The Summons

Chapter Nineteen

Mountjoy’s barely functioning brain struggled to explain how it was possible that a woman was with him in his cell in Albany. He could definitely hear her moaning quite close to him. A conjugal visit-that great myth so often spoken of by the wishful thinkers? Conjugal visits-in Albany? About as likely as balloon trips. Even if they were permitted, who in the world would want to be conjugal with him? Sophie had sworn never to speak to him again after the divorce, let alone visit him in jail for what she would surely regard as the ultimate degradation.

And why was he lying on the floor instead of in bed? The thin mattress they provided was bloody uncomfortable and sometimes you could hardly tell the bed from the floor, only this felt cold as well as solid. And there was a woman somewhere close.

He shifted slightly, freeing his right arm and confirming that he was lying on a flat, smooth surface that had to be lino. His fingertips ran across one of the joins. He lifted the corner of the lino and felt underneath and traced the join between two floorboards. No prison he knew had a board floor.

He opened his eyes, saw an old-fashioned fireplace and a window without bars and remembered where he was. He cursed himself for falling asleep.

He told Samantha, “Stop moaning, will you?”

“I hate it here.”

“What?”

“This place.” She was sitting in the center of the floor wrapped in blankets, rubbing at her face with the back of her tied hands. “It’s giving me the creeps. I’ve never been anywhere so musty and horrible.”

“For God’s sake, I got you out of that cave, didn’t I?” Mountjoy said. “I brought you blankets, food, drink. I let you keep your precious violin.”

None of that counted, apparently. “It feels as if no one’s been in here for a hundred years. The toilet, with that wooden seat. That’s antique. This old fireplace with the iron grate. It’s bizarre, like being in a time warp.”

“Give it a rest, will you?”

“Where are we?” she asked. “I can hear traffic. Why won’t you tell me where we are?”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“Cold?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then.”

“I’d like to know where I am.”

“Wouldn’t you just?”

“I’ve lived nearly all my life in Bath. I wouldn’t have believed a place like this still existed.”

“You live and learn.” Mountjoy yawned. Needing to stop himself drifting into sleep again, he got up and went to the window. Below, a long way below, the traffic moved tidily around the one-way system of the Orange Grove, past Bog Island and up Pierrepont Street toward the railway station. The view from this height was unmatched anywhere in the city because there was no obstruction except for the great square tower of the abbey to his right. He could see the gleam of the Avon and the lawns of the Parade Gardens. Further off, beyond the spire of the Catholic Church, rising above Brunei’s railway viaduct, was the wooded slope of Lyncombe Hill, leading the eye to Beechen Cliff. And out to the left was Bathampton Down; last night, out on the balcony, he’d seen Sham Castle floodlit. For Mountjoy’s purposes, this bolt-hole had certain merits, but he would still have favored the caravan park if only bad luck hadn’t forced them out. The stone mine was always going to be unsuitable, an overnight stop, no more. He’d seriously considered taking over the house in Morford Street, but that would have compelled him to take two more hostages. What a prospect! So he’d brought Samantha here. She would have to put up with the Edwardian plumbing.

He knew what she meant about the time warp. It was slightly eerie here. The place did seem remote from modern life and it wasn’t merely the dust and cobwebs. Down there, somewhere, that fat detective Diamond ought to be working his butt off to get to the truth of the Britt Strand murder, yet here, six floors up, in another age, there were hours of waiting to be endured, hours when confidence drained.

How much longer?

Mountjoy yawned again. Chronic fatigue was his problem. He kept Samantha tied hand and foot and still didn’t allow himself proper rest because of the risk of being ambushed by the police. It was making him twitchy, shivery and depressed; if he hadn’t planned and worked so single-mindedly for justice-if he’d merely escaped-he would have traded his freedom right now for an undisturbed night in his cell in Albany. When it was over, whatever the outcome, he was going to sleep. For days.

He felt his head sinking. Catnaps were dangerous, yet he craved them like a fix. Deciding to sit rather than stand, he settled against the wall. His lids drooped.

Minutes must have passed when he opened his eyes next. How many, he couldn’t tell. The one thing he could see for sure was that Samantha was no longer in the room.

Gone.

The blankets lay in a heap beside her violin case. The rope that had bound her wrists was on the floor with the flex he used for her ankles.

He got up and dashed to the door.

It wouldn’t open. Locked. Momentarily he concluded that she had locked him in after escaping. Then he felt in his pocket and found the key still there. He’d locked the door himself. Where was she, then? He crossed to the second door that connected with the next room. The door was slightly ajar. Before flinging it fully open, he hesitated. What if she were waiting inside, poised to strike him?

He took the gun from his pocket and said, “Get out of there. I want you in here fast.”

She didn’t make a sound.

“Samantha.”

He kicked the door inward.

Still she made no move.

He said, “You’d better know that I have a gun in my hand.” Then he stepped inside.

The room was empty.

Mystified and in a panic, he stared around him. If she wasn’t inside and she hadn’t gone through the door, she must have used the balcony window. Must have-for it was unfastened.

He pushed open the window and stepped outside. Samantha was there, to the left of the windows where she couldn’t be seen from inside. She was half-naked. She’d stripped off the white T-shirt he had given her and she was waving it frantically.

She turned and saw him and took it as the cue to start screaming for help. Up to now, the waving had been a dumb show. Yelling at the top of her voice, she leaned over the stone balustrade like a ship’s figurehead, her bared breasts pale and pointed in the crisp October air, and continued to flap the T-shirt.

Mountjoy pocketed the gun; it was useless when she was in this hysterical state. Up to this time he’d been scrupulous in the physical contact he’d had with her, avoiding any kind of handling she could object to as indecent. The tying and untying had been necessary, but not once had his hand strayed. All that went out of the window, literally.

He had to get her off the balcony, and gentle persuasion wasn’t an option. He grabbed her from behind, one arm around her ribs, the other prising her fingers from the balustrade she was trying to anchor herself to. She continued to scream. And she was strong. When her grip on the stonework was loosened, she forced her foot against it and braced her leg, forcing him back against the window. One of the panes cracked and shattered under the weight of his shoulder. He fell and took her with him.

They were in a wrestling match now and Samantha was on top, but with her back against Mountjoy’s chest, her buttocks mashing his stomach, her hair pressing into his face. To stop her from getting up, he swung his left arm across her chest and felt his fingers sink into the flesh of her right breast. In a frenzy, she pummeled his ribs with one hand and tried to bend back his fingers with the other. Her thrashing legs threatened to get some leverage on the balustrade until he succeeded in clamping one with his right leg. Then he held on in the hope that she would give up the struggle at some stage.

It was as well that they were locked like this, using up their strength. He was angry enough to have beaten her senseless.