by Jaime Raven
There was a computer on the desk and the sight of it caused the air to lock in my chest.
This one obviously hadn’t been discovered during the police search. And there had been no mention in the report of a secret room.
I realised suddenly why Carver had become panicky just now when I’d said I was going to look around the house. He’d left the door to his secret room open, no doubt because he’d been working in there before going out for some fags.
As I stepped inside I wondered if I had stumbled onto something significant. Was it from this tiny cubbyhole that Carver had sent out the threatening text messages?
I looked at the computer keyboard and screen, then reached out and touched the mouse to see if it had been left on. When the screen came to life I couldn’t believe my luck.
I sat on the chair with a view to delving into his files. But first I studied the icons on the desktop, and noted he was using Google Chrome as a browser. I thought that would be a good place to start.
I went straight to the history list to see what Carver had been looking up online. There’d been surprisingly little activity over the past couple of days. But five days ago – on the Tuesday – he’d searched for information on someone known as La Asesina.
As soon as I opened up the first site he’d visited I saw that La Asesina was the name that had been given to a woman who was reckoned to be among the most ruthless assassins in Mexico. The English translation was The Slayer.
And instinct told me that she was the same woman who had crossed the Atlantic in order to bring terror to London.
65
Rosa
They were still in the pub when they heard the sirens.
‘It sounds like there’s something going on close by,’ Alice said.
When they left the pub they saw that a small crowd had gathered on the walkway. The street where the cop lay dead in her patrol car had been cordoned off. Two other police cars were parked next to it, and there were lots of officers around in high visibility jackets.
‘I wonder what’s happened,’ Rosa said, and then added, ‘I think it’s probably best that we don’t hang around.’
They walked quickly away from the scene arm in arm and went for dinner at a restaurant near the Millennium Bridge. As usual Rosa was able to move her thoughts on from the murder she had just committed. However, she was still hyper from the rush of adrenalin and it took two vodkas to ease the tension in her bones.
But after that she was even more relaxed than before because she was no longer under pressure to seek out a victim. The job was done and she didn’t have to look for another target until tomorrow, which meant she could focus all her attention on Alice.
The place they were in was already adorned with Christmas decorations, and there was even a large, brightly lit Christmas tree in one corner. It prompted Alice to ask Rosa where she would be spending Christmas.
Rosa simply said that she hadn’t decided. Then, to deflect any follow-up questions, she launched into a spiel about how Mexicans celebrated the festive season.
‘In my country Christmas is called Las Posadas,’ she explained. ‘We stage lots of festivals, and the holiday runs from December the twelfth to January the sixteenth. And, of course, the weather is warm. Not like here.’
Rosa hadn’t celebrated Christmas for many years. Even though she’d been born into a religious family, the significance of it meant nothing to her. Three years ago she executed a journalist on Christmas day because Carlos Cruz did not like an article he’d written about the Sinaloa cartel. The man was taking part in a procession at the time with his wife and two children when she rode past on her motorbike and shot him in the head.
‘It’s a pity you can’t be here for Christmas,’ Alice was saying. ‘We could have a great time together.’
Rosa felt a tingle of excitement. ‘Maybe I can be here,’ she said. ‘If you really want me to be.’
They’d been exchanging teasing remarks like this throughout the day. Trying to gauge each other’s reaction. Fishing for compliments or a sign that they were both hoping the relationship would continue beyond the end of next week.
‘Of course I’d like you to be here,’ Alice said. ‘Or if you can’t then perhaps we can meet somewhere in between. I can get time off work. No problem.’
They talked about it as they left the restaurant and walked arm in arm back along the South Bank towards Westminster Bridge.
It was a beautiful evening, full of people and colour. Above the city the dark sky was crowded with needles of frozen light.
It had been a day that Rosa knew she would remember and cherish for the rest of her life. There hadn’t been a dull moment. From seeing the palatial home of the Queen of England to spotting detective Laura Jefferson leaving New Scotland Yard. From strolling along the famous Oxford Street to watching Roy Slack tell the story of his abduction live on television.
And, of course, there’d been execution number five. What a result that had been. The cop in the patrol car had been there for the taking. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And she had paid the price.
Rosa had gathered so many memories and it wasn’t over yet. They decided to walk back to Alice’s apartment rather than take a cab. And on the way they were going to stop for more drinks and peruse the lighted shop windows that were packed with Christmas goods.
For Rosa it almost seemed as though she had already adopted her new persona. Maria Rodriquez was no longer merely one of the many fake names she’d been using. Maria Rodriquez was the woman she was about to become.
Alice Green had triggered what Rosa now viewed as an irreversible transformation. Sure, she was still a work in progress, like an unfinished portrait. But soon all the component parts would be in place, and the lies she would have to tell forever would be embedded on her psyche.
Plus, the paid assassin known as The Slayer would be consigned to history.
66
Laura
My throat was almost too tight to swallow as I stared at Danny Carver’s computer screen.
He had visited no less than seven online sites in his search for information on the notorious female assassin they called The Slayer.
She apparently worked for the infamous Sinaloa drugs cartel in Mexico and was credited with killing more than fifty people, including police officers, politicians and journalists, as well as rival cartel members.
But in every other sense she was a mystery. The police and the media did not know her true identity or what she looked like. However, rumour had it that she was young and attractive and rode around on a motorbike.
She was by no means the only woman who was making a living as a contract killer in Mexico, which I knew to be one of the most violent countries on earth. There were several others, and their monikers were just as striking – ‘The Angel of Death,’ ‘The Shadow,’ ‘The Devil’s Daughter.’
But it was The Slayer who Carver had been interested in. And I could think of only one reason why that would be.
There was a printer on the desk so I switched it on and selected a page to print off. It was an online news feature about the murder six months ago of a town mayor in the state of Sinaloa, on the west coast of Mexico. The headline read: New Mayor Shot Dead, and it told how the young, idealistic politician, Gisela Serrano, was gunned down outside her home just three weeks after she pledged to root out dishonest government staff and expunge corrupt contracts in lucrative public services. Two bullets were fired into her body by an assassin who rode by on a motorbike.
Police suspected the killing was carried out by La Asesina on the orders of the Sinaloa cartel who feared the mayor’s policies would impact on their businesses.
Once the page was printed I rushed back into the kitchen with it. I removed the tea towel from around Carver’s head and held the sheet of paper in front of his face.
‘Is this the woman who’s working for Slack?’ I said. ‘The co-called Slayer.’
His voice came out in a wheeze. ‘
I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Is that right? Then tell me why you’ve been searching online for information about her. I checked the Google history on your computer. The one you keep hidden in that secret little office that my colleagues obviously failed to discover.’
He shut his eyes and exhaled, as if blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
‘You’ve been rumbled, Carver,’ I said. ‘This woman they call The Slayer rides a motorbike. So does the bitch who shot my partner. She also works for the Sinaloa cartel, which we know has a business arrangement with the firm. You lot distribute drugs for them in the UK.’
He opened his eyes, shook his head, said, ‘You had no fucking right to go on my computer. You don’t have a warrant. Whatever I’ve been doing online is my business.’
I felt a surge of anger, but repressed it.
Instead, I said, ‘I’m about to call this in. So in a little while this house will be swarming with officers, including techies who will seek out whatever you’ve got hidden on that computer and on those phones that you didn’t tell us about.’
I’d found three smartphones in the desk drawer. They were all locked, and passwords were needed to open them. But I couldn’t help thinking, and hoping, that at least one of them had been used to send the threatening text messages.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Carver screamed at me.
‘I already have,’ I said. ‘So there’s no point holding back. Just tell me if Slack did a deal with the cartel to use this woman. And where is she?’
He was shaking now, sweating, and it must have been obvious to him that the game was up. He’d been both unlucky and careless. He should have closed the door to his secret room when he went to get a fresh pack of cigarettes. But, of course, he hadn’t expected me to turn up and zap him with a Taser gun.
‘I’m not saying another word until I speak to a lawyer,’ he said.
The urge to kick him again was strong, but I resisted.
‘Suit yourself,’ I said.
I dashed back into the living room and called DCS Drummond. He answered on the second ring but before I could get a word in he told me that another police officer had been murdered. The news hit me hard, but I was more angry than shocked.
‘WPC Leah Campbell was shot while sitting in a patrol car along the South Bank,’ he said. ‘I’m at the scene now and it’s not pretty. Three bullets were fired into her body from close range, most likely by someone leaning through the side window.’
‘Christ almighty.’
‘She was parked up while waiting for her partner, who, believe it or not, was paying a visit to his girlfriend in a nearby block of flats. He discovered her body when he returned to the car.’
‘And you reckon she’s another victim of our assassin?’
‘I’d put money on it,’ he said. ‘The last text warned us that every cop in London was a potential target, including those on the street and in patrol cars.’
I then told him that I was at Danny Carver’s house in Streatham.
‘What in God’s name are you doing there?’
‘I came to ask him some questions.’
‘But you’re not—’
‘Just listen, guv,’ I cut in. ‘You need to get here as quickly as you can. And bring someone who’s computer savvy.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘I think I know who the assassin is,’ I said.
‘Jesus. Have you got a name?’
‘Not as such. But it looks like she’s a well-known killer and was imported from Mexico to do the job for Slack.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘I went on Carver’s computer.’
‘But his computer is with forensics.’
‘He has more than one, guv. And he keeps this one in a secret little room that wasn’t found during a search of the house.’
‘Holy shit. Give me the address and I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
Drummond turned up at Carver’s house fifteen minutes later along with a bunch of uniformed officers.
By then I had taken steps to protect myself against accusations of assault. I’d put the knife back in the drawer, removed my belt, which I’d used to hog-tie him, and made up a story about what had happened here.
‘I know that strictly speaking I shouldn’t have come here, guv,’ I said to Drummond as he followed me into Carver’s kitchen where the man was still lying on the floor. ‘But after I read the forensic report that described this guy as a computer wizard I suspected he might have been the one who sent the text messages. So I decided to drop in here on the way home. He was just arriving back himself when I approached him on the doorstep and said I wanted to ask him a few questions.
‘But he started threatening me straight away and then became violent so I was forced to use the Taser and then restrain him with the cuffs. I was about to call for back-up when I stumbled on the secret room.’
‘The bitch is lying,’ Carver shouted from the floor. ‘She attacked me for no reason. She was going to torture me.’
Drummond rolled his eyes. ‘Save it, Carver. Detective Jefferson is a fine, upstanding officer and there’s no way she would do something like that.’
He instructed the uniforms to take Carver outside and told me to show him what I’d found.
As we walked along the hall to the living room, he put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Tell me the truth, Laura. Did you attack him? And were you planning to torture him? I’ve already got enough on my plate dealing with the fallout from what your colleague Marsden did. And now this other shooting.’
I shook my head and the lie came easily. ‘Of course not, guv. It happened just like I said it did. You have to believe that.’
He gave me a hard stare. ‘I want to, Laura. I really do.’
‘Well, you can rest assured that I didn’t step over the line, guv. I acted in self-defence. I know I shouldn’t have come here but I’m glad I did. And you will be too when you see what I’ve found.’
A moment later Drummond followed me into the hidden room and then stood behind me as I sat down at the desk and scrolled through the online sites on Carver’s computer that referenced The Slayer.
‘I’m convinced it’s her, guv,’ I said. ‘This woman, The Slayer, also rides a motorbike and I don’t reckon that’s a coincidence.’
‘We need to involve the other law enforcement agencies,’ he said. ‘And the Mexican embassy here in London. We also have to put the squeeze on Carver.’
‘He’s clammed up and wants a lawyer,’ I said.
‘Then we’ll push him hard.’ Drummond took out his mobile phone. ‘The techies are supposed to be on their way but I’m going to chase them up. I want those smartphones unlocked and I want to see everything that’s hidden on that computer.’
‘We should check all flights from Mexico in the days before Dave Prentiss was shot,’ I said. ‘If she is our assassin then I’m guessing that was when she flew in.’
‘I’ll get on it,’ he said as he stepped out of the room and started talking on the phone.
I remained sitting at the desk. My mind was on fire, and when I rubbed the back of my neck I realised that I was sweating.
I found it easy to imagine how Danny Carver must have spent hours in this room. It was cramped, but cosy, and for a computer geek it was the perfect sanctuary.
There were four shelves on the wall above me and they contained a collection of unlabelled CDs, books on computers and a pile of glossy magazines on computing and technology.
In the past it would have struck me as odd that a thug like Carver would be interested in this stuff. But these days criminals saw it as a way to enhance their repertoire. And I didn’t doubt that Carver had used his skills to help Slack generate business and make the firm’s lines of communication more secure.
A few other items were on the desk in addition to the computer and printer. There was a half-full can of Carlsberg, an empty pack of Marlboro cigarettes a
nd a spiral-bound notepad and pen.
I picked up the pad to see if there was anything written inside, but all the pages were blank. However, experience had taught me to always check for indentation writing.
And sure enough there was an impression on the first page that would have been created by the pressure of the pen on the page that had been above it.
I couldn’t quite make it out so I went in search of a pencil. I found one in a kitchen drawer and rested the pad on the worktop while I gently rubbed the lead tip over the indentation marks to bring out the contrast.
The letters and numbers that appeared as if by magic sent a cold rush of blood through my veins.
They also made me believe that we might at last be closing in on the killer.
67
Laura
Danny Carver looked mortified when I held up the notepad to show him what the pencil had revealed.
‘The top sheet might have been torn out but this is what you wrote on it,’ I said. ‘So it’s time to stop fucking us around.’
‘Go screw yourself,’ he snapped. ‘And while you’re at it, call my brief. I’ve given the number to that twat over there in the uniform.’
Carver had been hauled back into the house from the patrol car he’d been put in outside. He was now sitting at the kitchen table, his hands still cuffed behind his back.
Drummond, who was standing next to me, pointed a rigid finger at Carver and said, ‘Were you sent to pick the woman up from the airport? Is that why you scribbled on the pad?’
Carver ignored him and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘What does Bridges mean?’ Drummond persisted. ‘Is it someone’s name or the name of a road or house?’
But the villain remained tight-lipped and was obviously determined not to say anything without getting advice from his solicitor first.
‘Get this piece of scum out of here,’ Drummond told the uniforms who were standing in the doorway.