Ian Rankin - Westwind

Suddenly he heard what he had been waiting for: approaching sirens. He rushed back inside and out into the corridor. A couple of people, looking as though they had been disturbed in the act of coitus, were standing by the lift, their clothes disarranged. The man was frantically pressing at the button beside the doors.

‘I shouldn’t think you’ll get much joy,’ Hepton informed him. ‘These things shut off when there’s an alarm. It’s much safer to use the stairs.’

‘Is there a fire?’ the man asked.

‘Yes, upstairs,’ said Hepton. ‘We’d better hurry.’

The three of them set off downstairs together. At the third landing, they joined a slightly larger group.

‘ Is there a fire?’ someone asked.

‘Yes,’ the man with Hepton said, mimicking him. ‘It’s upstairs.’

Between the third and second landings, Hepton, to the rear of the small party, saw that someone was pushing their way back up through the descending group. There was always someone, someone who’d forgotten a treasured memento or the pet cat. He was about to remonstrate when he realised it was Harry. She was pushing hard now, her anger showing. And in her eyes he saw a kind of madness. There could be no doubting: she was out to kill him, witnesses or no.

Then she glanced upwards and, separated from him by only a handful of bodies now, saw Hepton. Her eyebrows rose in victory, and she dug a hand into the pocket of the checked jacket she was wearing. But the hand stuck there as somebody tried to squeeze past her downstairs.

‘You should go back, love,’ someone warned her. ‘Save yourself. Never mind what’s up there.’

Hepton turned on his heel and started up the carpeted steps two at a time, pushing hard as though his knees were mechanical pistons. The banisters were new. Dark polished wood with brass supports. His arms pulled hard on them, heaving his body upwards. He didn’t pause at the third floor — he needed territory he could recognise. Instead he left the stairs at the fourth floor and ran back to Jilly’s flat. Once inside, he closed the door quietly, then locked it. He realised that his right hand was gripping the kitchen knife. The video screen showed him the main lobby on the ground floor. People were beginning to move outside, some of them explaining to a fireman where the blaze was situated. Hepton could no longer hear the sirens and supposed they had been turned off. Well, he couldn’t give them a fire... but fire was useful in other ways.

He walked quickly to the kitchen and filled the largest pot he could find with water from the hot tap. Then he manoeuvred it onto a ring of the gas cooker and turned the flame on full blast. It was Dark Ages stuff, but potentially effective. He pondered the contents of the food cupboard. The only pepper, though, seemed to be in the form of peppercorns. Useless. He cursed Jilly’s yuppie lifestyle. Where were the tools? The saws, electric drills? The screwdrivers and spanners? What use was the broken edge of an empty champagne bottle against a killer toting a gun?

Then it struck him: Harry knew that Hepton had come to Jilly’s flat. Therefore she would know Jilly’s name...

And Jilly’s name was engraved on the front door’s silver nameplate!

Cautiously, Hepton took a few paces towards the door. He could hear no sounds. Maybe Harry had taken a wrong turn. He pressed his ear to the door. Still no sound. Then the world exploded.

The solid wood of the door splintered just a few inches to his right, beside where the battery of indoor locks was placed. There was a roaring in his ears, the result of the explosion. Another gunshot splintered more wood and severed the first lock’s mechanism.

Hepton walked backwards into the kitchen. The pot was bubbling on the hob, and he lifted it with both hands grasped around the handle, walking back into the hallway just as a third shot severed the final locks and Harry’s foot kicked the door open. She saw Hepton directly in front of her and raised the pistol, but then saw what he was holding...

Some of the water sloshed out onto Hepton’s hands and wrists, scalding him, but he felt no pain as he held the pot out to one side like a tennis player preparing a double-handed return. He swung it forward, then jerked it back again. Harry was already half turning away from the water, and it caught her sideways on, spraying her clothes and her hair, splashing across one cheek, one ear, one tightly shut eye. She gasped, and Hepton threw the pot down, starting towards her. But her survival instinct was as strong as his, and blindly she brought the gun up and started firing. Firing wildly, but even a wild bullet was lethal.

Hepton dodged back into the flat, slammed the door shut again and ran. His eyes were focused on the open French doors. Then he was out on the veranda, and there was only one route possible. He swung one leg over the edge of the balcony, then the other. Crouched, gripping the steel rail, he let his feet slide off into space. He gained momentum, swinging his legs, the edge of the veranda hard against his stomach, then took one last swing outwards, started in again and released his hands. Like a high jumper, he felt his backbone graze the rail of the balcony below. Then his feet touched its solid floor and he pulled himself upright. Only to stare at the French doors, identical to Jilly’s in every way except one.

They were firmly locked. He cursed. Somewhere above him, Harry had stopped shooting and was screaming instead.

‘I’m going to kill you, Hepton! Going to shoot you to hell, you bastard!’

He looked left and right and saw with relief that the next apartment along had its windows open to the elements. There was no time to waste. He climbed nimbly onto the rail and leapt across the four-foot gap, landing safely and darting inside just as Harry arrived at the veranda diagonally above and, her sight restored, but still hurting, fired two shots into the balcony floor behind him.

He ran through the living room and pulled open the door into the hallway, taking the stairs down three at a time until he arrived in the lobby.

‘Look, there he is now,’ the man who had been standing at the lift said to a fire officer. He was pointing at Hepton.

‘Excuse me, sir, I believe you know—’ the fireman started, but Hepton simply pushed him aside and walked quickly from the building.

There were two fire engines parked outside, their blue lights flashing but the firemen themselves looking relaxed: just another false alarm. A bright red MG turned the far corner and began speeding towards the block. It was Jilly. He waited until she had almost pulled up next to the fire engines, then leapt forward from the crowd. She saw him and stopped the car, rising from her seat.

‘Martin! What’s happened?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’ He heaved himself into the passenger seat. ‘Just get us out of here.’

She hesitated, wanting to know what was going on.

‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and his voice frightened her. She started the car off, did a three-point turn and, watched by the huddle of neighbours, drove back the way she had come. Hepton tried scanning the rear of the car, both sides and the front all at the same time.

‘Martin?’

‘What?’

‘What the hell are you up to?’

‘Just keep driving. I’m looking for a black Sierra.’

‘You mean that woman Harry?’

‘Yes. She came to the flat. She’s just tried to kill me.’

‘Christ.’ Jilly’s face lost a little of its colour. ‘Did she start the fire?’

‘What?’ He looked at her, then grinned. ‘Oh, no, I did that. Don’t worry, all I did was set the smoke alarm off.’

‘So you could make a getaway?’ Jilly seemed impressed. ‘That’s brilliant, Martin.’