Revenger

by Cain, Tom

  The walls were covered in graffiti, and the staircase was entirely deserted. The only sign of life was a small puddle of urine beside the landing wall. Half of it had evaporated, because the mark of the puddle’s original edge was clearly visible, and it had evidently been left to dry out undisturbed. Obviously the stairs were hardly ever used. That was useful to know.

  Carver went up to the first floor and there, right in front of him, were the double-doors to the ICU.

  Another police officer was standing in front of the doors. He was fully dressed in the combat gear of an armed surveillance unit: a Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle in his hands; a Glock pistol holstered on his right thigh; Kevlar body armour; a balaclava covering his face; and a headset that held a headphone over his left ear and a mic by the side of his mouth. It was wired to an encrypted digital radio attached to the webbing by his left shoulder.

  The cop was a big lad and he was armed to the teeth, but he was also carrying at least ten pounds of excess weight, so he wasn’t in prime condition. And judging by the way he reacted with a start as Carver came through the door from the stairs, he’d not exactly been on a heightened state of alert. It was a tendency Carver had noticed in the police at the airport, too. They assumed that if they showed everyone their guns nothing could possibly happen to them, and that made them careless. He’d walked within two or three feet of men with their backs turned to him. It had struck him that if he’d meant them harm, they’d have been dead before they’d even known they’d been attacked.

  Carver showed this one the MOD pass and said, ‘I’m looking for a patient. A big man, bigger than you. He was brought in here earlier this evening suffering from serious gunshot wounds to his right shoulder. He must have had emergency surgery. The only name we have is Curtis. Is he in there?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you couldn’t read. My name’s Jenkins.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me . . . sir,’ the policeman said. ‘Wait . . .’

  The police officer put his left hand up to the radio unit and tilted his head to speak into his mic. Carver hit him very hard with the palm of his hand on the exposed side of his chin and then stepped forward, inside the barrel of the gun. He grabbed the balaclava and smashed the policeman’s head against the metal frame of the double-doors: three quick, brutal impacts. He felt the body go limp and let it fall to the ground. Carver picked up the G36 rifle and slung it over his shoulder. A metal carrying handle was attached to the policeman’s webbing to make it easier to drag his body to safety, should he be wounded. Carver grabbed it and pulled the unconscious body back through the door into the empty stairwell. He extracted the Glock from its holster and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers.

  Carver had no intention of getting into a serious firefight, particularly not in the middle of a hospital, and so had no need of a semi-automatic assault rifle. But since he didn’t want anyone else using it either, he unslung the G36, removed the two small locking pins from the receiver unit, unclipped the grip and trigger mechanism, and threw the locking pins down the stairwell. The G36 was now useless. Time to make sure the cop was, too.

  Carver took the man’s laces from his boots and used them to secure his hands behind his back. He removed the headset, twisted the balaclava so that it was back to front, completely covering his face, then replaced the headset to keep the balaclava in place. He took the belt from the cop’s trousers and draped it round his masked head, forcing his jaw open and placing the thick leather between his teeth. Then he pulled the belt as tight as it would go so that it acted as a gag. Finally he pulled off the cop’s boots and trousers and tied the trousers tight around his ankles, rendering him completely immobile.

  Now he dragged the unconscious body to the edge of the downward stairs, pulled it out a little further and draped the policeman’s torso face down over the first few steps. His chin rested on a step, forcing his lower jaw to press hard against the leather gag. He was blind and dumb, his hands were tied behind him, and his feet couldn’t move. It was safe to say that he was no longer a threat.

  Carver went back upstairs, pressed the buzzer by the doors and walked into the ICU. The first part of his mission had been accomplished. Now he just had to find Curtis.

  59

  KEANE AND WALCOTT went straight to the room where Miklosko was being treated. A doctor was just emerging.

  ‘How is she?’ Keane asked.

  ‘Still very shaken,’ the doctor replied. ‘She’s suffered from an extremely acute stress reaction.’

  ‘Can she answer questions?’

  ‘If you mean, “Is she coherent?” Yes. But her memory is still very patchy, and I must ask you not to push her to recall things that her mind has chosen to keep buried. There’s a reason why we forget. Sometimes remembering can be more than we can bear.’

  ‘I’ll go easy, I promise. She’s an innocent victim in all this. I have no desire to victimize her any more.’

  ‘Good. And please, make it quick, all right? Five minutes. Tops. And only one of you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Keane. She looked across at Walcott. ‘Sergeant, why don’t you call forensics, the bomb people and the incident room? Get me a summary of where we are on all this.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Keane went into the room. Miklosko’s face was heavily bruised, and the swellings looked all the more brutal because the bones of her face were so elegant and fine. She was a slender, bird-like woman, and for a second Keane found herself envying her delicate proportions and then being cross with herself for allowing such selfish, inappropriate thoughts to cross her mind. Telling herself to get back to business, she sat down beside the bed – still feeling enormous – and began: ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

  Miklosko gave a wan half-smile. ‘No . . . no, that’s all right.’

  ‘I just want to ask you about the riot.’

  Miklosko flinched.

  ‘Can you remember anything about what happened to you?’

  A shake of the head. ‘Not really, not much . . .’

  ‘All right, well, let’s start at the beginning, anyway. Why had you gone to Netherton Street?’

  Miklosko seemed relieved by such a simple, harmless question. ‘I was driving home from work.’

  ‘So what do you remember about the drive?’

  ‘I was listening to the radio. That politician was on, making his speech . . .’

  ‘Mark Adams?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Well, I was listening to that, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was an explosion on the road in front of me, and I was really frightened, so I started driving as fast as I could to get out. But there was a huge truck in front of me, right across the road, blocking the way.’

  Miklosko had been perfectly calm up to now, but Keane saw that her hands had started grabbing at her hospital blanket, her fingers gathering up the fabric and then clenching until her knuckles showed pale beneath her skin.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Keane, trying to sound as soothing as possible. ‘Just take it nice and slowly. If it gets too hard, we’ll stop. You said you saw a truck . . .’

  Miklosko nodded. ‘Yes, so I braked as hard as I could and turned the wheel to try to miss it, but the car started skidding and I ended up right next to it, kind of side to side. And that was when . . . these men all crowded round the car, and there were so many of them. And I tried to lock the doors, but they just smashed their way in – through the windows, I suppose . . . I was so scared . . .’

  Keane could sense what an effort it took for Miklosko to bring back these memories. She wondered whether it was fair to continue the interview. But Miklosko seemed determined to complete her story.

  ‘I could feel their hands all over me,’ she went on, ‘grabbing me and pulling me out of the car. They started hitting me all over. I thought I was going to die. I mean, there was no way I could fight back or get away, and then suddenly I saw these
men coming towards me.’

  ‘Men,’ Keane noted, trying not to show any reaction as Miklosko kept telling her story.

  ‘At first I thought it was more people coming to attack me, but then one of them got out a knife and started slashing at the people all around me . . . And the other one was hitting them with a stick and punching and kicking them . . .’ Miklosko’s voice died away.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Keane asked.

  ‘Yes . . . it’s just that it’s all gone a bit blurry, if you know what I mean. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but it felt like all the people round me ran away . . . all except one, and I think he had a gun.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, it all seems like a nightmare now, like it wasn’t real at all, but, yes, I am sure, because I remember one of the men picking it up later.’

  There it was again: ‘one of the men’. Keane was very close now to getting the first details about the Second Man, but she had to resist the temptation to charge right in.

  ‘So what happened to the man with the gun? The one by the car?’

  ‘He killed him . . . with the knife,’ said Miklosko.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Keane. She knew what Miklosko meant, but she needed it in unambiguous form. ‘There were two

  men who came to rescue you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And one of them had a knife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he killed the man with the gun?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I remember the other man holding me and telling me it was going to be all right . . .’

  ‘This is the second rescuer?’

  ‘That’s right . . .’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Miklosko made a visible effort to conjure up a picture in her mind of the man who had held her, but then sighed and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. He was bigger than me, obviously, and I think he had dark hair. But apart from that it all goes blank, really, and there are just a few images, as I say, like trying to remember a dream the next morning. The next thing I really knew was waking up here, in hospital.’

  ‘But there were two men who came to rescue you?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. There were two.’

  Keane smiled with entirely unfeigned gratitude. ‘Thank you, Mrs Miklosko,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’

  Outside in the corridor, Walcott was studying his smartphone with a look of boyish glee on his face. He saw Keane and his grin became even wider. ‘I know who Snoopy was,’ he said, triumphantly.

  ‘That’s great, how did you find out?’

  ‘Well, the pathologist said he had a Royal Marines crest tattooed on his left shoulder, and Chrystal Prentice told us his nickname was Snoopy. So I tried calling the Ministry of Defence and the Marines and no one there was going to be able to check out the records till tomorrow. So then I thought, Sod it, and Googled “Snoopy” and “Marines”, and there he was, from a local newspaper story a couple of years ago, running an assault-course day for underprivileged kids.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  ‘Norman Derek Schultz. He was a company sergeant major in the Royal Marines. Only left about a year ago. And I’ll tell you something else. That event he was doing for the kiddies, it was in Poole, Dorset. And that’s where the SBS are based. What if he and the other bloke, his mate, were both in the special forces? That would explain why they were able to take on a whole bloody riot, just the two of them.’

  ‘Yes, it would,’ Keane agreed. She yawned and then closed her eyes for a few seconds. ‘Sorry,’ she said, coming back to life. ‘I’m very tired. Must be getting old. Still, there soon won’t be any need for people like you and me to stay up all night trying to solve murder cases.’

  ‘Why not?’ Walcott asked.

  ‘Because they’ll be able to work the whole thing out on Google.’

  60

  THE WARD SISTER had objected strongly to letting Carver anywhere near her patient. Mr Curtis, she pointed out, had lost a great deal of blood and then suffered respiratory failure during his operation. But Carver had waved his official papers, said the magic words ‘national security’, then pointed out that tens of people had already died, and more might still be in danger if the perpetrators weren’t caught. Finally, without voicing any overt threat, he made it clear that he was armed, and she had very grudgingly relented. Now he was sitting beside the bed of an extremely sick man – a man whose injuries he had inflicted – wondering whether he could afford to trust his own instincts.

  Carver had been thinking about the way Curtis had acted – the warnings to stay away from Netherton Street or get the hell out; the fact that he had been unarmed when he had been charging towards the supermarket; the general sense of competence he exuded – and come to a conclusion. So the first thing Carver said was, ‘Who are you working for?’

  Curtis looked at him blearily and mumbled, ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You weren’t there by accident tonight. You were undercover. I could tell. That’s why I didn’t kill you. Sorry for shooting you, by the way.’

  Curtis was in no state to feel like being grateful.

  ‘But look on the bright side, I also saved your life. If you’d made it to the supermarket, you’d be dead.’

  Still Curtis saw no reason to say thank you.

  ‘OK, I don’t blame you for feeling that way. So, I’m guessing you’re either an undercover cop or security service. Either way, you won’t want to tell me anything. Not some bastard who comes from another ministry and blew the shit out of your shoulder. So I’ll keep it short. I’ve already got to Bakunin . . .’

  Carver saw Curtis’s eyes widen in recognition, and for the first time thought he might be getting somewhere. ‘He told me he got his orders from someone, he didn’t know who, he only had a voice-mail to call if he needed to get in touch. But maybe you know more than he did. So here’s my question: who was calling Bakunin?’

  Curtis didn’t look at all bemused or surprised by what Carver had said. But he said nothing.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ Carver said. ‘That’s obvious. You don’t want to tell me. That’s understandable. But here’s my problem: I need to know who that man was. So either you tell me . . . or I make you tell me. And I don’t want to do that. So please, tell me.’

  ‘Can’t do that. Only talk to my cover officer . . .’

  ‘He’s not here and I’ve not got time to call him. Tell me: who was Bakunin talking to?’

  Carver held up the Glock. ‘See this? It’s got a very hard barrel. If I push that barrel right into your wound it’s going to hurt you more than you can even imagine. And the fact that you’re hooked up to painkillers won’t help. This’ll cut right through the drugs.’

  Curtis stared back at him, defiantly silent.

  ‘I’ve already tortured one person this evening, I really don’t . . . Oh fuck it . . .’ Carver clamped his right hand over Curtis’s mouth. With the left he drove the barrel of the Glock hard into the centre of the bandaged area around the shotgun wound. Carver knew where he had hit Curtis and he was going right for the heart of the impact.

  Curtis’s body writhed. The veins on his forehead popped. His eyes were so wide open Carver half-expected the eyeballs to pop out. He gave a muffled cry of agony.

  Carver pulled back the gun, but kept the hand where it was. ‘Tell me, calmly, no shouting or screaming, or I do it again . . . For fuck’s sake, we’re on the same side! I’m trying to catch the man who ordered the riot. I just need one fucking name!’

  ‘Cropper,’ Curtis said. ‘We never confirmed it for sure. But we think he’s called Danny Cropper. Ex-Para . . .’

  Now there’s a surprise, Carver thought.

  ‘Operates out of a strip joint he owns in Brewer Street, name of Soho Gold.’

  ‘Thank you,�
�� said Carver. ‘See, that wasn’t so difficult. And I’m sorry I hurt you. Tell you what, I’ll make the pain go away.’

  He reached across to the bag from which an opiate analgesic was dripping into Curtis’s arm and dramatically upped the dose. Curtis looked at him blearily then closed his eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Carver, when he saw the ward sister on the way out. ‘We only talked for a couple of minutes, but he was very helpful. He’s fast asleep now, though. Probably the best thing for him, eh?’

  Walking through the lobby towards the main exit Carver was passed by the two plain-clothes police, the tall woman and the black guy who had come in at the same time as him. The woman bumped into him on the way by.

  She said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Carver said, ‘Quite all right.’

  And then they were gone.

  61

  CELINA NOVAK WAS wearing a short, black, fringed wig and an enormous pair of dark glasses when she arrived at Soho Gold. Between them they hid both her natural hair and almost all her face, so that the only thing visible was her mouth, which was painted a rich, glossy scarlet. Everything else was black: the fur-trimmed jacket, open to reveal a miniskirted dress; the stockings; the knee-length, high-heeled boots; and the evening bag. She had been flown into Biggin Hill and driven away in another ambulance. Ten minutes later, the ambulance had driven into an empty office car park and Novak, now freed from all the bandages, had been transferred to the London taxi that had taken her to a discreet hotel in St James’s, just off Piccadilly. The equipment she had requested had been waiting for her in her room. She’d collected it and gone straight back out again. Now she was picking her way along the litter-and dogshit-strewn pavement, straight past the short line of damp, shivering punters waiting for the security check. She went up to one of the two thick-necked bouncers standing by the door with identical black suits and Bluetooth earpieces.

  ‘You on the list, hey?’ he asked her in a guttural South African accent.