Reginald Hill - Midnight Fugue

She headed quickly up the stairs. The faster she moved the less chance there was of meeting somebody. Ahead she could hear the young Asian’s footsteps. He was making for the second floor too. She stepped out into the corridor just in time to see him entering a flat, calling, ‘Devi, what are you doing? Ma’s expecting us at one,’ to which a woman’s voice replied, ‘In a minute, in a minute, your ma’s not going anywhere, worse luck!’

The door closed as Fleur approached. Number 38.

She passed on to number 39, which was the last along the corridor. So, neighbours on one side only and they sounded as if they were on their way out.

Beyond the door she could hear the sound of a television cop-show or movie, the kind that involved screaming women and screeching cars. There was a bell push. She leaned into it, then stood back. No security cameras, but the doors did have peepholes. She composed her face to smiling housewife mode. It didn’t come easy and wouldn’t stand close examination, but it should do for a one-eyed squinter.

The peephole darkened. After a moment it lightened again. Thirty seconds passed. Adjusting his dress, or didn’t like the look of her? She was starting to fear the second when the door opened.

She made a rapid assessment of the man who stood there.

He had an unruly mop of hair whose blackness was of an intensity you rarely met outside of a priest’s socks. But his eyebrows she noticed were light brown. And surely he’d had a moustache when she glimpsed him leaving the car park?

His build was right, just under six foot tall, quite muscular, no evidence of any middle-age spread around the belt of his jeans. Age hard to say, though his skin tone looked like that of a young man. Too young? Maybe he used male moisturizer.

He said, ‘Yes?’

She said, ‘Mr Watkins?’

He said, ‘Who’s asking?’

She said, ‘I’m glad to find someone at home. I was beginning to think the whole block was empty. I’m Jenny Smith, Mr Watkins. From Liston Developments. It’s about the proposed improvements. We will have to ask you to vacate your apartment for a couple of days, I’m afraid. I’m here to discuss timings and alternative accommodation with you. Do you have a few moments?’

As she spoke she moved forward with an assurance it would have taken a tank trap to deny. The man retreated before her. Her gaze took in the tiny room. She got no impression of permanency. Furnishing was minimal: television set with a lousy picture and distorted sound, one balding armchair next to a rickety coffee table on which stood a telephone, no pictures on the wall, no curtains on the window.

After seven weeks this would have looked good. After seven years it was puzzling.

He said, ‘Look, I’m a bit busy, couldn’t you do this some other time…?’

He had a bit of an accent. She wasn’t too good at accents. Bit up and down, like that nosey cop who used to get up Goldie’s nose. But accents were easy to put on if you had the gift for it. Vince did a great Arnie Schwarzenegger.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Health and Safety-they need everything yesterday. God, they’re the bane of my life these days. How long have you been here, by the way?’

‘Why? Isn’t that on your records?’

‘Of course it is.’

He was sounding edgy. The furnishings apart, it was looking good. But between looking good and absolute certainty there was a gap a rash jump to conclusions could easily tumble you in.

He said, ‘Look, just for the record, could I see some identification?’

Real edgy!

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘No problem. You’re quite right to ask. In fact, you asking reminds me I should have asked too. So I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, all right?’

A bit of jocular innuendo was always distracting, especially when accompanied by a menacing leer. She rarely had difficulty facing down guys who liked to talk big.

He said, ‘No, I’m sure you’re who you say you are. But listen, I’ve really got things to do…’

Her phone rang.

‘Mind if I answer this?’ she said, opening her shoulder bag.

She took the phone out. As she pressed the receive button the room swayed and this time didn’t level off immediately.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

The phone fell to the floor and she followed it down, cracking her forehead against the TV set which, as if in sympathy, let out a blood-curdling shriek. The warm trickle oozing over her left eye suggested it hadn’t curdled hers.

‘Oh fuck!’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, sure, that’s why I’m lying here bleeding,’ she grated.

‘You look bad. Shall I call an ambulance?’

Her wig had come askew. No wonder he was worried about the way she looked!

‘No, I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘A glass of water maybe.’

He rose and went out of the room.

She needed to be out of here too. She scrabbled for the phone to confirm what she suspected, but there was no one at the other end. Which meant…

She didn’t like to think what it might mean.

She really needed to be out of here. Strength was returning to her legs, but not enough yet.

The man came back with a cupful of water.

She took it from him, squeezed a tablet from the bubble pack and washed it down.

She saw him looking at her and she said, ‘Aspirin.’

There was a tap at the door.

‘Don’t answer…’ she started to say, but he wasn’t taking any notice of her. Why should he?

She got on all fours to try and push herself upright as he opened the door.

Then for about two and a half seconds, everything happened in single-frame audio-visual flashes.

The young female cop in the doorway wearing the kind of phoney smile Fleur had tried for earlier.

Vince behind her swinging a short metal cylinder against the side of her head.

The girl falling into the room.

The man taking two steps back and standing on Fleur’s hand.

Fleur hearing herself scream.

Vince raising the cylinder that was the sawn-off barrel of a shotgun.

The flash.

The bang.

The man falling backwards.

‘For God’s sake, shut that door!’ grated Fleur.

One thing she’d trained Vince up for was instant obedience. He kicked the door shut. Still on her knees, she swung round to the TV set and turned the volume up.

Then she sat and waited, counting up to twenty.

Nothing happened.

The TV set was showing a night scene. She studied herself in the darkened glass. The streak of blood down her face was dramatic but its source was a lesion the size of a peanut.

She adjusted her wig, turned the TV sound up higher, and got to her feet. Vince opened his mouth and she quietened him with a look.

She went to the door and listened.

She heard a door opening, a male voice saying, ‘Don’t be silly, it’s the television. Come on, we’re half an hour late already. Ma will be furious.’ To which the shrill female replied, ‘So what? Can’t we be an hour late, or better still two hours? In my condition, how can I hurry?’

The voices faded away down the corridor.

Now Fleur turned and took in the room.

The man who might be Wolfe was gone beyond recall. The shotgun blast had all but removed his face. There was no way they were going to identify him by comparing him to a photo.

The female cop had fallen on her left side. Blood oozed from a long contusion on the right temple where Vince had struck her. A shallow bubble of saliva formed at her lips, sank, then formed again very slowly, so for the time being at least she was still alive.

Vince stood there, weapon in hand, regarding her with an expression she was all too familiar with, the look of a small boy who suspects he has done wrong but isn’t yet sure if his actions merit mild reproof, stern reproach, or severe punishment. She had to bite back the angry invective forming in her throat.