A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  Mullins stood and turned, and, just as he did, Atticus caught sight of the two other people who were inside the room. There was a mirror on the wall above the fireplace, and he saw the couple in its reflection: two teenagers, a black boy and a white girl. The boy had his back turned so that Atticus couldn’t see his face. The girl got up and walked across the room to a fridge in the corner. She turned to look at him as she passed the door.

  It was Molly York.

  “What you doing, man? I told you to stay where you were.”

  Mullins had lowered the can back down into the basement flat and was staring angrily at Atticus.

  “I want my gear.”

  “Maybe you’re getting nosy, sticking it where it don’t belong.”

  Atticus didn’t need to feign discomfort; he knew that he was in a precarious position.

  Mullins looked at him with fresh distrust. “How you hear about this?”

  “Dave,” Atticus said, thinking quickly.

  “Who?”

  “Dave—he drinks in the Kenton. He said he gets his gear here.”

  Mullins frowned, but, rather than interrogate Atticus further, he decided to favour the easier approach. He held up the clear plastic bags and, as Atticus reached out to take them, he left his hand hanging. “Don’t come back here no more.”

  “Understood.”

  Mullins put the bags in Atticus’s palm and then put his hand on his shoulder and shoved him toward the door. Atticus opened it and stepped outside. The door slammed shut, and the locks were fastened.

  Atticus descended the steps, made his way over the path and stepped through the gate onto the street. He allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation. Molly’s dad had only instructed him yesterday, and Atticus had found his daughter already.

  21

  Atticus crossed the road and took up the same spot as before; he was obscured from the house by a parked van but would be able to see if Molly left to go somewhere else. He took out his phone and found the number that James York had given him. He dialled it.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Atticus Priest.”

  “Mr. Priest,” he said, his anticipation evident, “have you got any news?”

  “I do. Good news, actually. She’s in London.”

  He could hear York’s gasp of relief. “Where?”

  “Hackney.”

  “Is she with you?”

  “Not yet. But I’m outside the house where I saw her.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “As far as I can tell. I haven’t approached her yet.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “She’s with a lad she met in Salisbury.”

  “What lad?”

  “He’s a drug dealer. Your daughter met him through someone she bought drugs from in Salisbury. She’s in a house where drugs are sold.”

  “God,” he said. “What do you know about him?”

  “His name is Shayden. He’s nineteen. I don’t know a great deal more than that.”

  “Right,” he said. “I’m coming up now.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Of course tonight. I’m not leaving her there for a moment longer than I need to. Can you wait for me?”

  “Of course,” Atticus said, thinking of the overtime that he was going to be able to charge.

  “What’s the address?”

  Atticus recited it and said that he would wait outside.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  22

  Atticus put his ear-pods into his ears, plugged in his phone, scrolled down to his Dave Gilmour playlist and hit play. There was a bus stop fifty yards down the road, and he had decamped there; he was still able to watch the house from that vantage, but was now too far away to reveal himself to anyone inside who might be looking out.

  There was a regular flow of customers in and out; he counted a dozen men and women who turned off the pavement and made their way inside. They were a motley bunch. Most were younger, with the suspicious aspects of people always looking over their shoulders; mixed in within their number were a handful of more incongruent patrons, better dressed and more fearful as they raised their fists to knock at the door. They were within twenty minutes of the city here, and it did not require a great feat of deduction to conclude that these were professionals venturing out to get their fixes. Each customer went inside and came out again in short order, pausing at the edge of the pavement to look left and right before scurrying away into the night.

  He kept an eye on the time, and it was just before half past eight when his phone rang. It was James York, reporting that he had arrived in East London and asking for directions to the house. Atticus told York how to find him and waited for him to arrive. A few minutes later, he noticed the blue Ford Ranger driving slowly along the road. He stepped out and waved it down. York parked next to the bus stop and gestured for Atticus to get in.

  “Mr. Priest,” he said when Atticus sat down next to him.

  “That was quick.”

  “I might have put my foot down a bit more than I should have.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  “Where is she?”

  Atticus pointed to the house. “In there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve been watching since I called you. I haven’t seen her come out.”

  “What about him? The man she’s with—what’s his name?”

  “Shayden Mullins. He’s still inside, too.”

  York looked out of the windscreen, across the darkened road and over at the terrace on the opposite side. He fidgeted nervously. “I don’t know what to do. Molly’s nervous at the best of times. The last thing I want to do is frighten her.”

  They stared at the door together for a moment.

  “So what do I do?” York said.

  “I’d reconsider the police.”

  “No,” York said, shaking his head firmly. “That’s out of the question. You said they’re selling drugs in there?”

  He nodded.

  “So I call the police, they go in, who knows what they find. I can’t do that. That would ruin her life.”

  “Then we need to think of a way to get her outside. We…” He stopped and concentrated on the house. “Wait.”

  York was watching, too. “Is that her?” he said. “It is. It is her.”

  Atticus watched the girl coming down the steps of the house. It was dark, but, as she passed through the glow of a streetlamp, he saw that it was Molly. She was on her own and, as she crossed the road and started in their direction, he saw that she was crying.

  York reached for the handle and opened the door. Atticus opened his door and stepped out, too. Molly was coming in their direction, and her father stepped onto the pavement and blocked the way ahead. Atticus watched the girl’s face. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were shining with tears. She looked up and saw her father. Atticus might have expected surprise or annoyance, but, instead, he saw neither. There was a blankness to her expression that was strange and unsettling.

  Atticus stayed a respectful distance from the two of them, but, even from next to the truck, he could hear James York’s words quite clearly.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

  Molly was seventeen, at the age where the idea of parental authority would normally have started to chafe. Her attitude toward her father had been evinced by the fact that she had run away from him, but now, as Atticus watched, instead of indignation at being found, there was just resignation.

  “Sorry,” she said, her eyes cast down toward the ground.

  “I’m going to take you home,” York said.

  He wrapped his arms around his daughter and pulled her into a tight embrace. His shoulders gave a shudder and, when he unwrapped his arms and turned back to Atticus, his damp eyes caught the light from above. He took her by the arm and pulled her gently to where Atticus was waiting. She didn’t struggle or protest, and, as York stepped around Atticus to open
the door, she slid inside without complaint.

  “Thank you,” York said to Atticus, reaching out and clasping his hand. “I’m very grateful. I’ve been scared silly ever since she left. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  “I’m happy I could help.”

  “Drop me an email tomorrow with your account. I’ll settle up with you then.”

  “Of course.”

  York got into the front of the Ranger and started the engine. Atticus couldn’t see Molly’s face, but she did not look out of the car as they pulled away. The Ford edged into the traffic and started to the south.

  23

  Atticus thought of DC Edwards. He reached into his pocket and took out the card that she had given him. He had said that he would give her a tip if he found Mullins, and he could see no reason not to do that. He reached for his phone and was about to dial the number on the card when the screen showed an incoming call.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s James York.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s Molly. She says she left her bag inside the house.”

  “Ah.”

  “It has her things in it. Her phone.”

  “That’s not ideal.”

  “Is there any way you could get it?”

  “Where does she think she left it?”

  There was a pause; Atticus could hear James asking his daughter the question and a quiet, inaudible reply.

  “She says there’s a downstairs flat. It’s in there.”

  Atticus sucked his teeth. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible. That’s where they keep the drugs. I won’t be able to get inside.”

  “I’m just concerned that someone will find the bag and work out that she was there.”

  “It’s unlikely. They’ll sell the phone and anything else that’s worth anything; then they’ll get rid of the rest. It’s inconvenient, but I doubt it’ll be something that causes any problems for her.”

  “You’re probably right. I thought I’d ask.”

  He thanked Atticus again and said goodbye. Atticus ended the call and looked over at the house. He wondered if there was any way that he could safely get into the basement, but quickly concluded that there was not. Molly would have to get a new phone.

  He dialled Jessica Edwards’s number.

  She answered. “Hello?”

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Atticus Priest. We met in Salisbury.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Hold on.”

  Atticus heard the sound of movement and then a door opening and closing. When she spoke again, there was much less background noise. “Sorry. I was just watching TV. How can I help you?”

  “I’ve found your suspect.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “In Hackney.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I nosed around. He’s in a house that looks like it’s being used to deal drugs.”

  “Shit,” she said. “He’ll be with his brother. His real name’s Joseph, but he goes by Yanko on the street. He’s bad news. There’s a gang down here—”

  “The London Field Boys?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Joseph’s high up. Are you sure Shayden was there?”

  “I went inside. I saw him.”

  She cursed again. Atticus noticed movement from the property and saw two men coming up from the basement flat. They paused at the gate, saw him, then opened the gate and crossed the road.

  “I’ll come over,” Jessica said. “What’s the address?”

  The two men started to jog. They split up so that one went to Atticus’s left and the other went to his right. Two other men emerged from the house. Not all of the streetlights were working, but there was enough illumination for Atticus to recognise Shayden Mullins. The man next to him bore enough of a similarity for Atticus to draw the conclusion that they were related; it had to be the older brother.

  The four men converged on Atticus: one on either side and two in front.

  “I think I’ve got a situation here,” Atticus said. “You’d better call for backup.”

  “What? Why?”

  Atticus ignored the question and quickly gave her the address.

  Shayden’s brother stepped up to him, a gold tooth gleaming in his mouth. “Who are you?”

  Atticus left the line open.

  “Who are you?” Joseph repeated.

  “None of your business.”

  “You ask around about my brother and then you come into my place? It is my business, bruv. I want a word with you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Stop flapping your gums. You’re coming inside whether you like it or not.”

  24

  Atticus had nowhere to go. The two men to his left and right took him by the shoulders and tried to force him off the pavement and across the road.

  “Don’t make a scene,” Joseph Mullins said. “You and me need to have a chat.”

  Atticus had tried to hide the phone in his palm, but it was forced out of his hand.

  The man who had taken the phone looked at the lit screen. “He’s calling someone, Yanko.”

  “So kill it.”

  “And if I’d rather not have a chat?” Atticus said.

  “I’m not asking.” Joseph pulled up the bottom of his hoodie to show the butt of a pistol that had been pushed beneath the red canvas belt he wore.

  “I see,” Atticus said. “In that case, I’d be happy to discuss things with you.”

  The two men to Atticus’s left and right were both bigger than him, and he knew he stood little chance of resisting them. They marched him across the road, pushed him through the gate and then angled him off the path and down the steps to the basement door. The door opened into a hallway that appeared to run down to a kitchen. There was a door to the left, and Atticus was manhandled down to it. He allowed himself to be shoved through the door and into the room beyond.

  He looked around. The bedstead against the wall suggested that the room might have been used as a bedroom at some point, but it had taken on a different purpose now. The mattress had been removed from the bed and replaced with a wooden board. The makeshift table bore the product that was dispensed to the customers who came into the house through the ground-floor door. Atticus saw little bags of cocaine and heroin and weed, crystals of crack, pills kept in jam jars. This was evidently a serious operation. There were two wooden chairs, a television that was showing a boxing bout, and a small glass-fronted fridge that was stacked with cans of beer and Coke. Bottles of Hennessy were arranged atop the fridge. The fireplace had been torn out, revealing the opening for the chimney. The sliced-open can that Atticus had seen in the flat above was on the floor, the string that was used to hoist it up hanging there slackly. There was an intercom on the mantelpiece that he assumed was used to communicate with those upstairs.

  The two Mullins brothers came inside. The younger sibling—Shayden—crossed his arms and stared at Atticus. The elder—Joseph—pointed to the wooden chair in the bay window. “Sit down.”

  Atticus did as he was told. The men here were all young—teenagers in many cases, with Joseph seemingly the oldest and not by much—but he had no doubt that they would be capable of unpleasantness if it came to it. The two men who had frogmarched Atticus inside stood next to him, one of them unzipping Atticus’s jacket and rifling through the pockets. He took out his wallet.

  “Who are you?”

  There was no point in lying; they were already going through his things.

  “Atticus,” he said.

  “What?”

  Atticus sighed impatiently. “Atticus.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “I know. It’s unusual.”

  “It’s gash,” Mullins corrected.

  “I wish you could’ve told my parents that. It would have saved me from answering so many annoying questions.”
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  The second man found the business cards in the wallet and squinted down at one. “Atticus Priest,” he said. “Private investigator.”

  Joseph grinned. “For real?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let me guess—her dad hired you?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother’s ting. Her dad.”

  “Molly,” Shayden said.

  “That’s right,” Atticus said. “Her father was concerned about her.”

  “I was watching you out of the window,” Joseph said. “Was that him? Her dad?”

  “That’s right,” Atticus said.

  “You stuck your nose in our business? You thought that was a good idea?”

  “She’s a child,” Atticus said.

  “She’s nineteen,” Shayden corrected.

  “Is that what she told you? No, she’s not. She’s seventeen. She’s almost a child.”

  Joseph’s jaw stiffened and, for a moment, Atticus wished he had chosen his words more carefully. Atticus thought that he was about to strike him, but, instead, he smiled.

  “You got a lot of nerve, man,” he said, his gold tooth glinting. “You want to think about how smart it is to have beef with me? It ain’t. Not at all.”

  “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble. I didn’t mean to do that. I was hired to return a child to her father, and that’s what I did. I don’t have any other reason to be here. I’m going to go now.”

  He stood up.

  “No, you ain’t,” Joseph said. “We’re not done yet. Sit back down.”

  Atticus felt hands on his shoulders, and he was dragged back down onto the chair.

  “Mash him up, bruv,” Shayden urged.

  “Easy.” Joseph turned back to Atticus. “Let me tell you some things you need to know. I don’t take no nonsense from some white piece-of-shit civilian who thinks he can stick his nose in my business and cause me trouble. You feel me? Molly was here because Pepsi wanted her to be here. I don’t care what her dad says—she can make up her own mind. You come in here, giving it large, then you jack his girl from him. No way, man. No way. Now you start pretending like you can tell me what to do, and all I can think is that you’ve forgotten that I’m the one with the piece and you’re just some poor white raasclaat who’s about to get popped.”