Watching You Chapters Twenty-Seven and Twenty-Eight

 

                           Chapter Twenty-Seven                                       

 

The desk clerk’s eyes travelled over the man who’d just walked in. His short black hair was filthy, knotted, and greasy. His eyes were dark and venomous; they spoke of trouble. As for his denims, they looked like they’d been dipped in wet tar.

Was this the man he’d been told to expect? The desk clerk didn’t think so. He was loathe to push the button that would release him into the enquiry office beyond. This man seemed downright nasty. He could be an IRA terrorist on a mission; he even thought of closing down the steel shutter that the high-security police station afforded.

Instead, he called a duty inspector, only to be surprised when the station commander appeared in his place, nodded, and released the catch himself. The desk clerk felt the bristles of his neck tingle as the man walked by.

***

Withers followed the commander along a bland white-walled corridor, up several flights of steps before passing through a functional outer office and into a maroon carpeted room with a walnut bookcase on one side and a sizeable drinks cabinet on the other.

The man brusquely introduced himself as Commander Newman and seated himself behind the desk. Withers had been prepared to follow suit opposite until the commander, the smallest man of his rank he’d seen, raised the palm of his hand. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t, Withers, you’re probably infested with half the bugs in the country, and before you drive one of my cars, you’re going to look presentable, understand? I don’t know what’s happening here, but that’s a condition.’

Withers wiped the sweat from his brow; it was sticky despite the air conditioning. ‘I suppose I’ll have to accept.’

‘Too right you do.’

Withers placed his hands behind his back. Appropriate really, almost as if he was waiting to be cuffed. That was how Newman was making it seem.  You got yourself into this lousy state on the one hand, on account of your job, and on the other by way of some strange sixth sense that couldn’t be explained. But whatever, the guys at the top lived in a different world, never expect any understanding from them.

‘You’ll find the washroom at the end of the corridor; please leave it clean.’

Withers looked into the commander’s small, unblinking eyes. ‘Naturally, and sir, I know where it is. I’ve been here before.’

The commander seemed not to have heard, ‘What about your clothes?’

‘What about them?’

‘What about them, sir. They’re filthy.’

‘Sir, my business is urgent. I haven’t the time to wash them.’

The commander exhaled sharply. ‘I’ll speak to CID. See what they can drum up.’

And of course, that was where the man was talking sense, though he might not know it. There was just the chance the girl might listen to him if he were smartened up. The delay was worth the chance.

Commander Newman produced a form from his desk drawer, placed it in front of Withers. ‘You accept full responsibility for the car. I gather you have a certain reputation for not exactly following orders.’

‘So they say.’ Withers took a pen and pushed the form back duly signed.

‘You’ll have it back within a couple of days.’

The shiny, oval eyes produced a look that said, Don’t trust Withers. Just dock his pay for months on end if he doesn’t provide.

***

Twenty minutes later, he was washed, brushed up, and ready to go. A new set of clean denim and a white T-shirt courtesy of some unknown bod in CID. The slim-line jeans fitted him to a tee – the commander, he grudgingly admitted, was a good judge of size.

And it was good to have fresh clothes on after all this time, albeit someone else’s – it was as if he’d been so entrenched in the role, he felt he really was scum, even training his thoughts to reflect the part he played. He definitely was taking a decent break after this assignment.

Except that the part he judged to be the most important was yet to come. It lay a couple of hours ahead.

His allotted car lay in the rear car park, an unmarked dated Escort. The kind only retained for cover purposes, though in this instance, he’d no doubt the commander hadn’t trusted him with a newer model.

He needed the wipers on maximum as he drove onto the Edgeware Road. They cleared the rain in waves as he headed north and began the journey back.

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

Kelly breathed a sigh of relief. When the guy turned, it wasn’t Black. For a single, heart-stopping moment, she’d convinced herself it was. Funny how your mind could play tricks on you. If only everything were down to imagination.

But she knew that it wasn’t.

How close she’d come to calling McCain. How foolish she felt now.

For a while, she could concentrate on her job, not that there was much to focus on; the night was unusually quiet, probably because of the rain beating down on the roof in a tuneless rhythm, the rhythm of a lonely night.

She could probably even put up with Clive Patterson’s company right now. Clive was okay, but he was a trainspotter; nothing against that, everyone had their quirks, but his conversation was restricted. Any discussion that didn’t involve the difference between a modern and a steam railway would be heavy going.

She remembered Clive saying once that beneath the arches where the old steam railway terminated, he’d once seen McCain hanging out with the junkies. Well, perhaps he had. McCain was a sociable, likeable guy after all. McCain seemed the sort who would put himself out to help people. So yes, perhaps he had.

There was a surge of optimism again that, despite McCain’s unusual despondency, Black might have gone, called it a day; things might have been getting too hot for him. Hoods had no backbone; she’d always thought that. Now she had to pray it was true.

The clubbers were beginning to turn out; closing time for the clubs was slightly earlier Sunday nights, not that it made a lot of difference to the state of most of them. The multi-storey car park, on the top of which she was based, was central to most of the clubs, and she could see them now, beginning to return to their cars, those that weren’t too drunk to remember where they’d left them.

Through the cameras situated at the entrance and exit of the multi-storey, she could see them beginning to roll in. One clubber, clearly the worse for wear, was swigging from a lager can when he stumbled into his car on the ground floor. She could see him fumbling for the ignition the way you’d try to find a light switch at dead of night. She considered alerting the authorities to the prospect of another drunken driver on the road, and then her heart leapt into her mouth because the figure that had just strode quickly into the car park entrance was no drunken driver.

But it was every inch Carl Black, and he was looking directly at her. He’d come for her, the way that somehow she knew he would.

Trembling, shivering, she reached for the phone. At least she had McCain, and how she needed him now. But a call from headquarters beat her to it. Damn! Now of all times.

A couple of detectives were monitoring a well-known junkie, peddling his wares. They needed the cameras for evidence.

Mind racing, she focused for them, then turned back to the cameras monitoring the ground floor.

Black wasn’t there.

He had to be somewhere inside the building, but the cameras showed only the ground and top floors. She’d no way of knowing where he was. But he was coming.

Coming for her.

The headphones crackled into life; her reaction was pure reflex, her mind wasn’t there. She saw her worst nightmares coming to life. She wanted to leave the building – to run. But she’d run from the building straight into her living nightmare, strangulation at the hands of Carl Black.

The voice in the headphones was saying something, but she wasn’t listening any longer, wasn’t aware of any presence other than his. Soon, any time now, she’d see him emerge on the roof.

He mustn’t. Yet she knew he would.

The monitor showed the upper storey, the floodlights revealing the emptiness of the place. Apart from her own car, it was a deserted concrete wilderness where rain built pools in the potholes.

Her heart rate seemed to increase, beat upon beat, still no sign, but each second was a minute in her eyes.

Then, as if from nowhere, she saw him. He must have edged around the sides of the building to avoid the cameras. But now in full view, his hand on the buzzer, a vision from hell, he’d come for her.

‘Hello, can you hear me?’

She fumbled with the phone, both hands and arms trembling as she tried to keep it steady.

‘Hello, I said, can you hear me? I know you’re there – we have to talk.’ She heard him sigh, a strange tinny sound through the intercom. ‘I mean you no harm … you have to believe me. I’m a police officer. Please let me in.’

Police officer. To hell he was. Damn the arrogance of the man. Finally, her shaking fingers located McCain’s number. To her huge relief, he answered immediately. ‘McCain, he’s here … he’s at the door. Please help.’ She kept her eyes on her living nightmare. ‘Please come. I’m going to inform headquarters.’

‘No – don’t do that. Let him in.’ She heard McCain’s shouted words but couldn’t believe it –

‘Let him in; are you joking?’

‘Just do it,’ she heard McCain snap, ‘within a few minutes, I’ll be there. Keep him talking, Kel, and just keep cool.’

‘Please listen to me … I’m Inspector Carl Withers; please let me in …’

There, the audacity of the man.

‘McCain, I can’t do that, I can’t do it … he’s saying he’s an inspector someone, a policeman – he’s crazy. I won’t let him in.’

‘Just do it, Kel. I won’t let you down; I promise …’ McCain’s words rang in her ears, quieter now, more reassuring. Then she heard Black’s voice again …

‘Please let me in.’