No Kiss For The Devil

43

Ray Szulu huddled down in a doorway across from Pantile House. This time he was positioned near the rear of the building, where he could get a better view of the entrance and the car park. He was wondering what to do next.

After running down the street in the wake of the van blowing up, he’d found himself in the rare position of actually slowing down and then returning to a scene of a wrongdoing. This was entirely new to Szulu from another perspective: he was actually feeling the instinct to not run away, but to stay and help Riley and Palmer.

He hugged himself in indecision, eyes darting backwards and forwards, waiting to see if he was being watched or if the police had arrived. So far he hadn’t seen any blue lights, but he could hear a siren getting closer and knew that if it was a fire appliance, a patrol car wouldn’t be far behind.

He ignored the burning van, still spewing its cargo of black smoke, and concentrated on the building. Palmer was in there somewhere. And Riley Gavin, if she was still alive. He knew a thing or two about people being lifted; he’d seen the way men like Ragga Pearl, a south London gang leader and general nutcase psychopath dealt with those who displeased them. Taking a hostage was usually only a preliminary to something far worse, and served as a terrifying warning to anyone else not to fall out of line.

Instinct told him these Russians were no different. If they’d taken Riley, it certainly wasn’t just so they could have a nice chat over a glass of vodka and send her home again.

Palmer scooped up Pechov’s gun and took a moment to regain his breath. His heart was pounding and the pain from his ribs was intense. There was no time to stop now, but emerging from the basement panting like a marathon runner would be sure to draw attention, and he needed all the edge he could get. Before moving on, he felt Pechov’s neck for a pulse. There was nothing.

He checked the weapon in his hand. It was compact and light, with a four-inch barrel, but no discernible markings. It was small calibre, probably. 22, he guessed from somewhere in Eastern Europe. A close-proximity weapon; a killer’s gun. He wondered if it was the one used to shoot the cat. If so, it nailed Pechov as the shooter. He remembered how Mr Grobowski had described him to Riley, as a buhaj — a bull.

The door and the lift shaft at the end of the tunnel beckoned. The lift would be a quick way up and out, but risky because it opened on to the ground floor close by the front desk. It would also be noisy, instantly alerting everyone in the building to the presence of an intruder. But it was either that or the stairs — and either one could be a trap waiting to be sprung.

As he passed another pile of maintenance junk, he spotted a short length of steel piping. He picked it up. It was heavy and felt good in his hand. He might have a gun, but something blunt was quieter. He tucked the gun in his jacket pocket and headed towards the steps to the ground floor. After that, it was the main stairway or nothing.

He eased open the access door and edged out. He was at the rear of the lobby, opposite the emergency stairs. He stepped over and listened. The stairway was narrow and dark. Inviting. Maybe too inviting.

He backed up and risked a look towards the reception area. From here, he could just see the edge of the desk and a couple of chairs, and beyond that, a stretch of glass overlooking the rear car park. There was nobody in sight, but he thought he heard footsteps out by the door. At that moment, a figure strolled along the walkway outside. He ducked back. One of the security guards.

He waited for the man to disappear. It was tempting to wait for him to come back inside and use the threat of the gun to find out where Riley was being held. At the very least it would take another obstacle out of his way. But there was always the risk that the guard might be missed if he was supposed to report in regularly.

He decided to leave the man down here and do the one thing they probably weren’t counting on: make a frontal approach up the main stairs. It was risky, but well lit and open, which gave him a better than even chance of sensing a threat before he walked into it.

He made it to the first landing and paused. His ears were pounding so loudly, he doubted he would hear anything. But he knew this was nerves. The moment anything moved, his training and instincts would take over.

Up to the first floor. No lights. All doors closed. Silence apart from the faint ticking of something in the heating system.

Voices were coming from somewhere overhead, probably a couple of floors up. He continued, taking the second and third floor flights at a run, ready to duck into the first available corner. Just ahead was the fourth floor landing. He stopped short of the top and waited, breathing heavily. There was a dull pain in his chest, but he ignored it. Time for medical treatment later.

The voices were louder now, and a faint glow of light came from along the corridor in the direction of the main office. He could also hear a hum from somewhere to the rear of the building. He doubted the men would use any of the other floors; that would be too risky if they were using this place illegally. So where was Riley?

As he turned his head to check the layout, he saw a woman’s shoe lying in one corner.

He stepped over and picked it up. He couldn’t recall what shoes Riley had been wearing, but he knew it must be hers. He felt a drumming in his chest and bit down on the impulse to charge right ahead and confront whoever was up here. But getting his head blown off wasn’t going to do Riley one bit of good. Don’t think the worst, he told himself.

He looked around and considered the logic of the situation. If her shoe was here, then so was she. Simple. But where had she been taken beyond this point? There weren’t that many options, simply because most of the layout here was open plan. So start with the smaller rooms.

He cocked his head to one side. The humming noise was louder here, insistent and familiar. An extractor fan. Over in the corner was the door to a women’s washroom.

Taking a firm grip on the length of pipe, he padded across and nudged the door inwards. A slight resistance, then the gap widened, and he was hit by a rush of hot, clammy air and a powerful smell of cleaning fluid.

The first thing he saw was an empty bleach bottle on the floor, minus the cap, and fragments of porcelain. A line of sinks — one smashed — stood against one wall, and above them a row of mirrors. The glass was misted by steam rising into the air. He pushed the door right back and stopped, the pain in his ribs instantly forgotten.

Riley was slumped in a chair by the sinks, bound by strips of what looked like electrician’s tape. Her face and upper body were soaking wet, as was the floor around her, and the side of her throat and neck was a mass of blotchy, vivid red skin.

She was shivering uncontrollably, but struggling to fight her way out of her bonds and cursing fluently beneath her breath.