Mo Hayder - Skin

But he didn’t intend to use it. Caffery knew Gerber was too clever for that, knew he wanted Caffery to die in the slowest possible way. Maybe for the sake of self-preservation: he could argue that Caffery had fallen into the cesspit and bled to death. Or sadism: the need to imagine a drawn-out death in the cold and dark of the pit. He was a skilled doctor and knew the arteries of the leg would spring back on themselves where they’d been severed, that the blood would clot and Caffery’s leg would heal itself. So he’d inserted those Perspex tubes into the arteries to keep it flowing. He’d wanted to bleed him to death.

Caffery was lucky – the tubes had fallen out – but Gerber would be back eventually. Just to check.

There was a noise overhead. A footstep. The sound of weight on the roof of the tank. Caffery stiffened. Bit down on the instinct to scream at the fucker. He knew what he had to do: he had to let Gerber think he was dead. He got to his feet and moved to the edge of the tank where the ladder was, keeping his breathing shallow and quiet.

There was a pause, a long silence when nothing happened. Maybe he’d imagined that sound. He was about to sit down again, when he heard another footfall. A clunk. Followed by a metallic bang. The sound of the lock on the manhole being tested.

He grabbed the ladder and climbed one or two steps until his neck and shoulders were pressed against the ceiling, his head inches from the cover. Wedging his bad leg back he held himself there, teeth gritted. One hand out and ready. He couldn’t wait at the bottom of the tank for the bastard to come in – it would be shooting fish in a barrel for Gerber: there was one chance and one chance only. Caffery had to go out and take it on the nose. Then, if he caught Gerber in time, he could throw the manhole cover at him. Catch him off balance.

The lock on the cover opened. He waited, trembling in his bat position, hands up hard in front of his face. Adrenalin bolted around his body. He was ready. Come and get it. Come and get it.

But nothing happened. Nobody came. The manhole cover didn’t open.

There were a few moments of silence, then another footfall. This time Gerber was retreating. He had unlocked the cover but not opened it. Caffery let his jaw stay slack, tried to keep his breathing slow and steady as he tracked Gerber’s movements in his head. What was he planning?

Silence again. He counted to a hundred, listening. The stillness stretched on and on, out of the cesspit, down past the swimming-pool, out into the lane. He counted to a hundred again then relaxed his ribcage, breathed normally.

He dropped off the ladder on to his good leg. Checked his watch. Looked back up at the cover.

What’s he doing? What’s he wanting me to do?

Maybe Gerber had changed his mind about finishing him, knowing the weight of shit that would descend on his head if he added cop-killer to his list. Maybe he was waiting outside to apologize. No. Of course he wasn’t. Caffery knew what was going on: he was being flushed. Gerber had a gun and was waiting for him.

If that was the way it was going to be, then that was the way it was going to be. Simple as that.

He let the second hand move round his watch five times, then pulled himself back up the ladder. On a deep breath he gave the lid a hard shove.

It flew open and rolled away with a deafening clang. Light flooded in. He clung to the ladder, breathing hard, good foot coiled into the rungs, one hand up, ready for whatever came flying at him.

High above him the sky was blue, completely cloudless. He waited, making calculations. The swimming-pool was about a hundred yards from here. There was a pump-house at the deep end, if he remembered rightly. And the maintenance shed with the stepladder in it. There’d be something in there. A hacksaw. An axe, maybe.

Three minutes passed. Then, using his good leg as the dynamo, he vaulted clumsily up and out of the hole, and rolled quickly away. He scrambled head first across the lawn, threw himself down behind the pump-house, where he crouched, hands pressed hard against his leg to stop the wound opening and bleeding again.

It was as hot as an August day: the trees, the hedges, even the grass stood motionless, their outlines a little hazy in the heat. When the pain stopped he raised himself cautiously and looked out at the grounds. Gerber’s car sat in the driveway soaking up the sunshine. Caffery’s own car, as he’d expected, wasn’t there. It had been hidden from anyone standing at the entrance to the house, but from here it was easy to spot: covered with a tarpaulin, its nose pointed up against the doors of a derelict barn about a hundred yards away.

He limped quickly to the car, threw back the tarp and rattled the doors. All locked. He could see through the window that the glove compartment was open, so he’d been right: the bastard had taken the gun.

It felt better to hold his bad leg as he walked, so he gripped it in both hands and half carried it across the lawn, past the swimming-pool to the shed. He found a chisel and a screwdriver on the magnetic tool rack. No axe.

He continued up to the house. The front door was ajar. Using the tip of his finger he pushed it. It swung open soundlessly to reveal the office where the attack had happened. It was empty. The curtains had been half closed, the biscuits swept to one side, and he could see where the great ribbons of blood on the floor and sofa had been hastily scrubbed. He went inside and stood for a while, looking around. Where was Gerber hiding?

He limped to the desk, pulled open the drawers, riffled through the contents, seeing paper clips and pens, old business cards. He straightened and looked at the glass bookcases. In one there was a tooled-leather keepsake box. He took it out and opened it. Inside a plaque read: ‘To Georges, with much love and respect from the staff and patients of St Hilda’s clinic, 1998’. Set into the moulded blue velveteen were six gold-plated surgeon’s instruments – haemostats, tweezers, scissors and three scalpels. Caffery pocketed the scalpels with the chisel, replaced the box and went back to the corridor.

The door to the refrigerator room was closed. He put his ear to it, took a breath, then lightly turned the handle. Just once. Listened.

Nothing. Just the vague electronic hum of a fridge, the tick of a clock.

He rested the scalpel hard and snug in his palm. The chisel was ready too, its handle sticking out of his left pocket. He gave the door a shove so it flew wide open, banging against the interior wall, then shrank back into the corridor, flattening himself against the wall, scalpel at the ready.

Again, nothing. He took a deep breath and swung into the opening, doing a quick 360-degree sweep, checking the ceiling too – he’d been caught out on that one before – then stepped neatly inside, his back to the wall.

The light was off, the room was empty. But the door opposite was ajar. He could hear the distant sound of birds floating down the steps into the room. He went to it and opened it, waiting to see if the sound drew any movement from above. It didn’t. Gerber wanted him here. Wanted him to see the things he’d done. But where was he? Maybe he wasn’t in the building at all. Maybe this was just the beginning of an elaborate game.

Caffery moved around the room, gathering weapons: a long fleshing knife and the awl Gerber had used. It still had a scrap of grey fabric on it. His trouser leg. He put the awl in his sleeve, the knife in his pocket. Feeling as armed as an Apache attack helicopter, he went quietly up the stairs, concentrating on not making them creak. His leg had almost stopped bleeding, yet, even so, when he got to the top of the stairs and looked back he could see one or two dark blood spots. The CSIs would thank him for that – if he survived and they ever got to find out about this place.