Peter Lovesey - The Summons

Una said, “Yes. And he missed with both.”

“We don’t know that,” said G.B.

Una rounded on him with scorn. “Come on-where’s the gunman, then? I didn’t see him lying on the floor anywhere, did you?”

Diamond said, more as a statement than a question, “You were shooting at Mountjoy?”

Una was unfazed. She said fervently, as if she were going straight on with the diatribe she’d given him in the market cafe, “Someone had to rescue Sam, so I got hold of G.B. I couldn’t stand it any longer, knowing she was in here and you pigs were doing sod all about it.”

“That’s untrue,” said Diamond.

Una overrode the objection by saying, “Sam is one of us, and we stick together.”

“How did you get in?”

“Through a window. G.B. is a genius at opening up places. Nobody saw us. We were through the cellars and up the back stairs while you lot were still poncing about in the hotel lobby.”

“With the idea of what-taking on Mountjoy yourselves? Did you run into him?”

“We spotted him in the corridor, the skunk. We’d searched every room on the floor below this and were coming out of that one at the end, where Sam was seen on the balcony this afternoon. They weren’t in there anymore, but just at that minute we saw a movement at the far end. He stepped right across the corridor. It was him, no question, the scumbag, and G.B. should have blown his head off, but he missed, twice.”

Already reduced to a support role by the force of Una Moon’s invective, G.B. said in his own defense, “He was only in view for a couple of seconds, at most.”

Una explained, “We thought he ran upstairs, so we looked up here.”

G.B. said more firmly, “He was definitely up here not long ago. Look at this stuff. It’s Sam’s violin case. They were in this room.”

“And now you’ve scared him out of sight,” said Diamond.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“For one thing, I was trying to win his confidence and for another he could seriously harm the girl if he panics. You must be cuckoo, loosing off a shotgun.”

“He’s got a certificate for it,” said Una.

“A certificate to shoot people? How long have you been up here?”

“Half an hour. Three-quarters. How would I know?”

“Couldn’t you have left this to the professionals?” Diamond rebuked them. The doubts as to his own status didn’t cross his mind.

G.B. said positively, “With three of us, we can take him. No problem.”

“No, we cannot,” Diamond snapped back. “You fouled this up. Don’t you realize there are marksmen out there looking for a target? You wander about with a torch, waving a bloody shotgun. You’re lucky they haven’t picked you off already. Your horsing around is over for today.”

“And if we refuse?” said Una.

“I can do you for unlawful entry, using a firearm with intent to endanger life and obstructing the police in the pursuance of their duties,” he chanced it, but with conviction. “I’m handling this my way. And before you leave, I want that gun unloaded and I’ll take any spare cartridges you have.”

“Like fuck, you will!” said G.B., and he lifted the butt of the gun and charged.

The advantages were all with G.B.: his height, his physique, his age and, not least, the weapon. He was as large a man as Diamond had ever handed off, and it wasn’t the tidiest of moves, but his years as a rugby forward had left him with some skill and, more important, nice timing. He ducked under the shotgun, thrust a hand firmly against G.B.’s oncoming shoulder and steered him aside. G.B. cracked his head against the edge of the door, keeled off balance and hit the ground. The gun clattered across the floor.

The big crusty was up immediately and launched himself at Diamond again, this time intent on butting him. It was even more like the loose scrum now, and Diamond dealt with him in a way that no referee would have countenanced, by swaying to the left and bringing up his knee. Bone struck bone and the bone in G.B.’s case was his jaw. His head jerked backward and he crashed down for a second time.

Then Una clubbed him over the skull with the torch and shouted, “Birdbrain! You great dumbbell! What are you bloody thinking of?”

G.B. wasn’t thinking of much after the combined impacts of Diamond’s knee and the torch. He rolled on his back and groaned.

The torch had suffered, too. It flickered a few times and went out.

Una composed herself quickly. It was far from certain that she had lost control. More likely she had summed up their situation and started battering G.B. as a way of cutting their losses. She told Diamond, “That didn’t happen, right? The gun isn’t loaded anymore and we don’t have extra cartridges, but you can take it if you want.”

“Leave it on the floor. Tell him to get up. I’m going to hand you over to the men on the roof.”

She didn’t argue. She merely said, “Are you going to rescue Sam?”

“That’s the only reason I’m here.”

She had to be satisfied with that. She told G.B. to get up. He swore at her and obeyed. Diamond stood back, allowing them to shuffle out and turn left out of the room where the light was slightly better and toward the fire escape, a wooden stepladder leading up to a fire door.

“Better hold your hands above your heads when you get to the top,” Diamond advised. “They might think you’re someone else.”

He watched as they mounted the steps, opened the door and emerged on the roof. There was a shout up there, the standard instruction to a potential armed suspect to lie face-down. The gun crew on the roof took over. If nothing else, it must have relieved their monotony.

He was seething. And the knee that had clobbered G.B. felt as if it might not hold him up much longer. The stupidity of the crusties had made his mission infinitely more difficult and dangerous. He knew he must dismiss the incident and fix his mind on Mountjoy again. He needed to be certain that the rest of the turret remained unoccupied. There were two extra rooms, each faintly lit from outside. He checked them. Then he felt his way to the spiral stairs and down to the fifth floor, where he took stock.

Mountjoy and his hostage could be in any of the twenty or so rooms along the two corridors of the V, or on the balconies, or the roof spaces that were accessible through some of the rooms; but he’d go bail on their being somewhere on this level and he did have an idea where to look first. Tott had said something about the plumbing being like the engine room of a battleship; this was the floor where the water tanks for the entire hotel would have to be sited. In the turret rooms he’d seen old-fashioned radiators that must have been installed for the comfort of the Admiralty staff, so there would be pipes and tanks for hot water as well as cold. The tank space had to be large.

More than likely it was sited in the center of the building, close to where he was. He waited for another swing of the searchlight to give him a long view of the corridor ahead. When it came, he noted the positions of the doors and spotted what he was looking for, a plain door without panels and with smudge marks around the handle. He crossed the corridor and opened it.

“Mountjoy?”

He couldn’t see much, but he could hear the steady drip of water not far ahead and there was a metallic resonance to it that could only mean a cold tank. Leaving the door open, he sidled in, across what felt like wood flooring gritty with dust. His knees touched an obstruction that felt curved and spongy: the insulation around a water pipe.

He said into the darkness, “Listen, if you’re in here, this is Diamond.”

A voice close to his ear said, “And you’re a dead man, Diamond.”

The solid object jammed against his throat had to be the muzzle of a gun.