The sight of the river made him break out into a cold sweat. The one thing he had sworn to avoid was murder, and now, he felt certain, he was going to be forced to take part in the girl’s death.
‘You won’t do anything to her?’ he said, forcing words through his stiff lips. ‘I — I won’t stand for murder…’
Baird glanced at him, and then shifted his attention back to the narrow causeway.
‘Do you want her to sick the cops on you?’ he asked softly. ‘This is a kidnapping rap: could get you the gas-box.’
Rico gulped. He hadn’t thought of that. The tiny spark of courage that had forced the words out of him abruptly snuffed out. He shut his eyes, while his heart banged against his ribs, and his mouth turned sour and dry.
The car jolted slowly on for some time, but Rico didn’t open his eyes. It wasn’t until he felt the car stop and heard Baird open the door that he looked fearfully through the windshield to see where he was.
Baird had turned off the headlights. Rico couldn’t see much in the feeble lights of the parkers. He seemed to be in a cul-de-sac. He could smell the river, but couldn’t see it. Surrounding him were high walls of rotting timber, black with tar.
‘Come on out,’ Baird said impatiently.
Rico got out of the car. His legs could scarcely support him. The rain felt cold against his feverish face. He looked up. High above him he could make out the outline of the roofs of the buildings against the rain-swollen sky. Two or three derricks hung lifelessly from the upper storeys. The warehouse had an air of neglect and disuse. But it was the silence that unnerved Rico. Only the soft patter of the rain and his own heavy, uneven breathing came to his listening ears. He had a suffocating feeling of being buried alive, and when Baird jerked open the rear door of the car, he started violently.
‘Take this,’ Baird said, turning and pushing a flashlight into Rico’s hand. ‘What’s the matter with you? Can’t you hold it steady?’