Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [2]
He opened his mouth in a soundless scream of warning, and then the room seemed to spin round in a whirl of coloured lights, sucking him down into darkness.
(2)
PAIN, exploding in a chain reaction, brought him back from darkness as someone slapped him repeatedly across the face. There were voices near by, a confused and meaningless blur, and then a tap was turned on.
His head was forced down by a strong hand and he choked as ice-cold water surged into his nostrils. The pressure was released and he breathed again, but only for a moment. His head was pushed back down relentlessly. When he was dragged upright again, there was a roaring in his ears and he could hardly breathe, but his vision was clear.
He was in a small, white-tiled bathroom and his reflection stared out at him from a waist-length mirror. His face was haggard and drawn, the eyes deep-set in their sockets, and there were scratches down one cheek.
His shirt was soaked in blood and he leaned on the washbasin for support and stared at himself in bewilderment. A thick-set man in shabby raincoat and soft hat stood at his shoulder, eyes hard and unsympathetic in a craggy face.
"How do you feel?" he demanded.
"Lousy!" Brady croaked, and the voice seemed to belong to a stranger.
"That's good, you bastard," the man said and pushed him roughly through the door.
The living-room seemed to be crowded with people. A uniformed constable stood by the door, and two plain-clothes men worked their way round the room, dusting for fingerprints.
A tall, thin man with grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, sat at one end of the divan with a notebook and listened to a small, bent old man, who stood before him twisting a cloth cap nervously between his hands.
As Brady moved forward, the little man saw him and an expression of fear crossed his face. "That's him, Inspector Mallory," he said. "That's the bloke."
Mallory turned and regarded Brady calmly. "Are you quite sure, Mr. Blakey?"
The little man nodded confidently. "I'm not likely to forget him, governor. Saw him plain, standing in the doorway when she switched on the light."
Mallory looked tired. He made a note in his book and nodded. "That's fine, Mr. Blakey. You go back to work. We'll get a statement from you later."
The little man turned away to the door and Brady said slowly, "Look, what the hell's going on here?"
Mallory looked up at him coldly. "Better show him, Gower," he said.
The detective who had brought Brady from the bathroom, pushed him across to the bedroom. Brady hesitated in the doorway. There was a flash and a photographer turned and looked at him curiously.
The room was a shambles, the floor was littered with toilet articles from the dressing-table and the curtains fluttered in the breeze from the smashed window. The bedclothes trailed down to the floor and the far wall was etched with a delicate spray of blood.
Another detective was on his knees wrapping an antique whalebone walking-stick in a towel. It was slippery with blood and he turned and looked across the room and suddenly, there was silence.
Gower pushed Brady forward to the end of the bed. Something was lying there draped in a blanket, squeezed between the bed and the wall.
"Take a look!" he said, pulling the blanket away. "Take a good look!"
Her clothes had been ripped and shredded from her body. She sprawled there wantonly, her thighs spattered with blood, but it was the face which was the ultimate horror, a sticky, glutinous mess of pulped flesh.
Brady turned away, vomit rising into his mouth, and Gower cursed and shoved him across to the door. "You gutless wonder!" he said viciously. "I'd like to string you up myself."
Mallory was still sitting on the divan, but now he was examining Brady's passport. Brady looked down at him, horror in his eyes. "You think I did that?"
Mallory tossed Brady's jacket at him. "Better put that on; you might catch cold." He turned to Gower. "Stick him in the other bedroom. I'll be along in a minute."
Brady tried to speak, but the words refused to come and Gower hustled him across