Nine Lives (Sam Archer 1)

by Tom Barber

SEVEN

  Back-up arrived quickly. Within thirty minutes, the inside of the house was jammed tight like there was a party inside, except all the revellers were detectives from the CID and Forensics. The two surviving suspects had already been escorted to police cars outside and taken back to the ARU’s headquarters for questioning.

  Inside the living room, Archer finished up a conversation with a detective who’d asked him to talk his way through their entry. After shaking hands with the man, the ARU officer turned and moved to the front door.

  He needed some air.

  Outside on the street, it was just as busy. There were numerous police vehicles and white vans parked in the road, many of them parked at an angle across the street. It didn’t matter; nothing was getting through. Yellow police tape had been pulled up behind them, wrapped around lamp-posts, blocking off the street and holding back the gathering crowd of curious residents and passers-by.

  To his left, Archer could see that some news vans had arrived; they’d got here quickly, just as they always seemed to do. Looking up, he saw a helicopter was also circling overhead. He didn’t know if it was a police chopper or one of theirs.

  Amongst the mass of vehicles and people gathered in the street, Archer saw Mac talking with a blonde woman in white overalls from Forensics. The sergeant noticed Archer watching them, and waved the younger man over.

  ‘This is Sam Archer, one of my men,’ Mac told the lady as Archer joined them. ‘He was the one who found the bags and the dead body.’

  The woman ripped off her latex gloves one by one, and offered her hand.

  ‘Kim Collins. Forensics.’

  Archer shook it. Mac was holding a piece of paper in his hand, the photographs of the nine suspects. Lifting it so Collins and Archer could see, he pointed to three of the mug-shots one-by-one.

  ‘All three of these boys were on the list. Numbers 2, 3 and 7. See.’

  Archer looked closer. Number Seven was the guy they arrested downstairs, Two the man that Mac had killed. Number Three was the one that Archer had cuffed on the upper floor. The same guy whose photo he’d found himself staring at in the Briefing Room earlier.

  He looks so familiar, Archer thought, staring at the black and white photo.

  Where the hell have I seen him before?

  Keeping his questions to himself for now, he turned to Mac. ‘Did we take someone else’s assignment?’

  Mac shook his head. ‘I spoke with Cobb. This place wasn’t on the list to be raided.’

  ‘Talk about luck,’ added Collins, wiping her brow with the back of her un-gloved hand.

  Archer looked over at her, her white uniform, and the horrific memory of the bathroom covered in blood flooded back into his mind.

  ‘Do we know anything about the body on the rail?’ he asked.

  ‘My team’s in there right now, trying to figure it out. He’s in a real mess though. But I examined the bathroom myself earlier, and found something.’

  ‘What was that?’ Mac asked.

  ‘Aside from the victim’s, there’s only one other set of fingerprints in the blood. Whoever killed him didn’t wear gloves. He either didn’t expect to get caught or just didn’t care if he does.’

  She paused.

  ‘Someone really went to work on him. They pulled out his fingernails, gouged out his eyes, cut off his genitalia, flayed his skin. I’ve seen some bad ones and this is up there with the worst.’

  Mac turned to Archer.

  ‘I want the whole squad back at the Unit pronto. Our priorities just changed.’

  Collins tilted her head as something caught her attention. A member of her team was calling her.

  ‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ she said.

  The two men nodded and she departed, pulling another set of gloves from her pocket as she returned to the house.

  Watching her go, Archer turned to Mac. He went to speak, but he saw that the older man’s eyes had narrowed, looking past him at something.

  Archer twisted round to see what it was.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ he muttered.

  Thirty yards away, a member of the team was sat slumped on the back of a police van, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring ahead with shock.

  Chalky.

  There was a constant buzz of movement around him from other police officers and forensics, but he remained motionless, lost in thought. Archer sighed. The near-escape with the shotgun was written all over his friend’s face.

  ‘One way to cure a hangover,’ Mac said quietly, watching him.

  ‘So the gun just misfired? Did the guy reload?’ Archer asked. He hadn’t seen the incident, but Porter had filled him in on what happened.

  Mac nodded. ‘He racked a round. Shell in the chamber. You heard the other blasts, kid. That gun was working just fine.’

  He looked closer at Chalky.

  ‘Tell you what, he’s got nine lives, that boy. Someone upstairs must love him. I thought he was done.’

  Behind them, Porter stuck his head out of a wound-down window from inside their police car. He had a mobile phone in his hand.

  ‘Mac?’ he called. ‘It’s Director Cobb. He wants to speak to you.’

  Mac nodded, turning to Archer.

  ‘We need to get Chalk out of here, Arch. There are cameras everywhere. I don’t want that look on his face reappearing on the midday news. Get him in the car and we’ll go back to the Unit.’

  Archer nodded. Mac moved over to Porter and took the phone from his hand to talk to Cobb.

  Taking a deep breath, Archer walked towards his friend.

  Chalky didn’t seem to register his approach, still staring at the ground. Arriving in front of him, Archer stood still.

  ‘Looks like you owe me a tenner,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Silence. Chalky didn’t respond or show any sign that he’d heard him.

  ‘Mac told me what happened. How are you feeling?’

  Pause.

  ‘How do you think I feel?’ he replied quietly.

  ‘You need to straighten up, Chalk. There're a load of cameras over there. The whole country will be watching this. We don’t want you ending up on the six o’clock bulletin.’

  For the first time, Chalky looked up at him. Archer hid his surprise. His friend looked as if he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. He looked physically and emotionally drained, all from a cocktail of shock, adrenaline and a bad hangover.

  ‘It was an inch from my face, Arch,’ he said. ‘I could see inside the barrel. I shouldn’t be here. I should be painted all over the wall in the house.’

  ‘Well, you’re not. You’re still alive,’ Archer said. Stepping forward, he put his palm under his friend’s armpit, helping him up. ‘C’mon mate, we’re going back to the Unit. We’ll get the kettle on and fix you up.’

  It was weak at best, but Archer didn’t know what else to say. It seemed to work however, as Chalky nodded, walking with no resistance alongside his friend towards the black Ford, away from any news-cameras searching for a scoop and the house that should have been his grave.

  However, the two men were unaware that it was too late.

  Someone was already photographing them.

  From a vantage point across the street, a camera shutter clicked as a woman snapped a series of photographs, focusing tight on the two officers walking to the car. The shot was a close-up, the woman aiming the lens to make sure she caught their weapons, their features and most importantly, the badge on the right shoulder of their navy-blue uniform.

  Satisfied, she lowered the camera. She had golden skin with long brown hair and a pair of emerald green eyes that completed her Middle Eastern beauty. Dressed in a dark work-suit with a white shirt, she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a conference or a business meeting, smart and official yet effortlessly beautiful.

  She was on the second floor in a house across the street, leaning on a table that had been pushed up against the window to serve as a make-shift stand. Lifting the came
ra again, she tracked the lens back on the two young policemen as they arrived by a black 4x4. She pushed the button, snapping two more shots in quick succession. She thought for a moment, then took two more of the licence plates of the car.

  Suddenly, a noise came from behind her. In the same instant, she snapped around, a pistol in her hand that she’d pulled from a holster on her hip, reacting with electrifying speed.

  She waited, the gun aimed at the doorway, her aim as steady as a rock.

  But it was nothing. Just the boiler turning on, or a mouse running around in the attic, the kind of subtle noises that houses always made.

  Slowly, she lowered the pistol, flicking on the safety with her thumb and slotting it back in its holster on her dark suit trousers. Turning back to the desk, she clicked open the side of the camera and pulled out a memory card.

  A small netbook was resting on the table beside her. She clicked the memory card into the side of the computer, and waited for it to load. As she did so, she found herself looking at a framed photograph beside the laptop. A young couple, smiling arm-in-arm on a beach.

  A series of photographs started appearing on the screen as they uploaded to the computer. Snapshots. Two unkempt men, hands cuffed behind their backs, being pushed towards a police car. Shots of the policemen in the navy blue overalls, the men with the MP5 sub-machine guns. She’d got some good close-ups. One of the officers was a good-looking young guy with blond hair and blue eyes. The woman had found herself staring at him through the view-finder of the camera. He seemed almost too handsome to be a cop, more suited to a movie set or a billboard. He stood out, a real contrast to all the other dark-featured hard-faced men down there. The rest of the photographs uploaded and were all of this police task force. She wasn’t interested in anybody else.

  Reaching down, she pulled a phone from her pocket and pressed Redial, lifting it to her ear. The phone rang twice, then connected. There was a lot of noise in the background from the other end. She put her other finger to her free ear to close out any other sounds, listening closely.

  ‘I’ve got some news,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police found three of them. Two were arrested. I think one was killed.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Some safe-house near Dominick’s place. I had no idea they were here. I saw it on the news. I rushed over quick as I could and took up surveillance.’

  A pause.

  ‘Was he there?’

  ‘No.’

  There was another pause on the other end of the line. She took the opportunity to tap some keys on the keyboard with her free hand, forming an email.

  ‘I’m sending over some photos,’ she said. ‘Most of them are of policemen from a unit I haven’t seen before. I think these guys made the bust. They could be a real problem if they get to Dominick before we do.’

  ‘Or a solution,’ the voice said.

  She frowned, as she hit Send.

  She didn’t see how that statement could work.

  ‘Listen,’ the voice continued. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

  Inside the hotel restaurant and sitting by the window, Dominick Farha had just finished an egg and toast breakfast with a tall glass of orange juice. It had been surprisingly good and he’d enjoyed every bite.

  Around him, the restaurant was busy with other guests taking seats and breaking their fast. Some were moving along a buffet across the room by the wall, loading up on yoghurts and muffins, while others waited at their table for a waitress to bring them a cooked meal. Farha was holding a newspaper in front of him, examining the headlines as he drank from a thick cup of coffee. He was still wearing his sunglasses, which made reading the paper a slight challenge, but it reduced the chances of being spotted or recognised by anyone looking for him.

  As he read the articles and headlines in the broadsheet, one thing pleased him.

  Neither he, nor any other members of the cell, were in any of the paper’s reports.

  He smiled.

  After today, that was going to change.

  To his left, he suddenly sensed a stirring in the room, one that pulled his attention from the newspaper. He saw a score of other diners sitting to his left watching something across the restaurant, momentarily ignoring the food on their plates. He lowered the broadsheet to see what was so interesting.

  It was a television. An aerial view from a helicopter of a street that Farha instantly recognised. There was a banner headline that ran across the bottom of the screen, bold black text on a yellow background.

  Breaking News: Armed man killed in London police raid. Explosive materials, weapons and dead body found in house.

  He immediately felt his stomach clench, his pulse quickening.

  How the hell did they find them?

  He glanced around, left and right, slowly. Have they found me?

  No one seemed to be paying any extra attention to him. They were all more interested in the report on the screen.

  He took slow breaths, thinking hard as he lifted the broadsheet back up in front of him, covering his face.

  Then he made a quick decision.

  Lowering the newspaper and leaving it on the table, he grabbed the black holdall from under the table by his foot, rose and strode out of the restaurant. He was headed straight back to his hotel room and the television inside.

  He needed to watch the news alone.

  And think.