The Winter Man

by Perry Bhandal

  Horowitz tried to slip past but Blake punched him in the throat, dropping him to the floor. Gagging, he struggled to his knees and pulled himself up, stumbling down the corridor in a desperate attempt to escape.

  The first orderly disentangled himself from Rivers. He pulled his baton and stepped back in a combat stance. Blake moved forward, deflecting several aimed blows with his elbows and knees and punching the baton away. He stepped in, locking his arm and head butted him, caving his face in. As the orderly dropped and lay immobile Blake straightened up and looked around, water cascading off him, his hair hanging lank and wet, his eyes black and cold in the pallor of his wet skin.

  ‘Horowitz!’ he shouted after the shuffling figure.

  Horowitz stopped and turned as Rivers stood helplessly by, wide eyed with terror. Blake walked the few steps over to Horowitz and punched him in the stomach. Horowitz fell down to his knees.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Blake asked.

  Horowitz looked up, a picture of controlled rage, and snarled. ’A fucking dead man!’

  Blake placed his hands either side of Horowitz’s thick skull and plunged his thumbs into his eyes. Horowitz screamed, tearing at Blake’s hands but he was too strong. Rivers watched, horrified as Horowitz’s pawing slowly diminished and his hands fell limp by his side.

  Blake let go and the body slumped to the wet floor, gore seeping from his eye sockets. For a moment Blake seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging, his eyes closing, but only for a moment. He opened his eyes and looked down at his bloodied hands. Rivers, terrified, watched him clench them into fists and turn to him. He raised one gore covered fist.

  ‘You wanted to know what filled the emptiness.’

  Rivers tried to shuffle even further into the wall as Blake turned away from him, walked down the waterlogged corridor and out of sight.

  Two policemen crossed the station ticket hall and stepped onto the concourse scanning left and right. Blake watched from the shadows.

  The bus squealed to a stop and disgorged its innards onto the pavement. The policemen scrutinized the few passengers that got on. One of their radios emitted a garbled instruction. A short exchange and they both turned back into the ticket hall.

  Blake waited until the driver prepared to leave and stepped out of the shadows and onto the bus. He could smell the stale air of the passengers that had left. The cold had misted all the windows with their condensed breath. Someone had written ‘Welcome to Hell’ on one. The water had streaked and gathered at the bottom of the sill so that it looked like the words were bleeding.

  He sat in the rear. A young couple got on, followed by a couple of late-night workers in uniform and a middle-aged woman.

  Each took their seats according to the unwritten rules of anonymous personal space with one major exception. No-one sat anywhere near him.

  One eye on the milling crowds outside, Blake examined Horowitz’s image on his phone for a moment then deleted it. It was replaced by the grainy image of another man, Simmonds. The roller deck display showed the image of a tall, thin man behind it. The image behind that was too small. He switched the phone off and pocketed it.

  The doors hissed shut and the bus pulled away into the night.

  CHAPTER 5

  rainer’s miss...

  Rainer wiped an already sweat-sodden handkerchief over his ageing face. His now grey hair was cropped close, but he had remained lean. His eye socket had healed but the scar made it look lopsided, giving him a curiously harmless demeanour, one which had led many to underestimate him, much to their detriment. The eyes however were the same shimmering pools of clear blue ice that held in them the refracted essence of the deeds of bad men.

  He checked his watch and looked out across the slowly emptying field as the polo players led their mounts back to the stables. He leant on a low wall and took a deep breath of air thick with heat. Still it was nowhere near as bad as the dry summer heat of his childhood home of Haifa in Israel.

  Music from the beginnings of the after-match celebrations drifted out across the huge open patio behind him. Beside him stood, Kamal, his lieutenant, scanning the milling crowd of men in smart casual dress and their lithe mostly young jewelry-bedecked partners served silently by ostentatiously liveried footmen. The servants’ faces remained expressionless, their eyes unfocused, as passing guests lifted champagne glasses from the silver trays, replacing them with empty ones, never making eye-contact, never exchanging so much as a word with them.

  Beyond them, bodies pressed together on the dancefloor, writhing to music, forming pulsing silhouettes in the flashing lights.

  ‘How long is this guy going to keep us waiting?’ sighed Kamal, impatiently.

  ‘As long as he wants by the looks of it,’ replied Rainer.

  Kamal turned to look out over the dark fields and the sliver of light that marked the setting sun. He cut an impressive figure. Six feet two, not an ounce of spare fat on him.

  ‘Jones in position?’ asked Rainer.

  ‘Yeah, he’s covering the rear exit and car park. No-one is leaving this party until we’re done.’

  ‘Good.’

  Four figures parted the sea of bodies. Two stopped and took station at the main building entrance. The same two men from Caldwell’s mask party. The other two walked onto the patio. One tall and wearing riding boots, jodhpurs and a polo shirt, the other smaller and suited. Several people offered congratulations and shook the rider’s hand as he made his way towards Rainer and Kamal.

  ‘Warm enough for you, Detective?’

  The voice made both policemen turn at once. It was the sort of voice that commanded authority despite being quiet, modulated and polite. The voice of a man used to power.

  Behind him was a smaller man of a similar age in an immaculate lightweight pin-striped suit, carrying a thin leather valise. His only concession to the heat was that he had removed his tie. The collar of his shirt looked stiff and white, while the shirt itself was a deep blue. Rainer recognised him as a lawyer called Peter Hemming. Only the very rich could afford to take advice from Hemming.

  ‘Perhaps we should talk inside,’ Caldwell suggested, indicating the doors behind the footmen. ’It’s much cooler.’

  ‘Out here is fine,’ replied Rainer.

  Rainer noticed red scarring around Caldwell’s hairline.

  ‘That looks painful.’

  Caldwell smiled. ’Polo can be rough. Do you play?’

  ‘No,’ replied Rainer

  ‘You should. Sport of Kings. Well, I trust I haven’t kept you waiting too long.’

  ‘Not at all. We caught the end of your match. Impressive win.’

  Caldwell nodded, accepting the compliment.

  ‘It’s always nice to see you, Detective, but I have to say I am surprised. I thought we had concluded our business weeks ago.’

  ‘There are just a few, small loose ends.’

  ‘Well it’s lucky you caught me.’

  Caldwell beckoned over one of the footmen and helped himself to a glass of champagne. He made a gesture, offering drinks to the other men but all three declined with a shake of their heads. He sipped his drink thoughtfully and then glanced at his lawyer as if giving him permission to speak.

  ‘I have advised my client that you have no cause to question him any further.’ Hemming said, injecting courtroom steel into his voice.

  Caldwell put a restraining hand on the Rolex on Hemming’s wrist. Rainer noticed how well manicured his fingertips were and the large gold signet ring on his little finger, engraved with a family crest. Hemming fell silent, curbing his obvious annoyance at being cut short.

  ‘It’s okay, Peter. You’re here now, Detective, so we might as well get to it. I can spare you five minutes and then I must get back to my guests. I have neglected them for long enough as it is.’

  ‘Given this is a courtesy,’ Hemming spoke up again, ’this conversation will just be between the three of us.’ He looked towards Kamal, who did not react, waiting for his boss to sp
eak.

  ‘Do you mind excusing us for a few moments, Kamal?’ Rainer asked.

  ‘Sure, Boss.’

  Kamal nodded respectfully to Caldwell and Hemming and moved further along the patio, carefully avoiding making eye contact with any of the other party goers, many of whom had stepped outside to smoke and flirt under the clear, star-speckled skies. The last thing he wanted was to be distracted by a pointless conversation with a stranger. He casually put a finger on the microphone in his ear.

  ‘Jones,’ he murmured, ’Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah, Kam,’ the voice crackled in his ear.

  ‘Stay sharp. The old man’s on.’

  In the corridor, Jones checked his holstered sidearm.

  Likewise, Kamal slid his hand inside his jacket and checked his holstered Glock. From the corner of his eye he saw Rainer turn his phone screen to Caldwell.

  Kamal knew that he was showing him a photograph of Sophie Gail, a pretty young girl smiling happily for the camera.

  Her eyes were lined with tiredness but there was still a healthy outdoor glow in her cheeks.

  ‘Remember her?’ asked Rainer.

  ‘I could hardly forget that poor young lady,’ replied Caldwell.

  ‘You said that Sophie spent time with you on your Somerset estate.’

  ‘Yes, she was part of a group of twenty children who spent two weeks with us on our Trust’s summer camp.’

  ‘And she left at the end?’

  ‘Yes. Our records clearly show her being signed over to her guardian from the children’s home.’

  ‘This is all on the record, Inspector,’ Hemming interrupted. ’If there is something new, I suggest you get to it or I am terminating this interview.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Have you heard of ‘cadaver dogs’?’ Rainer asked, and when neither man replied, he continued. ’They are remarkable animals, trained to detect the scent of a dead body. They can even find them under water. They found Sophie in a lake, the one on your estate.’

  Still neither Caldwell or Hemming spoke. Both had their eyes fixed on Rainer, carefully avoiding looking at one another.

  ‘They also found four others tethered underneath,’ Rainer continued. ’We’re trying to identify them using dental records as there’s not much left of the bodies.’

  ‘Very interesting, Inspector,’ Hemming said,’ but what has any of this got to do with Mr. Caldwell?’

  ‘Sophie had been raped and then strangled. The killer or killers were very thorough. She had been washed down and then soaked in industrial chlorine before being buried, wiping any other DNA traces’, Rainer continued as if Hemming had not spoken.

  ‘Do you have any actual questions for Mr. Caldwell, Detective?’ Hemming raised his voice, determined to retake control of the conversation.

  ‘Sophie was wearing a blue cotton polo shirt the day she was taken. When we found her it was white, bleached by the chlorine. There was a piece missing from it, a small triangular tear, no more than a couple of centimetres.’

  ‘What of it?’ Hemming asked. Rainer could see that Kamal was edging a little closer to them along the patio, as if re-positioning himself for whatever was going to happen next.

  ‘We found it,’ Rainer said, staring directly into Caldwell’s eyes.

  ‘Where?’ Caldwell asked; not flinching under the detective’s stare.

  ‘In your basement.’

  Rainer felt something rise at those three words; something that had been quietly watching, waiting. It radiated out from Caldwell. A shift in mood. The mask of remorse slipped momentarily, before he recomposed it.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Along with traces of her and the other’s DNA.’

  Kamal could see that a silence had fallen between the three men. Rainer and Caldwell were simply glaring at each other, both determined to be the last to blink. Hemming now appeared to be sweating as he waited for his client to speak.

  Eventually Hemming stepped forward. ’Really inspector.’

  ‘Peter, please,’ Caldwell protested, without taking his eyes off Rainer’s. Kamal edged a few inches closer, aware that Jones was waiting for his signal.

  ‘I would have expected more from a man with your experience, Inspector,’ Hemming continued, ’than wild accusations based on circumstantial evidence. My client has a large staff and he is very rarely at his estate. It could have been anyone.’

  ‘But you know that, don’t you, Inspector,’ said Caldwell, his voice quiet but deeply threatening, ’you came here fishing. To look me in the eye while you presented your evidence. Hoping perhaps that I would give something away?’

  Rainer said nothing, just staring back. Kamal’s hand went into his jacket as Caldwell raised both his hands, and brought his palms together in a slow, sarcastic clap. ’Bravo, Inspector. Instead of spending your valuable time and resources looking for the killers of those girls you are here, enjoying my hospitality.’

  Rainer slowly looked to Hemming. Unwilling to lock stares with Rainer he looked away. Rainer slowly turned back to Caldwell.

  ‘I never said they were girls.’

  Caldwell smiled slowly. Hemming looked up to Caldwell as if seeing him for the first time. Composing himself he turned to Rainer.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I never said they were girls,’ Rainer repeated.

  Caldwell took a deep breath and finally broke off eye contact with Rainer, turning his head and raising an eyebrow to his two footmen hovering by the doors. They calmly placed their trays on side tables and pulled short barreled weapons from under their braided frock coats. Heckler and Koch MP5’s. Kamal slid his Glock from its holster and held it down by his side in readiness.

  Rainer pulled out his own small revolver and pushed it hard into Caldwell’s waist. Caldwell calmly looked out over the guests milling between them and his men.

  ‘I wonder how many of these people came here expecting to die.’

  ‘What is going on?’ said Hemming his voice panicking, all the courtroom steel gone.

  ‘Tell them to stand down or I will put a bullet in your gut,’ Rainer hissed.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Caldwell, nodding to the footmen.

  The first footman opened fire on Kamal, regardless of the two women walking between them. Other guests screamed as the two women fell, their blood spreading out across the white marble terrace with shocking speed. Everyone was running for cover or diving beneath tables while the background music played on as if not a thing had changed. The second footman let loose a volley of bullets at Rainer, most of which struck a young woman, bursting her chest.

  Kamal dropped to his knee and put two shots from his Glock into the second footman, killing him instantly. The first footman let loose another spray of bullets in his direction. He took two. As he fell back losing consciousness Kamal saw a black ring appear in the centre of the remaining footman’s forehead. For a second, he looked merely puzzled then he toppled forward like a felled tree. Rainer lowered his gun and turned just in time to receive an elbow in the face that sent him spinning backwards, his head cracking against a stone statue. He shook his head to try to clear his vision. He sensed a movement to his right and brought his gun round to fire, coming face to face with Hemming who was cowering behind a stone pot, his arms covering his head. Rainer swung back round, searching for Caldwell amongst the carnage and panicking throng, but there was no sign of him.

  Pulling himself up onto his feet he ran at a crouch to Kamal. He shouted into the mic at his wrist. ‘Jones! Jones, come in!’ But there was only static at the other end. Where the hell was Jones? Rainer knelt beside Kamal, cradling his head in his lap. Kamal coughed up blood. ’Hold on!’ Rainer whispered, his jaw clenched hard as he fought to contain his fury.

  CHAPTER 6

  blake’s work...temptation...change of plans...sara taken...

  Many miles away, Blake jolted awake. He rubbed his eyes. The train carriage was empty. He wiped condensation from the window. Dark, nebulous sha
pes moved past outside as the train continued into the night. He closed his eyes again and tried not to think of that day, but the memories came anyway.

  The sun glittered off the steel and glass building. Large lettering spelled out ‘Raanstaad Tech’.

  A suited Blake sat alone in the large conference room. His attention on the laptop before him. Lines of code scrolled on the left of the screen, images and fleeting individual biographies appeared and disappeared on the right. One appeared more often and then settled.

  Erovan Ryakorum. A fearsome looking man. Private banker, hedge fund king, finance consultant to the Vatican. Blake scrolled through the list of his associates. A who’s who of banking, oil, politics and religion.

  The conference room door slid open and a very attractive brunette in her early thirties bustled in. Stephanie.

  ‘Sorry, I’m late.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we haven’t started.’

  Stephanie placed down her bags and leaned and kissed Blake on the cheek. Blake turned to her momentarily.

  Just then the door opened and a man in Oxbridge attire, Brocklehurst, and a woman, dressed in a bright pastel suit with a large pearl necklace, Dana, walked in.

  ‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice,’ said Brocklehurst, his accent matching his attire.

  They both took a seat at the conference table opposite Blake and Stephanie.

  ‘This is Dana from the Department of Homeland Security and Justice,’ said Brocklehurst, gesturing to the woman beside him.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘This is Stephanie, my assistant,’ replied Blake.

  ‘Great, hello Stephanie. Right, well I’m sure you’re bursting to know why we’ve summoned you here so I’ll not beat around the proverbial,’ said Brocklehurst opening a file on the table.

  ‘Your suspect enhancement work has been very well received but of late some of the results have been... problematic,’ he continued.

  ‘Which ones?’ asked Blake.