Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,127

Can’t you do anything right?’ I echoed Komarov.

‘Shut up,’ he shouted again. He was becoming very agitated. ‘Bloody Gary couldn’t organize a proverbial bloody piss-up in a brewery.’

‘So it was Gary who tried to kill me?’ I said.

He ignored me and walked over to look through the circular w indow in the door to the kitchen.

‘Why did Komarov bomb the box?’ I asked him, changing direction.

‘I told you to shut up,’ said George, waving his gun at me.

‘Was Rolf Schumann the target?’ I asked, ignoring him.

‘I said shut up,’ he shouted, walking right up to me and pointing the gun at my head from about twelve inches away.

I ignored him again. If I made him angry enough then perhaps he would do me a favour by killing me quickly. ‘Why bomb the box?’ I said. ‘Surely that was out of all proportion. Why not just shoot Schumann if he wanted to kill him? Nice and quiet, down some dark alley in Wisconsin?’

‘Komarov doesn’t do things quietly,’ said George. ‘Make a statement, that’s what he said. Show everyone he meant business. Schumann was stealing from him and Komarov doesn’t like thieves. An example had to be set.’ George was clearly repeating to me exactly what Komarov had said to him.

Strange logic, I thought. Schumann was a thief, so Komarov tried to murder him, and killed nineteen innocent people instead, including the lovely Louisa and the conscientious MaryLou, and all in such horrific circumstances. Komarov was truly evil.

There was a shout from the kitchen. Then a shot. I was frantic. Please, God, I prayed, let it not be Caroline who was shot.

George backed away from me and again looked through the circular window in the swing door and beyond into the kitchen. There was another shot, then another, followed by more shouts. Pity we had no near neighbours, I thought. Someone might have heard the shots and called the police.

Komarov came back quickly through the door.

‘There’s someone outside the back,’ he said to George. ‘I think I hit them. Go out and finish them off. I’ve sent that Gary out as well, so don’t shoot him.’ George seemed to hesitate. ‘Now, George.’ George moved through the door, his body language screaming that he didn’t want to go. Messing about in the dark with guns was not really his scene. But he should have thought of that before he became involved with a man like Komarov.

‘Now, Mr Moreton,’ said Komarov, coming right up to me, ‘where is my ball?’

I almost laughed. If my legs hadn’t been taped to the chair legs, I would have kicked him in the balls. Then he’d have known where they were. He seemed to spot my amusement and his anger rose. He clearly expected me to be frightened into submission. Little did he realize that I was.

‘I will give you one last chance to tell me then I will shoot your left foot,’ he said. ‘Then I will shoot your right foot, then your knees, your wrists and your elbows.’ As he spoke he ejected the partially used magazine from his gun and snapped ir another from his pocket. I assumed it was fully loaded. ‘Now, time is passing. For the last time, where is it?’ He leaned down towards my face. I wondered if it would help if I spat at him. Perhaps he would become so angry that he would kill me quickly. I tried it. He just laughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘That won’t help you,’ he said. ‘You will tell me what I want, I promise you. Then I will detonate the bomb and blow you and your restaurant to smithereens.’ His Russian accent made it sound like ‘smis ereem’, but I understood his meaning. Another example to be set, no doubt.

He stepped back and raised the gun. I wondered how much it would hurt. I wondered if I could stand it, whether I would be able to stand the pain of both feet, my knees, my wrists and my elbows. I just couldn’t tell him to go to East Hendred, to Toby and Sally’s house with their three lovely children. Whatever happened, I kept telling myself, I must not talk. I must not rain death and destruction down on my brother.

Komarov aimed his gun at my right foot.

‘Wait,’ I cried. His arm dropped a fraction.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Why do you need it back anyway?’ I asked. ‘You must have more, hundreds more.’

‘Why would I have hundreds?’ he asked, clearly curious to