The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Hiya, Gerry,’ said Peters.

  ‘Sandy. Thanks for the call.’

  Dr Anna Littman was bending over the bed, examining the body. She nodded a greeting to Hunter.

  Peters walked over to Hunter. ‘Yeah, they said it was your day off, but I thought . . .’ He shrugged, not sure what to say.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ said Hunter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Peters. ‘He was a good guy.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Who found the body?’

  ‘Me. His car was giving him trouble and I was going to pick him up from the garage. He didn’t turn up so I came here. The curtains were drawn and I thought maybe he’d overslept. Tried his mobile, no answer.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Broke a back window. I’ll have it fixed.’ He fiddled with his tunic. ‘I’d better go downstairs, check that everything’s sorted.’

  Hunter nodded. He patted Peters on the arm as he went by.

  Dr Littman stood up and draped the quilt over Edmunds’s body. ‘I’m sorry, Gerry.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hunter.

  ‘You’d worked together for quite a while?’

  ‘Three years. Give or take.’ Hunter walked over to the window. Outside, the young constable was shepherding the neighbours away. ‘What do they expect to see?’ asked Hunter. The doctor didn’t answer. ‘What happened, Anna?’

  ‘Choked on his own vomit. You’d be surprised how often it happens, Gerry. A lot of drunks . . .’ She walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that Clive was . . . you know what I mean.’ She squeezed his shoulder gently. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘It’s such a stupid way to die,’ said Hunter quietly. ‘If he’d been on duty, if he’d been shot . . .’

  ‘Then you’d have a murder to investigate. You’d be able to do something.’

  Hunter sighed. ‘Yeah, I guess that’s it.’

  ‘It’s your day off, isn’t it? Go home.’

  ‘Yeah, and drink something sweet. A nice hot cup of tea. I know the routine.’ He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sorry, Anna. I didn’t mean to snap.’

  ‘I could give you something . . .’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘I’ll be okay. I’ll have to go and see his mother. She’ll have to be told. Jesus, what do I tell her? He choked on cheese on toast?’

  ‘Just say he died suddenly in his sleep. There’s no need to go into details.’

  ‘They always want details,’ said Hunter.

  The doctor took her hand away from Hunter’s shoulder. ‘Do you want a copy of the post mortem report?’

  ‘Not unless there’s anything unusual.’

  ‘There won’t be, Gerry. I’m sorry.’ She went back to the bed and picked up her medical bag. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come downstairs with me.’

  Hunter continued to stare out of the window. ‘Just give me a few minutes,’ he said.

  He waited until she’d left the room before going over to the bed. He stared down at the bump in the quilt and reached out his hand, but then changed his mind. He didn’t want to see his partner’s corpse, he wanted to remember him as he had been. ‘You stupid, stupid, bastard,’ he whispered. Tears filled his eyes and he wiped them away with his sleeve.

  Tommy Reid unscrewed the cap off his bottle of vodka and poured slugs into two polystyrene cups of coffee. He handed one to Nick Wright. ‘Congratulations, partner,’ he said.

  They bashed their cups together and toasted each other.

  ‘Never thought we’d get the bastard,’ said Wright.

  ‘All things come to him who waits,’ said Reid, drinking his coffee and smacking his lips.

  The mugger who had escaped from Wright during the undercover operation had finally been caught and was safely under lock and key in a custody suite at Edbury Bridge, the BTP’s area headquarters. He’d almost killed an old man on the Victoria Line with his stun gun but had been overpowered by a group of rugby players on their way home from a training game. They’d almost broken one of the mugger’s legs and blacked both eyes before handing him over to the British Transport Police. Reid and Wright had been over to identify him as the mugger they’d pursued through Paddington. It was definitely him – he was wearing the same motorcycle jacket. They’d left him screaming obscenities and threatening to sue the rugby players for assault.

  Wright would have preferred to have caught the man himself, but he was happy to settle for second best. He sipped his spiked coffee and swung his feet up on to the desk.

  ‘Hey, Nick, did you get the box?’ called Dave Hubbard.

  ‘Box? What box?’

  Hubbard pointed over at the far corner of the CID office. ‘Came first thing this morning.’

  Wright pushed himself up out of his chair and went over to the large cardboard box and knelt down beside it.

  ‘Not ticking, is it?’ shouted Reid.

  It had been delivered by a courier firm and Wright studied the documentation stuck to the top of the box. ‘It’s from my ex-wife,’ he said.

  ‘Bloody hell, it probably is a bomb!’ shouted Reid. He and Hubbard giggled like a couple of schoolboys and Wright scowled across at them.

  He pulled open the box. Inside were pieces of model railway track and more than a dozen small parcels swathed in bubble-wrap. He picked one of them up and carefully unwrapped it. It was a green and black model steam engine.

  ‘You bitch, Janie,’ said Wright under his breath. Stuck into the side of the box was an envelope. Wright opened it, read it, and ripped it in half.

  Reid walked over and looked down into the box. ‘A train set?’

  ‘Brilliant deduction,’ said Wright sourly.

  Reid knelt down and picked up the model locomotive. ‘Beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘My dad’s,’ said Wright. ‘It was in the loft. Janie’s had a clear-out.’

  ‘Must be worth a bit?’

  ‘Probably.’ He stood up and went over to his desk. He picked up the phone and banged out Janie’s number. She answered after half a dozen rings. ‘Janie, what the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘The train set.’

  ‘Good. It arrived, did it?’

  ‘That’s for Sean. You know I gave it to him.’

  ‘Sean doesn’t want it. He’s too old to play with trains.’

  ‘He’s seven.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, he doesn’t want it. It was just cluttering up the attic.’

  ‘That’s what attics are for, to be cluttered up.’

  ‘I’m having it converted,’ she said. ‘Into a sewing room.’

  ‘Hell’s bells, Janie. I wanted Sean to have it.’

  ‘He doesn’t want it.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘He’s at school.’

  ‘I’ll call later.’

  ‘If you like.’ She hung up.

  ‘Bitch!’ shouted Wright. He slammed the phone down.

  ‘Ex-wives, huh,’ sympathised Reid. ‘What can you do with them?’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t you kill mine, and I’ll kill yours. Like in Strangers On A Train. The Hitchcock movie.’

  Wright shook his head in disgust. As far as he was concerned, his ex-wife’s vindictiveness was no laughing matter.

  Phil Evans walked over, grim faced. ‘Hey, did you guys hear about Clive Edmunds?’

  ‘Yeah? What did he do?’ asked Reid. ‘Break the habit of a lifetime and buy a round?’

  ‘He’s dead, Tommy.’

  Reid’s face fell. ‘Shit. What happened?’

  ‘Choked on his vomit. Died in his sleep.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Reid looked across at Wright. ‘Better make sure I kip on my stomach from now on.’

  Evans glared at Reid. ‘Gerry Hunter’s been on the phone. The funeral’s next Friday. The Super thinks we should be represented.’r />
  ‘Is Newton going?’ asked Wright.

  ‘Nah. Budget meeting with Railtrack. Can either of you two make it?’

  Reid and Wright shook their heads.

  ‘Great, that makes a grand total of zero so far. At this rate I’m going to have to go myself.’

  ‘Well, it’s his own fault for being such an unlikeable bastard,’ said Reid.

  ‘Come on, Tommy, he’s dead,’ said Evans.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Wright.

  ‘You sure?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Yeah. He was a cop, he deserves to have someone there from the office.’

  ‘Cheers, Nick. I’ll get the details for you.’ He went over to ask Hubbard and Lloyd.

  ‘I can’t make you out,’ said Reid. ‘You hated him. He was forever taking the piss out of you.’

  Wright shrugged. ‘Professional courtesy.’

  ‘You’re a soft bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’

  Reid sipped his coffee. He groaned. ‘Okay, you can stop looking at me like that.’

  Wright raised an eyebrow. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a puppy that wants to go for a walk. Okay, I’ll come with you. Just don’t expect me to throw myself on the coffin.’

  ‘You’re a soft bastard, too,’ said Wright, grinning.

  Reid leaned forward. ‘Maybe. But if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.’

  Gerald Manville rolled over on to his back and stared up at the ceiling fan which was doing its best to keep the air circulating in the windowless room. He raised his arm and looked at his wristwatch. He’d booked the room for two hours and he still had fifteen minutes left. He dropped his arm and groaned. It was his fifth day in Pattaya and he was exhausted. Sun, sea, sand and sex – Thailand was the perfect holiday destination, especially for a man with needs like Manville’s. Three times a year he flew over to the Land of Smiles, to enjoy the sort of sex he could only dream of back in Plymouth. He had hit the bars within hours of getting off the plane from Heathrow, and since then the days and nights had blurred into one long session of sex and drink, with the occasional visit to a restaurant for food.

  He turned on to his side and ran his finger down the silky smooth back of the figure next to him. Thai skin was so unbelievably soft, like silk. Manville kissed the boy between the shoulderblades, revelling in the salty taste of the thirteen-year-old skin. He felt himself grow hard again but he hadn’t the inclination to start something he didn’t have time to finish. They’d soon be knocking on his door to let him know that his time was up.

  He patted the boy on the hip and went over to the shower. He rinsed himself clean and wrapped a threadbare white towel around his waist. When he went back into the bedroom, the boy was already dressed in a T-shirt and shorts and was sitting on the edge of the bed. Manville picked up his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He gave the boy a five-hundred-baht note. The boy smiled and put his hands together in a ‘wai’ of thanks, bowing as if he was saying his prayers, then he scampered over to the door and rushed out.

  Manville smiled to himself as he dressed. He loved Thailand. He loved the food, he loved the climate, and he loved the boys. He had another six years before he could retire from his job on a halfway decent pension, then he’d be on the first plane out with a one-way ticket. He’d have more than enough money to rent a small house with a garden, close to the beach, to run a car and to buy himself all the companionship he needed. Six more years. It seemed like a lifetime.

  He checked himself in the bathroom mirror, then left the room. The door opened out on to a small concrete area across which a thick purple curtain had been drawn. Many of the customers at the short-time hotel arrived in cars, and the curtain hid their vehicles from prying eyes. Manville had walked from the nearby bar so he put his hands in his pockets and strolled out into the sunshine. Two chambermaids in blue uniforms giggled as they hurried by with a cart piled high with sheets and towels.

  Manville decided he’d have a drink on the beach before heading back to his own hotel. He walked along the narrow street that led to the beach road, shading his eyes from the bright afternoon sun with the flat of his hand. Two Thai boys sitting on a low wall smiled up at him hopefully. Manville had already been with one of the boys, but he didn’t recognise the other. Neither was much older than fourteen. Manville arranged to meet them both later that night and gave them each a one-hundred-baht note to seal the deal. Both boys gave him a formal ‘wai’ and he was almost tempted to go back to the short-time hotel with them there and then.

  He crossed the road and walked down on to the beach, where Manville bought a copy of the Bangkok Post from a newspaper vendor. Spread out across the vendor’s table were a number of Thai newspapers, and several had photographs of a corpse splashed across them. The Thai newspapers were even worse than their British counterparts when it came to running blood and gore. Manville bent over the table to get a better look.

  The largest of the photographs was of a light-skinned bearded man, his mouth a bloody mass and his eyes staring lifelessly at the camera lens. It looked as if the man was lying on his back, but as he looked more closely Manville realised that he was actually spreadeagled against a wall and that the picture had been twisted around for reasons of space. There was something familiar about the corpse. Not the face, but the injuries and the position of the body.

  Manville frowned and gathered up copies of all the papers that carried the photograph, paid the vendor and went across the sand to a row of deckchairs. He sat down under a faded red and yellow striped umbrella and spread the Thai newspapers over the sand. An old Thai woman with skin like an old leather briefcase came over and asked him what he wanted to drink. Manville asked for a Singha beer, his eyes fixed on the newspapers. He flicked through one. There were more photographs on the inside pages. In one of them, a playing card was impaled on the victim’s chest. Manville lifted the paper up and stared at the card. He couldn’t make out what it was.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ said a voice.

  Manville looked up. It was Poonsak, an eighteen-year-old Thai boy whom Manville had known for several years. Poonsak knew him as Jack, as did most of the underage boys whom Manville took back to the short-time hotel. Poonsak had grown too old for most of the sex-tourists who visited Pattaya, and now made a living procuring younger boys.

  ‘Hello, Poonsak. Come here, will you?’ Poonsak squatted down next to Manville’s deckchair. ‘Translate this for me, please.’ Manville tapped the headline and story around the picture of the brutalised corpse.

  Poonsak put his head on one side as he read through the story. ‘It say farang was killed. Someone cut him, very bad.’ He looked up but saw from Manville’s face that he expected more. He looked down at the paper again and tugged at his lower lip as he read. ‘His name is Eric Horvitz. He’s an American. He had a place for children with no parents.’

  ‘An orphanage?’

  ‘Yes. An orphanage. He was found in the haung tai din. The basement. The basement of the orphanage. He was tortured, with knives. Somebody cut off his dick and put it in his mouth.’ Poonsak pulled a face. He peered at the photograph as if to confirm that that was indeed what had been done to the man, and grimaced.

  ‘What does it say about the playing card?’

  Poonsak read through the article. ‘An ace of spades. It was stuck on a knife that had been stuck into his chest. Police say they think it was maybe a drugs killing.’

  ‘Why do they say that?’

  Poonsak read more, then shook his head. ‘It not say, Jack.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘The body was found yesterday. They not know when he was killed.’

  Manville flicked through the Bangkok Post. The English-language newspaper was generally less salacious than its Thai rivals. It seldom printed gory photographs and tended to hold back on the details of murders and rapes. He found the murder story on page three, with no photograph. There were only a dozen paragraphs giving details of the victim and his orp
hanage. The playing card was mentioned right at the end of the story, but no significance was attributed to it.

  ‘Did you know him?’ asked Poonsak.

  The old lady brought Manville’s beer to him on a battered tray. He took it and smiled his thanks. The woman gave him an ice-cold wet towel and he wiped his face and neck before handing it back to her with another smile.

  ‘No,’ said Manville. ‘No, I didn’t know him.’

  Poonsak stood up, brushing sand from the knees of his jeans. ‘Do you want me to get you a friend tonight? I know a new boy, only just arrived in Pattaya. Almost a virgin.’

  Manville chuckled. According to Poonsak, virtually every boy he supplied was as pure as the driven snow. ‘No, thank you, Poonsak. I’m fixed up tonight.’

  Poonsak smiled. Manville patted him on the back of the leg. He really was a delightful boy. Pity he’d grown so quickly. Poonsak’s smile widened and Manville realised he’d misunderstood the gesture. Manville shook his head and took away his hand. The teenager shrugged and wandered away towards a group of Scandinavian tourists who were paddling in the surf.

  Manville gathered up the newspapers. He knew now why the photographs had seemed familiar. There’d been a similar murder back in England a month or so previously. A circular had passed across Manville’s desk from a British Transport Police detective describing a torture-killing in South London and requesting details of any similar murders. Manville had drawn a blank and had replied on behalf of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. There had been several vicious drugs-related killings in Plymouth but the injuries didn’t match those of the London murder, and no playing cards were involved.

  Manville began tearing out the articles. He’d put them in the post when he got back to the UK. That’d be the best and safest way of passing on the information. He didn’t want to have to explain why an unmarried chief inspector was holidaying alone in Thailand.