A Lesser Evil - Lesley Pearse [175]
At quarter to one the two men came down again. They stood outside the door for a little while and seemed to be arguing about something. It was ten to one when they eventually moved away.
Trueman sauntered down the Court at five past. Dan knew it was him even before he turned into the office doorway just by the way he walked. It was an arrogant, head-held-high, get-out-of-my-way walk, and he stood out in the midst of office workers because of his height and size and his immaculate cream trench coat. As Johnny had said, he did look fit, and despite the greying hair seemed less than sixty. The gold watch glinting on his wrist had probably cost more than a house.
The coffee bar was filling up now with people on their lunch-hours, giggling office girls, businessmen and quite a few rough-looking types that Dan would put down as the dirty mac brigade fortifying themselves before going to one of the afternoon stripclubs.
Dan picked up a newspaper someone had left behind and hid behind it, in case Janice glanced in as she left the office. She came hurrying out at quarter past one, her handbag bulging with mail to be posted. He noted she’d put on some makeup and backcombed her hair.
It was time. His heart was thumping and he felt a bit queasy for he knew once he was in the office there was no turning back. He didn’t know for certain that he’d got the right man, and Trueman could be armed too – he wouldn’t have got the reputation of being tough for nothing. But the week of anxiety about Fifi had built up so much rage inside him that he wasn’t going to think about what-ifs. He was going to get Fifi back come what may.
He closed the street door quietly as he went in, putting the lock on, and left his raincoat down there. Creeping up the stairs, he listened. The man was on the phone barking orders about a delivery of drinks. Dan could smell cigar smoke.
At the top of the stairs he paused, checked the rope was concealed under his jacket, patted the pocket where his gun was, took a deep breath and marched in. Trueman was in the inner office, tilted back in the big chair, his feet on the desk, and he’d taken off his suit jacket.
‘I fucking well told you to deliver this a week ago,’ he shouted down the phone, only glancing round at Dan briefly and indicating that he wouldn’t be long. ‘This will be the last order you ever get if you don’t get it round there right now. You got that?’
He slammed down the phone and looked up at Dan. ‘Bloody wankers,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery. What can I do for you, son?’
Dan walked towards the older man and stopped in the doorway of his office. ‘I want my wife back,’ he said in a measured tone, pulling out the gun. ‘And if you give me the runaround I’m going to kill you.’
The shock on the man’s face was almost laughable. His eyebrows shot up and he stared at the gun as if he thought he was seeing things. ‘Your wife?’ he repeated. ‘I haven’t got your bloody wife.’
For just a second Dan thought he might be wrong, but it was too late to consider that now. ‘Fifi Reynolds,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got Yvette Dupré. Don’t fuckin’ piss around or I’ll just shoot your leg for starters.’ He took another couple of steps into the office and pointed the gun at the man’s leg, still on the desk, wondering if he should shoot him anyway to speed things up.
‘Get out of here,’ the man roared, getting to his feet. ‘You think you can come on to my turf and threaten me? I’ve eaten boys like you for breakfast.’
The fact that Trueman didn’t persist in denying he had the women, or ask any questions, was enough proof for Dan that he had got the right man. He could see what Trueman was, a bully through and through. He’d grown so used to frightening people with his hired thugs that he’d forgotten that alone he was just another middle-aged man, and a cornered one at that.
‘This gun is loaded, the door downstairs is locked,