No Way Home. Jack SlaterЧитать онлайн книгу.
he muttered. What chance did they stand now, in this crowd?
But the kid had seen them and run. There had to be a reason for that. He couldn’t give up now.
The crowd on this side of the ride was a lot thinner. A few long strides and he reached the far corner. He stopped, one hand to the brightly painted corner post as he stared out into the crowded and noisy night, searching for movement amid the milling sea of constantly shifting figures. Something caught his attention at the edge of his vision. His head snapped towards it. A small figure darted into sight and then was gone again, several yards away to his right. He waited. There, dodging through the crowd. He lifted a hand to his radio.
*
Emma Radcliffe stepped out into the warm April night to the gentle sound of the river at the far side of the pub car park. Minutes ago, that sound would have been torture, but now it was soothing. Restful.
She checked her watch.
Still only twelve minutes since she’d left her broken-down car on the side of the road. She’d wondered if she was going to make it back out of the big pub in time. When she’d got here, she had barely been able to walk without wetting herself. Then, when she sat down and let the flow commence, she’d wondered if it would ever stop. But it had, with three minutes to spare. She shook her sleeve back down over her watch and glanced down the road.
And here it was.
A good thing she was early, she thought, as she stepped forward to the kerb and raised her hand. She had called the cab company as she was stepping away from the bloody useless car, which had just lost power and died on her, out of the blue, and refused to start again. When she said she’d be here, at the Old Mill Carvery, the woman had said fifteen minutes.
The cab drew up beside her, light shining orange on its roof. The passenger window buzzed down as she leaned down to it.
‘Pennsylvania?’ she asked.
‘Hop in.’
Of course, she should have expected him to be Indian. Ninety-five per cent of the taxi drivers in the city were. She opened the back door of the cab and climbed in.
‘Buckle up, please.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ She’d forgotten the need for that in the back seat, these days. She drew the seatbelt across and clipped it in.
‘Right-o.’ He slipped the handbrake and eased the car into motion up the long hill out of the city. ‘Did you have a good evening?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I was working late, then my bloody car broke down.’
They passed the little Nissan on the side of the road where she’d left it, but she decided not to comment.
‘Sorry. I thought, seeing where I picked you up…’
She let the comment go without reply. Silence settled in the car until he flicked on the indicator and it began its rhythmic click. He turned off the main road, heading up the tree-lined lane she’d been dreading.
Emma saw his eyes on her in the driving mirror. In his mid-forties, she guessed, he was stocky and round-faced with lush, wavy hair and designer stubble. He was wearing a denim shirt, but she imagined him in a suit and tie as a bouncer on a night-club door. And his eyes… There was something in the way they shone that sent a shiver down her spine. Instinctively, her knees clamped together, her legs turning slightly away from him.
‘So, what do you do, to be working so late?’ She detected just a slight hint of Devon in his accent and felt somehow reassured by it.
‘I was finishing the preparations for a big court case that starts tomorrow.’
‘You look too young to be a lawyer.’
She caught his gaze in the mirror again, saw the twinkle in his dark eyes. ‘I’m not. I just work for one.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The car slowed as they approached a tight right-hand bend with the entrance to a picnic area on the left, the trees growing more densely than ever, branches twining together overhead to give the impression of a tunnel.
‘Nice along here, isn’t it,’ the driver said. ‘Quiet. You wouldn’t know you were anywhere near the city.’ There was something in his tone that didn’t sound right.
Oh, God. Had this been a mistake? Which way was he going to turn? Along the road or…?
The car eased around to the right.
‘Of course, in the dark like this, you don’t see it at its best. Looks like something out of a cheap horror film, eh?’ He chuckled.
She shivered. ‘Hmm.’
‘I love those old Hammer ones. Peter Cushing and Vincent Price when they were young. Do you like a horror movie? Bit of a scare?’
The tunnel of bare branches opened out around them, switching to high, dense field hedges. A little farther on, she knew, a gate led in on the right to a field with a wooden building in the far corner where three horses were kept.
‘I see enough scary things at work,’ she said, forcing herself to think of the grey horse that currently lived in the field. It’s big, gentle, liquid eyes, those long lashes. The warmth of its soft skin as she stroked its nose. The almost prehensile mobility of its lips when she offered it a sugar lump or a piece of apple. The image in her mind began to calm her.
‘You do criminal cases, then? Killers and rapists and that?’
‘Yes.’ Although most of the criminality in this city was to do with drugs rather than violence, she thought.
‘You must see some horrible stuff, then, eh? Bodies and that.’
‘Only in photographs, thankfully.’
The hedge on their left dropped abruptly to a level you could see over. She glanced across, knowing that a flock of sheep and new lambs were being kept in there now. She could see a number of pale blobs dotted about in the darkness.
She frowned. It seemed particularly dark all of a sudden. Glancing across to the right, she saw that the thin sliver of the moon had disappeared, the previously clear sky giving way to a heavy bank of cloud.
‘Don’t expect you watch much of that true-crime telly then, eh? Get enough of it at work,’ he said as they passed two police Range Rovers parked up in a gateway on their right.
‘Exactly.’
‘Me, I love it. Try and figure out who the criminal is before the detectives get there. I sometimes think I should have been a copper instead of doing this. Of course, it’s all down to the editing, I expect. They lead you in a particular direction without saying as much. Let you figure it out for yourself so you feel good about it.’
They were passing houses now. Back in civilisation, as she thought when she drove along here in daylight. Although civilisation was a generous description, considering how rough and poorly kept some of the houses along here were. Detached, edge of town, they should have been smart and expensive, but in truth, many of them looked shabby and dirty and unkempt, as if they were on a building site. Which was one reason she didn’t like driving along here. The car got so dirty.
‘I expect the idea is to let the public feel better about the crimes they describe,’ she said. ‘And those crimes are the worst, so, if people feel better about them, they feel better about crime levels in general.’
‘Yeah. Hadn’t thought of it like that. Same with Agatha Christie and CSI and the like, I suppose. People figure out these convoluted plots, they imagine the police must have it easy in the real world. Makes them feel safer.’
‘Exactly.’ She began to relax. He wasn’t as creepy as she’d thought. He actually had some interesting insights. And she was nearly home. Another three or four minutes…
‘Whereas, the truth is, these days, with the