The Invisible Assassin(37)

‘Thanks,’ said Jake.

The constable took him out to the reception area, and he called a cab company he used on an irregular basis. But at least it was one he knew was safe, and he could trust. The cab company assured him they’d pick him up from the police station in fifteen minutes, and he settled himself down in the reception area to wait. He tried phoning Lauren again, both on her landline and her mobile, but each time he got her voicemail. He left the same message both times.

‘Lauren, we need to talk. It’s urgent. Please ring me.’

As he hung up, he felt worse than ever. Then an awful thought hit him: if the pair of thugs had already been on to him, had others already gone after Lauren? Was that why she wasn’t answering her phone?

I have to go round to her flat, he thought. I have to know she’s all right. I have to warn her!

A short Asian man came into the station. ‘Taxi for Wells?’ he said.

‘Here,’ said Jake, getting up.

He followed the man out and climbed into the taxi, his eyes swivelling as he did so, looking out for any sign of the two men watching him, waiting. He didn’t see them, but then, if they were professionals, they’d be sure to be keeping out of sight.

As the taxi made its way through the snarled-up traffic towards north London, Jake tried Lauren’s numbers again; but again, there was no answer.

As soon as I get back to my flat, I’ll pack a few things in a bag, just in case I have to hide out for a few days, and then go straight to Lauren’s and hope she’s in.

The taxi pulled up outside his flat. Still nervous, Jake looked around him as he paid the driver, and then hurried to the entrance to the block. No one around, so far.

He used the stairs to get to the first floor, and his flat, rather than risk the lift. At least on the stairs he could see people coming.

There was no one about on his landing. Warily, he checked his front door for any signs that the lock had been forced, but everything seemed normal. Well, as normal as they could be in this nightmare situation.

What’s happening? thought Jake desperately. Why is that book so important? And how did those two guys know that it was me who took it?

He unlocked the door of his flat and stepped in, and then stopped. There was something not right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He hesitated, then shut the front door, just in case anyone was lurking outside on the landing, waiting to follow him inside.

He stood in his small hallway, listening, but there were no sounds other than the usual: the hum of the fridge, the traffic noises outside filtered and muffled by his windows. He sniffed. There was a smell that was different. What was it? Not tobacco. No, a sort of rusty smell. Faint, but there.

Apprehensively, he moved towards his kitchen, and suddenly darted past the doorway, glancing in as he did so. His kitchen was empty; he saw that at a glance. It was so tiny there was no room for anyone to hide in it. They wouldn’t even have been able to squeeze into any of the kitchen cupboards.

The bathroom was next. The door was shut. Carefully, he pushed the handle down, and then banged the door open, at the same time leaping to one side in case anyone was in there with a gun aimed at the doorway.

There were no shots. No movement or sound at all from the bathroom.

His bedroom was next. The door was half open. Had he left it half open before he went out, or had he closed it? He couldn’t remember. He stood outside the room, listening. If anyone was in there, he should be able to hear them breathing. He waited, tense, listening, ears strained. No sound from within the bedroom.

He pushed the bedroom door open and waited, hanging back in the hallway. No gun went off. No one leapt out. Nothing.

I’m getting paranoid, thought Jake. It’s just me in the flat. But then he smelt that rusty smell in his nostrils again and thought: but someone’s been in here since I went out this morning. And maybe they still are. But where are they? Or maybe the rusty smell was to do with something else: a leaking radiator, maybe. It was quite likely he was being over-sensitive about things, that his imagination was running away with him.

Cautiously, he moved towards his living room. The last room in his flat. If there was anyone here, lying in wait for him, this was where they’d be. The living-room door was just slightly ajar. Frantically, he searched his memory: had he closed it like that before he left for work that morning? Or was someone in there, waiting, poised to pounce as soon as he walked in? He thought he’d left the door open, but he couldn’t remember.

He fought to keep down the panic that was rising up inside him.

I shouldn’t have come back here, he said to himself. I should have gone to Lauren’s first. If she was OK, I should have got her or Parsons to come back here with me. There’s less chance of being attacked if I had someone with me.