by Cain, Tom
Soon after that, Novak sat up. She was handed a tablet computer. On it was a file containing details of her first target and the location where the hit would take place: a building in the West End of London. She examined the plans of the building and the description of its likely occupants and then, since she could not talk through the bandages, typed one-handed on to the pad, specifying what she would need in order to do the job.
Then she lay back down. Her drip was swapped for another that provided a high concentration of glucose, proteins, C and B-complex vitamins, minerals and antioxidants, giving her the energy and endurance she would need for the night ahead. As the liquid seeped into her system, Novak dozed. There were still twenty minutes left of the flight, and she wanted to be as well rested as possible before she went into action.
56
THE TWO PANU cousins were questioned simultaneously. Walcott took Ajay. The purpose of the interview was pretty straightforward. There had to have been two hardcore fighting men in the Lion Market. One of them was dead, killed in the fight in the storeroom. The other had been at the front, firing the shotgun and, it seemed certain, making the bomb go bang. The problem was proving it. And they weren’t going to get anywhere unless someone who’d been in the shop came out, stopped covering it all up and told the whole story. Ajay Panu would be a good start.
Walcott took him through the first incidents in the supermarket: the man and woman who’d let off the incendiary device and the African kids who’d thrown bricks and concrete and then been coming in and out through the shattered window. But, he pointed out, the most serious threat to the supermarket and the people in it only occurred after the arrival of the man known as Snoopy, the two women, and the second male who was alleged to be with them.
‘These people turn up,’ Walcott said, ‘and suddenly, after that’s happened, there’s a huge angry crowd outside your shop. Next thing you know there’s bottle-bombs and even a few shots being aimed at you.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you shot back.’
Walcott said it so casually that he could almost see Ajay thinking, Did he mean me?
The big man said, ‘I’m sorry . . .?’
‘I said, “You shot back.” See, there’s people lying dead on the street outside the shop. Someone blasted them with a shotgun. Where did the shotgun come from?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And who fired it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come off it, Mr Panu. It had to be you.’
‘No, it didn’t . . .’
‘Well, who else was it? The shooter can’t have been Snoopy, because he was wounded and Miss Prentice was bandaging him up.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘So that leaves just you and your cousin, Maninder Panu. But, no offence, your cousin wasn’t exactly Action Man last night, was he? So it had to be you that fired the gun.’
Ajay shrugged like a sulky teen. ‘If you say so.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Did you fire the gun, or didn’t you?’
‘I suppose I must have done.’
‘So how many times did you fire it?’
‘I don’t know . . . a few.’
‘And how many people did you hit?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t remember exactly. It was very confusing. I was just, you know, blasting at them, trying to make them go away.’
Walcott leaned forward into Ajay Panu’s personal space. ‘Bollocks you were blasting,’ he said. ‘We’ve spoken to other witnesses. Three shots were fired from the supermarket. Every single one of them hit an individual target. Two of the victims died. The third is currently in intensive care at St Thomas’ Hospital.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘No, you don’t. But let’s talk about something we can all agree on. You went to the back of the property, to the storeroom, to defend that with this Snoopy individual.’
‘Yes.’
‘So when the attack got going you weren’t in the main shop area. You were at the back.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, Mr Panu, how do you account for the fact that three more of the rioters were killed inside the shop by the same shotgun that killed the ones outside it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m saying, if you were in the storeroom, who was doing the shooting in the shop?’
‘I don’t know anything about any shots at the front.’
‘Is that so? Well, then, for your information, there were another three victims. One had his arm blown off. The other two were shot in the guts. Whoever did it waited until they were just a few feet from him and then shot them in such a way that they did not die immediately. He wanted to make them suffer. Think about the kind of man who can do a thing like that.’
Ajay said nothing. Walcott’s description of those last three shootings had obviously got to him in a way nothing else in the interview had done.
‘Yeah, I know, cold-blooded bastard, wasn’t he?’ Walcott said.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Ajay replied, but his heart wasn’t in it any more.
Walcott was so close to landing him. ‘For God’s sake, give it up,’ he said. ‘Whatever he told you, he’s not worth this.’
‘If there was this person in the shop, then he saved our lives,’ Ajay replied. ‘That’s worth a lot.’
So he wasn’t ready to crack just yet. Walcott took a deep breath and tried to get his prey by another route.
‘So let’s talk about the storeroom. We found a pistol. Two bodies at the rear of the premises were killed by bullets from that gun. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Yes. We were under attack from the yard.’ Ajay started talking more confidently now that he wasn’t having to hide anything. ‘The lad I was with – I think his name was Snoopy – he shot one of them coming over the top, but then another jumped on to me and he was about to kill me when, er, Snoopy shot him and he fell on top of me. He was dead and there was blood everywhere. But then there was another one. He came up behind Snoopy and stabbed him in the guts.’
‘And this man, who stabbed Snoopy, what happened to him?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see.’ Suddenly all the honesty, all the openness had gone again.
‘Oh, come on, Mr Panu,’ Walcott insisted, pressing again. ‘You’re lying there, trapped under a dead body and your mate is being cut to pieces. My guess is you remember that very well. And the obvious question is, how come you didn’t die, too?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark in there. I couldn’t see what was going on.’
‘Well, here’s a clue. We found two bodies of rioters in the immediate vicinity of your dead friend. One had been shot with a bullet from a Chinese-made pistol, so that must have been the one who’d been attacking you.’
‘Sounds like it, yeah.’
‘And the other one had a large hole in his chest caused by the impact of a twelve-bore shotgun cartridge fired at point-blank range. There was another shotgun victim the other side of the shelving, and one by the door into the storeroom, just for good measure. Who shot all those people?’
Panu said nothing. Walcott watched him trying to think through his options and work out what he should do. Finally Ajay asked, ‘Am I allowed a lawyer?’
‘Of course,’ Walcott answered. ‘If you think you need one.’
‘Good.’ Cos I’m not saying fuck all till he arrives.’
57
DI KEANE HAD been leading Maninder Panu through the events of the evening, and was becoming progressively more frustrated by his obvious evasions, when Brian Walcott appeared at the interview-room door and indicated to her to join him. She followed him out into the corridor and there he told her, first, that Ajay Panu had claimed to be the second shooter and, second, that he had called for a lawyer. ‘The brief’ll be here any minute,’ Walcott said.
‘I’d better get a move on, then.’
‘I reckon so, ma’am.’
Keane was perfectly capable of acting like a bloody-minded copper when the need arose: like now, for instance. She sat down opposite Maninder, looked at him without a shred of human kindness in her face and said, ‘You’re in a lot of trouble.’
His liquid brown eyes widened in alarm. This was the last thing he’d been expecting. ‘Me? What have I done wrong? I’m the victim! My shop was attacked. People tried to kill me. Why am I the one in trouble?’
‘Let’s start with the shotgun that was found on your premises – the one used to kill a number of individuals in and around your shop. Would you care to account for that?’
‘I don’t know how it got there!’
‘Did you buy that gun?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Buying a gun is hardly something you’re likely to forget,’ Keane said. And then, for the first time, she softened a fraction and offered Maninder Panu a tiny crumb of comfort, saying, ‘I don’t blame you if you did,’ before snatching it away with her next breath. ‘Of course, it was highly illegal. You could get ten years in jail for owning that gun, did you know that?’
The look of horror on Maninder’s face indicated very clearly that he did not.
‘But you were afraid,’ Keane went on. ‘The riots keep getting worse. I can understand how a man in your position might feel vulnerable – in need of a little protection.’
Maninder nodded in vigorous agreement, ‘Yes, that is true. I did feel vulnerable.’
‘So you acquired a fully-loaded Mossberg 590 shotgun . . .’
‘I wasn’t the only one! Lots of people had them.’
‘Maybe, but yours killed at least eight people. Can you tell me who was firing that gun, Mr Panu?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s odd. You see, someone’s actually admitted firing the shotgun.’
Once again, Maninder was caught off guard: ‘Really? Who?’
‘Your cousin, Ajay Paninder.’
‘No, I don’t believe you! He would never say that!’
Keane remained entirely impassive. ‘Your cousin is in very real danger of being tried for the murder of those eight people, Mr Panu. He freely confessed to my colleague DS Walcott that he had shot two people dead. Six others were killed with the same gun, and unless you can tell me who else might have committed those murders there’s every chance that he’ll be convicted of those killings too, and spend the rest of his life in jail.’
‘But he didn’t do it!’
‘I repeat, that’s not what he says.’
‘No! No!’ Maninder exclaimed, his voice becoming high-pitched in his distress. ‘He has never shot a gun. He is a good man. He would never kill another human being.’
‘Well, if he didn’t shoot those people, who did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s not much good to your cousin, I’m afraid,’ said Keane. ‘But I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it easier. We know there was another man in the shop. We know this despite the attempts made by you, your cousin and Miss Prentice to deny the existence of this individual.’
‘What man? How do you know?’
‘Because we’ve been very busy, Mr Panu. We now know the identity of the man who introduced himself to Miss Prentice as “Snoopy”. We believe he served in the special forces. The man who accompanied him probably had a similar background. He is an exceptionally dangerous individual. We have to find him before he kills again.’
‘But he saved us! We would have died – all of us! He may be a dangerous killer to you, Inspector. But I owe my life to him.’
‘So you agree that he exists?’
Maninder nodded disconsolately. ‘Excellent,’ said Keane. ‘So now why don’t you do yourself and your cousin Ajay a favour and tell me what you know?’
‘If I tell you what I know, will you drop the charges against Ajay?’
‘Well, I can’t either bring or drop charges. But clearly, your cousin can hardly be a suspect if we can establish that the shootings were committed by another individual.’
For all his weaknesses, Maninder Panu was a natural trader. Now that he knew he was in a position to negotiate, he immediately felt more confident. ‘And what about me?’ he asked. ‘What will you do for me?’
‘We will be very grateful for any help you can give us that leads to the arrest of our prime suspect,’ said Keane. ‘Once again, I can’t make any promises. But I’m sure we’ll have much more important things to worry about than how a gun did or did not happen to come into your possession.’
Maninder looked at her shrewdly, trying to work out whether he could sweeten the deal any further. He concluded that it wouldn’t be possible; not right now, at any rate. For the first time he seemed to relax into his chair. ‘Then, in that case, I will tell you—’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
The voice came from the door to the interview room. A smartly suited Asian man – in his late twenties or early thirties, Keane guessed. She muttered, ‘Shit!’ under her breath as the man came into the room, extending his hand.
Keane got up. ‘And you are . . .?’ she asked, though she already knew at least half the answer.
‘Dipak Sharma,’ the young man said. ‘I am Mr Panu’s lawyer, and you won’t need me to tell you that my client is not saying a single additional word until I have had a chance to confer with him . . . in private.’
Walcott was waiting in the corridor outside. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I tried to slow him down, give you as much time as possible, but he wasn’t having it.’
‘That’s all right. Nothing you could do. It’s just frustrating, that’s all. I was this close to getting Maninder Panu to talk.’
‘You still will,’ Walcott reassured her. ‘Meantime, I’ve got some good news. We just got a call from St Thomas’ Hospital. Paula Miklosko’s back in the land of the living: conscious, aware of her surroundings . . .’
‘Is she talking?’
‘Just about.’
‘Then the Panus can wait. Get the car. We’re off to Tommy’s.’
58
CARVER AND ALIX had spent a little more than an hour together before he finally rose from the bed, showered and got dressed: clean underwear and T-shirt, but the same jeans, body warmer and suede jacket. He picked up his iPad and put it in a small leather satchel he’d used for carry-on baggage on the flight from DC. He was wearing his money-belt, too; this time he had no doubt that he would need it.
Alix was still in bed, watching him go about his business. Carver kissed her, walked across the room and then stopped at the door.
‘Wait for me,’ he said. ‘I will come back for you. I swear I will.’
He took the lift down to the ground floor. In the foyer two cleaners were deep in conversation with one another, talking in a foreign language Carver didn’t recognize. The girl behind the reception desk was reading a book and didn’t look up as he went past her and exited through the security barriers. He came out on to Knightsbridge and spent another five minutes standing in a cold, biting wind until a taxi came along.
‘St Thomas’ Hospital,’ he said.
‘It’s mental round there tonight,’ the cabbie said.
‘Well, get me as close as you can.’
Carver got in and took out his iPad. Looking ahead, he’d foreseen a number of occasions when the screen on his smartphone wouldn’t be good enough for what he had in mind, and this was one of them. The floor plans of St Thomas’ were all online, and there were also photographs of all the corridors and doorways for the benefit of wheelchair-users. From this Carver discovered that the intensive care unit was on the first floor and was accessed via powered, inward-opening double-doors precisely 1,470mm wide. ‘There is a buzzer to press to the left of the doors which when pressed will open automatically.’ Well, the syntax was pretty clumsy, but the meaning was clear enough. And there was more: ‘The automatic doors remain open long enough for a slow-moving person to walk through.’ Carver planned to be moving fas
t, but if he didn’t keep his wits about him, someone else would have time to get in after he did.
The taxi crossed Westminster Bridge and turned right at the roundabout on the far side. Carver put the iPad away as they pulled up opposite the drive that led to the hospital’s main entrance. ‘Sorry, mate, can’t get you any closer,’ said the cabbie. ‘Like I said, it’s mental down there.’
The whole area was jammed with police cars, emergency vehicles and media vans. Carver paid and walked through the chaos. Reporters, paramedics and nurses jostled against armed policemen. The normal A & E entrance was almost two hundred metres away on the far side of the complex, but there were so many victims needing admission that every possible way in was being called into action. And since most of those victims were already dead, A & E was hardly relevant anyway.
There were police guards at the door. Carver flashed an MOD identity card from his money-belt and was asked his business. ‘A bomb went off. A former Marine was killed. That makes it Ministry of Defence business.’
‘What part of the Ministry of Defence?’ the policeman asked.
‘A part I’m not prepared to discuss. Just let me through.’
The policeman looked uncertain. But before he could think of what to say or do next there was a shout of, ‘Get out the way!’ behind them, and a crash team appeared, racing towards the door with a patient who was still alive. The policeman stepped back to let them through and was then distracted by the arrival of two other people: a tall, broad-shouldered woman and a younger, black man. The policeman suddenly stood tall, and said, ‘Evening, ma’am,’ as the woman went by.
In the confusion Carver slipped into the entrance lobby, turned right and walked through what had been a mini shopping-mall, though the WH Smith, Marks & Spencer Simply Food and assorted coffee shop signs now stood above empty units. The corridor was filthy. The whole place felt like a third-world hospital in the midst of a civil war. He walked through a glazed lobby where a bitter draught blew between the holes in smashed panes, and into another one of the hospital’s towers. Two long corridors took him past a bank of lifts, surrounded by people waiting for the next ride up, to a door that opened on to a stairwell.