Hangman

by Daniel Cole

  She heard Rouche pass the message on to Curtis. Seconds later, the wail of sirens buzzed out through her phone. Jogging along the sludgy path that led up to the glass doors, she reached to pull one of them open when she saw the man crouched over his bag inside, just a few meters away. She almost slipped as she abruptly halted, pressing her back against the brick wall to stay out of sight.

  “Two minutes, Baxter. We’re almost there,” Rouche shouted over the siren. “Wait for us.”

  Baxter glanced around the wall. Through the glass door, she could see that the man was assembling something. She was still unable to make out a face. After a moment, he removed a gun, elongated by the silencer attachment screwed onto the barrel. He concealed it inside his jacket, closed the bag, and stood back up.

  “We don’t have two minutes,” whispered Baxter. “East’s family might be in there.”

  She hung up before Rouche could protest. She had to do something, especially with the Banthams fresh in her mind.

  She moved through the main entrance and saw the figure retracing East’s steps down the poorly lit corridor to stop outside his apartment door. She needed to buy more time so removed her keys from her bag, clinking them piercingly in the silent lobby. Feeling the figure turn in her direction, she sauntered unhurriedly along the corridor toward him as though she were just an oblivious resident.

  She walked as slowly as she dared, while the man watched, making no effort to conceal the fact that he was waiting for her to pass.

  Once she was just a few steps away from him, she looked up and smiled sweetly:

  “Merry Christmas!”

  The man did not respond. The hood of his winter jacket came up around the front of his face, fastened together over his nose and jaw. She was only able to ascertain that he was Caucasian, was of average height and weight, and had dark brown eyes. He had one hand inside his jacket, no doubt wrapped around the handle of the gun.

  There was still no sign of Rouche and Curtis, so she dropped the keys to the floor, as per her impromptu plan.

  “Bugger,” she said, kneeling down to retrieve them.

  She selected the longest and sharpest, Thomas’s house key, to wedge between her knuckles to form a makeshift weapon. She saw the man roll his eyes in exasperation and seized her opportunity.

  Rising up suddenly, she jabbed her spiked fist under the man’s hood, sinking the key into his cheek. They both fell back into the apartment door as the man cried out in pain.

  He shoved her against the wall opposite and pulled the weapon from his jacket as she threw herself into him, using the heel of her hand to break his concealed nose, knowing that his watering eyes would hinder his vision.

  Wolf had taught her well.

  The man lashed out blindly, striking her with the heavy gun. A lock clicked and then a concerned face peered out through a crack in the doorway. Distracted away from Baxter, the man kicked the door wide open, knocking East onto his back.

  There were screams from somewhere inside as three muted gunshots fired in quick succession.

  “No!” shouted Baxter.

  She pulled herself back up and scrambled inside after him.

  “Green van!” yelled Rouche as Curtis pulled around the traffic and accelerated down the wrong side of the road.

  He already had his weapon drawn and had removed his seat belt, desperate to get to Baxter. Curtis cut the sirens and slammed her foot on the brake, feeling the ABS judder beneath her foot. The car squealed to a halt less than a meter behind the van’s faded back doors.

  Rouche leaped out and had taken only a few steps toward the entrance when there was a loud smash from one of the ground-floor windows. As he turned to look, a man climbed out, landing badly and rolling across the snow. Rouche locked eyes with him for a split second before he scrambled to his feet and took off in the opposite direction.

  “Find Baxter!” Rouche shouted to Curtis as he started after their suspect.

  With her own weapon raised, Curtis ran in through the entrance and along the ground-floor corridor in the direction of the broken window. Several people were loitering outside their own apartments, looking toward an open door surrounded by damaged plaster.

  “Baxter?” she shouted.

  Gun first, she moved into the doorway and was confronted with a dead body. East was on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Dark red blood had soaked into the beige carpet beneath him.

  “Baxter?” she called again, a distinct tremor in her voice.

  She heard crying in another room and cautiously proceeded, pausing to kick open the bathroom door and confirm that the small kitchen was empty. She moved into the living room to find it half destroyed. Furniture lay in pieces. A large glass table had been reduced to sparkles in the carpet. A woman was shielding her three young children in her arms, clearly unsure whether Curtis was there to save them or kill them.

  On the other side of the room, Baxter lay crumpled over, as if she had been thrown through the broken bookcase. Her left arm was bent awkwardly behind her.

  “Baxter!” Curtis gasped.

  She rushed over to her colleague and checked for a pulse, exhaling in relief when she felt the angry pounding in her fingertips, and then smiling when she heard Baxter groan a swear word.

  “My . . . my husband?” East’s wife asked between distressed breaths.

  She shook her head.

  As the woman broke down, Curtis radioed in to request an ambulance.

  Rouche was deep within the warren of icy alleyways that serviced the huge apartment complex and surrounding properties. He had gotten himself completely lost while chasing phantom footsteps that led only to another dead end, the thin sliver of sky overhead a featureless ceiling to the claustrophobic passageways.

  He paused when he reached a crossroads, concrete corridors stretching out in all directions.

  He closed his eyes to concentrate.

  The slap of running feet passed directly behind him.

  He spun around.

  On seeing no one there, he turned the corner, following the only possible route that the fleeing man could have taken, his shoulders scraping through the narrow gap. As he rounded the next wall, he raised his arms in front of him defensively and slipped onto his back.

  An enormous husky was on its hind legs, teeth bared and growling as it chewed frenziedly at the chicken-wire fence standing between them.

  Slowly, Rouche lowered his arms. Satisfied that the animal couldn’t get through, he got back up onto his feet. But as the dog continued to tear at the unyielding wires between them, a chill coursed up his spine.

  Rouche was drawn closer, his face barely six inches from the beast’s as he stared into its dark eyes . . .

  Suddenly, the dog whimpered as if injured, dropped back onto all fours, and disappeared down another passageway.

  Rouche listened to the padded feet fade into the silence and then shook his head, feeling a little foolish for allowing the TV pastor and his fanatical theories to get to him. He picked his weapon up off the floor and headed back into the dark maze.

  Just over five minutes later, he arrived at the apartment. He paused over East’s body in the hallway. Three bullet holes had been scattered across his chest, the thick carpet squelching underfoot as he crouched down over him. Just visible where the bullets had ripped through his shirt, the familiar crude marking: “Puppet.”

  He rubbed his tired eyes. “Shit.”

  Tia had been crashed out on the sofa since 7 P.M. At 9:20 P.M., Edmunds headed back downstairs, having eventually managed to get Leila off to sleep. Since coming home from work, he had cooked dinner, cleaned out Bernard’s litter tray, done a pile of laundry and two days’ worth of washing-up. He scooped Tia up in his arms and carried her to bed, feeling like a model husband.

  For once, he felt like he had earned the right to continue working into the small hours with what little energy he had left. He went through into the kitchen to make himself a strong coffee. He had to wake up. He still ne
eded to drive across the city.

  After his official warning that afternoon, he could not risk using any of the fraud software to carry out his investigation of Rouche. He had utilized the limited resources left available to him to gather some very basic information. Even armed with what little he had found, there were glaring irregularities that warranted further exploration.

  He wondered whether Baxter might be onto something after all.

  Through backdated structural spider diagrams that he had found buried in the Human Resources area of the intranet, Edmunds had discovered that a former colleague from Homicide and Serious Crime Command had worked alongside Rouche during his time in Narcotics. Edmunds had been fortunate enough to catch him on duty.

  The man had described Rouche as “sharp as a tack,” “a little eccentric,” but overall “pretty chilled,” which more or less correlated with Baxter’s description of him; however, when asked about Rouche’s religious beliefs, the man had burst out laughing.

  “I’m more religious than he is, mate,” he told Edmunds, which was saying something when it came from the death-metal-loving detective whose infamous faded forearm tattoo read:

  God is dead

  The man then recited a thirdhand story told to him by a friend in Protection Command, where Rouche had transferred in 2004: “Fired. At least, that’s what everyone presumed. There was no send-off, no replacement arranged. He was literally there one day, gone the next. Never to be seen again. Boss went apeshit, unsurprisingly.”

  Edmunds thanked the detective for his help and made a loose arrangement to meet for drinks that neither of them had any intention of following through on.

  He had been able to obtain Rouche’s home address before leaving the office and calculated that it would be less than a half-hour drive at that time of night. He tiptoed into the hallway, donned his coat and scarf, removed the car keys from the hook, and crept out.

  “You see this small, shadowy area here? That’s a chip in your elbow joint,” explained the doctor cheerfully.

  “Fantastic,” sighed Baxter. “Can I go now?”

  She had been confined to the hospital room for almost three hours while the doctors and nurses prodded and poked at her, and her patience was beginning to wane. The altercation with the hooded man had left her aching and bruised all over. Her face was decorated in dozens of tiny cuts courtesy of the glass table, which, in turn, had exploded across the apartment floor courtesy of her face. And now she had three strapped-up broken fingers and a chipped elbow to add to her growing list of ailments.

  The doctor excused himself and requested that a nurse equip her with a sling.

  “You were very brave today,” said Curtis once they were alone.

  “Stupid, more like,” said Baxter, wincing in pain.

  “Bit of both, perhaps.” Curtis smiled. “Rouche said there were burlap bags and duct tape in the rucksack they recovered from the crime scene. Enough for all five of them. You saved them.”

  Feeling awkward, Baxter ignored the praise: “Where’s Rouche?”

  “Where else?” Curtis replied, which she took to mean that he was on the phone as usual.

  Picking up on Baxter’s despondent expression, Curtis felt obliged to give her a pep talk: “This isn’t another dead end. You know that, right? They’ve dragged Ritcher back in. The family are under police protection and being interviewed as we speak. We’ve now got full access to East’s financial and phone records, and the DNA evidence from your keys and clothes are being fast-tracked through Forensics. We’re making progress.”

  A flustered nurse returned with a bright purple sling in her hands.

  “This is for you,” she announced, handing it to Baxter.

  Both Curtis and Baxter regarded the eyesore with reservation.

  “Have you got a black one?” they chorused together.

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied sharply. “Now, this is optional . . .”

  “Optional?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is for you,” said Baxter, handing it straight back to the woman. She turned to Curtis and smiled: “Let’s go.”

  Edmunds double-checked the address he had been given for the Rouche family home under the weak interior light of his dilapidated Volvo. He was parked up outside the dark house. Even from the car, he could see the patches of paint peeling away from the windows and weeds escaping through the cracks in the steep driveway. An air of neglect surrounded the old house, which had the potential to be so much more.

  He could imagine the tumbledown property feeding the imaginations of the local children: the haunted house on the hill. Despite never having met Rouche, Edmunds felt angry with him. He, Tia, and Leila had to survive on a rough estate, the privilege for which left them floundering barely above the breadline. But even with their limited means, they made a real effort to take pride in where they lived, despite a total lack of support from their unapologetically content neighbors.

  By making an effort, Edmunds had inadvertently turned his modest home into a target for some of the more resentful residents, aggrieved by the audacity of his lower-middle-class existence. Just that morning, he had found his tasteful white and ice-blue Christmas lights severed in half, and he could not afford to replace them. But here was Rouche with a beautiful family home on a picturesque street in a prosperous residential suburb of the city and he had just left it to rot.

  Edmunds climbed out of his car and pushed the driver’s door closed as quietly as he could. Checking once more that no one was around, he climbed the driveway up toward the dark house. Unfortunately, there was no vehicle. A number plate could have been a useful source of information, but there were two bins around the side that would serve just as well.

  By flashlight, he began rooting through the recycling for anything relating to the secretive CIA agent. Suddenly, the narrow passageway was thrown into light. Edmunds crouched down behind the bins as an elderly gentleman emerged from the house next door and poked his head over the fence. He pulled his long legs closer into his body.

  “Bloody foxes,” he heard the man complain.

  There was the sound of footsteps, a door closing, locking, and then the light went out. Edmunds felt he could risk breathing again. After his official warning that afternoon, all he needed was to get caught trespassing on a CIA agent’s property. Accordingly, he cursed himself for being so reckless, but his body betrayed his true feelings: the buzz of adrenaline demanding that his heart pump harder, the mist from his staccato breaths becoming more regular, like a steam train gathering speed.

  He wanted to ensure that the old neighbor had lost interest before he attempted to leave so continued down the side passage and into the back garden, where long grass slashed wet stains across his trouser legs. A pristine Wendy house stood out of place beside broken fence panels and a vacated rabbit hutch.

  There was still a light on inside the house. He peered in through the patio doors, when a phone started to ring in the hallway. After five rings he heard a woman’s voice answer: “Hello, my love! We’re both missing you so, so much!”

  Edmunds cursed under his breath as he hid from view and crawled back toward the passageway. He passed the bins and hurried back down the driveway without being seen. Climbing into his car, he pulled away without turning his lights on, knowing that it would hinder any attempt to identify his vehicle. Once safely back on the main road, he switched on his headlights and sped away, his heart still racing.

  He’d found nothing and yet he had a grin on his face the entire way home.

  Chapter 20

  Monday, 14 December 2015

  7:54 P.M.

  Curtis and Rouche were hit by a wall of hot air as they entered their hotel. A familiar, irritable voice cut over the roar of the industrial heater above them. They followed the sound into a shabby bar area. Some sporting event or other looked minutes away from starting on a chunky television, and the overly bright lights revealed every flaw in the 1980s decor, the dark wallpaper stained wit
h nicotine and thirty years of spilled drinks.

  “I said I can manage!” Baxter told the barman while slopping her large glass of red wine onto the floor.

  She slumped down into a booth by the window, jarring her injured arm as she did so, and swore loudly.

  “And that’s why you wear a sling,” muttered Rouche, before whispering: “Think she’d notice if we just turned round and left?”

  He realized he was talking to himself because Curtis hadn’t made it beyond the fuzzy television. Despite her uninspiring surroundings, she stood straight-backed with her hand over her heart as the American national anthem was performed by a stadium-sized choir of beer-swigging hot-dog aficionados.

  “Americans,” Baxter tutted, shaking her head as Rouche took a seat, placing a small discolored book on the sticky table between them. “You should get up there with her, seeing as you hate home so much.”

  Rouche glanced back at Curtis, who looked to have tears of pride glistening in her eyes:

  “Nah, my karaoke track’s ‘Since U Been Gone,’ thanks.”

  As he turned back to face Baxter, “The Star-Spangled Banner” reached its thunderous conclusion to an applause worthy of a Bon Jovi encore.

  “Should you . . .” Rouche hesitated. He gestured to the drink in front of her. “Should you be drinking that if you’re on painkillers?”

  Baxter glared at him: “I think I deserve it, don’t you?”

  He elected to drop the subject. Curtis joined them at the table, eyeing Baxter’s enormous wine with similar concern. Presumably the barman had filled it to the brim in the hope that it would prevent the ill-tempered woman returning for a second glass.

  “Should you really be drinking that if . . .” Curtis trailed off when she noticed Rouche shaking his head in warning. She abruptly changed the subject, picking the book up off the table to read the front cover: “Father Vincent Bastian: An Account of the Exorcism of Mary Esposito . . . You’re not still on this, are you?”

  Rouche snatched the book from her and flicked through to a dog-eared page: