by Adam Carter
“Bit dangerous,” Baronaire said. “Keeping all that stuff on her home computer.”
“Well she’s hardly going to take it to work with her,” Holly said. “Besides, she always said she was keeping it in the most protected place in the country.”
“That’s true,” Sanders said. “Last guy who tried to break into this flat didn’t even lay a hand on the window before an officer snatched him and broke his legs.”
Holly paused in her work, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She could see no trace of humour in Sanders’s eyes. “You serious?”
“You’re better protected than an air raid shelter.”
Holly did not bother to tell him the war was long over and instead pulled up the information they needed. “Mark Kilburn. I’ve got his address here, but barging into his home might not be the best way to catch him.”
“You let us deal with that,” Baronaire said. “Give me the address and I’ll pay him a visit.”
“And tip off his accomplices?”
There was a twinkle to Baronaire’s eyes. “I can be very discreet.”
Holly slammed the lid down on the laptop. “No,” she told him. “I’m not letting you risk her life just so you can play out your stupid boy fantasies.”
“Holly’s right,” Sanders said. “We need another way. Holly, tell me about Kilburn.”
Reluctantly she raised the lid once more. She could feel Baronaire trying to peer at the information. “He’s married, two kids.”
“So she wouldn’t go to his house then. Where did she meet him?”
“Our usual place,” Holly replied. She would have gone on to tell Sanders that they had a flat they used for their work when the clients did not provide their own location; but she figured he already knew it. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, her heart hammering at speaking to these two men like this, but knowing she had to if she stood any chance of seeing her friend again. “I’m going to get him to the flat. Don’t ask me how, I have my ways. I’m going to get him to the flat and I’m going to get what he knows. You,” she told Sanders, “are going to be waiting outside, ready to come help me in case he pulls a gun. You,” she said to Baronaire, actually having to look at him and not enjoying the experience at all, “are going to stay the hell out of my way, you creep.”
“Now you listen to me, you little ...”
“Sound plan,” Sanders cut in dryly. “I especially like the part about Baronaire being spoken down to by a young woman. It’s about time one of you got back at him.”
“Fine,” Baronaire said angrily, “but I’ve got the perfect idea of where you can be standing, Ed. I’ll go organise it.” And he was gone.
Holly shuddered. “How do you put up with that jerk?”
“He has his uses,” Sanders said.
“That’s all people are to you, right? I guess once you get Tammy back you’re going to interrogate her before deciding whether to keep her on, whether to have me step up as her replacement.”
Sanders stared daggers at her and Holly quailed. “I judged you, Holly, and you were right to shoot me down for it. But don’t be a hypocrite. Don’t think you know the first thing about me.”
He walked out the bedroom and straight to the front door, pulling his collar up to fight the chill outside. Holly did not understand the man, but then she didn’t want to. She just wanted her best friend back. Baronaire and Sanders could go to Hell. If she had to make deals with the Devil then that was what she would have to do.
She just wanted Tammy back safe.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Ho, ho, ho.”
It was five in the morning and there were precious few people on the streets. Inside the houses children had woken early, were busy opening their presents, watching Christmas cartoons or else driving their parents nuts already. Outside, the streets were cold, lonely and depressing. Few cars passed the Father Christmas standing on the street corner: one van pulled up to deliver something, which was peculiar. A group of children were playing in the snow about thirty metres away, although no fresh snow had fallen overnight. A young mother passed the burly, bearded, red man with her four year old daughter in tow. The girl gawped at the Santa as though she had never seen one before.
“Merry Christmas,” the burly man declared.
The young mother smiled, the girl replied with a merry Christmas of her own, and they headed away.
The Santa’s face fell now he was once more alone. “This is the most degrading thing I’ve ever done,” he muttered.
“Holly’s pacing the flat,” Baronaire said into his ear. “I can see her from here, she looks pretty nervous.”
“Keep your distance, you know how you spook her.”
“Just remember to smile, Ed.”
Santa Sanders scowled. He had fixed his radio to the side of his head; it was held on by his beard and hat, both equally as padded so as to hide it from view. Holly had made the call and had convinced their target to come out to meet her. Sanders had been impressed; she had cried, panicked, almost shouted, telling Kilburn how Tammy had vanished. Kilburn had clearly told her he didn’t care and not to phone him again. That was when Holly had wept properly and told him if he didn’t come meet her she would be on his doorstep within the hour. The thought of having a weeping woman screaming at his front door about a missing prostitute Kilburn visited regularly hadn’t gone down too well; especially with Kilburn’s family inside lounging in front of the TV.
They had been waiting a while, however, for Kilburn had said he wouldn’t be able to get away until five o’clock. Sanders was hoping he would turn up soon: he was growing somewhat irksome under all that padding.
He espied a flash of green at last and a Cadillac pulled up not far away. Sanders strolled over with his plastic bucket clattering with loose change. He watched a man emerge from the car. He was dressed smart-casual, which meant he was a businessman, probably upper-class. Even on Christmas Day to meet with a hooker he had pretty much thrown on a suit. He was white, around thirty, with a receding hairline and of no extraordinary appearance. His was a face instantly forgettable, and probably the most interesting thing about his life was his visits to Tammy.
Sanders couldn’t stand him already.
“Ho, ho, ho, young man,” he said, shoving the bucket under his nose. “Donation for the orphans?”
Kilburn did not seem to even notice him as he hurried past, heading up to the flat where Holly waited. He was in just the right frame of mind, Sanders reflected, and spoke into his radio.
“He’s on his way, Holly. Just remember what we need out of him.”
“I know my job, Mister Sanders,” she replied and snapped off the radio.
“Ouch,” Baronaire said, and Sanders could hear him smiling.
“Keep an eye on her,” Sanders grumbled. “If anything suspicious happens down here I’ll let you know.”
Holly’s turning the radio off was annoying, yet Sanders could not help but feel it was done on purpose. That she neither liked nor trusted the two cops was no secret and Sanders could see her trying to sort this problem herself. He had no idea what she would be saying to Kilburn, but with Baronaire watching perhaps things wouldn’t get too out of control. If Kilburn got away Sanders knew so too would be going his best chance of finding Tammy alive. That Kilburn could be sitting down on Christmas morning opening presents with his kids while only a day earlier had been in the woods burying Tammy’s body ...
He shook his head. Dwelling on things was not helping the matter. He took a deep breath and cast a glance about him, taking in the street once more. Nothing was out of place and he wished he had a bell to be ringing, just to annoy any sane people who were still asleep at five in the morning.
He saw a panda car heading towards him at a slow crawl and ignored it. The car slowed as it neared him and the officer in the passenger seat leaned out the window. “Merry Christmas, Santa.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Sanders replied dryly.
“What charity you
collecting for?”
“Orphans.”
“Orphans isn’t a charity, pops.”
Sanders realised then he hadn’t actually thought through his disguise very well. Baronaire had found him the bucket, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember which charity it had plastered to the side.
Still, there was an easy way out of it. “Read the bucket, smart guy,” Sanders said, thrusting it in the officer’s face.
“Wow,” the officer said slowly, “that’s some charity you’re working for, pops. I didn’t realise Woolworths even sold orphans.”
Sanders groaned. This was all he needed.
The door opened and the officer got out. The driver shut off the engine and came around to stand with him. “Now, we really don’t want any trouble, pops, not on a day like this. So what say you give us the bucket and head off home. We’ll donate the money to a real charity for you, how about that?”
Sanders was agitated now. If Kilburn should look out the window and see two police officers standing at the bottom of his window, they’d lose any chance of seeing Tammy again. “You need to leave,” Sanders said.
“Why’s that, pops?”
“And stop calling me pops.” Sanders set down the bucket and fumbled for his ID, which was difficult with thick black gloves. He could barely hold the handle of the bucket, and sifting through pockets was next to impossible. “DCI Sanders, I’m on an undercover op.”
“Sure you are, pops.”
Damn it, now he couldn’t pull the glove off; it had frozen to his hand!
“Left pocket,” he snapped. “Just look in ... Oh for God’s sake, pull my finger.”
The two officers looked to one another and Sanders wondered whether things could get any worse.
“Maybe we should continue this down at the station,” one of the officers said. “Give you a chance to cool off or sober up or something.”
A scream broke the early morning chill then. For a moment Sanders thought it had come from the flat, that he could somehow hear it, but then he realised the radio had turned back on and it was Holly shouting down the line.
The officers had clearly heard the scream also, for one of them frowned. “You wired up or something?”
“Oh for ...” Forgetting the annoying task of finding his ID, Sanders reached into an inside pocket and pulled free a firearm. He had taken the sawn-off shotgun from the bunker, for he had a wide collection of confiscated weapons of all descriptions. “Stay here and wait for orders,” he told the officers, not giving them a chance to react at all to his sudden gun. He span, intending to rush into the flat, but something struck him full on the cheek. At first he thought someone had blown his face off with a similar weapon, but the attack was cold, and he saw the kids he had noticed earlier playing in the snow. They had several snowballs in hand, ready for another volley.
Their faces froze when they saw the sawn-off shotgun and fled, wailing.
Sanders ignored them and ran to the door. Holly had stopped screaming.
*
Kilburn had reacted badly to Holly’s attempted blackmail. Baronaire could not make out the words as he watched the two of them from the window sill, but Holly was at the same time angry and nervous. She was giving orders, that much was clear, and Kilburn was reacting in a very hostile manner. For a few minutes they had just argued, not even really shouting, but suddenly Kilburn had gone for her, his hands clasping about her throat. Baronaire had considered interfering, but he would have been a hypocrite to stop every man who attacked defenceless women. Besides, this was her operation and she didn’t even want him there. He thought about just waving from the window and silently asking whether she wanted him to interfere yet.
Holly’s flailing hands found an empty vase and smashed it over Kilburn’s head. He staggered and she pulled out the radio, shouting something. Kilburn was on her again, and she screamed. He knocked the radio from her hand, not seeming to recognise what it was. Baronaire glanced to the ground, was surprised to see uniformed policemen; but there was no sign of Sanders. That meant he was already on his way up.
It was five in the morning, which meant the Sun would be up before long and Baronaire’s powers would diminish. But thankfully it was the height of winter and, grateful for the extra few hours of darkness it would bring him, Baronaire was able to drift through the cracks of the window, re-forming as he reappeared in the flat. Neither Holly nor Kilburn had noticed his entrance. Kilburn had a piece of wood in his hand, some form of ornament it looked like, and he swung it down to crack Holly’s skull.
Baronaire caught it mid-swing, startling Kilburn.
“Not nice to hit a lady,” Baronaire said, yanking the wood away, at the same time landing his left fist in the man’s jaw. Kilburn went flying, crashing into the far wall. Baronaire tossed the wood and looked down upon where Holly lay, her lip split, her eyes shocked. “And by lady,” Baronaire added, “I mean lady of the night.”
“Yeah, you’re so funny,” she mumbled, getting up without any assistance. Kilburn was on his feet by this point also and heading for the door. Holly went to go after him, but Baronaire took hold of her arm and shook his head slightly.
Just as Kilburn reached for the handle the door burst in and a fierce-looking Santa exploded into the room, levelling a shotgun.
“Jesus!”
Sanders sneered at him. “Amazing what you can find in a cracker nowadays. You should’ve seen the joke that came with it. ‘How much damage can a shotgun do to a man’s face?’”
“Wow,” Baronaire said, “that’s some sense of humour you have there, Ed.”
“Not much else to do standing down there freezing my ...”
“You people are insane,” Holly said, looking from one man to the other. She strode up to Kilburn, placed a hand upon the shotgun and lowered it. “He’s not even armed.”
Sanders grunted. “Where’s Tammy?” he asked Kilburn.
Kilburn was falling into a state of shock and Baronaire could see they needed to get their answers quickly. In truth he was more concerned with Sanders’s entrance. WetFish dealt in a lot of things and Sanders had once told him the lower level of the bunker contained storerooms filled with money, drugs and weapons they had seized from various sources. If an officer ever needed evidence to fit people up, they would fill out a request form and Sanders would release to them whatever they needed. Baronaire had no idea just how much was stored down on the lower level, but no request had ever been made that Sanders could not fulfil.
But it was rare for Sanders to allow his officers guns. The officers of WetFish did not run around shooting the bad guys; their attacks were more insidious in nature. Officers could only be issued firearms under express orders from the DCI, and even then only in exceptional circumstances. Baronaire had worked for Sanders for ten years now and had only on four or five occasions had he ever seen an officer with a gun. For Sanders to issue himself a sawn-off shotgun just to rescue the corpse of one of his informants was worrying.
Perhaps it was the time of year. Perhaps it brought back terrible memories for him. Baronaire could not say, but made a note to look into the matter.
“Answer Santa’s question,” Holly demanded.
“I don’t know where Tammy is,” Kilburn said, terrified. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“What did you do with the body?” Baronaire asked.
“Body?”
The man was scared, and instantly Baronaire could see he had no idea what they were talking about. He wasn’t their man, which put them back to square one. “He didn’t do it,” Baronaire sighed. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time here.”
Holly was aghast. “What do you mean he ...? How can you possible know that!”
“Damn,” Sanders swore, lowering the gun.
“Is Tammy dead?” Kilburn ventured nervously.
“You tell me,” Holly countered.
“Oh God.”
“Tell us something,” Sanders said. “Tell us something useful or Santa’s
gonna put you on his naughty list.”
Holly glowered at him but spoke to Kilburn. “When you saw her, how did she seem? Was she all right? Did anyone follow her to you?”
“I hope not. I ... She was a little down,” Kilburn replied. “Said something about chardonnay.”
“Chardonnay?” Holly asked. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I thought she wanted a drink, but she said no, forget it.”
Holly frowned. “Tammy doesn’t drink.”
“I don’t know anything,” Kilburn said. “Just that she said she’d check it out.”
“Chardonnay,” Baronaire mused.
“What?” Sanders asked.
“Ed, you remember couple a years back we raided that hotel? Was running an immigration and prostitution racket.”
“Yeah,” Sanders said, not understanding. Then his expression changed. “Chardonnay.”
Baronaire nodded. “Maybe she didn’t say she was checking out Chardonnay. Maybe she was checking in.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Holly said. “Why would Tammy go to some grotty hotel?”
“It’s not grotty any more,” Baronaire said. “After we shut it down it lay dormant for a while. But six months ago it was bought by new owners. They changed its name to Fancy Nantucket, which is a pretty stupid name for a hotel, but there you go.”
“Still,” Holly said, “why would she be in a hotel?”
“Same reason any whore would be in a hotel,” Baronaire said. “We just need to figure out who she’s with and why she didn’t tell anybody.”
It was blackmail. Baronaire had known that from the beginning, they all had. Everything was falling into place and it wasn’t looking any different the more they discovered. But now at least they had somewhere they might at least find her. Or find where she had been days ago. That Tammy was dead was without doubt, but perhaps they could still find her killer before the trail went cold. It was the least they could do for an informant, Baronaire thought.
But it was daylight now and Baronaire’s powers were fleeing him rapidly. If he could sleep through the daylight hours Baronaire would have gladly done so, but being as human as everyone else was just something he had learned to live with.