The Old Enemy by Henry Porter (reading a book txt) 📗

blood.’ He looked up. They were dithering. ‘Now!’ he shouted. ‘Do it now!’

Jo was conscious and as he untied the gag she looked up and nodded to say she was going to be okay. ‘He was going to rape me, the bastard,’ she whispered. ‘You sent a text and he told me how he was going to fill the thirty minutes, then he told his friend.’ She jerked her head. A phone was on the lamp table. The line was open – the creep had been planning to describe what he was doing. Jo’s phone lay beside it. He turned her gently to one side so he could undo the tie used to bind her. He kissed her on the forehead and examined the wound, which was still oozing blood. ‘Hold on there,’ he said.

He retrieved from his store cupboard a small emergency bag he’d taken to Syria, which consisted mostly of gauze and dressings, plus three shots of morphine which he’d bought in Turkey for a trip into ISIS-held territory then brought them back to Britain illegally, forgetting they were in his luggage. He packed the wound and held his thumb over it.

‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ she asked.

‘I had to change numbers. They were tracking me. That’s how they got this address. Are you in pain? I have something for it.’

‘No . . . I can do this. But I can’t fucking do us, Samson!’

‘We’ll talk about that later. Need to get you to hospital first.’

A female officer was with them. ‘Who are you, love?’ she asked Jo.

‘Inspector Joanna Hayes. I’m with Met Ops – MO2.’

‘Are you on an operation? Someone I should contact?’

‘Oddly enough, this is a night off,’ she said dryly. ‘Tell Assistant Commissioner Steve Raven. There will be someone at MO2 now.’

The officer checked that Samson knew what he was doing, moved away and spoke into her lapel mic.

‘There’s this fella in my village,’ continued Jo. ‘Restores furniture. Sings in the choir. Grows special tulips . . .’

‘Later,’ he said.

Two paramedics were in the room. Others were coming through the door with more police. One used a pen torch to peer into the eyes of the assailant. She spoke to her controller and gave a read-out of vital signs, which were zero in every department. A man came over with a bag to check Jo. ‘We’ll get you into the ambulance,’ he said when he’d looked at the wound beneath Samson’s temporary dressing. ‘You’re going to be fine.’ Then he focused on Samson. ‘Actually, I’m just as concerned about that leg of yours, sir. You have a nasty cut there and you’re still bleeding. Are you aware of that?’

He looked down. His trouser leg was soaked beneath a small tear. The blood on the floor was his, not Jo’s.

‘We’ll need stretchers for you both.’ He spoke into a radio. ‘And you, sir, stop moving about! You’ll lose more blood if you go on like that. Sit down and put your leg up here,’ he said, patting the ottoman. He cut the trouser leg off, plugged the wound on the inside of Samson’s right thigh and uncoiled a dressing tightly round his leg

‘What about that man?’ asked Samson.

The paramedic looked over his shoulder at his colleagues going through CPR, and shook his head. ‘He’s suffered trauma to the head. Severe brain haemorrhage, most likely, but we’ll see if they can get him breathing again. He attacked you both, right?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Samson, and reached over to the table where there were two phones and a half-consumed kebab wrapped in pitta bread. Who goes to kill with a takeaway? He looked at the attacker’s phone. The call had ended, but he entered the last-dialled number in ‘Notes’ on his own phone and for one moment considered pocketing the attacker’s phone.

‘It’s a crime scene, Samson,’ Jo said wearily. ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot.’

He put it back on the table.

‘I assume the alarm was you,’ she said. ‘He had his jeans round his ankles when it went off. He was going to have his fun. What the fuck is it with men, by the way? You must tell me some day. He didn’t have time to pull them up properly before you got inside the flat. It was his undoing. Once you were in he had to stay quiet. He held the knife to my face to keep me from making a noise. Then he went for you. I heard him stumble and I assume you hit him at that moment. Jesus, what a noise! You must have cracked his skull. But you came exactly at the right moment – neither too soon, nor too late. Perfect timing, as usual. Thank you.’ Her eyes glinted.

He tipped his head towards the paramedics working on the unconscious man. ‘Fuck him,’ she hissed. ‘He was going to rape me and kill us both. Fuck him.’ She felt her arm gingerly. ‘This really aches – how’s yours?’

‘Hurts,’ he said. ‘Look, sorry, Jo. Here, in my flat – I’m appalled that you were attacked.’

‘You can’t help it. People always want to kill you, and someday some bloody idiot will succeed.’

He didn’t answer. Suddenly he felt faint, and colder than he could ever remember, and one of the paramedics was by his side shouting for help.

Chapter 12

The Gravel Washer

In the afternoon, Anastasia set up an office in a hospital room used for counselling. It had a line of five bonsai trees that she decided to keep. She would stay until Denis had emerged from his coma. There was a lot to do. Lawyers came to formally put in place the power of attorney. Two bankers followed, ostensibly to wish Denis well but in reality to find out whether he was going to be permanently incapacitated. She thanked them, smiled and lied through her teeth. The head of Denis’s West Coast office flew in, bringing half a dozen decisions and his own frank concerns about the future of the operation without Denis at the helm. The San