disposable latex gloves – kept on the top shelf of the wardrobe – and snapped them on.
I rapidly checked the mini CCTV system and the tracking phone; nothing happening. I raced bac k to the door, the police baton bobbing on my hip. I strode confidently out of the apartment and turned left. The camera on fourth floor was there to primarily monitor people entering and leaving the corridor; it didn’t cover my door, or Ivonne’s, and Martha’s apartment was on the extreme limits of its range.
Ivonne followed me out, but turned right towards the lifts. Her job was to keep, if possible, one of the lifts out of action by holding it on the fourth floor. The second lift, again if possible, would be sent on a voyage to all twelve floors of the building. As a consequence anyone wishing to ascend would be severely hindered. And she was to sound the alarm should any of Erjon’s thugs appear.
I reached the door to Martha’s apartment and stopped, reviewing the situation. From what Ivonne had been able to discern from Maria, she had really clobbered the minder with the cistern’s lid – manslaughter remained a distinct possibility. There might be a dead body in there.
The other problem was that the two girls were locked in one of the bedrooms. Maria had been too panicked by what she had done, and had fled. So, I would have to find the key.
I put my ear to the door and listened; nothing. I hefted the baton, pressed slowly down on the handle and eased the door open. My eyes tracked straight to the minder who lay sprawled on the floor, but as I stepped over the threshold his head twitched. An unconscious spasm or was he coming around?
I gripped the baton firmly, went up on the balls of my feet and tiptoed along the corridor. The minder twitched ag ain. As I got closer I saw copious amounts of blood on the floor, bordered by bits of the broken cistern lid. I edged nearer; the blow had impacted near the top of the man’s head, which lay in a pool of dark-red blood. Poised and well balanced to place a kick, if need be, I nudged his arm with the baton: no response. I leaned in; the blood around the wound had already coagulated.
I straightened up and slid past the man’s head, careful not to step on the blood. He lay face down, and it was a sure-fire bet that the key to the bedroom door was going to be in his front pockets.
My instincts told me he was not dead and not playacting at being unconscious. However, he had to be turned. And turning ninety-odd kilos of deadweight wasn’t going to be easy. Worse still, I’d have to put the baton aside and use both hands and all my bodyweight to accomplish the task. Was the guy to come round in that moment, I’d be at a complete disadvantage.
I prodded his feet with the baton: good, no reaction.
I moved up to his waist and checked the hip pockets: no key.
Time to turn him over. I stood, parallel to his shoulders, took the cord of the baton and held it between my teeth – I wanted the baton to hand, although it wasn’t the real thing, it was a solid enough weapon.
With the baton dangling from my mouth, I planted my feet wide apart, bent my knees, gripped the guy’s right shoulder, and heaved. Over he went; his head hit the floor with a thud. Good – still unconscious.
I hastily checked his pockets. Shit: no bleedin’ key.
Just to be sure, I took another look at the guy; his chest was rising and falling, but there were no more spasms; he must, despite the sudden movement, still be out for the count.
Nothing for it; I scooted into the sitting room. No key on the TV cabinet, nothing on the sofa. My gaze settled on the table; no key, but a small flat TV screen, connected to what looked like a DVD recorder.
I glanced back at the TV cabinet; two televisions? No, that didn’t add up. Time was ticking, but I was well aware of what a DVD recorder might mean. I disconnected the thing and tucked it under my arm.
A quick sweep of the kitchen revealed no sign of the key.
How long
I rapidly checked the mini CCTV system and the tracking phone; nothing happening. I raced bac k to the door, the police baton bobbing on my hip. I strode confidently out of the apartment and turned left. The camera on fourth floor was there to primarily monitor people entering and leaving the corridor; it didn’t cover my door, or Ivonne’s, and Martha’s apartment was on the extreme limits of its range.
Ivonne followed me out, but turned right towards the lifts. Her job was to keep, if possible, one of the lifts out of action by holding it on the fourth floor. The second lift, again if possible, would be sent on a voyage to all twelve floors of the building. As a consequence anyone wishing to ascend would be severely hindered. And she was to sound the alarm should any of Erjon’s thugs appear.
I reached the door to Martha’s apartment and stopped, reviewing the situation. From what Ivonne had been able to discern from Maria, she had really clobbered the minder with the cistern’s lid – manslaughter remained a distinct possibility. There might be a dead body in there.
The other problem was that the two girls were locked in one of the bedrooms. Maria had been too panicked by what she had done, and had fled. So, I would have to find the key.
I put my ear to the door and listened; nothing. I hefted the baton, pressed slowly down on the handle and eased the door open. My eyes tracked straight to the minder who lay sprawled on the floor, but as I stepped over the threshold his head twitched. An unconscious spasm or was he coming around?
I gripped the baton firmly, went up on the balls of my feet and tiptoed along the corridor. The minder twitched ag ain. As I got closer I saw copious amounts of blood on the floor, bordered by bits of the broken cistern lid. I edged nearer; the blow had impacted near the top of the man’s head, which lay in a pool of dark-red blood. Poised and well balanced to place a kick, if need be, I nudged his arm with the baton: no response. I leaned in; the blood around the wound had already coagulated.
I straightened up and slid past the man’s head, careful not to step on the blood. He lay face down, and it was a sure-fire bet that the key to the bedroom door was going to be in his front pockets.
My instincts told me he was not dead and not playacting at being unconscious. However, he had to be turned. And turning ninety-odd kilos of deadweight wasn’t going to be easy. Worse still, I’d have to put the baton aside and use both hands and all my bodyweight to accomplish the task. Was the guy to come round in that moment, I’d be at a complete disadvantage.
I prodded his feet with the baton: good, no reaction.
I moved up to his waist and checked the hip pockets: no key.
Time to turn him over. I stood, parallel to his shoulders, took the cord of the baton and held it between my teeth – I wanted the baton to hand, although it wasn’t the real thing, it was a solid enough weapon.
With the baton dangling from my mouth, I planted my feet wide apart, bent my knees, gripped the guy’s right shoulder, and heaved. Over he went; his head hit the floor with a thud. Good – still unconscious.
I hastily checked his pockets. Shit: no bleedin’ key.
Just to be sure, I took another look at the guy; his chest was rising and falling, but there were no more spasms; he must, despite the sudden movement, still be out for the count.
Nothing for it; I scooted into the sitting room. No key on the TV cabinet, nothing on the sofa. My gaze settled on the table; no key, but a small flat TV screen, connected to what looked like a DVD recorder.
I glanced back at the TV cabinet; two televisions? No, that didn’t add up. Time was ticking, but I was well aware of what a DVD recorder might mean. I disconnected the thing and tucked it under my arm.
A quick sweep of the kitchen revealed no sign of the key.
How long
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