Dead Heat Part 34

'Money, of course.' He smiled. He seemed not to realize the trouble he was in, or the danger.

'But I pay you good money,' I said to him.

'Not that good,' he said. 'And you don't provide the extras.'

'Extras?' I asked.

'Stuff,' he said. I looked at him quizzically. 'c.o.ke.'

I hadn't figured him as an addict. Drugs and kitchen heat don't normally go together. I supposed that it did explain some of his mood swings, as well as his current actions. A drug habit can be very demanding; cravings and addiction usually dispel all logic and reason. Given certain circ.u.mstances, Gary would undoubtedly do anything for his next fix and George must have had quite a hold over him.

He took a roll of brown parcel tape from the holdall and used some of it to bind my left wrist to the arm of the chair. Komarov moved to the side to make sure that Gary never came between me and the gun, but I was in no doubt that Komarov would shoot Gary as easily as sneeze if he thought it was necessary to his plans.

Gary moved to my right wrist.

'Hey,' he said, 'he's got a plaster cast under his tunic.'

'Kurt claimed that Walter must have broken his wrist,' said Komarov. He came close to me. 'You broke Walter's arm,' he said into my face. Good, I thought. I wish I'd broken his b.l.o.o.d.y neck. 'You'll pay for that,' he said. Then he stood up and smiled. 'But Walter always was such an impetuous boy. He probably tried to bash in your brains with a polo mallet.' He smiled at me again. 'You might grow to wish he had.' I felt cold and clammy, but I smiled back at him nevertheless.

Gary taped the cast to the other arm of the chair. Then he bound my ankles to the chair legs in the same manner. I was trussed up like a turkey waiting for the knife to cut my throat. Then Gary took some more stuff from his bag. It looked like putty, soft white putty. It was in a long plastic bag and looked like a white salami. If possible, I felt even colder and more clammy. Gary had removed a couple of pounds of plastic explosive from his bag.

He taped the white sausage to the chair between my legs. Oh G.o.d. Not my legs. MaryLou's legs, and the awful lack of them, haunted me still. Now, it seemed, I was to live my nightmare. Next Gary delicately took a cigarette-sized metal tube from the bag and very carefully pushed it deep into the soft white explosive, like pus.h.i.+ng a chocolate flake into an ice-cream cone. The tube had two short wires coming out of the top that were connected to a small black box. The remote-detonator system, I concluded. I sweated more and Komarov clearly enjoyed it. For the first time, I became really terrified, absolutely certain that I would die, hopeful that it would be quick and easy, and frightened to the point of despair that it would not. Would I be able to not tell him where the b.a.l.l.s were? Would I be able to die without giving up that information? Would I be able to keep those I loved safe, no matter what was done to me? The same questions that every Gestapo-tortured spy or resistance fighter had asked themselves more than fifty years ago. Neither I, nor they, would know the answer, not until the unthinkable actually happened.

'Where is it?' Komarov asked.

'Where is what?' I replied.

'Mr Moreton,' he said, as if addressing me in a company board meeting, 'let us not play games. We both know what I am talking about.'

'I left it with Mrs Schumann,' I said.

George appeared slightly uneasy.

'I am informed,' said Komarov, 'that that is not the case. Mrs Schumann gave two of the items to you. One has been recovered but the other has not.' He walked around behind me. 'Mrs Schumann should not have had any of the items in the first place. They have all now been recovered other than the one you still possess.' He came around in front of me again. 'You will tell me where it is, sooner or later.' He smiled again. He was obviously enjoying himself. I wasn't.

There was a noise from the kitchen. It wasn't particularly loud but it was clear, like a metal spoon falling on to the tile floor. It must be Caroline, I thought.

'Can't you do anything right?' Komarov said cuttingly to George Kealy. He was irritated. 'Watch him.' He pointed at me. 'If he moves, shoot him in the foot. But don't hit the explosive or we might all end up dead. You,' he gestured towards Gary, 'come with me.'

Komarov and Gary went from the dining room into the kitchen through the swing door that was more often used by my waiting staff than by a gun-toting murderer. I prayed that Caroline would stay hidden.

George stood nervously in front of me.

'How on earth did you get involved in this?' I asked him.

'Shut up,' he said in reply. I ignored him.

'Why did you poison the gala dinner?' I asked him.

'Shut up,' he said again. I ignored him again.

'Was it so you didn't have to go to the Guineas?' I asked.

'I told you to shut up,' he said.

'Did Gary add the kidney beans to the sauce?' I asked him. He didn't say anything. 'Now that was really stupid,' I said. 'Without that I wouldn't have worried. I wouldn't have asked any questions.' And, I thought, I wouldn't be here, tied up and waiting to die.

'Don't you you start,' George said. I must have touched a raw nerve. start,' George said. I must have touched a raw nerve.

'In trouble, are you? With the boss man?' I said, rubbing salt into the wound. He was silent, so I taunted him more. 'Made a c.o.c.k up, did you? Was George not such a clever boy alter all?'

'Shut up,' he said, waving the gun towards me. 'Shut up!'

'What does Emma think?' I said. 'Does she know what you're up to?'

He turned and looked towards the door through which the other two had disappeared. He was hoping for reinforcements and I was obviously beginning to get to him.

'Was it Emma who prepared the poisonous kidney beans for you?' I asked.

'Don't be b.l.o.o.d.y stupid,' he said, turning back to me. 'The beans were only there to make her ill.'

'To make Emma ill?' I said, astounded.

'Emma was insistent that we go to that b.l.o.o.d.y box at the races,' he said. 'I couldn't talk her out of it. She and Elizabeth Jennings had been planning it for weeks, ever since we were first invited. I couldn't exactly tell her why she shouldn't go, now could I?'

'So you poisoned the dinner to stop her going to the races?'

'Yes,' he said. 'That d.a.m.n Gary was only meant to poison Emma's dinner and those of the Jenningses. Stupid idiot poisoned the whole b.l.o.o.d.y lot, didn't he. He even made me ill, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Serves you right,' I said to him, just as Caroline had said to me.

I supposed it was easier for Gary to poison the whole dinner rather than just three plates and then somehow ensure they went to the correct people. That would have involved a conspiracy with one of the waiters. The ma.s.s poisoning also gave him the excuse he needed for not being in the kitchen at the racecourse himself on the Sat.u.r.day.

'But Elizabeth Jennings went to the races anyway,' I said to George. 'How come?'

'I didn't realize she was allergic to mushrooms,' he said. Elizabeth would have eaten the chicken without the truffle and chanterelle sauce. 'I was sorry about that.'

Not so sorry, I thought, to have kept him away from Elizabeth's funeral. Not so sorry to prevent him offering Neil Jennings his bloodied hand in comfort at the church door.

'You should have just left it,' he said to me, looking at me in the eye for the first time.

'Should have left what?' I said.

'You seemed so b.l.o.o.d.y determined to find out who had poisoned the dinner.'

'Well, of course I was,' I said.

'But I couldn't let that happen,' said George.

I stared at him. 'You mean it was you who tried to kill me?'

'I arranged it,' he said rather arrogantly. There was no remorse in his voice.

I had liked George. I had always considered him to be a friend and yet he had apparently twice arranged to have me killed. He had caused my car to be written off, he had burnt my home and all my possessions, and here he was standing in front of me with a gun in his hand and murder on his mind. Last week I had told Dorothy Schumann that lots of people were murdered by their friends. I hadn't expected that fact to be so manifestly demonstrated quite so soon.

'But you weren't very good at it, were you?' I said, again goading him. 'I bet Komarov wasn't too pleased with that either, was he? You couldn't even b.u.mp off a country chef, could you? Can't you do anything right?' I echoed Komarov.

'Shut up,' he shouted again. He was becoming very agitated. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Gary couldn't organize a proverbial b.l.o.o.d.y p.i.s.s-up in a brewery.'

'So it was Gary who tried to kill me?' I said.

He ignored me and walked over to look through the circular w indow in the door to the kitchen.

'Why did Komarov bomb the box?' I asked him, changing direction.

'I told you to shut up,' said George, waving his gun at me.

'Was Rolf Schumann the target?' I asked, ignoring him.

'I said shut up,' he shouted, walking right up to me and pointing the gun at my head from about twelve inches away.

I ignored him again. If I made him angry enough then perhaps he would do me a favour by killing me quickly. 'Why bomb the box?' I said. 'Surely that was out of all proportion. Why not just shoot Schumann if he wanted to kill him? Nice and quiet, down some dark alley in Wisconsin?'

'Komarov doesn't do things quietly,' said George. 'Make a statement, that's what he said. Show everyone he meant business. Schumann was stealing from him and Komarov doesn't like thieves. An example had to be set.' George was clearly repeating to me exactly what Komarov had said to him.

Strange logic, I thought. Schumann was a thief, so Komarov tried to murder him, and killed nineteen innocent people instead, including the lovely Louisa and the conscientious MaryLou, and all in such horrific circ.u.mstances. Komarov was truly evil.

There was a shout from the kitchen. Then a shot. I was frantic. Please, G.o.d, I prayed, let it not be Caroline who was shot.

George backed away from me and again looked through the circular window in the swing door and beyond into the kitchen. There was another shot, then another, followed by more shouts. Pity we had no near neighbours, I thought. Someone might have heard the shots and called the police.

Komarov came back quickly through the door.

'There's someone outside the back,' he said to George. 'I think I hit them. Go out and finish them off. I've sent that Gary out as well, so don't shoot him.' George seemed to hesitate. 'Now, George.' George moved through the door, his body language screaming that he didn't want to go. Messing about in the dark with guns was not really his scene. But he should have thought of that before he became involved with a man like Komarov.

'Now, Mr Moreton,' said Komarov, coming right up to me, 'where is my ball?'

I almost laughed. If my legs hadn't been taped to the chair legs, I would have kicked him in the b.a.l.l.s. Then he'd have known where they were. He seemed to spot my amus.e.m.e.nt and his anger rose. He clearly expected me to be frightened into submission. Little did he realize that I was.

'I will give you one last chance to tell me then I will shoot your left foot,' he said. 'Then I will shoot your right foot, then your knees, your wrists and your elbows.' As he spoke he ejected the partially used magazine from his gun and snapped ir another from his pocket. I a.s.sumed it was fully loaded. 'Now, time is pa.s.sing. For the last time, where is it?' He leaned down towards my face. I wondered if it would help if I spat at him. Perhaps he would become so angry that he would kill me quickly. I tried it. He just laughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. 'That won't help you,' he said. 'You will tell me what I want, I promise you. Then I will detonate the bomb and blow you and your restaurant to smithereens.' His Russian accent made it sound like 'smis ereem', but I understood his meaning. Another example to be set, no doubt. ereem', but I understood his meaning. Another example to be set, no doubt.

He stepped back and raised the gun. I wondered how much it would hurt. I wondered if I could stand it, whether I would be able to stand the pain of both feet, my knees, my wrists and my elbows. I just couldn't tell him to go to East Hendred, to Toby and Sally's house with their three lovely children. Whatever happened, I kept telling myself, I must not talk. I must not rain death and destruction down on my brother.

Komarov aimed his gun at my right foot.

'Wait,' I cried. His arm dropped a fraction.

'Yes?' he said.

'Why do you need it back anyway?' I asked. 'You must have more, hundreds more.'

'Why would I have hundreds?' he asked, clearly curious to learn how much I knew. What should I tell him? Did it matter?

'To put inside the horses,' I said. 'Full of drugs.'

The effect was quite startling. He went very pale and his hand shook a little.

'Who knows this?' he said in a higher pitch than his usual tone.

'Everyone,' I said. 'I told the police.' I didn't expect this comment to save me; quite the reverse. But I hoped it might now be a quicker, less painful death.

'That was very careless of you,' he said, returning somewhat to his normal voice. 'For that you will die.' I was going to die anyway. No change.

He started to walk around behind me. Good, I thought, he is going to shoot me in the back of the head. Much cleaner and much better not to see it coming. I would just be... gone.

As Komarov pa.s.sed my shoulder, Caroline stepped through the open doorway and hit him squarely in the face with her viola. She swung the instrument through the air with both hands, using the neck and fingerboard as a handle. Such was the force of the blow that poor dear Viola was damaged beyond repair. Her neck was broken and her body shattered, but, more importantly for me, Komarov went down to the ground semi-conscious. Caroline herself was both hyperventilating and crying at the same time.

'Quick,' I shouted at her. 'Get a knife.' She looked at me. 'From the sideboard,' I shouted. 'Top drawer on the left.' She went straight to the sideboard and came back with a nice sharp, serrated steak knife. I didn't usually give my customers steak knives as I thought doing so was an admission that my steaks were tough, but we kept a few, just in case. Thank goodness we did. Even so Caroline had difficulty cutting through the tape around my wrist. But she managed out of sheer desperation, hurried along by the imminent reawakening of the terror at our feet.

Finally, she freed my left hand.

'Quick,' I said again. 'Grab his gun and give it to me.'

Komarov had fallen but he had not let go of his pistol completely. Caroline went down and grabbed it out of his hand just as he was beginning to recover. She gave it to me, smiled wanly, and went on trying to free me from the chair. Suddenly I remembered the explosive. Where was the remote-detonator switch? Was it in Komarov's pocket?

Caroline sawed away at the tape round my legs but she was too slow. Komarov was fully awake and watching, a line of blood running from his nose, across his mouth, and on down his neck. He put his hand up to his face and winced. I think Caroline must have broken his nose.

'Stay where you are,' I said, pointing the gun at him.

He leaned on the floor with his left elbow and put his right hand in his pocket.

'Keep your hands where I can see them,' I said.

He pulled his hand out again, but I could see that he now held a small flat black box, with a red b.u.t.ton in the centre of it. Oh G.o.d, I thought, my legs. Would he push the switch? But he would surely kill himself as well? Should I shoot him? If I did, would he detonate the bomb? Would he detonate it if I didn't?

I watched him and I could sense that he was weighing up his options. If I had indeed told the police, his empire was about to come cras.h.i.+ng down. Perhaps he could escape back to Russia or to South America, but maybe the escape routes had already been closed. Life imprisonment in a British jail would almost certainly mean just that, the rest of his life behind bars. There would be no parole for such an act of terrorism as the Newmarket bombing.

I quite suddenly sensed that he was going to do it. He was going to blow us all up and end it here.

I leaned down between my legs, grabbed the wires and pulled the cigarette-sized detonator out of the explosive. I threw it across the dining room. Komarov pushed the red b.u.t.ton but he was too late, the detonator exploded in mid-air with a harmless pop like a very loud champagne cork exploding from a bottle.

Komarov looked cheated, and he was in a rage. He began to stand up.

'Stay where you are,' I repeated. He ignored me and rose to his knees. 'I'll shoot you,' I said. But he continued to rise.

So I shot him.

I was surprised how easy it was. I pointed the gun in his direction and squeezed the trigger. It wasn't even as loud as I had expected, since the dining room was less confined than the lobby where Komarov had shot Richard.