The time that followed had to be the longest forty-five minutes of Sam's life. Her assailant never slackened his grip on her, though he lowered the menacing blade. She squirmed against the cold brick wall, trying to evade his foul breath, struggling to maintain her composure. She knew she couldn't hold this madman at bay for long, but she could think of no way to escape without putting Foyle in danger. She could sense his barely controlled rage, seething just beneath the surface. What would happen when he tired of waiting?
Sure enough, he soon grew restive and pulled her roughly over to the phone. "It's time," he announced. "Must be back by now. Ring up his office if you know what's good for you."
She looked up into his florid face, the pale blue eyes glinting with malevolence. He had turned toward the light, so that she was able to discern his features for the first time. He looked vaguely familiar, but she was unable to place him among the dozens of arrests Foyle had made during her tenure as his driver. And what did it really matter? She couldn't do what he wanted, no matter who he was and no matter the cost to herself. She just couldn't. "No," she said clearly, bracing herself for his wrath. "I won't."
Detective Sergeant Paul Milner was searching through the records of the Household Register kept behind the station's main desk, following up on a lead in a black-market ring he was investigating, when the telephone rang. Concentrating on the logbook before him, he only half-listened to the duty sergeant's side of the conversation.
"Hastings Police … No, I'm sorry, he isn't available … I really couldn't say, sir. Would you like to leave a message? … I see … Where was that? You sure? … And your name? ... Hello? ... Hello? …" He replaced the receiver with a puzzled grunt. "Hmm. Bit odd, that."
"What's odd, Brooke?" Milner asked absently.
"That call. Message for Mr Foyle."
"Who was it?"
"He didn't say. Just said to tell him that he'd left something behind in the old interview room downstairs."
The detective sergeant looked up, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. "What?"
"He said, 'Tell Foyle he can find what he's looking for in the old interview room in the basement'."
"Are you sure? We haven't used that in years. Don't think anyone's even been down there for ages."
"I know." Brooke shrugged, beginning to jot the message down on a scrap of paper.
"Don't bother," Milner told him, closing the Household Registry log and returning it to the shelf. "I'll see what it is."
He descended the stairs as swiftly as his prosthetic limb would allow. His curiosity had been piqued by the odd telephone call, and he was always happy to spare Mr Foyle the bother of any mundane task. Whatever had been left in this unlikely place, he could doubtless see to it without troubling his superior.
Sam's heart sank at the sound of approaching footsteps echoing a little in the silent corridor. She would know that gait anywhere, the slightly uneven step of a man with an aluminium leg. No, no, no, she thought frantically, trying one last time to twist free of his iron grasp, and was rewarded by his grubby hand clamping over her mouth again. Not Milner! She whimpered as her captor pushed her forward into the middle of the room, the blade once again hovering inches from her throat.
Milner stopped short in the doorway, every muscle in his body tensing at the scene that met his eyes. Sam, clothing askew, eyes huge with terror, trapped in the grip of a burly lout. The knife. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Let her go!" he barked in his most commanding tone, drawing himself up to his full height, his hands balling into fists.
The other man ignored his words. "What you doin' here?" he growled, dropping his hand from the girl's face to imprison her arms again. "Where's Foyle?"
Milner took in the words Sam was mouthing silently -not here! - and in a flash he comprehended both her ruse and the desperate reasoning behind it. "He's not here," he shot back without missing a beat, his voice as hard as iron. "You take your filthy hands off her. Now." He took a threatening step forward, but halted abruptly as Sam's assailant brandished the knife closer.
"Not till I see Foyle. He's the one I'm after. Got a score to settle wiv' him. You best find him and get him down here right quick, 'less you want me to start usin' this on her pretty neck. You hear me?"
Milner's heart was pounding, his dark eyes blazing with a righteous anger the girl had never before witnessed. A single idea was spinning in his brain: get Sam away from that knife! But how? He longed to fling himself at this coward, to pound him with his fists, beat his face into a bloody pulp, but he didn't dare move any closer.
Should he send for Foyle – who was in the building, despite the girl's lie – to secure her release from this animal, this bit of filth? Like Sam, he realised at once that this was simply out of the question. It was more than just colluding in the assault of a fellow police officer that repelled him; there was his personal debt of loyalty to the older man as well. Foyle had taken him back on the force when no other detective would have given him a chance, restoring his career and his confidence, and had nurtured him through the long process of recovery with sensitivity and consideration. He had even forgiven his blunder over the Guy Spencer debacle. How could he sacrifice the man to whom he owed so much to this lunatic, whoever he was?
Milner stared into the florid face, the small, piggy eyes, the hulking form and recognition clicked somewhere far back in his memory. Could it be … ? He was older, thinner, worn down by prison and hard labour, but the face was the same. He was almost sure of it.
"It's Ferris, isn't it?" he asked. "Arrested for assaulting a conscientious objector in custody. When was it, four years ago? Five?" The coarse features hardened and he knew he'd guessed right. "So they finally let you out and you decided to get a bit of your own back?"
"Too bloody right I did," Ferris snarled. "Four years he gets me in that stinking hellhole while my little brother is bleeding and dying out in Egypt. While my wife is carrying on with any bloke what takes her fancy, putting her in the club. And for what? Bit of rough stuff with a lousy conshie, that's all! We didn't even hurt the bleedin' coward! And that filthy lying sod Foyle tricked me into admitting it! 'Not that it's any great loss,' he says, and then he bloody turns round and arrests me!" His voice was savage. "I been waitin' four years to teach that bastard a lesson he won't soon forget. You try and stop me and this tart gets it first!" He jerked viciously at Sam's shirt, popping off another button and exposing the lacy edge of her slip. She cried out involuntarily as the knife point touched the pale flesh just above her heart, her eyes meeting Milner's pleadingly.
"Stop !" Milner burst out, unable to bear any more. A desperate plan was taking shape in his mind, a way out of this impossible choice that he prayed might spare both Sam and Foyle. The only option his conscience would permit was to try to deflect the former lag's rage upon himself. "If it's revenge you're after, Ferris, you can have it on me. I was the one who fingered you to Mr Foyle. Don't you remember?"
Ferris stared at him for a long moment. Milner could almost see the cogs of his brain turning slowly as he cast his mind back. Did he recall that offhand exchange with a detective sergeant on crutches – had he still been using crutches then? – in which he had implicated himself? The seconds passed as Ferris pondered, weighing his options. Then, with a lightning-fast gesture, he shoved Sam violently to one side and lunged at Milner, knife outstretched, going for the kill.
