“And this person is still in your flat, sir?” Suddenly Partridge sounded alert and interested.

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you think you can keep her talking until we can get a car there?”

“No need for that, officer. I’ve locked her in.”

Lindsay closed her eyes and swore silently. Then she gently depressed the phone button and replaced the receiver as silently as she possibly could. She crept to the door and depressed the handle. Nothing happened. Derek Knight hadn’t lied. She was locked in his living room three floors above the Islington street.

Chapter 7

Within minutes, the police would be on the other side of the door. Lindsay doubted whether they could touch her for violating the crime scene since she had the tacit permission of the householder to be there. But from what she’d heard Derek Knight say, he’d be going in hard on the angle that she’d lied to convince him she was a police officer. He’d have to, she realized. She’d barely known him half an hour, yet she knew that in a tight corner, the most crucial issue for Derek Knight would always be saving face.

“This isn’t the time to stand about thinking,” she muttered angrily to herself. “Shit!” She looked round the room in desperation, hoping something would inspire her to find a way out. At a pinch, she supposed, she could use the fire irons to batter the wooden door to splinters, but she didn’t imagine she would have time for that. Besides, the last thing she needed was a charge of criminal damage to add to everything else. She swung round and stared at the door, willing it to open. Then she noticed the butt end of the hinges.

Probably as old as the late Georgian building, the hinges were substantial. But unlike the door, they were free of generations of paint. Lindsay stepped closer and scrutinized the polished brass. “Yes,” she said softly. She hurried over to her chair and grabbed her backpack, delving into the front pocket to emerge triumphantly with her Swiss Army knife. Then she picked up the poker from the fireplace. She crossed back to the door and pulled free one of the knife’s blades. It was a narrow spike that extended about two inches from the middle of the knife, forming a T-shape. Lindsay placed the tip of the spike against the bottom edge of the linchpin of the upper of the two hinges. It was difficult to get much of a backswing on the poker so close to the door, but she did her best. Using the heavy brass knob on the end of the poker as a hammer, she hit the back of the knife in a bid to force the pin free of the hinge. The first blow made the hinge creak, but nothing shifted. The second whack coincided with a screech from Derek Knight of “What the hell are you doing?” The third bang of poker on knife drove the spike into the centre of the hinge, thrusting the linchpin a good three inches clear of the top of the hinge. “Yes!” Lindsay exclaimed. She knew she could pull the pin clear easily now.