Captives

SEVENTY

He fumbled with the key, trying to push it into the lock, cursing when it wouldn't turn. Finally the door opened and Scott stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, catching his breath.

He'd dumped the car a mile away and walked back to his flat, passing less than half a dozen other people along the way. He'd gone over the car with a cloth, wiping fingerprints from the steering wheel and the door handles, then he'd tossed that into the Lancia, locked it and hurled the keys away. Scott stood motionless for long moments, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. His body ached mainly through lack of sleep, he told himself, reluctant to admit he was so unfit that a mile walk had drained him of energy. Finally he wandered through into the kitchen, pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He hastily unfastened the shoulder holster, too, and laid it on the table, then crossed to the fridge, found a can of 7-Up and drank deeply. He carried the can with him into the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. He sat on the toilet, watching the spray, waiting for the water to warm up, sipping his drink.

His head was pounding. It had been ever since he'd dropped Hitch off. Scott reached up and massaged his own shoulders as best he could.

He needed someone to do this for him. Someone to soothe away the ache.

Like Carol?

For once he pushed the vision of her to the back of his mind, his thoughts focusing instead on the events of that night. Most particularly on the six shots that Hitch had fired. Six shots just to frighten the crew of The Sandhopper? Scott shook his head.

He got to his feet and thrust a hand into the spray, satisfied that it was warm enough. He stepped under it, enjoying the feel of the water on his skin, his eyes closed, still confused about what was going on. About Carol. About what had happened that night. Christ, things were becoming a mess and he could see no way of sorting them out. He had to speak to her. Even if it meant sitting on her doorstep until she either came out of her flat or came home from wherever she was.

For all he knew she could be dead.

He opened his eyes, rubbing his face with both hands, increasing the speed of the jets so that the water stung his skin when it struck him.

He didn't even hear the knocking on the door.

The rushing of water from the shower masked every other sound.

The knocking came again, more insistently this time.

Scott ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it back tight against his scalp.

The banging on the door had become more frenzied.

He reached for the soap and began to wash.

There was a thunderous crash as the door was smashed in. It flew back on its hinges and crashed against the wall with an almighty bang.

Scott heard it at last and looked around, fumbling for the taps, trying to turn off the shower.

There was movement in his sitting room, in his kitchen. He heard voices. Then, through a gap in the shower curtain, he saw a dark shape.

What the hell was happening?

The dark shape was coming closer.

Scott steadied himself, waiting until the shape was only a couple of feet from him, then leapt forward, crashing into the intruder.

Both men went hurtling backwards, Scott slamming the newcomer's head against the bathroom cabinet. The mirror shattered and pieces of glass cut into the intruder's neck. Scott grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. But now there were others coming into the room.

He saw the uniforms.

The two policemen in the doorway stared in at him, one of them taking a step closer, anxious to rescue their plain clothes colleague from Scott's attack. The man was dazed but managed to shake loose of Scott's grip. He felt the back of his neck and brought his hand around covered in blood.

'Put some fucking clothes on, Scott,' he said angrily. 'You're under arrest.'

'You've got no right to come bursting in here like this,' Scott snarled. 'What's the fucking charge, anyway?'

The plain clothes man looked at him, his eyes narrowed.

'Murder.'