Despite the broken bones, Jammer still would not accept submission. His mouth curled into a snarl. ‘You have no idea who you’re fucking with.’
‘Nor do you,’ Reeve rumbled. He was filled with a sudden, visceral loathing of the man before him. Jammer was scum, pure and simple. He could kill him. He should kill him. A net benefit to the nation. It would take only seconds . . .
He fought back the urge. Doing so would draw unwanted attention – the police, even SC9. And he knew Connie would be horrified. Instead he leaned down. Jammer shrank back, eyes wide in fear. Reeve let him feel it for a moment – then his right arm lashed out. An axe-chop struck Jammer’s neck. The drug dealer slumped unconscious.
Reeve ran back to the house, going through the rear gate. Brownlow had shut his door; he knocked. The older man nervously opened it. Reeve entered. ‘Is everyone okay?’
‘Yes, we’re all fine,’ Brownlow replied. ‘What happened to Jammer?’
‘He won’t bother you again. He won’t bother anyone for a while.’
‘Alex!’ Connie, from the main hall. He pocketed the gun and hurried to her. Bloodstains marred the shabby decor, but the men who had left them were gone. ‘Oh, my God,’ she cried. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Reeve lied. His wounded arm felt as if molten lead were being dripped on to it. ‘Where did the other guys go?’
‘They ran off. Where’s Jammer?’
‘On the street. I called an ambulance for him.’
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Generous of you.’
‘It was better than a hearse. Look, I have to get out of here. The police are bound to come and ask questions. Just tell them you didn’t see anything – Jaz and Philip too. Oh, and you’d better clean that up.’ He indicated the bloody marks. ‘Don’t let them into any of your flats, and you’ll be fine. Okay, I’ve got to go.’ He ducked through her door and grabbed his coat, then went to the exit.
‘Wait, wait!’ Connie cried. ‘Are you coming back?’
‘I’ll call you later. What’s your phone number?’
She recited it, then frowned. ‘But you don’t have a phone.’
‘I do now. See you later.’ With that, he left.
‘Bye,’ the bewildered Connie called as he went.
Reeve quickly rounded the house to the side street. A look towards the bridge. Jammer was still unconscious, but had been found. A man and woman crouched beside him. He used the key fob to unlock Jammer’s Mercedes GLE Coupé and got in.
The man made a phone call. Reeve started the SUV and unhurriedly pulled away. He didn’t want the couple to take any notice of him as he drove past. Neither did.
Where to now?
There was one place he felt reasonably sure he wouldn’t be disturbed. He stopped a few streets away. Recalling an address from memory, he entered it into the satnav. The route appeared on the screen. He set off again, heading for Jammer’s home.
CHAPTER 25
Jahmir Haxhi had done well from his trade, Reeve saw. The satnav led him to a new and stylish apartment block in Nine Elms. He wasn’t an expert in London property values, but Jammer’s place didn’t look cheap. The rewards of vice.
Unsure how to get in, he drove to the garage access. It opened as he approached. Either a plate reader at the entrance, or a radio tag in the car. He entered, looking for Jammer’s flat number.
The matching space was empty. Reeve parked, then checked Jammer’s key ring. Three keys: two brass, the other shiny steel. He imagined the steel was for the flat, the brass pair for the building’s exterior doors. He hoped, at least. If there was a keypad entry lock, he didn’t know the code . . .
He got out. Move as if you own the place. He marched to a flight of concrete stairs and jogged up them. The suppressed gun was awkward inside his coat. A security door blocked the top. No keypad. He tried one of the brass keys. It didn’t turn – but to his relief the second did.
Reeve went through into a marble-floored lobby. More relief. The place was not so high-end as to have a concierge. He wouldn’t have to explain his presence. There were security cameras, though; he kept his head low as he went to a lift.
Sixth floor. Flat 608. He tried the steel key. The door opened. He slipped through.
The flat was expensively appointed, but not large. The main room was a wedge, one side with full-length windows to a balcony. The Thames was visible between more towers beyond. A kitchenette, barely bigger than Connie’s. Reeve stood still, listening. No warning chirps from an alarm demanding a code.
More importantly, no sounds of other occupants. Jammer didn’t seem likely to be in a relationship, but there was no accounting for taste. Reeve’s instinct was correct, though. He was alone.
He checked the two other doors. Bathroom and bedroom. The latter was decorated with near-pornographic monochrome posters of women. Back into the living room. A large leather sofa faced both the windows and a giant television. A clutter of set-top boxes and game consoles sat beneath the latter.
Something was missing; he hadn’t seen a computer. He couldn’t imagine Jammer only using his phone. Was there a safe?
He searched the flat. At the back of a kitchen cabinet, he found it. The safe was a dull-grey block, bolted to the rear wall. It was not big enough to contain a laptop. What did Jammer keep inside?
It had a keypad lock. He tried the phone’s lock code. It didn’t work. There were other ways to get in, though. The safe was consumer-level, enough to foil an opportunistic burglar.
But far from impenetrable.
Reeve had trained to crack numerous safes, including some of government-level security. This was a toy in comparison. He found a knife in the cutlery drawer. Another cupboard had contained a toolbox. He took out a screwdriver, then returned to the safe.
The knife slipped down the door’s side until it met the main lock. He jiggled it until it caught on the mechanism. Holding it in place, he jabbed the screwdriver into the narrow gap above the door. He forced it upwards. The tip scraped over metal, then dug in. He pushed harder to lever the door outwards. A faint creak as it shifted – and the mechanism moved. The knife twitched in his hand. He eased his hold a little. It held in place.
He released the screwdriver. The door did not return to its original position. Reeve clenched his right fist – then pounded it on the safe’s top. Metal clunked inside it.
He turned the handle – and the door popped open.
A faint smile. With security, you got what you paid for, and Jammer had cheaped out. He emptied the contents.
A box of bullets. Several plastic bags containing not drugs, as he first thought, but banknotes. Pounds, euros, dollars – and some he needed a moment to identify. Albanian leks. Added together, about sixty thousand pounds.
An iPad. He pushed the home button. The screen lit up with a wallpaper of hundred-dollar bills, demanding a passcode.
Nothing to lose. He tried the one from Jammer’s phone.
It worked.
Unlike the phone, the tablet was sparsely populated with apps. He brought up the most recently used. Some kind of accounting program; he wasn’t familiar with it.
He could guess what it was used for, though. Jammer had been tracking his drug deals. Reeve scrolled through the pages. A lot of money was involved. If he was reading it right, Jammer brought in over sixteen thousand pounds a week. He kept about a quarter. The rest went to someone named only as ‘VB’; presumably his supplier.
There were other names. And addresses, phone numbers, Jammer’s whole network popping up at the tap of a finger. Brownlow was not the only person he had cuckooed. At least twelve other properties had been co-opted. The police would probably be very interested in the file . . .
He put down the tablet. Maybe when he was done in London. Right now, he had other priorities.
The safe’s remaining contents were of littl
e interest. Some gold jewellery, a passport, bank paperwork. The money would certainly be useful. He would secure some in a storage locker or similar as soon as possible. The other items were less important. At least now he was armed. If he met SC9 again, he wouldn’t be defenceless.
Reeve sat on the sofa, gazing across London, then took out the phone. Several missed calls: probably Jammer’s battered companions wondering where he was. He ignored the alerts, instead phoning Connie. She answered, wary at being rung from an unfamiliar number. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ he replied.
‘Alex!’ Relief filled her voice. ‘Are you okay? Where are you?’
‘Jammer’s flat. He won’t need it for a while.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘I broke his ankle.’
She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Ow. Yes, that’ll hospitalise him for a couple of days, at least. But what about you? How’s your arm?’
‘Sore.’
‘I’m not surprised. It should be in a sling.’
‘Not an option, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you coming back here? The police haven’t called.’
‘They will. An incident like that, they usually canvas the area the following day. I don’t think Jammer will say anything, but someone might have seen me. It’s better that I’m not at your place. If I’m arrested, the people looking for me will find me.’
She was silent for a long moment. ‘So where’s Jammer’s flat?’
‘Nine Elms.’
Another pause. ‘I want to come over.’
His reply was immediate. ‘No. It’s not safe.’
‘And here is? There are bullet holes in Philip’s walls, for God’s sake. And I’m not exactly used to lying to the police. What if they realise I’m hiding something?’
‘They’re not going to interrogate you. You just say you don’t know anything, and that’s the end of it.’
‘I have a horrible feeling “the end of it” is a long way off. What if Jammer’s friends come back?’
‘They won’t.’
‘And you’re sure of that how, exactly?’
She was right; he couldn’t ensure the dealer’s associates wouldn’t seek revenge. ‘Okay,’ he said, with reluctance. ‘Come over.’ He gave her the address.
Fifty minutes later, the doorbell buzzed. Reeve went to the intercom. ‘Yeah?’ he said, trying to sound like Jammer in case it wasn’t Connie.
‘I’m here.’ It was her. He buzzed her in. She soon arrived, looking around in surprise. ‘Wow. He’s a scumbag, but he’s got a nice flat.’
Reeve noticed she had brought a small suitcase. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Your clothes. And some of mine. I brought some other things you might need, too.’
‘Such as?’
‘You said about needing disguises, so I found anything that could be useful. More makeup, old glasses, that kind of thing. Oh, and,’ she went on, ‘my first-aid stuff. And the painkillers and antibiotics. Something else I thought you might need.’
A faint laugh in response. ‘Yeah. I might.’
She put down the case. ‘Let me look at your arm.’
They sat on the sofa so Connie could remove the dressing. ‘Well, that’s not as bad as I was afraid of,’ she said, relieved. ‘The stitches are all intact. Looks like the antibiotics are doing their job as well. You really, really need to take it easy, though. Like . . . by not getting into any more fights? I mean, you’ve had three in as many days.’
‘I know. Not what I’d hoped for.’ He puffed out a breath, dispirited. ‘None of this is what I’d hoped for.’
Connie gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Do you really think you’ll be able to find this guy tomorrow?’
‘I have to,’ Reeve said firmly. ‘Otherwise . . . I honestly have no idea what I’ll do.’
‘We’ll work it out.’ He gave her a quizzical look. ‘I want to help you,’ she said. ‘You helped me – you’ve helped everyone in the house. Also . . . it’s my job. And right now,’ she cleaned his wound, ‘you need my help.’
He twitched even at her gentle touch. The injury was still tender. ‘I do. Thanks.’
A smile, then she looked around the flat again. ‘I like it. It’s hardly any bigger than mine, but the view’s better.’
‘Still only one bedroom, though,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ll take the sofa.’
‘I hope there are clean sheets. I don’t want to sleep on Jammer’s bedclothes.’
He grinned. ‘There are some sheets in a cupboard.’
‘For squatters, we’re quite tidy, aren’t we?’ Her amusement was replaced by pensiveness. ‘We are breaking the law by being here, aren’t we? What if the police come round?’
‘It’s in Jammer’s best interest not to tell them anything. If he’s smart, he’ll say he got hit from behind and didn’t see anybody.’
‘If he’s smart,’ she said. ‘Which I don’t think he is.’
‘Maybe not, but he’s got all this,’ a wave at their surroundings, ‘without drawing attention. He’s streetwise, at least.’
‘A certain rat-like cunning, hmm?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
She re-bandaged his wound. ‘Okay, that’s done. Does it feel all right?’
Reeve flexed his arm. It hurt more than it had earlier. That wasn’t surprising. Connie was right. One day without a fight would be great . . .
He couldn’t guarantee that. Not knowing what he faced. ‘Yeah, it’s good,’ he told her.
She didn’t seem convinced, but said nothing. Instead, she stood. ‘I’d better sort out the bedroom, then. Big day tomorrow.’
‘Yeah,’ Reeve said. ‘Big day.’
CHAPTER 26
Maxwell strolled through the rain along the Thames Path, heading northwards for the football ground. His pace was languid; his mind anything but. If he was right, Reeve would try to intercept him here. But when? And what would he do when he found him?
His team were fully justified in having doubts. His plan was based entirely on his interpretation of Reeve’s reactions at Mordencroft Hall. If he had misread them, his former protégé might not come at all.
Or he would come, but not to question him. To kill him.
Other fans around him walked through Bishops Park towards Craven Cottage. Was Reeve amongst them? Disguise was one of his specialities . . .
Most of those nearby he could immediately discount. Too old, too young, too short, too large. Disguise had its limits, even to experts. He doubted Reeve had found the resources to make facial prosthetics. Those who fit the bill physically earned closer scrutiny. Their faces flashed through his mental database. Jaw too narrow, eyes too close together, not him, not him, no.
Reeve was not in his immediate vicinity.
Locke was, though. He trailed fifteen metres behind, on a parallel path beyond some bushes. Operative 61 stood out, and not just because one arm was in a sling. His stiff distaste at the people surrounding him was clear. ‘Harrison,’ Maxwell whispered, voice picked up by the little microphone concealed in his collar. ‘You look like someone just served you a dog turd on toast. Try to blend in.’
‘This is hardly my usual milieu,’ came the reply through a tiny earpiece receiver.
‘Handy undercover tip: when you’re going to a footie match, don’t use words like “milieu”,’ Maxwell told him. Another voice in the earpiece; Stone’s mocking laugh. ‘Okay, I’m heading for Stevenage Road.’
He turned from the river, following the path along the ground’s end wall. The throng grew thicker as fans coming through the park converged. Black and white predominated, hats and scarves and shirts in Fulham’s home colours. A much smaller number wore blue and white: the visiting Huddersfield fans. Dotted amongst both were spots of hi-vis yellow; stewards and police officers. Tr
ouble at football matches was quickly stepped on.
He scanned the crowd again. Nobody triggered his warning radar. Everyone slowed to go through the park gate. They joined still more fans beyond. Stevenage Road was closed to traffic on match day, people milling along the street. There were more police here, an officer clopping past on horseback.
‘I see you, Tony.’ Blake’s voice in his ear. Operative 62 was on the road’s far side, pretending to make a phone call. Maxwell nodded to him, then continued towards the ground.
Barriers channelled the away supporters to one set of gates. He went past; his ticket was for turnstile forty-nine, at the north end. The crowd swelled around him. A typical match would see about eighteen thousand fans in attendance. This looked above average. More people would make it harder for them to spot Reeve.
And harder for Reeve to spot him.
He continued northwards. There was a hum of excitement in the air, spontaneous chants breaking out. Normally he would have been caught up in it; he had supported Fulham since childhood. He had been looking forward to catching a live match before the season ended. Today, though, tension overrode anticipation. The crowd obscured faces as he neared the turnstiles. Reeve might be only yards away . . .
Sudden paranoia made Maxwell alter course through the throng. A glance back. Nobody was paying him any attention. His wariness eased, just a little. Reeve wasn’t nearby—
A distorted crackle in his earpiece. Stone, too loud in his excitement. ‘I see him!’
Reeve walked with the fans heading southwards on Stevenage Road. This was his third time traversing the route. He had started his patrol before the turnstiles opened. One end of the ground to the other, and slightly beyond, watching for his quarry. So far he hadn’t seen Maxwell – or his former teammates.
The crowd grew thicker as kick-off time neared. He blended in – he hoped. A Fulham hat hid his hair, and he wore a jacket ‘borrowed’ from Jammer. The frames of Connie’s old glasses were unisex enough not to stand out. He had removed the lenses, the black surrounds breaking up his features. Again, he had used makeup to distort his facial contours.
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