Page 381 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Get out of ’ere,’ whimpered Sapphire. ‘’E’ll think it’s my fault—’
‘Be quiet!’
‘’E’s killed people!’ Sapphire whispered.
‘I know,be quiet!’
He needed Wardle and Barclay; if they could at least make the men above believe they were police, he might have a chance—
‘The fuck?’ said a male voice, directly overhead, and a shadow appeared on Jones’ motionless body. ‘Jonesy?’
A small, trainered foot on the topmost rung of the ladder. Strike reached through the gap, grabbed the ankle and pulled.
Ian Griffiths fell with a yell Strike hoped would be masked by the music playing upstairs, landing on and then rolling off the unconscious Jones.
Strike barrelled into Griffiths before the latter could stand, slamming him down onto the concrete floor, large right hand over Griffiths’ mouth, the other groping for Griffiths’ wrist, but too late—
Strike felt a burning pain as a blade slashed the side of his head; he was lucky his face hadn’t been ripped, but his ear had been sliced—
Blood now gushing from his head wound, Strike succeeded in grabbing the wrist of Griffiths’ knife-holding hand, then slammed it down on the rough concrete floor, too, until he heard the blade fall out of Griffiths’ grasp, while Griffiths tried to shout out as loud as he could with Strike’s other hand clamped over his mouth. Strike banged Griffiths’ head repeatedly on the floor, trying to dissuade him from struggling—
The music playing from the sitting room stopped. Strike heard a pounding on the back door. Then came a shout he recognised as Wardle’s.
‘Open up, police!’
Strike heard running feet above; a shadow slid over Strike and Griffiths and the trapdoor closed, kicked shut by somebody who didn’t seem to have looked below. The three men and the girl werenow sealed up together in darkness and Strike heard the rug being slid back over the hatch to hide it.
A loud groan echoed through the cramped space: Jones was coming round. Strike, who guessed Jones was at least twenty years younger than him, didn’t fancy his chances against him, given Jones’ bulk, a sliced ear that was already making him feel nauseous, a second man to keep at bay, and a knife lying somewhere in the dark.
‘The fuck?’ came Jones’ groggy voice. ‘Fuck ’appened?’
Strike was still fighting to keep the struggling Griffiths pinned to the ground, hand over his mouth. He couldn’t hear properly out of his left ear, because it was full of blood.
‘Fuck ’appened?’ repeated Jones, and Strike heard movement; far from being glad Jones hadn’t broken his neck, he now wished he had. Griffiths was trying to speak through Strike’s hand and producing only a strangled hum.
‘’Oo’s there?’ said Jones, sounding fearful. ‘’S’goin’ on?’
Though deadened by the trapdoor and rug, shouting and banging now became audible above. As Barclay and Wardle were outnumbered by more than two to one, Strike doubted he could count on immediate assistance. Taking his hand off Griffiths’ mouth, because it didn’t much matter if the fucker yelled now, he aimed a punch at the place he knew Griffiths’ face to be and heard his yelp of pain. Blood continued to rain down from the knife wound to Strike’s ear.
‘Wha’s going on?’ repeated Jones, and Strike felt a large hand grope for his shoulder, which was covered in blood. ‘The fuck are you?’
‘STRIKE?’ came Wardle’s voice.
‘DOWN HERE,’ bellowed Strike.
‘Wha?’ said the unseen Jones, and Strike heard him stagger to his feet then his cry of pain as his head smacked into the low ceiling.
The trapdoor opened and Strike saw Wardle looking down at him.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said in alarm, and Strike realised his left shoulder was drenched in shining scarlet.
‘Need assistance,’ panted Strike, still sitting on Griffiths.
‘Barclay!’ yelled Wardle, before dropping into the space without using the ladder.
Had Barclay not slid into the cellar then, Strike doubted things would have gone well for Wardle, because young Jones, though still groggy, appeared to have realised the strangers didn’t have his good at heart. His attempt to rush the ex-policeman was frustrated by theScot, who, seizing the ladder off its legs, swung it round, narrowly missing Strike’s head, and knocked Jones sideways, upending the table on which the dildos were sitting.
‘Knife, somewhere,’ panted Strike, pinning the struggling Griffiths to the floor.
