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.Then the Reginald building, hearing the gun again and closing his eyes as he finished.‘Whoever it was, he’d gone by the time we arrived,’ Crowther said.‘Carter,’ Markham told him.‘It has to be.’The man nodded slowly.‘So where is he?’‘I don’t know.‘He shot a police officer.’ Crowther’s voice was hard.‘He might have killed him.That means we don’t stop until we find him.’ He stared at Markham.‘It also means that you’re out of it.’‘Yes.’ It was going to be a manhunt now.Everyone on the force would be looking for Carter.‘What about Sergeant Graham?’‘Nothing.’ Crowther snorted.‘Can’t find hide nor hair.His wife doesn’t know.We’ve talked to her twice.He’s cleaned out their bank account.’‘Long gone.’‘We’ll catch up with him sooner or later.’ It was a grim promise.Markham stood.‘When you hear …’Crowther nodded.‘I’ll let you know.’***He walked back along Regent Street.The wind had kicked up, swirling empty cigarette packets and chocolate wrappers around the pavement.He tried not to think about Baker, but the sound of the shots filled his mind, so loud they drowned out everything else.He liked the man.Respected him.If he believed in God he’d offer a prayer for the man’s recovery.He’d survived a war and years as a beat bobby during the Depression.He deserved better than a bullet from a madman.And Carter had to be mad.It couldn’t be anything else.Something had turned in his mind.Markham unlocked the Anglia and sat wearily.He reached under the seat and slipped the Colt into the pocket of his overcoat.There was one thing he knew about luck.It always ran out sometime.CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEThree police cars were still parked at the rear of the Reginald Building.The back door hung open.As he turned the Anglia he could see torch lights playing inside.It was their problem now.He was out of it, ordered away.But this wasn’t the end of it; he knew that.Carter might be a hunted man now, but he was still a hunter.He checked the mirror as he drove, turning into side streets and taking a careful, twisted route to the safe house.He parked and knocked on the door.Mrs Cornwall let him in with a serious face.‘Is it true what they’re saying on the radio?’ she asked.‘What’s that?’ Markham said, as if he didn’t know.‘About that poor wounded policeman.’‘I’m afraid it is.’She took in his appearance, the dirt on his face, the marks on his clothes, and raised an eyebrow.‘Were you there?’He nodded.She bustled around the kitchen, filling the kettle and emptying the teapot.‘Have yourself a good wash; get rid of all that muck.You’ll feel better.’He went through the motions, lathering the soap, rubbing it on his cheeks and hands, then rinsing it off.Dark water ran down the drain but he didn’t feel any cleaner.‘Is she upstairs?’ he asked.‘In the bath.I had the immersion on for over an hour to heat it for her.’He knocked on the bathroom door, hearing a slosh of water before her voice came with a muffle ‘Yes?’‘It’s Dan Markham.’‘I’ll be ten minutes.’He drifted away again, looking around the house.On the surface, everything seemed so ordinary, all the furniture and decorations perfectly normal.But the glass on the window was thick enough to stop a bullet, and the outside doors were far heavier than they looked, three strong locks on each one.Nets were hung inside the windows to stop people looking in, and the curtains were all lined so every room could be in complete darkness.He tried a desk drawer in the front room.Locked.Every drawer was locked.That was interesting.There was only one room he couldn’t enter: Mrs Cornwall’s quarters, he assumed.Finally he heard a door open and the creak of footsteps on the stairs.Joanna Hart stood in a thick dressing gown, a towel wrapped like a turban around her hair.‘Do you have a cigarette?’ she asked.The living room was warm, autumn sun pouring through the windows [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]