Page 27

chapter twenty-seven

Gabriella started her route late.

Mr. Greenberg had insisted they go and lay a formal complaint at the closest police station to where she was attacked, although she had told him about the incident the night before, and that James was following up.

“I am adding my weight to it, then,” he said. “These are separate incidences and they warrant separate charges.”

She’d meekly agreed and gone along. Now that she was on her new route, she realized how much she appreciated Mr. Greenberg making sure she was in a completely different section of Kensington. Mr. Mercedes may still be on the loose, but he had no way of tracking her down.

She walked along a tree-lined street of mansions that butted up against Holland Park, and then slowed in surprise when she turned left to go up the side of the park and saw the cyclist who had nearly run her down yesterday half-in and half-out of a telephone box. He was holding onto his bike with one hand, awkwardly keeping the door open so he could hold the phone with the other.

He turned his head slightly, saw her through the dusty window pane of the door, and quickly looked away.

She frowned as she got closer.

Maybe he thought she was going to confront him?

She walked past him, and he had his back firmly turned, murmuring into the receiver too softly for her to hear the conversation, despite the open door.

For some reason, she didn’t like the idea of him being behind her, so she crossed the road, saw a car parked in a way that partially blocked a driveway, and stopped to write out an FPN.

As she affixed the fine to the windscreen, she saw the cyclist riding away, toward a footpath set between two houses that led into the park, and felt a quick sense of relief.

Ten minutes later, she was halfway down the long, eastern side of the park, when she caught sight of the black Mercedes.

It was coming towards her.

The man from the night before was behind the wheel, and his eyes narrowed the moment he saw her.

He pulled the Mercedes to a halt, double parking on the other side of the street to where she stood.

There was nowhere to run. To her back was the tall, black metal railings of the park fence. To her right and left, the long street that ran down the east side of the park.

At least going right would head her back down to Kensington High Street, and from there, to her headquarters. To safety.

If she was going to run, it would have to be now, she decided, as the Mercedes engine shut off.

She turned right and ran down the street. She heard the man swear, and then the car door slammed shut.

He was getting back in the car, and before he could start up the engine, she darted across the road into a narrow lane, a street with high hedges and fences on both sides. Her bag slammed against her side as she sprinted, and she glanced back. Saw the car turn in after her.

She needed to turn right the first chance she got, knowing it would take her to the high street. He would be mad to try to attack her there.

She heard the engine growl behind her and she put on a little more speed, but the car easily drew level with her.

Mr. Mercedes leaned out of the window.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he shouted. “I just want you to call the coppers off. I can’t even get back into my office.”

She chanced a quick look at him, then ran even harder. There was a screech of brakes and she couldn’t resist looking back.

He had mounted the pavement to avoid hitting a badly parked Mini Cooper.

A car door slammed, and then she heard the heavy tread of running feet.

Damn, he was chasing her on foot now.

She could see a road to the right up ahead. She just had to make it there.

She put on extra speed, but he was gaining. She took the turn, and then saw the dusty blue Land Rover.

She almost stumbled to a stop in surprise.

It was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant, and as she jogged closer she listened for and just caught the faint hum of electricity.

She looked back and saw Mr. Mercedes had slowed himself. He was walking toward her as if she were a wild animal he wanted to grab.

“Listen, last night didn’t go the way I wanted it to. And it was bad luck that copper arrived when he did.” He moved closer, and Gabriella stepped right next to the Land Rover. “There weren’t any bullets in that gun. It’s just for show. For protection, see? You were never in any danger.”

“Please leave me alone.” She didn’t like how breathless she sounded. She got angry, just hearing herself. Hearing how much he had frightened her.

He took another few steps. “Come now. You don’t look hurt. You’re fine, love. Maybe a bit shaken up, but you’ll live. I want you to drop the charges. If you refuse to cooperate with the Met, they’ll be more inclined to drop things.”

She stared at him in total disbelief.

“There’s bobbies guarding the doors to my office. I can’t run a business that way.” He lifted his hands, as if making a reasonable request. “I need you to call them off.”

She looked down, judging the height of the Land Rover’s wheel base to the road. She’d have to move quickly.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Mr. Mercedes spoke to her as if she were a child, and took a step forward.

Gabriella slid her bag off her shoulder and let it fall to the pavement. She didn’t need to get caught in the straps. Then she dropped to the ground and rolled.

The road was dirty, and she felt the grit under her palms. She lifted her head slightly once she was fully under the car and on her back, and looked for the switch she guessed powered the electrification.

She saw it was on the street side, under the rear wheel.

“Are you mad—?” Mr. Mercedes crouched down beside the Land Rover, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to touch it.

But then he leaned his head down to look under the car, and put his hand against the side door for balance.

She heard the crack, saw him fall back. She rolled out the other side, got on her haunches and reached under the back wheel and flipped the switch.

Then she ran back around the front to pick up her bag.

Mr. Mercedes was lying on the ground, and he groaned and turned, pushing up onto his hands and knees.

The sound of bicycle brakes screeching made her look up, and she saw the cyclist from earlier.

A lightbulb went off.

Gabriella ran, heading for the high street up ahead, and as she turned left onto it, she looked back, and saw the cyclist helping Mr. Mercedes to his feet.

There was no one giving out her route. She’d been followed yesterday and today by the man on the bike, and he’d called Mr. Mercedes to let him know where to find her.

She disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians, heading toward headquarters. It was close by, and she walked at a fast clip, weaving between groups until she turned into the cul-de-sac.

She could see the double doors of headquarters up ahead, but she was the only person on the street.

When she glanced back, the cyclist was turning in behind her.

She slid her bag off her shoulder, holding it by the strap, and faced him.

If she swung it hard enough, she could probably dislodge him from the bike.

The cyclist came to a stop, brakes screeching again.

“He wants to talk to you,” he said, gripping the handlebars. He was wearing trousers with bicycle clips to keep his hems from catching in the chain, and a light jacket. He looked around her age.

“He had a chance to talk to me twice yesterday, when he grabbed me on the street, and later, when he forced his way into my flat and then held a gun on me. I’m not giving him another.” She got a better grip on her strap.

“I don’t know anything about that.” He blinked a little. “I’m just paid to let him know where you are. He wants you to call off the cops.”

“I got that,” Gabriella said. “I don’t have any say in what the coppers do.”

“But if you withdraw the complaint, they’ll back off. He didn’t mean to frighten you and he can’t run a business if the cops are going to come down on him.”

“He didn’t just frighten me, he hurt me. And if he wanted to keep the cops off his back then he shouldn’t have waved a gun at one, should he?” She shrugged, and began to walk backward, toward the steps.

“Did he really wave a gun at a copper?” the cyclist asked, voice rising a little in disbelief.

She nodded, and the cyclist swore softly under his breath.

She reached the bottom step, turned, and ran up and through the doors.

Then she looked out the window set in the wall beside the doors, and saw him cycling away, shaking his head.

Mr. Mercedes would be lurking nearby, she guessed, waiting to hear what he had to say.

The question was, would he realize he’d failed and leave her alone, or would he try to approach her again?