Страница 160 из 167
They were heading northeast. That was all she could tell. She stayed behind as far as she dared without losing him altogether. She drove without headlights, which he could not do if he wanted to look normal casual just going from point A to point B in all i
Wheel brace in the boot of the Bentley. That was what it boiled down to and what the hell was she supposed to do with that? Don’t you fucking touch him or I’ll swing this thing at your miserable head while I’m dodging your stun gun and you’re leaping upon me with your carving knife? How was that going to work?
Up ahead, he turned once more and it looked like a final time. They’d been driving and driving, at least twenty minutes and possibly longer. Just before the turn, they’d crossed over a river which damn well wasn’t the Thames way up here when way up here was far north and east of where they’d begun. Then they’d passed an outdoor storage facility at the northeast edge of the river and she’d thought, He’s got a bloody lockup where he does the job, just like we’d thought at some point along the route that’s brought us to this miserable moment. But he passed the storage facility with its neat row of lockups lined up along the river and instead he pulled into a carpark just beyond. It was large, vast when she compared it to where he’d been parked at St. Thomas’ Hospital. Above it was a sign that finally told her where they were, Lea Valley Ice Centre. Essex Wharf. They were at the River Lea.
The ice centre was an indoor skating rink looking like an antique Quonset hut. It sat some fifty yards off the road, and Kilfoyle drove to the left of it where the carpark made a dogleg that possessed two distinct advantages for a killer: It was overgrown with evergreen shrubbery and the streetlamp above it was broken. When the van was parked there, it was completely in shadow. No one driving by would see it from the street.
The van’s lights went out. Barbara waited for a moment to see if Kilfoyle pla
Which meant she had to do her business first.
She’d been idling the Bentley at the kerb, but now she slowly pulled into the carpark herself. She watched and waited for some sort of sign, like the slight motion of the vehicle as Kilfoyle moved round inside it. She got out of the car, although she left it ru
She went over the details feverishly. What they knew and everything they had tried to guess. He restrained them, so he’d be doing that now. For the drive, he’d have placed Lynley where he could zap him with the stun gun whenever he seemed to be coming to his senses. But now he’d be restraining him. And in the restraint came the hope of salvation. For as the restraints immobilised Lynley, so did they protect him. And that’s what she wanted.
Protection gave her the answer she needed.
LYNLEY WAS aware of his inability to order his body to move. What was gone from him was the message-to-action workings of his brain. Nothing was natural. He had to think about moving his arm instead of just moving it, but it didn’t move anyway. The same for his legs. His head felt unduly heavy, and somewhere his muscles were being told to short-circuit. It felt as if his nerve endings were in warfare.
He was aware also of darkness and movement. When he managed to focus his eyes on something, he was also aware of warmth. The warmth attached itself to movement-not his, unfortunately-and through a haze he saw that he was not alone. A figure lay in the gloom and he was sprawled upon it, half on a body and half on the floor of the van.
He knew it was a van. He knew it was the van. In the instant in which his name was called quietly from the shadows, in which he’d turned and thought it was a reporter who’d come to be the first to interview the non-husband and nonfather he had just become, one part of his brain told him something wasn’t right. Then he’d seen the torch in the extended hand, and he’d known whom he was looking at. After that, he’d been struck by the bolt of current and it was over.
He didn’t know how many times he’d been hit with the stun gun during the journey to wherever they were when the van finally stopped. What he did know was that the bolts hit him with a regularity that suggested the administrator knew how long a victim’s disorientation was likely to last.
When the van stopped and its engine shut off, the man who had called himself Fu climbed into the rear, stun-gun torch in his hand. He applied it to Lynley another time in the businesslike ma
What he could see was the woman, source of the earlier warmth he’d felt. She lay bound on the floor of the van, arms stretched out to either side in the ma
Terror was good, Lynley managed to think. Terror was much better than resignation. As he looked at her, she seemed to sense his gaze. She turned her head. He saw that she was the woman from Colossus, but in his present state, he couldn’t recall her name. That suggested to him that Barbara Havers had been right all along, in her inimitable, stubborn, bloody-minded way: The killer in the van with them was one of the men who worked for Colossus.
The man Fu was getting everything ready, primarily himself. He’d lit a candle and stripped, and he was anointing his naked body with a substance-this would be the ambergris, wouldn’t it?-that he took from a small brown vial. Next to him was the cooker that Muwaffaq Masoud had described to them in Hayes. It was heating up a large pan from which the scent of previously burnt meat gave off a faint odour.
He was actually humming. It was all in a night’s work for him. They were in his power, and the manifestation of power and the execution of power were what he wanted out of life.
On the floor of the van, the woman made a pitiful sound from beneath the duct tape. Fu turned at this, and in the light Lynley saw that he looked vaguely familiar, that he possessed that quintessential and very English face of substantial pointed nose, rounded chin, and bread-dough cheeks. He could have been a hundred thousand men on the street, but in him the strain had mutated somehow, so he was not a bland little individual working at an ordinary job and going home to the wife and the children every evening in a terrace house somewhere but, rather, he was who circumstances in life had altered him to be: someone who liked to kill people.