The Sugared Game Page 15

  “Don’t shout,” Kim said. “Don’t shout at all. This is your last opportunity to have a conversation, rather than give a statement. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste it.”

  “Empty threats, Lord Arthur.” Mrs. Skyrme’s eyes flicked to Will for a second, considered him dispassionately, and moved back to Kim. She was about five foot three, with overdone face-paint, a garish frock, and cheap bangles on her wrists, and Will had a sudden shuddering urge to draw the Messer because he could tell a danger when he saw one.

  “Sadly, no,” Kim said. “Sadly for you, that is. I’ve got the dates of Mrs. Appleby’s trips, plus her signed statement and, of course, the chocolates. I can match some very large sums to Mrs. Appleby’s confectionery deliveries and put you in the middle of it. I could have come here with a pack of police officers and had you nailed.”

  Mrs. Skyrme looked at him without emotion for a very long moment, and then she smiled. “So why didn’t you?”

  Kim smiled back. “Tell me something, Mrs. Skyrme. Let’s say I had you arrested now, and you sat in a cell while men drilled your safe open—what might that take, a few hours? Half a day? And then all the papers would be ours, and you would need to decide whether to save yourself by giving up your Zodiac colleagues, particularly Capricorn.”

  “And you want to know what I’d choose?”

  “I don’t care what you’d choose,” Kim said. “I want to know how long you think you’d live. Do you really believe he would risk you talking? I’ve got you, Mrs. Skyrme, and once Capricorn finds that out, you’re a liability to him.”

  “If that’s the case, it isn’t you I should be scared of, is it?”

  “Indeed not. The very opposite. I’m here for a friendly chat about what to do with these two boxes of delicious chocolates. Shall we go to your office?”

  There was a long, considering silence, which Mrs. Skyrme broke. “This way.”

  Will followed them both up to the office, keeping a weather eye out for treachery, or movement. Their steps echoed in the vast space in a dead sort of way. The stairs were sticky underfoot.

  Mrs. Skyrme went in and sat down at her desk. It was set against the back wall, facing out to the club. With the blinds up as they were now, she would have a view of the whole place, balconies and dancefloor alike. Kim helped himself to the other chair and sat opposite. Will leaned against the door.

  Mrs. Skyrme gave him a cold look. “You caused a great deal of trouble the other night, Mr. Darling. I suppose you were up to something.”

  “Never mind him,” Kim said. “Nice to speak to you face to face at last, Mrs. Skyrme.”

  “Likewise I’m sure, Lord Arthur.”

  She leaned back, hands going to her lap, which was to say, under the level of the desk. Will said, “Hands where I can see them, please.”

  “Are you going to make me, Mr. Darling?”

  “Yes.”

  She put her clasped hands on her desk. Kim took one of her hands and turned it, so the blue stain of a tattoo was visible through the bangles.

  “Aquarius,” he said. “Does Capricorn himself bear one of these highly incriminating little marks, or does he reserve them for his inferiors?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I intend to. Let’s not waste time, shall we? I have the entire story from Flora Appleby, and I also have two boxes of supposedly Hungarian chocolates with full provenance and very hard centres. Here.” He put them on the desk. “I prefer the liqueur fillings, myself.”

  “Then you should buy your own.”

  “Very true,” Kim said. “Flora Appleby is ready to testify about everything, including that she told you about Leinster’s questions shortly before his ‘accident’. You ought not to have threatened her divorce, you know; they do say about a woman scorned. I’m surprised you made that mistake.”

  Mrs. Skyrme’s nostrils flared but she didn’t speak. Kim went on, “I’ve a very good chance of getting a murder charge to stick on that alone. You’re done for, I fear. Unless you cooperate.”

  “But as you say, cooperation would get me killed,” Mrs. Skyrme said. “Whereas telling you that I don’t know what you’re talking about—that I’ve never heard of this Leinster, that Flora Appleby is a silly hysteric—would create plenty of time in which all sorts of things might happen. Why, you might even have an accident, just like Mr. Leinster.”

  “That wouldn’t get you off the hook.”

  “It would make being on the hook more entertaining.” Again Mrs. Skyrme smiled; again Kim smiled back. Will looked between them and felt goosebumps rise on his neck.

  Kim pulled the bow of one of the chocolate boxes and opened it. “Lucky dip?”

  “I won’t, thank you. Watching my waistline.”

  Kim took a chocolate, considered it, and bit it carefully. He made an annoyed noise and dropped it on the table with a little clunk. “Hard centre.”

  Another silence. Mrs. Skyrme and Kim watched each other. Will just stood there. At least in the trenches he’d known what war was being fought.

  Kim spoke first. “Do you know, I think we could benefit from a frank discussion. Off the record, even. Will, would you excuse us?”

  Will gave him a look, but Kim nodded, and he was the expert here. “All right. Just a second, though. Stand up please, Mrs. Skyrme.” He came over to the desk, and pulled open each drawer in turn. There was a small handgun in one, loaded. He took out the bullets, dumped them in the wastebasket, and was about to drop the gun in when Kim said, “Wipe your fingerprints off it first, old chap. You never know what a nice lady like this might do with your fingerprints on a gun.”

  Mrs. Skyrme sniffed. Will did as bid. “Shout if you need me.”

  “Because Lord Arthur is in so very much danger from me,” Mrs. Skyrme said sardonically.

  Will ignored that and went out. He didn’t know what Kim was up to, but he was welcome to deal with Mrs. Skyrme, with her cold, clever eyes. Will preferred the kind of trouble he was trained for.

  He moved into the shadows outside the office, hearing the murmur of voices but no clear words, and surveyed the great main room as best he could given the bright light from the office spilling into the darkness before him. It felt cavernous, and horribly exposed. A sniper on the top balcony could control the entire room. Lucky there weren’t any here, he reminded himself, and did not pull the Messer no matter how much he wanted a weapon in his hand.

  And then he saw it. A vertical line of light, up at the far end of the higher balcony.

  Had that been there before, or had it just come on? He wasn’t sure. It was bright enough to be clearly visible in the dimness and there was a faint horizontal line meeting its top. The outline of a door. Was the light behind it that of daylight, or the yellow of electricity?

  As he stared, it winked out. Well, that answered that.

  Will started moving. He’d have liked to run, but not on a balcony which was probably not solid enough to muffle footsteps, and certainly not through a litter of chairs and tables, which he could only see in the spilled light from the office—

  He stopped. He turned.

  The bloody office blinds were bloody open. He hadn’t thought to pull them, like the fool he was, so anyone looking from the top balcony would have a magnificent well-lit view of the office desk, and Mrs. Skyrme’s face, and Kim’s defenceless back.

  Will swore under his breath, but if he shouted he’d give away his position, and if he went back to warn Kim now, he’d be in the wrong damn place. So he kept going, picking his way along the balcony to the spiral stairs with agonising slowness, worth it not to make a racket. He had his foot on the lowest step when he heard the soft whisper of a door opening above him.

  He held his breath. Fuller—he had to assume it was him—wouldn’t be able to see him from here, but if he came down the stairs...

  Fuller didn’t come down. He stood unmoving for a few very long seconds, and then started forward along the upper balcony. You wouldn’t do that if you simply wanted to get to t
he office on the lower balcony. You’d do it if you had a gun, because a man with a gun half-way along the upper balcony would have a perfect line of sight on the office window. It was a fair distance for a shot, though: Mrs. Skyrme’s little discarded pop-gun wouldn’t be enough. He wondered what Fuller had.

  Will went up the stairs as slowly as he dared, telling himself that Fuller couldn’t see Kim’s face and wouldn’t recognise him from his back, not from this distance. Surely he wouldn’t shoot without knowing what was going on. Unless Mrs. Skyrme had had some sort of bell-press installed that Will had missed...

  Don’t turn round, Kim. Don’t move. Please.

  He crawled onto the upper balcony, keeping low, peering through the legs of tables and chairs. The man was indeed Desmond Fuller, and Will recognised the shape of the weapon he held, the long, narrow barrel. A Webley service revolver. It was a good practical gun with plenty of accuracy over the distance, even better if Fuller went further along the upper balcony to get an angle on Kim that didn’t risk Mrs. Skyrme. Which was what he was doing right now.

  Will had strong views on bringing a knife to a gun fight, but needs must. He pulled the Messer and made his way forward.

  Fuller didn’t notice him. He was probably groggy from sleep, and focused on the office. Will kept going, moving softly and steadily, keeping in a low crouch. He’d done this closer to upright in the German trenches, which was easier on the thighs, but at least there wasn’t any mud here.

  Fuller made a little exhalation and raised his gun arm. Will tensed to leap, and just stopped himself as the arm kept rising and the man fired into the ceiling. The noise was shockingly loud. Fuller swung the gun down again, aimed towards the office and Kim, and roared, “Hands up! Hands up or I shoot!”

  Will risked a glance at the office. He saw Kim’s hands go up, and Mrs. Skyrme rise from her desk, raising her arm to point towards Will, and he went for Fuller as hard and fast as he could.

  The man whipped round, too quick. Will grabbed at his gun hand, forcing it up, but Fuller had got hold of his knife wrist at the same time and was pushing it down. They struggled savagely, locked together, moving no more than inches back and forth with neither able to let go.

  Will was pretty strong, but Fuller was bigger, and he could feel the pressure on both arms. If the trial of strength lasted minutes rather than seconds, bulk would win. Will shifted his weight, let Fuller come forward, and went for a knee in the balls. He made glancing contact only, and regretted the miss as Fuller gave a bellow of rage and pushed back so hard their grips broke. Will stumbled, tripped over a chair, and fell backward, the edge of a marble-topped table brushing through his hair as he went down.

  The next second or so lasted an eternity. The gun barrel swung towards him, Fuller’s finger tightening on the trigger; Will dropped the Messer, all but flinging it away in his haste, and pulled the heavy table above him sharply forward. There was an explosion far too close, and a bullet cracked into the tabletop, almost jarring it from his grip.

  The fucker was trying to kill him.

  Will scrambled to his feet in pure desperation as Fuller fired again. He lifted his impromptu shield and charged at the enemy, using the table as a battering ram. Fuller tried to dodge, but the heavy marble caught him square on. He span sideways and hit the banister rail hard.

  That put him on the ropes, and Will didn’t intend to let up. He barged the table into Fuller again with all his weight, and once more, needing him to lose his gun or his breath, but the surge of panic that had let him lift the table as if it were plywood was already dropping, and the sodding marble was too sodding heavy. Will made a last effort and half threw, half dropped the thing just as Fuller staggered forward. It landed edge down, right on the bastard’s foot.

  Fuller gave a howl of pain and fell backwards. There was a splintering crunch that sounded loud even through Will’s still-ringing ears. Fuller’s eyes widened, and the whole section of banister gave way.

  Fuller’s arms windmilled frantically in a desperate effort to defy gravity. His body bowed forwards, and it looked for just a second as if he was going to recover himself, then his feet went out from under him. Will lunged forward, hurling himself down, and just caught Fuller’s disappearing hand as he hit the floor.

  The shock damn near pulled his own arm out of its socket. He skidded forward, dragged by Fuller’s dead weight, sliding fast to the gaping gap in the banisters, and the two-storey fall beyond.

  Will flailed for something to hold on to, and found the nearest surviving baluster with his free hand, a table-leg with his feet. He gripped onto both for dear life, and his slide stopped with his head and shoulders hanging over the dark void below.

  Fuller swung from his hand, yelling. He still held the Webley in his other hand.

  “Drop the gun!” Will bellowed. “Drop it or I drop you! Now!”

  Fuller let go of the Webley. It bounced off the lower balcony, and hit the floor a long way down.

  “Pull me up!” Fuller flailed his free arm in a fruitless effort to reach the balcony edge. The movement pulled Will another inch closer to certain depth.

  “Stop struggling!” he snarled. “You’ll have us both off!”

  “Pull me up!”

  Will’s muscles were screaming. Fuller was over six foot, well built, and hanging off an arm that hadn’t enjoyed recent proceedings as it was. “Calm down. See if you can get your other hand up. Grab the edge.”

  Fuller tried, straining upwards. The effort dragged Will forward again. “Fuck! Stop!”

  Running footsteps. “Will!” Kim shouted.

  “Get up here and hold me down!”

  He couldn’t look round, couldn’t afford to concentrate on anything but his feet, painfully flexed around the table-legs, and his hands, one on the baluster, one savagely gripped by Fuller’s sweaty fingers, and on his breath. Breathe in, breathe out. One. Two. He could hold on till ten. Kim would be here by ten. Four. Five. He would get to ten breaths. Six.

  He didn’t even know why he was doing this for a man he’d been prepared to stab two minutes ago, except that it would have been inhuman to let him fall. He just held on, to the count of ten and then one more breath after that, and then there was a weight on his back and thighs straddling him, anchoring him to the floor.

  “Hold on. Let me grab the banister.” He felt Kim brace over him. “All right. I’ve got you.”

  “Fuller!” Will forced the word out through his tense throat. “Get ready to take my other hand.”

  He released his grip on the baluster and extended his newly free hand. Fuller reached up, the shift of weight putting enough strain on Will’s shoulder that he had to bellow the pain out, and grabbed it.

  Better. His overtaxed right shoulder was aflame and the left one wasn’t liking this either, but at least the heavy bastard was more evenly distributed, albeit crushing his hands. “Get hold of my wrists. My wrists, damn you!”

  “Get me up.” Fuller was blotchy, sweaty-faced with fear, too afraid to shift his fingers. “Pull me up!”

  “No,” Kim said.

  “What?” Will and Fuller said in chorus.

  “Information first, rescue later. Who’s Capricorn?”

  “Pull me up!”

  “Capricorn,” Kim said implacably. “And talk fast. He can’t hold you forever.”

  That was truly shitty, the sort of shitty you got from intelligence officers. If Kim hadn’t been sitting on his back as ballast, Will would have consigned him to the devil and pulled Fuller up anyway. As it was, any sort of silly buggers would lead to one or both of them going over the drop. “Kim—” he snarled.

  “Who is Capricorn?” Kim said again. “Quick.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Drop him.” Kim spoke with icy command.

  “No!” Fuller thrashed like a fish, fingers digging into Will’s hands. Will yelled aloud.

  “Capricorn. A name.”

  “I don’t know his name!”

  “Then you�
��re no use to me.”

  “Kim!” Will was damned if he was letting go, he would not, but his muscles were exhausted and in a few moments more he wouldn’t have the choice.

  “They’ll kill me!” Fuller shrieked.

  “So will the fall,” Kim pointed out. “Do it my way and you can run with a head start. Name.”

  “I don’t know!”

  Fuller’s sweaty fingers slipped a half-inch. Will forced his own grip tighter by sheer bloody-mindedness, defying the dreadful ache of failing strength. “Just tell him something, you arsehole!”

  “I shall!” Fuller screamed, rushing the words out in panic. “I shall, I shall—”

  Kim’s thighs tightened on Will’s waist. “Let’s get him up.”

  It wasn’t easy with Will’s muscles turned to dead meat, but Kim put his back into it and they managed it together, dragging Fuller up until he could grip the edge of the balcony, heaving at his arms until his torso was safely on the floor and he could wriggle forward like a landed fish, breath sobbing out.

  Kim rose and stepped away. Will pulled himself to a crouch, nursing the searing pain in his shoulders and arms for a miserable minute, then to a vaguely upright position so he could park his arse on a table. He’d have liked to pick up the Messer but his arms weren’t having any of it. He kicked it out of the way instead, and concentrated on breathing the burn down.

  Fuller lay on the balcony floor, gasping. After a few moments he struggled to his knees, then straightened, wiping sweat from his face. He took a few more painful breaths, turned to look down at the office, and froze.

  Will couldn’t help looking. Mrs. Skyrme was on her way down the spiral stairs to the ground floor, in coat and hat, holding a pair of bags.

  “Theresa?” Fuller said, almost to himself, then screamed it. “Theresa!”

  Mrs. Skyrme looked up. She didn’t call out to him. She didn’t wave or blow a kiss, or explain why she’d been packing up her things as he hung inches from death. She simply contemplated her guard dog trapped and trembling above her for a long expressionless second, then turned and carried on down the stairs. Walking away.