was gazing at a couple in their twenties who were seated at one of the other tables. Both of them had iPhones in their hands and were glancing at the screens as if they’d just discovered a cancer cure.

‘Dickheads,’ Hadley murmured, nodding towards the couple. ‘Probably checking their fucking Facebook pages.’ He shook his head. ‘What is it with people now?’

‘You have to keep up with all the social networks,’ Jess said, smiling. ‘Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and all that.’

‘Fucking Twitter,’ Hadley rasped. ‘A bunch of nobodies writing bollocks so a bigger bunch of nobodies can read it. The only tweet worth reading, ever, would be “I’ve just cured cancer.” That’s it. All the rest is bullshit.’ He looked again at the couple nearby and then merely sneered. ‘Just once I’d love to tell one of them, “look, nothing in your boring, meaningless little life is worth putting on there for the other boring meaningless twats to read. Your life is pointless, just get used to it. Nobody is interested in what you do from one minute to the next and if you think they are then you’re dumber than I thought you were.”’ He took a swig of his tea.

Jess smiled thinly but the undisguised venom in Hadley’s voice was a little unsettling.

‘You still haven’t told me what you were doing around here in the first place,’ she reminded him, trying to change the subject.

‘I was out walking about as simple as that. I saw the emergency vehicles pull up so I hung around to see what was going on. It was a coincidence, pure and simple. Not everything’s planned you know.’ He drank more tea.

‘Why were you walking about at eleven at night?’

‘Because I’d been inside all fucking day and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed to get a breath of air. And I’d run out of milk.’ He smiled but there was no warmth in it.

‘Any work about?’

‘Little bits here and there but not enough and certainly nothing that pays well enough.’ He looked at her. ‘What about you? You look as if you’re doing alright.’

She shrugged.

‘You know how it is,’ she told him.

‘I used to,’ he sighed then sucked in a deep breath. ‘So what was going on in there?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the Crystal Tower.

‘Another bad accident by the look of it,’ she told him. ‘I saw them carrying at least one body out of a lift shaft. It must have been a workman because the place doesn’t open for a while, does it?’

‘The first week they started work on that place a guy was decapitated by a crane.’

‘Four were crushed when a wall collapsed.’

‘And didn’t somebody fall from the roof?’

She nodded.

‘And now we think how many more tonight?’ Hadley went on.

‘At least two as far as I can tell. I would have had a better look around if some Russian security guard hadn’t thrown me out. He called me a whore.’ She smiled. ‘And in broken English.’ Jess sipped her tea.

‘Russian,’ Hadley told her. ‘He was probably one of Voronov’s personal bodyguards.’

‘Andrei Voronov, the guy who owns the building. He’s a bit of a recluse isn’t he?’

‘When you’ve got as much money as he has you don’t have to speak to people. You know he tried to buy Chelsea before Roman Abramovich did, don’t you?’

‘No, I didn’t. What went wrong?’

‘No one knows for sure. He just backed off. Lost interest. Fuck knows why. He’s so loaded he makes Abramovich look like a charity case. He could have bought Chelsea, Arsenal, Spurs and any other club he fucking fancied.’

‘It’s a pity he didn’t spend some more of his money on security for the tower then. He’s going to lose half his workers before the building even opens.’

‘Like he gives a fuck. He’s Russian remember life’s not so much cheap as worthless there.’

‘But these are English workers who are dying in these accidents not cheap foreign labour no one gives a shit about. Hasn’t anyone questioned him?’

‘Like who, the police? A few accidents happen during the construction of a prestigious new building on the banks of the Thames who cares? Shit happens and besides it’s not as if any of them have been in suspicious circumstances, is it?’

‘But there’ve been so many.’

Hadley shrugged.

‘It happens all the time in other countries and no one gives a shit,’ he muttered. ‘Just because it’s happening in London doesn’t make it special.’

‘But it’s the way they’ve been happening,’ Jess persisted. ‘Accidents that never should have happened.’

‘You’re trying to make a story where there isn’t one, Jess.’

‘Well, don’t you think some of the stuff that’s been going on there is a bit weird?’

‘You always had an over-active imagination,’ Hadley said, dismissively.

‘Bullshit,’ she grunted. ‘More than seventy people have died during the construction of that tower. I think someone somewhere skipped the safety regulations or paid for them to be overlooked. Normally a site would have been shut down with that many fatalities, Unions would never have allowed work to carry on. Someone was paid off, I’m sure of it but how we prove that I don’t know yet.’

‘I think that the stuff leading up to the construction itself was weird, I’m not sure about a series of accidents having as much significance as you’re trying to attach to them.’

‘What do you mean leading up to the construction?’

‘The way Voronov got planning permission so easily when the Mayor of London and half the fucking House of Commons had been so violently opposed to it. Christ, there were even petitions from residents and property owners in the area protesting about the fucking place being built. One day there were ministers all ranting on about how he’d never be given permission to build and the next they were all queuing up to suck his dick, saying what a wonderful addition to the city the building would be and how many extra jobs it would create. That kind of bullshit.’

‘So how do you think he got the go ahead? Bribes? Threats? He’s been linked with the Russian Mafia hasn’t he?’

‘All Eastern European businessmen are linked with Russian Mafia,’ he told her.

‘Do you think he leaned on the right people?’ Jess smiled. ‘Perhaps he made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.’

Hadley managed a thin smile.

‘He did something, whether it was legal or not,’ he told her. ‘Guys like Voronov usually get what they want one way or the other.’

‘Didn’t you do a piece on him a couple of years back?’ Jess remembered.

‘I met him,’ Hadley told her.

TEN

Jess sat forward in her seat.

‘Just the once and with his bodyguards and press agents everywhere,’ Hadley went on. ‘I knew a PR girl who worked for him, she got me in. It wasn’t exactly a candid off the record conversation more a PR exercise when he bought controlling interest in The Ritz.’

‘Didn’t he sell that a couple of years later?’ Jess asked.

Hadley nodded.

‘So what was he like?’ she enquired.

‘It was a press conference, Jess.’

‘But you spoke to him?’

‘Me and about a dozen other journos. He didn’t invite me round for afternoon tea you know.’

Jess smiled and sipped her tea.

‘What was he like?’ she wanted to know.

‘He seemed ok for a guy who’s been linked with everything from the Russian Mafia to human trafficking. He was born here you know or at least some of his family came from this country originally or at least lived here.’

‘I thought he lived in Prague.’

‘He did. And Moscow and Warsaw. I think he’s still got places there now as well as his homes here in England and the States. And he’s got a private yacht that makes the Queen Elizabeth look like a rowing boat.’

Hadley drank some tea then nodded towards the handbag that Jess had left lying on the table top.

‘Can I have a look at the pictures you took while you were inside?’ he asked.

She nodded and reached inside for the SD790 handing it to Hadley who began scrolling through the shots before him on the small screen. He eyed the shots of the crimson mess on the stretcher indifferently.

‘I wonder what happened?’ he mused.

Jess could only shrug.

‘We won’t know for sure until they release some kind of statement or the name of the poor sods that died,’ she offered.

‘You could check the nearest hospital to here, see what they say.’

‘Pretend to be a relative you mean.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first.’

‘I couldn’t do that unless I had the names of the men who were killed could I?’ she reminded him.

Hadley nodded and drained what was left in his mug then pointed at Jess’s half-drunk beverage.

‘Want another one?’ he enquired.

‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I’d better go home.’

‘Someone waiting for you?’

She shook her head.

‘No, it’s just little old me,’ she told him.

‘What is wrong with the male population of this city? You should be married by now. Up to your ears in screaming kids and shitty nappies.’

‘Like you?’

Hadley raised his eyebrows.

There was a long silence between them and then Jess broke it, leaning forward slightly.

‘Do you ever hear from your ex?’ she asked. ‘The first one or the second one.’ She smiled.

‘No.’ He said it sharply and with an air of finality. ‘I don’t want to either.’

‘How long has it been now?’

‘We didn’t come in here to talk about my fucking ex did we? Either of them.’

‘Three years since your last divorce, isn’t it?’

‘What did I just say?’ he challenged. ‘Drop it will you, Jess.’

‘I was only asking.’

‘And what happened to that guy you were in love with? What was his name? Jason or something wasn’t it?’

Jess got to her feet.

‘I really have got to go,’ she said, reaching for her handbag. ‘Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Alex. I’ll see you around.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said, flatly.

‘You didn’t. I just have to go. Things to do, you know.’

He looked at her evenly for a moment as she pulled her handbag onto her shoulder and looked back at him with something like sadness in her eyes. The moment passed.

‘You’ve got my mobile number, haven’t you?’ he enquired.

She nodded.

‘In case you want anything,’ he added. ‘Any help.’

‘And you’d better go and get your milk...” Jess told him.

‘Somewhere will be open, even at this time of night,’ he said as she turned. ‘Somewhere always is. They cater for people like me who want things.’

‘And what do you want besides milk, Alex?’ Jess said, heading towards the café exit.

‘I want my fucking life back,’ he said, quietly. ‘But that’s never going to happen is it?’

She was gone by the time he looked up again.

ELEVEN

Despite the fact that it was late by the time Jess got home she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The journey to the Crystal Tower and the meeting with Hadley had set her adrenalin flowing and she knew that going to bed as soon as she got through the front door would be a futile exercise.

She hadn’t been sleeping too well for the last couple of weeks as it was so, as she let herself in to her small flat just off Clerkenwell Road, she decided it would be more sensible to simply sit up watching TV or reading until she felt drowsy enough to retreat to the bedroom.

She slipped off her coat and hung it on the rack just inside the door before ducking into the small living room where she flicked on the TV and found Sky News. While the newsreader droned on in the background, Jess put some milk in a mug and stuck it in the microwave. Warm milk supposedly aided sleep, didn’t it? Perhaps it might have the desired effect. She turned towards the television screen as the microwave whirred loudly on one of the worktops. Jess flicked channels looking for even the slightest mention of the accident at the Crystal Tower but there was nothing on any of the major networks. She wondered if the regional London news programme might feature something. After all she’d seen their outside broadcast van at the building. Or maybe even they didn’t deem the latest tragedy worthy of a slot.

She took the milk from the microwave when it was ready and crossed to her large lumpy sofa where she pulled off her shoes and sat down gratefully cradling the milk in one hand. She took a few sips and flicked channels again.

There was something on about a possible increase in the Congestion Charge, a story about a boy of twelve who’d been stabbed in his classroom at a school in Tottenham and some other items that Jess found less than riveting but towards the end of the bulletin she saw the caption appear on the bottom of the screen ANOTHER ACCIDENT AT THE CRYSTAL TOWER. The frame then showed a reporter standing a few feet from the temporary fence around the Crystal Tower with the looming edifice clearly visible in the background. There were a number of long distance shots of the structure before they cut back to the reporter.

Jess grabbed the remote and turned up the sound.

‘…incident in as many weeks,’ the reporter was saying into camera. ‘The families of both men killed have been notified. An investigation will be conducted but a police spokesman said that there didn’t appear to be any blame attached to the building owners and that the accident had been unavoidable. Health and Safety officials will present a full report tomorrow afternoon after an investigation.’

Jess raised her eyebrows and sipped more milk.

There was another shot of the building and then the weather forecast came on.

‘Don’t overdo it will you?’ Jess murmured, watching as a smiling weatherman told her that it was going to rain during the night and then turn humid during the day. She shook her head and flicked channels in a desperate attempt to find something to watch as she finished her drink. She finally settled on an old black and white film but it was little more than background sound as she scrolled through the photos she’d taken earlier that evening.

Perhaps Hadley had been right, perhaps her imagination was working overtime. Maybe she was trying to make a story where there really wasn’t one. She looked again at the pictures of the bloodied mess that lay on the stretcher between the two paramedics and wondered briefly who this man had been in life. That was something else Hadley would have taken her to task about. He’d have said that her job was to take pictures, not to get too interested in the people she photographed. He…

Hadley. Why are you even thinking about him?

Jess cradled the mug in her hands and gazed blankly at the TV screen.

What happened between you is ancient history.

She stretched out on the sofa.

It still happened though didn’t it?

Jess yawned. Perhaps she might be able to sleep if she went to bed, she mused. She stretched again then finished the warm milk.

Maybe it was working.

She smiled to herself and headed towards the bedroom deciding that she could always read for a while if she didn’t drop off straight away.

Outside the traffic continued to roll past and, from the doorway of an abandoned shop on the other side of the road, eyes that had been watching since she returned saw the light in Jess’s basement flat go out.

TWELVE

Alex Hadley had been alone before and it had never bothered him. He was alone but not lonely. Loneliness he had always thought was a state of mind and he had never been in that state.

That was what he told himself now as he stood before the door of his flat fumbling in his coat pocket for the key. And yet, even as he pushed the key into the lock he felt a shiver run through him. It was a kind of foreboding, Hadley knew that was a melodramatic word but it was the only one suitable to describe the feeling coursing through him now. He opened the door and stepped inside, flicking on the light in the process. He stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him, leaning backwards against the partition for a moment, letting out a long slow breath.

Home at last.

Hadley shook his head and almost managed a smile.

Home. This is what you have to call home now.

He dragged off his coat and hung it up on one of the hooks to his right.

Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. How many other fucking clichés could you think of? All of them similarly inappropriate.

He walked down the short passageway past the first bedroom and the bathroom opposite and turned left into the kitchen where he filled the kettle and switched it on. Perhaps a drink would have been better but he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol for close to twelve years now. In the time leading up to his sobriety he’d consumed enough for several dozen lifetimes he thought but it had been easier to give up than he’d anticipated and he didn’t want to go back now. Not with his drinking anyway. Any other aspect of his life he would gladly have re-run and experienced again because anything had to be better than the way he was living now. If it could be called a life. It was an existence. Nothing more. Alex Hadley existed in the world he was forced to inhabit now. And he hated it. Just as he hated his home.

Home. Home was a place where you wanted to be. Somewhere you looked forward to returning to. A place that was yours. Not this.

He glanced around the small kitchen, spooning coffee into a mug while he waited for the kettle to boil. Even though there wasn’t much on any of the worktops it still seemed overcrowded to Hadley. He felt as if the walls were shrinking around him, closing in. A bit like his life. He nodded to himself as if answering his own unspoken musings. He looked at the kettle again, saw that it wasn’t even close to boiling and slipped through into the sitting room where he switched on the TV. He didn’t care what was on he just wanted to hear something in the background. He stood by the window for a moment gazing out towards the street below, watching people passing by in groups, in couples or alone and he felt an overwhelming sense of detachment. The world they were moving around in wasn’t his world. It was as if he was watching them from some different plane of being. Hadley grunted and shook his head.

Pretentious bastard.

He turned and walked back to the kitchen where the kettle had finally deigned to boil. He made himself a coffee and looked in the fridge for some milk.

‘Bollocks,’ he murmured seeing that there was none. He’d meant to get some but seeing Jess seemed to have wiped his memory and he’d forgotten just like he forgot so many other things these days. Nothing seemed worth remembering any more. Not even milk. He sighed and put extra sugar in it as he was going to be drinking it black. It was bitter and he winced when he sipped it but it was better than nothing so clutching his mug he headed off towards the second bedroom of the flat and pushed the door open.

When he’d first moved in, Hadley had determined that this room would be his office. He’d also determined that it would be just a short-term arrangement and that he’d be out of the place and in somewhere better before too long. That particular fantasy had not materialised hence the unpacked boxes still piled in one corner of the room with LIVING ROOM, DINING ROOM and STUDY still scrawled on them in black marker pen. There was a layer of dust covering them too that Hadley was always meaning to wipe away but, as with so much more these days, he never seemed to get around to it. Against one wall there was a small desk with a laptop perched on it and he crossed to the computer and switched it on, sipping his coffee while it whirred into life. The connection was slow as usual and Hadley waited impatiently until the laptop finally began to display something on its screen.

He turned his back on the unpacked boxes and stood in the semi-darkness, the other items in the room illuminated only by the dull glow from the laptop screen. Hadley sat down before it, his fingers flicking across the keys with their customary speed.

ANDREI VORONOV.

He looked at the name for a moment, his eyes fixed on it.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered, watching as search results began to fill the screen. Hadley selected one and began reading.

He was still sitting there two hours later.

RETALIATION

LONDON; JUNE 1933

There was a stiff breeze blowing off the Thames and the old man shivered as he stood beside the great river, watching as a boat chugged past him, its lights reflecting in the water.

Someone on the deck was walking about and the old man watched them wondering where the boat was heading and what was the business of those on board then he pushed the thoughts from his mind and re-focused on his own task.

There was a full moon that night and it cast its cold white glow across the city every time the thick banks of cloud that filled the skies drifted away from it.

The old man looked up each time as if he thought the moon was watching him as he stood at the bottom of the stone steps that had led him down from the embankment to the soft earth that marked the banks of the river. His trousers were tucked into long boots and even these sank deeply into the muddy bank as he walked, moving away from some piles of rubbish and soggy wood that had been washed up by the passage of the river.

The Thames snaked through the city like a dirty tongue, as much a thoroughfare as any of the roads that criss-crossed the capital. Two more boats passed by as if to reinforce that belief and the old man could also hear the sound of the water lapping at the bank as he walked along carrying a metal bucket in each mud spattered hand.

They were both filled with wet earth that he’d dug from close to the water’s edge and they were heavy. For a man half his age they would have made a daunting burden but for a man of his advanced years they slowed his movement practically to a stop. Every four or five steps he would stop and take several deep breaths before continuing onwards.

It was always like this.

But there was no one he could ask to help him. No one who could share the burden and the weight. This task had to be done by him alone.

His arms ached and his legs were beginning to stiffen too but he knew that he still had to carry the buckets back to his house and that was another forty-five minutes’ walk.

He blew out his cheeks as much at the thought of that marathon as at the weight of his cargo but he continued on, stopping again when he had to but not complaining. He knew this had to be done and there was no other way to do it so he forged ahead.

The climb from the bank up the stone steps to the embankment was hard work and when he reached the top his heart was thudding hard against his ribs. He leant against the wall at the top and sucked in deep breaths, more than once touching his chest with the flat of one muddied hand. It took a while before he felt sufficiently refreshed to continue with his journey and when he did take the next few steps they were faltering ones but he soon regained his footing and walked on determinedly. Two men passed him moving in the other direction but they cast him only cursory glances, neither interested in an old man carrying two buckets of mud who panted for breath as he walked.

No one else cared.

No one else was interested.

And that was how the old man liked it.

It would take another two nights before he was finished.

THIRTEEN

‘So what do you think?’

Jessica Anderson sipped her red wine and looked across the table at the man with her.

‘I don’t know,’ the man said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I’m not a journalist, am I?’

‘Oh come on, Spike,’ Jess persisted. ‘I asked you for your opinion.’

‘It’s weird,’ the man conceded. ‘I’ll give you that.’

‘Weird hardly qualifies as an opinion.’

‘It’s all I’ve got.’

Jess regarded the man opposite her evenly and appraisingly.

Mark Paxton was thirty. He was a large man with a heavy growth of beard and long dark hair which he’d fastened into a pony tail. He was wearing a baggy black sweatshirt and loose fitting jeans which did nothing to compliment his build and if anything made him look more overweight than he was. Perched on the wooden chair opposite Jess he had barely moved since they’d arrived at the pub in the Aldwych other than to down two pints of Guinness and eat his food. Paxton wasn’t known for his athleticism, Jess thought to herself but what he did didn’t require the build or constitution of a marathon runner. He had, as he liked to remind people, spent most of his life sitting on his arse. Jess couldn’t help but think that his build reflected that statement perfectly.

He twirled his fork in his fingers and speared some more chips with it, pushing them into his mouth.

‘So this is the lunch you promised me?’ Paxton said through a mouthful of potato.

‘What were you expecting, the Ritz?’ Jess smiled.

‘It’s going on expenses, isn’t it?

She nodded.

‘Then I’ll have another Guinness when you’re ready,’ Paxton told her, draining what was left in his glass.

‘I bet your other clients don’t treat you as well as I do,’ Jess said, sipping her own drink.

‘They’re hardly clients, Jess.’

‘They pay you for information don’t they?’

Paxton smiled and pulled at his beard with one hand.

‘You must be rolling in it, Spike,’ Jess continued. ‘How many contacts have you got? How many people do you supply information to?’

‘I see what I do as providing a service,’ Paxton said, picking up his glass again and glancing at the froth at the bottom of it.

‘Sitting on a two-way radio tuned to police and Emergency frequencies and then telling people about what you pick up?’

‘Telling the right people.’

‘You’re full of shit, Spike.’

Jess drained what was left of her wine and prepared to get to her feet.

‘You really want my opinion?’ Paxton said. ‘On what’s been going on at the Crystal Tower?’

Jess nodded.

‘I think the Health and Safety regs have been overlooked,’ Paxton went on. ‘Or ignored or they never had any to begin with.’

‘Overlooking Health and Safety Regulations wouldn’t have caused the amount of deaths they’ve had there. It’s got to be more than that.’

‘I read about some place in Saudi Arabia, a football stadium I think, where they reckon there are over a hundred workers buried in the concrete. They just fell in when the foundations were being laid. Not all at once of course but over the course of the building. The guys responsible for construction just wrote it off as part of the costs.’ Paxton smiled and shrugged. ‘Most of them were Indians,’ he added as if that made the loss less disturbing.

‘Cheap labour,’ Jess said.

Paxton nodded.

‘But the guys who were killed during the construction of the Crystal Tower weren’t cheap imported labour,’ Jess continued. ‘These were skilled men. English and Polish men. People tend to give a shit about people like that. This is England not Saudi Arabia after all.’

‘Racist,’ Paxton chuckled.

‘You know what I mean,’ Jess grinned. ‘ If Voronov had brought over five hundred Russian labourers to do the construction and a hundred of them had been killed then no one would have thought twice about it.’

‘So because some skilled English workers have died in weird accidents you think there’s something dodgy about the Crystal Tower and the guy who owns it?’

‘I just think it’s unusual that so many accidents have happened there in such a short space of time. I also think it’s unusual that no one seems to know very much about this guy Voronov.’

‘He’s a recluse but he’s not that mysterious, Jess. There are all kinds of rumours circulating about him on the internet.’

‘Rumours. That’s it. No one seems to know much that’s concrete about him.’

‘It’s probably there if you look, Jess.’

She raised her eyebrows and exhaled wearily.

‘Why don’t you investigate him?’

‘Because I’ve got to have an angle before I can do a story on him.’

‘And you don’t think the fact that so many people have died while building a place he financed is an angle? You sound pretty dumb at times, Jess.’

She raised her middle finger in his direction.

‘Very eloquent,’ Paxton grinned.

‘How that building ever got built is an angle,’ Jess murmured.

‘Then go for it,’ Paxton grinned picking up his empty glass. ‘Now, how about that drink?’

FOURTEEN

After Jess left the pub, Paxton sat at what had been their corner table for a while just running through messages on his phone, oblivious to the people around him and also to the staff who were waiting for him to leave so they could clear his table.

He finally looked up to see an agitated waiter gazing at him and realised it was time for him to leave. He was the only one left in the pub by this time other than the staff and he nodded to the waiter as if that gesture would be apology enough and got to his feet, wandering across to the door and out into the street beyond.

The weather had turned much cooler and as Paxton looked up towards the sky he noticed thick banks of cloud rolling in across the city, pushed by the chill breeze that was whipping along the streets. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, dug his hands into his pockets and set off down the street deciding after a few paces that he didn’t want the roar and rumble of traffic and the chattering of pedestrians as the soundtrack to his walk. He pulled his iPod from his inside pocket and pushed the earpieces into place, happy to replace the everyday sounds of activity around him with the thunderous melody of an Iron Maiden song. He eased the volume up slightly, smiled to himself and walked on in the direction of the tube station that lay towards the bottom of the road.

He checked his watch and realised he didn’t need to be home for a while yet so he took a detour into the store to his right. Paxton pulled the earpieces free to check what kind of music they were playing inside the shop. When he heard that it was RnB he pushed them back in hurriedly, as keen to drown out the dull thumping and insipid vocals as he had been to eliminate the noises of traffic and chatter outside. He moved among the aisles of CDs, DVDs and books casting an interested gaze over the titles and, on more than one occasion, contemplating whether or not to make a purchase. However he decided that he could download both the films he’d been interested in more cheaply than he could by purchasing them so he merely continued to browse through the racks of films, many of which had been cut down to ridiculously low prices in an attempt to shift them.

It was busy in the shop and Paxton was amazed that this chain of shops was closing if business was this brisk in all its branches around the country but, with this being London, he reasoned, most places were busy. Crammed with tourists most of the time who were perfectly able to buy the same products in their own homelands but who just wanted to wander in and out of shops in the capital as if there was some kind of magical experience about the whole thing. There was, Paxton had discovered at a very early age, very little magical about London or, indeed, anywhere else.

He eased up the volume of his iPod as he passed a group of teenage girls who were sorting through piles of the latest X Factor winner’s albums, pointing excitedly at the faces of the boys on the cover of the album. It was, Paxton thought with a smile, the blind leading the blind or at least the blind being told what to buy by the blind. Amused at his own philosophical musings he moved towards the escalators at the rear of the shop and rode one into the Games department where he took some time looking at the new titles and then at the pre-owned section. He selected two games from the latter section and went to pay for them.

A couple of assistants were chatting animatedly behind the counter and didn’t seem to see him so he coughed theatrically until the girl with dyed pink and black hair and a nose ring that would have graced a prize bull finally turned to serve him.

He eased down the volume on his iPod so he could hear her monosyllabic grunts, paid and prepared to collect his purchases.

‘Do you want a bag?’ she asked flatly.

‘Yes, please,’ Paxton said.

She looked at him as if he’d just proposed having anal sex in the middle of the shop.

‘I need a bag, please,’ Paxton insisted, amused by her reaction.

‘Couldn’t you just put them in your pocket?’ she said. ‘Bags are bad for the environment.’

‘Well, we’re all going to be dead in a hundred years aren’t we?’ said Paxton cheerfully. ‘I’ll have that bag, please.’

The girl shoved the two games into a red and black plastic bag and pushed it across the counter to him. Paxton nodded and smiled and turned away, heading for escalators that would carry him back down to the ground floor.

By the time he walked back out into the street it had begun to rain. Just light drizzle but enough to dampen the spirits even more. Paxton muttered something under his breath and strode off down the street now deciding that he wanted to get home as quickly as possible. He didn’t need to be wandering the streets in the rain. Besides, he wanted to check out the two games he’d just bought. He hurried across the street, ignoring the car that banged its hooter at him.

The figure that had been following him since he left the pub also quickened its pace.

FIFTEEN

Alan Reed stuck the forklift in reverse, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that none of his fellow workers were in the way as he guided the vehicle across the large expanse of open concrete behind.

It moved smoothly across the vast open area beneath the Crystal Tower the sound of its electric engine reverberating within the tomb-like environs of the space. However, Reed needn’t to have troubled himself about the sound the small vehicle was making because it was eclipsed seconds later by the thunderous roar of a pneumatic drill. The deafening pounding filled the huge underground arena and drummed in the ears of all those working at this subterranean level. Reed had ear protectors to wear as did all his colleagues but he had resisted the need to slip them on so far during the day. After all he was hundreds of yards from the source of the pneumatic drill’s fury and loud noises had never bothered him much. But now the sound seemed to be intolerably loud, the constant slamming and hammering causing him to wince.

Work on the lowest three levels of the Crystal Tower, including the underground garage and storerooms was near completion and Reed watched as electricians crawled about on scaffolding all around him putting the finishing touches to the lights that were buried in the thick concrete ceiling of the parking area. Even in this area, designed only for the parking of residents’ vehicles and for the storage of essential equipment for the building, the ambience had to be right. There was no bare cold concrete. Even the walls had been painted with soft pastel tones and some of them even sported murals by the youngest and hippest modern artists that this country had to offer. Reed guided his vehicle past one, pausing momentarily to glance at it. It was supposed, he assumed, to be some kind of country scene but the trees and plants looked as if they’d been painted by little kids not by some middle class art school student. If that was art, he told himself, then he was glad he knew nothing about it. He sat back on the driving seat of the forklift and ran disapproving eyes over the images before him. Trees that looked like bare twigs were surrounded by big yellow flowers and figures that looked like something out of a bad Lowry painting ambled through this creation.

And all Reed could think about was how much the fucker who painted it must have got paid. He shook his head and stuck the forklift back in gear, guiding it across the concrete floor towards some pallets at the far end of the parking area. A number of the other workmen down there nodded or raised hands in greeting to him as he passed and Reed returned the gestures happily enough. He had always been good at hiding his feelings and what he was feeling right now needed to remain hidden he told himself. No point in bothering anyone else with it. No one gave a shit about any problems but their own so why mention what was troubling him. The fact that he’d found out the day before that his sixteen-year-old daughter was pregnant was of no concern or interest to anyone but himself and his ex-wife.

Even the thought of what he’d been told caused his brow to furrow. He sucked in a deep, dust infused breath then let it out in a deep sigh. Sixteen fucking years old and pregnant. What the hell had she been doing?

It’s pretty obvious what she’d been doing isn’t it?

Reed grunted again, trying to shift the thoughts from his mind but finding it impossible. His ex had told him the news by text. By fucking text! Hadn’t even had the decency to ring him or nip round and tell him face to face. Not that he would really have wanted to see her, certainly not to hear that kind of news but it was the principle. To be told by text that your fucking daughter has just been knocked up by some spotty little herbert that was probably going to do a runner before the end of the month was hardly the sort of news you wanted to get at any time let alone via fucking text. All he could hope was that his daughter was sensible enough to get rid of it. What was the point in having a kid at her age? She was only a kid herself. It would be two lives ruined. Her’s and the kid’s. She’d never be able to do anything in her life that she wanted to do, never have any money, never be able to fulfil any ambitions.

He watched as the twin forks of the machine lifted the pallets to their highest point, then, satisfied that his cargo was secure he set off back across the underground car park, the sound of the pneumatic drill ringing in his ears.

Ambitions. He shook his head. Did she even have any ambitions? Did she actually want more than to be stuck in a council flat somewhere looking after a fucking kid she didn’t even want? He swallowed hard. If he was honest he didn’t know. Since he and his wife had split up and his daughter had gone to live with her he barely saw his daughter more than twice a week. He had no idea what she wanted out of life, whether she even had aspirations beyond what now seemed her fate. He saw her on a Tuesday and a Friday if he was lucky. She came to where he lived and he cooked them dinner (well, heated something up that he’d taken from the freezer). And they usually sat in silence as he struggled to force out of her what she’d done at school that day or what she’d been doing. She didn’t want to be there, he knew that but it didn’t make it any easier to cope with. He wished that she’d talk to him, tell him what she was feeling. He wanted more than anything to know how she felt about the possibility of having a child at such a young age. But he feared he would never know now. They had gone beyond that stage. They’d never been very close but now the gulf between them was vast and unbridgeable. If she had the kid he feared there would never be any way back. He didn’t know what her mother thought of the situation he hadn’t asked and he wasn’t about to. What the hell would it solve? It wasn’t as if the two them were going to get back together again and give her a home to bring up her unwanted child in, was it? But most of all he was saddened by the news. His initial anger had given way to a deep and painful sadness. She had been such a bright girl all through her academic life. Her homework had always been done, she’d always had good marks and good reports but then she’d seemed to lose interest. She’d missed lessons. Sometimes not even gone into school at all. The school had called him and told him about this and he’d apologised and said he’d try to help but what the fuck could he do? He couldn’t hit her, could he? Couldn’t threaten her? If he was honest with himself he didn’t want to have to do that. He had just hoped that she’d realise how she was ruining her life and maybe come to her senses but now, with this fucking boyfriend around that wasn’t going to happen, was it? What the hell could he or anyone else do to help his daughter now? That sense of helplessness, of having failed her somehow hurt him more than anything.

Reed exhaled deeply, aware that his mind was wandering, his concentration faltering and being at the controls of a complex piece of machinery were no place to lose concentration. He realised that as he saw the twin forks of the truck were about to scrape the wall of the underground car park.

Reed cursed and tried to swing the vehicle to one side but the collision was unavoidable. The two forks hit the wall and scraped about an inch into the concrete. He rasped something furiously; his exhortations drowned out by the thumping of the pneumatic drill, stuck the truck in neutral and jumped down to inspect the damage he’d caused. No one nearby seemed to have seen the small collision and Reed advanced towards the wall he’d hit shaking his head, his face set in hard lines.

What he saw next stopped him in his tracks.

SIXTEEN

The twin forks of the truck had gouged two channels in the concrete wall about two inches deep, shaving off paint and scoring into the stonework but it wasn’t that which transfixed Reed as he drew closer.

It was the twin streams of red fluid that were dribbling slowly from the rents.

Surely he told himself, he hadn’t dug that far into the wall that he’d severed a water pipe. Was it rusty water he now saw spilling from the twin marks that disfigured that part of the wall before him? He slowed his pace again. The liquid that was running slowly down the wall ahead of him was deep red in colour, not the brownish-red hue of rust. And besides, he reasoned, all the pipes that had been installed in the building were brand new, they wouldn’t have rusted already.

What the hell was that stuff? He reached the wall and studied the gashes in the concrete more closely, fascinated now by the red fluid that was still running freely from them. He reached out his fingers and touched the liquid wondering if it was red paint. He felt the consistency and it was smooth as he rubbed it between his fingers. There was a strange odour coming from it too. Something vaguely familiar he thought. He raised his red-stained fingers to his nose and sniffed lightly. He frowned, sure once more that whatever the fluid was there was something about it that he recognised.

He was still considering that when the fork lift truck juddered forward.

It rolled a foot or two then stopped abruptly, the noise of its engine obliterated by the thunderous racket being produced by the pneumatic drill. The sound filled the subterranean chamber, bouncing off the walls and eclipsing every other noise down there.

Reed wiped the red fluid from his fingers onto his overalls wondering what to do. He ought to call someone he knew that. Damage had been done and it would have to be repaired. He shrugged, dismissing his own part in the mishap. It had been an accident pure and simple. He hadn’t meant to mark the wall had he? And it could have been much worse. Also, he noticed, whatever the red stuff was that had run from the two marks was not flowing so freely now. He obviously hadn’t done as much damage as he’d first thought. He nodded to himself and turned away from the marks.

As he did the fork lift shot forward as if fired from a cannon.

Even if Reed had seen what was coming it’s unlikely he’d have been able to avoid it.

The left hand fork slammed into his chest, snapping bone effortlessly and driving him backwards, slamming him against the wall as it tore through his upper body. He felt a monstrous combination of severe pain and breathlessness as the fork ruptured his lung and ripped through his chest, exploding from his back just below one shoulder blade, the impact lifting him off his feet and smashing him into the wall.

The fork tore into the concrete behind him, driven deeper by the continued forward momentum of the truck itself, the engine of which was revving madly now, filling his ears along with his own screams. He clawed helplessly at the fork that was skewering him, aware that his own blood was spouting warmly over the metal prong and making it slippery. Not that he’d have been able to free himself anyway because the truck itself was still shuddering as it revved, smoke rising from the rear wheels as the entire machine now shook and vibrated as it continued to try and move forward, the fork digging deeper into the concrete beyond Reed’s torn body.

Like an insect pinned to a board Reed hung there, impaled on the fork, his legs kicking madly, his feet a couple of inches from the blood spattered concrete floor. After less than half a minute even that perfunctory movement stopped as his body went into a series of small shudders and his attempts to drag himself free stopped. Blood loss and shock overtook him rapidly. The ground around him was puddled with crimson now, gouts of it still spurting from the wound that had wrought so much damage. When he tried to suck in a breath there was a rattling sound as the inhalation rattled inside his torn lungs and blood was pumping from his mouth, spilling down his chin and muffling the sounds he was trying weakly to make.

The engine of the fork lift had ceased; the only sound in the underground car park was the ever present rumble of the pneumatic drill. But it was joined suddenly by something else. A shout of horror and surprise. Then the sound of frantic footsteps as others ran towards the scene of carnage. But Alan Reed heard none of those other sounds. His last thought had been of his daughter. And then, there had been nothing at all.

SEVENTEEN

The doorbell played ‘Oh Susanna’ when it was pressed.

Not a simple two tone chime or a buzzer. No, not this doorbell it played a tune. Jessica Anderson stood beside the door and listened to the electronic anthem as she waited for the black painted barrier to be opened. She took a last drag on her cigarette, tossed the butt under the nearby hedge and dug hastily in her pocket for the pack of mints she kept there. She stuffed one into her mouth to cover the odour of tobacco and continued to wait for the door to be opened.

She was about to press the button again when there was movement on the other side and she heard several locks and bolts being undone all to the accompaniment of low muttering. Jess smiled, the gesture broadening when the door was finally opened.

‘Hello, Mum,’ Jess said and stepped across the threshold.

The diminutive woman who embraced her was a little over five feet tall and Jess had to stoop slightly to hug her. Margaret Anderson held her as tightly as her thin arms would allow and didn’t seem to want to let go. When she finally did she beamed at Jess and patted her shoulders.

‘Come in, dear,’ she said, warmly, pushing open the door to the sitting room.

Jess made her way in, moving past some framed photos of deceased relatives and a sign that proclaimed GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE.

Once inside the small but welcoming room she lifted the plastic bag she held in one hand and shrugged guiltily.

‘I’m sorry, Mum but I’ve brought some washing with me,’ she confessed. ‘It’s not much but I didn’t get time to nip to the launderette. I’ve been busy.’

‘That’s fine, dear,’ her mum told her. ‘I’ll do that before you go.’ Margaret took the bag from her and moved into the kitchen which was where the tempting aroma of cooking food was coming from.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Jess said again. ‘Other kids bring their mum’s flowers when they visit. I bring dirty washing.’

Margaret waved away the comment and began stuffing the contents of the plastic bag into a washing machine as Jess glanced at the table in the middle of the kitchen. It was set for the two of them just as it was every Sunday lunchtime. The space close to the backdoor where her father would normally have sat was vacant as it had been since his death. No one else was to sit there, Margaret saw to that. Jess glanced at the large black cabinet on the other side of the room and saw a framed picture of him in there dressed in his army uniform. The photo was flanked by other pictures, mainly of her at various stages of growing up, and by the kind of paraphernalia her mother had collected over the years. Two small porcelain greyhounds so beloved by her father stood sentinel over the entire collection even though one had undergone a spot of surgery to its front leg involving cellotape and superglue.

‘Dinner won’t be long,’ Margaret announced slamming the door of the washing machine and starting it up with the press of a button. She turned again and embraced Jess and this time it was she who felt as if she didn’t want to let go. ‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ her mother said as they parted. She turned towards the worktop behind her and dropped teabags into the large teapot there. ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’

‘Well you go and sit down in the living room and I’ll make the tea,’ Jess insisted, placing one hand on her mother’s shoulder and guiding her out of the kitchen. Almost reluctantly Margaret nodded then retreated from the room while Jess made tea, careful to put her mother’s in the same porcelain cup and saucer that she always had it in. Also perched on the worktop close to the teapot was a third cup, a slight chip in the lip of it. It had been her father’s. There was an Apostle spoon perched on the saucer as if it was about to be used but of course she knew that it never would be again. Jess swallowed hard and carried the teas into the living room where her mother was seated beside the gas fire.

Jess sat down on the small sofa opposite and took a sip of her tea.

‘Sorry I didn’t ring earlier in the week, Mum,’ she said. ‘Things have been a bit mad with work.’

‘That’s fine, Jess, I know how busy you are. Don’t you worry about me.’

‘But I do,’ Jess said, trying to force a laugh. ‘I do worry.’

‘I went out on Thursday to do my shopping,’ Margaret told her. ‘But other than that I’ve been here all week. There’s nothing for me to go out for otherwise.’

‘But at least you get some air, Mum. It’s a bit of exercise for you too.’

Margaret wrinkled her nose and took a sip of her tea.

‘I’m a bit old for exercise, dear,’ she said. ‘I am sixty-nine you know.’

‘I know Mum, that’s why I worry about you.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ Margaret insisted.

Jess smiled and sipped her tea.

They sat in silence for a moment, Jess glancing first at her mother and then at the empty chair on the far side of the room. Motes of dust turned lazily in the air around it, highlighted by the shafts of sunlight that were lancing through the bay window. Beneath the window was a dark wood bookcase and propped on it were several framed photos, most of them of Jess herself at various stages of her life. Most were school photos but there were also some of her with friends, taken on holiday, at work. Seemingly everywhere she thought, smiling. Other family portraits framed those of her and there were more pictures dotted around the room like fading memories.

‘That’s a terrible photo of me,’ she said, getting to her feet and crossing to the array of pictures. She lifted one in particular, taken when she was in her early teens. She had braces and spots and there was a small hole in the neck of her school jumper which had been carefully and expertly darned but was still visible.

‘They’re all lovely,’ her mother said. ‘The one next to it was your dad’s favourite.’

Jess nodded and glanced quickly at the picture of herself and her father as if to look for more than a fleeting second was to cause too much pain. They were both smiling broadly in it, arms around each other. It had been taken five years ago although Jess couldn’t quite remember where. It seemed like a lifetime to Jess and she wished she could have that time over again.

‘You know what it is today, don’t you?’ Margaret said, quietly, replacing her cup on the table next to her with a shaking hand.

‘Yes, Mum,’ Jess said without looking at her mother. She sucked in a weary breath and made her way back to the sofa where she sat down gently.

‘You can say it you know, dear,’ her mother went on.

Jess merely nodded.

‘It’s one year to the day that your dad died,’ Margaret intoned.

EIGHTEEN

Jess nodded.

‘I said …’ Margaret began.

‘I know what the date is, Mum,’ Jess said a little too sharply. She swallowed hard and took another sip of her tea.

‘It was a merciful release in the end,’ Margaret said, quietly.

‘Mum, do we have to talk about it?’

Margaret looked sheepishly at her daughter then shook her head silently. She could see the pain on Jess’s face but there was something else there. A look she hadn’t seen before and couldn’t identify now. The older woman paused feeling almost guilty that she’d opened the subject.

‘I know it’s hard, Jess,’ Margaret went on, her voice barely more than a whisper.

‘You were the one who had to put up with it, Mum,’ Jess said. ‘You were the one who was with him twenty-four hours a day. I wasn’t here enough, I know that.’

‘But you were busy, dear.’

‘I was always busy. I should have made time to be with him. To help you and it wasn’t just that.’ Jess sucked in an almost painful breath. ‘I didn’t do enough to help with the funeral.’

‘It was all paid for by Dad’s policies, he had enough to cover the costs. What more could you have done?’

‘I could have paid for what he really wanted.’

Margaret looked puzzled and leaned forward slightly in her chair.

‘What do you mean?’ she enquired.

‘He wanted to be buried, Mum, not cremated,’ Jess said. ‘You know that. We only had him cremated because it was cheaper. Because we couldn’t afford to give him the burial he wanted. I should have given you some money. I should have helped to pay for what Dad wanted, not settled for the cheap option.’

‘Dad and I agreed that he should be cremated. Towards the end we decided that would be best.’

‘He always used to say I don’t care what happens when I die but I want a stone on my grave, I want somebody to know I was here. I couldn’t even give him that.’

‘It’s not your fault, Jess. Don’t blame yourself. And things changed towards the end. Dad changed too. The things he wanted were different. He would have been happy with the cremation and …’ Margaret allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘And what, Mum? Didn’t he always say he didn’t want to be alone? I thought we were going to have him buried with his parents but that never happened, did it?’

Margaret lowered her gaze.

‘It couldn’t be helped, Jess,’ she said, softly. ‘We did everything we could.’

‘But it wasn’t enough, Mum,’ Jess murmured. ‘It wasn’t enough.’

The two women sat in silence for a while then Jess cleared her throat.

‘I feel as if I’ve, I don’t know, betrayed him,’ she said, her voice catching.

‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Margaret offered. ‘You didn’t do anything.’

‘No, that’s the trouble, I didn’t.’

Again a heavy silence fell across the two of them, finally broken when Margaret got to her feet. She made her way towards the kitchen. Jess rose and followed her, the smell of cooking food filling the air.

‘You must remember the things Dad said,’ Jess went on.

‘I told you, Jess, towards the end he was different. He wanted different things. You can’t change any of that now.’

‘It doesn’t stop me feeling guilty about it.’

Margaret turned to face her daughter.

‘There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about,’ she said with as much force in her voice as she could muster. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Neither of us did. It’s what Dad wanted.’

‘Well it’s too late to do anything about it now, isn’t it?’ Jess sighed.

‘How long have you been thinking about this?’

‘Since his funeral.’

‘Jess, you can’t think like that, dear, you really can’t. You’re not being fair on yourself.’

Jess didn’t answer. She merely watched as her mother took vegetables from the pots on the hob and drained them, spooning out portions onto the waiting plates.

‘Why have you waited this long before you said something?’ Margaret enquired, placing more food on the plates.

Jess shrugged.

‘I wasn’t going to say anything at all,’ she answered. ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

‘You were right to say what was on your mind. It doesn’t do any good bottling things up.’

‘And what good is it going to do telling you how I feel? It isn’t going to change anything, is it?’

Margaret put a plate full of food in front of Jess then sat down opposite.

‘It’s better to talk, dear,’ Margaret assured her. ‘You always bottled things up even when you were growing up, I know that.’

‘I used to tell Dad sometimes if something was bothering me,’ Jess smiled. ‘I suppose I just miss being Daddy’s girl.’

‘You two could always find things to talk about,’ Margaret said. ‘He used to say you were more like mates than father and daughter.’

‘He always encouraged me no matter what I was doing.’ Jess smiled. ‘You did too, Mum.’ The words were almost like an afterthought.

Margaret shook her head.

‘I know that, Jess but I know your dad was the one who really pushed you,’ she went on. ‘He wanted so much for you. He was so proud when you got your first job on a National paper. He said he’d known all along you’d do it. We always believed in you, you know that.’

Margaret smiled.

Jess just nodded.

‘There’s nothing wrong with missing him, Jess,’ Margaret said, softly. ‘I do too.’

Jess was about to start eating when she heard her mobile. She glanced down at it and saw that the caller i.d. was showing Spike. For a second she wondered about letting it go to voice mail but, as it kept ringing she finally snatched it up.

Margaret watched her evenly across the table.

‘When?’ Jess said into the mouthpiece.

Margaret chewed slowly on a piece of food, her eyes never leaving her daughter.

‘Is that all you know?’ Jess said, her expression darkening. There was more chatter at the other end of the line then Jess ended the call. ‘Mum,’ she sighed, looking at Margaret. ‘I’m going to have to go.’

‘Oh no, dear, not in the middle of dinner,’ Margaret said, wearily but Jess was already on her feet. ‘Can’t it wait?’

Jess shook her head, trying to force a smile.

‘I wish it could,’ she said.

They said a hurried goodbye and Jess paused on the doorstep.

‘I’ll ring you later, Mum,’ she said.

‘You ring me when you can, dear,’ Margaret said. ‘I know you’re busy. I just wish you didn’t have to rush off now.’

Jess nodded, managed a smile then turned away without looking back. She didn’t think she could bear to.

LONDON; 1933

The windows hadn’t been smashed this time.

No one had hurled bricks or lumps of stone at the glass but, as the old man stood gazing at the large window he was beginning to think that perhaps more of the destruction would have been preferable.

There were several dozen thick gobs of phlegm spattered on the glass.

He shook his head in silent disgust and reproach, incredulous that anyone could stoop to such foul depths. The thought of several people standing outside his shop and spitting on the windows was in many ways a more repulsive one than the image of some crazed mob hurling bricks and rocks. The pre-meditated loathing and accumulated hatred that such a gesture spawned was almost too vile to entertain.

The old man felt a twinge of sadness that people could express their feelings in so base a manner. However, that sadness was rapidly replaced by a growing feeling of anger. A rage that was difficult to contain. He was shaking gently as he stood inside the shop looking out through the phlegm mottled window.

Two men passed by on the outside of the shop and glanced at the soiled glass with a look of disinterest. They could see the old man inside but they merely turned away when they met his gaze.

Had they been two of the culprits he wondered? Had they been two of the many who had stood in front of his shop and spat on the windows? He had no way of knowing and he would never know.

Carrying a bucket of warm water and a cloth he made his way out onto the pavement and set about cleaning off the sputum and mucus.

The sun was shining and the old man could feel it beating down on the back of his neck as he worked to remove the filth. Every now and then he would step back and admire his handiwork; glad that the windows were beginning to sparkle again where he had cleaned them.

In the centre of the window there was something else.

Not sputum, not phlegm but something that had been painted onto the glass with quick and broad strokes of the brush. He glanced at it occasionally and shook his head, hoping that the warm water in the bucket would remove it but fearing that he might need something more powerful like turpentine or white spirit.

It might have been put there by a child such was its simplicity.

But behind that simplicity was a malice and fury that the old man had encountered before in his life but still found difficult to understand.

A stick image of a hanged man adorned the middle of the window.

Beneath were painted two words;

YOU DIE

He shook his head and set about cleaning them off.

As he was wringing out the cloth in the bucket of water a man in his thirties walked past and kicked out at the metal container, knocking it over and spilling the water across the pavement, some of it spilling into the gutter. The old man didn’t even look at him. He could hear the muted laughter as the man passed by but the old man said nothing, he merely picked up the bucket and headed back inside the shop to re-fill the receptacle.

The cool air inside the shop was welcoming and the old man made his way to the rear of the shop to kitchen where he spun the tap and watched the water filling the bucket.

Once that was done he would continue with his task.

But, before he did, he selected the large key from his pocket that would unlock the cellar door.

There was something down there he had to attend to.

NINETEEN

He was standing near a large wheeled skip smoking a cigarette and staring at the ground as if there were diamonds buried in the concrete. He wore the dark green uniform and luminous yellow bib that instantly marked him out as a paramedic and he seemed oblivious to the people moving past him and around him as he smoked his cigarette.

Jess watched him for a moment longer then walked briskly towards him, seeing him glance up in her direction briefly then he dropped his eyes once more, seemingly more interested in what lay before him on the ground. He took another drag and spat out a small piece of tobacco that had been sticking to his tongue.

Jess slowed her pace and moved nearer to him.

‘Mr Gibson?’ she said, quietly.

He looked up and met her gaze with large watery eyes.

‘James Gibson?’ Jess went on.

The man nodded and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘My name is Jessica Anderson, I’m a reporter,’ she told him.

Gibson eyed her blankly and didn’t speak.

‘I was wondering if we could talk,’ Jess said.

‘About what?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’m working.’ He nodded towards the ambulance that was parked in the road across the street its blue lights turning silently.

‘You don’t look very busy,’ Jess told him.

‘What do you want?’ Gibson snapped.

‘You know Spike?’

Gibson looked blank.

‘Oh come on, Mr Gibson, you called him this afternoon about that accident at the Crystal Tower. You were one of the paramedics in attendance weren’t you?’

Again Gibson said nothing; he merely drew on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Jess’s direction.

‘Can I get one of those?’ she said, pointing at the cigarette.

Gibson dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro and offered her one which she took, also accepting his somewhat reluctant offer of a light. The flame of the Zippo danced in the breeze for a moment then Jess backed away, the end of the cigarette glowing red.

‘Spike said you’d pay for what I’ve got,’ Gibson announced.

‘Depends what it is and whether it’s worth paying for,’ Jess told him.

‘I took some photos of the guy this afternoon,’ Gibson informed her, pulling out his phone.

‘Let me see them.’

‘How much?’

‘They might not be worth anything.’

Gibson hesitated.

Jess reached into her bag, took a twenty from her purse and shoved it into the paramedic’s hand.

‘That’ll do for a start,’ he said and held up the phone before her.

Jess looked at the first picture.

‘Jesus,’ she murmured, studying the shot. It showed Alan Reed skewered to the wall, blood staining his upper body and overalls. ‘Death by forklift truck. That’s original.’

Gibson scrolled through several more pictures.

‘He was dead when you got to him?’ Jess asked.

‘What do you think?’ Gibson chided.

‘Was anyone else injured?’

‘No. Just him.’

‘What do you think happened?’

Gibson shrugged.

‘The brake on the forklift must have failed somehow,’ he said. ‘He was standing in front of it and …’ he allowed the sentence to trail off.

Jess frowned and inspected the pictures more closely.

‘There’s virtually no blood,’ she murmured.

‘What?’ Gibson grunted, peering over her shoulder.

‘Around the body,’ she repeated. ‘There’s hardly any blood. Not on the wall behind him, not on the floor under him. Don’t you think that’s strange?’ Gibson nodded.

‘Major arteries would have been severed by an injury like that wouldn’t they?’ Jess said.

‘Definitely.’

‘And yet there’s very little blood other than on his clothes. Was the scene cleaned up before you guys arrived?’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

Jess shook her head.

‘They wouldn’t,’ she muttered.

Gibson reached for the phone but Jess kept it out of his reach, still scrolling through the pictures.

‘Were the police called too?’ she wanted to know.

‘There weren’t any when we arrived,’ Gibson told her. ‘There were lots of guys in suits though. I think someone said they were security or something.’

‘Voronov’s Private Security Guards,’ Jess murmured. ‘Did they touch the body? Move anything? Clean up?’

‘Not that I saw. Why would they do that?’

Jess shook her head.

‘So what about the pictures?’ Gibson insisted. ‘They’re worth more than twenty quid.’

Jess looked at him then scrolled through a few more of the shots on the phone.

‘Fifty,’ she said, flatly.

‘Fuck off,’ he snapped, grinning crookedly. ‘I could flog them to another reporter for more than that.’

‘Then do it,’ she said, flatly. ‘Fifty or nothing.’

Gibson took a final drag on his cigarette then tossed it aside. He held out his hand.

‘Fifty,’ he repeated.

Jess fumbled in her purse for the money, hesitating a moment.

‘And I’m the only one who’s going to see these pictures aren’t I?’

Gibson nodded.

Jess pushed the money towards him.

Gibson took it with a grunt and shoved it into his pocket.

‘Nice doing business with you,’ Jess said as he stalked off towards the waiting ambulance.

She waited a moment then selected the phone book on her mobile. She found the number she wanted and called.

TWENTY

Jess didn’t look at her watch but she guessed it was just past nine when she got back to her flat.

She wandered into the kitchen, retrieved the half bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured some into a glass that was standing on the drainer. However, instead of taking a sip of the liquor she merely looked at it, wondering if she really wanted it.

Dutch courage?

She put the glass down untouched thinking how ridiculous this was. She was about to call her own mother, she didn’t need anything to give her strength or fortitude. She felt suddenly irritated with herself but nonetheless the feeling persisted. She knew she should make the call but she didn’t really want to.

You’re worried about yourself not your mum.

Jess sighed, left the vodka on the worktop and walked through into the sitting room where she sat down, selecting the number she knew she had to call. Only then did she check her watch to see what the time was. She knew that her mum slavishly watched soap operas every night of the week for an hour and a half or more and she didn’t want to interrupt her now.

That’s a good excuse. Not used that one before have you?

She decided that the soaps or whatever else her mum watched at this time of night was now probably over and it was safe to call. She selected the number she needed and waited.

It took a while for the phone to be picked up at the other end and during the lull Jess entertained the same thought she always did when she had to wait too long for her mother to pick up the phone. She imagined that something was wrong, that her mum was ill, had collapsed or fallen down the stairs or something equally appalling and only when she heard a familiar but slightly faltering voice at the other end did she relax to a degree.

‘Hello,’ said the frail voice at the other end of the line. There was some hesitancy in the tone that Jess knew only too well.

‘Mum, it’s me,’ she said.

‘Hello, Jess. Are you alright, dear?’

‘I’m fine, Mum, I said I’d ring so I’m ringing. Sorry I had to rush off earlier.’

‘So am I but it’s not your fault.’

Jess felt a stab that she recognised only too quickly and easily as guilt.

‘Did you get everything done that you had to do?’ her mother asked.

‘It was just work stuff,’ Jess said. She didn’t see any reason to go into too much detail.

‘As long as you’re alright, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Perhaps you can stay longer next time.’

‘I will, Mum,’ Jess said, wishing that she could give some kind of guarantee but knowing she couldn’t. ‘Are you watching TV?’

‘Well I was but I just dropped off for a few minutes, there’s never much on anyway is there?’

‘Sorry if I woke you up.’

‘I’ll be going to bed soon anyway.’

‘It’s only just after nine, Mum. You don’t want to be going to bed this early. Why don’t you watch a film or something?’

‘I think I’ll have an early night. I feel tired anyway and there’s nothing to sit up for. It was different when your dad was alive but with no one to talk to …’ She let the sentence trail off.

Jess felt another stab of guilt.

Why? It’s not your fault your dad died is it?

‘Perhaps you could stay one night,’ her mother went on. ‘That would be nice.’

‘I will, Mum,’ Jess said. She could already feel tears welling up in her eyes and she needed to end this call before she started openly weeping.

‘You won’t be late in bed, will you, dear?’ her mother asked. ‘You have to be up for work, don’t you?’

‘I’m just going to do some work then I’ll be going to bed, Mum,’ Jess said, sniffing.

There was a heavy silence that seemed to go on forever then Jess spoke again.

‘I’ll let you finish watching your programme, Mum,’ she said.

‘Alright then, dear,’ her mother replied. Another long silence. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, Mum.’

As she finished the call the first tears began to roll down her cheeks. And it was a while before they stopped.

TWENTY-ONE

As Alex Hadley selected the key for his mailbox the same thoughts always went through his mind.

Don’t let there be any bills or any threatening letters.

Sometimes he even said the words out loud as he opened the mailbox to examine the contents. Now he opened the box and peered in, taking the mail from within and glancing at the envelopes there. It seemed to be mostly circulars, junk mail, invitations to furniture sales and local restaurants. If he had a pound for every new takeaway that had opened and sent out its menu he wouldn’t have to work. He shook his head. All bullshit. But that was good, he reasoned. Bullshit was better than bills. Among the envelopes with windows (usually a bad sign) there were a couple that he recognised the return addresses to.

Fuck it. Bills. Some bastard somewhere wanted money from him. Money he didn’t have to spare.

Hadley let out a long breath.

He flicked through the other envelopes making another mental note to check the mailbox more than once a week. That was one of the reasons he had so much mail. He barely looked in the box unless the mood took him. He saw a brown manila one and he swallowed hard and kept that one until last, re-locking the box and beginning his trudge up the stairs towards his flat.

He told himself that the trips he made up and down the steps were good for him. They were the only exercise he got these days so perhaps they actually were. He passed the doors to the other flats; two on each landing, glancing at each one in turn, wondering what was going on behind them. During the time he’d lived here he’d barely said a hundred words to each of his neighbours. The flat directly below him was rented by a young woman who he thought was French. What she did for a living he had no idea, just as he had no idea if she was really French but on the very odd occasions he had passed a few fleeting words with her he thought he’d detected an accent of some sort.

He reached his own landing and looked at the door opposite. Another young woman lived there alone but she was hardly ever in. As with the occupant downstairs, Hadley had spoken briefly to her on occasion but neither had ever thought to ask the other’s name or anything else. As with most people, the extent of the conversation covered the state of the weather and that was it. There was a parcel from Amazon propped against her door and Hadley wondered about taking it in for her. Then he shook his head and decided against it. It wasn’t likely to get stolen where it was. The two couples who lived on the floor above were both decent enough (or so he guessed from the limited words he’d exchanged with them). Professional people he assumed (that term seemed to cover a multitude of sins) and no one from outside could gain access to the small block without a master key anyway. He looked at the parcel one last time then made his way inside his flat, locking it behind him.

Every now and then there was a story in the news about how someone living in a flat had died and not been found for months and always people expressed their shock and surprise at how this could have happened but Hadley knew only too well how it could happen. People simply didn’t cross paths the way they used to. They didn’t bump into each other every day. Barely spoke because they were in a hurry to get work or somewhere. No one had a sense of community any more. That was how people died in fucking flats and rotted away for months with just their starving cats chewing their faces off. London, as with any big city, was one of the loneliest places in the world if you were alone. And up until a couple of years ago Hadley had rejoiced in that fact. He spoke to the people he wanted to speak to back then. He picked who he conversed with. Now he would have given anything just to have stopped for a chat with someone.

How times change.

He flicked on the lights and wandered into the living area, dropping the circulars and junk mail into the waste bin then he finally came to the brown envelope at the bottom of the pile.

Satisfied that it wasn’t from the Tax Office he looked at the envelope more closely.

There was a crest in the top left hand corner. The word HOSPITAL was printed beneath it.

Hadley swallowed hard and tore open the envelope, his eyes scanning the letter within.

‘Oh Christ,’ he murmured as he read, the colour draining from his cheeks.

He read and re-read the letter then folded it up, replaced it in the envelope and slipped it into his inside pocket.

Out of sight out of mind? If only.

He sat in the room for long moments gazing at the blank TV screen and listening to the sounds of traffic from outside then he got slowly to his feet. He thought about making a cup of tea, wished he drank so he could have consumed something stronger then decided that tea was the best option. At least the physical act of making it would kill a few minutes.

As he walked through into the kitchen he pulled the brown manila envelope from his pocket and dropped it onto the small and crowded worktop while he filled the kettle, dropped a teabag into a mug and retrieved the milk from the fridge. He muttered under his breath when he noticed that the container and the fluid inside weren’t as cold as they should be. Fucking fridge was on the blink now he reasoned. Something else that didn’t work properly and would need money to fix. He shook his head, his gaze drawn to the brown envelope once more.

His eye alighted again on the word HOSPITAL.

He clenched his teeth together until his jaws ached.

TWENTY-TWO

Jess had always found the buzz of conversation within the office strangely conducive to creativity. She preferred to have noises around her when she was working rather than the silence preferred by many in her trade and those who made their livings by producing articles or works even grander. The constant hum of chat and the ringing of phones seemed to focus her mind rather than cause distraction. Even when she was working from home she invariably had music or the TV on in the background. Something there to produce the sort of mental proddings she found so necessary to work.

Now she sat back in her chair and glanced around the office at some of her colleagues, the source of the background noise and the conversational muzak Jess craved so badly. There were three men gathered around one desk, all of them in their mid-thirties and all talking animatedly and a little too loudly. At another desk she saw one of her older colleagues glancing up occasionally with a look on her face that could best be described as disapproving. Each time the men’s conversation grew too loud she would tut to herself and shake her head as if those simple gestures would cause the men to stop. They didn’t.

Jess looked back at her own computer screen. There were several different coloured post-its stuck to the edges of the screen, each one intended to remind her to perform a task. One even said FOUR PINTS OF MILK. Jess took that one, balled it up and threw it into her waste bin. It landed on top of the pile of overflowing rubbish that was already there and toppled off onto the floor. Jess wondered if she should write herself a post-it saying EMPTY BIN.

She smiled to herself and got to her feet, fumbling in her handbag for her purse and pulling out some loose change. Armed with this she headed towards the door at the end of the large open plan office and through it to the vending machine beyond.

There were two more of her colleagues standing close to the machine talking quietly and both turned and smiled when they saw Jess approaching.

‘Hey, you,’ said the first of them, a tall dark haired woman with a long nose and high cheekbones.

Jess reached out and touched the woman’s arm warmly.

‘And how are things in the world of fashion?’ she said, smiling.

‘Oh darling,’ said the woman adopting an exaggeratedly affected accent. ‘They’re fabulous as ever. I’m off to New York fashion week in a couple of days.’

Jess grinned.

‘Want some company?’ she asked.

‘I’ve already volunteered,’ the other person standing by the vending machine said. He was in his early forties, his hair straight and black and hanging limply as far as his collar. He peered at her from behind a pair of expensive spectacles that made his watery blue eyes appear huge.

‘What about you, Clive,’ Jess asked. ‘What are you up to?’

‘A couple of film festivals in Europe,’ Clive Garston told her. ‘I’m interviewing some directors too.’

‘It seems like everyone but me is jetting off somewhere,’ Jess said shrugging her shoulders and feeding coins into the vending machine. She selected the button marked hot chocolate and waited while the plastic cup dropped into view.

‘I’m sure you’ve got plenty of interesting stuff to do here,’ the woman said reassuringly. She sipped her coffee and watched as Jess also selected a couple of bars of chocolate from the machine and unwrapped the first one as soon as it fell.

‘You make me sick,’ Carrie Morgan said watching as Jess munched the chocolate. ‘You eat like a bloody horse and you never put any weight on. I’d only have to look at that chocolate and my thighs would expand to the size of zeppelins.’

‘A second on the lips a lifetime on the hips,’ Garston said. ‘That’s what they say isn’t it?’

Jess grinned and looked at Carrie.

‘You’re not exactly in need of a gastric band yet,’ she said smiling and admiring the older woman’s immaculate figure.

‘I probably will be by the time I get back from New York,’ Carrie said. ‘It’s all lunches, dinners and shows.’

‘Oh you poor cow,’ Jess snorted. ‘Excuse me while I get my violin out.’

‘Isn’t it nice to see someone who suffers for their profession,’ Garston added sarcastically.

‘Oh fuck you,’ Carrie said. ‘All you’ll be doing for two weeks is sitting in bloody cinemas watching films. A film critic is hardly in a position to criticise a fashion correspondent when it comes to hard work.’

‘I do a bit more than just sit and watch films,’ Garston said, flatly. ‘I’m working on a book too.’

‘Isn’t everyone?’ Jess added, smiling and the two women laughed. Jess reached for her hot chocolate when the cup was full, sipping at the thick brown liquid, blowing on the surface when she realised how hot it was.

‘What are you working on, Jess?’ Carrie asked.

‘A piece about Andrei Voronov and the Crystal Tower,’ Jess informed her.

‘Good luck,’ Garston grunted.

‘Well it’s not so much about Voronov; it’s more to do with the amount of accidents that have happened there since they started building the place,’ Jess said. ‘It’s like a war zone the casualties are so high. There was another accident yesterday. A guy was killed.’

‘You’ll never get near Voronov,’ Garston said. ‘He makes Howard Hughes look like a party animal.’

‘I know,’ Jess said. ‘Not exactly welcoming to members of the press is he?’

‘He was married to a Russian model before he moved to London wasn’t he?’ Carrie offered, smiling.

Jess nodded. ‘He’s got a couple of grown up kids from one of his earlier marriages. They both work for him. He married some French actress about three months ago. The ceremony was held on one of his yachts.’

‘He never goes to premieres or the usual round of social gatherings. He doesn’t want to be seen and he’s pretty secretive about his family,’ Garston went on. ‘No one knows much about him.’

‘Alex Hadley seems to know a fair bit,’ Jess offered.

Carrie looked fixedly at her for a moment.

‘How do you know?’ she enquired.

‘I bumped into him the other night,’ Jess explained. ‘We went for a drink.’

‘Where?’ Garston grunted. ‘The nearest Salvation Army H.Q?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jess snapped.

‘Well come on, Jess, Hadley’s nothing now is he?’ Garston said. ‘How long’s he been out of the business? Two years? Longer?’

‘He still works freelance,’ Jess said.

‘What do you say to Alex Hadley if you see him in McDonalds?’ Garston chuckled. ‘Cheeseburger and small fries please.’ He laughed.

Jess regarded him angrily, her eyes narrowing.

‘He was a good journalist,’ she said. ‘He still is.’

‘If he’s that good he’d be working for a paper, wouldn’t he?’ Garston countered.

Jess held his gaze but said nothing.

‘How is he?’ Carrie enquired.

Jess continued to glare at Garston for a moment longer then she turned to face the older woman.

‘He’s ok,’ she said, curtly. ‘Considering.’

‘Considering he’s out of work you mean?’ Garston interjected.

‘Oh fuck you, Clive,’ Jess snapped. ‘What happened to Alex could happen to any of us.’

‘Bullshit,’ Garston sneered. ‘He was an arrogant bastard. He wouldn’t change, he couldn’t adapt so he went under. Survival of the fittest and all that.’

‘And you love it, don’t you?’ Jess countered. ‘You never liked him.’

‘The feeling was mutual, I think,’ Carrie added. ‘He did think you were a dickhead. He told me that.’

‘Well, I’m the one with a job and he’s not, so who’s the biggest dickhead now?’ Garston said, defiantly.

‘Oh fuck you, it isn’t a competition,’ Jess snapped, turning away.

‘It’s always a competition, Jess,’ he called after her. ‘Life’s a competition and Hadley lost.’

Jess raised her middle finger in the direction of the older man.

‘I’ll tell Alex you send your regards when I speak to him,’ she said, turning the corner so she was out of sight of her colleagues. ‘I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed you still think so highly of him.’

Carrie looked at Garston and shook her head.

‘You couldn’t just let it go, could you?’ she said, flatly.

‘Fuck him,’ Garston sneered. ‘And fuck her too.’

‘In your dreams, Clive,’ Carrie said and she too walked away.

Garston watched her go.

TWENTY-THREE

The room smelled of coffee and expensive aftershave.

The six men seated around the long rectangular wooden table in the centre of the red carpeted room were all in their forties and upwards and they moved with the pace of men who didn’t need to hurry.

Every now and then the relative silence inside the room would be broken by a cough or the clinking of porcelain as one of them sipped at his coffee. Even the soft turning of sheets of paper was audible in the high ceilinged room with it oak panelled walls. Every little sound seemed magnified by the acoustics in the room, heightened by the vaulted ceiling.

There were several framed photos on the walls, competing for space with a number of portraits all displayed in gilt frames that caught the light and reflected it back into the room. The eyes of those in the paintings and photographs regarded the occupants of the room blankly as they carried on the business that had been perpetrated within for hundreds of years before and which would continue for many more to come.

The man seated at the head of the table was the oldest occupant of the room and it was he who looked up from the file he’d been reading and around at his colleagues. He coughed theatrically then tapped the long wooden table three times.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘If we might come to order now.’

Brian Dunham was fifty-three. A large, slightly overweight man who wore a dark grey suit and a tie fastened a little too tightly around his neck. It made it appear that he was being slowly garrotted and he pulled occasionally at the knot of the tie with his long fingers. He had bushy eyebrows and a shock of blonde hair that appeared as though it must have been dyed but anyone who knew him would reveal that he had possessed that same blonde mop all his life. He had tried cutting it short on a number of occasions but, as time had gone on, he’d decided that it had become something of a trademark for him and he’d grown fond of it. Even though at this precise moment in time it badly needed trimming. There had been a photo of him in a National Newspaper recently and he had looked positively scruffy he had been told. He swept one hand through it and looked again at the other men seated around the table.

‘We have before us an application for planning permission as you know,’ Dunham began. ‘Filed by and on behalf of the offices of Andrei Voronov. As with selected other applications for planning, this has been passed to us for consideration by Westminster council.’

‘Why couldn’t the council just make a decision in its own right?’ the man sitting to Dunham’s right wanted to know.

‘Because, as you know, some decisions are, how should I put it, beyond their remit,’ Dunham went on. ‘We were felt better disposed to make a decision in this case.’

‘How much of London does Voronov want to own?’ one of the other men grunted. ‘This is a much more expansive project than even the Crystal Tower was.’ Adrian Murray was a tall, thin faced man with a forehead so smooth it looked as if he’d been forcibly injected with Botox on a regular basis.

‘Expansive or expensive,’ one of the other men chuckled and some laughs echoed around the table.

‘I agree,’ Murray added. ‘There’s a huge amount of work to be done. And in the area of London proposed it would cause serious disruption for God alone knows how long.’

‘On the other hand it would create a huge amount of jobs, a project of this size,’ a third man offered.

‘And that has nothing to do with the fact that you own a building business?’ Dunham grunted. His remark was greeted by laughs from around the table.

‘He’d probably use his own labour,’ the third man snorted.

‘He didn’t on construction of the Crystal Tower,’ Dunham said.

‘I don’t think the Crystal Tower was anywhere near as big a project as this one he’s proposing now,’ Murray said, thoughtfully.

Dunham sat in silence for a moment and the other eyes in the room turned on him as if waiting for his response.

‘And how far over deadline has the Crystal Tower gone?’ one of the men offered. ‘Three months? More?’

Dunham nodded.

‘I still think we should consider the long-term benefits to be gained by granting permission for this project to go ahead,’ the third man said.

‘Long-term benefits for whom? Voronov?’ Dunham snorted. ‘If I remember rightly there was considerable opposition to the Crystal Tower.’

‘There was from local residents and I think we can expect the same kind of opposition if permission is granted for this project,’ Murray interjected.

‘I agree,’ Dunham muttered.

‘There’s always opposition to whatever project is proposed,’ one of the other men reminded them. ‘Especially one such as this when it involves such extensive work in this area of London. If he wanted to build twenty blocks of flats in Hackney none of us would object would we?’

‘But he doesn’t want to build flats in Hackney does he?’ Dunham said. ‘He wants to build a hotel on the banks of the Thames.’

‘What are your objections, Brian?’ Murray asked.

‘It isn’t down to me personally,’ Dunham remarked. ‘This has nothing to do with any of us on a personal level.’

‘Other than the fact that we are Londoners,’ the man went on.

‘Does Chiswick count?’ another asked and there were more chuckles.

‘We are representatives of the city of London,’ Dunham reminded them. ‘All decisions made by this office should be for the good of the city and its inhabitants, not the personal advancement of one man. Especially not a man like Voronov.’

‘A foreigner, you mean?’ one of the other men said dismissively.

‘He’s a Jew, isn’t he?’ one of the other men offered.

‘His nationality has nothing to do with it,’ Dunham snapped. He paused and sucked in a thoughtful breath. ‘But there is something … disagreeable about Voronov, I’ll admit that.’

‘So are we deciding the future of this project on its viability or on the personality of the man who wants to push it through?’ the man closest to Dunham wanted to know. ‘If planning permission was decided on personality then nothing would ever be built in this city.’

Dunham smiled and looked around the table at his companions.

‘My initial instinct is that this project should be denied planning permission,’ he said, flatly. ‘For the reasons we’ve discussed today and also at previous meetings.’ He sat forward, rested his elbows on the long wooden table and steepled his fingers.

‘Voronov will have the right of appeal, won’t he?’ Adrian Murray enquired. ‘He can appeal against this decision through the Council if he wishes.’

‘Of course,’ Dunham went on. ‘I’m sure he’ll find ways of trying to counter our negativity.’ He smiled.

‘Like he did with the Crystal Tower?’ the man nearest Dunham murmured.

‘Well, Voronov seems to think that everyone and everything has a price,’ Dunham mused. ‘Perhaps we should put that theory to the test.’ He glanced down at the file of papers in front of him then picked up his pen and scribbled one word on the top sheet:

DENIED.

TWENTY-FOUR

‘We could have met at your place.’

Jess sipped at her red wine and looked across the table at Alex Hadley.

‘I told you when you rang it wasn’t convenient,’ he told her without looking at her. ‘Besides, there isn’t room to swing a fucking cat there.’

They sat in silence for a moment then Jess pushed her phone across the table towards Hadley who picked it up and scrolled through the shots.

‘Who’s the dead guy?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure of his name but it’s not his name that interests me,’ she said, moving her chair around so she could also see the screen of the phone. She pointed to one of the pictures, outlining something on it. ‘There’s no blood.’

Hadley frowned and inspected the picture more closely.

‘Not in that one or any of the others,’ Jess went on.

‘That’s not possible,’ Hadley said, quietly.

‘Then where is it?’

Hadley stroked his chin.

‘I need to get back inside the Crystal Tower,’ she told him.

‘And how are you going to do that?’

‘I was hoping you might have some ideas. That’s why I called you.’

Hadley looked carefully at the photos once again then handed the phone back to Jess.

‘Break in,’ he said, flatly.

Jess looked at him in silence for a moment.

‘How the hell else are you going to do it?’ Hadley enquired. ‘You had a run in with one of Voronov’s security men last time, didn’t you? They know what you look like now. They’re not going to let you within a mile of that place.’

‘If they’ve got nothing to hide then it shouldn’t be a problem,’ Jess smiled.

Hadley looked at her and shook his head.

‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked.

‘Help you do what?’

‘Find out what’s going on?’

‘A series of unfortunate accidents is what’s been going on, Jess, nothing more.’

‘There’s a story there, Alex, I’m telling you. I can’t believe you’re so resistant to it. If you help me we could write it together.’

‘Is this a bit of charity work for you then? Help Hadley get some fucking work?’

‘Don’t be stupid. I asked for your help because I needed it. I respect what you are.’

‘What I was, Jess.’

They regarded each other silently for a moment, Hadley finally dropping his gaze to the table top as if he’d spotted something of great importance there next to the gouges in the wood and the rings left by the glasses.

‘I was talking to a friend of yours the other day,’ Jess told him, finally.

Hadley raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘Clive Garston,’ she told him.

‘Cunt,’ Hadley said, shaking his head. ‘What the fuck was he going on about?’

‘Like you really care?’

‘Just asking.’

‘He was talking about you. Well, he mentioned you.’ She shrugged and smiled.

Hadley sipped his drink.

‘Why were you talking about me?’ he asked.

‘I just mentioned that I’d seen you,’ Jess informed him.

‘You didn’t tell him anything else did you? He doesn’t know about me, about my … situation?’

Jess shook her head.

‘So what if he does, Alex?’ she said, defiantly. ‘Fuck him.’

‘I don’t want him or anyone else to know,’ Hadley snapped. ‘It’s fucking humiliating.’ He looked down into the bottom of his glass.

‘You’re a better journalist then he’ll ever be.’

‘I was better. Not any more.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Alex,’ Jess snapped. ‘Stop this will you?’

‘Stop feeling sorry for myself? Is that what you were going to say?’ he countered. ‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself, Jess I’m just trying to face the fucking situation I’m in. I’m finished as a journalist. I have been for over a year now. I’m nearly fucking broke and in about a month I’ll be homeless unless some work comes in and that doesn’t look very likely.’ He looked at her angrily. ‘This is nothing to do with self-pity. This is all about reality.’

‘Then help me with this story,’ she retorted. ‘Help me, Alex and help yourself too.’

TWENTY-FIVE

Brian Dunham was about to step into the waiting lift when he heard his name being called from further back down the corridor behind him.

He turned to see Adrian Murray approaching at something slightly quicker than a walk and guessed from the speed of his companion’s pace that it must be reasonably important. Murray rarely, if ever, moved faster than walking pace and even then that speed seemed to be something of an effort. Dunham turned, nodding politely to the two other occupants of the lift. The two women nodded back and one of them pressed the ‘Door close’ button inside and the two doors slid shut.

‘Have you got a minute?’ Murray asked. ‘I thought this was best between just the two of us.’

Dunham raised his eyebrows and nodded.

‘Why the need for secrecy, Adrian?’ he asked, smiling. ‘What have we got to talk about that we should keep from our colleagues?’

Murray glanced up and down the corridor conspiratorially then ushered Dunham towards one of the nearest offices, pushing open the door to ensure that no one was already inside. Once he saw that the room was empty he walked in, ushered Dunham in too and closed the door behind them.

‘It’s this business with Andrei Voronov,’ Murray began. ‘The planning permission for the new hotel he wants to build.’

‘What about it?’ Dunham asked.

‘I wondered how long we were going to withhold planning permission,’ Murray said.

‘I don’t think I’m with you, Adrian,’ Dunham said. ‘We decided to advise against granting planning permission for Mr Voronov’s latest venture. I thought we were all agreed on that.’

‘We advised against granting permission for the building of the Crystal Tower to begin with,’ Murray reminded him.

‘This is a much bigger project as far as logistics are concerned. There’s more potential for problems.’

‘There were problems with the Crystal Tower too.’ Murray sighed. ‘Come on, Brian, you know what I’m getting at. We advised refusal of permission for Voronov to build the Crystal Tower until he was ready to … negotiate.’

Dunham nodded.

‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘What you’re asking me is how long do we wait for him to try and bribe us before we actually renege on our decision to decline planning permission? I am right aren’t I, Adrian? That is what you meant?’

‘If Voronov is so set on this new project and it is bigger than the Crystal Tower then he should be willing to negotiate.’

‘Offer us more in the way of bribes than he did before we granted building permission for the Crystal Tower you mean?’

‘If you want to put it that way.’

‘Which other way should I put it, Adrian? You’re not only hoping I’ll collude with you in this you’re hoping I’ll ask for more money from Voronov, too.’

‘He’s a rich man, he can afford it.’

‘He can afford to pay us bribe money, that’s true but whether he should or not remains to be seen.’

‘Oh don’t be so self righteous. You were quick enough to accept what he paid last time. Don’t try and make out you’re above this kind of investment. Don’t pretend that your conscience won’t allow you to accept any gifts he might offer to speed along the building of his next project.’

‘I genuinely don’t believe that this new hotel would be good for London. It has nothing to do with money.’

‘Rubbish. Everyone has their price.’

‘And yours would appear to be somewhat lower than many, Adrian.’

‘I’m talking about oiling the wheels a little. If Voronov wants to do that then why should we refuse?’

‘No one has said Voronov has any intention of oiling wheels or any other pieces of machinery. You’re just hoping that you can blackmail him into paying you some money to help him get his hotel built.’

‘It isn’t blackmail,’ Murray snapped.

‘Prostitution?’

Murray shook his head dismissively.

‘I think we know what you are, Adrian we’re just establishing your going rate,’ Dunham grinned.

‘Save the morality for someone who wants to listen, Brian. Are you telling me that you’d refuse if he approached you?’

Dunham shrugged.

‘Some things aren’t for sale and self respect is one of them,’ he said.

‘Well, I’m glad you value your self respect so highly,’ Murray went on. ‘I am perfectly capable of retaining mine but am also not averse to any incentives that Mr Voronov might wish to offer.’

‘Financial incentives?’

‘If that’s the way it has to be. Listen, it isn’t just money. I don’t like his kind.’

‘You mean rich foreigners?’

‘You know what I mean,’ Murray said agitatedly.

‘Your opposition has been duly noted, Adrian. To Voronov and every other rich foreigner who wants something done in this city.’

Murray regarded his companion silently for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly.

‘The hotel isn’t going to be built, Adrian. That’s the end of it.’

‘It isn’t your decision alone.’

‘As the leader of this committee …’

‘You are responsible to the people of London,’ Murray cut in. ‘Just like the rest of us on this committee.’

‘And I feel that it would be in London’s best interests if this hotel was not built. Your concerns should be with the citizens and residents of London too, rather than your own bank account.’

‘Don’t preach to me,’ Murray sneered. ‘We’ve known each other too long. You’re no better than I am so don’t try and take a stand on the moral high ground, Brian because it can get very slippery up there. I’ve seen people fall before.’

Dunham turned towards the door.

‘Well if I fall,’ he said, irritably. ‘The splash might just sink a few smaller boats like yours, Adrian. I’d be careful if I were you.’

He pulled the door open and slipped through leaving Murray alone in the deserted office.

LONDON; 1933

Twelve large candles had been placed in a circle in the centre of the cellar floor.

The old man had also put five or six larger ones at various points around the subterranean room and the sickly yellow light they gave off created a circle of dull brightness within the impenetrable gloom of the cellar. The darkest and dankest corners remained in pitch darkness. The slow drip of water from some unknown source also filled the air as the old man moved slowly but purposefully around.

He’d already been in the subterranean room for close to three hours and the work he was completing down there was tiring. It would have been for a man half his age but he merely continued with the merest pause every now and then to rest his aching back and his numb fingers. He blew out his cheeks and crossed to the small glass of vodka that was on top of a large crate close to the cellar steps. He sipped at it and glanced again towards the circle of candles in the middle of the subterranean chamber. The vodka burned his throat as it made its way to his stomach and he shuddered a little as he felt the liquor inside him but a faint smile touched his lips and he nodded almost appreciatively towards the clear fluid.

On the far side of the cellar, hidden by the thick shadows, there was movement.

The old man knew it was a rat because he heard a low squeaking as the rodent scurried across the stone floor before disappearing into one of the holes in the bottom of the wall.

He murmured a curse in his native tongue, his irritation directed towards the fleeing animal. But that irritation disappeared quickly as he surveyed what was in the centre of the room.

Again the old man nodded to himself, satisfied with what he saw and, once more he afforded himself a small grin of pleasure. He reached for the vodka glass and lifted it in salute to some invisible companion before taking another sip.

Three hours down here already, he mused and it would be another three before he was completely finished. There was still much to do before his task was over. And once it was accomplished, he told himself, that was just the beginning.

Wiping his hands on the apron he wore he stood motionless in the gloom, his eyes fixed on the centre of the room.

He spoke more words aloud in his native tongue, words of gratitude but also of anger. He would show them. He would show them all. They would pay. Every one of them would pay for their actions.

The old man smiled once again.

There were several metal tools lying on the top of the wooden crate close to him and he glanced down at them, selecting the one he would need next. There were spatulas, saws, chisels, knives and a large flat triangular bladed weapon that resembled a brick-layers trowel. It was that which he reached for now.

He advanced slowly towards the centre of the room, his eyes fixed on what awaited him there.

For too long now he had put up with ridicule and persecution.

It ended this night. Here and now.

Let them come again. Let them threaten and humiliate him and they would see the meaning of retribution. They would learn never to disrespect him again.

As the candles burned lower, he continued with his task.

By the time he’d finished, most of the candles were little more than puddles of wax with barely flickering wicks at their centres.

The old man backed away.

The time had come.

TWENTY-SIX

Brian Dunham groaned irritably as he heard the phone ringing.

He glanced across at the implement that was standing on a wooden table on the far side of the sitting room and wondered who was calling. He hauled himself out of his comfortable chair and wandered across to the phone, clearing his throat before he picked it up.

‘Hello,’ he said.

There was a faint hiss of static at the other end of the line and then just silence.

‘Hello,’ Dunham repeated wearily. But still there was no response from the other end.

He repeated the word three more times then dropped the phone back onto the cradle.

As he was turning away from it the door of the sitting room opened and a tall slender woman a couple of years younger than Dunham himself entered, noticing that he was standing beside the phone. Her features pinched a little more than usual and she looked at him.

‘Wrong number,’ Dunham said, flatly.

‘Again?’ Julianne Dunham murmured, closing the sitting room door behind her and seating herself in a chair opposite her husband. ‘That’s the fifth time tonight.’

‘Stop counting,’ Dunham said, smiling and re-settling himself in his own seat and reaching for the files he’d been reading before the phone rang.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to stop for the night, Brian?’ she said, nodding towards the papers he held in his hand. ‘You’ve been at it since we finished dinner.’

‘I haven’t got much more to do,’ he assured her.

‘Good,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘It’s after eleven now.’

‘London won’t run itself,’ Dunham told her, smiling.

‘That doesn’t mean you have to try and run it alone,’ she told him, getting to her feet and crossing to a polished dark wood cabinet close to the fireplace. She took out two brandy balloons and a crystal decanter and proceeded to pour generous measures of the amber fluid in the decanter into the waiting glasses. She moved back towards her husband and set one down on the table next to him before slipping back into her chair and sipping at the brandy.’Are you allowed to stop long enough to drink that?’ she asked.

Dunham smiled and reached for the brandy balloon near him, sipping from it. He nodded approvingly.

He was about to speak when the phone rang again.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he grunted, hauling himself out of the seat but Julianne beat him to it, crossing to the phone and snatching it up.

‘Hello,’ she said.

It was silent at the other end of the line.

‘If you think this is funny you’re pathetic,’ she snapped.

Dunham shook his head and pulled the phone from her hand, pressing it to his ear.

The line was still open but there was no one speaking, just an insistent hiss of static.

‘I intend to report these calls,’ he said, angrily. ‘All calls to this number are recorded and logged by the police you know. They’ll trace your number and …’

The line went dead.

Dunham smiled triumphantly and replaced the receiver.

‘I thought that would frighten them off,’ he announced. ‘Probably bloody kids.’

He turned back towards his chair, slumping down and reaching for his brandy once more.

‘You blame everything on kids,’ Julianne reminded him. ‘What I don’t understand is how whoever it is calling has managed to by-pass the caller I.d on your phone and on the house phone.’

Dunham could only shrug.

The phone rang once more.

This time neither of them moved for a second but merely looked at each other until finally Dunham got to his feet and crossed to the phone. As he did, Julianne moved towards the window closest to her and pulled the curtains open slightly, peering out into the impenetrable gloom of the night. Behind her she heard Dunham’s voice.

‘I’m going to disconnect this phone,’ he said, angrily. ‘Then there’s nothing else you can do is there? You’ll have to play your stupid little game with someone else. Do you understand?’

Julianne looked around at her husband who was gripping the phone so tightly it seemed he might break the receiver then she returned to gazing out into the darkness of their garden. At the bottom of it was a high privet hedge that separated the garden from the street but the street light nearby cast a dull glow over the bottom part of the garden and left a sickly yellow pool across the perfectly manicured lawns and immaculately kept flower beds.

‘I’m disconnecting this phone now so you can call here all you want,’ Dunham snapped. ‘And the police will be with you in the morning, I can assure you of that.’

He slammed the receiver down.

‘Bloody idiots,’ he rasped.

Julianne turned towards him briefly then continued with her vigil at the window.

At first she thought that her eyes were playing tricks on her but then, as she squinted more to see into the gloom she felt her heart quicken.

‘Brian,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I think there’s someone in the garden.’

Dunham frowned and moved towards her exhaling wearily.

‘Are you sure?’ he said, irritably, preparing to join her at the window.

‘I thought I saw something moving,’ Julianne said, her voice catching.

Dunham prepared to join her.

It was then that the window exploded inwards.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The sound of shattering glass mingled with splintering wood and the high pitched shriek of terror blurted out by Julianne Dunham as she recoiled, her husband grabbing her and throwing her to the floor as the debris flew into the room.

Dunham himself shouted in horrified surprise and rolled over in time to see a second window explode inwards and a flying piece of glass about the length of his index finger sliced through his cheek almost laying it open to the bone. He felt blood spill hotly from the wound and covered his head, aware that his wife was screaming hysterically beside him.

The floor was covered in broken glass, smashed wood and dust and Dunham found his heart hammering so hard in his chest he feared it might burst. The sound of the shattering windows seemed to echo inside the room, ringing in his ears like the aftermath of some detonation.

He was still considering this fact when a third of the sitting room windows were smashed, with even more force it seemed than the first two.

And now, for the first time, Dunham realised that their house may well be under attack. He had no idea by whom and he didn’t intend to lay on the floor covered in glass and wood considering who might be behind the outrage. The blood pouring down his slit cheek seemed to galvanise him.

He clawed at his cowering wife’s arm, trying to pull her with him as he crawled towards the door. Wanting only to be out of this place and away from whoever was threatening them and destroying their home.

Julianne wouldn’t move and just lay paralysed with fear on the expensive carpet, screaming and wailing helplessly.

‘Come on,’ Dunham shouted. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

She turned towards him with tear stained cheeks and he could see that her eyes were wide with terror.

There was a thunderous impact against one of the outer walls of the house and Dunham realised that something had been thrown against it or slammed hard into it. Such was the ferocity of the contact that the entire room seemed to shake. He wondered if the same implement being used against the brickwork of the building had been used to shatter the windows.

He was still wondering when a second monstrous blow slammed against the house.

For fleeting seconds he wondered if the entire sitting room wall was simply going to collapse in upon them. The paintings and framed photos on that wall shook and two fell from their hooks, dropping to the floor, one cracking the frame and splintering the glass over the picture it contained.

Julianne Dunham screamed again, her control already severely tested by the smashing of the windows now pushed beyond breaking point by these newer and more savage impacts.

Again Dunham pulled at her arm, ignoring the blood that coursed down his face and spattered onto the carpet.

‘Come on,’ he snapped, scrambling to his feet and almost physically dragging her upright. In response she wailed and flailed her arms as if she was being surrounded by a swarm of mad bees. ‘Come on.’

He roared the second time, his voice almost eclipsed by the latest huge impact against the sitting room wall.

By now he was convinced that the entire wall would be breached if another such crash came against it and he wondered what the hell could be making such sustained and frenzied assaults. Then another thought entered his mind and it made him gasp. If such power was applied to a door then whoever was outside would be inside within seconds. He looked around as if for something to help should the intruders get in but all he wanted was the phone and he dashed for it and snatched it up, hitting three nines as quickly as he could, waiting for the operator to ask him which service he needed.

He was still waiting when the next blow slammed into the wall. As his wife screamed uncontrollably and dropped to her knees Dunham thought he could actually see hairline cracks appearing in the wall closest to him. Dust rose from these rents like dried blood flecks from some mummified wound, twisting and turning in the air.

One more blow and that would be it, Dunham thought. The wall would be breached as if it were some medieval castle keep finally stormed by attackers and then there would be nowhere to hide.

He was vaguely aware of a voice on the other end of the phone as he stood staring raptly at the cracked wall. A voice asking him which Emergency service he required.

‘Police,’ he shouted into the mouthpiece. ‘Get me the police. Hurry.’

His wife screamed again, weeping hysterically now.

He waited for the final impact as he gripped the phone so tightly it seemed it would splinter in his grip.

‘Police,’ he yelled again. ‘Help us.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘I know he’s a wanker but that doesn’t explain why someone used a battering ram on his house.’

Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell lit another cigarette and looked at the damage before him.

Standing next to him Detective Inspector Robert Johnson stood impassively gazing at the house of Brian Dunham, his gaze drawn to the shattered windows and cracks in the walls but also distracted by the uniformed and plain clothes officers who were wandering around the garden each with a specific task. Forensics men and women moved among them taking samples and making notes both in notebooks but also on iPads and laptops. Johnson was a tall man with a thin face and perpetually unshaven cheeks and the bags beneath his alert blue eyes made it look as if he’d just got out of bed. He swept some stray hair from his forehead and glanced first at his companion, Powell then at the house once more.

‘If everyone who was a wanker had their house attacked we’d be busier than we are already,’ he remarked quietly.

Powell smiled and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘It’s not regular vandalism is it, Ray?’ Johnson went on. ‘I mean the smashed windows maybe but what the fuck is this?’ He touched one of the deep indentations in the wall close to him. ‘Or more to the point, what made it?’

‘Could have been bricks or something like that?’ Powell offered.

‘No way,’ Johnson said, dismissively. ‘How fucking hard would you have to throw a brick to make a dent like that? Besides there’s no brick dust in or around the marks. Same with the windows, if someone chucked a brick or some kind of rock through the windows then where is it? There was nothing found inside the house.’

‘Initial forensic reports say there was dust of some kind found but they say it looks like dried clay,’ Powell explained.

Johnson shrugged.

‘Neither of the occupants reported any objects whatsoever being thrown,’ Powell added. ‘And there’s no evidence of any projectiles or foreign bodies being found in or within the vicinity of the damage.’

Johnson looked at his companion and raised his eyebrows.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ he grinned.

‘I was quoting from the Forensics report,’ Powell told him, also smiling. He took another drag on his cigarette.

‘So,’ Johnson mused. ‘Windows broken, well, not just broken but smashed to smithereens and nothing found that could have done that kind of damage and also significant damage to the outer brickwork of the house but also nothing found that could have inflicted such significant damage.’

‘Sledgehammer?’ Powell offered. ‘That would have done the trick.’

‘Who vandalises houses with a sledgehammer?’

‘Somebody very strong.’

Johnson nodded. Then he looked down at the ground around them where a number of places had been covered with clear plastic and marked with yellow tags.

‘And very heavy,’ the D.I. went on.

He pointed at the marks. There were dozens of deep indentations all around the area where they were standing, some of them up to six inches deep.

‘So, we’re looking for a fat bastard with a sledgehammer that’s got a grudge against the Head of a Development Committee that advises Westminster Council,’ Johnson said.

‘Shall we start questioning the Members of the House of Lords?’ Powell said, chuckling and drawing again on his cigarette. ‘This committee that Dunham works on has got political ties as well hasn’t it?’

‘Unofficially,’ Johnson conceded.

‘So, do we check the house of Lords for hammers?’ Powell smiled.

‘They wouldn’t know a sledgehammer if they tripped over one,’ Johnson remarked. He paused a moment, again looking at one of the impact marks on the wall before them. ‘Seriously, Ray, someone would have to have used something like that or a pneumatic drill to make this kind of mark and they’re not the kind of things you just slip in your fucking jacket pocket are they?’

‘And we’ve had no witnesses come forward so far,’ Powell offered. ‘With that amount of banging and crashing about you’d have thought someone would have heard something.’

‘Nobody heard anything?’

‘Uniforms are still doing house to house enquiries but so far nothing.’

Johnson sucked in a laboured breath.

‘So the attack was carried out pretty quick too,’ he said. ‘We know that from the calls that were logged when Dunham was ringing up for help. But that seems impossible in itself. The kind of tools used to cause this kind of damage to a building couldn’t be used quickly, not even swung by an incredibly strong man.’

The two detectives gazed once again at the damaged wall and shattered windows before them as if prolonged staring at the destruction might furnish them with a clue they’d previously missed. They were still looking hopefully when a third man joined them. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit and dark blue shirt. Just visible above the collar of his shirt was the tail of a scorpion, a tattoo that he’d acquired on holiday in Thailand the previous year. As he approached the two detectives he pulled at his collar as if to hide the tattoo, aware that Johnson was now looking at it, a wry smile on his face.

The newcomer nodded and managed a smile himself.

‘You could get that fucking thing removed you know, James,’ the D.I. told him, pointing one index finger at the tattoo.

James Farmer nodded again.

‘I know, I know,’ the Forensics man said.

‘That’s what you get for getting pissed in a Bangkok bar,’ Powell added.

‘Do you two want this information I’ve got or do you just want to take the piss?’ Farmer exclaimed.

‘Give us the info now,’ Johnson chuckled. ‘We’ll take the piss later.’

All three of them laughed. When the sound had died down Farmer cleared his throat.

‘We’ve looked at the prints in the garden and they’re not footprints.’

Johnson frowned.

‘What the fuck are they then?’ he wanted to know.

‘We’re not sure yet,’ Farmer confessed. ‘There’s a kind of residue at the bottom of each one. It looks like clay or some kind of building material.’

‘So we’re looking for a workman?’ Powell offered.

‘I’m not sure what you’re looking for,’ Farmer said, flatly. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘A couple of my guys did some calculations on the height and weight of the suspect based on the depth of the indentations and the damage done to the house.’

Johnson held out his hand for the paper. He looked at it, frowning when he saw the indecipherable lines of mathematical formulae.

‘Have you got an English version?’ he said, smiling.

‘At the bottom of the page,’ Farmer told him, almost apologetically.

As Johnson read was what written there the colour drained from his face.

‘It’s what they calculated based on what they found,’ Farmer offered. ‘I know it’s hard to believe.’

Johnson shook his head and when he spoke his voice was low, almost a whisper as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.

‘They have got to be fucking kidding,’ he said.

TWENTY-NINE

Jess spotted the man she sought as he clambered from the back of the chauffeur driven Bentley.

She dropped her cigarette to the ground and scurried across the street towards her target, ignoring the blaring of car hooters as she dashed across the path of oncoming traffic.

‘Mr Dunham,’ she called as she drew closer to him, able now to see the small dressing on his cheek that had been used to cover the wound he’d sustained the previous night.

Brian Dunham turned when he heard his name and saw Jess advancing towards him.

‘Have you got a minute, Mr Dunham?’ she said. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about the attack on your home last night.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say about that,’ Dunham told her and prepared to walk away.

‘It looks like you were hurt,’ Jess persisted. ‘Was it serious?’

Dunham turned again and looked at her this time.

‘Who are you?’ he wanted to know.

Jess identified herself and told him which paper she was from. She even dug in her handbag to look for i.d. but Dunham waved it away.

‘I thought you looked familiar,’ he said, wearily.

‘Who do you think might have been responsible for the attack, Mr Dunham?’ Jess asked, now walking along beside him as he headed for the revolving door that led into the building he was approaching.

‘The police are investigating the matter; you’d probably be better off talking to them.’

‘But you and your wife were unhurt?’ she said. ‘Apart from …’ She pointed at his cheek.

‘Oh this is nothing,’ Dunham said, touching the dressing. ‘No, fortunately neither of us was hurt.’

‘And you have no idea who might have wanted to cause you harm?’

‘It was some kind of sick vandalism, that’s all.’

‘From what I’ve heard it was a lot more than just vandalism, Mr Dunham.’

‘Well perhaps you’d better check your sources more thoroughly next time, Miss Anderson.’ He smiled and prepared to enter the building. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’m a busy man.’

‘You don’t think the attack had anything to do with Andrei Voronov then?’

Dunham stopped in his tracks and looked at her.

‘You don’t think he might have been behind it?’ Jess went on, seeing the reaction she’d elicited.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Dunham said indignantly.

‘You do know who he is then?’

‘Of course I know.’

‘Is it true that you as head of a consortium appointed by the Government advised Westminster Council to refuse the planning permission he applied for recently for another building project in London?’

‘That’s a matter of public record.’

‘Why did you refuse it, Mr Dunham, you didn’t have any problem giving him permission to build the Crystal Tower did you?’

Dunham looked fixedly at her.

‘Why was his latest project refused permission?’ Jess went on. ‘He obviously wasn’t very pleased with the rejection.’

‘You’d have to ask Mr Voronov about that.’

‘There were rumours that he only got permission to build the Crystal Tower because of threats made against you and some of your colleagues, do you think he’s trying the same tactics again?’

Dunham took a step towards her, his expression darkening.

‘Now look,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I have no idea where you heard these rumours but they’re incorrect do you understand? I and my colleagues would never give in to threats.’

‘What about bribery? He’s a very rich man.’

‘All planning proposals are judged on the merit and viability of their individual worth. Who submits them is immaterial.’

‘Have you met Mr Voronov?’ Jess went on.

‘No I have not. Mr Voronov is a very busy man,’ Dunham snapped. ‘As am I, so you’ll have to excuse me now. I have much more pressing matters to attend to.’

‘Was there ever an investigation into the allegations of bribery, Mr Dunham?’ Jess went on. ‘Voronov wasn’t the first person who supposedly paid for planning permission.’

Dunham turned and prepared to walk away.

‘I’ve heard enough of this,’ he snapped, reaching for the door.

Two security guards from inside the building advanced towards him as he entered and Jess saw him gesturing in her direction. She turned and walked away as one of the men stepped out of the building.

‘Don’t worry I’m going,’ she smiled.

As she headed across the pavement she dug in her handbag for her mobile and scrolled through the list of contacts in the phone book. She found the one she wanted and called it.

At the other end it began to ring.

THIRTY

Adrian Murray opened the black leather attaché case and slipped several files inside it before closing the lid once again and snapping it shut. It was work that he would look at when he got home, he felt he had done enough for the day and now all he wanted was to be out of his office. He had found over the years that there came a certain time in every day when it was just impossible to think straight any longer in the same surroundings and that changing those surroundings at least stimulated the brain a little more. That time for him had now come. He glanced at his watch as if to emphasise that belief.

He was usually the last to leave. Not only as an example to his staff but also because he usually found he had enough tasks to keep him occupied well beyond the hours of those he employed as befitted his status as head of the company.

Outside his office he could hear the low drone of the vacuum cleaner as it was moved slowly back and forth by one of the team of cleaners that came into the building in the evening as the other workers were leaving. He glanced at his computer, checking his e-mails one last time that day before finally switching the console off. He sat looking at the blank screen for a moment then glanced at the phone on the right hand side of his desk.

He had been looking questioningly at it for the last half an hour or more as he finished the last pieces of work for the day and considered making the journey home. Now, virtually the last person left in the building in Hill Street apart from the cleaners, he prepared for the walk that would take him down towards Berkeley Square and along to Green Park tube where he would ride the underground to his final destination in Holland Park. He often took the tube when he wanted to clear his head or when he had something on his mind. It would have been just as easy to summon a car to transport him to his home but for some reason the close proximity to so many other people crammed onto the tube somehow enabled him to think more clearly. He looked at others who rode the subterranean railway and wondered what their problems and concerns might be and it somehow made his own seem less pressing and less bothersome. He decided that he would journey home that way tonight in an effort to try and focus his own mind on the things that were bothering him.

And there was one thing in particular that kept drifting in and out of his mind.

He prepared to get to his feet again, his gaze once more flicking towards the phone.

Outside, the sound of the hoover was growing louder and occasionally it was bumped against his office door but he ignored it, his gaze now fixed on the phone as if it were a bomb about to explode.

Murray waited until the sound of the vacuum had faded from outside his office then he reached for the receiver and picked it up.

No one else would know about this call except him and that was the way he wanted it.

Murray held the cordless phone, got to his feet and walked to the door of his office, noticing that the sound of the vacuum cleaner had all but disappeared, swallowed now by the growing stillness and solitude that was filling the building. He opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor outside, seeing that the cleaner had moved on. Murray nodded to himself. He wanted absolute privacy when he made this call, he didn’t want a cleaner interrupting him.

He had wondered about making the call on his mobile but then decided against it. He wanted as little evidence of the call as possible and although he could delete it from his list of Dialled Calls he was just as happy not to have it there in the first place. Murray moved the phone back and forth in one hand for a moment longer then finally decided that he could delay no longer.

Murray still hesitated, wondering why he was so reticent to make this call. He was doing nothing wrong, he told himself. Why shouldn’t he make it?

He dialled the number and waited.

THIRTY-ONE

Only when the screaming stopped did Jess raise her head.

‘What the hell was happening?’ she murmured.

She sat forward in her seat and looked across at Mark Paxton.

‘What time did you pick that call up?’ she wanted to know.

‘About half eleven,’ Paxton told her.

‘Let’s hear it again, Spike,’ Jess insisted.

Paxton pressed the required button on the console before him and the room filled once again with the sound of Brian Dunham’s voice. Jess looked evenly at the floor as she listened to him. Only when she heard the first of his wife’s screams in the background did she register anything like emotion. When the call came to an end she sat back in her seat and reached for the can of Coke she’d been sipping from since minutes after arriving at Paxton’s place. It was a one bedroom flat above a dry cleaners and most of that one bedroom was filled with the equipment from which the sound of Dunham’s emergency call of the previous night had come from.

There was a small bed pushed up against one wall which seemed to have been chosen for its small size so that none of the surveillance equipment had to be compromised. A huge bookshelf, empty of all but half a dozen books, occupied another wall, crammed with speakers, receivers and Christ alone knew what else. Jess certainly had no idea what most of the equipment was for or what it did. But then again, she told herself, her business here wasn’t to work out what Paxton’s equipment was for. She was only interested in what it gave her by way of information.

She sipped her Coke again.

‘He didn’t want to talk about it this morning,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really think he would.’

‘But you asked him anyway?’ Paxton grinned.

‘It’s my job to ask questions.’

Paxton nodded.

‘But right now there’s too many questions and not enough answers,’ Jess added.

‘Perhaps you’re talking to the wrong people.’

Jess shrugged.

‘If I could only prove that Dunham knows Voronov,’ she murmured.

‘And what good would that do you? Just because they know each other doesn’t mean the Russian had anything to do with the attack on Dunham’s house. Why would he want to attack his house?’

‘Because he’s trying to frighten him, Spike. Voronov wants planning permission for this new building project of his and Dunham won’t give it.’

‘Dunham’s not the only one to decide on planning permission.’

‘He’s the head of a committee that advises Westminster Council; his decision is the one that counts. If he says no then nothing gets done. Voronov’s not stupid, he knows that. If he wants his buildings built then Dunham’s the one he has to persuade.’

‘Then why threaten him?’

‘Because it’s cheaper than paying him off.’

‘Voronov’s a billionaire, why the fuck would he be worried about shelling out a bit of bribe money here and there? It’s not like he’s going to miss it.’

Jess shook her head.

‘Maybe he’s trying a new approach this time,’ she offered.

‘What do you mean this time?’ Paxton wanted to know.

‘He bribed Dunham to grant permission for the Crystal Tower to be built and he got what he wanted.’

‘How do you know? You can’t prove it. And you certainly can’t put it in one of your stories, Dunham and Voronov will sue you and the paper.’

She waved a hand dismissively.

‘You’re obsessed with Voronov,’ Paxton insisted. ‘You blame him for all these accidents at the Crystal Tower and now you’re saying he had Brian Dunham’s house attacked.’

‘I’ve got a gut feeling.’

‘It’s indigestion.’

Jess smiled, raising one middle finger in Paxton’s direction. She took another sip from the can of Coke. ‘Play me that tape again,’ she said.

THIRTY-TWO

Alex Hadley hesitated before pressing the call button on the lift. He always did. Before that most simple action of extending his index finger and jabbing it against the required button he paused and glared at the metallic circle as if that fraction of a second would save him from what was to come.

And every time he endured this peculiar ritual he rebuked himself inwardly.

Just press the fucking thing. You’ve got to go up. Nothing’s going to change by standing around here is it?

He pressed the button and waited and the lift bumped to a halt seconds later.

Hadley stepped in and rode it to the third floor where he stepped out smiling perfunctorily at a woman who was dabbing at her nose with a tissue. She nodded back at him and stepped into the lift as Hadley left it. He walked towards the set of double doors that would lead him into Maple Ward. Again he paused momentarily before entering but then barged through the doors like a gunslinger entering a Western Saloon careful not to drop the bottle of Lucozade he was carrying.

To his left there was a nurse’s station where two uniformed staff were in deep conversation over a stack of charts and notes. Next to them another woman was speaking evenly on the phone apparently oblivious to the mutterings of her colleagues beside her. Straight ahead the long corridor stretched down to the canteen and day room and to the right were the wards or bays as they preferred to call them in this particular hospital. Hadley glanced into the first as he walked down the corridor and saw three patients all of roughly the same age. A man was lying staring fixedly at the ceiling while opposite him the occupant of that particular bed was propped up on several pillows with a plastic cup in one hand. He was sipping slowly from it the expression on his face making it look as if every mouthful was an effort. The third occupant of the bay was asleep with the sheets pulled up so far they were practically covering his face.

Hadley walked on until he found the bay he sought.

His father was lying on top of the sheets clad in light green hospital issue pyjamas which were open to the waist. Hadley sucked in a deep breath and approached the bed noticing that there were now two drips attached to his father’s thin and wasted arms both of them half full of clear fluid. The other occupants of the bay glanced in his direction as he walked in, one of them raising a hand in greeting and Hadley returned the gesture as he drew nearer to his father who had his eyes closed but didn’t seem to be sleeping.

Hadley’s overwhelming instinct was to turn and walk straight back out but he knew he couldn’t do that. Instead he glanced across at the television that was propped on the windowsill, its picture barely visible beneath the blanket of static that covered the screen. There was an aerial propped on top of the set but it didn’t seem to be doing much good.

As he drew nearer to his father’s bed he stopped, gripping the metal rail that ran alongside the bed.

‘Dad,’ he whispered softly.

His father’s eyes opened slightly and turned towards Hadley who smiled and placed the bottle of Lucozade on the nightstand with the others both of which were still sealed and unopened. His father’s glasses were also lying there, one of the lenses cracked. On the table over the bed there were a couple of plastic cups half filled with water both of which had red stains around the rims, stains that Hadley recognised all too quickly as blood. When he looked at his father’s mouth he could see that the older man’s lips were dry and cracked, so parched at the corners that they were split in a number of places. Hadley let out a low sigh of frustrated despair.

‘Dad,’ he said again wanting to reach out and grip his father’s arm but not quite managing that simple act.

Again the older man looked blankly at him.

‘Dad its Alex,’ Hadley said.

‘I know,’ his father said, his voice low and rasping in his throat. ‘I want to go home.’

‘You can’t Dad, not yet, not until they get you better.’

‘I want to go,’ his father insisted, raising one hand to his forehead and rubbing it.

‘Do you want some water?’ Hadley enquired, reaching for the jug on the table near the plastic cups.

‘No, don’t want anything.’

‘Dad you’ve got to try and drink and you’ve got to eat what they give you too. If you eat you’ll get stronger.’

And then what? You can go home? Don’t tell him that for fuck’s sake. You know he’s never leaving here, don’t bullshit him. Not now.

Hadley saw a nurse enter the bay and she gestured to him, beckoning him into the corridor beyond.

He nodded.

‘I’ll be back in a minute, Dad,’ he said, momentarily leaning a little closer to his father.

‘Am I going home?’ his father said, the sounds dissolving away into a bronchial sounding cough.

Hadley hesitated a moment then turned and walked out into the corridor where the nurse was waiting.

She was a pudgy-faced brown-haired woman in her late twenties who looked at him with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She managed a smile but Hadley felt it was more professional than heartfelt.

‘I need to speak to you about your father, Mr Hadley,’ she said.

‘What’s wrong with his mouth?’ Hadley enquired. ‘It looks as if it’s bleeding.’

‘He’s severely dehydrated because he won’t take any fluid that’s why we had to put him back on the drips.’

‘But someone told me last time I came that he’d been eating and drinking. One of the other patients told me.’

The nurse shook her head.

‘He hasn’t had anything for over a week now and he’s been refusing his medication for the last two days,’ she went on.

‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ Hadley sighed. ‘Why?’

‘We don’t know. He just won’t take it. We tried to give it to him in a drip but he pulled the drip out. He pulled the other glucose drips out too so we had to tape them to his arms. He’s got to realise that we’re trying to help him, Mr Hadley, it’s as if he’s trying to stop us.’

‘I know, I know,’ Hadley breathed exasperatedly.

‘If you could have a word with him and tell him that he must let us help him,’ the nurse continued.

‘I’ve been telling him. I’ve told him to eat and drink but all he keeps on about is coming home. I tell him that he needs to do as he’s told if that’s going to happen but it doesn’t make any difference. Can’t you give him his medication some other way?’

‘We can’t force patients to take medication, Mr Hadley. Just like we can’t force them to eat or drink.’

Hadley nodded.

‘If he keeps on pulling out the drips we’ll have to just leave him,’ the nurse went on.

‘Leave him to die you mean?’

THIRTY-THREE

The nurse looked evenly at him and Hadley suddenly thought that there was harshness to her features that he hadn’t noticed before. As he looked for longer he felt something building inside him that he could only identify as anger.

He wanted to grab hold of her and shake her. He wanted to get right in her pudgy face and shout:

‘You’re going to let my father die, you cunt? Why?’

‘That is what you mean, isn’t it?’ he said, sharply. ‘You’re going to let him die? I know the NHS is pushed for beds but surely you can’t need his that badly.’

The nurse shook her head and looked as if she was turning to walk away.

‘The problem’s in his head,’ Hadley said, irritably. ‘He’s senile for Christ’s sake; he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.’

‘We’re well aware of your father’s psychological condition, Mr Hadley but that doesn’t help us when it comes to administering medicine and nutrition. As I’ve told you we can’t force a patient to take what we offer them.’

‘So you’re washing your hands of him?’

‘We’re taking the only course of action available to us. This kind of radical action is necessary I’m afraid. If you want to speak to a doctor about this situation then you can but they’ll only tell you what I already have.’

Hadley eyed the nurse with barely suppressed fury.

You smug fucking bitch.

‘So when do you start this … radical action then?’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘Well, if he doesn’t cooperate we’ll have to start immediately,’ the nurse told him, flatly.

‘Doesn’t cooperate?’ Hadley blurted. ‘You make it sound as if he’s some kind of prisoner. He’s frightened for Christ’s sake, he doesn’t know what’s happening to him.’

‘As I said, Mr Hadley, we’re well aware of his psychological state but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with his physical condition,’ the nurse went on.

‘This is bullshit,’ Hadley snapped, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.

‘There’s no need for that kind of language, Mr Hadley,’ the nurse chided.

He shook his head exasperatedly.

‘Do you want to talk to a doctor about your father?’ the nurse asked.

‘Would there be any point?’ he sighed. ‘They’re just going to tell me what you’ve already told me, aren’t they? That you’ve decided to let my dad die.’

‘It isn’t a case of that.’

‘You’re going to stop feeding him,’ Hadley snarled, taking a step towards the nurse and glaring at her. ‘You’re going to stop giving him medication. Why the hell don’t you just slip him a lethal injection now and have done with it?’

‘I understand how you’re feeling, Mr Hadley …’

‘No I don’t think you do,’ Hadley snapped, cutting across her. ‘I don’t think you’ve got the slightest fucking idea how I feel.’

They regarded each other in silence for a moment then Hadley swallowed hard.

‘And will you tell him that you’re not going to help him?’ he wanted to know. ‘Will you tell him you’re going to let him die?’

‘That isn’t the usual course of action.’

‘So you’ll just let him starve without him knowing?’

‘There are procedures that must be followed, Mr Hadley.’

He shook his head and looked back in the direction of his father for a moment before turning to face the nurse once again.

‘If he won’t take any food or medication,’ he began quietly. ‘How long will it be before …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Between three days and a week,’ the nurse told him. ‘We’ve discussed the alternatives with you Mr Hadley.’

‘I’ve tried to get him into a hospice but there are no places,’ Hadley protested. ‘I can’t look after him myself. I’m just asking you to help me. Please.’

‘As you say Mr Hadley, we’ve discussed all the alternatives with you and there’s nothing more we can do.’

‘So my dad’s got a week to live,’ he murmured.

THIRTY-FOUR

Jess scrolled down the list of properties, occasionally shaking her head as she looked at specifications and prices.

In the background the hiss and crackle and electronic murmur of voices coming from a number of radios filled the air with sound. As she sat at the laptop, Mark Paxton contented himself with moving from receiver to receiver occasionally checking frequencies and noting some of the words coming from the radios.

‘Robbery in Selfridges,’ he said, distractedly, glancing in Jess’s direction. ‘A couple of kids trying to nick some leather jackets.’

Still Jess didn’t look around; her attention was fixed on the screen before her.

‘Dispatch rider knocked off his bike in the Strand,’ Paxton went on.

Again Jess seemed not to hear him or if she did she didn’t acknowledge him.

She scrolled further down the page, chewing the end of a biro as she looked at the pictures before her.

‘A flasher in Green Park,’ Paxton chuckled.

Still nothing from Jess apart from the occasional sigh. He glanced at her and saw how seemingly entranced she was by whatever she was looking at.

‘Fifty-six people machine-gunned to death inside Ann Summers,’ Paxton grinned. ‘Two people decapitated and partially eaten outside Fortnum and Mason.’ He looked at her, a smile still on his face.

Still Jess didn’t answer.

‘I know some good porn sites if you’re interested,’ Paxton murmured.

She glanced at him finally and smiled then returned to whatever was holding her interest so raptly on the screen.

Paxton smiled to himself and returned to the radios.

‘What the hell are you looking at that’s so interesting anyway?’ he wanted to know.

‘I’m looking at apartments in the Crystal Tower,’ Jess told him, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m thinking of buying one.’

Paxton turned and looked at her, a look of incredulity on his face.

‘Are you having a fucking laugh?’ he grunted. ‘Have you won the lottery without telling me?’

‘I need to get inside the Crystal Tower and that seems as good a way as any to do it,’ Jess informed him. ‘A potential buyer for one of the apartments. I mean, they don’t know I haven’t got a pot to piss in, do they?’

‘They might check when you make an appointment to view; some of these posh estate agents don’t even let you look if they think you haven’t got the money to buy.’

‘I’ll take the chance,’ Jess said, flatly.

‘A young single woman in a position to buy one of their apartments,’ Paxton said. ‘You’d have to be fucking royalty.’

‘As far as they know who says I’m single,’ Jess smiled.

‘So there is something you haven’t told me.’

‘I think I’ve got less chance of finding a guy than winning the lottery, Spike,’ Jess grinned.

Paxton raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’re not too bad. You scrub up reasonably well.’ He eyed her up and down. ‘And you’ve got a great pair of legs. I would.’

Jess chuckled.

‘You smooth talking bastard,’ she grinned.

‘Seriously, Jess,’ Paxton went on. ‘How come you haven’t got a bloke?’

‘It’s not the be all and end all, having someone. I’ve got my career. I’m married to that.’

‘That’s a fucking cliché,’ Paxton said dismissively.

Jess merely got to her feet, drained what was left of her drink and reached for her handbag.

‘Life’s a cliché, Spike,’ she said, wearily, turning towards the door.

‘Very profound,’ he called after her, listening as the door closed behind her.

Now only the sound of the radio receivers filled the room once again.

THIRTY-FIVE

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson sat back in his seat and shook his head as he read the report for the third time that morning. It was on his computer screen too, as if seeing the facts and findings both on paper and also on the screen would somehow make them easier to digest.

It didn’t.

Johnson got to his feet and turned towards the window of his office, glancing out across the sprawling landscape of London that was so clearly visible from where he stood. There were a couple of framed photos on the window sill. One of himself and his wife and another of him, his wife and their six-year-old daughter. Johnson picked up the picture, smiling as he looked at it. It showed him buried up to his waist on a beach, smiling happily while his wife and daughter looked on and laughed.

A perfect family picture.

Johnson raised his eyebrows. Some smartarse had once said that the camera never lies. That was bullshit too. It did nothing but lie. The snapshot he was looking at now made it look as if he and his family were without a care in the world.

It hadn’t been until they’d returned from that holiday that his wife had found a lump in her left breast.

Johnson could still remember the absolute fear that had consumed him when she’d told him. He’d marvelled at how small a discovery could produce so much stress and worry. The fact that it had seemed to take an age to get her an appointment for a biopsy hadn’t helped. That had been two months ago and she still had another few days of waiting for the operation that would tell her whether the lump was benign or malignant.

He sucked in a deep breath. Even the word itself was frightening. Malignant. It was right up there with inoperable and terminal. As well as fear, Johnson had felt another emotion he hadn’t expected to feel. One of anger. Why did it have to be his wife? Why her? She had done nothing but good all through her thirty-six years. Why single her out for this ordeal? He’d seen plenty people during the course of his work who deserved far more richly the kind of worry and possible suffering that his wife was going to have to endure but no, she had been picked for this. A good person, not a shithouse. Not someone who deserved to suffer. Of course he’d tried to consider the positive side. The lump may well be benign. It would be removed and everything would go on as normal.

Finding the positives in situations wasn’t exactly Robert Johnson’s forte. Maybe that was the result of eighteen years on the police force, he told himself. If he always looked on the dark side then anything at all was a bonus. That was the way he’d always been and he saw no reason to change now.

The hardest decision he and his wife had been forced to take had been over whether or not to tell their daughter. How did you explain to a six-year-old that her mother might have a disease that could kill her? How did you look into the face of a child and tell it that it may well be losing one of its parents?

They had decided to wait until they found out the result of the biopsy before explaining anything one way or the other. If the news was bad then they’d deal with it somehow and if the lump was benign then there was no need to say anything anyway. Ignorance would be bliss for their daughter. At least that was what Johnson hoped.

If he’d been a religious man he would have prayed for his wife’s well-being but along with a tendency to see the bad rather than the good in situations, his time in the police had also brought it crashing home to him that no God whoever he was would permit some of the things to happen that Johnson had seen over the years. He’d heard a quote but couldn’t remember where from and it had always stuck in his head: ‘I believe that God is a sadist but probably doesn’t even know it.’ Johnson looked down at the image of his wife and he found it hard to disagree.

He was still looking at the picture when there was a knock on his office door.

He was about to call out to the person on the other side to enter when they did.

D.S. Raymond Powell walked in and closed the door behind him.

He noticed that Johnson was looking at the picture and for a moment he thought about saying something but, he told himself, what was the point? He was sure that if there’d been any good news then his colleague would have told him. Best let sleeping dogs lie.

‘I’ve been through all the statements that the uniformed guys took,’ the D.S. began.

‘And?’ Johnson murmured.

‘Nothing. No one saw anything. A couple of people heard what they thought was breaking glass but no one saw a thing.’

‘Did Dunham or his wife add anything to their statements?’

Powell shook his head.

‘So all we’ve got left is the report from forensics about the attacker,’ Johnson sighed, slumping into his seat.

‘The residue at the bottom of the indentations in the garden and on the walls of the house was clay,’ Powell confirmed.

‘But not commercial clay, not something that could have been carried on the feet of a builder or workman.’

‘So is our suspect a mad sculptor?’ Powell chuckled.

Johnson sighed wearily.

‘What do you think, Ray?’ the D.I. said, holding the report up and waving it before him. ‘About the estimated size of the attacker?’

‘Forensics says that their calculations are based on the depth of the footprints…’

‘But they’re not footprints are they?’ Johnson interrupted. ‘There are no marks or patterns that would have been left by the sole of a shoe or boot. If there were we could trace them, find out which make they were and who might have bought some recently. The fucking marks in Dunham’s garden aren’t even shaped like footprints.’

‘Well someone left them,’ Powell said.

‘Someone who must, according to Forensic calculations on the height to weight ratio, be over twenty-five feet tall. What are they telling us? We’ve got to arrest fucking King Kong?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Powell grinned but the joke didn’t seem to register with Johnson who merely shook his head and sighed.

‘It’s crazy,’ he murmured.

‘It doesn’t make a lot of sense, I’ll give you that.’

‘Not a lot of sense? It makes no fucking sense at all. Those marks were left by someone calculated to be over twenty five feet tall and weighing more than fifty stone. And not one single person in that street last night saw anything, before during and after the attack. Now you, or someone, tell me what the fuck is going on because I haven’t got a clue.’

THIRTY-SIX

‘You should have told me about your father.’

Jessica Anderson looked into the face of the man seated opposite her and saw the distress in his expression.

‘Why? What good would it do?’ Alex Hadley said. ‘Talking about it isn’t going to make him any better is it?’

‘You shouldn’t bottle stuff like that up, Alex. It doesn’t do you any good. That’s what my mum always says to me.’

Hadley laughed bitterly.

‘Maybe your mum’s right,’ he murmured. ‘How is she?’

‘Frail,’ Jess said. ‘That’s the best word I can use to describe her. She seems to shrink a bit every time I see her. She keeps telling me she’s fine but …’

‘Maybe she is.’

‘She misses my dad, I know that.’

‘How long were they married?’

‘Fifty years.’

‘No wonder she misses him.’

‘And she’s struggling with money too. She doesn’t say it outright but I can tell. She’s always going on about how expensive things are and talking about her bills. My dad’s pension isn’t much and what she gets barely covers her expenses every month. I just wish I could do something to help her.’

‘Like what?’

‘Pay her bills or something. Give her some money when I go round to see her. I don’t know.’

Jess exhaled almost painfully.

‘It’s not your place to do that, Jess,’ Hadley told her.

‘I know that but kids are supposed to help their parents, aren’t they?’ she protested. ‘They gave me everything when I was growing up, Alex. I wanted for nothing and now I feel that I’m letting my mum down.’

‘I know what you mean but you’re not.’

‘Well I think I am.’

‘It isn’t your fault, Jess,’ Hadley said, flatly. ‘Stop blaming yourself.’

‘That’s a bit pot and kettle isn’t it? You’re blaming yourself for the state your dad’s in.’

Hadley shrugged.

‘So, do you want to talk about your dad?’ Jess went on.

‘No,’ he sighed. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved and all that bullshit. Is that what you mean?’

Jess regarded him evenly.

‘I’m just saying, if you wanted someone to talk to you could have talked to me,’ she said, finally.

Hadley glanced down at his half empty coffee cup then took a sip of the contents.

‘What fucking use is talking?’ he muttered. ‘If I tell you my Dad’s dying is it going to make him better? No.’

They sat in silence for a moment then Hadley spoke again.

‘And what about you, Jess?’ he said, softly. ‘When you’ve got problems who do you talk to? Who do you unburden your soul to?’

She wasn’t slow to catch the edge to his voice and she held his gaze unblinkingly.

‘I was trying to help, Alex,’ she said.

‘If you can’t help yourself then no one can help you.’

‘Who said that, Oscar Wilde?’

‘Amy Winehouse I think.’ He smiled.

‘And look at her,’ Jess grinned.

Hadley nodded.

‘Listen Jess, I appreciate your concern,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.’ He sighed. ‘No one gives a fuck.

‘Nobody in that hospital cares about my dad. He’s just another statistic to them.

‘Another bed they want empty so they can put some other poor sod in it.’

Jess was about to say something when Hadley pressed on as if anxious to change the subject.

‘So, come on, tell me, what do you need my help for?’ he wanted to know.

‘I have to get back inside the Crystal Tower and have a look around,’ she informed him. ‘I told you that.’

‘And what the fuck are you looking for, Jess? Still trying to find a story that isn’t there?’

‘There is a story and you know it.’

‘Then what is it? If it’s such a big deal why aren’t there other journos all over it?’

‘People have died, Alex, too many people. There’s a reason and I think that reason is inside the Crystal Tower. That’s why I have to get back inside and see what I can find.’

‘That’s not going to be easy. And after your little run in with that security guard last time they’re going to be looking for you. They probably got you on close circuit TV and Christ knows what else.’

‘That’s why I need your help.’

Hadley raised his eyebrows and sat forward slightly.

‘Go on then,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m listening.’

LONDON; 1933

They told the old man he didn’t belong.

Told him he didn’t belong in the house he lived in, in the street where that house was and then they told him he didn’t belong in their country.

There were eight of them. All of them looked like big men to the old man who wasn’t more than five feet four in height anyway. They towered over him and surrounded him and they waved their fists angrily and threateningly and they spat furious and angry words at him. He’d heard the words before spoken in different tongues and he told himself he should be used to this kind of prejudice and hatred. But he wasn’t. And when one of them made to grab the lapels of his jacket he tried to back away but another of them blocked his escape.

He felt himself being lifted bodily into the air and he thought about striking out at his aggressor but realised that this would only provoke greater anger and violence.

The bigger man’s face was inches from his and he could smell his rancid breath and the liquor on it as he snapped and shouted.

The others looked on with a mixture of approval and indifference.

The old man was finally pushed away, slammed hard into the door of his shop.

They advanced upon him, one of them swinging a hammer, threatening to shatter the windows and even the old man’s skull if necessary. He backed away from them as best he could, knowing that there was no escape this time but also knowing that he had feared and expected this time and he was at least ready for it. Ready for them.

Another of them was carrying a brick in his hand and, as the old man retreated into his shop, the man with the implement smashed it into one of the display cases nearby. Glass shattered, some of it spraying across the floor of the shop, crunching beneath the advancing feet of the men. The old man protested but his words fell on deaf and unconcerned ears.

Another of the display cases was broken, this time overturned. There were watches inside it and they spilled across the floor where some were also trampled underfoot.

All of the men were shouting now it seemed. The whole shop was filled with the sound of angry voices. They warned him not to go to the police because they would find out and they would make him suffer even more. They told him that no one would help him because no one wanted him here, no one had ever wanted him. They told him how much they hated him and others like him and they told him to get out. Get out of the shop and the country. Just walk away and they would leave him unharmed. If he didn’t do as they told him then there would be real trouble. They would harm him. And of that he had no doubt looking into their furious, hate filled eyes and listening to the anger in their voices.

But in the silence that fell over the shop momentarily the old man said that he would not leave. He told them they would not drive him out.

They said that if he wasn’t gone by midnight that night then they would return and when they did they would make him sorry for his defiance. The old man said that he would be waiting.

One of them spat at him as he turned to leave. Another kicked a hole in a third display case and then they were gone. The old man stood shaking amidst the destruction they had wrought, thinking how much worse it might have been but not doubting for one second their intentions to come back when the darkness fell. What they would do when they returned he could only imagine and those thoughts caused him to shudder again.

He stood alone in the shop for long moments then turned his back on the destruction, his face now set in hard lines. There was a determination about his gait as he walked and he murmured something in his native tongue under his breath as he headed towards the rear of the building.

He retrieved the keys to the cellar and unlocked it, making his way down the stone steps into the subterranean room.

When he reached the bottom he looked around the darkened space, his gaze drawn to what stood at its centre.

They would be back at midnight they’d told him, well, he thought, a slight smile on his wrinkled old lips, let them come.

Let them come.

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘So first no one sees anything and now this.’

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson scanned the statement again then dropped the sheet of paper onto his desk and glanced across at his colleague.

‘This guy wasn’t in when we did the house to house stuff,’ Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell told his superior. ‘He was away on business. He decided to come forward after speaking to other people in the neighbourhood.’

‘Very public spirited of him,’ Johnson grunted.

‘I know it’s not much of a help but…’

‘Well it’s more than we had before isn’t it?’

Johnson got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office, peering out across a windswept London. The breeze was strong and every now and then the glass would rattle in its frame.

‘And this guy is still the only one who says he saw anything?’ the D.I. murmured.

‘Yes,’ Powell confirmed.

‘He saw a man getting in the back of a dark blue or black van, a tall man who looked to him as if he was old because he wasn’t moving very well.’

‘He looked as if he had bad legs,’ Powell quoted from the statement. ‘Bad legs and possibly a bad back. Oh, and he was old too.’

‘So the man who attacked Brian Dunham’s house not only had superhuman strength but he couldn’t walk properly,’ Johnson grinned. ‘So we’re looking for a geriatric body builder or a pensioner with a fucking pneumatic drill.’

Powell afforded himself a smile too.

‘Christ, we get no eye witness reports to start with,’ Johnson went on. ‘Then when we do finally get one it just makes things more complicated.’

‘It was dark when the attack happened, maybe the guy didn’t see too clearly.’

‘And he says that the attacker got in and out of the van unaided, in other words whoever drove him there was already behind the wheel ready to drive away, right?’

Powell nodded.

The D.I. turned and sat down again, reaching for the Styrofoam cup that was half full of coffee. He sipped it then looked across at his colleague once again.

‘He didn’t get the reg number of the van?’ Johnson mused.

Powell shook his head.

‘Just that there was a crippled or old or arthritic geezer climbing into it,’ the D.S. smiled.

‘What make of van?’ Johnson wanted to know.

‘He couldn’t be sure.’

The D.I. shook his head.

‘Send some forensics boys back to the scene,’ he said. ‘Get them to check out the road outside Dunham’s house. There might be tyre marks or something that will help us identify the van at least.’

‘Already done it but I can’t see them finding much after all this time, can you?’

‘No,’ Johnson conceded. ‘But at least it feels as if we’re doing something doesn’t it? Let’s just say I’m padding the job.’

Powell smiled again and got to his feet, preparing to turn in the direction of the office door. Before he did he turned and looked down at the photographs on Johnson’s desk. In particular the one of his wife.

‘Tell me to mind my own business if you want,’ he said, quietly. ‘But have you heard any news about your missis. She’s due to have her operation soon isn’t she?’

‘Two days from now,’ Johnson told him.

‘Like I said, tell me to mind my own business…’

‘I appreciate you asking, Ray.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

‘Cheers, mate, I will.’

Powell hesitated a moment then finally did head towards the office door. As he reached it Johnson called to him again.

‘Let me have that forensics report as soon as they’re finished will you, Ray,’ he asked. ‘Not that it’ll be any good I wouldn’t think.’

‘You never know. We just need a bit of luck. Maybe we’ll get it.’

Johnson raised his eyebrows.

‘I won’t hold my breath,’ he said, flatly.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The phone call he’d received earlier that day had instructed Adrian Murray to be in his office at eleven o’clock that night.

Nothing more. There had been no other instructions other than the need for him to be there at that particular hour. All matters would be resolved then he had been assured.

Murray had considered complaining about the lateness of the hour, telling the caller that it was inconvenient for him to be there so late but he had decided against any show of recalcitrance and agreed somewhat irritably that the meeting would go ahead at the time stated. It was, after all, the result of several phone calls made during the last few days and he was satisfied that matters could be resolved once and for all tonight and most definitely in his favour. The thought brought a thin smile to his face.

Now he paced his office impatiently, glancing every few moments at his watch and then at the wall clock that hung behind his desk, the loud ticking of which seemed to fill the air along with his breathing. On one side of the room there was a small cabinet inside which he kept some bottles of liquor and some fine crystal glasses which were occasionally brought out for more important visitors and it was towards this cabinet that Murray now moved. He reached inside and took out the bottle of Glenfiddich, pouring himself a large measure and sipping it, feeling the amber fluid burn its way to his stomach. Again he looked at his watch, muttering under his breath.

It was almost 11.16.

Punctuality was something he always prided himself on and when others failed to show it with the same diligence it irritated him. He took another sip of his scotch and crossed to the window of his office, gazing out on the deserted street beyond.

There was no sign of movement anywhere, not even approaching cars or taxis and this only served to annoy Murray even more. He glanced at the phone on his desk and wondered if he should call to check on the whereabouts of his visitor but then decided against it.

He was still standing in the middle of the office clutching his glass when his mobile rang.

Murray looked down but the caller i.d. showed nothing but UNKNOWN. He pressed the mobile to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

The voice at the other end asked if he was in his office.

‘Of course I’m in my bloody office,’ Murray said, angrily. ‘This is where you told me to be at eleven o’clock tonight. I’m here waiting for you.’

The voice at the other end told him not to be impatient.

‘I’m not impatient,’ Murray told the caller. ‘I’m angry because you’re late and I’m getting angrier by the minute now where the hell are you?’

The voice told him to stay where he was and not to leave.

Murray was about to reply when the line went dead.

He glared at the phone for a second then slipped it back inside his jacket, glancing out of his office window once again.

For all his scrutinisation of the street outside he never noticed the black transit van that had pulled up a moment earlier.

Murray downed more whisky. He wondered if he should wander downstairs and be waiting in the foyer of the building when his visitor arrived but then decided against that course of action. He didn’t want to seem too eager. The two security guards who normally patrolled the building all night had been told not to come in until after midnight on Murray’s personal instructions. When his visitor arrived he wanted to ensure that no one saw him.

The fewer people who knew about his meeting the better as far as Murray was concerned. Of course he had reasoned it would have been easier to conclude the meeting somewhere else but when his visitor had suggested here in his office it had seemed a natural and more comfortable environment in which to conduct their business.

Murray smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be a long meeting after all he told himself. Not very long but extremely profitable he mused, the thought making him smile even more broadly. He poured himself some more whisky and waited. He even took out another glass from the cabinet and set it on the dark wood table opposite his desk. His guest might wish to partake of a drink while they talked, he told himself. Murray congratulated himself on his own generosity and looked again at his watch.

11.25.

He sighed wearily. How much longer was he going to have to wait? This just wasn’t acceptable.

It was then he heard the first sounds of movement in the corridor outside his office.

Murray strode across to the door and wrenched it open.

‘It’s about bloody time,’ he began. ‘What time do you …’

The words froze on his lips as he looked out into the corridor beyond. He stood motionless for precious seconds, his eyes bulging wide in their sockets, his legs seemingly paralysed. The glass slipped from his hand and hit the thick carpet with a dull thud spilling whisky everywhere. He wanted to run. His only thought was to escape from this place but it seemed his muscles would not obey the orders his brain was so frantically sending. He remained rooted to the spot, his lips fluttering soundlessly, the only part of him that could actually move.

The first blow caught him squarely in the chest and catapulted him backwards a full three feet, his ribs caved in. Splintered to matchwood by the incredible impact. Blood burst from his mouth as the red fluid rushed up from his punctured lungs to fill his throat.

By the time the second blow landed he felt nothing.

THIRTY-NINE

Jonathan Tyler inspected his reflection once again in the polished metal doors of the lift, straightening his tie and brushing a hand through his short hair. He decided to complete his refurbishment by cleaning his glasses too, taking a perfectly pressed handkerchief from his top pocket to complete the task.

Once he’d finished he set them back in position on his slightly chubby face and checked his watch again.

He’d already been at the Crystal Tower for the last thirty minutes. He was always early for an appointment that was one of the first things he’d been taught when he started working for the firm of Graham and Barnes Estate Agents. You never keep potential buyers waiting. Always be there first. It was a rule he had always endeavoured to uphold. Now, six years after joining them, he still adhered to their work practices as religiously as he had during his probationary period. When you were dealing with the type of clients that his firm dealt with it was best to present the best image possible.

Remembering the cheese sandwich he’d had for his lunch, Tyler put a hand to his mouth and exhaled, checking that his breath didn’t smell. It didn’t but he still decided to pop a mint into his mouth so, taking one from the tube in his jacket pocket he began sucking it, nodding to himself when the smell of peppermint began to fill the air around him.

He brushed some flecks of dust from the sleeve of his suit and pulled the property instructions from his inside pocket, glancing at them just to re-familiarise himself before his potential buyers arrived. Always know the property you’re selling inside out. That was another of the rules drummed into him since he’d joined the firm. Don’t allow yourself to be caught out by any questions the buyers might ask. If they want to know the measurements of the second bedroom, the utility room or the family bathroom then know those measurements and give them instantly. Do not have to refer to your instructions. If they want to know the monthly Council Tax then make sure you know what it is. If they want to know why the last residents moved out then have the reason ready to impart (or if that reason isn’t good enough then have a more suitable one formulated in your mind ready).

It was all about preparation. The better prepared you were the better chance you had of completing the deal. And if the deal was completed then the firm would benefit and so would the individual Estate Agent. Commission on the properties sold by Graham and Barnes was considerable. Executive homes, luxury apartments, select bijou dwellings from Chelsea to Covent Garden were the currency of Graham and Barnes. During his time with the firm, Tyler couldn’t remember anywhere they’d sold going for less than a quarter of a million and more often than not the price was many times more than that. He himself had overseen the sale of at least five houses to Premier League footballers playing for London clubs, none of which had come in at less than nine million each. The last property he sold (a two bedroom top floor flat in Earls Court) had been bought by a man who only intended to use it four or five times a year when visiting London but Tyler didn’t care if the man bought it then left it empty. He had still collected his commission. Once the deal was closed he thought no more about it.

It would be the same with this deal today. The apartment on the twenty-third floor of the Crystal Tower was on the market for just over fifteen million pounds. He’d already shown it to three potential buyers who, for various reasons had passed but Tyler was determined to secure a sale today.

He checked his watch again then he pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked his messages, wondering if there had been something from the office to tell him that the buyers had cancelled. He shook his head. No, there was no such message so he just glanced at his watch again trying to remind himself that he had in fact been early for the appointment.

He was the only one in the foyer of the Crystal Tower. Above him and also below he could hear sounds of work and movement as tradesmen continued to work on the building but the foyer itself was relatively silent. Tyler paced back and forth, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. He glanced up and saw one of the CCTV cameras mounted on the wall turn slightly to track his progress. The cameras were set up all over the foyer and on the floors above. Tyler thought about waving to it but then decided against that simple gesture. He did manage a smile though as he turned and traipsed back across the foyer, looking once again at his watch.

He heard a soft electronic whirring sound to his right and turned as one of the lifts bumped to a halt. The doors slid open and Tyler turned to see who was emerging.

No one came out.

He glanced into the open car then stepped back as the doors slid shut once more and there was softer whirring. He saw the lights of each floor illuminating as the lift rose and he wondered if someone from higher up in the building had called it, possibly one of the workmen on the floors above but, he reasoned, they were only supposed to use the service lifts around the other side of the building. Was there someone else up there? Tyler knew that a number of the other apartments were also for sale but as far as he was aware Graham and Barnes were also the agents for those and none of his colleagues were in the building or he would have known. He noticed that the lift stopped at the sixteenth floor then, after a moment or two, it began to rise again.

It stopped on the twenty-third floor.

There were no workmen that high up the building any longer, Tyler knew that. The apartments had been finished a long time ago. There was no more work to be done on them; there was no need for anyone to be on those upper floors.

Tyler frowned when he saw that one of the other lifts was now rising towards the same floor.

It was followed by a third.

There were five lifts available from the foyer connecting the floors of the Crystal Tower and now three of them were either at or heading for the twenty-third floor. Tyler looked at the bank of panels before him and shook his head. He jabbed a finger at one of the two remaining panels, pressing the Call button.

He hissed in pain as he felt a powerful electric shock hit him.

It was strong enough to temporarily numb his hand and he stepped back warily, shaking a little from the sudden unexpectedly savage blast of power.

Behind him one of the CCTV cameras trained on the foyer whirred quietly as it turned and focussed on him, its single unblinking cyclopean eye fixing him in a glassy stare.

Tyler groaned and massaged his hand, surprised by the strength of the electric shock he’d received. As he stood there looking accusingly at the panel he wondered if there was some kind of wiring problem. It had to be that. Perhaps that was what was causing the movement of the lifts too he reasoned. He knew they’d had problems before and wondered if a recurrence of the problem was now taking place. Well if it was it wouldn’t do now, not when he had potential buyers on the way. He could hardly ask them to walk up twenty-three flights of stairs to view their new home could he?

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his index finger. At least the balled up material would protect him somewhat from the possibility of another shock he told himself. At least he hoped it would.

He reached out towards the Call button and prepared to press it again.

FORTY

Tyler’s finger was shaking slightly as he pushed it tentatively towards the lift Call button.

Whether or not the makeshift protection offered by his handkerchief would be enough he wasn’t sure and, still aware of how painful the last shock had been, he didn’t particularly want to repeat the experience but he realised he had little choice. He had to ensure that the lifts were working correctly. How stupid would he look if his buyers turned up and all the lifts in the building were defective in some way?

Still he hesitated, glancing around the foyer once more as if help would magically appear. The CCTV camera that had watched his every move since he entered the foyer was still trained on him and Tyler was beginning to wonder if it might be best for him to just signal to the operator and get some kind of help here. It would at least, he reasoned, save him getting another electric shock.

Irritated with himself for his own indecision he pulled the handkerchief more tightly around his index finger ensuring that the material was bunched up as thickly as possible. It would, he decided, be ample protection against another electric shock. Wouldn’t it?

Behind him there was movement and the sound of footsteps moving across the foyer.

Tyler turned in the direction of the sound, the lifts and his electric shock momentarily forgotten.

‘Ah, hello,’ he beamed, the practised professional smile spreading across his face. ‘Mr and Mrs Hadley.’

He put out his hand, slipping the handkerchief from his finger and pushing it back into his pocket quickly.

Alex Hadley shook the offered hand firmly. So did Jessica Anderson when her turn came.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Hadley said.

‘No, no you’re not late,’ Tyler insisted. ‘I’ve only just got here myself.’

Jess glanced around the foyer as the three of them headed towards the bank of lifts. Tyler hesitated slightly, looking at the control panels and wondering if he was about to receive another electric shock. However, his reticence was forgotten when he saw that all five lifts had returned to the ground floor where he and his potential buyers now stood.

Gritting his teeth he prodded the Call button, relieved and delighted when he felt nothing but the warmth from behind the panel. As the doors slid open he ushered Hadley and Jess inside and joined them, pressing the button inside the lift that would carry them to their desired floor.

‘I read about the apartments here,’ Jess said. ‘They sound beautiful.’

‘They are,’ Tyler said. ‘Very desirable properties.’

‘Which would account for the hefty price tags,’ Hadley muttered.

Tyler laughed easily and convincingly.

The lift moved fast and the journey to the twenty-third floor was mercifully short, negating the need for all but the most perfunctory exchange of niceties. When the lift finally bumped to a halt Tyler stepped aside to allow Hadley and Jess out into the corridor beyond. Jess could smell the scent of freshly laid carpet and she looked wistfully at the walkway stretching away from them towards the white painted doors of the apartments beyond.

‘Have many of the other apartments been sold?’ she asked, her heels sinking into the plush carpet.

‘Nearly all of them,’ Tyler informed her. ‘ And of course the owner of the building has the Penthouse apartment for himself.’

‘I was aware of that,’ Jess said. ‘I suppose that’s a good sign.’

‘Well, he has the apartment but how much time he’ll be spending here I don’t know,’ Tyler said. ‘He’s a very busy man.’

Jess nodded.

‘And very private,’ she added.

‘Well, the penthouse is only accessible by a private lift for which just Mr Voronov and his staff have the code,’ Tyler went on. ‘But I can understand his need for privacy.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Jess echoed with a complete lack of sincerity in her voice.

‘What kinds of people have been buying the other apartments?’ Hadley went on. ‘Rich ones obviously but what kinds of business are they in?’

‘That probably qualifies as confidential,’ Tyler said. ‘But I don’t suppose it would do any harm to tell you that there are investment bankers, people from the entertainment business and even an actor among the other buyers.’

‘Which actor?’ Jess asked. ‘Is he well known? Are we going to be living near a movie star?’

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid,’ Tyler said, apologetically.

Hadley looked at her and rolled his eyes, smiling when she punched his arm.

‘Have you got somewhere to sell?’ Tyler enquired as he led them along the corridor.

‘No,’ Hadley said. ‘We’re just renting at the moment.’

‘We’re just anxious to get a place of our own,’ Hadley added. ‘I mean, renting’s just dead money isn’t it? Why give it to a fucking landlord?’

Tyler looked a little shocked by the expletive but he nodded enthusiastically and pushed the key into the lock of the door they were standing before.

‘How much do you know about the building?’ he said as he unlocked it.

‘Not as much as we’d like,’ Jess grinned.

Hadley gripped her arm and held her gaze for a moment.

Tyler pushed the door open and motioned for them to follow him into the apartment.

‘Oh, wow,’ Jess said approvingly as they followed him into the entryway.

Tyler smiled then walked onwards towards the first of the rooms that led off from the main entryway.

Hadley looked somewhat less than impressed, Jess thought.

‘It’s lovely isn’t it, darling,’ she said, emphasising the last word for effect.

‘Oh, it’s beautiful, darling,’ Hadley answered also emphasising the final word as he looked at Jess and shook his head almost imperceptibly.

As Tyler went into his well-rehearsed spiel about the apartment, Jess and Hadley hoped they were looking suitably impressed.

It was a magnificent place and the views looking out over London were stunning. Jess felt suddenly very envious and also more than a little angry that some people could afford this type of property so easily. She thought of her own mother struggling to pay her bills and it was all she could do to suppress her feelings of anger. Whoever eventually lived in a place like this would have no worries about bills. They’d have no worries about anything not when they were so well insulated by their wealth. The well off didn’t have worries and if they did they bought them off. People always said that you couldn’t buy happiness but as Jess looked around at the beautifully decorated apartment she realised even more acutely that might be true but you could be miserable in luxury if you had enough money.

She wandered towards the kitchen, pushing open the wooden door and stepping inside, glancing around. She was aware of Tyler moving in her direction as if he didn’t want the apartment to reveal its secrets unless he was the one who did the revealing.

‘I thought we’d look at the kitchen last, Mrs Hadley,’ he said, smiling that increasingly irritating professional smile of his.

Jess nodded, aware that Hadley was also looking at her.

‘I’ve just got to go back to the car for something,’ she said. ‘Is that ok?’

Tyler allowed his practised smile to slip slightly and he glanced at his watch.

‘You carry on showing my husband around,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll be back in five or ten minutes.’

Tyler looked at Hadley who merely shrugged.

‘I’m sure I can remember any important details to tell her,’ he said. ‘And we’ve got the instructions too so if there’s anything I forget we can always ring you.’

‘I won’t be long,’ Jess insisted.

‘Shall we?’ Hadley intoned, spreading his arms, the palms of his hands upraised.

Tyler nodded then pointed towards a door at the far end of the sitting room.

‘There is a terrace if you’d like to come out and see,’ the estate agent said.

‘Lead on,’ Hadley told him, smiling as broadly as he could.

Behind them, Jess was already heading for the door out of the apartment.

LONDON; 1933

He had been waiting for them.

The old man had been sitting patiently in the kitchen at the rear of the building for more than an hour now. He had felt no fear and no anxiety as he glanced every few minutes at the large clock that was mounted on the wall opposite.

He had watched the time tick around towards midnight and he had felt nothing except a strange sense of anticipation. Now as he sat motionless at the wooden table with a small glass of vodka before him he heard sounds coming from the front of the shop. First voices and then a heavy contact with the front door.

He knew the time had come.

Even when the blows against the door grew both in volume and frequency he didn’t move but just sat sipping his drink, seemingly oblivious to the commotion that was growing by the second. Even when the first loud crash of breaking glass sounded he only looked around slowly, giving the sound little more attention than he would give a buzzing fly.

When the second crash echoed through the shop he calmly finished his drink and replaced the glass gently on the table top before getting to his feet and heading not into the shop itself but towards the door of the cellar which he unlocked and pulled open.

Only then did he make his way into the shop.

He stood behind one of the display counters in the darkness, his arms immobile at his sides and he saw the glass that had been strewn across the floor when the front window had been broken. But he stood in the gloom without concern, listening now to the increasingly violent impacts against the heavy wooden front door of the shop.

It was another minute or so before the door was sent crashing inward, slamming back against the wall behind and creaking on its hinges.

Three men spilled into the shop and the old man could see that the leading pair were carrying what he recognised as a crowbar and a sledgehammer. It was those that had been used to force the door and which they now brandished menacingly in his direction. And yet still the old man didn’t move from his position behind the display case.

They shouted something at him, something threatening. And then three more men pushed their way through the doorway and faced him with only a couple of feet and the display case separating them. Some of the words they shouted so vehemently at him he recognised. Words of hate and ridicule that he had heard too many times in the past. Some of the other words he didn’t understand but he knew that they were shouted with such hatred and vehemence that they must be shot through with the same kind of antagonism he was so familiar with.

When one of the men took a step towards him, raising the crowbar above his own head as if to strike, he merely took half a step backwards but looked away from the man, his attention focused in the direction of the rear of the shop.

From there he heard a loud thud.

It was followed seconds later by another.

And now the men heard it too and two of them also looked in that direction.

More of the thuds followed, growing louder and closer.

The other men in the angry group heard them now and seemed more concerned with them than with the old man. The man with the crowbar even lowered the weapon and turned towards the source of the increasingly loud thuds. Everyone in the building knew that the sounds were coming from the cellar and they all realised too that someone was coming up the stairs from that subterranean room.

The old man stood impassively and looked at the group of men. He told them that they should leave now. Leave his shop, leave him alone and never bother him again. For a split second it seemed that his calm warning might have the desired effect. As the impacts from below grew louder and more insistent three of the men actually turned towards the door of the shop and seemed as if they would leave but instead, as the sounds filled the shop, they hesitated as if hypnotised, as if their determination to discover what was making the sounds had overridden all other considerations.

The heavy sounds had reached the top of the cellar steps. Whoever had made their way up from the room below had finally reached the same level as the old man and the group before him.

There was movement to his left in the doorway between the back of the shop and the cellar itself and the group of men finally saw the figure that stood there. The figure that had emerged from the cellar and now faced them defiantly.

Three of the men turned and fled.

The others wished they had.

FORTY-ONE

Jess closed the apartment door behind her and headed off down the corridor towards the lifts.

She glanced at her watch thinking that she had perhaps fifteen minutes before she had to get back. Hadley, she reasoned, could keep the estate agent occupied for that length of time or even longer not that her whereabouts were any of his business. As she reached the lift and hit the Call button she decided the best place to start her search was the underground car park. After all that was where the latest accident had happened. There might be some clue there.

Jess stepped into the lift as the doors slid open and glanced at the panel there. She was about to press the button that would take her down to the subterranean parking area when she hesitated, her finger hovering over one of the other buttons. She jabbed the one marked 32 and stepped back as the lift doors slid shut.

It began to rise slowly and Jess watched the illuminated numbers above the doors rising as the lift itself travelled higher.

It bumped to a halt at the thirty-second floor and Jess slipped out as the doors opened.

The only thing that appeared immediately different about this particular floor was the colour of the décor. Instead of the subtle and neutral magnolia of the floor she’d just left this floor was decorated in subdued greens and blues. Colours which Jess had read somewhere were meant to have a calming and soothing effect. She saw that there were also paintings in frames set at strategic points on the walls along the corridor. She didn’t recognise any of them but she wondered if they were the real thing and not the imitations one might normally expect.

Jess glanced around then moved into the corridor, straining her ears for any sounds of movement, her own footfalls muffled by the thick carpet beneath her feet.

The silence was quite oppressive in fact and as she moved along towards the end of the corridor it seemed almost palpable in its intensity. Jess turned a corner and saw a fire escape door. She smiled to herself and moved towards it.

There would, she told herself, have to be a manual exit even from the penthouse apartment in the event of fire, Voronov wouldn’t be able to rely on the executive lift should the place be burning, he’d have to run down a fire escape like the rest of the mere mortals in the place. And if the fire escape stairs led down then they also led up. Jess put both hands on the bar of the door and pushed.

It opened with surprising ease and Jess supposed that all of the security systems had yet to be installed. Certainly she had expected some kind of barrier to her journey through the building but she was grateful that the obstacles she had anticipated didn’t seem to be in evidence yet. She saw a set of steps to her right that led downwards and to her left that led up. Service stairs in case of lift failure she thought but exactly what these stairs were for wasn’t her concern at the moment.

She took the left flight and moved cautiously up towards the fire door above.

Even though the building was not yet occupied she was sure that the fire door that faced her now must be unlocked. She put her hand on the bar and moved it gently.

It wouldn’t budge.

She muttered under her breath then tried again.

There was a metallic groan and the bar lifted. The door opened a crack. If there were meant to be alarms around the frame of the door then those, Jess thought with relief, hadn’t been installed either.

Jess smiled and peered through the small gap.

There was a large hallway before her, the floor of bare polished marble by the look of it. Whether or not anyone was on the top floor she didn’t know but what she did know was her shoes would make an appalling noise as she crossed the marble. She slipped them off and padded barefoot onto the cold stone, her eyes darting in all directions as she tried to take in her surroundings.

Away to her right she could see what were obviously the doors to the private lift. To her right there was a solid oak door. Straight ahead a wide corridor that led towards three more doors. Jess moved onwards, glancing up at the walls for anything like CCTV or surveillance cameras. There were none or at least none that she could see. She could only imagine what kind of security a man as rich as Voronov would allow himself up here in this most private of inner sanctums but for now she moved on, not caring if she was being watched or not. None of Voronov’s security guards had appeared yet and if they knew she was here she guessed they would have descended on her by now. Jess glanced at her watch again then headed for the first door on her left.

She pressed her ear to it for a second trying to detect any sounds coming from the other side and, when she heard nothing she reached down and prepared to try the handle.

At the last minute she pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and wrapped it around the metal.

Leave no fingerprints.

She took a breath and pushed down.

To her surprise the door opened.

Jess eased it back on its hinges, relieved that they didn’t creak. The door moved slowly partly due to the incredibly thick carpet that it had to pass over as she pushed it. She took a step inside the room, glad that her bare feet were momentarily being spared the chill of the marble floor she’d just crossed.

The room was huge.

What it was eventually going to be Jess had no idea because there wasn’t a stick of furniture in it and the walls were still bare. Only the expensive carpet beneath her feet gave the room any feeling of warmth or offered any clue that it would at some time become part of a home. She moved into it and across to the huge windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The view from here was even more impressive but Jess had no time to admire the visual delights of Voronov’s penthouse. She turned towards another door, peered inside and saw that it was the kitchen so she proceeded down a short corridor that led off to her right, heading towards another door.

Still carrying her shoes in one hand she turned the door handle gently, once again slightly surprised that it opened so easily.

She stepped inside, the breath freezing in her throat.

There was a figure inside the room.

FORTY-TWO

Jess tried to back out, conscious that the figure close to the centre of the room hadn’t seen her.

Perhaps if she could turn and run fast enough she could get out of the apartment and back to the lift in time she told herself as she stepped back across the threshold, her eyes fixed on the immobile shape before her.

Only as she tried to push the door shut to hide her escape did it strike her that the figure hadn’t moved an inch since she first entered the room. Either whoever it was hadn’t heard her or was just ignoring her but how likely was that she asked herself. Her entrance had been as stealthy as she could manage but it had by no means been silent. Whoever was standing in the middle of the room couldn’t have failed to notice her. And yet they were still standing stock still, not moving an inch to look in her direction.

Jess paused and squinted more closely at the figure, finally releasing a breath which it seemed she had held in her lungs since she’d first seen the shape.

Now, instead of retreating, she took a couple of steps back into the room towards the figure. It was facing her and yet still it remained motionless as though completely uninterested in her presence. Jess frowned, her lips opening slightly as she stared almost transfixed at the shape before her.

Only as she got within four or five feet of it did she realise why it wasn’t moving.

Standing sentinel in the centre of the room was a statue.

Not the kind of statue she normally imagined when she thought of that term. This was no Rodin or David. This was the kind of thing a young child would shape from plasticene. It was rudimentary to say the least.

And it was big.

Jess guessed that it was over seven feet tall, its bulk formed by what appeared to be one single lump of stone that had been hewn and shaped by someone who looked as if they were practising their craft rather than having perfected it. There were two legs and a very basic torso with a couple of large and bulky arms that looked as if they’d been stuck on at a later date. The legs were also thick and necessarily so to support the weight of what was obviously a considerable lump of stone. Jess frowned and took a step nearer, taking several pictures of it with her Leica. Was it stone? It was grey in colour, the same hue as sun dried concrete but it was also covered by a thin film of dust, some of which drifted into the air when she touched one of the arms. Motes of it turned in the still air as it was disturbed. Jess looked down at the dust on her fingertips then brushed it away.

And now she looked at the head and saw that it too was bulky and incongruously large and it bore the most basic of features. A mouth, a flattened bulbous nose and two wide eyes that were little more than holes that appeared to have been drilled into the stone. The weight of it she could only guess at but it looked capable of dropping straight through the floor such was its bulk. She took more pictures, still puzzled by the object before her.

Was it the work of some new and much sought after pop artist who she wasn’t aware of she wondered? Surely a man like Voronov wouldn’t have this kind of monstrosity in his personal penthouse unless it was worth a considerable amount of money but this pile of rock looked as if it had been produced by a tribe of Neanderthals who had just discovered flint chisels.

It stood on a stone plinth, large and clumsy looking blocks of rock that were meant to be feet holding it upright. Jess shook her head as she surveyed it from top to bottom.

There was something scratched into the forehead.

She moved closer, peering at the markings which resembled hieroglyphics at first. They didn’t seem familiar. It wasn’t a foreign language as far as she could tell although she couldn’t be sure. She held the camera close to the symbols and clicked off several more pictures but, as she glanced at them on the screen it was difficult to make them out. She took a couple more anyway. Jess shook her head puzzled not just by the appearance of the statue but by its very presence.

Perhaps Voronov was a bit of an amateur sculptor in his spare time, maybe that explained the basic, almost childlike appearance of the shape. No doubt when the room was fully decorated and furnished it would form some kind of centrepiece or a necessary addition to what else would be placed around it but at the moment it looked all the more incongruous by its singularity.

Jess stepped away, glancing down at her watch. She’d already been gone for ten minutes. The time was passing quicker than she’d imagined. She wondered if she should make her way back down to the apartment where Hadley and the estate agent were.

Her mind was made up for her by a low electronic whirr which came from behind her.

Jess realised immediately what it was and she spun away from the statue and ran towards the door of the room on her bare feet, wrenching it open and dashing through into the next space and then onwards out onto the cold marble floor of the hallway.

The whirring sound was now louder and Jess looked to her right as she moved towards the fire escape, now sure beyond all doubt of what she had heard only seconds earlier, certain of the source of the sound.

The private lift was rising. Someone was heading up to the Penthouse.

FORTY-THREE

Jess turned and sprinted for the door, hurrying across the marble floor towards the way out of the apartment.

The whirring as the approaching lift drew closer was growing louder and she glanced in the direction of the private lift doors as she reached the way out and pulled open the door, stepping back out into the area beyond. She paused there for a moment, ear pressed to the door, straining her ears to hear if whoever was in the lift had actually finally arrived but then realising that she would be better off just getting the hell out and away from this floor.

She hurried through the fire door and to the bottom of the steps before slipping her shoes on again then she walked briskly towards the lift that would take her back down to Hadley and the estate agent.

Jess felt mixed emotions as she jabbed the Call button.

She was feeling a strange kind of exhilaration due to the fact that she’d actually managed to infiltrate Voronov’s private penthouse but also a sense of frustration because now she seemed to have even more questions. What exactly she would have asked Voronov if she’d found him inside his apartment she had no idea and how this helped her as far as investigating the series of accidents that had occurred within the building went she was also unsure.

And of course there was that statue.

The more Jess thought about it the more incongruous it seemed and again she wondered what it had been doing alone in that room.

She was still pondering these questions when the lift stopped.

It bumped to a halt and Jess glanced up, waiting for the doors to slide open.

They didn’t and also, as she looked up at the illuminated numbers above the doors she saw that she wasn’t back at the floor she’d sought. None of the numbers were lit. She had no idea which floor she was at. Muttering to herself she pressed the button marked 23 again and waited.

Nothing happened.

This time Jess swore quietly under her breath.

‘Come on,’ she whispered exasperatedly.

She jabbed the button again.

All that happened was that the illuminated numbers above the doors began to light up. Every single one of them glowed yellowish-orange, lighting one after the other in rapid succession. Jess watched them lighting up and then fading again, wondering if there was some kind of electronic fault inside the lift. The numbers had now stopped flashing she noted but still the lift remained immobile and Jess shook her head, her finger extended towards the button marked 23.

‘Jesus,’ she muttered, preparing to press it again. Just before she did there was a loud metallic whirr and the lift lurched back into life.

Jess nodded, relieved that it was moving again. Her heart was thumping fast now and when she tried to swallow her mouth was bone dry.

The lift stopped.

This time it juddered to a halt so abruptly that Jess almost overbalanced. ’Shit,’ she hissed looking up again to see that the illuminated numbers above the doors were once more flashing quickly in turn, as if the lift was rising and falling past each floor in rapid succession. Jess steadied herself against the back wall of the lift and stood there for a moment, waiting for some kind of movement either up or down, wondering if it might just be a better idea to get out of the lift wherever she was and walk back to the apartment where Hadley and the estate agent were still waiting for her.

The lift juddered into life again and Jess felt a momentary stab of concern, anxious now just to be out of this metal box that seemed to be suddenly much smaller than it was when she first got in it. She was also aware that she was breathing more rapidly than she had been a couple of minutes ago.

There were mirrors on either side of the lift car and Jess caught sight of her own reflection. She saw how pale her skin looked and she could see the look of concern on her features that she was feeling all too acutely now. She had now convinced herself that when the lift stopped again no matter which floor it halted at she would get out and walk to the apartment where Hadley was waiting for her. She nodded to herself as if to reinforce her own determination to get out of this metal box.

She was reaching for the button again when the lift dropped like a stone.

FORTY-FOUR

Jess screamed.

She couldn’t help herself. The lift didn’t just drop it plummeted. Hurtling down the shaft like a bullet along the barrel of a gun.

Jess looked up and saw that the illuminated numbers above the doors were all blazing now and her ears were filled by a loud screeching sound that set her teeth on edge and made the ordeal even more unbearable. She pressed herself against the back wall of the lift, wondering what speed it must be doing and also wondering how long it was going to take before it hit the ground travelling at such an incredible velocity.

Her breath was coming in short sharp gasps now, her eyes bulging wide with terror as she felt the lift continue to speed downwards.

It slammed to a halt.

Jess overbalanced and fell to her knees in the centre of the car.

‘Oh God,’ she gasped, trying to swallow but not managing it.

She crawled towards the doors and pulled herself upright, trying to dig her fingers into the small gap between the two lift doors. Jess used all her strength and tried to pull them apart. They wouldn’t budge. She slammed one fist angrily and impotently against the metal but nothing happened except that a sharp pain shot up her arm as far as the elbow. Jess ignored it and hammered on the metal again. If the lift had stopped on one of the floors them maybe someone would hear her and get her out.

The building’s empty. Who’s going to hear you?

She dug her fingertips into the gap again and tried to part them.

The lift shot upwards suddenly.

As if the cables that had first caused it to drop were now retracting, the car hurtled back upwards at dizzying speed. Jess stumbled backwards, slamming into the rear wall so hard that her head spun. She gasped and sat motionless on the floor as the lift continued to rise, the pace of its ascent terrifying.

Jess dug her nails into the carpeted floor and closed her eyes, praying to a God she didn’t believe in to stop the movement.

The lift continued upwards at breakneck speed, the scream of metal on metal now filling the car. Jess closed her eyes more tightly, fighting back tears now as her journey continued.

It stopped again.

The impact was so violent that Jess screamed again, the sound reverberating inside the claustrophobic space. There was a loud strident whiplash sound and Jess looked to her right in time to see a long crack had appeared in the mirror on that side of her. It had split the glass from one corner, scarring it as far as the middle of the reflective surface. Several small pieces of glass had already fallen from the frame and were now spread on the floor of the lift like glistening confetti.

Jess saw her own distorted reflection in the glass, almost transfixed by the terror in her own expression. Jess scrambled to her feet and slammed her hand against the Emergency button.

The lift dropped a few feet, then rose again just as suddenly.

More fragments of glass fell from the wall to her right.

The lift rose twenty or thirty feet higher although for all Jess knew it could have been more. She was trying to haul herself to her feet again now, her back pressed so tightly against the rear wall of the car that she feared she might push right through it into the lift shaft. The entire structure continued to rise until it halted once again and Jess looked around frantically, terrified that it was going to plummet earthward once again.

Seconds later that was precisely what it did.

Her whole body was shaking as the lift again shot downwards, that terrible high pitched shriek of metal on metal now filling the small space.

It slammed to a halt, the impact so strong that it knocked the wind from Jess.

Wheezing slightly she sat motionless on the floor of the lift, her heart hammering madly against her ribs.

Jess dragged herself upright and hit the Emergency button again then she moved towards the lift doors, banging furiously on them.

‘Help me,’ she shouted, frantically as she drove her fists against the recalcitrant doors.

Jess could feel the perspiration on her back now and the heat inside the lift seemed to be intensifying, as if someone was slowly increasing the temperature within the small compartment. She hammered again on the doors, pausing for a moment when the effort became too much but as she stood there she swallowed hard, wondering if the lift was about to fall or rise again with the terrifying speed it had already demonstrated. A thought flashed through her mind that she tried to suppress.

What if it fell again but this time didn’t stop? What if it simply hurtled to the bottom of the shaft and slammed into the ground doing Christ alone knew what speed when it hit? Jess gritted her teeth, trying to force that image from her mind. She knew she would have no chance if the lift fell. She would be pulverised, mangled in the twisted metal.

She banged the doors again and shouted.

Then she heard the voices.

At first Jess thought that she was imagining it but then as she pressed her ear to the lift doors she was sure that she had been correct. There was someone outside the lift.

FORTY-FIVE

Jess screamed and hammered on the doors with all her strength, not knowing or caring who was outside but only aware that whoever it was might actually be able to get her out.

‘Help me,’ she shouted.

Only as she was battering wildly on the metal did she think for one fleeting second that the repeated impacts might cause the lift to move again but the prospect of rescue from this metal coffin seemed more pressing than the possibility of it lurching up or down again.

‘In here,’ Jess shouted again, trying to control her breathing.

She heard the voices again and realised that they were male.

‘Help me,’ she continued.

‘Jess?’

The sound of her own name from the other side of the doors raised her hopes even further and she realised that the voice belonged to Hadley.

‘Alex,’ she called. ‘Get me out of here for God’s sake. The lift is out of control.’

She heard banging from the other side now.

‘The doors are stuck,’ she called. ‘You’ll have to force them open.’

There were several muffled grunts from the other side of the doors and then another tremendous impact.

‘We can’t get them open,’ Hadley shouted.

‘You have to,’ Jess told him. ‘You have to get me out. The lift is going to fall.’

‘Press the emergency button,’ Hadley told her.

‘I’ve done that, nothing happened.’

‘Get that,’ Hadley said to whoever was with him and there was a moment’s silence then she heard a heavy thump on the other side of the doors. ‘Jess, stand back,’ Hadley called to her. ‘I’m going to use a fire extinguisher to batter the fucking things open.’

Jess did as she was told, backing away to the rear of the lift car as Hadley slammed the extinguisher against the doors, his efforts aided by the frantic knowledge that he had to get her out. Several thunderous bangs echoed inside the lift, each impact causing the car to shudder, the sound reverberating inside it as if amplified. Jess gritted her teeth and stared fixedly at the lift doors. She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage it her throat and mouth were so dry.

Hadley struck again and a small chink of light showed between the sliding doors.

The lift lurched slightly and Jess gasped in terror. It was as if it was hanging by a slender thread, ready to plummet the full length of the shaft and slam into the ground so many hundreds of feet below.

Again Hadley struck at the doors.

She heard the other voice from the far side of the doors say something but she couldn’t make out what it was, instead the words were eclipsed by another stunning impact.

The chink of light grew brighter, the gap in the doors wider.

Jess could see Hadley now and just behind him, gazing in bewilderment at what was unfolding before him was the estate agent.

‘Help me with this,’ Hadley snapped and Jonathan Tyler stepped forward. He and Hadley dug their fingers into the gap opened by Hadley’s assault on the doors and they began to pull, trying to part the doors far enough for Jess to get through. Hadley cursed under his breath as he used all his strength on the stubborn doors. There was a creak and they opened a little further, then a touch more.

Jess felt her heart jump in her chest and she too crossed to the doors to add her efforts to those of the two men. The gap was about a foot now. Another six inches and she might be able to slip through, she thought. The three of them re-doubled their efforts.

Another inch.

‘Come on,’ Hadley snarled, his face contorted as he pushed and pulled at the doors.

Two inches.

‘Nearly there,’ he hissed.

Jess pushed one arm through the gap.

The lift fell.

FORTY-SIX

Jess pulled her arm clear in the nick of time as the lift fell a full ten feet.

She stumbled backwards, falling against the rear wall of the lift, the realisation that her arm may well have been torn off by the sudden movement sweeping over her and making her breathe even more rapidly.

‘Jess.’

Hadley looked down into the lift, calling her name.

‘I’m ok,’ she told him none too convincingly. ‘Just get me out of here.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do,’ Hadley called back.

She heard his voice again as he spoke to the estate agent, quickly spoken words that she couldn’t make out clearly.

‘There must be some workmen in the building somewhere who can open these doors,’ Jess shouted. ‘Go and find them.’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ Hadley shouted back.

There was a deafening sound of metal on metal and the lift slipped another inch or two.

Jess steadied herself against the back wall, her heart hammering against her ribs even more strongly.

‘Alex,’ she called, her voice catching.

Hadley peered through the gap once more, the concern on his face mirrored by that which Jess felt coursing through her like adrenalin. That feeling intensified when the lift began to rise once again. Jess braced herself as the lift filled with the strident screech of metal against metal. Hadley and Tyler, aware that the car was moving once again also stepped back, Hadley glancing at the gap between the doors where, seconds later, he saw Jess’s distraught face appear.

The lift stopped.

As precisely as if it had been called to that floor it stopped.

The doors slid open with the smoothness usually expected of them.

Inside the lift Jess stood motionless, seeing Hadley and Tyler gazing in at her.

Hadley took a step towards the lift, eyes fixed on the still open doors.

‘Get out,’ he said quietly as if afraid that his instruction would somehow trigger another movement of some kind.

Jess stood where she was, staring ahead, afraid that this was some kind of bizarre trick. If she moved towards the open doors she felt sure they would slam shut. If she stayed put she felt certain that the lift would fall or rise and she knew what the eventual outcome of that must be.

‘Jess,’ Hadley said quietly. ‘Get out, now.’

She took a step forward.

The doors remained open.

‘Come on,’ Hadley urged, reaching out with one hand towards the open doors, preparing to hold them apart if possible should they attempt to slide shut once again. He nodded towards Tyler who also moved forward and did the same, his fingers poised only inches from the other side of the doors.

Jess was still standing in the middle of the lift car, her breath now frozen in her mouth, drawn by the possibility of freedom but also convinced that she might be once again imprisoned.

‘Come on,’ Hadley said again, his fingers now actually touching the open doors.

Jess hesitated, inching forwards, her eyes darting towards the doors then at Hadley who was nodding slowly as if to coax her.

He beckoned with his hand, moving slowly as if even the movement would spark some kind of reaction from the lift or the doors that still stood open.

Jess moved another few inches towards the sanctuary of escape, her breath catching in her throat. She saw Tyler move closer to the doors, slipping his arm across the yawning gap.

‘Jess,’ Hadley said, quietly, still motioning her forward.

She could feel her entire body shaking now but with one monumental effort of will she practically ran forward and between the open lift doors. She slipped and almost overbalanced but she didn’t care, she was out. That was all that mattered.

She saw the smile spread across Hadley’s face as he bent to help her up and Tyler too smiled as he prepared to step away from the doors. Doors which, a second later slammed shut on his left arm.

FORTY-SEVEN

Tyler screamed in pain as the doors crushed his arm, slamming together with such speed that he had no chance to pull the limb free.

Like the jaws of a huge mantrap, the lift doors crashed together catching him just below the shoulder and pinning him there, holding him upright. He struggled to free himself, fear and pain flooding through him, the loud crack of shattering bone still reverberating in the air. Jess could see the look of agony on the estate agent’s face and she was surprised that the arm hadn’t been severed outright such had been the speed and force with which the doors had slammed shut on his arm.

Hadley tried to dig his fingers into the gap between the two lift doors, hoping once again to prise them open but they were immovable. And all the time Tyler screamed uncontrollably, his legs almost buckling beneath him.

Jess saw blood pumping from the area around his shoulder and shuddered again at the thought that the doors had shut with such force that they had indeed almost amputated the limb. There was crimson soaking into Tyler’s shirt and jacket, his face spattered with it and flecked with perspiration too. He looked imploringly at Hadley and Jess who watched helplessly as he tried to tug himself free of the doors grip. Jess got next to Hadley and both of them tore wildly at the doors but to no avail.

Then Jess heard an all too familiar metallic grinding and realised with horror that the lift was about to move again.

Whether its movement was up or down she realised, as did the two men, that Tyler’s predicament had suddenly grown even more serious.

The estate agent himself started panting wildly and attempting to drag himself even more frantically from the grip of the doors.

‘Help me,’ he shrieked. ‘Please.’

Jess looked right into his bulging eyes and saw that tears of pain and fear were welling up there.

Again the lift moved slightly, rising a couple of inches and continuing its inexorable ascent at a monstrously even pace which Jess guessed gave them less than thirty seconds to free the trapped man.

Hadley tore impotently at the doors, Tyler tried his best to pull himself free and Jess felt as helpless as she’d ever felt in her life as she stood beside the doors now able to see through the small gap that the lift was still rising. Tyler began to struggle more frantically now, like a tethered animal left as bait for a beast of prey he became more terrified by the second, trying to haul himself clear of the clinging doors, his moans of pain turning to wails of despair. He kicked against the doors as Hadley continued to push and pull at them. Jess could see blood running down the metal doors now, puddling at the bottom. Tyler’s jacket was already soaked around the shoulder, the garment like a crimson sponge where his arm was caught. He shouted something frantically that Jess couldn’t make out then, with a loud hiss, the lift shot upwards.

It severed Tyler’s arm effortlessly.

He fell to one side as his arm was sliced off at the shoulder, blood spurting madly from the stump.

Some of the crimson fluid spattered Hadley and Jess but the majority of it shot up the metal doors of the lift and across the floor, spreading out in a large pool around his twitching body.

Jess was already grabbing for her mobile and calling the emergency services while Hadley knelt beside the stricken estate agent, gazing down helplessly at the piece of bone visible through the pulped shoulder muscle and torn flesh.

Hadley pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it uselessly against the spurting stump, the material soaking up Tyler’s blood almost immediately. The estate agent was already close to unconsciousness and Jess held his head, feeling the sweat and blood on his skin as she cradled him. The blood that was spilling out around him washed against her shoes and she shuddered, trying to fight back the feelings of nausea that filled her.

‘Sit him up,’ Hadley said, helping Jess prop Tyler against the wall close to the lift.

‘He’ll bleed to death before the ambulance arrives,’ Jess gasped.

Tyler moaned feebly beside her, his body still shuddering as if an electric shock had been pumped through it.

Hadley looked despairingly at her then at the estate agent whose face was the colour of milk.

Blood was still jetting from the veins and arteries in his shoulder and every time Hadley tried to apply more pressure to the savage injury he was sprayed with more crimson fluid. The handkerchief he’d used as a temporary and woefully inadequate dressing was now completely drenched with blood and dripping. He blenched as he wondered whether or not he should wring it out. Tyler spasmed violently in Jess’s arms then lay still.

‘Oh Jesus,’ she whispered.

Hadley looked down blankly at her, his face pale.

The estate agent wasn’t moving now and his eyes had rolled upwards in their sockets. Hadley bent and pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, feeling frantically for a pulse.

He looked at Jess and shook his head.

Jess backed away, allowing Tyler’s head to fall to the ground where it landed with a rather loud crack. With one shaking hand she held the camera phone before her and clicked off several shots.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Hadley snapped.

Jess didn’t answer him she was gazing fixedly at the body of Tyler.

‘The blood,’ she said, softly.

Hadley nodded.

He glanced at the body of Tyler again, his face dropping, his mind struggling to cope with what he saw.

The estate agent, his arm severed at the shoulder, had been surrounded by a spreading pool of blood, some of which had also spattered the walls and the doors of the lift.

There wasn’t a single drop of the crimson fluid to be seen.

Hadley shook his head and backed away from the estate agent, stopping when he was standing beside Jess, both of them gazing down as if in a trance.

‘Where’s the blood?’ Jess murmured.

FORTY-EIGHT

‘How many times do we have to tell you? That’s what happened. That’s what we saw. If we could have saved him we would.’

Jess puffed on her cigarette and leaned back against the wall behind her.

The policeman before her regarded her with a combination of disbelief and surprise as she went on, occasionally brushing strands of hair from her face.

‘It is a little difficult to believe,’ the policeman said, glancing first at Jess and then at his notebook.

‘Tell me about it,’ Jess chided. ‘I saw it and I still don’t believe it.’

The uniformed man looked her up and down and Jess shot him an irritated glance.

‘If you’ve got all the information you need, would it be ok for us to go and get cleaned up?’ she snapped.

‘All right miss,’ he said, quietly. ‘I think that’ll be all for now.’

Jess dropped her cigarette to the ground and walked towards where Alex Hadley was speaking to another uniformed man. They both turned as they saw her approaching. She heard Hadley say something to the policeman then he nodded and moved away towards Jess.

‘What did you tell them?’ she enquired.

‘I told them what we saw,’ Hadley informed her. ‘What the hell else was I going to say?’

‘What could have caused the lift to do that?’

Hadley could only shake his head.

‘Do you believe me now about these accidents?’ she went on. ‘It was like the lift was …’

‘Was what?’ he asked as she hesitated.

‘It was like it was trying to kill me,’ Jess said, flatly.

‘Fuck off, Jess, that’s ridiculous,’ he grunted.

‘First me, then the estate agent and you saw what happened with the blood from his shoulder. There was lots of it, Alex and then it was gone. Explain that to me.’

‘I can’t at the moment but there has to be some logical explanation, it’s …’

‘What? What were you going to say?’

‘I don’t know what I was going to say. Listen, we’ve both been through a lot, this isn’t the time to start trying to analyse it. We need to sit down and look at all the facts.’

‘The fact is that another man just died because of that fucking building,’ Jess snapped, jabbing an accusatory finger in the direction of the Crystal Tower. ‘Another one, Alex. Another in a long list.’

‘He died in an accident, Jess.’

‘Just like the others did.’

‘An accident,’ Hadley said more forcefully.

‘Then explain the blood,’ she said, defiantly. ‘His arm was cut off, there was blood everywhere and then it just disappeared without a trace. Was that another accident, Alex? Was that something you can just explain away?’

Hadley shook his head.

‘No, I’ll give you that,’ he sighed. ‘That was strange.’

Jess grunted.

‘Strange,’ she repeated. ‘Everything about that building is strange.’

Hadley raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak.

‘And what about this?’ Jess said, reaching for her phone. ‘What the hell is it?’ She pushed the phone towards Hadley who frowned when he saw the picture of the shape that she’d photographed in the penthouse apartment. ‘And what’s it doing in Voronov’s private apartment?’

Hadley studied the shape; scrolling through the other pictures of it Jess had taken.

‘It’s a statue,’ he said.

‘What of?’ Jess wanted to know. ‘What the hell is it supposed to be?’

Hadley looked more closely at the picture that showed the head of the figure. He frowned. Jess saw his expression darken and moved closer to him.

‘I used to know someone in Voronov’s press office,’ Hadley murmured. ‘I’m not even sure if she’s still there.’

Jess shrugged, looking blankly at her companion for a moment.

‘She might have some inside information?’ he revealed.

‘Like she’s going to give it to you?’ Jess sighed. ‘That man is locked down tighter than Fort Knox, Alex and you know it.’

‘Might be worth a try,’ he insisted.

‘So you do think there’s something going on?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Have you still got her number?’ Jess wanted to know.

Hadley nodded.

‘I think so,’ he said.

He handed the phone back to Jess and, as he did, he glanced once more at the picture of the statue.

Jess noticed that his hand was shaking slightly but she didn’t ask why.

FORTY-NINE

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson murmured something under his breath, shaking his head and looking down from the window.

He looked down at the tarpaulin that covered the ground below him. Huge sheets of material hid the pavement and tarmac in all directions for a full fifty yards and were now surrounded by blue and white strips of tape that carried the legend; POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. Johnson had considered closing the whole of Hill Street but had decided against it considering how busy the thoroughfare became during the course of the day and besides, forensics had advised him that they had a good enough area to work in and that initial examination of the scene outside meant that no evidence was thought to be scattered beyond the fifty yard exclusion area anyway. As he looked more closely he could see several dark stains where the blood beneath had soaked through the material and he made a mental note to get some less absorbent covering put over the site until it was cleaned up. Any passers by might see the traces of destruction and it wasn’t pleasant. The aftermath of a murder never was.

Inside Adrian Murray’s office, where Johnson now stood, other men in overalls were moving about, examining objects, taking samples, bagging specimens. The usual circus that resulted from events of this kind, Johnson thought glancing around the room.

He himself had arrived at the scene an hour or more ago alerted to what had happened by a phone call.

The D.I had already been over the office and its approaches, allowing just his expert eye to take in details of the scene. He’d taken a more cursory look at the debris below then returned to the fourth floor where he now continued to gaze out of the window for a moment longer, seemingly oblivious to the sounds and movement around him.

When he turned back and glanced around the room he looked more closely at what lay before him.

The place was a ruin. There was no other word to describe it. The destruction that had been wrought inside was quite breathtaking. Furniture had been obliterated not just smashed.

It appeared that the damage had been systematic and that everything in the room had been destroyed with relish. Much of the carpet was spattered with blood and these pools and puddles had already been examined by the team of forensics men and verified as belonging to Adrian Murray, the man who had been killed the night before. Johnson had met him a couple of times before and wondered who he could have offended or crossed to incur this kind of fury. He was still pondering that fact when he glanced up and saw Detective Sergeant Powell making his way into the room. The DS paused and motioned to Johnson to join him out in the corridor and Johnson nodded and did as he was asked, weaving his way between the forensics men who were still busy collecting specimens.

‘The initial signs are that Murray was the only one in the building when he was attacked,’ Powell began as the two men walked slowly along the corridor towards the stairs that would take them down to street level. ‘There are no other prints in his office other than his and those of people who worked here, prints you’d expect to find.’

‘Nothing from the killer?’ Johnson murmured.

‘Not that we can find so far. Just this.’ Powell held up a small evidence bag which contained several large particles of a grey matter Johnson couldn’t identify at first. He took the bag from Powell and held it up to the light.

‘What is it?’ the D.I wanted to know.

‘Clay residue,’ Powell told him. ‘Same as we found at Brian Dunham’s house. There’s more of it in the lift and on the carpet leading to Murray’s office.’

‘Clay,’ Johnson murmured.

‘The same residue is all over the body too,’ Powell went on. ‘Well, what’s left of the body.’

The two men continued down the stairs and through the foyer of the building, finally emerging into the street where they turned a corner and headed towards the tarpaulin that had been spread out across the ground.

‘Let’s have another look,’ Johnson said and his companion lifted some of the tarpaulin to reveal a shape nestled beneath a piece of plastic sheeting.

He lifted that too and Johnson looked down at the body of Adrian Murray.

‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured, his eyes surveying the incredible damage that had been done to the body. ‘Whoever did this made sure, didn’t they?’

The two men stood gazing down at the corpse for a moment longer, each regarding it with a professional eye but also forced to suppress what was their own growing revulsion to what lay before them.

‘Forensics say that the head was almost pulled right off before he was pushed from his window,’ Powell said. ‘There’s only a couple of vertebrae and some muscle keeping it attached. And it was pulled off bodily. No sign of weapons. No knives, no axe. Nothing.’

‘So all the injuries he sustained were inflicted up there,’ Johnson said, glancing up at the office window four floors above. ‘Then he was thrown out into the street.’

Powell nodded.

‘If a body falls from a window, it drops straight down, like a stone, right?’ the DS went on. ‘Murray’s body is more than fifteen feet from the side of the building. Whoever killed him, picked him up and threw him from that window. What do you reckon he weighed, twelve, thirteen stone?’

‘About that?’ Powell concurred.

‘How strong does someone have to be to throw a thirteen stone man fifteen feet after physically almost pulling his head from his shoulders?’

The words hung on the air like a bad smell.

LONDON; 1933

A passer-by had seen the bodies and approached a policeman on the beat down by the Embankment.

Instructing the passer-by to remain on the steps leading down to the shore, the constable made his way slowly down towards the mud below, his heart beating a little quicker. If he was honest with himself he was hoping this was some kind of false alarm, he was due to finish his shift in less than an hour and the last thing he wanted was to be embroiled in something when he was meant to be heading home. The night shift was usually quiet and he was thankful for that. It had been again the previous night. All he’d had to deal with had been a couple of drunks and a family argument between a man and his wife which had been resolved purely by the use of common sense he thought, congratulating himself. Now the constable moved wearily towards the bottom of the stone steps hoping that his workload was not to be increased but also increasingly worried that it might be.

In the dull light that comes just before the dawn it was difficult to make out shapes at first but as the constable moved nearer, trying to avoid sinking up to his ankles in the sucking mud of the shore, he could see that there was indeed something just ahead of him that resembled a human body.

Or had done once.

As he moved closer, instructing the accompanying member of the public to keep back, he began to see more details as he squinted through the gloom and those details, he decided would have been better hidden by the night.

The constable felt his stomach contract and for a second he feared he might lose control completely and vomit such was the sight that met his horrified eyes. And he was a man well used to the destruction that could be wrought on a human body. He’d been in the Finchley Rifles during the last two years of the War, fifteen years earlier and during that time he thought he’d seen horrors he would never witness again.

What he saw before him now made him question that assumption.

The body consisted of a torso and legs. Both arms had been severed at the shoulder and the head also appeared to have been cut off. Only as the constable reached for his notebook with one shaking hand, peering closer to the destruction, did he realise that the head wasn’t missing. It had been pulverised to such an extent that all that remained atop the shoulders were portions of skull and tendrils of flesh. It looked as if something heavy had been used repeatedly not just to fracture and destroy the skull but actually to drive it downwards into the torso itself. He saw too that the arms, which he’d initially thought had been cut off, had actually been removed clumsily and not with an edged weapon as he’d assumed.

The tendrils of flesh, portions of muscles and sinews at the shoulders seemed to indicate that the arms had been torn off not cut off.

The constable blew out his cheeks, aware that he was sinking into the muddy shore not merely because it was wet with the water of the great river before him but also because blood had spread out around the corpse and was helping to make the terrain soggy. He could smell the coppery odour in the morning air. A smell he also recognised from his days in the army. He pushed his notebook back into his jacket, deciding that no amount of notes was going to help.

As he prepared to straighten up he realised that there was another dark shape lying two or three yards away, closer to the river’s edge.

Even without approaching it he knew that it was the remains of another body.

Close by was an arm, torn off at the elbow.

The third body had been eviscerated and the constable saw that thick coils of intestine were protruding through a rent in the torso that had been opened from groin to sternum. He could also see portions of shattered ribcage gleaming whitely within the gory mess.

The constable was sure of only one thing now. He needed help. He needed support.

With his teeth clamped firmly together he staggered backwards, intent only on reaching the nearest phone and calling for help.

He heard the passer-by shouting something to him but he merely blundered past and up the stairs, his head spinning and his stomach somersaulting.

As he reached the top of the stairs he saw another uniformed man approaching him and he stumbled towards the other constable, preparing to tell him too what he’d saw. As it was, he merely doubled up and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach.

FIFTY

‘If he finds out about this there will be trouble.’

The voice echoed around the inside of the hallway of the Penthouse suite of the Crystal Tower, the accent was East European, some of the words spoken falteringly but with a note of fear.

‘How could it happen?’

The other voice, also Eastern European, was deeper, befitting the size of the man who spoke the words.

‘How it happened isn’t important,’ the first voice said. ‘What matters is that no one ever finds out about it.’

The woman who spoke the words paced agitatedly back and forth, the sound of her high heels clicking on the marble floor.

‘Where the hell were you and your men?’ she snapped. ‘How did someone just walk into this place without being seen?’

‘You cannot blame us.’

‘Why not? You’re supposed to be in charge of Security here. Who else should I blame? Who do you think he would blame?’

The tall man pulled at his tie as if it were suddenly tightening around his neck. He swallowed and looked at the woman who was now standing facing him, hands planted on her hips.

‘We have a record of every person who came in and out of the building today,’ the tall man said. ‘We’ll find out who it was.’

‘For now we have to check the whole apartment,’ she said. ‘Find out if whoever got in went in any of the other rooms.’

‘And how will we know?’

‘Just check the other rooms, you fucking idiot,’ the woman snapped. ‘We’ll know.’

‘Don’t call me a fucking idiot,’ the man rasped. He took a menacing step towards her. ‘You said there was no need for him to know that anyone had ever been in here. You and I are the only ones who know. If we’re sensible it will stay like that.’

‘It had better stay like that,’ she intoned.

‘When does he arrive?’ the tall man asked.

‘Tonight at eleven, he changed his plans at the last minute.’

‘Why wasn’t I told?’

‘I’m telling you now.’

‘The car will pick him up from Heathrow and bring him straight here. It’s all been arranged.’

‘And who arranged it?’

‘I did.’

The tall man nodded slowly.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We have more than six hours before he arrives.’

‘We’d better start. We’re going to need that time.’

FIFTY-ONE

The towel was stained with blood.

Jess splashed her face with water once again and looked down at the material as she prepared to wipe more of the congealed fluid from her skin. It looked like rust on the towel, not the vivid bright red of fresh blood but an old and faded colour. Like a memory someone tries to retain but can’t. She shook her head, dismissive of her own clumsy metaphorical thinking, folded the towel and walked out of the small bathroom carrying it.

She found Hadley in the kitchen making tea.

‘I didn’t know where to put this,’ she said, holding up the towel.

‘Just chuck it on the side,’ he told her, nodding towards the nearest worktop.

‘This is a nice place, Alex,’ she said, glancing around. ‘I don’t know why you were moaning about it.’

‘It’s a fucking shoebox,’ he told her. ‘More than two people in here and it’s crowded. Not that there’s ever more than two people in here.’ He dropped a tea bag into the sink. ‘The people upstairs had a party the other week. Thirty fucking people in a place this size.’

‘That must have been fun for you.’

‘They told me they were having it. I went out that night so the noise didn’t disturb me. They were all right, a decent couple in their late thirties. Trouble is they moved out a few weeks ago and two young girls moved in. I don’t know what they do up there but the banging on the floor sometimes drives me fucking crazy. It’s the bastards downstairs who really piss me off though. Poles or something. Noisy bastards. It’s like they can’t just close doors they have to fucking slam them all the time and they’re at it all times of the day and night. Bastards. You hear everything through these walls and ceilings, they’re like cardboard.’ He took a teabag from his own mug and tossed it into the sink with the other.

‘You could ask them to watch the noise couldn’t you?’ Jess offered.

‘They just pull the “no speak English” shit when that happens,’ Hadley snapped.

‘Why don’t you move out?’ Jess asked, sipping her tea.

‘To where?’ he grunted. ‘I can hardly afford to live here.’

‘Is it as bad as that?’

‘It’s every bit as bad as that,’ he said, flatly.

Jess studied him for a moment and saw the look in his eyes. It was a mixture of sadness and anger. They were emotions Hadley knew only too well these days.

‘Anyway,’ he said wearily. ‘Talking about it isn’t going to make it better. Let’s do what we came back here to do shall we?’

She followed him into the second bedroom where he sat down at a computer. Jess perched on the corner of the small desk beside him and looked at the screen that was already flickering.

‘There isn’t going to be anything more on there about Voronov, the Crystal Tower or any other part of his life than we already know,’ Jess said, sipping her tea.

‘What about his background?’ Hadley asked.

‘What are you going to do? Look on Wikipedia?’ She chuckled.

‘What exactly do you know about him?’ Hadley wanted to know.

‘What I’ve told you before. About as much as everyone else knows about him.’

‘His family lived here in the 1930s, as you know. Here, in London.’

Jess looked at Hadley and then at the computer screen as he tapped one of the keys.

‘His grandfather moved here from Germany when the Jew baiting started,’ Jess said.

‘He lived in Prague before that,’ Hadley added. ‘His family were there for years.’

‘But I thought Voronov was Russian.’

‘Russian by Nationality. Jewish by Religion.’ He glanced at the screen that was also now displaying a couple of photos and a map. ‘His grandfather moved here in 1931 but he only stayed for two years.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He left again. No one knows where he went. If he went back to Europe chances are he ended up in a fucking concentration camp eventually.’

‘What did he do while he was here?’

‘He had his own business. He was a watchmaker. He lived over the top of the shop from what I can gather. He seemed to be doing ok.’

‘So why did he leave?’

‘His shop was burned down,’ Hadley told her flatly. ‘Someone tried to kill him.’

FIFTY-TWO

‘Why have you been keeping this information to yourself?’ Jess said. ‘You knew I was checking on Voronov. You could have told me sooner.’

‘And how would that have helped?’ Hadley challenged. ‘You’re convinced that these accidents have some kind of pattern to them, you were so caught up with that bullshit you never asked anything about Voronov’s past.’

‘Bullshit? Do you still think it’s bullshit after what we saw today?’

‘And what did we see today, Jess? Another accident, that’s it.’

‘Why are you so resistant to my ideas, Alex?’

‘Which idea would that be, Jess? That the whole fucking building is jinxed? That Voronov has somehow overseen the construction of a place that wantonly causes the deaths of people who enter it? He’s not going to target his own workforce is he? Maybe someone is trying to drive him out.’

Jess shook her head.

‘I’m not resistant to your ideas, I just want more facts,’ Hadley said.

‘So that’s why you kept this information about Voronov to yourself?’

‘I’m sharing it now aren’t I?’

She regarded him angrily for a moment then reached into her pocket and pulled out her cigarettes. She lit one and drew on it, blowing the smoke in Hadley’s direction.

‘So tell me about Voronov’s grandfather,’ she said finally. ‘How do you know someone tried to kill him?’

‘His shop was attacked,’ Hadley informed her. ‘A mob of people the police reports of the time say but they don’t say why.’

‘Anti-semitic feeling?’ Jess offered. ‘Some of the Jew baiting was worse in other countries before it got bad in Germany? I read somewhere that Austrian Jews were being persecuted long before Hitler got going and there was Oswald Moseley and his cronies here in England.’

‘That’s true, but I don’t think the attacks on Voronov’s grandfather were racially motivated. His shop was attacked four times before someone finally torched it though. Whoever was behind it really wanted him out.’

‘Where was the shop?’

Hadley hit a couple of keys on the laptop and brought up a map that bore a large red circle enveloping one small part of the diagram. Jess leaned forward and looked more closely at it, her eyes widening as she saw the address.

‘The building where Voronov’s grandfather lived was on the same site as the Crystal Tower,’ she said, quietly. ‘Do you think that’s why Voronov wanted it built there? As some kind of monument or memorial?’

Hadley merely shrugged.

‘There’s something else strange about that location,’ he said. ‘And Voronov must have known about it, the surveys and ground inspections would have revealed it.’

Again Jess looked more closely at the laptop as Hadley hit more keys.

‘The building where his grandfather lived and now the Crystal Tower itself is built over one of London’s plague pits,’ he announced.

‘I wonder how many of the residents and businesses that are moving into the Crystal Tower know that,’ Jess mused. ‘Not exactly a big selling point is it?’

Hadley smiled.

‘The pits themselves are harmless,’ he said. ‘There was talk for years that the plague that killed the people buried in them might somehow seep out but that’s bullshit. The spores that carried the plague have been dormant for centuries.’

‘Dormant or dead? Could it be reactivated under the right circumstances?’

‘No,’ Hadley said flatly. ‘I’m no expert but everything I’ve ever read on that subject confirms that the bubonic plague is not a threat to the health of those living above those pits. Christ, Jess, they’re all over London, and they found another one in Farringdon not too long ago. The city’s riddled with them, if people were that frightened and there was even half a chance of an infection starting again half of London would have to be evacuated.’

‘Do you think Voronov does know that the Crystal Tower is built over one?’

‘He must do. Like I said the surveys and inspections would have revealed that long ago. But I checked the land records, the land has stayed in his family’s name even after all these years. They owned chunks of land on both sides of the Thames including the area where Voronov wants to build that hotel complex that’s subject to planning permission now.’

Jess took another drag on her cigarette, her eyes still fixed on the computer screen.

‘Do you think Voronov deliberately had the Crystal Tower built where it was because it was on the same location as the shop his grandfather used to own?’

Hadley shrugged.

‘Maybe he wanted to get back somehow at the city that drove his grandfather away,’ Jess mused.

‘Building a luxury tower block with exclusive apartments isn’t really “getting back” at anyone is it, Jess?’ Hadley smiled.

‘But just having the building there would be like a monument to his relative, wouldn’t it?’

Again Hadley shrugged.

‘A man like Voronov never does anything without a good reason,’ he observed. ‘You could be right.’

‘You still haven’t told me why his grandfather’s shop was burned down,’ Jess reminded him. ‘Were the police at the time sure it was deliberate?’

‘All the reports said arson.’

‘I wonder why? What could Voronov’s grandfather have done to make people want to kill him?’

‘It might have been an anti-Semitic thing but I don’t think so. It’s not like he was the only Jew living in London in the thirties.’

‘People didn’t like him for some reason?’

‘It’s not that they didn’t like him, from what I can gather, reading some of the witness statements from that time, they were scared of him. Or more to the point they were scared of the other man who lived there with him.’

FIFTY-THREE

Brian Dunham scanned the letter once more and shook his head gently.

‘What should I tell them, Mr Dunham?’ his secretary asked, watching as he smiled thinly, his gaze still fixed on the paper.

‘It’s impossible,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to tell his office that there hasn’t been sufficient time or notice given. We can’t drop all our other engagements, duties and commitments just to speak to him.’

‘There were a number of e-mails too …’

‘I read them,’ Dunham interrupted. ‘Could you take care of those too and just re-iterate that our schedules are full.’

The secretary nodded and was about to leave the office when Dunham got to his feet.

‘If anyone from his office or his organisation calls tell them I’m in a meeting will you?’ he said. ‘Whenever they call I’m unavailable.’

Again the secretary turned to leave and once more Dunham stopped her, this time smiling in her direction.

‘I hope whoever replaces you can be relied upon as much as I rely on you, Theresa,’ he said.

‘You needn’t worry about that, Mr Dunham, I interviewed the candidates myself. I’m not leaving you in the hands of any old temp.’

Dunham smiled.

‘I know you wouldn’t do that,’ he smiled. ‘When is the happy event?’

Theresa Jameson touched her swollen belly gently.

‘Next month,’ she announced. ‘Unless she decides to put in an early appearance.’

‘You already know the sex then?’

‘My husband and I wanted to. So we could plan things.’

‘Like a blue or pink nursery?’

Theresa smiled and nodded.

‘Well I’m happy for you that it’s a girl,’ Dunham went on. ‘My wife and I have two daughters and they’re more precious to me than anything in the world. I never wanted a boy, I know most men do but I always wanted a girl. They’re more civilised.’ He smiled broadly.

‘Until they get to their teens,’ Theresa reminded him.

They both laughed.

‘That’s true, although my girls were never any trouble, thank goodness but I put that down to my wife’s parenting skills rather than my own. I wasn’t at home as much as I should have been when they were growing up. Work responsibilities and all that. I know it’s not much of an excuse but it’s just the way it was.’

Theresa cleared her throat.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, Mr Dunham,’ she said. ‘Did the police find out any more information about that attack on your home the other night?’

Dunham shook his head.

‘No one saw anything they told me,’ he said. ‘Nothing that was of any use in the investigation anyway.’

‘So what are they going to do?’

‘There’s nothing more they can do.’

‘Is your wife alright? It must have been terrible for both of you.’

‘I’m just relieved that our daughters weren’t there. You’ll find that once you become a mother, the only thing that matters is protecting your children and I wasn’t sure how I would have protected them the other night.’

Theresa nodded, hesitated a moment longer than turned towards the door once more.

Dunham looked down once more at the letter, signed in Voronov’s sweeping hand then he balled it up and threw it into the waste bin.

FIFTY-FOUR

‘And who was that?’

Jess took another drag on her cigarette.

‘Who was the other man?’

‘That’s the weird thing, no one knows,’ Hadley told her. ‘No one knows the other person’s name or any details about them and Voronov’s grandfather was the only person ever registered as living there at that address.’

‘If they were Jews who’d run away from Germany that’s probably not surprising. They’d have been terrified of persecution wherever they were.’

‘But they’d have had to register their names somewhere,’ Hadley said. ‘With the local council, with the police. The whole country was paranoid about foreign immigrants then and Voronov’s grandfather registered, didn’t he?’

‘Perhaps the other man had something to hide, whoever he was.’

Hadley could only shrug.

‘No name, no details, no description?’ Jess mused.

‘Nothing. It’s like he was a ghost.’

‘Maybe he was.’

‘Well, Voronov’s grandfather was from Eastern Europe wasn’t he so maybe the other man was a fucking werewolf or vampire or something. Perhaps I’d better check to see if there were any Transylvanian counts staying with him.’ Hadley looked blankly at Jess for a moment then back at the computer screen.

Jess merely sucked on her cigarette.

‘I don’t understand it,’ she murmured.

‘Join the club,’ Hadley echoed.

‘“As I was going up the stairs, I met a man who wasn’t there,”’ Jess intoned quietly.

‘What’s that?’ Hadley wanted to know.

‘A quote,’ she told him. ‘“He wasn’t there again today. I wish, I wish he’d go away.”’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s what we’re trying to do, find a man who wasn’t there.’

‘Thanks for the poetry interlude but it’s not helping.’

‘Nothing’s helping, Alex. Do the words needle and haystack come to mind?’

‘Perhaps the other man was killed in the fire,’ Hadley offered. ‘The one that destroyed the shop.’

‘It would have been in the police reports, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not if they found no trace of the body. It could have been incinerated. After all, forensics wasn’t exactly an infallible art in those days, was it?’

It was Jess’s turn to shrug.

‘Whoever the other man was it doesn’t tell me anything more about Voronov and the Crystal Tower. It doesn’t explain why so many people have died or been injured building the bloody thing. And don’t you say it’s co-incidence or bad luck or you’ll be joining the victims in the morgue.’

Hadley smiled.

‘What the hell is that?’ Jess said suddenly, her eyes drawn to the picture that was displayed on the computer screen. She moved closer. The picture was in black and white, grainy and much darker than it should have been but it was still possible to make out the content.

The picture showed a stretch of the Thames, the water lapping against the bank. There were boats passing by in the background but it wasn’t those that had caught Jess’s eye. Her gaze was fixed on the shape in the foreground. It was about ten feet from the water’s edge, half submerged in the dark waters of the river.

‘Alex, expand that,’ she said to Hadley who did as she asked.

They were both peering intently at the image now.

Hadley hit the zoom icon and the image grew larger if not clearer.

It was a figure. Tall and incredibly broad but its features were almost indistinguishable and yet there was something strangely familiar about it to Jess.

She reached for her Leica camera and scrolled through the photographs on the digital display until she came to the pictures she had taken inside Voronov’s penthouse earlier that day.

‘That’s what I saw in his apartment,’ she said, pointing to the figure in the black and white picture. ‘I swear to God it is. That’s the statue I saw in Voronov’s apartment.’

‘Are you sure?’ Hadley said, wearily.

‘Yes, look.’ She held up the phone. ‘It’s the same figure I’m certain of it.’

Hadley frowned, pointing at the computer screen and when he spoke his voice was low. ‘That picture was taken in 1933.’

FIFTY-FIVE

The plane was a Boeing 787 VIP.

Painted black from nose to tail it taxied across the runway at Heathrow at an unhurried speed, the landing lights glinting on its fuselage.

From nose to tail the aircraft was one hundred and eighty seven feet long and had a wing span of one hundred and ninety seven feet and could comfortably have seated one hundred people in normal circumstances but these weren’t normal circumstances and this plane was the property not of an airline but of one man.

Where one hundred might have sat in comfort, nine travelled in luxury barely dreamed of.

Inside the plane were a dining room, office, meeting room and one huge and exquisite state room with a bed large enough to comfortably accommodate four people (should the need arise). It was opulent beyond belief, the preserve of only those who count their wealth in billions. A monument to the absurdity and obscenity that is incalculable riches.

Passengers in other planes glanced from their own windows in wonder at the black jet as it continued its stately movement across the tarmac. Few had seen a private jet of that size and many were intrigued not just by who might own such an incredible prize but also by the emblem that adorned the tail fins and cabin sides of the craft. This decal was not the often spied livery of some well recognised commercial line but further evidence that the 787 was the preserve of one person and not of a corporation.

Those who saw the black craft could only begin to imagine the identity of the owner, scratching their heads at the thought someone had so much money they could enjoy travel in this way. Some thought it might belong to an Arab sheik, some to a film star or pop star but they didn’t know and guess was all they could do.

Even if any of those who now watched the plane had known the identity of its owner they may still have been curious. The name wasn’t well known among the general public, especially in the Western World. Those who moved in the same business would know it. Some who knew might even fear it.

The 787 slowed down as it headed towards its designated position, guided by the air traffic controller who had been in contact with it since it first signalled its presence over England just fifteen minutes earlier. The last leg of a journey that had taken just over two and a half hours, mainly because of some bad weather over France which had caused the 787 to divert slightly to miss a particularly malevolent band of thundery cloud. The pilot had requested permission to alter his flight path slightly to avoid this inconvenience. He knew that the man who owned the plane hated turbulence and anything else that might disturb him during a flight and he had sought evasive action to prevent any such disturbance.

It would be appreciated he knew. If it was even noticed.

The pilot brought the 787 to a halt and sought extra confirmation from the control tower that it was safe to disembark his passengers. There were only nine he re-iterated. Nine passengers and a crew of six, himself included.

The cabin crew would now be preparing the passengers to disembark, the pilot thought. He breathed a sigh of relief just as he did at the end of every journey no matter how far. It was almost a superstition for him, just as gently touching the silver crucifix he wore around his neck before he took off was a superstition. Before he took off he offered silent prayers that the flight would be a smooth one and when he landed he offered more silent prayers that the destination had been reached without incident. His co-pilot always smiled at the gestures, telling the captain how terrified the crew and occupants of the plane would be if they could see him praying but the pilot merely grinned and dismissed his companion’s concerns.

The crucifix had been given to him by his mother when he was just five years old and he had worn it every day since. It reminded him of her and he was grateful for the memories. He smiled thinly to himself. Now there had been a superstitious woman.

The two pilots had known each other for fifteen years, twelve of them in the service of the plane’s owner.

They worked solely for him. This was the only plane they ever flew. On the salary he paid them it was the only one they needed to fly.

The 787 seemed to shudder as it finally came to a halt and the pilots slipped out of their seats.

Inside the main body of the aircraft those who needed to disembark were preparing themselves.

Those who would leave first checked their weapons.

FIFTY-SIX

‘I don’t care when that picture was taken, that’s the figure I saw. That’s the statue I saw in Voronov’s private penthouse.’

Jess looked at Hadley and then again at the screen.

‘It’s hard to even make out what the fucking thing looks like in the old picture, Jess,’ Hadley protested. ‘How the hell can you be so sure?’

‘I know, Alex. I just know.’

‘The same way you know that people are dying inside the Crystal Tower because of Voronov?’

‘Fuck you,’ Jess snapped. ‘Don’t patronise me, I’m not in the mood.’

‘Jess, I want to believe this as much as you do but for the hundredth time, where are the facts?’

‘And for the hundredth time, how many times do I have to say to you what happened to following up a hunch. Jesus Christ, Alex have you fucked up so badly you’ve even forgotten what that feels like? When you were good at your job you knew what it was like.’

Hadley looked away from her, glancing back at the screen.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jess added quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yes, you did and you’re right,’ he said, quietly. ‘My dad used to have an expression for it.’ Hadley smiled wistfully. ‘When someone hadn’t got any guts left he used to say their arsehole had gone.’

‘I’m not saying that about you.’

‘You don’t have to say it, Jess, but it’s true. We both know that.’

Jess looked exasperatedly at him, a combination of anger and pity in her eyes but she felt that he needed neither at the moment.

‘There’s something going on, I know there is,’ she said finally.

‘Then maybe you need someone else to help you find out what it is. I just can’t do it any more, Jess.’

‘You used to tell me to believe in myself, believe in my hunches, my gut feelings. No matter what. Why can’t you do that now?’

‘It was easy for me then.’

‘You know what it feels like, Alex. You know that sense of excitement when something you feel in your gut comes true.’

‘Just because I don’t have the same gut feeling as you doesn’t mean you’re not right. I’m just trying to offer a voice of reason.’

‘Fuck reason.’

‘And fuck facts too?’

‘Just go with me on this, Alex. Believe what I believe. Help me.’

‘I thought I already had. You wouldn’t have got into the Crystal Tower earlier without me.’

‘So what are we doing now, scoring points? Thank you for your help, Alex. Do you want me owing you, is that the idea?’

‘Fuck off, Jess, you know it isn’t.’

‘I don’t know anything any more, Alex. Not when it comes to you.’

‘Then it’s just as well you’re writing about Voronov and the Crystal Tower and not me then, isn’t it?’

They looked at each in silence for a moment then Hadley shrugged.

‘Tell me what you want?’ he said, quietly.

‘I want the old Alex Hadley back again,’ she confessed.

‘Not going to happen.’

‘Then I’ll have to make do with what’s left.’ Jess smiled thinly. ‘Please, Alex.’

‘I’ll help you, you know I will. I have helped. But don’t expect too much from me, Jess. I haven’t got it to give any more.’

He looked down, his eyes heavy. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept for weeks and whose only desire was to crawl away into a dark corner and hide. He looked broken. Used up.

‘Besides,’ he said, wearily. ‘If I told you my theory you’d think I was insane.’

Jess looked at Hadley as if he was about to give the chemical equation for gold.

‘Tell me and we’ll see,’ she said, quietly.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Hadley looked straight at her, his eyes unblinking.

‘Have you ever heard of the Golem?’ he wanted to know.

‘That thing from Lord of the Rings?’

‘No, that was Gollum. I said the Golem. A creature made of clay, built to protect those who created it. There was one in a film called Dogma, it was made from shit in that,’ he chuckled.

‘Very tasteful,’ Jess said.

‘I’m just saying,’ Hadley went on.

Jess sat down, shaking her head slowly.

‘I thought you stopped drinking,’ she said, quietly.

Hadley managed a smile then continued.

‘It’s a legend,’ he said. ‘The first one, the most famous one, was built by Rabbi Loewin Prague in the sixteenth century. There have been others through the years, always built to protect people in danger.’

As Hadley spoke, Jess merely sat gazing blankly at him. As if he were a doctor giving her the prognosis on some malignant cancer they’d just found in one of her breasts. She heard the words but they weren’t quite registering.

‘It’s the Jewish equivalent of the Frankenstein story I suppose but instead of being built from body parts the Golem was made of clay,’ Hadley continued. ‘It was brought to life by someone with the power to control it. Either by symbols carved into its forehead or torso or by a small piece of parchment inserted into its mouth. Once activated it would do whatever its creator instructed. Everything from carrying water to killing.’ Hadley paused for a moment. ‘It was a statue, Jess. A statue that could be brought to life and made to do whatever the man who built it commanded. It was unstoppable. Indestructible. It had no feelings, no conscience, nothing. Just the strength given to it by its creator, the only man who could stop it once it had been activated.’

‘A walking statue?’ Jess said, quietly.

Hadley nodded.

‘Like that,’ he said, pointing at the computer screen. He picked up her phone and jabbed a finger in the direction of the figure she had photographed in Voronov’s apartment. ‘Or that.’

‘You’re saying the statue I saw is a Golem? You’re saying that Voronov’s grandfather built a Golem to protect himself in the 1930s and that now Voronov is using one to get what he wants? In twenty-first century London, a multi-millionaire businessman is using a figure made of clay to threaten or even kill anyone who stands against him?’

‘I told you you’d think I was insane.’

‘And you pissed on my idea that the deaths in the Crystal Tower might be mysterious?’ Jess grunted. ‘You asked why Voronov would kill his own workers.’

Hadley shrugged.

‘I could be as mad as you think I am, Jess,’ he said, finally.

‘A walking statue?’ she said. ‘Why would you even think that? A Golem? Why, Alex?’

‘Because I’ve heard of them before.’ He sucked in a deep breath as if the words he was speaking were difficult for him to believe too. ‘My dad was a paratrooper, at the end of the war he was captured by the Germans at Arnhem and stuck in some prisoner of war camp. He was only young, no more than a kid. It was his first real battle.’ He shrugged. ‘One of the guys he was locked up with was a Jewish doctor and my dad could never figure out why this guy hadn’t been sent to a concentration camp or just shot. I mean, the Germans were slaughtering Jews even faster as the end of the war got nearer but no one ever bothered this man or any of the guys in the same hut as him and my dad wondered why.’ Hadley exhaled. ‘The guards and even the fucking camp commandant seemed to be scared of him.’

‘Why?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘Because he built a Golem to protect himself and the men with him,’ Hadley explained. ‘My dad said he’d heard that at least three of the guards had been killed by it.’

Jess shook her head.

‘I know how crazy it sounds, Jess,’ Hadley went on. ‘I’m just telling you what my dad told me. Trust me, I didn’t believe it when I heard it. I was as sceptical as you.’

‘Did your father see this thing, this Golem?’

‘They kept it under the floorboards of the hut, hidden away but he did see it. He said it looked like a statue with some letters carved into its forehead and side.’

‘The words of the spell to bring it to life?’

Hadley nodded.

‘And it looked like the thing in Voronov’s apartment?’ Jess asked.

‘As long as a Golem has the basic human shape it can be brought back to life, it doesn’t have to have features or be anatomically accurate to function. In Hebrew it means “shapeless mass.”’

‘What about the letters on it that bring it to life? What are they?’

‘Aleph, mem, tav, which is emet and means ‘truth’ To stop it you erase the word aleph which leaves mem and tav which is met, meaning “death.”’

‘As simple as that?’ Jess said, raising her eyebrows.

Hadley didn’t speak then he said:

‘I know what you’re thinking, Jess.’

‘I’m not sure you want to know what I’m thinking, Alex,’ she told him, flatly.

‘There could be a link between the statue you saw and the deaths in the Crystal Tower.’

‘But the people who died inside the tower died in accidents, they weren’t killed by a Golem and besides, even if that thing in Voronov’s apartment is a Golem who the hell made it? Voronov himself?’

Hadley sat in silence, his eyes turning towards the photo of the figure in the waters of the Thames.

Jess was about to speak again when her mobile rang.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Brian Dunham rubbed his eyes, surprised at how tired he was feeling and conscious of his increasing drowsiness as he drove.

It hadn’t been a particularly taxing day, he thought, trying to justify this sudden attack of tiredness but the weather wasn’t helping. It had been scorching hot all day and even now, with evening well and truly in command of the sky, the temperature was still uncomfortably high. Dunham pushed the air conditioning up another level hoping that would help. It didn’t.

He thought about rolling down the window but decided it would be a self defeating exercise. If the air conditioning inside the car wasn’t helping how uncomfortable he felt then allowing the warm air from outside into the Mercedes wasn’t going to help was it? Coupled with the fact he’d have exhaust fumes to contend with as well. Dunham shook his head, rubbed his eyes and drove on.

The drive from the centre of the city to his home normally took less than ninety minutes but the traffic seemed unusually heavy this particular evening, even though he had missed the worst of the rush hour traffic, or so he’d thought. Sitting at traffic lights that seemed stuck interminably on red he glanced at other drivers in the cars ahead, behind and beside him. They all wore the same expressions of anger, exasperation or resignation. Driving through London’s traffic, Dunham told himself, tended to etch those expressions indelibly on the faces of those who did it regularly. There didn’t seem to come a point when it all became a routine. No matter how many times one drove down the clogged thoroughfares of the capital the action never became commonplace or without stress. Dunham glanced up at the red light waiting for it to change, drumming agitatedly on the steering wheel.

His mobile phone rang but he merely glanced at it, checked the caller i.d. and decided there was no need to answer the call just yet.

The lights finally changed and he pulled away, the car next to him stalling. Even through his windows that were firmly shut he heard the shouted exhortation of fury from the other driver. Dunham managed a thin smile.

A despatch rider shot past him, the sound of the motorbike engine echoing in the night despite the sound of traffic around it.

Dunham drove on. Normally he wouldn’t have been returning to his house at this time of night. Repairs were still being made to the building (he and his wife had rented a place in Kensington until the renovations were complete) and if he was honest with himself he didn’t really relish the prospect of returning to a place that still held such bad and vivid memories but he had some files there that he had to collect and it wouldn’t take him long anyway once he arrived.

As he drove he thought about the attack that had driven him and his wife out of their home. The police had not been in touch about who the perpetrator might be. It would appear that they had no further leads and despite his dissatisfaction with this state of affairs Dunham had not bombarded them with phone calls demanding action. He understood the difficulties they faced. After all, neither he nor his wife had been much help providing descriptions of the attacker he reasoned.

The thought of that night sent a shiver down his spine and he gripped the wheel more tightly in an almost involuntary action.

He turned the air conditioning higher and jabbed the buttons of the radio, trying to find some music to take his mind off that terrifying night. There wasn’t much to choose from. The usual pop garbage, some talk radio stations and a little classical. He settled on that. The soothing strains of Bach’s suite number 3 in D Major filtered into the car and Dunham smiled appreciatively.

The smile was wiped from his face seconds later when the black transit van pulled in front of him.

It seemed to have come from nowhere, Dunham didn’t remember seeing it in the rear view or wing mirrors but it swung across his path, its back bumper only a yard or so from his. He muttered something under his breath but restrained himself from hitting the hooter. He was pleased however when the transit swung away to the right at the next set of lights, disappearing at speed around a corner and out of his view.

Dunham drove on, making a mental note of the street name he was now in. The street lamps were all out. Not one of them was working it appeared. The entire street was in darkness. He switched his headlights to full beam, the twin shafts of light cutting through the gloom. As he did that he dropped his speed too.

There was another road up ahead on his right and he wondered if that was also without lights. If it was then he had better be more cautious. His own driving was fine but, he reminded himself, it was everyone else he had to watch out for. When he had watched his eldest daughter take her first driving lesson they had been his only words of wisdom to her. To remember that everyone else on the road was an idiot. If she remembered that he’d told her, she should be ok.

Dunham slowed down a little more as he prepared to negotiate the junction ahead.

He was across it when the black transit van shot out of the road to his right and swung in behind him.

Dunham blinked and shielded his eyes with one hand, momentarily dazzled by the headlights of the transit as it dropped in behind him no more than a couple of yards from his rear bumper.

‘What the hell …’ he muttered, irritably.

He flapped one hand in the air, making a gesture designed for the driver of the transit to drop back but his attempts were either futile or just ignored because the transit remained where it was, following at the same distance, its headlights still blazing in his rear view mirror.

‘Back off,’ he shouted, his words only audible inside his own car unfortunately for him.

Up ahead the road widened and Dunham stuck his right arm out of the open driver’s side window and motioned for the transit to pass him, relieved when it did with a squeal of tyres. However, when it settled about two yards ahead of him he grunted in anger. What was this driver playing at? Were his antics deliberate or was he just a truly appalling driver, Dunham wondered?

He flashed his own headlights and thought about hitting his hooter in the hope that the transit would drive away.

It remained belligerently close to his front bumper and Dunham cursed as he saw its brake lights flare. He hit his own brake in the nick of time, slowing his car to a crawl behind the transit, his anger now reaching fresh levels.

Then he saw the rear doors of the transit open and for one fleeting second he caught sight of the figure standing in the back of the vehicle. A figure which, seconds later, jumped from the transit and landed on the bonnet of Dunham’s car.

FIFTY-NINE

The impact on the bonnet of the Mercedes was incredible and Dunham gripped the wheel as tightly as he could.

Before he could react there was another thunderous blow that shattered the windscreen and sent glass spraying into the car. Instinctively Dunham raised his hands to protect his face, feeling small pieces of glass cutting his flesh but he had little time to contemplate his injuries before there was another devastating blow that shook the whole chassis of the car. The blow had been against the radiator grille but had also obliterated one of the front headlamps.

Dunham was gripped by fear, frozen in his seat as he felt his muscles tighten.

Even another blow that dented the bonnet of the Mercedes couldn’t force him from his paralysed stance. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to burst. He wondered if he could just step on the accelerator and slam into his attacker but realised that the transit was blocking his escape route.

Still strapped inside his car, Dunham now faced an appalling dilemma. Did he remain where he was, possibly even try to manoeuvre the car away from this assault or did he get out and run for his life because he had no doubt at all that his life was in danger. Whoever was landing these blows on his car seemed intent on destroying the vehicle and, he feared, him too.

You’re going to die. Right here. Right now.

That thought had barely filled his mind when another impact smashed the other front headlight and plunged the road into darkness. With the street lamps out and only the dull glow of the transit’s brake and rear lights to illuminate the scene, Dunham could barely make out the position of his attacker. However, that position became clearer when he felt a crashing blow against the roof of the car.

The metal buckled and Dunham wondered how strong his attacker must be and also what kind of implement he must be using to cause such damage so easily.

A side window was staved in, more glass exploding into the car and now Dunham finally tugged at his seat belt, slipping free of it and pushing open the driver’s side door.

All he could think about was getting away. Escaping this scene of destruction if he could. He fell from the car, stumbled back to his feet and then fell again, sprawling on the tarmac, grazing his palms as he attempted to break his fall.

Behind him there was another strident shriek of buckling metal as what remained of the windscreen was pulverised and one of the supporting struts was smashed as easily as if it had been matchwood.

Dunham tripped again and fell, looking back to see that his car was being tipped onto its side, lifted by some incredible feat of strength until it was teetering on one side then, with a deafening crash, it slammed down on its roof, upside down in the street.

He heard heavy footsteps coming towards him and dragged himself to his feet.

The incredible impact against the base of his skull stopped him in his tracks and Brian Dunham dropped like a stone.

SIXTY

Jess reached for her mobile phone and glanced to see who was ringing her. When the caller i.d. showed up as Spike she decided to take the call.

‘Hey, Spike,’ she said as Hadley watched her.

He saw the expression on her face darken, lines deepening across her forehead.

‘How long ago?’ she asked.

Hadley watched as she nodded, finally turning off her phone. She looked directly at him.

‘Brian Dunham’s been attacked again,’ she announced. ‘Spike just heard it over the emergency frequencies. It sounds serious.’

‘Where?’

‘Not far from his home.’

Hadley was already on his feet. Jess followed him, waiting while he locked the flat door before bounding down the stairs just ahead of her.

Out in the street Hadley looked back and forth, scanning the oncoming traffic for a taxi. When he spotted one he whistled at it loudly and waved his hand, watching as the vehicle pulled across to the kerb. Jess clambered into the back of the cab and Hadley joined her, telling the driver where they wanted to go.

‘As quick as you can, please,’ Hadley added.

The driver glanced at him in the rear view mirror and thought about telling him how heavy the traffic was that night but then decided against it. No point, he thought and guided the cab back out into traffic.

‘How much did Spike tell you?’ Hadley wanted to know.

‘Only what he heard on the emergency frequencies,’ Jess explained. ‘Dunham’s car was attacked. From what Spike could tell Dunham might have been hurt.’

‘Same person who wrecked his house?’ Hadley mused.

‘More than likely. But who?’

Hadley could only shake his head.

‘What about your theory?’ Jess went on.

‘The Golem?’ Hadley murmured. He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘Men as powerful as Dunham have enemies everywhere,’ Jess observed. ‘Maybe the police have got some idea by now.’

‘They didn’t have much idea about who attacked his house.’

‘But this is different, Alex. Going for him in the middle of the street, risking witnesses. I wonder if his wife was with him.’

Again Hadley shook his head. He glanced down at his watch then out of the taxi window, watching the people outside as they passed.

It was another forty-five minutes before they reached their destination.

SIXTY-ONE

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson sucked gently on his cigarette and looked down again at the body on the ground before him.

He walked slowly around the corpse of Brian Dunham, his gaze travelling over every inch of the immobile form.

Dunham was lying in a large puddle of blood that had radiated outwards from around his body. He was lying on his stomach, his body grotesquely twisted at the waist and neck, his eyes still open and staring wildly as if he were still seeing his attacker. Johnson wondered what the dead man must have witnessed before death so mercifully took him because looking at the injuries inflicted upon the body then that final oblivion must truly have been a blessing.

Most of Dunham’s lower jaw was missing, torn away close to the right ear. The remains of it were lying a few feet away, teeth scattered across the tarmac and stuck in the congealing blood like little white signposts between the lower mandible and the head of the victim. His neck had been broken so effectively and so thoroughly that the vertebrae directly below the skull, according to forensics’ initial examination, were practically powder. More damage had been done to the ribcage which had resulted not just in the destruction of the sternum and at least eight ribs but had also punctured both lungs and pulverised the spleen, gall bladder and one kidney.

Johnson knelt close to the body looking again at the face or at least what was left of it.

On the cheek, forehead and neck there was a thin coating of what looked like dust.

The same material was also on Dunham’s clothes and on the shattered chassis of his car. It appeared that the same weapon had been used to destroy the man as surely as it had the machine he’d been driving when the attack had been launched. Johnson took another drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream.

‘It looks like someone dropped him and his car in a crusher.’

The voice came from behind Johnson and he recognised it immediately but didn’t turn around. He remained where he was, crouched on his haunches, nodding slowly.

Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell stood next to his superior also gazing down at the body.

‘No witnesses?’ Johnson said, quietly. ‘Just like before when his house was attacked.’

‘The uniforms are still doing house to house enquiries but nothing so far,’ Powell confirmed.

‘So the attack must have happened fast like the one on his house. That’s why no one saw anything.’

‘And the street lights were out, that didn’t help.’

‘But the fucking noise must have been deafening. To do that much damage to a car like that, even if no one saw anything they must have heard.’

Powell glanced back at the wrecked Mercedes then down at Dunham’s body again.

‘No one saw anything when his house was attacked and now nothing when he’s killed,’ the D.S. muttered.

‘A conspiracy of silence,’ Johnson murmured.

‘A what?’

Johnson smiled and shook his head.

‘Just talking shit, Ray,’ the D.I. said. ‘Because I’ve got nothing else worth saying. Any ideas on a murder weapon?’

‘Looking at the state of the car and assuming the same thing was used to kill Dunham I’d say a sledgehammer.’

‘Sound familiar?’

Powell looked puzzled for a second.

‘Same as was used against his house?’ he offered.

‘And used by someone of incredible strength and speed,’ the D.I. went on. ‘Who the fuck uses a weapon that big with that much speed and ease?’

‘Someone twenty-five feet tall and weighing fifty stone,’ Powell said raising his eyebrows. ‘Just like before. And just like Adrian Murray too.’

‘This wasn’t done with a sledgehammer,’ Johnson said, flatly. ‘And you know that. From the look of all this brick dust or whatever the fuck it is on the body and the car it looks like someone used a concrete slab on him.’

‘So we’re back to looking for a homicidal builder then?’ Powell quipped without smiling.

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Ray,’ the D.I. said, wearily. ‘Let’s wait and see if any witnesses come forward or if the uniforms get us any decent statements then we’ll have another look.’ He straightened up, shaking his head again. ‘Just make sure you keep the fucking press away from the scene. I don’t want this all over the front pages in the morning.’

‘We set up a cordon,’ Powell told him. ‘No one’s getting through but there was someone here who wanted to talk to you. And he’s press.’

‘Who is it?’

‘He says his name’s Alex Hadley.’

A slight smile touched Johnson’s lips.

‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured. ‘I thought he was dead.’

‘Well apparently he isn’t. Shall I tell him to piss off?’

‘No, I’ll have a word with him. Where is he?’

Powell beckoned the DI to follow.

‘How do you know him?’ Powell wanted to know.

‘It’s a long story,’ Johnson said, the smile fading.

SIXTY-TWO

By the time Jess and Hadley arrived at the scene several other journalists and two film crews were also present.

‘You didn’t think we were going to have the place to ourselves did you?’ Hadley had muttered as they’d moved towards the blue and white tape that was helping to form a cordon about two hundred yards from the wreckage of Dunham’s Mercedes.

Jess had taken some pictures with her cameras, wandering back and forth as if looking for some way she could slip past the uniformed men who were also guarding the perimeter.

When she’d returned from one of these little strolls she had seen Hadley talking to a plain clothes man, gesturing animatedly to him away from the other newsmen. The plain clothes man had finally walked away, only to return a few moments later with another plain clothes officer in tow. Jess could see that the two of them were now walking in Hadley’s direction and she hurried over to see what was happening.

‘You know we said we needed some luck,’ Hadley murmured as she moved in beside him. ‘I think we just got it. The detective investigating is Bob Johnson.’

‘Do you know him then?’ Jess asked.

‘I should do. I was married to his sister for five years.’

Jess was about to say something when she saw the taller of the two plain clothes men beckon to Hadley who ducked under the blue and white cordon tape and made his way across the path towards the detective. Jess followed when Hadley motioned to her.

‘We work together,’ Hadley said as he and Jess drew nearer to Johnson.

‘Don’t think I’m going to tell you anything,’ the D.I. said. ‘Either of you.’

Hadley extended his right hand and Johnson, after a moment’s hesitation, shook it.

‘This is Jessica Anderson,’ Hadley announced and Johnson nodded amiably enough in her direction. ‘She’s a journalist.’

‘I didn’t agree to talk to you because I want to give you details of the case you know,’ Johnson said. ‘I just wondered how you were.’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘That’s what I thought. You look as if you’ve lost weight.’

‘I have. I’ve lost a lot more too.’

‘That was probably your fault, Alex. Just like losing my sister was your fault. It took her a long time to get over you, you know. Fuck knows why.’

‘It was good while it lasted, Bob, even she’d tell you that.’

‘But your career came first didn’t it?’

‘And she always knew that.’

‘Yeah, well it didn’t help her knowing that when she had the miscarriage and you weren’t around. You should have been there, Alex.’

‘How long are you going to hold that against me, Bob?’

‘I’ve got a very long memory.’

‘She was the one who divorced me, you know.’

‘Fucking good job too.’

Hadley smiled and shrugged.

‘Shit happens, Bob,’ he said, quietly. ‘A bit like tonight. What happened here?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ Johnson told him.

‘Where’s Dunham?’ Jess asked.

‘A police statement will be issued in due course, miss,’ Johnson said, flatly.

‘Any idea who attacked him?’ Hadley added.

‘Not a clue as yet.’

‘Our source said he was badly hurt,’ Jess interjected.

‘Your source was right,’ Johnson admitted. ‘He’s dead.’

‘How?’

‘We don’t know,’ Johnson told her.

‘You mean you won’t say?’ Jess pressed.

‘No, I mean we don’t know.’

‘Did he die in the accident?’ Jess went on.

‘I told you, a statement will be issued once we’ve accumulated the necessary evidence,’ Johnson told her.

‘Do you think the perpetrator is the same as the one who made the attack on his house?’ Jess persisted. ‘And the same person who attacked and killed Adrian Murray?’

‘It’s possible.’

Johnson looked at Jess then at Hadley.

‘Is this your new … companion then?’ he asked.

‘We’ve known each other for a while,’ Hadley explained. ‘We used to work together.’

‘Do you think that Andrei Voronov or his organisation are in any way involved with this incident or the attack at Dunham’s house?’ Jess interjected.

Johnson looked puzzled.

‘Why would Voronov be involved in something like this?’ he wanted to know.

‘He wants planning permission for a new hotel,’ Jess went on. ‘Dunham refused it.’

‘So Voronov had him beaten to death? Doesn’t sound likely does it?’

‘He’s been known to use force in the past to get what he wants,’ Jess reminded the D.I.

Johnson regarded her warily for a moment.

‘There were rumours that people had been threatened in order for him to get permission to build the Crystal Tower,’ Jess went on. ‘This hotel complex he’s planning is even bigger, there’s more riding on it.’

‘So you think that means he’s upped his game from threats and bribes to murder?’ Johnson said dismissively.

‘You can accept that possibility surely?’ Jess said.

‘And what purpose would killing Brian Dunham serve?’ Johnson demanded.

‘He was head of the committee that reports directly to the Westminster Council and who recommends whether or not to give planning permission. With him out of the way Voronov might get what he wants more easily. Whoever takes over from Dunham might not be so willing to oppose him.’

‘He’s a millionaire businessman, not fucking Don Corleone,’ Johnson snapped.

‘‘Behind every fortune is a crime,’’ Hadley offered.

‘Yeah, very fucking philosophical,’ Johnson grunted. ‘Now both of you piss off. I’ve already said more than I should have and I’ve got things to do like trying to solve a murder. Standing around talking to a reporter with an over-active imagination and a fucking has-been isn’t at the top of my list.’

‘What if we could help you find the killer?’ Hadley said, flatly.

Both Jess and Johnson looked at him.

‘If you’ve got information you’re not divulging, Alex you’re going to be in deep shit,’ Johnson told him.

‘Let me talk to you tomorrow,’ Hadley went on. ‘In your office.’

‘You’d better not be messing, Alex,’ Johnson told him, jabbing one index finger threateningly in his direction.

Hadley merely held the policeman’s gaze.

‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Johnson said. ‘And you’d better have something for me that’s worth hearing.’

Hadley nodded as the DI walked away.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jess asked Hadley. ‘Alex, what are you going to tell him? About the Golem? That Voronov is using some kind of living statue to wipe out his enemies? He’ll lock you up.’

‘We’ll have to see won’t we?’ Hadley murmured.

Jess held his gaze, one hand closing over his forearm, digging into the flesh there.

‘Are you really going to tell him?’ she said.

Hadley didn’t speak.

An ambulance passed them, its blue lights turning silently.

SIXTY-THREE

The smell of fried onions was strong in the night air, drifting from the burger van like some invisible cloud.

Jess leaned against the side of the van next to the painted letters that proclaimed BOB’S BURGERS and sipped tea from a Styrofoam cup. She waited for Hadley to join her then the two of them made their way across to one of several small metal tables that had been set up beside the van. It was hardly a pavement café, Jess thought, but it would do for now. Hadley sat down opposite her in one of the rickety chairs that had been placed around each small table. He took a bite of his hamburger and chewed hungrily while Jess looked on, sipping her tea and dragging on her cigarette.

‘What do you think that detective is going to say when you tell him your theory about the Golem?’ Jess asked.

‘He’ll probably throw me out of his office,’ Hadley admitted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Do you blame him?’

Hadley smiled.

Jess took another drag on her cigarette then slowly stubbed it out on the table top, smoke drifting mournfully into the air.

‘You were serious weren’t you, Alex?’ she said, finally. ‘About the Golem? About Voronov using it to intimidate and kill?’

‘It probably carries as much weight as your idea that people were dying for some reason inside the Crystal Tower,’ Hadley said taking another mouthful of hamburger.

‘Why a Golem though? Why not a dragon or a troll, or a werewolf or a fucking magic carpet?’

Hadley grinned.

‘Your scepticism and your irritation are showing, Miss Anderson,’ he murmured. ‘Do you think I haven’t considered how fucking crazy it sounds? I’m just telling you what I think. Like the man said, when you’ve considered all possibilities and even the most insane seems likely then that must be the answer.’

‘I don’t think those were the exact words,’ Jess smiled.

‘Fuck it,’ Hadley grunted. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘So Voronov’s grandfather built one of these things back in the 1930s to protect him then ran away when it killed someone?’

‘It looks like one possible explanation.’

‘The one that your dad saw during the war, what happened to that?’

Hadley shrugged.

‘The prisoner of war camp was liberated by the Russians,’ he said. ‘The prisoners were released. My Dad never said.’

‘Would he remember anything about it?’ she wanted to know.

‘He can’t remember his own name these days,’ Hadley breathed. ‘He’s not going to remember what happened during the fucking war is he?’

Jess ran a hand through her hair, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘The idea of giving inanimate objects life, like a Golem or a statue,’ she said, finally. ‘Do you think that could extend to something bigger?’

‘Like what?’

‘Something else made from clay or brick or stone.’

‘Like a building?’

Hadley spoke the words slowly but without a trace of irony or sarcasm.

‘When those workmen were killed inside the Crystal Tower, when we saw Jonathan Tyler die, the blood disappeared as if it’d been absorbed into the stonework. As if the building itself was feeding on them.’ She looked at Hadley, expecting some change of expression, perhaps some hint of incredulity on his features but she saw nothing like that.

‘You think the Crystal Tower itself is some kind of living entity?’ he said, flatly.

‘Is it any worse than your idea of a walking statue?’

Hadley shook his head.

‘It was built by a man who apparently has knowledge of some kind of … craft,’ Jess went on. ‘A man whose grandfather had that same knowledge. So he constructs that building on the site of the house where his grandfather lived, the site of the place where a Golem was built and activated more than seventy years earlier.’

Hadley looked evenly at her.

‘We don’t know that Voronov built the statue in the Crystal Tower himself,’ he said.

‘So maybe someone working for him has that kind of knowledge. Voronov’s just using their expertise. He buys everything else, why not that kind of expertise?’

‘Even if we’re right, how the hell does this thing move around without being seen? It’s more than seven feet tall, it must weigh a fucking ton. And no one’s seen it.’

‘Yet,’ Jess murmured. ‘Maybe we have to do something to see it in action.’

‘Like what?’

‘Provoke Voronov. If he thinks we’re dangerous enough he might just send it after us.’

‘So what do you propose?’

‘Tell him we know what he’s doing. Tell him we know about the Golem.’

SIXTY-FOUR

There couldn’t have been more expectation in the room if the assembled media had been waiting for a first glimpse of the Second Coming.

Jess glanced around her, noting that there were camera crews from all the major networks and journalists so numerous it seemed as if the room on the third floor of the Crystal Tower had been filled from front to back with them, each one squeezed in to ensure the maximum number of press could be present. Shoehorned into every available space. Some she recognised and nodded to every now and then. A cameraman from SKY kept winking at her everytime she caught his eye and Jess, despite the smile on her face, did her best to avoid his gaze as she continued to look around the crowded room.

Beside her, Hadley kept his gaze fixed firmly on the long table that was set up. Behind it there were three chairs and on the table itself a single crystal glass and a jug filled with iced water. Cameras were clicking already as if even the table itself was worthy of note. When the door to one side of the room opened to admit the anticipated guest Hadley could imagine the reaction. Two huge vases of flowers, filled with every imaginable colour and type of bloom towered over each end of the table and even sitting three or four rows back, the aroma of the flowers was strong but, Hadley thought, such an overwhelming display of blooms made the air a little sickly. It was like sitting inside a florist’s. Behind the table there were large standees depicting various views of the Crystal Tower including one of several smiling people standing outside the door of their new apartment, holding the key as if it were some kind of trophy. Hadley shook his head as if repulsed by the sight.

Jess checked her own cameras a couple of times as if fearing they might fail her at the crucial moment but then, satisfied they were in good order, she settled down once again to wait.

‘What if he doesn’t show up?’ she said, quietly.

‘Then we’re all going to look like mugs aren’t we?’ Hadley said, his eyes still fixed on the long table at one end of the room.

He looked at his watch, checked it against the clock on the wall of the room and glanced towards the mahogany double doors at the other end of the room. Dark-suited security men stood on either side their gaze fixed on the throng of media before them who they regarded dispassionately, even contemptuously.

It was exactly eleven-thirty a.m. when the rear doors of the room opened. Many heads in the room craned and turned to see the newcomer and a number of cameras went off prematurely.

Two huge men clad in suits that must have been handmade for them such was their height and girth, entered the room and walked to the table where they took up position at either end.

Three more followed, taking up their appointed positions at various places in the room, each facing the assembled reporters who they eyed appraisingly and, in one case, with barely concealed hostility. Each had an earpiece and they had small two-way radios pinned to their suit lapels. Occasionally one of the men would duck his head and murmur something unintelligible into the set, sometimes nodding when he got a reply, sometimes content to remain impassive.

‘Did we come to the wrong press conference?’ Jess said, smiling. ‘I keep thinking the President of America is going to walk in.’

‘He hasn’t got as much money as this guy,’ Hadley murmured. ‘And I don’t think he’s quite as powerful.’

Jess nodded and looked around the room once again. Some of the other journalists were already turning towards the double doors through which the security men had entered. She wondered if they could see anything through the newly open partition.

There was movement in the corridor beyond and most of the people in the room heard the sound of voices, some speaking with heavy Eastern European accents. Then two more figures swept into the room, the first of them a brown-haired woman in her late twenties, dressed elegantly in a charcoal grey jacket, white blouse and knee length grey skirt. She walked with almost balletic grace on a pair of precipitous high heels, moving into position behind the table, nodding and smiling efficiently at the assembled throng as she was joined by a man in his thirties who was wearing a navy suit and striped shirt. In addition to the thin moustache and goatee beard he sported, he had dark hair to his collar.

Hadley glanced at Jess questioningly but neither of them knew the man.

Their unspoken question was answered a moment later when the woman cleared her throat and, with that professional smile fixed to her immaculately made up features, began speaking.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in her Eastern European accent. ‘Thank you for coming here today. This gentleman,’ she motioned to the man with the goatee, ‘will act as interpreter if necessary. Mr Voronov’s English is good but I know that sometimes there are words you people use that we strangers struggle to understand so this gentleman is here to help if that happens.’

A small murmur of laughter rippled around the room.

‘When did Mr Voronov arrive?’ someone from the middle of the room called.

‘He landed safely at Heathrow last night,’ the woman said. ‘He has been here in his penthouse since then.’

‘Has he said anything about the continued refusal of planning permission for his hotel complex?’ another voice enquired.

‘Mr Voronov is not here to talk about other projects today,’ the woman said, her practised smile still intact. ‘Only about the Crystal Tower. Please do not ask him about other matters because he will not answer. A press release will be issued in due course that should answer any questions you may have about his other interests here in London.’

She looked up at the wall clock then at her own expensive watch and nodded towards the two security guards who flanked the doorway.

‘Here we go,’ Hadley murmured.

Jess glanced in the direction of the open doors.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ the woman in the charcoal suit announced. ‘Mr Andrei Voronov.’

SIXTY-FIVE

More security men swept into the room and as they did, Jess realised that they were actually flanking another figure who was walking in their midst like a man who had accidentally wandered into a rugby scrum.

He was shorter than his guards, not immediately visible to the assembled throng despite the fact that many cameras clicked as the gaggle of people entered the room and three or four TV cameras tracked the procession of newcomers as they made their way from the doors to the table at the front of the room.

Only as they reached that table did Andrei Voronov emerge from within the cocoon of security men and take up a position behind the table between the suit clad woman and the  interpreter.

Jess took some pictures of him then looked more closely at the mysterious man.

He was a lean, tall individual dressed as she would have expected in an immaculate navy blue suit and a white shirt that was almost dazzling in its purity. He had thin features and his hair was greying slightly at the temples but that only added to his appearance. He was, Jess decided, an attractive man and as he looked around the room at the horde of media who had awaited his arrival she thought she even saw the hint of a smile on his lips. He settled easily into his seat looking very comfortable before the assembled throng and certainly not looking like the cold, aloof and distant individual she’d been expecting. It was, she decided, like ripping the mask from the Phantom of the Opera only to discover that the features beneath more closely resembled Brad Pitt than a disfigured monster. She smiled at her own clumsy analogy and took some more pictures as the murmur of voices which had greeted Voronov’s arrival in the room gradually died to nothing.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ Voronov said, the hint of a grin Jess had seen finally spreading into a fully-fledged smile which seemed to contain genuine warmth. ‘Thank you for coming.’ His accent was even less intense than the woman next to him. His diction and his tone were perfect. Jess was beginning to wonder even more why the interpreter was needed. Voronov spoke better than most of the people in the room waiting for him, she told herself.

‘I hope that this Press Conference will answer some of the questions that have been asked about my business interests here in London and, in fact, about my very presence here in your city,’ he went on. ‘I know outsiders are not always welcome despite your famous English hospitality.’

There were some chuckles and Voronov seemed to warm to his subject, relieved that his arrival had been greeted more with polite acceptance than hostility and mistrust. There was plenty of time for that later, he thought.

‘Why did you decide to call this Press Conference, Mr Voronov?’ a man in the row behind Jess and Hadley asked. ‘You’re renowned as a private man, a recluse almost. What made you want to expose yourself to the press like this?’

There were more laughs from around the room. Voronov reached for the glass of water which the woman beside him had just poured for him, sipped it then looked at the questioner.

‘As you know, the Crystal Tower opens very soon and I wanted to do as much as I could to help with its launch and to ensure that it receives the right kind of publicity,’ Voronov said. ‘I have seen many articles and news stories that only seem to show the bad side of it. How it has disrupted London. How it has changed the landscape for the worse. I wanted people to remember that it has also already done and will continue to do much good for this city.’

‘How many jobs did it create?’ a voice asked.

‘Over five thousand people were involved at various times during the construction of the building,’ Voronov said. ‘The creation of five thousand new jobs must be a good thing. I’m sure you would all agree.’

‘And how many businesses are moving into premises inside the Tower?’ another wanted to know.

‘There are more than one hundred businesses setting up inside the Crystal Tower so far,’ Voronov said. ‘I can’t be sure how many people they will employ but it will be a lot. So, the tower has been and will continue to be an asset to London and the people who live here.’

Jess kept her gaze fixed on Voronov as he spoke, noticing that not once did his gaze drop or his tone falter. For a man who spent so much time alone and out of the spotlight he certainly wasn’t fazed by being in it now. He spoke like a seasoned orator, working the room verbally as efficiently as anyone she’d ever seen.

‘Is it true you’re trying to build a hotel complex not far from here, Mr Voronov?’ one of the other journalists wanted to know. ‘But planning permission has so far been refused.’

‘Mr Voronov will be answering questions only about the Crystal Tower,’ the woman next to the billionaire said, sharply. ‘I did say that before he arrived.’

Voronov merely smiled and put one hand on the woman’s arm.

‘I will answer the question,’ he said, quietly. Then he turned and looked at the man who asked it. ‘I did apply for planning permission to build a hotel nearby and yes, so far it has been refused.’

‘Why do you think that is?’ the same reporter enquired.

Voronov shrugged.

‘I encountered much resistance to the Crystal Tower when I first enquired about planning permission,’ he said. ‘I am told that those responsible for granting permission must have good reasons for denying it. But so far no one has given me any good reasons.’

‘What made the authorities change their minds concerning the Crystal Tower?’ another voice asked. ‘There were rumours of bribes and possibly even threats.’

Voronov smiled.

‘You have been watching too many gangster films, my friend,’ he said, smiling even more broadly.

There was more laughter in the room.

‘I am a businessman,’ Voronov went on. ‘I do not threaten people. I have people working for me who do that.’ Again he smiled and again there was laughter.

Jess looked at Hadley and raised her eyebrows.

‘I am not the kind of man who is used to hearing the word no,’ Voronov said, lightly. ‘In business I believe that one must always believe that anything is possible and must do whatever can be done to make things happen. What is that saying you have here? “The end justifies the means.” I believe very strongly in that.’

‘Are there any plans to build structures like the Crystal Tower in other parts of the world?’ someone wanted to know.

‘There are already plans to construct similar buildings in Prague and Moscow,’ Voronov revealed. ‘The early stage planning is well under way.’

‘Do you see these buildings as a legacy?’ another journalist wanted to know. ‘A monument to your presence, if you like?’

‘Well, everyone likes to know that they are leaving a little of themselves in this world, don’t they?’ the billionaire said. ‘That must be why you all write. You want to leave something of yourselves in this world.’

More laughter greeted the remark.

Voronov looked around the room waiting for the next question.

‘Will you be in London for the opening of the Crystal Tower, Mr Voronov?’ someone wanted to know.

‘Unfortunately no,’ the billionaire said. ‘I have business to attend to elsewhere but I will be flying back here frequently to check on things. I have a wonderful staff but I like to keep close to all of my business interests. I like to keep my finger on the pulse. That is what you say, isn’t it?’

There was more good humoured laughter.

Voronov smiled and seemed to be luxuriating in the atmosphere within the room.

‘There were lots of accidents during the construction of the Crystal Tower,’ Jess said, raising her hand so that Voronov could see her. ‘Does that bother you, Mr Voronov?’

‘Accidents are unavoidable in a project of this size I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘Obviously I am sorry if anyone was injured but you cannot blame me for that.’

‘More than seventy people were killed during the building of the tower,’ Jess went on. ‘That’s a huge number.’

‘And a very regrettable number,’ Voronov said, gently. ‘If anything could have been done to avoid those accidents I’m sure it would have been. How many people were involved in accidents during construction of the Empire State Building? Or the Petronas Towers? Or even your own Wembley Stadium? As I say it was very regrettable but there is nothing sinister about it.’

‘No one implied that, Mr Voronov,’ Hadley went on. ‘We’re just asking questions about how many people were killed, not just injured but who lost their lives during the building of the Crystal Tower.’

Voronov nodded sagely.

‘It is regrettable as Mr Voronov said,’ the woman in the grey suit interjected. ‘But this press conference was called to discuss the future of the Crystal Tower not its past. Has anyone else got any questions?’

‘Was it a coincidence that the Crystal Tower was built on the site of the place your grandfather used to live?’

Jess stood looking fixedly at the billionaire as she asked the question.

If he felt any twinge of surprise he didn’t show it.

‘Congratulations on your research,’ he said, quietly, his smile only slipping slightly.

‘The Tower is built on the same site isn’t it?’ Jess went on. ‘Did you intend it as some kind of monument?’

‘That is not relevant,’ the woman in the charcoal suit said.

‘Why was your grandfather forced to leave London in the 1930s, Mr Voronov?’ Jess went on. ‘Why did he run away? What did he do that made him get out so quickly? What was he running from?’

SIXTY-SIX

The smile was still on the billionaire’s face but it was now beginning to look as if it was there purely and simply because it had been frozen into that position.

‘That is a strange question,’ he said, finally. ‘Why are you interested in my family? Or in something that happened decades ago?’

‘I’m a journalist, we’re curious people by nature,’ Jess told him.

‘It is correct that the Crystal Tower is built on the site of where your grandfather used to live?’

This time the voice belonged to Hadley who was now standing beside Jess.

‘That is true,’ Voronov conceded. ‘There is no mystery about that.’

‘But there was a mystery surrounding your grandfather, wasn’t there?’ Jess went on. ‘There have been lots of mysteries in your past, Mr Voronov. Are you a secretive man?’

The woman in the charcoal suit glared at Jess.

‘That’s enough,’ she snapped. ‘It was understood that Mr Voronov would be answering questions only about the Crystal Tower. These questions about his family and his past are rude and unnecessary.’

‘Only if he has something to hide,’ Jess said, unimpressed by the woman’s tone and withering gaze.

‘And what do you think I’m hiding then, Miss?’ Voronov challenged.

‘I have no idea, Mr Voronov,’ Jess told him. ‘But if you’d like to share some of your secrets with us I’m sure your candour would be appreciated.’

‘I have no secrets,’ Voronov said. ‘Not that are any of your business.’

‘What about the truth?’ Jess pressed. ‘Is that our business?’

‘This is outrageous,’ the woman in the charcoal suit hissed. ‘I will have to ask you to leave. I will have to ask all of you to leave. This Press Conference is over.’

There were shouts from inside the room.

‘It’s a valid question,’ Hadley shouted, raising his voice to make himself heard over the growing din inside the room.

Despite the activity around him, Voronov remained immobile behind the table, his gaze fixed on Jess. Even the fixed smile he wore had stayed in place. Two of the security guards had moved closer to the table but other than that there was no movement from anyone except the woman in charcoal suit who was gesticulating angrily, her eyes also homing in on Jess like laser sights on a target.

‘I have nothing to hide,’ Voronov said. ‘You people are all the same, in every country. You accuse without reason. You persecute because it is easier than it is to understand and know someone. You are all the same.’ He got to his feet, flanked now by his security guards.

‘The man who refused planning permission for your hotel was murdered recently,’ Jess shouted. ‘How do you feel about that, Mr Voronov?’

The billionaire was heading for the doors now, his gaze never straying from the back of the security guard who walked directly in front of him.

‘His name was Brian Dunham,’ Jess went on. ‘Did you know him?’

Voronov didn’t turn, he continued on his way out of the room, the woman in the charcoal suit and the interpreter now hurrying to join him among the throng of security men.

‘He was beaten to death, Mr Voronov,’ Jess called after him.

‘Why don’t you shut up.’

The voice came from behind Jess and she turned to see one of the other newsmen glaring angrily at her.

‘We’ll probably never see him again now because of you,’ the man snapped. ‘You were supposed to keep your questions to this place, not start asking the kind of stupid questions you were asking. What’s wrong with you?’

‘He’s news, I’m doing my job,’ Jess rasped. ‘Perhaps if you did yours better instead of spending your time kissing his arse you’d have a more interesting story to write.’

‘What the hell has Brian Dunham’s death got to do with Voronov?’ the other journalist went on.

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ Jess told him, turning away from him in time to see Voronov disappear into the corridor beyond. The double doors slammed shut behind him.

‘I think you got his attention,’ Hadley said, quietly.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Andrei Voronov poured himself another measure of Jack Daniel’s and sipped it, ice clinking against the expensive crystal tumbler as he raised it to his lips.

It was quiet inside the Penthouse apartment of the Crystal Tower despite the fact that there were five people gathered there in one of the sitting rooms. Voronov himself looked slowly from each expectant face to the next. The two bodyguards who stood impassively near the door, then the man with the goatee beard and finally the woman in the grey suit. Voronov cradled the glass in his hand for a moment longer then walked slowly back towards the sofa near the middle of the room. There were two others identical to it arranged around a marble topped coffee table.

Spread out on the top of this table were a number of photographs and Voronov looked at them as he sat down, taking another sip of his drink.

‘You’re sure of their identities?’ he said, finally, moving one of the photos with a long index finger.

‘Jessica Anderson and Alex Hadley,’ the woman in the grey suit told him. ‘Both reporters. If there’d been any way of knowing what they were going to ask …’

Voronov raised a hand to cut her short.

‘It doesn’t matter about their questions,’ he said, flatly. ‘If I had reacted the way they wanted me to then it would have been more of a problem. As it is …’ he allowed the sentence to trail off and shrugged.

The man with the goatee shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looked first at the woman and then at Voronov.

‘How do you want to deal with it?’ he asked.

‘I cannot have stories circulating about this building,’ Voronov said. ‘Or about my own family. It is no one’s business but mine. I certainly don’t want it all over the newspapers.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘These people must be made to understand that.’ He looked down at the table top and the photos of Jess and Hadley. ‘I wonder how they found out about my grandfather?’

‘They’re reporters,’ the woman said, dismissively. ‘They have ways of finding out about anything.’

‘I have always tried to maintain a certain anonymity,’ Voronov said. ‘You know that.’

‘It is difficult in a world with the internet and …’ the woman began.

‘Difficult perhaps but not impossible,’ Voronov interrupted. ‘Trust is an important thing. Perhaps I have too much of it. Or it is misplaced.’

‘No one in this organisation would ever betray you,’ the man with the goatee protested. ‘They are all loyal to you.’

‘You seem very sure of that,’ Voronov said, quietly. ‘For the right price and under the right circumstances anyone’s loyalty can be bought or tested. Perhaps the time has come to re-evaluate the natures of some of those who work for me.’

He drained what was left in his glass and got to his feet.

‘I want these two dealt with as soon as possible,’ Voronov said, pointing at the pictures of Jess and Hadley. ‘Is that understood?’

The man with the goatee and the woman nodded. The woman was about to speak when Voronov simply turned his back on her, wandering towards a door at the far end of the room. He turned and glanced at the other occupants of the penthouse then reached for the door handle and turned it. The others watched him enter, closing the door behind him.

The room was cooler than the main sitting room, the walls and floors bare stone. Voronov could hear the gentle hum of air conditioning but other than that it was silent too. His footsteps echoed as he walked slowly across the floor.

The room was empty but for the one solitary figure at the centre of it.

Voronov crossed to the figure, running his gaze up and down the massive form, studying the blank expressionless features.

He reached out gently and touched one of the arms, rubbing the grey stone and rolling some fragments between his fingers. Motes of dust turned in the air and Voronov walked around the figure, studying it from all angles with a combination of awe and foreboding. He murmured something unintelligible under his breath and looked down at the grey specks of stone on his fingertips.

He spat gently onto his fingers and rolled the fragments of stone around in the saliva then he reached out and pressed those moist fingers to the chest of the figure, drawing them downwards as if he were anointing it. He looked directly into the face, deep into the tunnel like eye sockets.

They stared back blindly at him.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Jessica Anderson rubbed her eyes with both hands then peered myopically back at the computer screen before her.

She read the first two thousand words of the article she’d written, nodding approvingly to herself or shaking her head dismissively as she corrected mistakes or changed a word here and there. She had learned early on in her career that to re-read something one has written too many times leads only to disappointment (and also to endless editing). An older colleague had taught her that valuable lesson and she was sure that it had been Hadley. He had taught her a great deal about work, life and lots of other thing too. She sat back in her seat and gently rotated her neck, hearing the bones crack loudly as she did.

She wondered for one brief second if she should e-mail the article over to Hadley now. Just let him run his expert eye over it and give her some instant feedback. Maybe, she thought, when she was finished. Just let him have a quick look.

Just for old times’ sake?

Jess wrote another three hundred words and re-read those too.

She had photos of Voronov to accompany the article and she quickly scrolled through them, selecting the ones to use. She chose a couple she’d taken at the press conference earlier and also one of the Crystal Tower itself. For a moment she wondered about adding one of Brian Dunham complete with the caption;

POLICE HAVE YET TO QUESTION VORONOV OVER BRIAN DUNHAM’S DEATH

But she thought better of it. The article she’d written was accurate, informative and challenging (and probably lots of other clichés too but she could only think of those three at the moment) but it couldn’t be libellous and until a definitive link was found linking the billionaire to the death of Dunham she could not add anything that might imply Voronov knew how the other man had died.

She hit the final full stop on the article and leaned back in her chair looking at the screen for a moment before she got to her feet and padded to the bathroom.

She’d barely pushed the door closed behind her when she heard the ringing of her mobile.

Jess muttered under her breath but decided to wait. Whoever it was would ring back or leave a message on voice mail. When she was finished she headed back towards her laptop.

It was as she was passing the door of her flat she heard movement outside.

She put her eye to the spyhole and squinted out into the gloom beyond.

It was pitch black in the hall way. She couldn’t see a thing. Normally when someone entered the building the lights on the stairs came on, triggered by a motion sensor in the main entryway but this time it was still dark out on the stairwell.

Jess lingered at the spyhole for a second longer then stepped away from the door.

More movement outside her door.

She spun round, this time reaching for the lock, preparing to turn it, to step outside into the stairwell and see who was moving about at this time of the night. It was just past 12.46 a.m. and the building was normally silent by this time. Jess’s hand hovered over the lock but she didn’t turn it. Why she didn’t she wasn’t sure but something stopped her and she swallowed hard, pressing her eye to the spyhole and trying to see through the blackness beyond.

She stood there for almost a minute and was relieved when she heard nothing else. Jess turned away and headed for her laptop and phone, wanting to see who was calling her so late. She guessed it was Hadley.

When she reached the phone she saw that the screen was displaying the words ‘Missed Call’. She checked the number but there was nothing in the call log. Whoever had been ringing, it wasn’t Hadley.

She held the phone in her hand for a moment, seeing her own reflection in the screen. She hesitated a moment longer then called Hadley’s number. It began to ring.

Jess scanned the story she’d written once again as she waited for Hadley to pick up. Perhaps, she thought, smiling, he too was in the toilet. Fifteen rings later there was still no answer. She dialled again. Still no answer.

Could he have gone to bed? Jess shook her head. He wasn’t one for early nights, she knew he didn’t sleep too well at the best of times.

She called the number again.

Still no answer.

Feeling a little more concerned than perhaps she should have and not knowing why she put down the phone and typed a quick e-mail to him.

Hey you … want to read the article? I’ll send it over now. Jess.

Message sent, the server assured her. Jess waited for the reply and as she did she hit his number on her phone once again and waited.

And waited.

Still nothing.

Even if he’d fallen asleep she told herself, surely the ringing of the phone would have woken him. Even if it had been on silent then the buzzing or vibration would have caused enough noise to rouse him. Wouldn’t it? Jess wasn’t sure why she was suddenly feeling so anxious or why she was equally desperate to hear the sound of Hadley’s voice. She looked at the computer screen as if the simple act of staring at it was going to provoke some response from Hadley by way of an e-mail.

It didn’t.

And now, in the stillness of the night she heard more sounds of movement from the direction of the flat’s door.

Jess got to her feet and padded towards the front door, leaving her own hall light off so as not to alert whoever was outside (the light from inside her flat was visible as a pinprick through the spyhole from the outside). She pushed her eye against the spyhole, her heart bumping hard.

The light in the stairwell still hadn’t come on, still hadn’t been activated by the movement of someone ascending or descending the steps but as she squinted more intently through the small aperture she was sure of one thing.

There was someone standing outside her door.

SIXTY-NINE

Jess stifled a gasp as she peered through the spyhole, trying to make out the size and features of whoever was standing outside her door.

In the gloom and with only the benefit of such a small hole to look through she couldn’t be sure about anything regarding the intruder. If indeed it was an intruder but then, why the hell would another resident of the building be standing motionless a few feet from her door just staring at the partition?

Jess remained up against her door, angry that she could see nothing more than a vague outline of whoever was outside.

She heard low whispering.

Her heart was beating faster now. She looked around.

For what? What the fuck are you looking for? Something to attack them with? Something to defend yourself with?

If there was whispering, she told herself then there must be more than one person out there on the stairs and in the passageway. But had she heard the muted sounds correctly or had her mind simply been playing tricks on her? Was she even completely sure that there was a figure out there? In the blackness it was almost impossible to tell. Dull light filtered into the passageway from a picture window built into the outside wall of the building but it didn’t allow enough illumination to be completely sure of the size, build or appearance of the figure she was increasingly sure was standing outside her door.

In order for someone not resident in the building to get inside they would have had to break in she told herself. Unless they’d slipped in when a resident had entered, perhaps posing as a visitor. Thoughts and ideas tumbled through Jess’s mind without any kind of logic or coherence. A mind flooded with fear tends not to be logical.

Why hadn’t the sensor in the stairwell or hall caused the lights to come on when this intruder had been climbing the steps? Had it been disabled? Smashed?

Jess kept her eye to the spyhole, not daring to move her gaze from the figure that was still merely standing motionless before her door.

Like a statue?

She felt a shiver run down her spine.

That’s what you wanted isn’t it?

Jess peered more closely, her eye shoved up hard against the spyhole as if she was a scientist peering through a microscope at the cure for cancer.

Like a statue.

It couldn’t be, surely. Had Voronov sent the creature after her? Was it the Golem that was standing out there on her landing? If it was, she reasoned, then nothing would be able to protect her. There would be no fighting back against this monstrosity. Except, she told herself, with speed. Perhaps she could outrun it. If she could slip past it and …

She took a deep breath and tried to control her racing imagination.

She hadn’t got a clue who or what was outside her door. There might be nothing there. It could be a trick of the light.

And the whispering?

Air rushing up or down the stairs? A breeze perhaps?

Standing in the gloom like this didn’t exactly help her find a logical explanation. In times of fear and uncertainty, the conclusions the mind reached were invariably the worst and darkest.

Jess looked down and realised that she hadn’t locked the door when she came in.

Often she would leave it unlocked, satisfied that the main door downstairs that led into the entryway was secure and now, when she needed security more than ever, her door was unlocked. She wondered if she could turn the lock without alerting the figure outside. Dare she chance it? Moving with infinite slowness she slipped the chain into place, terrified that it might rattle when she let it go. It didn’t. She reached for the lock and prepared to turn it, her hand shaking.

If it is the Golem standing out there then all the locks and chains and bolts in the world won’t keep it out.

Jess rested her fingers on the lock and stood there motionless. Then, after what seemed like an age, she turned it very slowly to the right.

In that position she couldn’t see if whoever was outside had heard any movement. She didn’t know if they were aware that only two inches of wood separated them now. She turned the lock a little further, peering through the gloom to see that the bolt was a fraction of an inch from sliding into the housing on the other side of the mechanism. There would be a click when that happened, she couldn’t avoid it. It would sound like a rifle shot in the silence. Jess kept on turning.

She almost screamed when the knock came on the door.

SEVENTY

Jess jumped back, her eyes wide and fixed on the door.

The knock had been light, almost apologetic.

She stood there in her narrow entryway shaking, the breath rasping in her throat.

There was another knock.

Jess reached forward and quickly turned the lock to its full extent.

Quite how that would save her now she had no idea but she moved closer to the spyhole again, noticing that the light in the stairwell had now come on. The two figures that stood outside her door were visible in the cold white glow. There were two men standing there, talking quietly, their voices barely louder than a whisper.

For a moment she thought about calling the police but then wondered just what the hell she was going to tell them. Two men were standing outside her door talking. It was hardly enough to get a dozen uniformed men hurtling round to rescue her was it?

Jess hesitated a moment longer then turned and hurried into the kitchen. She snatched the largest kitchen knife from the block on the worktop and held it before her, seeing her frightened reflection momentarily in the gleaming blade. Armed with the razor sharp steel she padded back towards the door.

She was within a few feet of it when it was knocked again.

The impact was louder this time. The strength of the blows stronger.

Jess swallowed hard and gripped the handle of the knife more tightly as she moved nearer to the spyhole once more.

Both of the men were still there and she saw one of them glance at his watch. The other was checking or sending a message on his mobile phone and when he’d finished he reached forward and again rapped on the door.

Jess stepped back slightly, one hand reaching for the door lock.

‘Who is it?’ she said, trying to hide the fact that her voice was shaking.

‘Miss Anderson?’ one of the men said. ‘Jessica Anderson?’

She heard the Eastern European accent and knew immediately where these men were from and who had sent them.

‘What do you want?’ she called, looking through the spyhole. ‘I was in bed.’

‘It is important that we speak with you,’ the first man said. ‘Will you open the door please?’

Jess was tempted to ask what might happen if she didn’t but she feared that might be tempting fate.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, putting one hand behind her back to hide the knife. With her other hand she slowly unlocked the door, stepping back slightly in case either of the men tried to rush her. She glanced at the chain and prayed that it would be strong enough to hold if they did decide to rush her. She opened the door a fraction and peered through at the two men.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘You know it’s one o’clock in the morning. I don’t usually get visitors at this time.’

The attempt at levity was wasted.

‘You must come with us,’ the first man said. ‘We were sent here to pick you up.’

‘Sent here by who? Andrei Voronov?’

‘Mr Voronov wants to speak with you,’ the second man explained.

‘What if I don’t want to speak to him?’ Jess said.

‘It is important,’ the second man said. ‘Please come with us now.’ He glanced down at her bare feet. ‘Put on your shoes.’

She eyed each man in turn and thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile on the lips of the second man.

‘I have to make a phone call first,’ she said.

The two men stood motionless as Jess took a step backwards.

‘We wait here,’ the first man told her.

Jess hurried to her phone and hit Spike’s number. It rang. And rang. When it went to voice-mail Jess tried to keep her voice steady.

‘Listen, Spike, it’s Jess, this is important,’ she said. ‘Call me in two hours. Ring me on this number in two hours. If there’s no answer, call the police and tell them to go to the Crystal Tower because that’s where I’ll be. Two hours from now, Spike.’

She cut the call.

As she turned she saw the first man standing in the doorway of the room.

‘Time to go,’ he said, flatly.

SEVENTY-ONE

The journey to the Crystal Tower took less than fifteen minutes.

At such an early hour of the morning the roads weren’t as choked with traffic as they would have been earlier and the black Audi moved effortlessly and silently along the capital’s thoroughfares.

The windows of the vehicle were tinted anyway but Jess didn’t feel much like looking out at the rest of the traffic or at passers-by. She was more concerned with the men inside the car. One had slid behind the steering wheel while the other had sat in the back seat next to her. He hadn’t said a word since they both settled themselves in the Audi, content with gazing blankly ahead. He and the driver had exchanged a few words in their own language which, obviously, had been indecipherable to Jess but she tried to content herself with the fact that their tone hadn’t seemed unduly urgent or harsh. She then shook her head realising how ridiculous her assumption had been. They could have been discussing how to rape and then murder her for all she knew. Just because they were doing it quietly didn’t make the possibility any less horrific.

Jess shifted uncomfortably in her seat and glanced at her watch. .

She swallowed hard and tried to convince herself that he had and that he was poised and ready.

You could be dead before then.

Jess ran a hand nervously through her hair.

‘How long have you worked for Voronov?’ she asked the man sitting next to her, wanting to break the silence just so she wasn’t turning over such disturbing thoughts in her mind.

He looked at her with an expression of bewilderment at first. As if she’d just asked him to explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity or something similar but then his features seemed to soften a little.

‘I work for him for five years,’ he said.

‘Security?’ Jess asked. ‘You protect him?’

The man nodded.

‘Who does a man that powerful need protection from?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘Everyone,’ the man said, flatly.

‘Does he pay you well to look after him?’

The man merely looked at her for a moment then glanced out of a side window.

‘He’s had death threats, hasn’t he?’ Jess said. ‘In the past. I read somewhere that there’d been attempts on his life as well. Who tried to kill him?’

‘Enemies,’ the man told her.

‘And what happened to them?’

‘They don’t bother him any more,’ he told her, smiling thinly.

‘Does Mr Voronov think that I’m an enemy?’ she wanted to know. ‘Is that why he sent you get me?’

The man didn’t answer.

Jess felt her heart quicken its pace, noticing that they had finally reached their destination. The driver stopped the Audi outside the Crystal Tower and stepped out as did his companion. They stood close to the rear door as Jess joined them, walking swiftly across to the main doors and then on through into the foyer. One of the men pressed the Call button as they stood near the bank of lifts.

‘Maybe we should stick to the stairs,’ Jess said. ‘There’ve been problems with the lifts. I should know.’

‘You want to walk that far?’ the second man said, curtly. ‘Not time for stairs.’

The three of them rode the Executive Lift to the Penthouse floor.

As the doors slid open Jess walked out into the marble entryway, led by one of the men. He guided her towards one of the rooms and she thought she could hear talking coming from inside. That suspicion was confirmed a moment later when the door swung open to reveal what looked like a conference room.

Seated at one end of the polished table at its centre was Andrei Voronov. There were two more security men in the room as well as the woman Jess had seen that afternoon and the man with the goatee who had been introduced as an  interpreter.

Opposite them sat Alex Hadley.

SEVENTY-TWO

Jess made no attempt to conceal her surprise and, if she was honest, there was a degree of relief to her reaction as well. At least now she knew Hadley was alive.

Voronov gestured towards the chair next to Hadley and Jess sat down.

‘I see you were invited too,’ Hadley said, flatly, taking a sip from the glass of sparkling water that was on a coaster before him.

‘How long have you been here?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘Since Mr Voronov’s men picked me up,’ Hadley said. ‘About half an hour.’

‘I felt I should speak to you both,’ Voronov said, quietly. ‘Would you like something to drink, Miss Anderson?’

‘I would say a large vodka but I don’t think that would be wise,’ Jess answered. She looked at the assembled faces in the room. ‘Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on? Why are we here?’ She nodded in Hadley’s direction.

‘You had questions you wanted to ask me this afternoon during the Press conference,’ Voronov told her. ‘It wasn’t convenient then.’

‘So you got us back here for a little private chat?’ Jess said. ‘That’s not usually your style is it, Mr Voronov? I thought if people or things became an inconvenience you usually just got rid of them. Or is that what you’ve got planned for us?’

Voronov smiled and took a sip from his own glass.

Jess was aware of movement beside her and one of the security men placed a coaster and a tall crystal glass full of water close to her.

‘You seem to have a very strange idea about what kind of man I am,’ the billionaire said, quietly. ‘I’ve just been saying the same thing to Mr Hadley.’

‘So you got us both here tonight to talk privately about the things we asked you today in the Press Conference?’ Jess enquired. ‘Forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe.’

‘Do you think I brought you here to kill you, Miss Anderson?’ Voronov asked, smiling. The man with the goatee also chuckled softly. ‘What kind of man do you think I am?’

‘Or would you have taken care of us the way you took care of Brian Dunham?’ Jess challenged.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Voronov said as lightly as he could.

‘You know who Brian Dunham is, sorry, was? He was the man who refused you planning permission for your new hotel complex,’ Jess went on. ‘The man who resisted the building of this Crystal Tower.’

‘I know who he is,’ Voronov told her.

‘And you know how he died?’

‘People die, Miss Anderson. Would you blame me for every death in London?’

‘I’m not blaming you, Mr Voronov, I’m just saying that people who cross you tend to end up dead or missing and that you usually get what you want when those people are removed. That is how you got permission to build the Crystal Tower, isn’t it?’

‘Are those some of the rumours and lies you’ve heard?’

‘I heard that people, the right people, were threatened, bribed or intimidated until you got what you wanted and that you’ve done that in other cities too and that you’ll keep doing it as long you have the money and the power.’

‘And can you back up these claims, Miss Anderson? Where is your proof? I am a businessman, nothing more. I want to do business here in London just like thousands of other people. Why does that make me any worse than them?’

‘I heard you cut corners on the building regulations too, that’s one of the reasons there have been so many deaths during the construction of the Crystal Tower.’

‘You seem ready to blame me for everything other than the Great Fire of London,’ Voronov smiled.

‘Did you have ancestors in London then?’ Jess said, managing a grin. ‘Maybe I could blame you or them for that too.’

‘As you tried to put blame on my grandfather?’

The smile had slipped from Voronov’s face and there was an edge to his voice that Jess wasn’t slow to pick up. ‘Why did you mention him this afternoon?’

‘But what I said is true, isn’t it? The Crystal Tower is built on the site of the place where he lived and he fled London under mysterious circumstances back in the 1930s.’

‘He was driven out,’ Voronov said. ‘Subjected to the same kind of abuse, intimidation and bigotry that people like us had suffered for hundreds of years.’

‘Was it because he was Jewish?’ Jess enquired.

‘It was because he was an outsider,’ Voronov said, evenly. ‘He was different. He spoke differently, he lived differently, he believed in different things. People are afraid of things they can’t understand. When they are fearful that fear turns to hate and that hate to violence.’

‘Why didn’t he get help from the police?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘They were no better,’ Voronov announced.

‘So he decided to protect himself,’ Jess said. ‘Is that why he built a Golem?’

SEVENTY-THREE

What Voronov did next Jess hadn’t been expecting.

No sooner had she finished speaking than he broke into fits of laughter.

She regarded him warily for a moment then looked at Hadley who seemed similarly perplexed by the millionaire’s reaction. The other people in the room were also smiling, amused it seemed by what Jess had said.

‘Did I say something funny?’ she asked.

‘A Golem?’ Voronov intoned. ‘And what do you know of such things, Miss Anderson? Do you know of what you speak?’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Jess persisted. ‘Your grandfather built a Golem to protect himself from the people who were after him and it ran amok. That was why he had to get out of London so fast.’

‘I thought journalists dealt in the truth not in myths and legends,’ Voronov said, reproachfully. As he spoke he got to his feet. ‘Come with me,’ he urged, ushering them towards a door at the end of the room. ‘Both of you.’

Jess and Hadley got slowly to their feet, completely thrown by the billionaire’s attitude. They had expected anger and denial not this calm almost calculated reaction.

‘Where did you read about the Golem?’ Voronov wanted to know. ‘A book of fairy stories? Some cheap horror book?’

‘There have been instances throughout history of creatures like that being built and manipulated by men who had the power,’ Hadley said.

Voronov merely raised his eyebrows.

‘If that is what you want to believe,’ he said, standing near the door of the other room waiting.

‘What do you believe, Mr Voronov?’ Jess asked. ‘What did your grandfather believe?’

‘There are many strange beliefs in the part of the world where I come from,’ Voronov went on. ‘Many of the people who live in Eastern Europe are as ignorant now as they were hundreds of years ago. They believe in the same things they believed in hundreds of years ago. Many think that there are forces that can be controlled by those with the right knowledge, forces that can be used for good or for bad. I don’t even know what you would call them, you who think you are so civilised and so much better than the rest of us.’ He looked dismissively at Jess and Hadley.

‘Do you believe in those things, Mr Voronov?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘I believe in what I can see and what I can control,’ Voronov told her. ‘And if I tell you what I believe in it will be front page news tomorrow, is that what you think? Are you trying to trick me?’

He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze flat and unblinking.

‘You were the one who brought us here,’ Hadley offered. ‘We thought you might have something to tell us.’

‘About ancient creatures, witchcraft and superstition?’ Voronov said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so. And not in the middle of the night.’

‘So why are we here?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘I want to know why you broke into my apartment just days ago,’ Voronov told her. ‘What was it? Professional curiosity? Were you looking for a story? Or were you looking for something to link me to the deaths of these people you keep talking about?’

‘No one broke in,’ Jess said.

‘You were seen,’ Voronov told her, smiling.

‘Were you worried what we’d find?’ Jess said, defiantly.

‘And what did you find?’ Voronov challenged. ‘The answer to your questions?’ He pushed open the door he was standing next to. ‘Come.’ he beckoned them to join him as he stepped through into the room and slapped on the lights.

Jess and Hadley followed him and found that they were standing in a large room lit by bright spot lamps in the ceiling and a warmer glow given by several small table lamps placed strategically around the room.

‘Is this what you saw?’ Voronov said, motioning towards the statue that stood at the far end of the room. ‘Is this your Golem?’

Jess looked at the figure and recognised it instantly.

‘Who made it?’ Hadley wanted to know.

‘I don’t know the artist’s name,’ Voronov told him. ‘I have a team of experts who buy artwork for me to place in my homes around the world. One of them saw this and thought it had promise. I bought it and had it shipped here. I’m sure I can find out the artist’s name if you are so interested in his work.’

Neither Jess or Hadley spoke then Jess looked briefly at Hadley as if expecting him to say something. He didn’t.

‘Now, if there is nothing else,’ Voronov said, softly, ushering them back in the direction of the door.

‘You brought us here just for this?’ Jess said.

‘Why did you think I brought you here? To have you murdered?’ The billionaire smiled. ‘You seem to have taken an interest in myself and my family I just thought I would show that I am also interested in you.’

Jess and Hadley allowed themselves to be shepherded from the room. As they walked back into the other area of the Penthouse the eyes of those inside turned to focus on them.

‘My men will see you out,’ Voronov said. ‘They will ensure that you get back home safely.’

Hadley nodded almost imperceptibly. Jess merely headed for the door, the same two security men who had picked her up now walking behind her.

No one spoke as they rode the express lift to the ground floor.

SEVENTY-FOUR

‘So you’re telling me that Andrei Voronov, one of the richest and most reclusive men in the world invited you to his private penthouse apartment just for a quiet chat?’

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson raised his eyebrows questioningly and looked at Alex Hadley who was seated on the opposite side of the desk from him.

Hadley nodded.

‘And why the fuck would he do that?’ Johnson wanted to know.

‘I think he’s worried about what we know?’ Jessica Anderson interjected.

Johnson looked wearily at her.

‘He’s worried you know he’s got a statue in his penthouse,’ the D.I. said, shrugging. ‘Well, yeah, I can see why he’d be worried about that. I mean if that news got out Christ knows what people would say. God forbid they ever find out what kind of aftershave he uses or what paintings he’s got on his wall too, the entire financial world might go into meltdown.’

‘We told you what that thing was?’ Hadley insisted.

‘A golem?’ Johnson sighed. ‘An inanimate object that can be brought to life and can do the bidding of the man who built it.’ The scorn in his voice was heavy and he made no attempt to hide it. He shook his head and looked at Hadley again. ‘Don’t you think I’m taking this all very well considering it’s complete and utter bollocks.’

‘Brian Dunham was the main opposition to Voronov’s plans and now he’s dead,’ Jess offered. ‘All the people who opposed the building of the Crystal Tower changed their minds totally about Voronov and his projects because they were either threatened or bribed.’

‘No one knows that for sure,’ Johnson reminded her.

‘It’s a fair assumption,’ Jess persisted.

‘And you think they were threatened? By some walking statue?’ Johnson said.

‘At least consider the possibility,’ Hadley interjected. ‘As crazy as that possibility sounds.’

‘Even if I did,’ Johnson went on. ‘Don’t you think that someone somewhere might have spotted this fucking thing lurching about? How tall is it, seven feet or more? And it weighs a ton. It can’t be very light on its feet, can it?’

‘It must have been transported to and from Dunham’s house and also to the scene of his murder,’ Jess said. ‘By Voronov’s men.’

‘No details of the attack on his house or of his murder have been released to the press have they?’ Hadley offered, watching as Johnson shook his head. ‘Fair enough. So if I tell you something that could only be known by the pathologist or you then will you believe me?’

‘Like what?’ Johnson sneered.

‘You found something resembling brick dust at both scenes,’ Hadley said. ‘Dried clay or something that looked like building material. Probably in the wounds when Dunham himself was killed.’

Johnson looked evenly at the other man and his surprise did not register in his expression.

‘You probably found it on the remains of Dunham’s car too,’ Hadley went on.

‘That’s quite a supposition,’ Johnson said. ‘Even for you. How did you get to that conclusion so quickly?’

‘The dust came from the Golem,’ Jess added. ‘When it attacked Dunham it left traces of itself just like a person leaves fingerprints.’

‘It’s true isn’t it?’ Hadley said, softly.

‘Forensics did find some kind of residue at both scenes,’ Johnson admitted. ‘How the fuck did you know that? Have you got a source here that I don’t know about?’

‘It stands to reason that when the Golem attacked his house and attacked him, it left traces of itself,’ Jess said. ‘Check what you found on Dunham’s body against the statue in Voronov’s apartment. See if they match.’

‘And if they do?’ Johnson challenged.

‘Then you’ll know Voronov was responsible,’ Jess told him. ‘What else could have left that kind of residue?’

‘It’s unlikely that a killer is going to use a piece of masonry to kill someone with is it?’ Hadley added. ‘A lump of concrete isn’t exactly the perfect weapon.’

‘It is if you want to smash someone to a pulp,’ Johnson said.

‘And Dunham was smashed to a pulp wasn’t he?’ Jess said. ‘Beaten far worse than any man could have beaten him.’

‘You’d be surprised what a man’s capable of,’ Johnson said, quietly.

‘But who could use a weapon like that so easily?’ Hadley wanted to know. ‘Imagine the strength needed. If men had attacked Dunham, the heaviest weapons they could have used would have been iron bars or hammers. You said yourself that it looked as if his house had been attacked with sledgehammers.’

Johnson rubbed his eyes then looked at Hadley once more.

‘So you want me to go waltzing into Voronov’s apartment and ask to take scrapings from his fucking statue to see if it’s responsible for the murder of at least one man?’ the D.I. said.

Hadley nodded.

‘I always thought you’d lost it, Alex,’ Johnson said. ‘Now I know you have.’

‘Then you explain that dust, that residue, whatever the hell it is?’ Hadley challenged.

‘And you explain how a supposedly intelligent man like yourself can believe that the Leader of Westminster Council was beaten to death by a walking statue?’ Johnson countered. ‘And if it’s true why the fuck would Voronov show the bloody thing to you?’

‘To try and put us off the scent,’ Jess added.

‘The only scent around here is from the bullshit that you two are leaving behind,’ Johnson muttered.

‘He knows we can’t do anything about it,’ Jess said.

‘If this thing is dangerous like you say it is then shouldn’t you be worried in case he sends it after you?’ Johnson wanted to know.

Neither of them spoke.

Johnson got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office, gazing out over London, thoughts tumbling through his mind.

‘At least consider it, Bob,’ Hadley said, finally. ‘That’s all we’re asking.’

Johnson nodded without turning to face them.

‘You can see yourselves out,’ the detective said, his back still to them.

‘And you’ll call me if anything happens?’ Hadley asked.

‘Just go, Alex,’ Johnson sighed. ‘Just go.’

Jess looked at Hadley then they both got to their feet and headed for the office door. Johnson didn’t turn when he heard it close behind them. He waited a moment then turned and reached for the phone on his desk. Picking it up he hit one of the buttons, waiting for an answer.

When he heard Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell’s voice at the other end he exhaled.

‘Ray, have you got a minute?’ Johnson asked. ‘And when you come, bring the forensic report on Brian Dunham with you.’

Johnson dropped the phone back on the cradle and waited.

SEVENTY-FIVE

‘Bollocks.’

Spike hissed angrily as he spilled the can of Red Bull. The liquid fortunately for him missed his keyboard and spread out across the desk top like a puddle as he snatched at the can to avoid more spillage. He hurried into his kitchen and returned with a handful of kitchen roll which he used to mop up the Red Bull, muttering irritably to himself as he performed the task, one eye and certainly both ears still more concerned with what had made him spill the drink in the first place.

The room was alive with sounds coming from the computer and the banks of speakers and receivers that Mark Paxton had set up there. Each one was tuned to a different frequency, the details of which were known to him alone. To anyone walking into the room the array of gadgetry would have been baffling but not to Paxton. He loved this panoply of technology and he was sure that if he had a pound for every hour he spent cocooned inside this room he would now be a very rich man indeed. He tossed the Red Bull soaked pieces of cloth into a waste bin which was already overflowing and badly in need of emptying. Then he sat down again, adjusting some of the dials and knobs on the nearest receiver, pausing occasionally to listen to moments of conversation through earphones when the sounds became too distorted.

As well as the emergency frequencies, Paxton’s sophisticated equipment was capable of monitoring everything from taxi transmissions to baby monitors and two-way radios if they were within a certain range. Admittedly nothing important ever came across the airwaves from baby monitors he reminded himself (the odd argument between parents was occasionally amusing but that was about it) but occasionally something would turn up from a taxi transmission that would prove interesting, if not to him then to one of the people who paid him for information. Paxton had worked with a number of private detective agencies and some of the messages he’d picked up from one particular taxi firm’s radio messages had been enough to confirm that they were acting not only as a drug delivery firm on the side but also that they were ferrying prostitutes back and forth to clients some of who were best described as ‘minor celebrities’.

Now Paxton reached for the headphones once more and pressed one earpiece to his head, squinting as he tried to pick out words amidst the crackle of static or the buzz of interference. The words he’d heard to begin with, the ones that had caused him to react with such surprise he’d heard three more times in the last ten minutes and he was sure that their source must be a two-way radio somewhere close. Within ten miles he guessed, taking into account the range of the equipment he had.

When he’d first heard the words he’d thought he’d misheard. Within the room and surrounded by so much electronic verbiage, he had doubted his own ears but then the same words had been repeated again. And again. Two names.

And they were names he knew.

Paxton had swiftly reduced the volume of the other transmitters and receivers so that he could concentrate on the sounds he was trying to home in on. As he had done that the words had come again. Spoken in clipped tones they had been unmistakeable when heard for the third time.

‘Anderson.’

The name was followed seconds later by another.

‘Hadley.’

If the two names had been spoken any other way than together then Paxton told himself he would probably have missed them, probably have lost the references among the other hissing, crackling and garbled speech flowing into the room but the two names spoken so close together and also more than once in such a short space of time had alerted him. Who the hell was talking about Jessica Anderson and Alex Hadley on two-way radios, he asked himself. And why?

He twisted dials and turned knobs until the interference was at a minimum, checking once more the frequency being used and now satisfied beyond any doubt that the source of the transmission had been a two-way radio. Was it a police radio he wondered? Then he contemplated, with a slight smile on his face, what kind of crime the two of them could have committed that would have the police using their names in such a way. He shook his head. The source of the transmission remained unknown.

Paxton reached for his mobile and hit the button that brought up his list of contacts. He scrolled down to Jess’s name, his thumb poised over the call option. She ought to know about this he told himself. But should he call her now or wait until he possibly heard something else on the frequency? There was nothing overly sinister in two names being spoken three or four times was there? Perhaps, he told himself he should wait.

He was still considering his options, his thumb still poised over Jess’s number.

Then he heard the sound. Something heavy had connected with the wood of his back door.

Paxton dropped the headphones and looked in the direction of the noise, rising from his seat and moving towards the sound slowly.

It came again. Louder this time as if the initial impact had intensified.

Paxton moved into the kitchen, the mobile still gripped in his hand. With the other he snatched a knife from the worktop nearest to him and gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white. He glanced at the back door and saw that there were several small pieces of wood lying on the linoleum at its base, presumably knocked free by the impacts from the other side. Paxton swallowed hard and stood motionless gazing at the partition. He glanced at the handle as if expecting it to turn or possibly even be smashed from its position on the wood but it remained where it was. Paxton began to tell himself his imagination was working overtime. And yet he had heard those sounds. He hadn’t imagined them.

The silence that filled the room seemed oppressive and Paxton was sure he could hear the beating of his own heart as it thumped against his ribs. He took a faltering step towards the door.

Then the impact came again.

SEVENTY-SIX

Jessica Anderson glanced at the caller i.d. as she picked up her mobile, rubbing her eyes just to check on the time too.

She was a little surprised to see that the name SPIKE was being displayed and also slightly perplexed that the time was showing 1.46 a.m. Jess sat up in bed, shaken from the dream she’d been having, the last vestiges of it still clouding her mind as she pressed the phone to her ear.

‘Spike,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘What’s going on?’

She heard a sound in the background that reminded her of someone dropping something heavy from a great height.

‘Spike,’ she said, holding the phone away from her ear slightly. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘Jess,’ he gasped into the mouthpiece. ‘Someone’s trying to break in.’

She heard the fear and desperation in his voice immediately.

‘Have you called the police?’ she demanded, swinging herself out of bed, brushing strands of hair from her face.

There was no answer, only another thunderous sound from the other end of the line then a gasp from Paxton.

‘Get out of there, Spike,’ she shouted into the phone.

‘They’re trying to break in,’ he said, his voice cracking.

‘Who is?’ she gasped.

‘I don’t know,’ he told her breathlessly.

‘Get out of there,’ she shouted once more.

‘I heard your name on one of my receivers,’ Paxton blurted. ‘Yours and Hadley’s.’

Jess felt the colour drain from her face and it was as if she’d been enveloped by an invisible cold hand that was now squeezing tighter.

‘What do you mean?’ she wanted to know.

‘Your name and Alex Hadley’s name were mentioned in a conversation I picked up on some short wave radios about twenty minutes ago,’ he told her.

There was another loud crash from Paxton’s end of the line.

‘Never mind that now,’ Jess gasped. ‘Just get out of there, Spike.’

‘No, it’s important, I think the radios were being used by Voronov’s men. The accents were foreign and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, only your names.’

‘Call the police for Christ’s sake,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way now.’

She jumped off the bed grabbing for the jeans that she’d tossed haphazardly onto a chair nearby. She pulled them on and pushed her bare feet into a pair of trainers, almost stumbling as she did so. She snatched up her phone again.

‘Tell Hadley, you’re in danger, both of you,’ Paxton shouted and at his end of the phone there was a deafening crash followed by a shout of fear that made Jess’s blood freeze.

‘Spike,’ she yelled, glaring at the mobile.

There was no answer this time.

‘Spike,’ she called again feeling completely and utterly helpless. She couldn’t have felt more useless if she’d been standing there watching behind a plexiglass partition but not knowing what was happening made the situation even more unbearable. She screamed his name once again but still there was no answer, just the sounds of destruction from the other end of the line. She heard muffled words and sounds but it was impossible to identify them until she heard a sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

It was a despairing scream of terror and pain that she was only too sure came from Paxton.

It was followed by a silence punctuated by some minor scuffling and scraping sounds then nothing.

‘Spike,’ she shouted, gripping the mobile so tightly it threatened to snap in her grip. ‘Spike.’

Still nothing.

Then, as Jess held the phone close to her ear she heard low breathing.

‘Who’s that?’ she rasped. ‘I can hear you, whoever you are. The police are on the way. You won’t get away.’

There was more guttural breathing from the other end of the line and then a crunching sound, as if the phone was being crushed or stepped on.

The line went dead.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

They saw the emergency vehicles as they hurried across the pavement, both of them gazing raptly ahead, struck by the array of police cars and the ambulance that stood immobile by the kerb.

Neither Jess or Hadley spoke both of them seemingly hypnotised by the array of blue lights that lit the night outside Mark Paxton’s address. They approached slowly, Jess feeling her heart beating faster. She felt as if iced water had been injected into her veins, she felt cold and, as if sensing this, Hadley moved closer to her, placing one hand on the small of her back to urge her forward with him.

‘Perhaps the police got here in time,’ he said, quietly, not sure who he was trying to convince.

‘If he managed to call them in time,’ Jess said. She continued to advance until she and Hadley were confronted by a uniformed constable who raised his hand to stop them. Judging by the fact that no blue tape bearing the legend POLICE LINE had been strung across the front of the building she decided that the emergency services had not long ago arrived here themselves. There was an ambulance parked at the kerb but the two paramedics were standing idly beside its closed rear doors. How many of their colleagues were already inside Paxton’s place she could only guess.

‘You can’t go any further,’ the uniformed constable said.

‘We’re friends of Mr Paxton,’ Jess explained.

The constable looked her up and down, the stern expression still on his face.

‘Then perhaps you can tell us where he is,’ the uniformed man said, flatly.

Jess frowned, glanced at Hadley then back at the policeman in front of her.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

The constable was about to speak when another voice lanced across the night.

‘I’ll take it from here, constable.’ Jess and Hadley both recognised the voice of Detective Inspector Robert Johnson and a moment later they saw him advancing towards them, his face set in hard lines.

‘Is Spike ok?’ Jess asked.

‘How the fuck did you two get here?’ Johnson wanted to know.

‘He called me,’ Jess explained. ‘He said someone was trying to break in.’

‘Well they did,’ Johnson acknowledged. ‘When did he call you?’

‘About half an hour ago, I let Alex know and we came straight away,’ Jess went on. ‘Is he alright?’

‘To tell you that we’d have to find him,’ Johnson said, flatly.

Jess looked in bewilderment at the policeman.

‘He’s not in there,’ Johnson went on, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s signs of a break-in and evidence of a struggle but no trace of Paxton. Maybe he legged it.’

‘What kind of evidence of a struggle?’ Jess wanted to know.

‘Blood,’ Johnson told her. ‘We don’t know whose yet.’

‘Was anything taken?’ Hadley wanted to know.

‘It’s difficult to tell,’ Johnson said. ‘It doesn’t look as if burglary was the motive for the break-in. Stuff’s just been smashed to splinters in there.’ The detective looked at Jess and Hadley in turn then pointed an index finger at each of them. ‘And there’s something else but if this appears in any fucking newspapers I’ll arrest both of you for disclosure.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That dust, the residue we found on Brian Dunham’s body and car, it’s everywhere inside Paxton’s place.’

Jess let out a low gasp and tried to swallow but her throat was too dry.

‘Could his attacker have been the same as Dunham’s?’ Hadley asked.

‘It’s impossible to say without analysis,’ Johnson told him.

‘What’s your gut feeling, Bob?’ Hadley went on.

‘If you put a gun to my head,’ Johnson said, quietly. ‘I’d say that Mark Paxton and Brian Dunham were attacked by the same person or persons unknown.’

‘What more do you need to investigate Voronov?’ Jess demanded.

‘I need a hell of a lot more than fucking dust at two crime scenes,’ Johnson told her.

‘Two murder scenes,’ Jess insisted.

‘We don’t know Paxton’s been killed. He’s missing, no one said he was dead,’ Johnson reminded her.

‘Then where is he?’ Jess snapped. ‘You say there’s blood in there, signs of a struggle.’

‘It still doesn’t mean he’s dead and even if he is it doesn’t mean he was killed by the same person who killed Brian Dunham.’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ Hadley interjected.

‘Even if it’s true, where’s the motive?’ Johnson insisted. ‘Voronov had issues with Brian Dunham that may or may not have been responsible for Dunham’s death, he had no problem with Mark Paxton.’

‘Spike said he’d heard our names mentioned on a two-way radio frequency,’ Jess told the detective.

‘And you think one of them was Voronov?’ Johnson said, dismissively. ‘Because he’s the only fucking foreigner in London isn’t he?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Maybe not him personally but his men,’ Jess said.

‘So what does that mean?’ Johnson wanted to know. ‘You’re next?’

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Andrei Voronov stood at one of the windows of his apartment gazing out over the city. He slowly sipped vodka from the expensive tumbler seemingly content to gaze at the myriad lights glinting below him.

Behind him two of his security men stood sentinel, while on one of the sofas a man with a goatee beard sat gazing at Voronov, all of them seemingly waiting for the billionaire to move before they spoke or acted. The same was true of the brown-haired woman in the immaculate navy blue suit who had overseen the Press Conference. She shifted uncomfortably on the edge of her seat, brushing an imaginary piece of fluff from the material then turning her gaze once again to her employer. She was beginning to wonder if it was possible for the billionaire to spend the entire night just staring aimlessly out into the London night. However, in her mind she knew that nothing Andrei Voronov did was ever aimless. Men like him didn’t get to his position in life by pursuing either aimless actions or thoughts. Everything Voronov did had a purpose.

She glanced at one of the security men who met her gaze but showed no emotion on his features. The same was true of the man with the goatee who also seemed immobile, his movements governed by the actions and reactions of the billionaire. The woman stood, considered approaching Voronov then decided against it. When the time was right he would speak or act. Exactly how long it was going to take before he reacted she could only guess. The glass of mineral water she’d been sipping from was now empty but she still reached for it, turning the glass slowly between her slender fingers.

All eyes remained on Voronov. It was as if everyone else in the room was holding their breath, waiting for permission to exhale. The billionaire finally turned but he didn’t look at anyone else in the room, he merely walked across to the solid oak table nearby and poured himself another measure of vodka, half of which he downed in one large swallow.

The brown-haired woman thought about saying something, fearing that the billionaire would return to his position near one of the windows, still lost in his own thoughts and apparently incapable of communicating with those around him but she need not have feared. He looked at each of the other occupants of the room in turn, his gaze moving slowly, hovering over each person like the scope of a sniper selecting a victim.

‘Have they been in contact?’ he said, finally, the question seemingly addressed to anyone willing to answer it.

‘Ten or fifteen minutes ago,’ the brown-haired woman told him. ‘They will return here.’

Voronov straightened up slowly, his face impassive.

‘There will be others,’ he said, quietly. ‘Many others just like before.’

‘You always knew that,’ the brown-haired woman reminded him.

Voronov nodded slowly.

‘It is how it must be,’ he said, quietly.

‘And when the police come?’ the man with the goatee offered. ‘You know they will.’

‘I have nothing to fear from the police, not here or anywhere else,’ Voronov said. ‘They can prove nothing.’

‘These journalists are going to cause trouble,’ the man with goatee continued.

‘They have nothing,’ Voronov insisted. ‘Only their imaginations.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Nothing to threaten me with.’

‘But they know too much,’ the woman with the brown hair interjected.

‘And who is going to believe them?’ Voronov wanted to know. He looked evenly at the other people in the room then sipped from his glass once again. ‘And even if anyone does it will be too late. Too late for them anyway. Let them tell their stories.’

‘I think they are dangerous,’ the man with the goatee said.

Voronov ignored the comment.

He finished what was left in his glass then set the tumbler down, turning his back on the others. They watched as he walked towards a door at one end of the room, slipping through it and closing it behind him. For a moment none of the others spoke, perhaps fearing that their voices would be heard but after another moment the man with the goatee got angrily to his feet.

‘He underestimates those journalists,’ he said.

‘He knows what he’s doing,’ the woman said, quietly. ‘He hasn’t been wrong before.’

‘There is always a first time,’ the man told her. ‘This is a dangerous game he’s playing.’

‘This is no game,’ the brown-haired woman snapped.

‘No, it isn’t.’

The voice lanced across the room and those in it turned to see Voronov standing in the doorway through which he had disappeared moments before.

‘No game,’ he went on. ‘Let them tell their stories, let them come. I will bury them all.’

SEVENTY-NINE

‘It stands to reason that Voronov will come after us,’ Jess Anderson said as Detective Inspector Robert Johnson turned to walk away. ‘He knows we’re a threat to him.’

‘Because of this … information you’ve got about him?’ Johnson sneered. ‘Because you know he controls some fucking statue and he’s using it to kill people who get in his way? Yeah, right, you must be at the very top of his list of enemies.’

‘I thought you believed what we’d told you about the Golem,’ Hadley snapped.

Johnson sighed wearily.

‘I heard what you told me,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t mean I believe it.’

‘But the forensic evidence at the scene of the attacks on Dunham and now here,’ Hadley went on. ‘The dust, the residue you found at all the places where attacks happened. You can’t ignore that.’

‘So according to you my number one suspect is a walking statue?’ the detective said.

‘Then explain the dust,’ Jess snapped. ‘Explain how so much damage could have been done by a man. Explain how Dunham’s injuries were inflicted.’

‘I can’t at the moment,’ Johnson admitted.

‘At least get a warrant and search Voronov’s apartment,’ Hadley protested. ‘Find the Golem.’

‘And you think that if Voronov is using this thing to murder his enemies that he’s just going to leave it standing around for anyone to find?’ Johnson said.

‘He showed it to us,’ Jess reminded the policeman.

‘Because it’s nothing more than a lump of fucking stone,’ the detective snapped. ‘He showed you because he’s got nothing to hide.’

‘You’re scared of him,’ Jess said, flatly. ‘Otherwise you’d investigate. Is he paying you off too? Or is he threatening you like he did the others?’

Johnson rounded angrily on her.

‘I’ve had enough of this bullshit,’ he hissed. ‘I should charge both of you with wasting police time.’

‘We’re trying to help you, how is that wasting your time?’ Jess demanded.

‘Trying to help me or accusing me of being paid off by Voronov, you’ll make up your mind eventually,’ Johnson said.

‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ Jess went on.

‘Fuck you,’ Johnson snapped. ‘Walking statues or police corruption, choose one for Christ’s sake.’

‘Just search his apartment,’ Jess insisted.

‘And what am I supposed to find?’ Johnson demanded. ‘I told you, I don’t need you to tell me what to do. I’ve got no evidence to suggest that Andrei Voronov is responsible for these attacks. I’d never get a warrant to search his place.’

‘What if someone broke in and did it for you?’ Jess asked.

‘You wouldn’t get past the foyer without being seen, let alone into his penthouse,’ Johnson said finally, his voice low.

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Jess insisted.

Johnson looked at each of them in turn then he reached for his cigarettes and lit one, blowing smoke into the increasingly chilly night air.

‘I can’t protect you once you’re inside,’ he said, quietly.

Jess smiled.

‘If we’re right about Voronov then you can’t protect us no matter where we are,’ she said. ‘Let us get to him before he gets to us.’

Johnson took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘You find anything, anything at all,’ he said. ‘You call me or you call nine, nine, nine straight away. No heroics. Got it? Get me a sample of clay from that thing, something forensics can match to the crime scenes and I’ll get a warrant.’

Jess nodded, her smiled widening.

‘Now get out of here,’ the detective insisted. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

EIGHTY

Jess tried the number once more but all she heard at the other end was the monotonous single tone that indicated there was no connection.

Hadley looked across at her but she merely shook her head and snapped her phone shut.

‘Where the hell is he?’ she said.

‘You heard what Johnson said,’ Hadley reminded her. ‘There were signs of a struggle inside there, he said there was blood. I hate to say it Jess but my bet is that blood belonged to Spike not to whoever broke in.’

‘Do you think he’s dead or just run off like Johnson said?’

Hadley shrugged.

‘I wouldn’t blame him if he ran,’ he said.

‘If he got the chance. I wish I knew where he was.’

‘No way of finding out unless he contacts you,’ he said.

‘Why would Voronov send the Golem after Spike?’ Jess mused.

‘You said he’d picked up something on his transmitters, something he was going to tell you.’

‘About us. He heard our names mentioned.’

‘Then they’ll come for us next.’

‘That’s why we have to stop Voronov first, we have to find the Golem and destroy it. There has to be a way, Alex. You said something about a scroll.’

‘The scroll that’s used to bring it to life. It’ll be hidden on the body of the Golem or Voronov will have it.’ He shrugged. ‘But to destroy the scroll we have to get close to the Golem itself. We have to get inside the Crystal Tower again and that’s not going to be easy.’

‘We did it before.’

‘This is different, Jess. They’ve seen us. They know what we look like. They’ll be ready for us this time. I don’t see how we can get inside. Besides, we don’t even know for sure that the Golem is inside the Crystal Tower right now.’

‘But we saw it. Voronov showed us and you know as well as I do why he showed us. Because he thinks he’s invincible, untouchable. He showed us because he thinks we can’t get to him or the Golem.’

‘It might not be inside the tower,’ Hadley said again.

‘But we have to find out.’

‘We can’t just go walking in there, his security men will grab us before we get ten feet.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘We’ve got to find a way of emptying the building so we can look around without being bothered.’

‘What about a fire?’ Jess said.

Hadley looked puzzled.

‘We start one, force the occupants of the Crystal Tower out,’ Jess went on.

‘And add arson to breaking and entering?’ he said, dryly.

‘What else can we do?’ Jess protested. ‘I’m not talking about setting the whole fucking building ablaze.’

‘That’s something.’

‘If there was a fire in the underground car park then the tower would have to be evacuated. No one’s going to get hurt.’

‘Except us.’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘There’s still building going on in the lower levels,’ Jess reminded him. ‘An accident could easily happen. Chemicals or petrol spilled and accidentally ignited.’

Hadley nodded slowly.

‘It could work, Alex,’ Jess went on.

‘It might,’ he conceded. ‘It just might. Unless the fire gets out of control, but that’s something we’ll have to deal with.’

‘And getting into the lower levels, the underground areas is going to be a hell of sight easier than trying to get into Voronov’s penthouse again,’ Jess went on.

‘And what about the Golem?’

‘If the building’s evacuated then we can make our way up to the penthouse where it is.’

‘And hope to Christ it’s still there.’

Jess nodded.

‘And then what?’ Hadley insisted.

‘We make sure we’ve got enough evidence then we go back to the police,’ Jess said. ‘We show Johnson what we’ve seen. We give him enough that he has no choice but to go in and check it out himself.’

Hadley looked at her silently for a moment then nodded.

‘You know we’re probably going to end up getting ourselves killed don’t you?’ he murmured. ‘We could both end up like Brian Dunham, Adrian Murray and Spike.’

‘You reckon you’ve got nothing to live for anyway,’ she told him, a slight smile on her lips. ‘What do you care?’

In spite of himself Hadley smiled too.

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve got fuck all to live for but you have.’

‘I live for my work,’ she told him.

‘That’s a fucking cliché,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘You always used to tell me that you have to take risks if you want the best stories.’

‘That was then.’

‘It’ll make one hell of a story, Alex,’ Jess told him.

Again he nodded but his face was expressionless and the emotion he felt he couldn’t quite identify. There was fear there but it was also mixed with something approaching excitement. He felt his heart beating a little faster. He couldn’t help but hope that it was still beating when they finished their task.

EIGHTY-ONE

The ringing phone woke Alex Hadley.

He sat up, his head spinning, momentarily disorientated and not quite sure where he even was. It took him a second to remember that he’d fallen asleep in his armchair when he’d returned to the flat. He must have been more tired than he’d realised because there was still a half empty cup of tea on the table beside him.

The phone was still ringing.

Hadley grunted something under his breath, rubbed his eyes and reached for the mobile, stilling the electronic tone.

There was no caller i.d. so he frowned as he pressed the mobile to his ear.

‘Hello,’ he said, glancing at his watch and noting that the time was just after six in the morning. Through a crack in the curtains he could see that the first feeble light of dawn was beginning to lighten the sky.

‘Mr Alex Hadley?’ the voice at the other end of the line asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Who is this?’

The caller was from the hospital they told him.

Hadley shuddered.

‘Dad,’ he said, quietly.

The caller told him that they were indeed ringing about his father. His condition, they told Hadley, had deteriorated.

‘In what way?’ Hadley wanted to know, swallowing hard and sitting upright in the chair now. He reached for the half empty cup of tea and swallowed some ignoring the fact that it was stone cold. His throat was dry, as if his mouth had been filled with sand.

His father, he was told, had been taken off the drips that had been feeding him.

‘When did this happen?’ Hadley wanted to know.

He was told that the drips had been removed just before midnight.

‘Why? Why did they take the drips out?’ he wanted to know.

His father had been pulling them out himself he was informed and it had been decided that it was pointless to replace them.

‘But he can’t help himself,’ Hadley snapped. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’

Apparently hospital policy was only willing to tolerate so much of that kind of behaviour. It had been deemed prudent to leave the feeding tubes out.

‘Deemed prudent by who?’ Hadley rasped, irritated by the tone of the caller. ‘Who the hell am I talking to anyway? There must be someone more senior around who I can speak to.’

Not at that time of the morning there wasn’t he was told flatly. He had been warned, he was reminded, that if his father continued to remove his feeding tubes that he would be refused treatment.

‘So you’ve rung me at this time of the fucking morning to tell me that you’re going to let my father die, is that right?’ Hadley snapped.

He was informed that there was no need for language like that.

‘I think there’s every need for it,’ Hadley snarled. ‘What the hell is wrong with you people? He’s a sick old man, he needs your help and you’re just leaving him to die.’

When a patient refused treatment it was hospital policy to leave them to their own devices, he was told.

‘He’s not refusing treatment,’ Hadley said, angrily. ‘He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s got Alzheimer’s for Christ sake. He can’t even remember his own name most days. Has he actually refused to take the tablets you’re trying to give him? Has he turned down any medicine?’

The removal of feeding tubes constituted refusal of treatment apparently.

Hadley let out a short almost painful sigh.

‘So what now?’ he wanted to know, not sure whether he should vent his anger at the faceless caller or try and control his temper and listen to the well-rehearsed bullshit that he was hearing from the voice at the other end of the line. He chose to try and control his temper. ‘What happens next?’

He was told that one more attempt would be made to re-attach his father’s feeding tubes (this apparently would be done later that same morning) and if he still insisted on pulling them out then he would be left.

‘To die?’ Hadley said, quietly. ‘That’s what you’re telling me isn’t it? You’re going to let my dad die? One of your … colleagues told me the same thing recently.’

There was a shortage of beds he was told. Treatment could not be administered indefinitely when the patient was being so uncooperative.

Hadley shook his head.

‘What kind of state is he in now?’ he wanted to know.

His father, he was told, had been sedated some time ago.

‘A sedative is medicine isn’t it?’ Hadley said hopelessly. ‘If he was sedated he accepted medication so he’s not refusing it is he?’

The sedative had been given in an intra-muscular form he was told. It was a different form of administering treatment.

‘So he’s asleep now?’ Hadley said. ‘How long for?’

Probably for another seven or eight hours he was told, it had been a strong dose that had been administered.

‘So why not just put the feeding tubes back in while he’s unconscious?’ Hadley wanted to know. ‘If he’s sedated he can’t pull them out.’

They had to wait until he was awake before such a procedure could be undertaken and they also had to see if he would resist the procedure.

‘Well if he’s pulled them out before he’s going to pull them out again,’ snapped Hadley. ‘Just put the fucking things back in and get some nourishment into him.’

That could not be done he was told and he was reminded again about his language.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Hadley snapped. ‘My father is dying and all you can do is warn me about my swearing. Jesus Christ, what kind of a fucking hospital are you running there? Where did you train your nurses? Dachau?’

The voice at the other end of the line said that they did not have to listen to that sort of abuse.

Hadley thought about telling them that as long as they insisted on acting like a cunt they deserved to. He decided against it at the last moment. For a second he wondered if he should apologise for his profanity but then decided not to. He was told that he would be contacted again when there were any developments.

‘Great,’ he said, wearily. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

Hadley terminated the call and slammed the mobile back down onto the coffee table.

He looked at the phone, his eyes narrowed. It was a moment or two before the tears began to flow.

‘Dad,’ he said, softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

EIGHTY-TWO

Jessica Anderson stood beneath the shower with her eyes closed as the warm water washed over her.

Above the noise of the splashing conduit she could hear the sound of the music that was coming from her iPod. It filled the bathroom as surely as the steam that was rising from the hot water like mist on an early November morning. More than once she had stepped from the shower to increase the volume until the music was loud enough. She wanted to be enveloped by it, by the warmth of the water. The music stopped her from thinking too much.

It stopped her considering the enormity of what she had to do and it helped to keep the fear at bay because no matter what she told herself, the overwhelming emotion she felt was not one of excitement or anticipation it was pure, naked fear. She was afraid. She had no doubt that her life was in danger and now, in the solitude of her flat she felt that fear more acutely than she had ever done in her life.

She also felt something else that she hadn’t experienced often in her life. She felt lonely. It was a combination of emotions that Jess did not enjoy. She felt empty, as if all the heat and strength had been sucked from her by some unseen force.

You don’t have to do this, she told herself. No one is putting a gun to your head and forcing you to risk your life. No one gave you the job of exposing Andrei Voronov. And what will it achieve?

Jess stood motionless beneath the shower spray considering her own question.

What exactly was she hoping to find she asked herself? Something normally confined to myths and legend? A figment of her imagination? She stood there with the water splashing her.

A Golem.

Even when she considered the possibility of the creature existing she could barely believe her own wayward thoughts. And yet …

Hadley was even more suspicious, cynical and difficult to convince than she herself and yet he seemed convinced of the creature’s existence.

And if it was there in Voronov’s apartment, what then? What if it wasn’t just the stuff of myth and legend and nightmares? What if it was the single minded killing machine that Hadley had told her of?

The questions tumbled through her mind and each seemed to grow more complex the more she thought about it. Jess reached for the shower control and switched the jets of water off. For long seconds she stood motionless, the sound of water gurgling away down the plughole the only sound in the room apart from the music that was still coming from her iPod. She reached across and turned that off too, standing there in the silence.

What are you waiting for?

Jess rubbed her face again then stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel and dried herself. As she reached for the fresh clothes she’d brought into the bathroom with her she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Through the steam left by the shower her image appeared indistinct and distorted. Jess reached out and wiped the steam away, the sound of her fingers on the glass creating a sound that reminded her of distant sob.

Very poetic.

She wiped the rest of the steam away with the towel then finished dressing.

Barefoot in just jeans and a baggy sweater she padded through into the sitting room where she glanced down at her mobile phone, hesitating before she picked it up, wondering why her hand was shaking.

She swallowed hard and found the number she wanted, hitting Call and waiting for it to be answered.

When it finally was, Jess heard the hesitancy in the voice at the other end.

‘Mum,’ Jess said. ‘It’s me.’

‘Oh hello, dear, are you alright?’ her mother asked. ‘There’s nothing wrong is there?’

‘No, Mum I just …’

What did you want? What exactly did you ring for?

‘I just thought I’d ring,’ Jess went on, clearing her throat again. ‘I’ve got something to do and …’ Again the words seemed to fail her.

‘To do with work?’ her mother asked.

‘Yes, Mum, to do with work,’ Jess said, grateful for the respite. ‘It’s just something I’m working on.’

‘It sounds exciting.’

‘Well … not really,’ Jess forced a laugh. ‘Just a story. I’m going to be busy for the next few days though so I might not be in touch and I didn’t want you to worry.’

‘Alright, Jess,’ her mother said a little sadly.

There was a long uncomfortable silence finally broken by Jess.

‘Mum, I love you,’ she said.

‘I love you too, Jess.’

Jess could feel the tears welling up.

‘I just wanted to tell you,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you did,’ her mum chuckled.

‘I’d better go, Mum,’ Jess insisted. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’

She ended the call and tucked the mobile into the pocket of her jeans, standing motionless in the middle of the sitting room. She didn’t even bother to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

EIGHTY-THREE

‘I learned from an early age that there is no pity in this world.’

Andrei Voronov stood motionless beside the window gazing out over the landscape of London.

‘No pity and no mercy and that is the way that it should be,’ he went on, his voice slow and even. ‘The meek will not inherit the earth. The strong will take everything. That is always how it has been and that is how it will continue. My family have always known this. Many years ago they were warriors, they fought for their homes, for their families. They did not hesitate to kill any who threatened what they had or who would take from them. They knew that what they did was right and just and they acted with strength and courage. The times might have changed but nothing else. Men still protect what they have. They still kill if they have to.’

He smiled to himself.

‘And that is how it should be,’ he went on, his tone darkening. ‘The strongest survive. The most powerful rule. It has been this way since time began and that is how it will always remain. My ancestors knew this, that was why they used the knowledge they were given. Knowledge that has been passed down from one generation to another, knowledge that so few have and even fewer would dare to use.’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘Well I dare to use that knowledge and that power. Just as they used it against the fools and cowards who persecuted them and it was their enemies who suffered.’

Voronov turned and looked across the room.

‘The lives of others mean nothing to me,’ he said, quietly. ‘Anyone who stands in my way I will destroy. No man can stop me. No man dare stand against me.’

He began walking slowly across the room, his eyes fixed on one single point ahead of him.

‘Not with the power I have,’ Voronov went on. ‘Power that only I know how to wield. Power that was passed to me by generations before me. Men who knew that the only quality a man needs to possess is strength. Strength of will, strength of purpose and a complete belief in what he does and that what he does is right. Men must remain unclouded by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality. Who invented these concepts? Holy Men. Men who would look to Gods for their salvation.’

He had crossed the room by now and he stood motionless, gazing raptly ahead, his eyes unblinking.

‘A man with my knowledge has no need for Gods,’ Voronov breathed. ‘No God has the power that I do. The power of life and death is mine. The power to destroy is mine, the power to bring life is mine. What has God to offer that I do not possess?’

The figure who he addressed the words to remained immobile.

The Golem stood before Voronov but did not move.

‘You are my creation,’ the billionaire went on. ‘Mine to command as I have before, as my father and my grandfather did.’

Voronov reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tiny scroll of paper. He regarded the scroll silently for a moment then with great care and something approaching tenderness he pushed it into the mouth of the Golem.

‘The time has come once again,’ Voronov said quietly. ‘Do as I command. I give you life.’

The Golem took a step towards him.

EIGHTY-FOUR

As Jess climbed out of the taxi she could see Hadley sitting at one of the outside tables of the coffee shop. He was nursing a large coffee and was sipping at it in between glancing at a small notebook on the table before him.

He looked up as he heard her approach and he managed a smile that seemed to Jess to have taken more effort than it should.

‘I thought we were going to meet at your place,’ she said, sitting down opposite him.

‘To plan our attack?’ he said a little sharply.

Jess looked at him but Hadley barely met her gaze.

‘Are you ok, Alex?’ she asked.

He thought about mentioning his father but then decided against it. After all no one could do anything to help, least of all Jess and, he told himself, they had other matters to attend to.

‘Just thinking about things,’ he told her, taking another sip of his coffee.

‘Like what?’

A waiter arrived and took her order, disappearing back inside the café to fetch it.

‘Like how the hell we’re going to get out of this in one piece,’ Hadley told her. ‘Or even if we will.’

‘That detective said to ring the police as soon as we found something,’ Jess reminded him. ‘If we do that we’ll be fine.’

Hadley looked at her.

‘Maybe we’ve underestimated Voronov,’ he said. ‘Him and this thing, whatever the hell it is.’

‘The Golem?’

Hadley nodded.

‘Do you want to back out now?’ she asked.

‘No. I just want to make sure we know what we’re dealing with and how to stop it. If we can.’

‘So how do we stop it, you’re the expert,’ she smiled and took a sip of her coffee.

‘I don’t think there are any experts any more,’ Hadley told her. ‘I know what I told you before. About how the Golem is created, how it’s given its power. Once brought to life it can only be stopped by the man who created it or by destroying the words that gave it life.’

‘You mean that scroll that’s hidden somewhere on its body.’

Hadley nodded.

‘Or by killing Voronov himself?’ Jess added. ‘He was the one who made it, if he dies then Golem dies too right?’

‘Wiping out the word Aleph from the Golem’s head kills it too remember? We don’t have to kill Voronov too.’

‘Do you think he’d hesitate to kill us if he had to?’ she said, quietly.

‘You’re probably right but there’s one problem, we don’t even know for sure that he was the one who made this Golem.’

‘It’s a fair assumption, Alex. His grandfather built one didn’t he? Perhaps that’s where Voronov got his information from.’

Hadley nodded slowly.

‘Could it be the same one?’ Jess asked. ‘Could that thing that’s up there in Voronov’s penthouse now be the same one that his Grandfather built all those years ago? It’s possible isn’t it? I mean, the Golem wouldn’t die. He could have had it hidden somewhere for years, keeping it out of sight until he needed it.’

Hadley raised his eyebrows, considering the possibility.

‘I mean to say, what do you do with a Golem when you don’t need it any more?’ Jess went on.

‘You return it to the earth from which it was made,’ Hadley said, flatly. ‘Removing the scroll will extinguish its life force. From that point on it’s inactive. Dead if you like. If it’s made of clay as they usually are then take it to pieces again. Dump it. Return it to the Thames where it came from.’

They sat in silence for a moment then Jess looked at him.

‘So when do we go?’ she wanted to know.

Hadley took a sip of his coffee and put the cup down on the table again, his hand shaking slightly.

‘Tonight,’ he told her. ‘We settle this one way or the other tonight.’

EIGHTY-FIVE

‘The residue was clay,’ said Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell. ‘It matched what we found at the scene of Adrian Murray’s death, Brian Dunham’s murder and what was left behind when his house was attacked.’

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson nodded and looked at the report that his companion had handed him.

‘Also, the blood inside Paxton’s place was his,’ Powell went on. ‘No sign of any other blood or any other DNA of any description inside his place. Whoever attacked him didn’t leave any traces.’

‘Which is just about impossible isn’t it?’ Johnson mused.

‘Nothing but that clay dust,’ Powell told him.

‘Any idea where the clay came from?’

‘Well it didn’t come from any builders yard as far as preliminary examination has shown.’

‘So where did it come from?’

‘Forensics say that it had a high concentration of water not like modelling clay or anything you’d find on a building site. And there were traces of some kind of algae too, lots of it. As if the clay had been made with earth mixed with river water. That’s what the lab said.’ He shrugged.

Johnson ran his eyes over the report once more but for all the sense it made it may as well have been written in a foreign language. He looked at the D.S. and exhaled wearily.

‘Two murders, a break-in and disappearance, an attack on a house all with the same physical evidence,’ he said, slowly. ‘And we’re no closer to knowing now what the fuck is going on than we were when we started.’ He shook his head.

‘One of the Tech boys went over the remains of Paxton’s phone to see who’d been calling him or what calls he made before he was attacked,’ Powell added.

‘And?’

‘He rang that journalist you were talking to. Jessica Anderson. It was a short call. Looks like he was interrupted and the time of the call must have been pretty close to when he was attacked.’ Powell pulled out the chair opposite Johnson and sat down. ‘Tell me to mind my own business, Bob but what is it with her? I saw her hanging around with Alex Hadley the other night too. You don’t think she might have something to do with Paxton’s disappearance do you?’

‘She was one of Paxton’s clients, she paid him for information. He was picking up emergency calls on that equipment of his and she was one of the people he sold the info to.’

‘Her and half the newspaper people in the fucking city,’ Powell said.

‘Some of our own guys leak information to the right people for the right price, Ray, you know that,’ Johnson reminded him.

Powell nodded.

‘So what’s she after?’ the D.S. asked.

‘Her and Hadley have got a stick up their arses about Andrei Voronov. They think he’s got something to do with the attacks on Dunham and Murray and now this one on Paxton.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I think they could be right but it’s just speculation, there’s nothing we can use to link him to the attacks.’

‘Why would Voronov be involved?’

‘Dunham refused him planning permission for this new hotel he wants to build and don’t forget the bullshit we had when he was trying to get planning permission for the Crystal Tower. Hadley and this girl think that he used threats to get his own way with that and they think he’s at it again.’

‘They could be right.’

‘Even if they are we’ve got nothing to link him to what’s been going on.’

‘I still don’t see how they think he could have caused Dunham’s death.’

Johnson let out a weary breath.

‘You really want to know?’ he said, looking directly at his companion. ‘Well I can tell you but I’ll warn you now you’ll probably want to have me locked up by the time I’m finished.’

EIGHTY-SIX

Johnson sat before the computer keyboard for a second his fingers poised over the keys as if he was reluctant to touch them.

‘I feel like a kid looking for porn,’ he said, wearily glancing at Powell who was standing beside him.

The D.S. smiled, watching as his companion brought up a search engine, the brightly coloured logo showing on the screen.

‘Is this what we’ve come to?’ Johnson said. ‘Great coppers we are. Trying to solve a crime on fucking Google.’

Powell chuckled.

‘Just type it in,’ he said. ‘It’s either that or trek off to the nearest library and we’re going to feel even bigger cunts doing that.’

Johnson typed Golem into the search engine and waited.

There were over thirteen million results. The two men glanced at them and Johnson pointed to some images that had been displayed.

‘It looks like something to do with a video game,’ he said, irritably. ‘It’s a fucking Pokémon.’ He laughed. ‘Perhaps we should raid the nearest Toys R Us.’

‘No, look, there’s stuff about it being an artificial being or something,’ Powell interjected. ‘Didn’t you say that was what Hadley said. That this thing had been built by Voronov and he was controlling it?’ Powell pointed at one of the results on the screen. ‘Click on that.’

Johnson did as he was asked and the two men began to read.

They were still reading thirty minutes later.

Johnson was gazing raptly at the screen, his eyes travelling across the words there as if he was hypnotised.

‘There’s another mention of it being created from earth and water,’ he said, clicking back to one of the five other websites the two men had been using. ‘Nearly everywhere says it’s made of clay.’

‘Clay is earth and water isn’t it?’ Powell interjected. ‘What were you thinking of, modelling clay?’

‘Maybe he built it out of Plasticine or fucking Play-Doh,’ Johnson offered, shaking his head.

‘Look there,’ Powell suddenly said, jabbing a finger at the screen and reading aloud. ‘The creator would mix earth and water together. Water taken from a nearby lake or river was thought to be best as this would imbue the Golem with the powerful forces of nature as well as those granted to it by its maker.’

Johnson looked up for a moment.

‘Didn’t that report say the clay they found at the scenes of these attacks contained algae or something? Like you’d find in river water?’ he offered.

Powell nodded.

The two men read more, checked back to the other websites, read and tried to digest what they were presented with. The ticking of the wall clock in Johnson’s office seemed thunderous as the detectives pored over the computer screen and the facts it was displaying.

‘River water,’ Johnson murmured again.

‘From the Thames?’ Powell offered.

‘Even if we prove that there is one of these things, a Golem, we’ve still got nothing to link it to Voronov other than Alex Hadley’s speculation,’ Johnson said. ‘It’s not like we can get a search warrant based on evidence like that. Nothing at all ties Voronov to any of these crimes let alone the fact that he might have made some kind of … creature out of mud and water from the Thames. We’ve got no witnesses. No motive. Nothing.’

‘What if Hadley and this girl do manage to get inside the Crystal Tower?’ Powell offered. ‘If they do they might find something that we can use. All we need is a reason to go in and search the place.’

‘If we need a reason to search the place, Ray then that means we’re admitting the existence of this Golem.’

‘“When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,”’ Powell intoned. ‘That’s what Sherlock Holmes said.’ The D.S. smiled.

‘So we’re using fictional detectives to help us as well are we?’ Johnson grinned.

‘Someone with incredible strength attacked Brian Dunham’s house, smashed his car up and killed him,’ Powell went on. ‘Somebody killed Adrian Murray then threw his body fifteen feet from his office into the street. Someone who left behind residue in their footprints that resembled brick dust but which we now know was actually clay made from river water and mud. Clay that could have been used by someone with the right kind of knowledge to make a statue that they can bring to life and use for their own purposes and yes I know that sounds crazy but what else have we got?’

Johnson nodded.

‘Let’s figure out how we get that search warrant,’ he murmured.

EIGHTY-SEVEN

The Crystal Tower pointed heavenward like an accusatory finger, jabbing so high into the night sky it seemed to be tearing the clouds themselves.

The darkening sky was mottled with cloud and Jess was sure that she had felt spots of rain on more than one occasion as she and Alex Hadley had walked towards the massive edifice before them.

She felt cold and not just because of the chill breeze that was blowing through the streets and between the other tall buildings around them. Jess was not afraid to admit that she felt more than a little trepidation as she and Hadley walked on. But mixed with that fear was an excitement and exhilaration she had not experienced for a long time. She glanced at Hadley on more than one occasion wondering if he felt the same but almost reluctant to ask. His face was set in hard lines and his gaze was seemingly fixed on the Crystal Tower with the same kind of concentration one would normally see on the face of a sniper about to pull the trigger on his next target.

The two of them walked in silence, edging past others, dodging those coming the other way and moving relentlessly forward. Jess had a camera in each pocket but what exactly she was going to photograph she wasn’t sure?

The Golem? Voronov? Your own death?

She swallowed hard, considering again exactly how risky this undertaking could be but pushing the conclusions to the back of her mind. To contemplate them too intently would have meant she turned back, she knew that. Who in their right mind walked so calmly towards possible death?

Hadley fumbled in his pocket as he walked, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, drawing heavily on it before offering the packet to Jess who shook her head.

Why not have one? The condemned were always offered a final cigarette weren’t they?

She pulled up the collar of her jacket and walked on, glancing at the windows in the tower that were lit. Most were on the lower floors and she could only assume that there was still work going on there. Construction was ongoing and probably would be right up until the inaugural opening of the building. Her eyes moved higher, towards the floors of the building that would house residents and then beyond to where the penthouse apartment was. Where Vornonv was. Where the Golem was.

There was a large open space in front of the building, the road curving around before the main entrances in a gentle arc. The open space had benches and several sculptures on it and was presumably meant to be an area where people could sit outside in good weather and gaze up at the imposing edifice of the Crystal Tower as they took a break from their work inside. But all that would be in the future. For now Jess could think only of this moment and if she was honest, she didn’t dare think about anything beyond this night. For all she knew there might not be anything beyond it for her.

Again she drove that thought to the back of her mind and walked on, slowing her pace slightly as Hadley did. He glanced up again at the tower then looked at Jess, his face pale. She wondered if it was just the chill in the air and the cold white light given off by the street lamps that was making his skin seem so pallid. Perhaps he was as scared as her, she told herself.

Hadley was about to say something when the sound of a siren lanced through the air.

They both turned to see an ambulance speed past, blue lights spinning. They watched as it wove in and out of the traffic on the road around it, disappearing around a corner.

An omen?

Jess swallowed hard, shaking the fanciful thought from her mind.

‘You ok?’ Hadley asked.

‘I’ve been better,’ she told him, trying to smile but not quite managing it.

‘There’s still time to back out,’ he reminded her.

Jess shook her head.

‘No there isn’t, Alex,’ she told him. ‘Not any more.’

Hadley held her gaze then looked up one final time at the Crystal Tower and the gathering clouds that seemed to be forming around its pinnacle like smoke around a burning match head.

He reached out and squeezed Jess’s arm.

They walked on.

RE-ANIMATION

It moved slowly, almost ponderously. As if each step was not just an effort but taken with care in case any damage should occur if it brought its large feet down too hard.

It had no conception of weight. It had no conception of anything because it couldn’t think. It was like a child, instructed to do something but not sure of what the task it had been told to complete actually entailed. No grasp of consequences and no understanding of circumstance. It was the embodiment of obedience in many ways. Brought to life purely to perform the tasks assigned to it by others and it carried out those tasks without question and without hesitation.

And without conscience, remorse or delusions of morality. For it understood nothing of these concepts or any others that man functioned by. It had no conscience because it could not reason. It felt no remorse because it had no emotions. It did not trouble itself with morality because it functioned purely on something approaching instinct although scholars would have argued that it could not possess instinct either due to its form.

In all aspects it was lifeless. A dead thing. No blood flowed through its veins. No heart beat in its chest and no brain caused it to move.

Fashioned from clay it was as cold and lifeless as the building it now moved through, as unfeeling as the walls that supported the structure around it. It had no eyes and yet it moved with assurance, never bumping into anything and able to push doors with sufficient restraint so as not to damage them for there was such incredible power within it that anything it was told to destroy it did so with ease.

Had it been able to comprehend the passing of time and the passage of the years then it might have marvelled at its own longevity but then clay and stone did not age like flesh and bone did.

If it had passed a mirror and seen its reflection it would not have wondered what was staring back at it because it would not have connected the dark, blank, expressionless features it saw with its own being.

It had no understanding. No grasp of anything other than to obey the one who gave it life. It knew no names. It had no idea who the men had been over the years who had brought it to life and commanded it. It had merely done what it was created for and then ceased to be active again. To say it had slept would be wrong because that which does not live does not need rest or sustenance.

It was a machine with no moving parts.

There was a perfection about it that many would have envied. And all feared.

As the night grew darker, it walked slowly through the corridors of the Crystal Tower, moving as inexorably and unstoppably as lava pouring from an erupting volcano.

And it would do so until instructed to do otherwise.

Unstoppable. Unimaginable. Lethal.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

‘Where the hell is all the security?’

Jess peered into the well-lit foyer of the Crystal Tower and thought how empty it looked.

‘Maybe the Security men are doing rounds of the building,’ Hadley offered.

Jess nodded without taking her eyes from the foyer.

‘We get a sample of clay from the Golem then we get out, right?’ Jess said. ‘When we’ve got it we call Johnson and let him take over.’

‘Come on then,’ Hadley said. ‘Let’s do it.’ The two of them hurried towards the main doors of the building. Triggered by the electronic sensors above and beside them the doors swung open immediately and the couple moved inside once again glancing around for what they expected to be the inevitable approach of Voronov’s men. When no one appeared they moved towards the bank of lifts but Jess shook her head, pointing instead to an emergency exit away to their left.

Hadley followed her towards the doors and they found themselves in a stairwell that stretched upwards towards all the floors of the building. But there was another flight of stone steps that led downwards and it was towards these that Jess headed, Hadley glancing up to see if there were any closed-circuit cameras in the stairwell that might be tracking their movements. He was relieved to see that there weren’t. There were bare wires in two corners, hanging like plastic encased entrails from the stonework and indicating to him that cameras would indeed be mounted in both positions very soon but for now there was nothing and for that he was grateful.

Jess made her way down the steps, shivering a little as she did. She knew that the lower levels of the building were still under construction and obviously, from the chill in the air, the heating certainly hadn’t been installed down here yet. There was more evidence of the work necessary in the lower levels as they reached the first floor of the underground car park. There were holes in the ceiling where strip lights were to be inserted and these also had cables and wires dangling from them. Parking bays had yet to be marked and painted and the walls were still bare concrete in most places.

There was machinery standing around too. A generator. A forklift truck. What looked like a miniature tractor complete with tracks instead of wheels and a small digger as well as tools that had been left at various places around the lower levels as if discarded hurriedly by their users.

‘The last worker killed died down here,’ Jess said, lowering her voice which still seemed to echo in the confines of the darkened car park.

‘The last of many,’ Hadley said, quietly.

Jess nodded.

Away to the right there was movement. Jess spun round, her heart thudding harder against her ribs. Hadley was also looking in that direction now, trying to control his breathing.

They stood motionless for a moment longer then the sound came again.

Jess narrowed her eyes and looked in the direction of the sound, her eyes finally spotting what might have caused it. A length of wire dangling from the ceiling was waving lazily in the air as a breeze caressed it. Jess let out a breath, feeling her heart slow a little.

‘What the hell are we looking for down here?’ Hadley wanted to know. He glanced around him anxiously.

‘I’m not completely sure myself,’ Jess said, almost stumbling over a chisel that was lying in her path. She ducked down and picked the tool up, turning it over in her hand, looking at the sharp end for a moment. Then, as Hadley watched, she pressed the end of the chisel against the nearest wall until it scratched the concrete.

Something moved behind them.

There was a low hissing sound that reminded Hadley of water dropping on a hot surface. He squinted in the gloom, his attention caught by the nearest light fitting. The wires that had been dangling from it were moving slightly as if disturbed by a breeze and yet there was no breeze.

‘Do that again,’ Hadley said, motioning to Jess but keeping his eyes fixed on the wires.

She scraped the wall with the chisel.

The wires moved again, waving limply for a second.

As Hadley watched, they seemed to slide further from the housing, lengthening and stretching like the tentacles of an octopus.

Jess saw them too.

Where there had been six inches of wire dangling from the ceiling before there was now at least two feet.

‘Alex.’

Hadley turned to see where Jess was pointing at the wall. The concrete that she had gouged from the wall was now dripping with a dark liquid, the fluid welling up in the marks and then trickling down the wall.

‘What did you say about the entire building being a living entity and not just the Golem?’ Hadley murmured, softly.

‘The building was made from the same materials as the Golem itself,’ she said, quietly. ‘It has a consciousness, a spark of life the same as the Golem.’

Hadley looked at her evenly but she could still see the disbelief in his eyes.

Jess scraped the chisel across the wall once more and this time more of the dark fluid coursed out from the deep scratch.

The wires descended another foot or so from their housing nearby and Hadley grabbed Jess by the arm, urging her away from the scene. He could smell something in the air and he thought it might be useful. Jess now sniffed the air and detected the odour too.

‘Petrol,’ she said, following Hadley’s pointing finger.

There were a dozen large cans of the fuel piled against another wall.

There were more tools lying around too and Hadley picked up a screwdriver, pushing it into the side of one of the petrol cans. The liquid inside immediately began to pour out and he walked backwards spreading the pungent liquid over the floor of the underground car park, the fumes making him light-headed. When the trail was twenty or thirty feet long he hurried back to where Jess waited and emptied the rest of the petrol over the stack of other cans then he tossed the empty one aside, wincing when it landed with a loud clang in the gloom.

‘Give me your lighter,’ he said and after a moment of hesitation, Jess handed him what he sought. ‘We’re about to ignite petrol in a confined space,’ Hadley reminded her. ‘Inside a building that you think has some kind of consciousness, that could attack us.’ He paused. ‘Do you still want to put your theory to the test?’

Jess nodded.

They locked stares for a second then Hadley bent and held the lighter flame to the stream of petrol. It went up immediately.

There was a low whoosh as the fuel ignited, the blue and yellow flame speeding along the trail towards pile of other petrol cans.

‘Come on,’ Hadley snapped and they ran for the ramp that led up to the next level.

They barely made it.

EIGHTY-NINE

The blast as the petrol exploded sounded like a muffled roar higher up inside the Crystal Tower.

Deep within the subterranean car park the sound was like a high pitched shriek as the petrol ignited but the higher up the building the sound became more subdued.

Such was the power of the explosion it still caused a slight shudder to run through the building as high as the fifteenth floor. Windows rattled in their frames and several on the lower floors cracked but didn’t break.

High up in the Penthouse apartment Andrei Voronov did not hear the blast but he was alerted to it only moments after it happened.

Two dark-suited security men hurried into the apartment, causing Voronov to look up irritably from the large wooden writing desk where he sat gazing at some papers and a laptop.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘Someone is in the building,’ the first security man said. ‘There is a fire in the underground car park. It looks as if it was set deliberately.’

‘Is it contained?’ Voronov wanted to know.

The first man nodded.

‘Find whoever set it,’ Voronov said, flatly.

The two men hesitated.

‘And when we do?’ the second asked.

‘Deal with the problem,’ Voronov said, returning his attention to his laptop. ‘Do you understand me?’

They both turned and left, passing the man with the goatee beard who was on his way into Voronov’s room.

‘We have visitors,’ Voronov said. ‘Someone has started a fire in the underground car park.’

‘We should call the police,’ the man said.

‘We don’t need the police,’ Voronov told him. ‘Besides, are you going to explain to them what is happening?’

‘What if those who started the fire have already escaped?’

‘Then we will find them but I don’t think they have left the building. I don’t think they want to. Not yet.’

He looked evenly at the other man then hit one of the keys on his laptop. The screen was immediately filled with images, streamed from the dozens of security cameras on each floor. The floor Voronov had selected was the second floor and clearly visible in one panel were two figures. A man and a woman. Voronov hit another key and the image grew larger. The man with the goatee moved nearer, squinting at the pictures.

‘The journalists,’ he said, quietly.

‘In search of their story,’ Voronov said. ‘I knew they would come. Well, if it is an ending to their story they want they will find it is not a happy one. Not for them anyway.’ He glanced at the other man who nodded. ‘Tell security to isolate the second, third and fourth floor and then keep clear. For their own safety tell them to keep clear.’

The man with the goatee understood and nodded.

‘I want the building shut down,’ Voronov went on. ‘Close and lock every exit door, shut down the lifts too. No one comes in and no one gets out. No one. And turn off all the security cameras on every floor. It will save destroying the discs later in case anything is caught on film. These journalists will be dealt with tonight, once and for all.’

Again the man with the goatee nodded.

Voronov turned his attention back to the image on the laptop, a slight smile on his lips.

NINETY

Jess ducked involuntarily when she heard the blast, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the stairwell from which they’d both just emerged.

She and Hadley found themselves in a long corridor that stretched away from them and then turned at a ninety degree angle about fifty yards further on.

It was from around this corner that the first of the security guards appeared.

Jess spun around, dragging Hadley with her and headed back into the stairwell, all too aware of footsteps pounding after them. She sprinted for the stairs and hurried up them, almost stumbling on more than one occasion but pulled upright by Hadley who jabbed a finger at another emergency door as they reached the next floor up. Jess shot a quick glance behind her and realised that the security men hadn’t reached the stairs yet. Then, like Hadley, she crashed through the doors to her right and onwards into another seemingly endless corridor.

‘In here,’ Hadley said, breathlessly, grabbing at the handle of the nearest door and tumbling into what seemed to be an office. Or would be one day. There was very little furniture inside it other than a couple of desks, some piles of boxes and some filing cabinets. Nowhere to hide, Jess thought, her heart thudding against her ribs.

Hadley obviously had the same thought because he glanced frantically around the room then looked despairingly at Jess and pointed at a pile of boxes stacked high against one of the far walls. They both moved towards it, ducked down behind the inadequate rampart and waited in silence.

Long moments passed then Jess took a couple of steps forward.

‘What are you doing?’ Hadley hissed, keeping his voice low.

Jess waved a hand before her then moved slowly towards the office door. She paused for a second then opened it a crack and peered out into the corridor beyond.

The corridor was empty.

Jess ducked back into the room and scuttled across to Hadley who was still crouched down behind the boxes.

‘I don’t get it,’ Jess whispered. ‘They were right behind us but there’s no sign of them now.’

‘Unless they know we’re in here and they’re just waiting for us to come out,’ Hadley offered. ‘Was this part of the plan?’

‘We never had a plan did we?’ Jess asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘Well, to get out of this without getting killed might be a good place to start,’ Hadley said, joining her as she moved back towards the office door.

He moved in front of her also easing the door open wide enough to see out into the corridor beyond.

It was still deserted.

He moved his head a little way out, glancing both ways, his attention caught by a security camera that was mounted at one end of the corridor. Hadley was about to duck back into the room when he noticed that the red light which had been blinking on the camera was now off. He stepped out into the corridor and still the light did not come on, neither did the camera move and track him as it would normally have done. He frowned then motioned for Jess to join him which she did.

‘The security cameras are off,’ Hadley whispered, pointing to the dormant contraption. ‘Why the fuck would they do that?’

Jess could only shake her head.

‘And if they called the fire brigade to put out the fire they’re taking their time getting here,’ she added.

‘Maybe they never called them,’ Hadley offered.

‘No fire alarms went off,’ Jess reminded him. ‘Fire doors are supposed to close automatically. Maybe there’s more unfinished than we first thought.’ She paused a moment. ‘Unless the building is trying to help us.’

Hadley merely raised his eyebrows then moved off down the corridor towards the bank of lifts, noticing that another security camera above the lift doors was also inactive. He hit the CALL button and waited.

Nothing happened. The button didn’t illuminate and there was no sound from inside the shaft beyond the closed doors. Hadley pressed again but still there was no response.

‘Looks like we’re walking up,’ he said, nodding towards the exit doors at the far end of the corridor.

‘Are they all out of action?’ Jess asked, scanning the closed doors and the unlit numbers above each one.

‘All except the private one that leads up to Voronov’s penthouse,’ Hadley told her indicating the panels before them. ‘And we’re not getting in that one.’

Jess nudged him, pointing at the illuminated numbers above the door of the private lift. The ones at the top were flaring into life.

‘Someone has,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I think someone’s coming down.’

They both stood rooted to the spot for a moment watching the numbers lighting up in descending order as the private lift moved lower.

‘Let’s move,’ Hadley said and they both ran towards the far end of the corridor.

He reached the doors first and pushed against them, slipping his fingers beneath the bar that ran across them and trying to lift it. It wouldn’t move. The doors remained shut. Jess helped him, using all her strength to try and shift the recalcitrant bar but it was no use.

‘We’re locked in,’ she said. ‘Someone locked it from the other side.’

‘Let’s try the doors at the other end where we came in,’ Hadley suggested.

They both turned and sprinted down the corridor, glancing again in the direction of the private lift as they passed. They could see that it was still descending. It had reached the thirty-second floor by now and was still on its way down.

Jess and Hadley ran on, finally reaching the other safety doors.

They too were locked.

‘They know where we are,’ Jess said.

Hadley nodded.

‘We’ve got to find somewhere to hide,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘At least give ourselves a chance.’

They headed back up the corridor again, opening doors as they went, looking for any room that might offer sanctuary. Any room that might have a stick of furniture in it that they could conceal themselves behind. Or something that they could use as a weapon to protect themselves.

Every room seemed to be empty.

And the lift was still descending.

They both knew its destination was the floor they were now on.

‘Call the police,’ Hadley said. ‘Do it now, Jess.’

She reached for her phone, letting out a gasp as she looked at it.

‘No signal,’ she said.

The lift was at the twenty-fifth floor now and it was still descending.

NINETY-ONE

Hadley knew they had no chance.

That unassailable fact was beginning to burn its way deeper and deeper into his mind. He had been apprehensive when they’d first entered the building, doubtful of their chances of pulling off what they come here for but now as he glanced up at the illuminated numbers above the lift he was even more certain of that eventuality.

Jess also watched the numbers, each one that lit up showing how low the lift was now going. It was on the twentieth floor now and still coming down. She estimated they had another ten or fifteen seconds or less before it arrived at the floor they were currently on.

And then?

She ran towards the door of another room and pushed it open not even knowing what she was looking for. Somewhere to hide? Something to fight back with? But why hide? It was only prolonging the inevitable. They might as well stand and wait for their fate, embrace it as a man who walks to the scaffold embraces the realisation and inevitability of his own demise. But something deep inside her, some faint and desperate voice told her that they could still find a way out of this seemingly impossible situation and it was that tiny spark of false hope and desperation that drove her to shove open another door a little farther up the corridor.

The door swung open and Jess looked inside.

There must have been workmen inside this very day she told herself because there were tools lying around. And tools, she thought, could be used as weapons. Where there were weapons there was a chance. Slim though it might be it was better than nothing.

She snatched up a hammer, hefting it before her and motioned to Hadley who joined her inside the room, enveloped now by the gloom. Blinds had been fitted to the windows and closed and they shut out any natural light from outside. It was almost impenetrably dark inside the room and Jess felt a little safer in the blackness that wrapped itself around her and Hadley. He ducked down and picked up something bulkier that Jess recognised as a nail gun. He held it before him like an oversized pistol for a second before pressing himself against the wall just like Jess was doing.

In the corridor outside they heard the lift finally bump to a halt.

Hadley gripped the nail gun more tightly, his finger over the trigger, his heart hammering against his ribs. Jess held the claw hammer in both hands, trying to steady it and also trying to stop herself shaking.

Then they heard the voices outside.

Whispered words spoken in an accent they had come to recognise.

Hadley looked across at her then down at the small strip of light beneath the door, creeping beneath from the blazing fluorescents in the ceiling of the corridor.

Shadows moved across this strip.

Whoever was out there was right beside the door.

Jess gripped the hammer more tightly and fixed her gaze on the handle.

There was more whispering then silence again. In that oppressive stillness Jess was sure that whoever was on the far side of the door would hear her heart beating it was hammering so hard against her ribs. She tried to swallow but her throat was as dry as chalk.

The handle moved and the door opened a fraction.

Hadley swung the nail gun upwards and waited.

If he’d believed in a God he would have said a prayer. For himself, for Jess and for any other fucker in this stinking world that he cared about and hoped he’d live to see again.

The man who stepped into the room was about five feet ten. Dressed in a dark suit that momentarily made him look like a portion of the shadow in the room had detached itself and gained some semblance of form. In that split second, Hadley could see that the man was holding a gun.

For milliseconds they looked at one another in bewilderment but it was Hadley who reacted first.

He pumped the trigger of the nail gun five times in quick succession.

Five nails, each one 90mm long, exploded from the gun and hit the man who stood before him.

The first caught him in the chin, tore easily into the bone and stuck there. The second shot past his ear, nicking the flesh on the way before burying itself in the door behind. The third hit him in the forehead, ploughing easily into bone as deep as the flattened head of the nail. The fourth nail also missed but the fifth tore into his right eye and onwards into his brain. There was surprisingly little blood. The man dropped like a stone, the gun falling from his hand as a second man now stepped into the room, his own pistol raised.

He swung it upwards, drawing a bead on Hadley but before he could pull the trigger Jess leapt from behind the door and brought the claw hammer down onto the back of his skull with as much power as she could muster. There was a sickening crack as the skull shattered, the force of the blow creating a coin sized hole just above the man’s left ear. Jess hit him again as he swayed uncertainly, his index finger spasming around the trigger of the automatic.

The weapon went off with a thunderous blast that seemed to fill the room and reverberated inside Jess’s head as it seemed to shatter her eardrums. She struck again at the second man who was trying to turn towards her now, raising his hand to protect himself from the rain of blows but it was useless. Jess caught him across the bridge of the nose and then the temple and again the crack of shattering bone was clearly audible. Driven by a mixture of desperation and fear she struck with a power and ferocity she herself had doubted she possessed. The man had no defence against such an attack. He pitched backwards with blood pouring from his wounds, his legs twitching slightly.

Hadley thought about putting the nail gun to more use but resisted the temptation.

Still gripping the implement he dashed out into the corridor, Jess right behind him.

What they saw before them stopped them in their tracks.

The Golem stood immobile before the doors of the lift its massive arms outstretched as if it were about to embrace someone.

Jess tried to speak but no words would come. She could only stand and stare at the clay monstrosity.

It turned its head and looked at them.

NINETY-TWO

When the Golem took its first step towards them it was with a fluidity of movement that neither expected.

Perhaps, Jess told herself, she had expected some stiff and spastic movement, as if the sheer bulk of the creature prevented anything other but when it moved it moved with ease.

It took one long stride, the sound of its foot against the carpeted floor of the corridor a dull thud.

For interminable seconds both Jess and Hadley stood still, rooted to the spot by what they were seeing. Because what they were witnessing was not just the stuff of nightmares it was the embodiment of a legend. Of a myth made reality. What they were witnessing should not have been, all the laws of nature were against it and yet, as they stood watching, a thing made of clay and shaped so roughly to resemble the form of a man, now moved towards them. The fact that it was expressionless made it even more terrifying because at least if there had been rage or fury etched on the dark features then they might have sparked feelings within those who saw it. But that blank, formless face was devoid of any humanity. Both in looks and intent and that lack of any human features just served to make it more terrifying. It was pure re-animated power. And it was intent on just one thing. Their destruction.

The Golem struck out with one huge arm, the appendage slamming against the wall nearest to it with such incredible strength that paint fell away and the plaster beneath cracked.

It was that movement that finally galvanised Jess and Hadley.

They turned and ran towards the end of the corridor, towards the exit doors that they had come through not more than an hour earlier. Only when they reached them did they turn to see that the Golem was still pursuing them, each heavy footstep shaking the ground beneath them it seemed. It moved with a speed Jess would have thought impossible for such a creature but its gait was unhurried. It reminded her of a spider advancing on its prey. Neither hurries because neither needs to. Each of its strides brought it closer and its arms were still outstretched before it but now bent at the place where the elbows would have been.

Hadley dropped the nail gun momentarily and took the hammer from her, swinging it madly and smashing it against the metal bar that held the exit door in place.

He struck it again and again, the sound ringing in his ears and echoing inside the corridor.

Jess turned and glanced back in the direction of the Golem. It was less than twenty feet away now.

Hadley hammered at the door with even greater urgency.

‘Come on,’ Jess said, breathlessly. ‘Come on.’

The Golem drew nearer.

Hadley struck the door again, driving his foot against it too.

Jess saw the Golem bump against the wall to its right, scraping one arm against the paintwork there and leaving a gouge in the plaster. It straightened itself up and continued towards them with the same unstoppable intent. Never increasing its pace, its sightless eyes fixed ahead and pinned on them Jess imagined.

Hadley struck the door again and it creaked, the bar loosening. He hit it again and again, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead such was the effort he was expending.

He struck it again, the doors opening a crack.

‘Come on,’ he roared, driving his foot against the doors, gasping triumphantly as they swung open.

He turned to see that the Golem was only ten or so feet from them now and he almost pushed Jess through the open doors and out into the stairwell beyond. She turned to head downwards but Hadley shouted to her.

‘No,’ he roared. ‘Go up.’

She hesitated for a moment then did as he instructed, taking the stairs two at a time in her haste, stumbling more than once as he bolted up behind her.

And below them, moving at the same unearthly speed and with the same unstoppable purpose, the Golem followed.

It negotiated the steps without difficulty considering the stiffness and inflexibility of its form. Each impact of its heavy feet caused the stairwell to shake and the sound gathered until it seemed to be deafening. Occasionally it collided with the metal balustrade that ran alongside the stairs and the loud clang rang out like a tuneless bell. Jess looked back to see it climbing higher.

‘It’s still coming,’ she said.

Hadley didn’t answer her.

‘Where the fuck are we going?’ she demanded breathlessly.

‘We’ve got to get up high,’ Hadley told her. ‘Get that thing to follow us to where we can destroy it.’

‘We can’t destroy it,’ she hissed, almost stumbling again as they clambered up the stairs but Hadley grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him.

‘If we can get close enough we can,’ he said, defiantly. ‘If we can destroy the scroll that gives it life. We’ve got to get that scroll.’

‘We’ll never get close enough to it,’ Jess gasped.

‘If we get to the roof we can,’ Hadley said.

They continued to climb.

Below them, the Golem followed.

***

‘I know where they’re going,’ Andrei Voronov said calmly, not even looking at the man with the goatee beard who looked distinctly agitated.

‘Two security men have already been killed,’ the man protested.

‘I told you to keep them clear,’ Voronov snapped. ‘Just make sure no one else tries to stop them. Let them get to the roof.’

The bearded man opened his mouth to say something but Voronov raised his hand to silence him. He took another sip from the glass he was holding.

‘We’ll be waiting for them,’ he murmured.

NINETY-THREE

Jess thought her lungs were going to burst.

She was sucking in air as best she could and was amazed at how Hadley kept going without a complaint but she was having difficulty breathing as they reached the next floor. She glanced to one side and saw that they had got as far as the thirtieth. And all the time, behind them, moving inexorably and unhurriedly, the Golem followed. On the odd occasions when Jess had dared to stand still for split seconds to get her breath she had heard its lumbering progress beneath them.

Despite the chill in the stairwell beads of perspiration had formed on Hadley’s forehead and top lip and he wiped them away periodically, taking deep breaths of his own and sometimes pulling Jess along with him when it seemed she could go no further.

They clambered up another five flights, each step now causing pain in their calves and thighs too. But the thought of what was behind them drove them on. The knowledge that if they stopped they would have no chance.

‘How much further?’ Jess gasped.

‘Not far,’ Hadley panted, still struggling on. ‘Come on.’

Jess gripped the handrail tightly for a moment then looked back, peering down through the gaps in the stairs towards where the Golem was.

She could see it’s dark bulk moving ever higher and she thought, for one terrifying moment that it had increased its speed. But how was that possible she asked herself. It could only move at that same stiff legged, unbroken, robotic pace.

Couldn’t it?

She stumbled and fell to her knees but she hauled herself upright again and despite her desperate need for breath and the growing pain in her legs she forced herself onwards.

Another five floors climbed.

It seemed to her that Hadley too had increased his pace, desperate to reach the roof as he had told her. But exactly why that destination was so vital she had no idea. In her current state she could do nothing other than gasp for breath and run on with little more than terror and instinct driving her. She knew she couldn’t go back down so she went up. What awaited her on the roof she did not dare contemplate.

And behind, the Golem still came on.

As they reached the fortieth floor Jess felt fresh energy flowing through her. A second wind of sorts but still her legs felt as if they were burning and she feared that the pain was cramp. A vice like muscular pain that seemed to be growing more intense now with every tortured step.

‘Come on,’ Hadley gasped.

She tried to answer him but could not find the breath for the words.

Instead she concentrated on forcing herself higher, her aching feet and straining muscles barely able to support her now. Each step was an effort but she knew that effort must be made. There was no other way. The alternative was too terrible to consider. But there was a part of her that just wanted to collapse onto the cold stone and lay there helplessly allowing the pain and the breathlessness to subside. Just remain still even thought the Golem was close. Part of her would have been content to accept that fate and whatever the creature would do when it reached her but something deep within her that she could only assume was the basic human desire for preservation somehow enabled her to continue.

Forty-one floors now.

Hadley was still slightly ahead of her, his own feet dragging now, his own arms tense and taut as he hauled himself up by gripping the balustrade, looking as if he was afraid to let go of it in case he fell.

Forty-two floors.

From below them that ever present sound of heavy feet against stone. The inexorable approach of the thing that would kill them if it caught them. The sound filled the stairwell and Jess’s ears and throbbed inside her head like a migraine.

The sign that proclaimed they had reached the forty-third floor seemed, in Jess’s tortured vision, to glow like a beacon. There was another smaller and narrower flight of stone steps that led up from this highest point of the Crystal Tower and it was towards these that Hadley now moved, dragging himself up them and urging Jess to follow him.

He drove his foot against the door that was blocking their way and it slammed back on its hinges.

Cold night air swept through the open doorway and Jess stumbled through the narrow space to find that they had finally reached the roof.

She dropped to her knees but Hadley hauled her upright and stumbled towards the parapet of the building. There was a fence around the very extremities of the roof and it was towards this that Hadley moved, finally leaning against it and glancing over the edge.

The precipitous view made Jess’s head swim. It seemed as if they were high in the clouds looking down upon the rest of the world as if they were the only people alive. Forty-three floors below on the streets of the capital, only the barely glimpsed lights of cars showed that there was even anything down there. People were invisible at such a height and in the gloom. They might as well have been standing on a platform made of shadows.

And then Jess heard the sound.

For one ridiculous second she thought that it was applause. Someone slowly clapping their hands together but she dismissed that fanciful thought, explaining it away because she couldn’t breathe properly or think straight. But, as the sound continued she realised that her initial assumption was correct.

The sound she heard was indeed clapping.

And it was coming from the other side of the open roof, from the man who was advancing towards them flanked on each side by others clad in dark suits.

‘You made it,’ Andrei Voronov said, flatly. ‘My compliments. A climb of that magnitude could not have been easy.’

Jess looked at him, his words blown and tossed on the breeze that was whipping across the open roof. She swayed uncertainly for a moment, fearing that the wind would grow so strong it would blow them both over the edge of the towering monolith but she shot out a hand and gripped the guard rail, her gaze now fixed on the dimly lit outline of Voronov who stood twenty feet or so from them.

‘I should applaud your persistence,’ he intoned. ‘Not just tonight but since you began this crusade against me.’

‘You won’t get away with this,’ Jess panted. ‘Too many people know we’re here. The police know.’

‘It doesn’t matter who knows you’re here,’ Voronov said. ‘This ends now. Here. Tonight. All you ever had was wild ideas. That is why no one would believe you. And very shortly it will all be over.’

He glanced to one side, a loud crash ringing through the night.

The Golem had reached the roof.

NINETY-FOUR

The Golem stood motionless for a moment then it strode towards Jess and Hadley.

Jess looked at him for a moment.

‘I can stop it,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the advancing creature.

Jess shook her head, looking at him again but then at the Golem and also at Voronov who was watching impassively as the creature closed the distance on its intended victims.

Voronov was watching intently, apparently amused by the tableau before him. He could see that the Golem was very close now.

When it had come within five feet Hadley shoved Jess away from him, almost knocking her over. He himself made no attempt to move.

‘Run,’ he roared, his eyes still fixed on the Golem.

Jess backed away.

The Golem reached Hadley and lifted him as easily as a child would lift a rag doll, raising him into the air before it, its arms tightening around him as it did. He felt as if a huge vice had been fastened around his torso and one arm, the strength in those clay limbs was incredible and they closed effortlessly. He tried to shout but could not draw the breath to do so as his lungs were constricted.

Like a rabbit in the grip of a constricting snake he could do nothing other than wait for the end.

Ribs shattered under the crushing pressure, his lungs began to rupture. Blood filled his mouth but he didn’t struggle, instead he looked straight at the Golem and, with is free hand, he reached towards the open maw that was its mouth. Inside that black space he could see what he sought. The scroll that had been placed there so carefully by its creator was clearly visible now and with one shaking hand, Hadley reached for it.

The Golem tightened its grip and Hadley grunted as his upper body seemed to collapse in upon itself but he clung to consciousness long enough to grab the scroll, feeling the parchment between his fingers.

Voronov saw what he was doing and he took a step forward but it was too late.

Hadley pulled the scroll from the creatures mouth, holding it between his shaking fingers.

The Golem shuddered briefly then was still.

Jess sprang towards Hadley, taking the scroll from him, seeing the blood pouring over his lips. Lips that bore the semblance of what seemed to be a smile.

She held the tiny piece of parchment in her hand and stood defiantly before Voronov who had frozen as surely as the clay monster before him.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ he hissed.

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Jess said. ‘Whoever holds this scroll has control over the Golem. Whoever puts this scroll into its mouth is the one who commands it.’

One of the security men pulled the automatic pistol from inside his jacket and swung it up, the barrel aimed at Jess.

‘No,’ Voronov snapped, noticing that Jess was now holding the parchment at arm’s length. It waved in the strong breeze, threatening to slip from her fingers. If she loosed her grip even slightly it would be lost forever.

‘Tell him to put it down,’ Jess called.

Voronov and his men stood motionless and Jess thought that she saw something like fear flicker across the billionaire’s face. Then, very slowly, she pushed the scroll into the Golem’s mouth.

‘Live,’ she whispered.

The Golem turned its head towards her and Jess felt her entire body shaking. It opened its arms, Hadley’s body falling to the ground at its feet. She looked down at him and saw that he wasn’t moving. Blood covered his chin and cheeks and more of it had spilled down onto his chest. If he was breathing then she certainly couldn’t see it. Instead she turned her attention back to the Golem, watching as it turned to face her.

Voronov backed away slowly, his eyes also fixed on the clay monolith.

One of the security men opened fire, squeezing off two shots in the direction of the Golem.

The first hit it just below the left shoulder, drilling into the clay. The second clipped its head, blasting a piece of the dark material away but the creature didn’t move. It remained before Jess, its face blank and expressionless.

‘Obey me,’ she said.

The Golem moved towards her, one small step then it turned to face Voronov and his men.

‘Kill them,’ Jess said, softly.

NINETY-FIVE

The creature set off with surprising speed, moving towards Voronov who backed off as one of his men stepped in front of him to block the passage of the Golem. The clay creature struck out with one powerful hand, catching the man in the face with a blow so powerful it obliterated most of his lower jaw. Blood and teeth spilled onto the ground as the man tumbled backwards, lying helpless before the Golem. It stepped on his head the way a man would step on an ant. The huge weight of the creature collapsed the skull, the entire cranium bursting like an overripe melon. Fragments of bone, hair and brain sprayed in all directions as the Golem walked on, lunging towards the second security guard who raised his gun again and fired two more shots at it.

They were as ineffective as the first two had been and the Golem grabbed his arm and dragged him towards it, swinging him up into the air above its head with frightening ease. It held him there for a second then slammed his body down with incredible force, the splintering of bone quite clearly audible in the stillness of the night.

Then it moved on Voronov who had turned and was hurrying towards the door that led away from the roof, desperate to escape but knowing that was impossible.

Jess moved forward, careful to avoid the pulverised bodies of the security men. She bent and snatched up the weapon that the first of them had dropped, aiming it at Voronov.

‘Stay there,’ she shouted, firing off a warning shot that sped past him and screamed off the ground close to his feet.

The billionaire froze and turned to face her and the Golem which had also stopped and was standing motionless a few feet from him.

‘You haven’t got the nerve to kill me,’ he said, defiantly. ‘It takes more strength than you know to take a life.’

Jess stood motionless, the gun held in her grip, the barrel trained on Voronov.

‘Is that why you used this thing?’ Jess said. ‘Because you hadn’t got the nerve to kill men yourself?’

Voronov didn’t speak.

‘You’re a coward,’ she said, quietly. ‘And you deserve to die.’ She moved closer to the Golem. ‘Kill him,’ she whispered.

A look of shock crossed Voronov’s face. It vanished a second later as the Golem struck him with a blow that almost tore his head from his shoulders. Jess felt warm blood spatter her as he collapsed, most of the left side of his skull caved in. He dropped to his knees then pitched forward, the remains of his head in the centre of a spreading pool of blood.

Jess looked at the Golem then glanced back at Hadley before scrambling across to him. She knelt beside him, looking into his face, touching his bloodied cheek with one hand.

‘Alex,’ she said, softly.

Hadley opened his eyes slightly but he couldn’t seem to focus on her.

‘Voronov’s dead,’ she told him.

Hadley tried to speak, his mouth filling with blood.

Jess cradled him in her arms, holding him close to her and feeling his body trembling slightly.

‘The Golem …’ he gasped.

‘I know what to do,’ Jess murmured, tears now trickling down her cheeks.

Hadley looked at her and in that fleeting moment there seemed to be something like recognition in his eyes. Then there was nothing at all.

‘Alex,’ she said, more tears flowing now. ‘Alex.’

He made no sound.

Jess laid his body gently on the ground, straightening up wearily. Already, from far below she could hear the sound of emergency sirens. Police, ambulances or fire engines? She didn’t know and she didn’t care any more. She moved towards the Golem and looked at it, running her gaze up and down the creature then slowly she reached for the scroll inside its mouth. She withdrew it and slipped it carefully into her pocket.

There was a strong wind blowing across the roof now and it brought the sound of sirens more loudly with it. Jess walked to the edge of the parapet and glanced down into the streets far below, watching for the flashing blue lights she knew would be arriving soon.

All she could do now was wait.

Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.

Nietzsche.

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