Quickly, he dropped down on all fours and vanished from view.
Strachan put his revolver back in its holster. He kicked out the remaining glass in the window, noticing that one of the shards was streaked with blood. He grabbed each side of the frame and stepped up to crouch in the window.
Don’t look down, he thought. Whatever you do, don’t look down.
He looked down.
Immediately, he leant back into the empty window frame away from the drop. Jesus, he thought, it’s at least sixty feet to the ground.
He took a deep breath and peered over the edge again. Closer to eighty feet. What am I doing?
He inched his way through the mansard window and onto the slate roof, keeping hold of the frame all the time.
Don’t look down. Don’t look at the ground.
He took one step up the slates and then another, still holding onto the top of the mansard. The ridge of the roof was ten feet above him. Behind the ridge, the scuffling sounds of the man scrabbling across the roof on the other side.
He stood up straight, letting go of the window frame. Immediately, he could feel the wind through his hair. He held his arms out to his sides and began to inch up the roof.
Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look down.
The ridge at the top was only six feet away now. He was getting closer. He began to feel more confident, shuffling his feet forward a little further each time.
Take it slowly, Strachan, softly does it.
At that moment, he lifted his foot and it caught the raised edge of one of the slates. His arms and body jerked forward and his legs slipped from under him. He crashed down onto the slates and began to slide backwards.
He flailed around with his arms and legs, desperately looking for something, anything, to grab on to. He was still sliding, his fingers could get no grip. His legs went over the edge and they kicked against nothing but air.
His body began to fall over the edge when he heard a loud rip and jerked to a stop, half his body from the waist down dangling in the air.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to the left. The top pocket of his jacket had caught on a nail sticking out from the gutter. He breathed out, swinging his legs to find something to stand on. Another loud rip. His body slipped down six more inches jerking him away from the safety and comfort of the cold slates.
He thought about shouting for help from Inspector Danilov, but he couldn’t risk lifting his head to call out.
Carefully, he lifted his right arm and reached up over the gutter to the slates, gripped them by digging his nails into a rough edge. He pressed his body down, swinging his right leg up as carefully as he could, bringing the knee to rest on the edge of the gutter.
He breathed out.
Don’t look down.
He promised himself that this was the last time he would ever chase a criminal. No more. He would leave it to Inspector Danilov from now on. His chasing days were over.
He inched his knee upwards, gripping with his nails and pushing upwards to let his body rest on the slates. The sole of his shoe touched the gutter.
Slowly, Strachan, slowly.
He pushed with his leg. The gutter strained and groaned against the joint holding it to the wall. His body inched up the roof.
He breathed out, offering prayers to all the gods he knew, and some he didn’t.
There was a sharp screech. The metal gutter jerked away from his foot, hung in the air for a few moments, before clattering to the ground.
Strachan rolled his back onto the cold slates and breathed out again, enjoying their hard embrace. He looked up at the sky. Three swallows were dancing in the air, weaving figures of eight above his head.
A faint scuffling noise off to his left. The man was further away now, escaping.
He crawled up the steep roof, this time pushing off with his feet, always looking for handholds. He was near the ridge line now. Heaving himself across it, he looked over to his left. At the end of the terrace, the thug was standing on the edge of the roof. The man looked over his shoulder and, for a short moment, his eyes met Strachan’s.
Then he jumped.
Strachan shouted. He couldn’t remember what he shouted. All he knew was that the shock of seeing the man suddenly leap out into nothing expelled all the air from his chest.
Up above, ominous grey clouds were coming in from the East, bring with them the threat of rain. Already, the wind was lapping at Strachan’s jacket. He sat up until he was on all fours and crawled along the ridge, scraping his knees on the rough edges.
A few more feet left. He reached a large tile that marked the end of the ridge line and peered over the edge, trying to see where the body of the man had fallen.
But there was no body. Instead, a latticework of bamboo crawled up the wall, left behind by some builders.
He stood up slowly, took a deep breath and jumped over the edge.
After what seemed like an eternity of a fall, he landed on the bamboo platform, which immediately began to move away from the wall and topple backwards.
He dropped to the platform, getting down as low as he could. The bamboo shook and rattled for a few seconds before it settled down again, the only sound the wind whistling through its lattice.
Why the hell am I doing this? I could be safely tucked up at home in bed. Or enjoying my mum’s sweet soup. Or even spending my time typing an incident report in the comfort of the office, another detective snoring at the desk next to me.
‘Don’t be scared, youngster. It’s nought but a wee tree.’ His father’s strong Scottish brogue encouraged him to climb up to the tree house. How he missed the warmth of his father and the strength he gave him. He wasn’t going to let him down now, he was never going to let his father down.
He remembered seeing the scaffolders on the buildings of Shanghai ascending and descending the bamboo scaffolds with the ease of monkeys. They had a careless rhythm, using the area between the lattice and the support to make their way up and down.
He moved away from the support and swung his leg over the edge. Immediately, it touched the crossbeam of the lattice. He lowered the other leg and it stepped onto another crossbeam. He let his legs slide down until they were both standing on the join where the crossbeams met.
He stood there and repeated the step down again, holding on to the upper crossbeam with his hands. Easy, he thought. This is how it’s done.
Strachan moved confidently now, descending the bamboo scaffold with all the grace of an elephant tap dancing. Finally, his feet touched the hard concrete of the alley and he sank to his knees
Never again.
