by Vince Vogel
Green began fishing out the picture she had of Otis and Dorring.
“One of these,” she said, holding it up.
“No. Different guy. He came by and offered us money.”
“What did you tell him?”
“People here are hungry. Not just for food, neither. Some need drugs. They sold the guy some information.”
“What information?”
“The girl was ’round here.”
“She was,” Green said, fishing out her notepad and pen. “When?”
“Two nights ago. She came by ’round midnight. Wanderin’ about like she was lost. She didn’t have no shoes. Dressed like a prostitute. But she were only a girl. Some of the women here helped her.”
“Where is she now?”
“With Shirley. The girl got freaked out and ran off. Shirley went with her.”
“And where’s Shirley now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know her full name?”
He laughed in her face. “Come on, lady. You think we go around exchanging details? No one knows anyone’s second name here. And if they did, they wouldn’t know the first.”
“Can you describe Shirley?”
“Old. Talks to herself. Dresses shabbily. Down on her luck. Pretty much like every other person you see here.”
“You know her haunts?”
“Here. She’s been here for the past two years. As long as me.”
“Where’re her things?”
“Gone.”
“She took them?”
“No. The others took them when she didn’t come back after a day. That’s the rules ’round here. You leave your stuff for a day and it’s anyone’s. Usually, it ain’t even that long. But Shirley’s old. She’s got respect.”
“What about the man that came asking? What’d he look like?”
“White guy. Clean shaved. Pug faced. Button nose. Black, curly hair like my pubes. Medium height. Stocky. All chest and skinny legs like a baboon. Dressed in a leather coat and a leather tie. Both black. Looked like he worked for the Gestapo. Most o’ the guys didn’t speak to him.”
“What about the ones that did?”
“They didn’t tell much. No more than what I just told you.”
Green stared down at the practically blank notepad. Shirley. Old aged tramp. Went after Jess. Man came asking questions. Pug faced. Medium height. Curly black hair. Looked like a Nazi.
Not much.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Yeah. There is something. Before the girl left, she started crying about something in her arm. Kept itching at it. Said they’d put it in her so they could find her. Said she had to get it out.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. The girl was nuts. She started freaking people out. Went crazy.”
“Crazy? Like how?”
“Like she smashed a bottle and started cutting herself with the broken glass.”
“She was self harming?”
“Yeah. Started cutting her arm. Kept goin’ on about there being something in her. About people putting something in her. She cut her arm quite bad before we managed to get to her. Take the glass off her. Before she went too far. That’s when she ran off and Shirley went after her.”
“Is there anyone here that knows Shirley? Knows where she might be?”
“Ha! No one trusts anyone enough to let them know that much. Shirley was old. A veteran of the streets, like me. She knew not to tell anyone anything. You see, on the streets, even little things like your full name can be worth something. When you have nothing, it’s like that. People hold onto what little they have.”
“Can you describe her?”
The man gave her the description of Shirley. Around sixty. Could be less. Could be more. Short. Five foot three. Long, gray hair that was tied in dreadlocks. Hoop through the center of her nose. Brown eyes. Tanned skin. Wrinkled like the bark of an old tree—his words. Dresses heavily, like most tramps, so she’ll be in a thick skin of coats, jumpers and skirts.
Once more, it was very little to go on.
“And what’s your name?” Harriet Green asked.
The man groaned and shook his head gently.
“Really?” he said.
“Yes, really. I need to know. I may need to contact you in the future.”
“And how would you do that?”
She went to say ‘I’ll call you’ but realized before the words were even on her tongue that this was ridiculous. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a card with her details on it.
“I need you to call me the moment you see or hear anything about Shirley or the girl,” she said as his dirty fingers took the card. “And I’d still like to know your name.”
“Duggy,” he said, gazing at the card in his hand.
“Is that for Douglas?”
“Aye.”
“Douglas who?”
“Douglas Fairbottom.”
“Date of birth?”
“What’s in this for me?” he said instead.
“You’ll be helping a young girl.”
“No one helped me when I was young. All they did was spite me. No, it needs to be more than merely doin’ the right thing. I need something from it. Like I said, a man on the streets has to find value in what he can.”
“A tenner.”
“Ha! What is ten pounds these days? No. Call it a hundred and we have a deal.”
“We shouldn’t be calling it anything. It’s your civic duty to help.”
“Civic duty, she says!” He was openly laughing at her, the grin cracking the dirt on his cheeks. “Where’s this city’s civic duty to these people, huh?” He signalled with a sweep of the arm the surroundings. Withered tents and other constructions sprouting up from among the weeds like growths on a diseased skin. The people stared out with wide eyes and looked confused as to how they ended up in this place. “These people,” Duggy went on, “are in desperate need.”
“There’s charities that’ll take them in.”
“And what? Keep them warm for a couple of nights before tellin’ them there’s nothing more they can do and shovin’ ’em back out on the street. Or even worse. Lock ’em up for bein’ mad? Take them to some place and drug them up.”
“It’s better than this.”
“Oh, no, it’s not. This may be an ignoble existence. We may be at the bottom of the food chain, but I tell you this; at least we’re free.”
And with that, he turned around and walked away from her.
“Call me if you hear or see anything,” Green called after him.
“A hundred pounds, it’ll cost ya,” he called back.
“Okay,” she said. “But only if the information’s useful.”
40
Kenneth Anderson steadily opened his eyes to find himself lying in a hospital bed. He was instantly pleased not to be lying in the trunk of the car. Nevertheless, his elation at being free sank like a lead balloon the moment he turned to his left and saw the police officer sitting outside his room. There was a window in the door and he could see the back of the man’s helmet.
A million thoughts went through his head. He’d been non compos mentis when they’d hauled him from the trunk and had taken the experience like a dream. He’d not had the chance to worry whether it was the police or someone even worse. Like someone from the Ring, for instance.
Now, gazing at the back of the cop’s head, he was fearful of what they knew. Had they caught the men who took him? Had they, in turn, told the police everything they knew? Was he about to be pressed with delicate questions regarding the goings on of the Belgravia?
His heart jumped in his chest when he saw a man show up at the door. The police officer stood up and the man showed him his identification. It was easy to hear what they were saying through the door.
“I’m DS Barker,” the new arrival said. “How is he?”
“He’s alright, sir. Lost a bit of blood. Fractured jaw. All his teeth missing
. A bit dehydrated. But apart from that, he’ll live.”
“Can he talk?”
“No one’s tried yet. He’s still asleep.”
“Well, I better go in there and wake him up. You go grab yourself some lunch. I’ll keep him safe.”
“Thanks, sir.”
The officer got up from his chair and walked off. The detective turned his stare to the window of the door. Anderson closed his eyes and pretended he was still asleep. The door opened slowly and then was quietly shut behind. The detective made hardly any sound as he stepped across the floor.
“I know you’re awake,” he said when he stood right beside the bed.
Anderson opened his eyes.
The detective had short, black, curly hair. He had one of those faces that looks stunted. Like all the features had never grown along with the rest of him. His nose looked way too small for his round face and his narrow, little mouth looked as though it would struggle with a dessert spoon.
“Good,” he said to Anderson. “No more pretending.”
He grabbed a chair from the end of the room and brought it next to the bed. He sat in it and stared forward.
“What did you tell them?” he said.
Anderson frowned. He was confused. What sort of a question was this for a detective to ask?
“Tell who?”
“The police.”
“You’re the police.”
“Am I the first one you’ve spoken to?”
“Yeah. I’ve been out of it since they brought me here.”
The man opposite sat nodding for a moment. Anderson merely lay there staring at him, feeling more unnerved by the second.
Turning his eyes back to Anderson, the man said, “My master sends his regards.”
Barker and John entered the front of the hospital. A pretty receptionist smiled up at them from the front desk. A blade of sunlight came through the automatic doors with them and her white teeth shone in it.
“Can you tell us where a Kenneth Anderson is, please?” he said.
Barker shone his ID.
The woman told them he was on the next floor in the Wolsey Ward, so they left the desk and made their way down a long corridor. As they reached a stairwell off to the side, they spotted a uniformed police officer walking out of a canteen at the end. They decided to wait for him as he carried his sandwiches.
“I thought only one man was with Anderson?” Barker asked when the constable reached them.
The cop knitted his brows.
“The detective’s with him,” he said.
“What detective?”
“Detective Sergeant Barker. The guy they said was comin’ to speak with him. Who’re you?”
“DS Barker.”
The cop’s brows became even more concave and the skin wrinkled between his eyes.
“Identification?” he snapped.
It was Barker’s turn to frown. He got it out and the cop placed his lunch on the floor while he gazed at it. The frown evaporated and the eyes widened.
“You’re supposed to already be up there,” he said.
“Who’s up there?”
“You… I mean…”
“Fuck!” Barker exclaimed.
He pushed through a swinging door and bolted up the stairs. One floor up, he emerged onto another corridor of polished linoleum and strip lighting. He ran as fast as his old body would carry him. The cop was right beside him. John was coming slowly behind.
They reached the room. It was too late.
Kenneth Anderson lay on his back with his arms flopped out of the side of the bed. His eyes were open and stared out. The cushion that had been used to crush the life out of him was lying on the floor.
“Fuckin’ hell!” the cop cried out.
Barker merely turned to him and shook his head. “I wanna know everything about the man who came here,” he said.
41
Foster’s driver took them to an address on the southern outskirts of the city. It was a tiny flat in the middle of Croydon. They entered it and stood in a lounge. It had very little furniture; a threadbare gray sofa, scratched up bureau, table covered in innumerable coffee ring scars like the skin of a tramp with roundworm. Foster immediately had his driver shut the curtains upon their arrival. On the bureau was an aluminum suitcase. Dorring gathered what was inside.
The driver—a tall man of heavy build with the nondescript face of an agent—stood in front of the door with his arms folded in front. Underneath his black bomber jacket, Dorring spotted the bulge of a pistol.
“This is very dangerous,” Foster moaned. “Very dangerous indeed.”
“What’s going on?” Dorring asked.
“You’ve upset someone very high up.”
“Who?”
“I have no idea. I have people inside most departments of both MI6 and MI5, and none of them are able to tell me who sanctioned them coming after you.”
“But who came to you originally?”
“An agent. Walked straight into my office and handed me orders. They were signed off by a class ten officer. I couldn’t disobey them. Then they sat on me until you called.”
“Which class ten officer?”
“Come on, Alex. You know as well as I do that their names are never on the order.”
“It was the Belgravia,” Dorring informed him. “The computer took my picture when I tried to retrieve information. Who’s a member of it?”
“I have no idea, Alex.”
“Then why have you met me?”
“Two reasons. One, to give you arms.” He nodded in the direction of the suitcase. “And two, to tell you that I may know someone who can help you.”
“Who?”
“Detective Inspector Jonathon Powell.”
“And who’s Detective Inspector Jonathon Powell, when he’s at home?”
“He’s in charge of Operation Orion.”
“And what’s that? Military?”
“No. Scotland Yard. It’s a secret investigation into one of Britain’s largest and oldest pedophile rings.”
“The Ring,” Dorring remarked.
“Yes. I believe that’s what they’re called. Anyway, Operation Orion is so secret that almost no one knows about it. They don’t even have anything on the files at the Yard. Its budget is even a secret and they run out of some office hidden far away.”
“So Powell is the man?”
“It would appear so.”
Foster handed a piece of card to Dorring. It was the type and size that would usually have someone’s business details on. Instead was a phone number written in pen. No name. Just the mobile number.
“Okay,” Dorring said as he shoved the card in his pocket. “What about that?”
He nodded toward the suitcase.
42
The doctor had finished with his shoulder. The bullet had passed all the way through and avoided bone. He was lucky. That’s what the doctor had said.
There was a knock at the door. The doctor was washing his hands in a basin in the corner of the room. He froze and glanced over at it. He then turned back to the man sitting on the table. The latter’s pale face was fixed on the door, his eyes wide.
“Come in,” the doctor called out.
The door opened and the guy on the table trembled.
A man stood upon the threshold, gazing straight at him. The stern face resembled a bird of prey. He was a very serious man. Always had been. His blue eyes shone in his skull like sapphires and his smoothed back brown hair shone in the dim light. His tall, gangly form was dressed in navy trousers and a collarless white shirt. Brown yachting shoes adorned his feet, the trousers finishing just above his tanned ankles, and he looked every bit the yachtsman. Not crew or any skilled sailer, but someone who owned a yacht so large it employed a crew to sail it while he sat on the deck sunbathing and sipping sangria.
“It’s okay, Mr. Brown,” he said, stepping into the room.
“He killed Mr. Purple, sir,” Brown said, holding his shoulder as he sa
t on the edge of the table with his legs hanging off.
“You may leave us, Doctor,” the man said.
The doctor respectfully bowed his head, dried his hands and then left. The man in the yachting shoes closed the door behind him and made his way across the concrete cell to Brown. Beside him on the table was some bloodied cloths, the remains of stitches, a metal tray with some fragments of the bullet, a few splinters having been left from the scorching slug as it passed through, and a scalpel. He picked up the latter and gazed at the end as it twinkled in the light of the room.
“How’s the shoulder?” he asked without taking his eyes from the blade.
Brown was naked from the waist up. The left shoulder was heavily bandaged. The arm on that side was still numb.
“It’s okay,” Brown said.
“He killed a man belonging to the government. Ran him over with a car he’d stolen. He’s a very practical man, this Dorring.”
“He knew we were there,” Brown said. “When we burst in, the girl quickly closed the curtains up. We didn’t think anything of it. But I think it was a signal.”
The man took his eyes from the knife and glanced up at Brown. There was a certain silent malignancy in his blue eyes. It made Brown shiver and turn his gaze to his knees. He couldn’t help tensing his whole body.
“How’d it happen?” the man asked.
“He shot through the wall with a rifle from the next room. Shot Purple in the neck and me in the shoulder. Before I knew what was happening, he was in the room. Shot Purple in the face and was gonna do the same to me. I was out the window before that. I landed, got to my feet and ran.”
“And thank God you did. Otherwise, we’d all be denied the wonders of your future company.”
His voice was terribly sardonic when he said this.
“I am sorry, sir,” Brown said. “I failed you.”
“Do you know my name?”
He was staring at the blade again, turning it in his fingers.
“No, sir,” Brown answered. “And I don’t wish to—”
“Sir Jacob Harris,” the man pronounced. “I’m surprised you didn’t look me up.”
“It’s not worth my life, sir.”
“I guess it’s not,” Harris said. “But then it doesn’t really matter. I am merely one tiny part of a much larger whole. I am a Knight of the Realm. A man of position. I have a house. A family lineage that dates back all the way to Henry the Eighth. My ancestors were some of the most rigid torch bearers of the Reformation.” He looked up from the blade at Brown. “Do you know what the Reformation is?”