by J. D. Weston
The door was open but intact, meaning that whoever had made the mess hadn’t needed to break in and there was no empty space that looked like it may have, at some point, housed a safe. Myers himself knew that the blank motor certificate pads were worth a large amount of money to a small-time villain, but they hadn’t been taken, which meant that either the culprit hadn’t known the value, or they were looking for something else. Something bigger. Something with a pulse, maybe?
He moved along the hallway to a final door that opened out into the workshop. There was no sunlight, but the florescent lights were on. A yellow hydraulic car ramp was in the centre of the space, the far wall was racked out with what looked like hundreds of car tyres of all descriptions, and behind the wall to his right was a small lavatory. The door to the lavatory was missing and Myers screwed his face up at the sight of the mess inside. The place didn’t need cleaning. It needed burning. There were a few random, oil-stained chairs dotted about and a collection of torn car magazines. It was the poorest attempt at a customer waiting area Myers had ever seen.
Along the back wall, however, was a large workbench and two tall tool chests. They were red with silver handles and covered in stickers. On the wall above the bench, which was covered in spare parts, drinks cans, and oily rags, were several calendars which fell into the category of cliché garage topless pictures.
To the right of the workbench was a fire escape door with a long, silver push-handle and Myers thought that even hovels like the garage needed to have some form of emergency exit. He wondered what he’d find out there, then shuddered at the thought.
He stepped into the space and felt a strange guilty pang of combined intrusion and fear. There were no cars in the garage, but the air retained a thick, oily smell borne of years of spilt oil and vapour seeping into the pores of every surface in there. He pulled his jacket in tight around him. It seemed as if every surface was coated in a thick layer of grease.
But there was something else in that smell. Something that had combined with the oil to form a sickly aroma. He knew the smell, but it had been tainted by the oil and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
There was something not quite right about the place. It was the first time he actually wished Fox had been there with him. Another pair of eyes would be useful, and despite her annoying traits, she was actually turning out to be a smart thinker. It was she who had seen the slight variation in the forms. It was she who had known the format of the numbers reflected a container number. And it was she who had theorised that Donald Cartwright could be in trouble.
The fact that Donald Cartwright was not in the garage did not mean he wasn’t in trouble. In fact, it only gave weight to the theory. Something had happened in the garage. And Myers was sure the two were connected.
Donald Cartwright’s shipment had been delivered to the garage, the only delivery for years that hadn’t been delivered to his father’s warehouse. The form was different and the adviser, Sergio, hadn’t countersigned it. The office space looked as if it had been turned upside down and the place was empty. And now Myers was in the workshop, he looked at the space. Nearly every inch of floor was covered in something. There were car parts and more crumpled paperwork, tools, and overalls. To his left was a huge chest of small drawers and each of them had been pulled out and had their contents tipped onto the floor. Shiny nuts of all sizes, screws of various lengths and thicknesses, and pop rivets were scattered everywhere, and the empty drawers had been tossed on top of the mess.
He ventured further into the space, but the feeling of intrusion and fear gripped his stomach. He knew the type of men who owned places like the garage, and he knew that catching them by surprise might not be pleasant.
The nuts and screws on the floor crunched underfoot but there was no way to walk around them. He took another step and leaned forward to peer around the corner. He caught sight of a large tarpaulin. It was oil-soaked with grease spots dotted about like the skin of a teenage boy. Myers checked behind him and glanced back at the little, single door before he committed and ventured around the corner. If somebody returned now, there would be no arguing that he was looking for somebody. He was intruding without a warrant.
Something crunched under his foot. It wasn’t nuts or screws. He knew the gravelly sound. Stuck to the sole of his shoes were tiny shards of broken glass and, when he raised it, tiny droplets of liquid fell. He was standing in a puddle. A huge puddle that, only then did he realise, stretched across the entire width of the workshop.
The pungent smell grew stronger and clung to the back of his throat, and he raised the corner of the tarp. There was no doubt what the smell was. It was sickly and he’d smelled it before a hundred times, just never mixed with the smell of grease and oil.
Beneath the corner of the tarp, he caught his first sight of a broken box. As he peeled it back, the smell greeted him like when a coroner unzips the body bag and the aroma seems to attack the senses.
There comes a point when a detective transitions from following up on a lead to being nosey. Myers was past that point. But when he pulled back the tarp and dragged it off the mess below, he moved from just being nosey into a full-on unwarranted investigation.
The stench found his nostrils like a swarm of angry wasps. Hundreds of broken bottles lay at his feet and the whiskey-and-oil-sodden tarp slipped from his fingers. The cardboard boxes that had once contained the bottles was mostly mulch or in the final stages of turning to mulch. A few of the bottles remained intact, but not many.
Myers picked one up. It certainly wasn’t a single malt. And almost definitely wasn’t the highest quality. The writing on the label was foreign but the brand name was in English.
Grasshopper Whiskey.
“Never heard of it,” said Myers.
He was about to collect a second bottle from the mass of broken glass when the fire escape door squeaked open and a slice of light lit the cluttered floor in the far corner of the workshop.
He stopped.
A man was whistling the melody to an old tune Myers’ mother used to listen to. He stepped into the garage, oblivious to Myers, and he put a bucket down on the cluttered workbench.
Myers moved his foot and the man froze at the sound of the broken glass. His head raised but he didn’t turn.
“Detective Inspector Myers,” said Myers. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
The man’s head turned a fraction as if he was gauging the distance to the fire escape.
And he bolted.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Only a fool would leave his car unlocked in the back streets of Canning Town. Harvey parked his motorcycle in the side street and was inside the policeman’s old car in a heartbeat. Even if he hadn’t seen the man’s face, he would have known it was him by the way he walked with a curious disposition and drummed his fingers on his leg. The man’s head seemed to have been at an angle when he read the garage sign and then again when he peered into the forecourt. The man was a nervous wreck.
But Harvey had seen his face from behind his own helmet visor. He had spent close to twenty-four hours in the same interview room, sometimes with the man’s face inches from his own. He had smelled his breath, he had studied every crevice in his skin, and he had seen the misery in his eyes.
And Harvey remembered his name.
To find Detective Inspector Myers at the garage was not a coincidence. It meant that either Harvey was on the right track or both he and Myers were wrong. To see the man leave his car unlocked was a gift.
The glove compartment held a box of tissues and a fat, leather wallet stuffed full of the car’s maintenance details and its warranty.
The pocket in the driver’s door was of little interest too. There was a small rag and a bag of Murray Mints. Harvey recognised the smell from the man’s breath. Some of the empty wrappers had been tossed into the pocket.
The back seat was clear save for an old tie. Harvey imagined him pulling it off after a bad day and tossing it into the back while h
e was driving.
He was about to get out of the car when a flash of blue caught his eye. Tucked down the side of the passenger seat was an A4 cardboard folder, the type that slotted neatly into a filing cabinet. Harvey checked the garage and listened. Nobody was coming.
The first page of the file was loose. It had been pulled from a notepad and kept in the folder, presumably as the man considered it to be important. The writing was messy, it had been rushed, and the collections of words were in patches across the page as if they were not connected. They were just thoughts. He studied the writing and made sense of them.
Louis Vuitton bags.
Regency Leather Goods Company.
Container number.
Miles Stein Auto Repairs.
He turned the page and found the yellow form with Sergio’s handwriting at the top. The next page was blank, but after that, the folder became interesting.
The first page was a hit sheet on Faisal Hussein. It listed every one of his arrests and convictions and even detailed his release date. At the top right of the page, a mugshot was held in place with a paperclip.
He turned another page to find details of the crime scene, how he had died, and what evidence the police had. A suspect was mentioned but no name was given. The report said that the suspect had been released and it gave the date and time.
It was the next page that caught Harvey off-guard. Amir Farooqi. Found dead in his home. The report said that he had been tortured but the killer had left no prints. Every surface had been cleaned.
The next seven pages were reports of unsolved murders. Every one of the men had been made to suffer and then killed. Every one of them had a similar modus operandi.
And Harvey knew every single name in the folder. All except the last name. Rashid al Sheikh. There was a photo of an Asian man in a suit. But the report was brief. He had no convictions and held a good position in a public facing role. In place of the man’s criminal record were the policeman’s notes. He had linked Faisal Khan to Amir Farooqi somehow. And Farooqi had been linked to each of the others. There were arrows linking all of the names to Farooqi and one more linking Farooqi to Rashid Al Sheikh.
Harvey had limited means to identify the men he killed. The newspapers offered release dates with details of their previous crimes, and often when a new offender was caught, the local media would go wild. But the detective had means. He had all the power of the police behind him. Maybe they thought Harvey would go for Rashid Al Sheikh? Maybe they would lay a trap?
“He’s building a case. He’s tracking me.”
The printout of Rashid al Sheikh’s details were three pages long. According to the document, the man was a local businessman with his fingers in many pies. He reminded Harvey of John.
There was a short list of known activities. He had funded a local mosque and chaired meetings. He was a councillor for a local political party with links to names that even Harvey, who rarely read the national newspapers, had heard of. They were serious men. Powerful people.
Another police car rushed past and Harvey checked the garage gates and listened for Myers’ footsteps.
He heard nothing, and he read on.
The total number of businesses that Sheikh was involved with was unknown. He was a silent party in many, and Harvey imagined that he leveraged his position and political connections to aid the success of his investments.
Sheikh was very much like John, except John would use the threat of brute force to aid his success in lieu of Sheikh’s political connections.
Sheikh held the majority share of several known organisations, including a fabric company, an abattoir, and a transport company. The file listed other shareholders, each of whom had a strike beside their names. Sheikh’s name was the only one to be circled over and over again.
Harvey imagined Myers circling his name at his desk. It was the type of thing a man does absentmindedly. A subconscious demonstration of hatred or obsession.
A few loose photos fell from the back of the file. They showed Rashid al Sheikh with a few other Asian men and one with a senior government official that Harvey recognised as the man behind the recent opening of the Millennium Dome.
He slammed the folder closed, then used the rag in the door pocket to wipe the surfaces down. Back at his bike, he put the folder in the back box and locked it. Then he pulled his helmet on. He sat on the bike considering what he’d just seen. Harvey had killed dozens of men. Most of them had been for John, but a good number had been of his own accord and the last six were all detailed in that folder.
But what did that have to do with Miles Stein?
It was often that an answer presented itself to Harvey. Usually, he had to work for his results. But the moment he was just about to turn the key in the ignition, he heard footsteps approaching. They were loud and fast. From around the corner in the direction of Miles Stein’s garage, a man burst into view. He was running flat out, his face a picture of panic. He shot past Harvey without a glance and seconds later, Detective Inspector Myers followed. The detective eyed Harvey as he ran past. But the helmet visor was tinted. There was no way he could see through.
The two men disappeared around another corner into the warren of alleyways that connected the back streets and offered access to the rear of people’s properties. Harvey had to admit, Myers was faster than he looked. He was giving the man a run for his money.
Harvey started the bike. He glanced once in his mirror and pulled out onto the road. He glanced into Miles Stein’s Auto Repairs but saw nothing and continued. He turned right into the next alleyway and gave a quick blast of acceleration then slowed.
It was seconds before the first man came around the corner and Harvey matched his speed. The man refused to look at him. He was breathless and fearful.
Harvey raised his visor and the man glanced across at him, a questioning look on his face.
“Get on,” said Harvey.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Myers kicked a garage door and the boom thundered along the alleyway and returned with a taunting echo. He doubled over to catch his breath and then straightened to see the bike disappear from view.
The garage door deserved another kick before he walked back to his car.
The journey home was a blur. He kept the stereo off and ran through the facts over and over. Donald Cartwright’s new wife had been killed. A shipment of alcohol was imported but delivered to a random address. Clearly it wasn’t intended for his father’s pubs and clubs. Which meant that Donald Cartwright had done a deal outside of the family business.
But why?
The alcohol had been delivered to a small garage in Canning Town and had been smashed up. He’d found a man at the scene, but he had run.
Why?
And who was the man on the motorbike?
He slammed the door to his apartment and tossed his keys onto the little table beside the door. They slid the length of the once polished surface and then dropped to the floor. Myers considered picking them up, then thought better of it.
It was usual for Myers at this point to open the fridge door, look at the fresh vegetables and cold meats he’d bought, then ignore them and opt for a microwave ready meal from the freezer.
But he did neither of those things. Instead, he poured himself a large scotch. He added a couple of ice cubes and leaned against the kitchen door frame staring at his small living room and pondering the broken shipment of whiskey.
The upturned office.
The demolished workshop.
Somebody was looking for something.
The TV was switched off, but he found himself staring at it anyway. The blank screen offered him a place of little distraction. Who would want to kill Donald Cartwright?
The first cold, hard truth of the matter was that John Cartwright hadn’t got to where he was without upsetting a few people along the way.
The second cold, hard truth that struck Myers was something Carver had said.
“They all deserve it one way or ano
ther. But you’ll never find out who pulled the trigger. Part of you doesn’t care who pulled the trigger. They deserved it.”
He exhaled, long and slow, through pursed lips and sank the remains of his drink, questioning why he was putting so much effort into a crime he would never solve. Nobody wanted him to solve it. The Cartwrights had made it clear they would deal with it themselves. The only reason he was on the case was…He stopped mid-thought and laughed. Just one sharp exhale that nobody heard but him.
“Allenby,” he said, as he poured himself another drink. “You clever bitch.”
He drank. He poured. And he drank one more.
“Well, if you wanted to keep me distracted, you should have just said.”
Being off the case he’d been working on for months had been a welcome distraction, he had to admit. But nothing, not even the endless cycle of meaningless clues on a murder case, could stop the daydreams. Surely, she had known that. And it was Carver’s voice again that rang true.
“How do you deal with it? The innocence.”
Myers smiled to himself.
“You don’t, Frank. You can never deal with it.”
It was true. The faces of the young victims who hadn’t deserved to die never left the minds of those who were unfortunate enough to see them. They weren’t the faces of hardened men who, in Carver’s own words, deserved to die. They were young girls, and boys too, who had fallen prey to the savage brutality of the sick and twisted.
He found himself sitting on the edge of his bed. It hadn’t been a conscious decision to leave the kitchen. It was an autopilot move made by his body while his mind contemplated the Standing case and the half a dozen more that preceded it.
Half a dozen girls who hadn’t deserved a single thing but kindness and protection.
Allenby had said he was too close to the case. Maybe she was right? Maybe the men he’d seen had all deserved to die? Maybe he should take a leaf out of Carver’s book and let whoever was killing them continue.