OK, he could be just a man waiting for someone. But Jake was sure he wasn’t. He studied the man. Tall. Nothing special about him. Wearing jeans, a casual jacket and trainers. And his attention didn’t seem to be completely on the paper he was holding. Every now and then the man’s eyes darted towards the front of Jake’s block of flats, and the entrance.
They’ve been watching for me, waiting for me to come back. And now he’s seen me come in, my guess is he’s phoned the people he’s working with and let them know I’m here.
Who is he? Who are they? The Watchers? Pierce Randall? It was obvious that Sue Clark didn’t believe him when he’d said he’d been for a walk the night before.
Perhaps the man was working for the people who Carl Parsons had been going to sell the book to? Or maybe he was working for Gareth? After all, Gareth was in this up to his neck.
Or perhaps it was a completely different organisation. What was it Penny Johnson had said: there are lots of people who’d like to lay their hands on those books and the information that’s inside them. Governments, crooks, terrorists, investment banks. Which were these: the man watching his flat and his associates?
As Jake watched, a car pulled up beside the man. The man put his newspaper away, went to the car and said something to the driver. The car doors opened and two men got out. One of them looked up towards Jake’s flat, and Jake just managed to duck to one side to avoid being seen.
They’re coming for me! he thought. I have to call for help!
But who could he call? Whoever it was, they wouldn’t be here before those men got to his flat. And locking his flat door and refusing to let them in wouldn’t help. They’d got in before without trouble, when that man had been killed. And, looking at these men, he was sure that they’d just crash his door in anyway.
He chanced a look out of his window. The two men had gone to the boot of the car and were taking something out of it. As the boot lid slammed down, Jake saw that one of the men was now carrying a long dark holdall. It could be anything: a shotgun, a sledge-hammer to batter down his door.
Jake picked up the book and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, then he ran for the front door. He opened it and banged on the door of the flat opposite, Mrs O’Brien. As the door opened and Mrs O’Brien peered out, Jake pushed against the door, but the security chain held it firmly and stopped it from opening.
‘Yes?’ Mrs O’Brien asked curtly, wariness and suspicion showing clearly on her face.
‘Mrs O’Brien, please let me in!’ begged Jake. ‘It’s urgent!’
‘Why?’ demanded Mrs O’Brien. She was about fifty and regarded everything with suspicion, especially her neighbours, and in particular a young neighbour like Jake.
‘Please!!! It’s a matter of life or death!’
Mrs O’Brien glared back at him. ‘You expect me to let you in, after what happened? A dead man in your flat!’
‘I didn’t do it! That wasn’t me!’ Jake appealed to her. ‘If I had, they wouldn’t have let me go!’
Below, he heard the door from the street open.
‘Please, Mrs O’Brien, I promise you, I’m innocent! But I need your help, desperately.’
Mrs O’Brien hesitated, then very deliberately she pushed the door shut in his face.
Oh God, I’m dead! thought Jake. He could hear the men’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
Then the door opened again, released from the security chain, and Jake fell gratefully into her flat.
Mrs O’Brien shut the door again and refixed the chain in its place.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded sternly. ‘That dead man in your flat. The police arrested you . . .’
‘I didn’t do it!’ Jake told her frantically. ‘Someone tried to frame me! But the police let me go. And now the people who tried to frame me are here!’
Mrs O’Brien looked at him, shocked.
‘Here?’
Jake nodded. ‘They’re coming to my flat.’
Mrs O’Brien went towards the phone. ‘We’ll call the police.’
‘No!’ blurted out Jake. He didn’t want to be found with the book on him. They’d take it off him, and it was the only thing he had that could help Lauren.
From outside, he heard voices. The men were talking, calmly and quietly, loud enough for him to hear them, although not what they were saying. There had been no sounds of his door being broken open, nor his doorbell ringing. He guessed they must have got hold of the keys to his flat and let themselves in.
Mrs O’Brien gave Jake a glare.
‘If there are people like that out there, I’m phoning the police, whether you like it or not!’ she told him firmly.