Tom Knox - The Babylon rite

No: they needed to flee. Adam pulled Nina to the open door, which gave into the darkened landing; he indicated with an urgent nod what he planned — they should run down the hallway to the front door and escape — before he opened the study door to the hallway and trapped them inside by standing between them and the only exit.

The floorboards creaked again. The intruder was moving across the study, coming their way.

Adam got ready to run, but even as he tensed for action he felt Nina disappear — she wrenched herself free and ran to the door at the other end of the landing. What was down there? A bathroom? A kitchen? What the hell was she doing?

He stared at her, quite desperate. Then he stared at where she had been, at the half-open door through which she had disappeared. What should he do now? Run away and leave her? But of course he couldn’t leave her — what if the man found her and…

She was back, hefting her rucksack: she had something inside it. He turned and pointed at the door and whispered the word now!

Together they ran. Uncaring of the noise, they raced down the hallway, flung open the front door, which creaked on its hinges, and slammed it behind them. The stairwell was dark again, but their indifference was pure and driven. Just get out fast. Just get the fuck out.

Panicking and hectic, they raced down the steps. Adam heard a noise above them, surely the intruder, alerted, sprinting onto the landing.

Just keep running and don’t look back. They had made the last flight. They were at the main door, and now they were outside, in the cold air, still running.

At the end of Springvalley Terrace Adam halted for a second, and turned. He could sense they were being watched and the feeling was so intense he had to turn and see.

Someone was standing at the window of the McLintocks’ flat. It was a very distinct figure, momentarily framed by the light: a thin tall man, wearing dark clothes, with close-shaven hair.

Was it him? The man he had seen, passing by an hour ago, with the tattoos? The figure suddenly shrank from the window, apparently aware he had been spotted.

Nina grabbed his hand.

‘Run!’

Interview Room D, New Scotland Yard, London

The girl really was exquisitely beautiful. Detective Sergeant Larkham had told him so on the phone, almost warned him — she’s a real looker, sir — but nothing had quite prepared him for the reality. She was like an artist’s idea of an English beauty. Golden waterfalls of hair, misted blue eyes, a pure and rose-dawn complexion. And she had been crying for about seven minutes.

The girl stared at him. Ibsen snapped himself out of his reverie, and went over his notes. Her name was Amelia Hawthorne. She was twenty-three, an aspiring actress, privately educated, a graduate of RADA. And she had been Kerensky’s girlfriend for the last two years.

He repeated the question. Were you in love with him?

Amelia Hawthorne sniffled, tearfully, in the quietness. ‘I’m sorry. I am. I know. It’s just the way Nik died — I… I still… I still…’

Larkham leaned in. ‘We understand, Amelia. It’s a total shocker. Horrible.’

‘But that’s exactly why we need to know,’ Ibsen repeated the point. ‘Your boyfriend cut off his own feet, and his hand. It’s an appalling suicide. So we need to know all the facts. All of them.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know. I get it.’ Slowly, the girl seemed to source some resolve, she sat a little taller, visibly preparing herself. ‘OK. Go on, then. Ask me.’

‘You say you met him two years ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘At a nightclub.’

‘Yes. Anushka’s.’

Ibsen flicked a glance at his notes. ‘And that is…’

‘A club in Mayfair. It’s down near Nobu. Everyone went there… back then… I mean, you know, two years ago…’

Ibsen had never heard of the place. He had also never heard of several other places the girl had already mentioned. In truth, he felt a little at sea in this world of beautiful young actresses and billionaire Russian playboys.

Larkham interrupted.

‘It’s a nightclub just off Berkeley Square, sir. Well pricey. Two hundred quid for a bottle of bubbly.’

‘Really? Prefer something more upmarket myself.’

The DS smiled; Ibsen turned to the girl. ‘So you met him at this high-class night club — and you started dating?

She scoffed. ‘Dating?’

‘I mean, you started a relationship. You were stepping out?’

‘Please. We started fucking. ’

Ibsen leaned nearer. ‘OK, then. You began a sexual relationship.’

‘That first night. Yes.’ She stared at her exquisitely manicured nails. ‘Because I liked him. I liked Nik from the start, liked him a lot… Y’know, everyone said he was probably just another… Eurotrash wanker, like all the Russians, with their hookers in furs, all that awful crap. But he wasn’t.’

‘No?’

‘He was witty and smart. As well as fit.’

‘And extremely rich?’

‘Yeah, sure. He was rich. But, you know, everyone was rich.’

She gazed at Ibsen with those slightly contemptuous blue eyes and he wished, for a second, he had worn his better suit. The one from Hugo Boss.

‘Why else was he different? Explain.’

‘He was clever and really…’ She sighed. ‘ Adventurous, really interesting. Not, like, totally desiccated like some of them, all those boring Chelsea boys banging on about their stupid fucking Ferraris. He used to go places, Asia, Africa… He read books, he would read to me, talk to me… and he went to the theatre, he loved London, art, everything, but he also liked fun, partying.’

‘Drugs?’

She halted.

Ibsen pressed the point. ‘Did you do drugs?’

No reply.

DCI Ibsen briskly reached pulled some folders out of his briefcase and laid them on the table. The folders contained the serology and toxicology reports on Kerensky, N, white male, 27. Instinct had told him the latter report would come up trumps, but it hadn’t. The hair tests showed just a trace of cocaine usage, probably from days before the death. Serology showed a small amount of alcohol in Kerensky’s blood, but he hadn’t been blind drunk when he killed himself. How then had he summoned the courage to do his self-mutilations? How had he managed the pain? Gastric examination showed he had eaten nothing more than bar snacks that night: nuts and crisps.

‘We have a hair test, Miss Hawthorne. We know he used cocaine. Did you do drugs with him?’

Total silence.

Larkham was leaning against the window. ‘You’re not under arrest, Amelia. We’re not going to arrest you if you confess to doing a little gak? Some charlie?’

The girl looked at her fingernails again. Then gazed up and said, ‘All right. All right, yes. He liked drugs sometimes. He liked sex too. And vodka. Taittinger. Everything. Caviar. Fucking sevruga. I told you, he was a party animal, and yet it wasn’t, like, frivolous, it wasn’t just for the sake of it…’

‘What-’

‘He knew he was going to take over his father’s business and I reckon he just wanted to get it all out of his system… see the world and do it all, do the lot, have his fun, and then he would sober up.’

‘Tell me more about the drugs.’

‘It wasn’t heavy. Really. No smack. Maybe a little toot. Before dinner. That’s all. You know? Maybe he dropped some E or mcat with his friends. But nothing heroiny, not with me. He was into new shit, new experiences, but not necessarily drugs… ’ She looked straight at Ibsen.

He sensed the direction of her thoughts. ‘Did you know he was bisexual?’

The actress pushed her ringlets from her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t mind?’

‘He was basically, like, straight. But… but that was another of his… things. Try everything twice, that was Nik’s motto. So. Yeah. I knew. We had a few threesomes. It was funny… just fun. We are young.’