Ten Second Staircase

∨ Ten Second Staircase ∧

42

Describing Evil

Janet Ramsey checked the temperature of her bath and laid out fresh clothes. She rarely questioned the wisdom of her actions, but the events of the last few days had given her pause for thought. She was editing a tabloid with a shrinking readership and a record number of hits lodged against it with the Press Complaints Commission. She was continuing an affair with a married man despite the fact that Oskar Kasavian was never likely to leave his wife. She had a son she had hardly seen since her ex-husband had unexpectedly been granted custody.

And she wasn’t getting any younger.

Tugging at the creases around her eyes in the bathroom mirror, she wondered how much longer she could maintain the balancing act. The real problem was that she no longer believed the stories she wrote. Once she had been able to convince herself that the public had a right to know about the mistakes made by those whose lives were lived in public. The Fourth Estate’s latest periodicals made hers look positively scrupulous. Everyone had jumped onto the celebrity bandwagon until there was nothing of interest left to report. It was no longer about news but bargaining power, and she doubted her publication would be able to raise the cash for many more exclusives. But Hard News had hitched its reputation to a rising star; the Highwayman could restore their falling circulation.

A fold in the darkness through the glass of the front door caught her eye, and she turned from the mirror. The worst part about living in a ground-floor flat off the Brompton Road was having to place steel trellises across all of the windows and a London Bolt over the main entrance. She had upset plenty of people through the newspaper, but none had ever dared to turn up at her house – the press made too powerful an enemy. She never felt unsafe here, but it was still like being shut in a cage.

The shadow cut reflections from the glass for a moment, and she realised there was definitely someone outside. You don’t go out to look, she told herself. That’s how trouble starts. She calmly walked towards the lounge. Buried far behind her commercial instincts, the small spark that had once fired her desire to investigate, to put matters right, was fanned back to flame, and she approached the lounge window, through which the front door could be seen.

He was standing outside with his back towards the house, his hands clasped together. This time he wore a spectacular dress cape with a triangle of crimson satin lining exposed, as though he had dressed for an audience with her. He was taller than she remembered. He turned and rang the doorbell with the polite apprehension of an Internet date.

He’s desperate to talk, she thought. He needs the air of publicity and wants to grant an exclusive interview. If I’m careful, it could be the scoop of the year. Her hand hovered above the bolt handle.

She thought of calling the police and warning them first. There was a problem with that, though. The local cops hated her after she had approved the publication of an article exposing the sex lives of two female sergeants, both of whom were now being investigated. She thought of calling Toby, her ex-husband, then realised that he was still in Geneva on business.

The Highwayman rang again. If she let him escape, she would lose the greatest journalistic chance of her career. He had never directly attacked a victim before, so he was likely to be unarmed. And he was waiting for her, trusting her.

She withdrew the bolt and opened the door.

Whenever she had commissioned features on the Highwayman, she had asked her writers to exaggerate his height and sinister presence. Now she saw there was no need to do so. The tip of his tricorn hat almost grazed the top of the doorway. He stepped into the hall, his face lost in shadows, took another pace towards her, and froze. There was an unnerving stillness about him, a dead heart of indifference that made him more dangerous than she had ever imagined a human being could be. She knew at once that his masked eyes had seen men die.

She had an idea. Without removing her gaze from him, she slowly reached for her mobile and speed-dialled the number of the Peculiar Crimes Unit. The Highwayman remained motionless, studying her as if watching an alien species.

DS Janice Longbright answered on the third ring, calling her by name; it had come up on her screen.

“He’s standing right in front of me,” Ramsey murmured, daring him to move. She had rarely been granted a chance to describe evil at such close quarters, and was determined to make the most of the opportunity. “He’s taller than I expected, around six two, broadchested and rather sexy. The outfit has been modified from ordinary motorcycle leathers. The buckled knee-boots come from a Goth store called Born in Camden. He’s not wearing his gloves. The back of his left hand is badly stained with your man’s indigo dye. He has dark chin stubble, but it looks like he’s wearing make-up.” She found her old investigative powers returning as she studied him. “Brown eyes, still and rather dead, pointed chin, straight black hair, the kind of pale skin that suggests Eastern European extraction. Wait, I think the hair’s a wig.”

“You must leave while you still can,” said Longbright urgently. “He’s far more dangerous than you realise.”

“I don’t imagine he’s armed.” She tried to sound braver than she was. “I think he realises I’d give him a good kicking in a fair fight.”

“Janet, you have to stop this and get out right now. He has every reason to hurt you.” While she spoke Longbright was trying to raise the alarm on her mobile.

“No, he doesn’t want to hurt me.” She smiled at him confidently. “He’s hardly moved a muscle since he stepped into the room.” She moved a little closer. “There’s a strong intelligence working behind his eyes. I think we’re just going to have a little chat, as equals. Wait a minute.” There was a brief silence. “Well, I’m damned, it’s not a man at all – ”

The handset fell to the floor with a clatter. A moment later, it was gently replaced on its base.

♦

Bimsley and Mangeshkar took the young Indian DC’s Kawasaki 500 and took off, coasting around stalled traffic at Hyde Park Corner, hitting seventy in the deserted backstreets behind the Brompton Road. As they roared into the quiet cherry-tree-lined street off the King’s Road they could see that the communal door to Janet Ramsey’s apartment building was still open.

Bimsley had no qualms about kicking in the locked front door, but Meera stopped him. “She might be behind it,” she warned, calling to Ramsey and getting no response.

“I’ll do it gently,” Bimsley promised, but as he leaned on it, the door swung in.

Ramsey was lying at the foot of the stairs, her cracked forehead still wet with a vivid slash of blood. Mangeshkar checked for vital signs as Bimsley reported back.

“She’s still breathing,” said Meera. “He’s not here. But he’s messed up badly this time.”