The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘When will he be free?’

  She looked at him over the top of her gold-framed glasses. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to call you when he is?’

  Wright looked at the cutting, then at the closed door. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said.

  ‘Nick, I don’t know how long he’s going to be.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he repeated.

  There were three hard-backed chairs against the wall facing Nancy’s desk. Wright sat on the middle one. Nancy continued to watch him for several seconds, then she pushed her glasses higher up her nose with her forefinger and resumed her typing. Wright reread the cutting as he waited. The victim was an American, Eric Horvitz. He ran an orphanage in Bangkok and he’d been discovered in the basement. There weren’t many details of what had been done to the body, but what there were tallied with the corpse that had been found in the tunnel near Battersea.

  The door to Newton’s office opened and two men wearing suits and carrying briefcases walked out. Wright stood up but the door closed firmly. He looked across at Nancy expectantly, who gave an impatient wave of her hand.

  ‘Go on, go on,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, Nancy,’ said Wright. He knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

  The superintendent was dipping a biscuit into his cup of tea and he looked up guiltily. As he did so, half of the biscuit broke off. Newton stared distastefully at the cup. ‘Yes, Nick?’

  ‘Sir, I’ve had a lead on the tunnel murder.’ He gave the cutting to Newton.

  The superintendent took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. He read the cutting, grimaced, and gave it back to Wright. ‘So?’

  ‘So I was right. It’s a serial killer.’

  ‘No, Nick. It’s two similar murders, five thousand miles apart.’

  ‘Both with an ace of spades left on the corpse? Come on, sir. It’s the same killer. It has to be. Sir, this is a break. I want to follow it up.’

  ‘Nick, the simple fact is, we just don’t have the resources to pursue this lead. We answer to different masters here, masters who are ultimately responsible to shareholders. It’s all about money, Nick. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

  ‘So profits come before justice?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ said Newton. ‘I’m saying that I have to operate within a strict budget. I can’t afford to send you halfway around the world to follow up a lead that might prove to be nothing.’

  Wright reached over and took the cutting back. ‘Let me go over there, sir. I just know the murders are related, and I know I can crack the case. Just one week, and I promise I’ll get a result. It’ll reflect well on the BTP, you know.’

  Newton hesitated for a few seconds, then leaned forward. ‘Okay, you can go, but the Met boys will have to know about it, and I want you reporting back anything you find out immediately. You’ve got exactly one week.’

  Wright punched his fist in the air. ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘Just be careful, Nick. And for God’s sake, don’t get into trouble out there. Thailand can be a dangerous place.’

  There was something about the Oval Office that inspired respect, even when its occupant was less than presidential. Some of the most important decisions facing mankind had been taken in the office: wars had been started and ended, economies had been ruined or revived, men had seized the opportunity for greatness or lied their way into infamy. Dean Burrow could sense the history in the room, so strongly that he could virtually smell it, even above the oversweet aftershave of the man who stepped towards him, arm outstretched.

  ‘Dean, good to see you,’ said the President, smiling easily. The word on the cocktail circuit was that the presidential smile had cost somewhere in the region of thirty thousand dollars and that there was now so much metal in his mouth that the Secret Service had had to reduce the sensitivity of the metal detectors at the entrances to the White House. They shook hands. The President’s grip was firm, his hand dry. ‘How’s Patricia?’

  ‘She’s fine, Mr President. Thank you.’

  ‘And Bill? I gather he’s top of his class at Yale.’

  ‘We’re both very proud of him.’

  ‘You should bring him in for lunch some time. I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘He’d be honoured, Mr President.’

  The President patted Burrow on the shoulder and guided him to a chair. ‘You’re looking good, Dean. Real good.’ The President gestured to his own ample waistline. ‘That’s the big drawback in this job: there’s never enough time for exercise.’ He sat down in a chair facing Burrow and crossed his legs. ‘Your health is the most important thing, Dean. Nothing else matters. Money, power, none of it means anything if you haven’t got your health.’

  Burrow nodded. The meeting had been called at short notice, and there could be only one reason for it.

  ‘Glenn’s condition is deteriorating, Dean. He wants to throw in the towel now and spend more time with Elaine. She lost her father, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Mr President.’

  ‘Hell of a business, prostate cancer. Not an easy way to die.’ The President shivered. ‘I’ve asked him to hang on in there for two more weeks, until the China trade talks are out of the way. Glenn’s always gone down well in Beijing, being fluent in Mandarin and all. He’s agreed. God bless him for that.’

  The President brought his sky-blue eyes to bear on Burrow. The effect was almost hypnotic and while the contact lasted it felt as if Burrow was the centre of the President’s universe, that nothing else mattered to him other than the man sitting opposite him. It was something all the best leaders seemed to be able to do at will, a skill that Burrow himself was working to acquire.

  ‘Forty-eight’s a good age to be Vice President, Dean. Can you handle it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Burrow. He felt a surge of elation which he fought to keep under control. He’d known he was front-runner, but he’d been counting chickens right up until the moment the President said the words. He wanted to leap up out of his chair and punch the air, but he confined himself to a tight, almost regretful, smile. When all was said and done, it was still a case of dead man’s shoes.

  ‘The timing’s perfect from your point of view,’ the President continued. ‘Economy’s on the up and up, the Middle East is as quiet as it’s ever going to get, no dark clouds on the horizons, none that I’m aware of anyway. Two years’ time, you could have this job.’

  Burrow said nothing. He wanted the job more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but burning ambition was something best kept hidden, especially when the only obstacle to your desire was sitting just a few feet away.

  ‘Two weeks today I’m going to be in Washington – I plan to announce it then. Clear your schedule for the day, and the day after. You’re going to have the world’s media on your tail. I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off from telling Patricia. You know how the girls love to talk.’ He stood up and extended his hand again. The second handshake was as firm and dry as the first. Burrow could feel that his own palms were damp with sweat.

  ‘Congratulations, Dean.’ He put a reassuring hand on Burrow’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to be good to have you on the team.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, Mr President.’

  The President chuckled. ‘I’m relieved to hear that.’ He let go of Burrow’s shoulder, but continued to shake his hand for a few seconds more. ‘It goes without saying that I’ve had you checked out, Dean. And it also goes without saying that you passed with flying colours. First-class war record, which is more than I can say for myself, huh? Never been caught taking drugs, and other than a handful of parking tickets you’re clean as a whistle.’ He fixed his eyes on Burrow again. ‘There was that business with your secretary, of course, but you handled that well.’

  Burrow felt his chest go suddenly cold and he caught his breath. He forced himself to keep smiling. ‘Secretary?’ he said. Did he know? Did the President know about Krist
ine Ross? And if he did, why in God’s name wasn’t he being taken away in chains instead of being given the second most powerful job in America? The President was known as a vindictive man, but why on earth would he dangle the prize and then snatch it away?

  ‘Mary-Louise Wilson,’ said the President. ‘She’s been as good as gold since the . . . operation. She seems to have settled nicely in Cleveland.’

  Burrow suppressed a sigh. The abortion. ‘Yes, Jody Meacher paid her off.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen her since? She hasn’t approached you?’

  ‘She got what she wanted. There are no records, no written proof. In a worst-case scenario it would be her word against mine, and I doubt that the media would use it without some sort of corroboration. I can assure you there is no evidence that would back up her story – Meacher took care of that. Besides, it was a long time ago.’

  The President nodded. ‘And you can give me your cast-iron guarantee that no other skeletons are going to emerge from some long-forgotten closet?’

  ‘Absolutely, Mr President.’ Burrow returned the President’s gaze and flashed him a confident smile, despite the images that flitted through his mind, whirling and twisting like bats at dusk. Bodies crucified, with bloody mouths and playing cards impaled on their chests.

  ‘Because if there are, we should clear them out now.’

  Burrow shook his head. ‘I am as pure as the driven snow, Mr President.’

  Gerry Hunter tossed his jacket on to the back of his sofa and knelt down in front of his video recorder. He slotted in the tape. He’d had to visit three video rental stores before finding one that had a copy of Apocalypse Now. The store manager was a bearded man in his late twenties who had refused to allow Hunter to take away the tape until Hunter had filled out an application form and provided him with two pieces of identification. Hunter had shown him his warrant card and told him that he needed to borrow the tape as part of a murder investigation, but the manager had been adamant: no membership, no tape.

  Hunter pressed the ‘play’ button and sat down on the sofa. The telephone rang and he cursed. He leaned over and picked up the phone.

  It was Janie Wright. ‘Hiya, honey,’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m watching a video,’ said Hunter, his eyes on the screen.

  ‘Come and watch it with me,’ she said.

  ‘It’s work related,’ he said.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Come on, Gerry. I haven’t seen you for two days.’ Hunter looked at his watch. ‘I’ll cook,’ she said. ‘Pasta.’

  ‘It’s late, Janie.’

  ‘Please,’ she whined. ‘Please, please, please.’ He could picture her pouting and swinging her shoulders from side to side, playing the little girl lost like she always did when she wanted to get her own way. It might have been attractive when she was in her teens, but Hunter was starting to find it irritating in a woman in her early thirties.

  Hunter knew that it was pointless to argue with Janie when she was in one of her demanding moods. Besides, she was right, he hadn’t seen her for two days, he’d been so tied up with work. ‘Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine,’ she said.

  Hunter retrieved the video cassette, grabbed his jacket, and drove to Janie’s house.

  He parked behind her car and walked up the driveway. She opened the door before he reached it. She was wearing a pink silk dressing gown and full make-up and she’d obviously just brushed her hair. Wright thought she looked gorgeous, and he knew immediately that she’d lied about the pasta. She was dressed for the bedroom, not the kitchen. Hunter kissed her on the cheek and caught her favourite scent. Her arms slid around his neck and she kissed him on the mouth, pressing her body hard against his. Hunter could taste wine as her tongue slid against his teeth.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said when she eventually broke away.

  He held up the video cassette. ‘I have to watch this,’ he said.

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Right now. It won’t take long.’

  She took it off him and examined it. ‘Apocalypse Now? That’s at least two hours long, isn’t it?’ She held it behind her back. ‘Bed first.’

  ‘Video first,’ Hunter insisted.

  Janie could see that she wasn’t going to get her way, so she gave him the video and flounced off to the sitting room. Hunter followed her and loaded the video into the recorder. He dropped down next to Janie on the overstuffed sofa opposite the television. A half empty bottle of wine and two glasses were on the coffee table next to Janie. The screen flickered into life and Hunter picked up the remote control and fast-forwarded through the piracy warning and trailers for other movies.

  Janie picked up her glass and sipped her wine. She put her glass down and slid across Hunter, straddling him. Her dressing gown rode up her thighs as she put her hands on either side of his face and pressed her lips against his. Hunter tried to protest but as he opened his mouth wine spilled between his lips and he had to swallow. Janie thrust her tongue deeper into his mouth and ground her backside against his groin. Wine dribbled from between their lips and ran down Hunter’s chin. Janie took her hands away from his face and wriggled out of her robe. She was naked underneath.

  Hunter put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. She was panting and there was an almost manic gleam in her eyes. ‘Janie,’ he protested.

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ she said. She seized his wrists and placed his hands on her full breasts. The nipples were hard and he couldn’t stop himself caressing them. She smiled, sensing that she’d won, and slipped her hands down to his groin, rubbing and probing and making him hard.

  ‘Where’s Sean?’ he asked.

  ‘Sean’s in bed, asleep.’ She raised herself up and undid his belt. Her right hand found him and Hunter gasped. Janie pressed her mouth against his again and as she kissed him she slid him inside her.

  The British Airways flight to Bangkok was full and Nick Wright was lucky to get a window seat. He was seated next to two Australian backpackers who seemed to be intent on drinking as much free beer and wine as they could. They were pleasant enough but there was no chance of Wright getting any sleep. Two hours into the flight he decided that he might as well join them in their binge, and together they downed the best part of a case of lager by the time they landed in Thailand.

  It took more than an hour for Wright to clear immigration. The queues were long and the brown-uniformed immigration officials seemed in no hurry to process the arrivals. His suitcase was waiting for him on the carousel, so he collected it, handed in his Customs form and headed through the ‘Nothing To Declare’ exit.

  Several Thai men in blue blazers and black slacks tried to shepherd him towards counters offering hotel and limousine services but the Australians had already warned him that they were overpriced. They’d told him to walk on to the public taxi counter and given him the names and addresses of several reasonably priced hotels to go along with those he’d already picked from the Lonely Planet guide to Thailand.

  At the public taxi counter a young girl in a white blouse tried to persuade him to accept a non-metered taxi, but the backpackers had told Wright to refuse and to insist on a taxi with a meter. Reluctantly, the girl handed him a chit stamped with ‘Taxi Meter’. On it she’d written his destination, one of the hotels that the backpackers had recommended. It was off Sukhumvit Road, a mile or so from the orphanage where Eric Horvitz had worked.

  A driver materialised at Wright’s shoulder, a bulky Thai in his forties wearing a blue T-shirt and beige slacks. He took the chit, picked up Wright’s suitcase and led Wright across the crowded terminal building. Wright stopped to change the sterling he’d brought with him into Thai baht then they walked outside.

  He was hit by a wall of humidity that took his breath away. Beads of sweat gathered on his face and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He slipped off the blazer he was wearing.

  The dr
iver grinned at his discomfort as he held open the door of the white Toyota. ‘First time in Bangkok?’ he asked.

  ‘First time in Asia,’ said Wright. In fact, it was his first time outside Europe. Janie loved France and Italy, and apart from a couple of weeks in Spain, they’d spent most of their holidays there.

  The driver put the suitcase in the boot, climbed into the front seat and drove off. Wright leaned forward and pointed at the meter. ‘Meter,’ he said.

  The driver shook his head. ‘Not working.’

  The backpackers had told Wright that it was common practice to claim that the meter was out of order so that the drivers could negotiate a higher fare. Wright jabbed his finger at the meter. ‘Use the meter,’ he said.

  The driver shrugged and pressed a button on the front of the meter. Red numbers glowed. ‘You want massage?’ said the driver.

  ‘No,’ said Wright.

  ‘You want girl?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Boy?’

  Wright laughed and the driver laughed along with him.

  The traffic was heavy and they soon slowed to a crawl. Cars and trucks seemed to stretch towards the horizon. In the distance tower blocks glinted in the early morning sun. The light was dazzlingly bright, a stark contrast to the grey drizzle he’d left behind in England. Wright settled back and dozed, his head resting against the window.

  It took them almost two hours to get to the hotel, which as far as he could judge was only ten miles from the airport. Wright had become so used to the taxi stopping and starting that he didn’t realise they’d arrived until the driver twisted around in his seat and pointed, saying, ‘We here.’

  Wright stretched and rubbed his eyes. They were in a narrow street in front of a five-storey building that had once been white but that was now a grubby grey. Streaks of rust ran down from leaking pipes and the windows were covered with a film of dust. Wright pulled out his wallet, paid the driver and carried his suitcase into reception.

  A security guard in a blue uniform was fast asleep on a grey sofa, his peaked cap over his face, and the young girl at the reception desk had her head on her arms and was snoring softly. Overhead a wooden-bladed fan turned slowly and in the corner of the reception area a small television showed a Thai news programme, the sound muted. The girl opened her eyes and looked up at him sleepily. She smiled, reached under the desk for a check-in form and slid it across to him. She smiled again and put her head back on her arms.