Peter James - Not Dead Enough

The third was a picture of Cleo Morey, turning away from the front entrance door of the Brighton and Hove Mortuary.

There was no cross.

Grace pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled her home number. She answered on the third ring.

‘Cleo, are you OK?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Never better.’

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I’m being serious.’

‘I’m listening to you, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace,’ she slurred. ‘I’m hanging on to every word.’

‘I want you to lock your front door and put the safety chain on.’

‘Lock the front door,’ she echoed. ‘And put the safety chain on.’

‘I want you to do it now, OK? While I’m on the phone.’

‘You’re so bossy shometimes, Detective Shuperintendent! OK, I’m getting up from the sofa and now I’m walking over to the front door.’

‘Please put the safety chain on.’

‘S’ham doing it now!’

Grace heard the clank of a chain. ‘Do not open the door to anybody, OK? Nobody at all until I get to you. OK?’

‘Do not open the door to anybody, until you get to me. I’ve got that.’

‘What about your roof terrace door?’ he asked.

‘That’s always locked.’

‘Will you check it?’

‘Right away.’ Then, jokingly repeating the instruction back to him, she said, ‘Go up to roof terrace. Check door is locked.’

‘There’s no outside door, is there?’

‘Not last time I looked.’

‘I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’

‘You’d better!’ she slurred, and hung up.

‘That’s very good advice you’ve been given,’ a voice behind her said.

115

Cleo felt as if her veins had filled with freezing water. She turned, in terror.

A tall figure was standing inches behind her, brandishing a large claw hammer. He was garbed head to foot in an olive-green protective suit that reeked of plastic, latex gloves and a gas mask. She could see nothing of his face at all. She was staring at two round, darkened lenses set into loose-fitting grey material, with a black metal filter at the bottom in the shape of a snout. He looked like a mutant, malevolent insect.

Through those lenses, she could just make out the eyes. They weren’t Richard’s eyes. They were not any eyes she recognized.

Barefoot and feeling utterly defenceless, she took a step back, stone cold sober now, quaking, a scream jammed somewhere deep inside her gullet. She took another step back, trying desperately to think straight, but her brain was shorting out. Her back was against the door, pressing hard against it, wondering if she had time to yank it open and scream for help.

Except hadn’t she just put the damn safety chain on?

‘Don’t move and I won’t hurt you,’ he said, his voice sounding like a muffled Dalek.

Sure, of course not , she thought. You’re standing in my house, holding a hammer, and you’re not planning to hurt me.

‘Who – who – who?’ The words jetted out of her mouth in high-pitched spurts. Her eyes were swinging wildly from the maniac in front of her to the floor, to the walls, looking for a weapon. Then she realized she was still holding her cordless phone. There was an intercom button on it that she’d hit a few times in the past in error that would set the extension in her bedroom shrieking. Trying desperately to remember where on the keypad the button was located, she surreptitiously pressed a key with her finger. Nothing happened.

‘You had a lucky escape with the car, didn’t you, bitch?’ The deep, baffled voice was venomous.

‘Who – who—’ She was shaking too much, her nerves twisting around in knots inside her, jerking her throat closed like a ligature each time she tried to speak.

She pressed another button. Instantly there was a shrill sound up above them. He tilted his face towards the ceiling for one distracted instant. And in that moment, Cleo leapt forward and hit him on the side of the head as hard as she could with the phone. She heard a crack . Heard him grunt in shock and pain and saw him sag sideways, thinking for an instant that he was going to go down. The hammer fell from his hand and clattered on to the oak floor.

It was difficult to see inside this thing, the Time Billionaire realized, recoiling dizzily. It had been a mistake. He could not get any real peripheral vision. Couldn’t see the fucking hammer. Could just see the bitch, hand raised, holding her shattered phone. Then she was lunging on to the floor – and then he saw the gleam of the steel hammer right in front of her.

Oh no, you don’t!

He dived down on to her right leg, caught her bare ankle, which was sticking out of her jeans, and jerked it back, feeling her wriggling, strong, wiry, fighting like a big fish. He saw the hammer, lost sight of it again. Then, suddenly, a quick gleam of steel in front of his face and he felt a fierce pain in his left shoulder.

She’d bloody hit him.

He let go of her leg, rolled forward, seized a handful of her long, blonde hair and pulled sharply towards him. The bitch howled, stumbled then turned, trying to pull free. He pulled harder, jerking her head back so sharply for a moment he thought he’d snapped her neck. She howled, in pain and anger, twisting round to face him. He headbutted her hard in her temple. Saw the hammer spinning like a top across the floor. He tried to scramble over her, still missing too much of his vision, then felt an excruciating pain in his left wrist. The bitch was biting him.

He swung his right wrist, hit her body somewhere, swung it again, trying desperately to wrench his arm free from her teeth. Hit her again. Then again, crying out in pain himself.

Roy! she thought desperately, biting harder, harder still, trying to bite his bloody arm off. Please come, Roy! Oh, God, you were on the phone. If you’d just stayed on one second longer. One second—

She felt the blow on her left breast. Then on the side of her face. Now he had her ear, was twisting it, twisting, twisting. God, the pain was agonizing. He was going to wrench it off!

She cried out, released his arm, rolling away from him as fast as she could, scrambling for the hammer.

Suddenly she felt a grip like a vice around her ankle. She was jerked sharply back, her face scraping along the floor. As she turned to resist, she saw a shadow hurtle at her face, then felt a jarring, blinding, agonizing crunch, and she was falling on to her back, giddily watching down-lighters in the ceiling hurtle past above her, out of focus.

And now she could see he had the hammer again, was on one knee, crouching, levering himself to his feet. And she was not going to let this creep get the better of her, was not going to die, here in her home, was not going to let herself get killed by a madman with a hammer. Not now, especially not now, just at this moment when her life was coming together, when she was so in love—

A weapon.

There had to be a weapon in the room.

The wine bottle on the floor by the sofa.

He was on his feet now.

She was by the bookshelves. She pulled a hardback out and flung it at him. Missed. She pulled out another, a thick, heavy Conan Doyle compendium, getting on to her knees and launching it at him in one movement. It hit him in the chest, making him stagger back a couple of steps, but he was still holding the hammer. Moving towards her.

Now through her pain and anger she suddenly felt scared again. Looking desperately around, she saw Fish’s empty tank on the table. Lunging forward, she seized it, lifted it up, water sloshing. It was so damn heavy she could barely hold it. She swung it at him, hurtling the entire contents – several gallons of water and the pieces of miniature Greek architecture – at him. The weight of the water took him by surprise, knocking him back several steps. Then, with all her strength, she threw the tank at him. It struck him in the knees, bowling him over backward like a skittle, with a muffled, angry howl of pain, then shattered on the floor.