The roof level is bright after the low-ceilinged concrete gloom of the lower floors and I squint as I drive out into the daylight. Like the floors below it, level nine is split into two halves, one lower and one higher, connected by a sloping ramp that leads to the highest point. In the centre of the level, there is a low circular brick structure, a door with signs to a stairwell and lift. There’s a low concrete barrier all the way around but it’s barely four feet tall, not enough to stop someone going over if they are determined to.
Or if they are pushed.
I drive slowly along the rows of vehicles, looking for a driver behind the wheel of one of them. Nothing. I follow the long curving ramp up to the higher level and go all the way to the end, checking cars left and right. But I seem to be alone up here. Ahead of me, the top level of the car park finishes in a dead end, a blank wall that marks the building’s highest point. I spin the steering wheel in a quick three-point turn and head back down the ramp to the nearest space, reversing in so I’m looking down the two rows of cars towards the exit.
Is he a no-show? Something must have spooked him, put him off. Or maybe he’s already left because I’m a couple of minutes late. But surely I would have seen his car on the way down? If he was evenina car. If he was even here at all.
Tara texts me again asking for a progress update but I ignore her message. I need to keep alert.
I decide to stay in my car until I know what’s going on. I hit the central locking, hearing the reassuringchunkof all the locks engaging. Leave the engine running in case I need to get out of here in a hurry. The dashboard clock clicks over to 11.34 and I type another text, holding the phone against the steering wheel.
I am here, Max. Where are you?
A full minute goes by without any response. I keep my eyes up in case he drives in.
Get out of your car and walk up the ramp to the highest level
Everything about this situation is bad. Absolutely everything: the height, the isolation from the street and the fact there’s only one way in and out for vehicles. The attack alarm, with its 120-decibel scream, is next to useless up here; its noise will simply be carried away on the wind and dispersed before it can reach anyone on the ground – even if they could get up here fast enough to do anything about it, which seems unlikely as we’re at least a hundred feet above street level. I’m fully aware of all these facts. And yet here I am.Mia is still in danger.I think of her in the café three days ago, eyes closing into a contented sleep in my arms, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips.
Move.
I kill the ignition, get out of the car and go to the boot. Under the carpet is the spare tyre and tools that go with it. I pick up the wrench, a foot-long steel tool angled at one end, and slip it under my coat. Grip it with my left hand through the pocket. Slamming the boot shut, I scan my immediate surroundings. This level is mostly full, maybe a hundred cars and only a few empty spaces. No people that I can see, no cars that I recognise. I force my legs to start walking slowly, cautiously, up the ramp. The wind whips at my hair, blowing it across my face, flattening my trousers against my legs. It’s stronger up here, on this concrete platform, a cold whistling slap that makes my eyes water. The sky is a mass of iron-grey clouds rolling low overhead.
At the top of the ramp I pause for a moment, tucking strands of hair behind my ear again. There is a tingling in my stomach, something like nausea, but I swallow it down and will myself to keep moving forward.
There is an empty space at the very end of the row. No car parked there. I circle to the other side of it, as far from it as I can get. The wind flattens my raincoat against my body, the ridged steel of the wrench outlined against the fabric. My heart is thudding painfully in my chest now. I keep walking towards the blank wall, towards the drop into the street far below, even though all my senses are screaming at me.Run. Go. Get back in your car and drive away. Now.
Somehow, I reach the end, leaning around to check the empty parking space. But there is no one there, just an eddy of litter spiralling in the wind, blowing round and round, up and over the parapet into empty air. The offices and shops and streets of Hillingdon spread out below me, railway lines cutting through the sprawl. Maybe this is another test to make sure I’m alone, Max observing me through telescopic sights. Maybe he’s gone already and I’m alone up here.
There is a tingling at the back of my neck, the fine hairs standing up. Movement behind me. A shift in the light, a figure rising, slipping between two parked cars. Emerging from behind a big SUV, moving out into the centre of the pitted concrete lane.
But it isn’t Max, or Kathryn.
It’s Dominic Church.
40
I’m trapped.
Behind me is a dead end, a low blank wall. Beyond it, a hundred-foot drop. In front of me is Dominic, standing between me and my car. He looks even worse than he did three days ago. He’s wearing the same black bomber jacket and blue jeans but there is a large plaster on the cheekbone below his right eye, the skin around it puffy and bruised. Big fists at his sides, the fingernails crusted with dirt. In my head I hear Gilbourne’s voice:convictions for assault, robbery, drugs.
Dominic’s lured me up here to throw me off the roof.
‘You,’ I say finally, taking out the wrench from under my coat and gripping it in my right hand. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
‘You going to hit me again?’ He walks slowly towards me. ‘Because I’ve had just about enough of being hit for one week.’
The gap between us is only five or six metres or so, close enough for him to reach me in a few strides. All the terror of the last time I saw him is flooding back – but at the same time I’m furious with myself because I should have guessed, should haveknownit was him. The anonymous contact, checking I wasn’t followed to the park, the isolation of this spot. It all fits with the way he behaved on Tuesday, the way he tore Kathryn’s bag apart, looking for tracking devices. Next-level paranoid.
I heft the wrench. ‘I will if you come any closer.’
‘Look, I just want to talk.’ He slows his pace. ‘How about you put that thing down?’
‘How about you back off? Why didn’t you tell me who you were?’ The wind is icy on my cheeks and threatens to carry my words away. ‘Why did you let me think you were Max?’
‘Would you have come if you thought it was me?’ He shakes his head. ‘Of course you wouldn’t.’
No, because you’re a violent kidnapper who threatened to kill me.But I don’t want to aggravate him any further. Neither of us speak again for a moment but he’s clearly agitated, on edge, and the wrong words could set him off.
