The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Our ace in the hole?’ said Reid, deadpan.

  Newton looked at him icily. ‘And no mention of a serial killer.’

  Reid and Wright stood up. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wright.

  Newton acknowledged Wright’s gratitude with a slight nod. ‘It’s not open ended, Nick. If it looks like you’re not making any progress, the case goes to the Met.’

  ‘Hey, Gerry, take a look at this!’ Clive Edmunds gestured with a lit cigarette at the wall-mounted television above the office coffee machine. ‘Those railway wankers are on Sky news.’

  Gerry Hunter stopped pecking at his computer keyboard and looked up. ‘Turn the sound up, will you?’ he asked.

  Edmunds looked around for the remote control and increased the volume. Tommy Reid was reading a prepared statement while Nick Wright sat next to him, toying with a ballpoint pen. Behind them was a blown-up map of the area where the body had been found. Hunter couldn’t help smiling at Reid’s appearance: the man’s hair was damp as if he’d splashed water on it in an attempt to make it lie flat. Stray strands of hair were already coming adrift at the sides. He’d fastened the top button of his shirt but his collar was a size too small and clearly pinching his neck. Reid finished reading the statement and asked the assembled reporters if they had any questions.

  ‘Do you have any motive for the killing?’ asked a redhead holding a small tape recorder.

  ‘Not as yet,’ said Reid.

  ‘And no suspect?’

  Reid’s jaw tightened. ‘We’re appealing for anyone who was in the vicinity of the tunnel to come forward,’ he said. ‘Even if they don’t think they saw anything of significance, we’d still like to talk to them.’

  ‘In fact, you don’t even know who the victim is, do you?’ pressed the redhead. Reid pretended not to hear her.

  A middle-aged man in a crumpled blue suit raised an arm. Hunter recognised him as a crime reporter on one of the tabloids. ‘When are you going to call in the Met?’ he said.

  Edmunds nudged Hunter in the ribs. ‘The guys are running a sweepstake on that very question,’ he chuckled.

  ‘This is a British Transport Police investigation,’ said Wright.

  ‘We will be liaising with the Metropolitan Police,’ said Reid. ‘Officers from the Met will be assigned to the case.’

  ‘Any other questions?’ asked Wright, looking around the room.

  ‘Do you think the killer could strike again?’ asked a local radio reporter.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Wright.

  Reid stiffened and put a hand on Wright’s arm. Wright shrugged him off.

  ‘A serial killer?’

  Before Wright could answer, Reid stood up. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have time for, gentlemen.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘And ladies.’

  Wright looked up at his partner as if preparing to argue, but Reid gave a small shake of his head. The news broadcast cut away to a studio presenter.

  Edmunds muted the sound and flicked ash into a wastepaper bin. ‘They haven’t a clue,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a tough case, Clive.’

  Edmunds snorted dismissively. ‘Those two couldn’t crack a fucking egg.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Hunter put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled ball of paper which he tossed to Edmunds. ‘That wasn’t funny,’ he said.

  Edmunds held his cigarette between his lips and flattened the sheet of paper. It was the list he’d given Wright earlier. ‘Made me laugh,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, well, go easy on him, will you? He’s pissed off enough at me as it is.’

  Edmunds folded the sheet into an aeroplane and threw it towards a wastepaper bin. ‘Well, you are sleeping with his wife, Gerry.’ The plane missed the bin by several feet and ploughed into a grey carpet tile. He took the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb and blew a smoke ring. ‘When all’s said and done.’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ said Hunter. ‘Just leave him alone, huh?’

  Edmunds held Hunter’s look for several seconds, then realised that his partner was serious. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘They can have all the rope they need.’

  ‘We were set up,’ hissed Wright as he stormed down the corridor. ‘It was that bastard Hunter. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Calm down, Nick.’ Reid caught up with his partner and walked beside him. ‘It wasn’t too bad.’

  Wright waved his hand in the air dismissively. ‘You heard that shit from the Mirror.’ He contorted his face and mimicked the crime reporter. “‘When are you going to call in the Met?”’

  Reid held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hey, I’m on your side.’ He went over to the coffee maker and filled two polystyrene cups. He took them back to the desk and poured in large measures of vodka, then passed one over to Wright.

  Wright glared at his partner for several seconds, then relaxed. It wasn’t Reid he was mad at. He raised his cup and banged it against Reid’s. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and drank gratefully. ‘Are you working tomorrow?’

  ‘What else is there to do on a Saturday? What about you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ll be in. I need the overtime.’ Wright flicked through his desk diary then groaned. ‘Hell, I forgot, tomorrow’s my day with Sean.’

  ‘No sweat. Where are you going to take him?’

  Wright closed his diary. ‘I don’t know. Trocadero, maybe. He likes video games. Where did you used to take Craig and Julie?’

  ‘The old favourites. British Museum. Science Museum. The zoo. Football.’

  ‘Been there, done that.’ He reached over and took the prepared statement from Reid. He’d spent an hour working on it before the press conference but he still hadn’t been happy with it. Wright was as aware as the journalists that the investigation had stalled before it had even started.

  ‘All right, lads?’ said a deep, Glaswegian voice.

  Reid and Wright looked up. It was Detective Chief Inspector Ronnie Dundas, the fifty-year-old Glaswegian Newton had appointed as liaison officer on the investigation.

  Wright put down his cup guiltily. ‘How’s the incident room going, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Computers are in, HOLMES is up and running and there’s a PNC terminal on line. We’ll have two NCIS terminals connected by this afternoon.’

  The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System would be used to collate all the evidence and interviews produced during the investigation, and the Police National Computer and National Criminal Intelligence Service would provide online databases and criminal intelligence.

  ‘Who’s office manager?’ asked Reid.

  ‘Are you putting yourself forward, Tommy?’ Dundas perched on the edge of Reid’s desk. His hair and moustache were unnaturally black, and he was rumoured to be dyeing both.

  Reid flashed the chief inspector a sarcastic smile. ‘You know me, Ronnie. I’m much more a foot-in-the-door man.’

  ‘Arse on a bar stool, more like,’ said Dundas. The banter was good natured: the two men had worked together for more than a decade. ‘Anyway, Phil Evans has already been assigned.’

  ‘He’s well suited,’ agreed Reid.

  ‘What about the Met?’ asked Wright. ‘Have they said who they’re sending over yet?’

  Dundas shook his head. ‘Only numbers. A DCI, two DIs, three DSs and six DCs. Same as us.’

  ‘So when do we move downstairs?’ asked Wright.

  ‘Give it a couple of hours. They’re still moving desks and getting the phones connected.’

  ‘Time for a pint, then,’ said Reid.

  Dundas grinned. ‘You read my mind,’ he said.

  The two senior officers looked expectantly at Wright, who sighed mournfully. ‘Okay, I suppose so.’

  There was a timid knock on the door and Dean Burrow looked up from the papers he was reading. Kristine Ross popped her head around as if she was trying to keep her body concealed from him. ‘I’m the last one here, Senator,’ she said. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  Burrow took off his reading glasses. ‘Any sig
n of Jody Meacher?’ he asked.

  ‘He said he’d be here by seven, Senator.’

  Burrow looked at his watch. It was half past seven. ‘Okay, Kristine. You can call it a night.’

  She flashed him a nervous smile and closed the door. Burrow toyed with his spectacles. Kristine was obviously still upset at the photograph. He wondered how she’d feel if she knew the real significance of the mutilated corpse. Then she’d really have something to worry about.

  He was still daydreaming when there was a second knock on his door, louder and more confident than the first. The door opened wide and Jody Meacher strode in. He was a big man, at least twenty stone, with a waistline that was still expanding. He was balding with a greying beard and cheeks pockmarked with old acne scars. Meacher was one of the smartest men Burrow had ever met, and was a shrewd political operator. In his younger years he’d had his own ambitions of office, but his looks had been an insurmountable barrier and he’d settled for being one of the best spin doctors in the business instead. He’d helped two men get into the Oval Office already, and if everything went to plan, Burrow would be the third.

  Meacher glided across the plush blue carpet. He moved majestically, with surprising grace for a man of his size. Burrow went around his desk to meet him and they shook hands firmly.

  ‘Thanks for coming so quickly, Jody,’ said Burrow. He went over to his drinks cabinet and poured two measures of Jack Daniels, each with a single cube of ice. He handed a glass to Meacher and they toasted each other silently. Burrow waved Meacher over to two green leather couches placed at right angles to each other at the far end of the room. While Meacher eased his vast bulk down on to one of the couches, Burrow walked over to his desk and picked up the UPS package and the manila envelope.

  ‘Something’s cropped up,’ said Burrow, going over to sit on the second couch. He put the package and the envelope on a low oak coffee table.

  Meacher watched him with unblinking eyes and the same coldness with which an entomologist might study a beetle. Meacher rarely smiled, and on the few occasions that he did, the expression never looked sincere. To strangers he appeared aloof, hostile even, but Burrow knew that the man’s facial expressions often belied his true feelings. It wasn’t that he wore a mask, it was as if he simply didn’t care how he looked, that his intellect was his only concern.

  ‘I received something in the mail today,’ Burrow continued. He opened the flap of the envelope and slid out the Polaroid photograph. He handed it to Meacher.

  Meacher’s expression didn’t change. He studied the photograph for a full five seconds, then looked at Burrow expectantly. ‘Everything,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Burrow spoke for ten minutes while Meacher listened, his hands in his lap as if meditating. When he had finished, Burrow drained his glass and went over to the drinks cabinet to refill it. Meacher’s glass remained untouched on the coffee table.

  ‘Remember what I said to you when I first agreed to join your team?’ Meacher asked.

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘So why did you withhold this from me?’

  Burrow sat down and adjusted the creases of his trousers. ‘Jody, this all happened a long time ago. A lifetime ago.’

  Meacher held out the Polaroid photograph so that it was just inches from the senator’s face. ‘And this? When did this happen?’

  Burrow felt his face redden. ‘I don’t know.’ He took another mouthful of Jack Daniels.

  Meacher tossed the photograph on to the coffee table. ‘You know what this means?’

  ‘You don’t have to spell it out for me, Jody.’

  ‘Everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve done, it’ll all be for nothing if this gets out.’

  ‘I know, Jody. I know.’

  Meacher sat in silence, staring into the middle distance. Burrow crouched forward, his elbows on his knees. Burrow could practically hear Meacher’s mind working.

  ‘Who else has seen the photograph?’ Meacher asked eventually.

  ‘My secretary. Kristine Ross.’

  ‘Would you miss her?’

  Burrow flinched at the question. ‘Is there no other way?’

  Meacher’s pale blue eyes bored into Burrow’s. ‘Senator, you know as well as I do the state of the Vice President’s health. He’s going to have to step down within the next few months, and you are the frontrunner to take his place.’ He nodded at the Polaroid. ‘What do you think will happen if what you’ve told me becomes public knowledge?’

  Burrow drew a finger across his throat. The end of his career. The end of everything.

  ‘So don’t ask me if there’s any other way out of this. There’s only one way. My way.’

  Burrow held Meacher’s gaze for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. ‘Whatever it takes, Jody,’ he said, and drained his glass.

  Tommy Reid grunted and fumbled in his pockets for his keys. Nick Wright beat him to it and slotted his Yale into the lock. He pushed open the door and allowed Reid in first. The two men walked down the narrow hall to the sitting room. Reid stopped dead. The room was a mess, with empty fast-food cartons on the floor, stacks of newspapers and magazines on a coffee table and a pile of dirty laundry in the corner by the television.

  ‘Shit! We’ve been burgled,’ said Reid. ‘Call the cops.’

  Wright pushed him in the small of the back. ‘You always say that,’ he said. ‘If it annoys you so much, get a cleaning lady.’

  ‘Who said it annoys me?’ He staggered over to the window and pulled the curtains shut with a flourish. Dust drifted down around him. ‘Is it snowing?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re pissed,’ said Wright, dropping down on to a sofa that had once been beige but had long ago turned into a dirty brown.

  Reid exhaled and looked around the room. There were two overstuffed leather armchairs next to the sofa, both scuffed and worn from years of abuse, facing a portable television on a black plastic stand. ‘What’s on the box?’ he asked.

  Wright ran his hands through his hair. ‘Who cares?’ he said. The two men had spent several hours in a local Indian restaurant, challenging each other to increasingly hot curries and cooling themselves down with half pints of lager. All Wright wanted to do was sleep.

  ‘Do you want a nightcap?’ Reid asked. Wright shook his head. ‘Okay, I’ll get myself a beer and head off to bed. See you tomorrow.’

  Wright gave Reid a small wave. He heaved himself up off the sofa and went over to the pine shelving unit which had been amateurishly screwed into the wall opposite the window. On the middle shelf, surrounded by well-creased paperbacks, was a mini stereo system. Below it were several dozen CDs, mostly jazz. Wright ran his finger along the cases and pulled out a Billie Holiday recording. From the kitchen he heard a dull thud as a can of beer hit the floor followed by a muffled curse. Wright slotted in the CD and pressed the ‘play’ button.

  ‘Goodnight, John Boy,’ shouted Reid as he ambled down the hall to the bedroom.

  ‘Goodnight, Grandpa,’ Wright replied unenthusiastically. He was starting to think that Superintendent Newton was right, that he had indeed been living with Reid for too long. Even the jokes were becoming stale. He pulled the cushions off the sofa and unfolded the bed where he’d slept for the past five months. It was small and uncomfortable, but cheaper than paying for a place of his own.

  He went to the bathroom, cleaned and flossed his teeth, then took his quilt and pillow from the airing cupboard. As he returned to the sitting room, Billie Holiday was singing ‘Lover Come Back To Me’. Wright threw the bedding on to the sofa and sat down to remove his shoes. He looked around the cramped room and a wave of hopelessness washed over him. His wife, his son, his house, his car; he’d lost everything. He’d been working for more than ten years and all he had to show for it were the two suitcases of clothes he’d taken from the house and the ageing Ford Fiesta he’d driven away in.

  Wright went back over to the shelving unit and picked up a harmonica. He sat down on the e
dge of the sofabed and played along with the recording, the mournful notes echoing down the hallway.

  The elevator wasn’t working, and by the look of the rusting gate, it hadn’t been used for several years. Jody Meacher took the stairs one at a time, resting for breath every couple of dozen steps. When he reached the third floor he took off his overcoat and draped it over one shoulder. By the time he was on the fifth floor, he had to mop his forehead with a large white linen handkerchief. The man he was looking for lived on the ninth floor, but Meacher doubted that he was ever fazed by the long climb. Len Kruse was a fitness fanatic and probably raced up all nine floors at the double.

  Meacher transferred his black leather briefcase to his left hand, pulled out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open. It was five o’clock in the morning. Meacher had driven from Washington to New York. He hated driving but he didn’t want to use an official car and there was a good chance he’d be recognised if he travelled by train or plane. The fewer people who knew he was in New York, the better. He leaned against the whitewashed wall and exhaled deeply. At his feet was a discarded used condom, glistening wetly like a trout that had just been pulled from a stream. Meacher grimaced and carried on climbing. He smelled stale urine and put his handkerchief over his mouth as he walked by a yellow stain on the wall.

  There were no numbers to indicate the floors, but Meacher had been keeping count during his ascent. He pushed open a door and stepped into a corridor. The smell wasn’t much better than in the stairwell. The corridor had a low ceiling with dim lights every fifty feet that did little to illuminate the drab walls and black-painted doors, every one of which appeared to have a minimum of three locks, and strips of metal along the jambs to prevent them being forced. Meacher walked slowly down the corridor, his heart still racing from the exertion of the climb.