by Rob Aspinall
Clarke stepped inside the garage, his breath fogging the air. He took an A4 print and held it up alongside the figure hanging from a beam in the roof. He compared the picture to the body.
"This the guy?" Waters asked.
"This is the guy," Clarke said.
"I'll give you a few minutes," Waters said, leaving the garage. "I hate the sight of a hanging body."
"You know guv," Morales said, "you still haven't told me how you got that photo."
"I told you," Clarke said. "It showed up in the mail."
"No, I mean the real how."
"So suspicious, Morales,” Clarke said, stepping around Chris Randall's body. His feet swung loose below him. A wire cut deep into his throat. Randall's face was pale, drained of blood.
A small oak table lay on its side. Only two legs remaining. The others in splinters on the floor.
Morales pointed to an axe, propped up in the corner. An upturned beer crate nearby, with a notepad and pen on top.
Clarke nodded. The detectives snapped on a pair of gloves each.
Morales picked up the notepad. She tilted her head. "What the hell—?”
"What is it?" Clarke asked.
"You tell me," Morales asked, showing him a black ink drawing on the pad.
"Looks like a kangaroo shagging a camel."
Morales shook her head and returned the pad to the crate.
Clarke lifted a mobile phone from Randall's pocket. "Looks like the killer has a sense of humour."
"Looks like revenge to me," Morales said. "You think it could be Cobb?"
"Why do you say that?" Clarke asked.
"Randall's connected to Matheson Haulage, right?"
"I'm starting to think so."
"Then who's the one guy we know who might have a score to settle?"
Clarke returned the phone to Randall's pocket. "I don't know," he said. "I reckon Cobb will be long gone by now. He's a fugitive, remember?"
Waters reappeared. "So, cracked it yet?" he asked.
"The phone in Randall's pocket," Clarke said. "We'll need access to it."
"I'll get someone on it," Waters said, following them out of the garage. "I'll call you if we find anything. The guy didn't leave any prints."
"I'm not surprised," Clarke said. "Whoever did this is a pro. Probably a hired hit . . . Have the phone sent to me when you're done, will you?"
"Will do mate," said Waters.
Clarke exited the house and strode down the driveway, rolling off his latex gloves and tossing them on the lawn.
"I know it's not my place to ask," Morales said, trailing behind, "but there's something you're not telling me. What is it?"
As the detectives returned to their car, Clarke opened the driver-side door. He paused and looked at Morales across the roof of the saloon, streetlight reflecting in the paintwork. "You're right Morales. It's not your place."
Clarke slipped inside the car. Morales huffed in frustration and climbed in.
42
The three amigos split up as they enter. Bogdan saunters to the counter. Marlon leans against a dryer on the far side of the laundrette.
Jimmy approaches the woman on the chairs. He puts a hand on her shoulder. "Place is closing sweetheart. Time to leave."
"It's open until ten-thirty," she says, checking her watch.
Jimmy hauls her up by the elbow, her newspaper and pen in hand. I see her catch a glimpse of his piece inside his jacket. Doesn't stop her arguing.
"But I've got a load in the machine," she says, as she's marched towards the door.
"Come back in ten minutes," Jimmy says, bundling her onto the street. He slams the door shut and applies a bolt at the top and bottom.
I stand with my back to the machines, sucking my lolly.
Jimmy strolls over. "What's this?" he says, looking me up and down. "Woofter hour?"
“Heard you were an arsehole short," I say.
"You the joker who ripped off the Matheson depot?" Jimmy asks.
I eyeball the guy and both of his cronies. I keep my mouth shut.
"What do you want with Eddie Prince?" he continues.
I crunch my way through what's left of the lolly. Loud.
"No one tell you it's rude to eat with your gob open?" Jimmy says, drawing his gun from a shoulder holster.
I crunch even louder. Slower.
Jimmy holds his weapon by his side. He's left-handed. I make a mental note. He waves the barrel at me. "Hands like you're getting a blowjob," he says. "No silly moves."
I finish the lolly. Toss the stick aside. Put my hands behind my head and walk forward a couple of paces.
Bogdan and Marlon close in on me.
I was stupid. Should've got out of this dump. Now I'm stuck here, unarmed and dressed like a total prick.
"Any of you losers married?" I ask. They shake their heads. "Kids?"
Marlon raises a hand. "I've got a boy."
“Ah shit,” I say. "Well, I'll try not to kill you."
The three men burst out laughing.
"You hear that lads? Donald Duck here is gonna set us straight." Jimmy shakes his head and sighs. "Okay fancy pants, let's take a walk."
Again, we go back to my earlier points of a) space and b) overconfidence.
a) There's a natural tendency for people to crowd around the source of the threat. Remember the two goons in the car? They get in close, thinking it gives 'em more control. Nope, it only does the opposite.
b) They see an unarmed, battered and bruised mess in his emergency boxers and they relax a little too much.
Bogdan is a classic example. He's lurking on my left shoulder. His weapon is drawn. And he's still laughing when I reach behind and direct his gun towards Marlon.
Bogdan's first instinct is to pull the trigger. An idiot move because it's goodnight Marlon. The guy collapses without getting a shot off in return.
The gun is out of Bogdan's hands before he knows what's happening. But Jimmy's more alert. Next thing, we're in a tangle, both of us trying to get a shot at the other.
Bogdan's back in the game, too. He gets me in a headlock. The three of us collapse to the floor in a heap. I'm on top of Jimmy with Bogdan on my back.
I slam Jimmy's hand against the hard yellow tiles of the laundrette floor. His pistol slides away. My attempt to shoot him in the face fails when Bogdan wrestles me for control.
He ejects the clip from the weapon as Jimmy punches me in the face. I thump Jimmy back, but Bogdan forces the gun from my other hand. I stand up with Bogdan on my back, his forearm crushing my throat
I reverse fast and slam him into a washing machine. He cries out and falls off.
Jimmy scrambles for the gun with the clip still in it. I dive on top of him and punch him hard in the back.
Bogdan rugby-tackles me off him.
As we tumble, I elbow him in the jaw. I grab him by the neck and slam his head into a washing machine door.
There's a sickening crack. Blood splattered on the glass. I do him again. This time the glass gives way as I drive his head right through, into a load that keeps on churning.
Bogdan's body slumps limp. His head bumping and bashing inside the drum.
Blood, bone and soapy water flood the floor.
I turn to see Jimmy picking himself up. A hand on his spine. I walk across the floor towards Marlon. He's closest. His gun still in his cold, dead hand.
But I get cocky myself. I slip on the soapy water spreading fast over the floor. I land heavy on my back, catching my head on the lip of a plastic chair.
I lie between a line of tumble dryers and the row of seats. The back of my skull rages. I go to get up. Jimmy snatches the weapon from Marlon's hand. He pushes me back down. His weight on my chest. The gun in my face.
"Right, you fucker," he says. "Time to—"
I slam a steel dryer door into Jimmy's face. He sways dizzy, his weight still on me. The gun held by his side, out of reach.
I stretch out a hand and grab my belt off the chairs. I loop
it around his neck and pull it tight.
I use the belt to lever him off me. Then I get behind him and pull like I'm trying to stop a galloping horse. He lets off a round over his shoulder, trying to shoot me in the face.
He misses. The gun slips out of his hand, covered in soapsuds.
I hold on tight until his tongue hangs loose out of his mouth. I let him drop, get to my feet and tiptoe through the water.
I open the door to the dryer my clothes are in. They're nice and toasty.
The crossword woman's load finishes too. I root inside her dryer and find a towel.
She's got a husband by the looks of it. A big fella. I dry myself off with the towel and change into a pair of his baggy white boxers. I pull on my own clothes and boots. I swing my bomber jacket on as the steel door to the back office slides open. Dave pops his head out. Nerves replaced by shock.
"Better get a mop, Dave," I say, fixing my belt and loading my pockets with wallet and keys. I fold up my Donald Ducks and stuff 'em in a jacket pocket.
Don't wanna leave any evidence. And besides, they were a present from my nan.
I unbolt the door to the laundrette and hit the streets. That nice feeling of a set of clean clothes, warm out of the dryer.
If Eddie Prince didn't know I was coming for him before, he sure does now.
43
A knock on the door. The door opened a foot. Three boxes slid inside. Each on top of the other.
The disturbance woke Amira from an afternoon snooze. She slipped out of bed and walked barefoot in her pyjamas across the soft carpet. She knelt down and picked up the boxes.
All three were of different shapes, sizes and weights. Each made of the same black laminated cardboard, tied with pink ribbon.
She carried them to a nearby writing desk and loosened the ribbons. She found the top box filled with a range of cosmetics, still in their wrappers.
Amira put it to one side. The second box contained a pair of black designer high-heeled shoes in her size.
The third and final box was flat and wide. Amira opened the lid to reveal a folded dress wrapped in crepe paper.
A small, square note lay on top: Dinner, 7:00PM
Amira pulled the dress from the box.
It was olive green. Silk and backless with straps around the neckline. Amira checked the label. Expensive.
She let the dress fall loose in her hands and held it against her body in a full-length mirror. It ended just above her knees and from what she could tell, it would fit.
The dress, like the shoes and cosmetics, was beyond anything she could have afforded on her teacher’s salary at home. And no doubt, it was paid for in blood.
The question was—was she willing to wear it?
The Mercia Hotel Restaurant was lit low in a red and black colour scheme. Light piano music tinkled in the background. A smattering of diners sat across from one another, engaged in quiet conversation.
Tony had escorted her to the restaurant. Amira felt sure he would be there to escort her back to the room.
Now an efficient blonde maître d’ led her across the spacious restaurant floor.
Pavel sat at a table for two. He wore a tailored black suit and matching tie. He rose to his feet as she approached, looking her up and down. "Wow," he said.
The maître d’ pulled out a chair across from Pavel. Amira lingered on her feet.
"Please, sit," Pavel said.
As Amira took her seat, the maître d’ handed her a leather-bound menu.
Pavel returned to his seat. "It's okay," he said, "She'll have what I'm having."
"Certainly, sir," the maître d’ said, taking the menu off Amira. She glided clear of the table.
"Well," Pavel said, pouring Amira a glass of white wine. "You look sensational . . . I knew you had potential. Something of a talent of mine.”
Amira picked up the glass. She didn't usually drink, but these were extenuating circumstances.
"So, tell me about yourself, Amira."
"Tell you what?"
"Your English is excellent. I can tell you're educated. University? Post-graduate?"
Amira said nothing.
Pavel sipped on his wine. “Mm, post-graduate."
A waiter appeared with two starter plates in hand. "Confit of duck," he said, resting the plates in front of Pavel and Amira.
"Sorry, I forgot to ask," Pavel said, arranging a napkin on his lap. "Do you eat meat?"
Amira nodded.
"Then tuck in, as the British say.”
Amira picked up a polished fork. Heavy. Silver. She stabbed a small, succulent slice of duck and put it in her mouth. It tasted wonderful. She didn't enjoy it, but ate nonetheless. Her mother had brought her up to eat whatever landed in front of her, hungry or not.
The waiter reappeared to clear the starter plates. He returned soon after with a fillet of steak smothered in a blue cheese sauce.
Amira looked at the plate and wondered if they were so different, she and the piece of meat.
Pavel talked between mouthfuls. "Beautiful, articulate, educated. The same can't be said for everyone who gets off those boats."
"Everyone is someone," Amira said, slamming her knife and fork down on the plate. She felt the anger rising in her chest. "But you treat us like no one."
Pavel shifted in his seat. "That's logistical stuff. It's not really my area—"
"Then what do you do?" Amira asked, unable to contain herself any longer. "And what do you want with me?"
Pavel paused. He rested his knife and fork on his plate and dabbed his napkin against his lips. "When I see something special, I want it."
"Then you can keep wanting," Amira said, pushing her plate away.
Pavel leaned forward on his elbows. "We're more alike than you think, Amira. We both aspire to a better standard of life. I mean, that is why you made the trip, is it not?"
Amira found herself unable to argue his point. Wasn't it what everyone wanted? She pulled the plate towards her, picked up her knife and fork and cut into her steak.
Pavel drank from his wine glass. He put the glass down and leaned in with a smile. "I think you're going to like eating here. The desserts are wonderful."
Dessert was a chocolate mousse Amira didn't touch. Tony held the door open to the room. Amira entered with Pavel close behind. Tony closed the door, leaving them alone.
Amira stayed away from the bed and the grey sofa at the opposite end of the room. She backed up against the nearest wall.
Pavel strolled towards her. He removed his jacket and tossed it onto the end of the bed. He stopped and circled the palms of both hands over her bare shoulders. He spoke close to her left ear, his breath on her neck. "I find you very attractive, Amira," he said in a half-whisper. "I could make you very comfortable."
Comfortable? Amira found every moment in his presence excruciating.
Pavel put a thumb on her bottom lip, as if expecting her to invite it in. He moved it down to her chin, tilted her head so that their eyes met. Leaned in for a kiss.
Amira turned her head away. She stared anywhere but at him.
Pavel let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine, suit yourself."
"That's it?" Amira said. "You're not going to drug me? Rape me? Put a gun to my head?”
Pavel pulled on his suit jacket. "I'm not one of those thugs on the boat, thank you very much.“ He adjusted the lapels on his jacket. "Besides, this was merely a dress rehearsal . . . You'll do fine."
"At what?"
"At whatever the clients want. The first one will take you to lunch beforehand."
"Before—?"
"You can wear the same dress," Pavel said. "I'll arrange some more outfits in the meantime."
Amira folded her arms across her chest. "I don't understand."
Pavel put a hand to Amira's cheek. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more accommodating tomorrow. Or else I'll have to be less so." Pavel took a step away, buttoning his jacket. "One p.m. tomorrow. Tony will escort you down."
"
I don't care what you told your client," Amira said. "I'm not doing it."
Pavel laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "You're beautiful, smart and you can hold a conversation. That makes you valuable . . . But our clients expect the five-star service. So if I have to replace you, I will." Pavel strode towards the door and knocked on the wood. Tony opened the door from the outside. "Work on your enthusiasm in the meantime," Pavel said on his way out. He stopped and turned. "Oh, and I'll have a doctor come in the morning."
"What for?" Amira said.
"Just a standard checkup. Blood, urine, heart rate," Pavel said with a smile. "You've been through a lot, Amira. We want to make sure you're okay.”
Pavel left the room. Tony closed the door, leaving Amira alone. She ripped off her high heel shoes, wriggled out of her dress and threw it on the carpet. She ran to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and heaved over the bowl. She wanted to throw up the expensive dinner. She couldn't. She washed off her makeup and changed into her pyjamas. After an hour, she tried the door. Tony had locked it with a key from the outside.
She banged on the wood. Screamed again in frustration. A moment or two later, she calmed down. She rested her forehead against the door and flicked the light switch on the wall. She stood there in the dark, the room tinged blue by moonlight spilling in through the windows. Pavel had told her to spend the night working on her enthusiasm.
Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea. It might just save her life. But could she go through with it?
She had until lunch the next day to decide.
44
I spend the night in the boot of the Volvo in the car park of a motorway services, southwest of London. It's cold and noisy and they don't make sleeping bags long enough for people who are six-five.
At least with the seats down, there's room to stretch out.
During the night, I dream of Amira, the sick young girl, the others trapped in the back of that truck. They suffocate to death while I tap dance with a crocodile outside the doors.
Bloody nonsense.
I wake up to the smell of soap powder. My hair stuck rigid with the stuff. The rear windscreen of the car drips with condensation. My mouth screams for a drink.