He switched off the kitchen light and went back into the sitting room. The cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. Kruse picked up the ashtray and a box of matches that were lying on the coffee table and took them upstairs.
He knelt down by Vincent’s side of the bed, then pulled the man’s arm from underneath the quilt and slid the lit cigarette between the first and second fingers. After a final look around the bedroom to check that everything was as it should be, he took one of the matches out of the box and lit it. He held it against the quilt cover. It went out almost immediately. He lit a second match. This time the cotton quilt cover began to burn.
The fire spread quickly across the quilt. Kruse knew that the room with its wooden furniture, woollen carpet and cotton curtains would be an inferno within minutes. He switched off the light and went downstairs. He pulled the front door shut behind him and walked quickly down the street, his footsteps echoing in the night air.
Clive Edmunds stopped off at a video rental store in Camden High Street on his way home. He left his car on a double yellow line with his hazard warning lights flashing while he went inside. The girl behind the counter smiled, recognising him as a regular customer. ‘Anything new come in?’ he asked, heading for the new releases section.
‘Not since you were last here,’ she said. ‘Well, there’s another of them talking dog whatsits, but they’re not really your thing, are they?’
‘Bloody right,’ said Edmunds, running his eyes along the video cases. He was an avid movie watcher and there was nothing on the shelves that he hadn’t already seen or dismissed as not worth viewing. He pulled a face and went over to the action section. He fancied a good action movie, something with blood and guts. An early Schwarzenegger maybe, or a late Jean-Claude Van Damme. His eyes stopped at Apocalypse Now. It was the widescreen version, released after the film had won two Oscars in 1979, for Best Cinematography and Best Sound. It deserved more, Edmunds reckoned, but it was ahead of its time, before America was prepared to come to terms with Vietnam.
Edmunds turned the case over. On the back were two stills taken from the film, one of Marlon Brando, one of Martin Sheen. Edmunds scratched his bald spot. There was something at the back of his mind, something niggling him, that kept the video in his hands even though he’d seen it three times already, once on the big screen and twice on video. He tapped the video case against his forehead as he struggled to work out what it was about the movie that was troubling him, but the more he tried to concentrate, the more elusive the feeling became. It was like a mild case of déjà vu, but it wouldn’t go away. He took the case over to the counter and handed it to the girl. ‘I’ll have this,’ he said.
Len Kruse was in the middle of his third set of sit-ups when the telephone rang. He unlinked his fingers from behind his neck and reached over for the phone. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Jim? It’s Clive.’
Kruse got to his feet. ‘Yes, Clive, what’s up?’ Kruse was bathed in sweat but there was no sign of strain in his voice. He stared at his reflection in the mirror on the front of the wardrobe. His face was a blank mask.
‘What do you know about the Vietnam War?’ asked Edmunds.
Kruse’s face remained impassive. ‘I know it’s one we lost, Clive. What exactly do you have in mind?’
‘Can you come around to my place now? There’s something I want you to see.’
Kruse picked up a pen from the bedside table. ‘Give me your address, Clive. I’ll be right over.’
Nick Wright parked his car opposite May Eckhardt’s flat and switched off the engine. He sat back in his seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. It was almost midnight. He should have been at home. Wright snorted. He didn’t have a home any more, he thought ruefully. All he had was a sofabed in Tommy Reid’s tiny flat. He looked across at the mansion block where May’s apartment was. The lights were off and the curtains were open. The moon was reflected in the sitting-room window, glaring down at him like a single baleful eye. Wright wiped his hands on his face and then up through his hair. He’d actually been on his way home. Maida Vale was well out of his way, but he’d been struck by a sudden urge to see May Eckhardt.
May Eckhardt had been very much on his mind over the previous few days. He’d telephoned several times but there’d been no answer. There was something vulnerable about her, something that made Wright want to take care of her, to protect her from the world that had killed her husband. She was so different from his ex-wife.
Wright had never felt that Janie needing looking after, even when she was ill. Wright had once read in a magazine that couples were always referred to in order of dominance. He wasn’t sure if it was true or not so he’d asked several of his friends and they’d all agreed that it was Janie and Nick. It had come as something of a shock because Wright had always felt that their marriage was a partnership of equals. But the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d realised that when it came to making decisions, usually Janie got her way. She’d chosen the house, she’d had the final word on what car they bought, and it had been her decision to come off the pill when she did. They always talked through their problems, but it was always Wright who gave way. Because he loved her and she knew it.
He’d read in another magazine that the most successful marriages were where the husband loved the wife more than the wife loved the husband. Wright was living proof that the theory was flawed.
He wondered what May Eckhardt’s marriage had been like. Had it been Max and May, or May and Max? He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat, trying to recall her face. Wright shivered. The car interior had cooled quickly with the engine off and he rubbed his arms, trying to keep warm. An old man wearing a raincoat and a flat cap walked by with a Yorkshire terrier on a bright red lead. He turned to look at Wright as he walked by. Wright smiled and gave him a small wave.
Wright looked up at the window again. The room was still in darkness. He checked the parked cars but there was no sign of her VW. Wright rubbed his chin. She didn’t strike him as the sort who’d stay out late. He climbed out of his Fiesta and stretched, then locked the door and walked down the path towards the entrance to the mansion block. A light came on, presumably motion-activated because no one opened the front door. He ran his finger down the bell buttons, then frowned. The piece of cardboard with Eckhardt written on it had gone. He stared at the blank space under the bell, his forehead creased into a puzzled frown.
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice behind him.
Wright jumped as if he’d been poked in the ribs. He whirled around to see the man in the flat cap standing behind him, his dog cradled in his arms. The man was in his seventies and there was an aggressive tilt to his chin as if he suspected Wright of being up to no good. The dog yapped twice and the man put a hand on its muzzle to silence it.
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Wright, recovering his composure.
‘Really,’ said the man. ‘Well, I’m with the Neighbourhood Watch and I’ve never seen you around here before.’ The terrier struggled to escape the man’s grip on its muzzle. ‘Hush, Katie,’ the man whispered.
‘I suppose that’s your guard dog,’ said Wright good naturedly, but the joke fell flat.
The man tilted his chin higher. He was a small man, barely reaching Wright’s shoulder, but he wasn’t intimidated by Wright’s relative youth or height. Wright had the feeling that he was a former boxer, and that if push came to shove he’d be prepared to take a swing at Wright, despite his age. Assuming he put the dog down first.
‘I’d like to see your identification,’ said the man.
‘Sure,’ said Wright. He reached into his inside pocket, took out his wallet, and opened it to show his warrant card and badge.
The man released his grip on his dog’s muzzle and took the wallet. He stared at the warrant card as if committing it to memory. ‘This says you’re with the British Transport Police,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
The man compared the photograph on the card with Wright’s face, then handed it back. The dog growled softly. ‘So you’re not a real policeman, then?’ he said.
Wright smiled tightly but said nothing.
‘And who is it you’re here to see, Sergeant Wright?’
‘May Eckhardt,’ said Wright. ‘Flat four.’
The man smiled smugly. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘Good thing too, the photographers were a bloody nuisance. Night and day, standing on the pavement, talking and laughing. Called the police but they said there was nothing they could do, they weren’t trespassing.’
‘Gone?’
‘Moved out.’
‘Do you know when?’
‘Why? Is she a suspect now?’
‘No, she’s not a suspect, Mr . . .?’
‘Jenkins,’ said the man. ‘I live in the flat below the Eckhardts.’ He fished a key out of his raincoat pocket and Wright stepped aside so that he could unlock the door. ‘Two days ago, that was when she left.’
‘There’s no “for sale” sign up,’ said Wright.
‘They rented,’ said Jenkins.
‘From who?’
‘The landlord’s a Mr Sadiq, I believe. Never met the man, though. He owns several flats in the area.’ He pushed open the door and put down his terrier. It ran along the hallway and up a flight of stairs, its stub of a tail wagging furiously.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a telephone number for him, have you?’ asked Wright.
The man shook his head, then pointed to a noticeboard on the wall. Several letters were pinned to it. ‘The managing agents should be able to tell you. That’s their address.’
Jenkins turned to follow the dog, but Wright asked him if he could spare a few minutes. Jenkins looked at his wristwatch, then nodded.
‘What sort of couple were they?’ Wright asked.
Jenkins narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I meant when they lived above you. Were they quiet? Did they argue?’
‘Never heard a peep,’ said Jenkins, taking off his hat and unbuttoning his raincoat. ‘Hardly saw them. I was a bit worried when they first moved in, her being Chinese and all. I was a bit worried about the smell, you know?’
‘The smell?’
‘Cooking. Chinese food. The smell lingers, doesn’t it? It was never a problem, though. Delightful girl. Spoke perfect English.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘Oh, he’s American. Terrible English.’
‘I meant what was he like?’
‘A photographer. That’s all I know. He liked jazz. I had to complain about the noise one Sunday, but generally they were perfect neighbours.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Anyway, if there’s nothing else, Sergeant Wright, I have to give my wife her medicine.’
Wright thanked him. Jenkins waited while he copied down the name and telephone number of the managing agent, then closed the door behind him.
Dean Burrow smiled at the office receptionist and wished her a good morning. He pushed through the glass door that led to his outer office and almost bumped into a black UPS deliveryman on his way out. Burrow held the door open for him and the deliveryman nodded his thanks.
‘Good morning, Sally,’ he said to his office manager. Sally Forster had been on his staff for more than fifteen years and was one of his most devoted staffers.
She looked up from the stack of mail on her desk and put a hand up to push her spectacles higher up her nose. ‘Good morning, Senator,’ she said brightly. A cigarette smouldered in a small brass ashtray. Sally smoked sixty cigarettes a day and the non-smoking members of staff had twice tried to declare the senator’s office a no-smoking zone. They’d failed both times: Sally was as adept at office politics as she was at running the senator’s diary.
‘You work too hard, Sally,’ said the senator. It was a common refrain. She generally put in a sixteen-hour day, and appeared to have no life outside the office.
She made a dismissive waving motion with her ringless left hand. ‘Bullshit,’ she said. ‘If you want something doing . . .’
‘And there’s no one does it better than you,’ said the senator. ‘But you make me look bad by always getting in before me.’
She grinned slyly. ‘I could give you an early morning alarm call, Senator.’ She picked up her cigarette and inhaled.
Burrow chuckled. Sally was the only member of his staff who could get away with such teasing.
Burrow spotted a UPS document package on her desk and he twisted his neck to get a better look. It was from Bangkok. He reached for it but Sally beat him to it. ‘It’s not been scanned, Senator.’
‘Who’s it from?’
Sally read the waybill affixed to the package. ‘Eric Horvitz. Bangkok, Thailand.’
Burrow felt a chill run down his spine. ‘That’s okay, I know Mr Horvitz,’ he said.
She held the package out. ‘You’re sure that’s his signature?’
Burrow didn’t even look at the scrawl. ‘Yes, don’t worry, I’ve been expecting this.’
Sally let go of the package and Burrow took it. ‘Coffee?’ she asked.
Burrow shook his head. ‘No, thanks. Maybe later.’
‘There’s a list of calls on your desk. And the Washington Post wants an interview. You’ve got a twenty-minute slot at three.’
‘Three’s fine. Who are they sending?’
‘Jane Owen. With a photographer.’
Burrow nodded. ‘Okay, go ahead and confirm. Better have Kimberly in to do my hair at two thirty.’
‘Already booked,’ said Sally.
Burrow acknowledged her mindreading ability with a slight nod and went through to his own office. He ripped open the package as he walked around his desk. There was only one thing inside – a Polaroid photograph.
Burrow stopped dead. For a second or two he felt faint and he reached out with his free hand to grip the desk. He stared at the image, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was almost identical to the previous Polaroid he’d received. A man, his flesh turned ghostly white, spreadeagled against a wall, shiny red blood smeared over his mouth and chest. Burrow narrowed his eyes as he looked at the face of the corpse. It had been more than a quarter of a century since he had last seen Eric Horvitz, but Burrow was reasonably sure that it was Horvitz in the photograph.
The senator dialled Jody Meacher’s number and put the picture on to his blotter as the telephone rang. Meacher’s answering machine cut in and Burrow left a brief message.
There was a discreet tap on his door as he replaced the receiver, and Sally popped her head in. ‘Ready to go over your diary?’ she asked.
Burrow opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and tossed the photograph into it. ‘Sure,’ he said, closing the drawer and flashing his ‘everything’s all right with the world’ smile. ‘And I’ll have that coffee now, too.’
There was an ambulance in the road outside Edmunds’s house but the blue light wasn’t flashing and the driver stood by the rear doors smoking a cigarette. Two police cars were parked on the opposite side of the road, both empty. Gerry Hunter climbed out of his car and locked the door. A group of housewives huddled together on the pavement, staring over the hedge at the front door. An old woman in a faded housecoat and slippers saw him coming and Hunter heard her say ‘CID’. They all turned to watch him walk towards the gate.
‘Isn’t there something on television you could be watching?’ shouted Hunter bitterly. One of the women had the decency to blush, but the rest were unfazed by his outburst. ‘Go on, piss off!’ he said.
One old woman tut-tutted and Hunter had a sudden urge to push her over the hedge, or better still to drag her into the house so that she could see for herself what was inside. Maybe if she came face to face with a few corpses she wouldn’t be so keen to gawp. Hunter glared at her so aggressively that she took a step backwards.
He pushed his way through the onlookers and walked briskly down the path to the front door
. It was ajar and he pushed it open with his foot. A uniformed constable was there, picking his nose. ‘Get those people out of here!’ Hunter barked. ‘This is a crime scene, not a circus.’ The constable opened his mouth but before he could speak Hunter cut him short with a warning finger. ‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘Where’s the body?’
‘Upstairs, sir,’ said the constable.
‘Doctor?’
‘She’s there already, sir.’ The constable edged past Hunter and out of the front door. Hunter closed it.
A second uniform came out of the sitting room, this one a sergeant. Hunter recognised him. ‘Hiya, Mick,’ said Hunter.
‘Gerry. Have you been upstairs?’
‘Not yet. What’s the story?’
‘Choked on his own vomit by the look of it.’
‘Jesus.’ Hunter walked through to the sitting room and looked around. He’d spent many an hour in that room, drinking and watching Sky Sport with his partner, their feet propped up on the coffee table. It was a comfortable room, a man’s room, with cigarette burns on most of the furniture, and irregular-shaped stains on the brown carpet. Edmunds had never been married and his house was a female-free sanctuary for his friends and colleagues.
‘Nothing suspicious?’
Mick shook his head. ‘Made himself a snack and drank the best part of a bottle of whisky.’
Hunter rubbed his jaw. Edmunds was a heavy drinker, though he tended to drink in company rather than on his own. ‘No visitors?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. Just the one glass.’
Hunter sighed. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been happier if there had been suspicious circumstances. Dead was dead, when all was said and done. ‘Okay, cheers, Mick. I’ll go up and see the doc.’
Hunter went slowly upstairs, holding on to the banister as if afraid that he’d lose his balance. A third uniformed officer was in the bedroom, standing at the window and staring down at the street. He turned as Hunter walked into the bedroom. It was Sandy Peters, an old friend of Hunter’s. They’d joined the force at the same time, and despite the fact that Peters had remained a constable while Hunter had risen relatively quickly through the ranks, they were still firm friends.
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 16