by David Barry
I frowned. ‘What for?’
‘Please, Freddie, we might not have much time.’
I stepped back, fumbled in my pocket, and gave her my handkerchief. Then she bent over, picked up the Glock, switched the safety on and wiped it thoroughly.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
She gave me back the hankie, held the gun in her hand, switched the safety off and put it back on the table. ‘Now there’s only my prints on it.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re up to, Alice.’
She turned and gave me her most determined look. ‘You were never here, Freddie. I tracked him alone from Christine Bailey’s, and when I confronted him about the murder of my family, he threatened me with his gun but I shot him first. This will give you time to get to Krakow and find this Russian who seems to be behind all these killings. But you’ll need to leave right away, because once they arrest me, and read all the notes we made, they’ll want to question you as well.’
I had to admit, her thinking was sound, and I was impressed by the way she had recovered and taken charge of the situation.
‘I think we can do better than him threatening you,’ I said, and went and stood near Chapmays’ corpse, carefully avoiding treading in a pool of blood trickling across the tiles. ‘Stand to one side, Alice. This was more than a threat he made. It was self-defence, but he missed.’
I raised the revolver and fired. A loud pop and a lump of plaster fell from the wall where the bullet had lodged itself. I wiped my prints off the gun and stuck it in Chapmays’ dead hand. ‘I presume you’re going to call the police?’
Alice nodded. ‘After you’ve gone.’
‘They’ll see that bruise coming up on the side of your head, and they’ll see there’s been a struggle in here. So you need to be vague about what actually happened. In a desperate situation, you wouldn’t remember exactly what happened; every single detail. There was a fight and...’ I stopped as I thought of something and clicked my fingers.
‘What is it?’
‘They’ll want to know where you got the gun from, Alice. It’s illegal, so what you have to say is that it belonged to Bill, and before he was killed by the car bomb he gave it to you for protection against Peter Chapmays. And because Chapmays was responsible for all those murders, no one can blame you for wanting to protect yourself. Especially as you suspected you were next on his hit list.’
‘You need to get going, Freddie. And there’s no way you can take my car, otherwise they’ll wonder how I got here. How long do you need before I call the police?’
‘It’s probably a fifteen minute walk to that pub on the main road, where I can phone for a cab to take me to the station.’
‘I’ll give it half an hour to be on the safe side. And you need to phone Nicky tell her you didn’t go to Christine Bailey’s house today. When the police eventually get round to questioning you, you can tell them you were on your way to the airport by then. Good luck, Freddie. And don’t take any unnecessary risks in Krakow. Anything you discover about Eclipse, go to the British Consulate and tell them what’s going on. Now’s the time to blow this thing wide open.’
I threw my arms round her, holding her close for a moment, and felt her heart beating strenuously in her breast. ‘Sure you’ll be all right for half an hour, sitting here with a corpse for company?’
She smiled bravely. ‘I think I can manage. I don’t believe in ghosts.’
I left without looking back, selfishly relieved she had decided not to involve me in the death of her family’s killer. But I was aware that with Chapmays dead we had only dealt with one element of the tangled web. Admittedly putting an end to the paid assassin was a huge relief, but he’d been acting under orders from the mysterious Eclipse, so there was another major obstacle to overcome. And now it was up to me to track down this conspirator and discover what Alice’s father’s crime was that had him and his family murdered in such a brutal fashion.
Chapter 29
Sunday 13 October 2013
When I stirred bells were ringing in my head and Quasimodo was banging them with a steel hammer. I was disorientated and my head ached and throbbed with a dull pain. I blinked open my eyes, focusing on a white door I didn’t recognise, and a wall with a flat screen TV. The clanging in my head shifted to the acoustic sound of bells and traffic noise, and I groaned as I realised where I was. A hotel in Krakow, and it was Sunday morning, a day when Catholic Poles flock in their thousands to their devotions. The bells I could hear came from a church close to my hotel.
And then it all came back to me. The fight in the house near Sevenoaks and the shooting of Peter Chapmays, then my escape to Poland to search for Alexei the Russian conspirator going by the online name of Eclipse.
After I had left Alice the previous evening, I used my pen torch to stagger up the lane, facing any oncoming traffic until I reached the main road. The pub was nearer to the turn off than I thought, so it didn’t take me long to stride it out to the welcoming lights and the crowded Saturday night bar and restaurant. Although I needed to order a taxi quickly, to get out of the district before the police arrived, I was desperately in need of alcohol, so first of all I bought myself a large brandy. I saw the barman staring at me suspiciously, so I went into the Gents and looked in the mirror. There was no bloody gash or bruise from the laptop Chapmays had used as a Frisbee, because my hair where it had hit the side of my head had offered me a little protection, but the swelling was enormous, giving my head a terrible lopsided appearance. But there was nothing I could do about that I decided. I checked flights to Krakow on my smart phone and found one leaving Gatwick airport at nine-thirty. I called a taxi and asked him to take me to Gatwick where I arrived just after eight. Once I’d booked a flight and gone through security, I telephoned Nicky and told her what had happened. At first she was silent, probably worried about becoming involved in yet another killing, but when I impressed on her the need to stick to the story Alice and I had agreed on, and said the police would now be informed of everything that had happened, giving them the transcript of our investigation as evidence, she became understanding and supportive, telling me to watch my step in Poland.
The next phone call I made was trickier. When I told Michelle I was on my way to Poland to go after this Eclipse, she yelled at me that he had stopped pestering Olivia, so what was the point of my journey, unless it was to stir up trouble. I said my flight was booked and they would be calling us through to the boarding gate soon, and was about to give another excuse about my mission when she hung up.
Somehow I didn’t think bringing her back Duty Free perfume on my return would help to revamp our matrimonial partnership.
I swung my legs out of bed and groaned. My head still ached, even though I had taken painkillers as I waited at Gatwick, where I had also shopped for a small holdall, shirts, socks, underwear and shaving gear. I switched the kettle on and checked the time. It was almost eleven. The hotel staff had left me undisturbed, probably after being instructed by reception that I had arrived by taxi in the wee small hours.
I made myself an instant coffee, winced at the bitter taste, then washed down another couple of painkillers. The nearby bells were suddenly silenced, and I heard shouts and cries from the street, the revving of cars and the clatter of trams. After I was shaved, showered and dressed, the headache became calmer, a tender discomfort, rather like a toothache that subsides then resurfaces intermittently. I could just about cope with that, I thought.
At Gatwick departure lounge, I had bought a small guide book, containing maps of every district in Krakow. I flicked through a few pages to get my bearings and found I was very close to the Old Town, so I walked along the crowded streets until I came to the Rynek, the main square. By now I was starving hungry, so I chose one of the many cafés in the square, facing the Cloth Hall, a fine Renaissance building as described in my guidebook. It was stil
l quite warm and, as I was wearing my leather coat, I sat outside and watched tourists ambling about and photographing the sights and monuments, until a waiter came and took my order. I chose Polish sausages, sauerkraut and bread with a half litre of Tyskie beer to wash it down.
After I’d eaten I began to feel a bit more human and wondered if it was time to go and find the internet café the Russian frequented. To say I felt nervous and vulnerable would be an understatement. I’d never been to Krakow before, but Bill and I had been to Warsaw back in the early eighties, when we worked freelance and were commissioned by a bank executive whose Polish wife decamped with his daughter and he employed us to snatch her back. When we discovered she was a KGB agent, we had to beat a hasty retreat from Poland before we ended up in a Russian jail. But we were younger then and thought we were invincible. Besides, when you’re working as a pair, it’s very different to being alone in a strange city. No wonder I felt edgy, wishing Bill had still been alive and on hand to share my worries.
Bells still rang out from various parts of the city reminding me it was Sunday and I wondered if the internet café would be open, this being a holy day. Then again, judging by crowds teeming the square and wandering into gift shops, everything seemed to be in full swing. And I remembered from our eighties Polish expedition how the devout Poles charged into churches for a swift prayer in the lunch hour, genuflecting and dabbing themselves with holy water before snatching a hasty sandwich and dashing back to work. Every day was holy in Poland, so I assumed the internet café would be open for business.
My guidebook told me the internet café was near a shopping mall called Galeria Krakowska near the railway station. I walked through the square, passing horses slowly pulling an open buggy of tourists, towards a small park from where I could see the railway station. I was surprised at the volume of visitors thronging the streets this being late October, but many of them looked like retired couples, although there seemed to be a fair amount of young students of every nationality, probably on gap years or school trips.
Close to the railway station I found the internet café sandwiched between a gift shop and a shop selling mobile phones. I suddenly realised I had no phone charger with me, and after all the calls I’d made from Sevenoaks and Gatwick yesterday evening, I guessed my mobile would soon be out of charge, so I determined to buy a pay-as-you go mobile after my preliminary reconnoitre of the Russian’s internet café.
Almost everywhere you went, restaurants and cafés advertised the easy availability of wireless connection, so I guessed this Eclipse character used public computers to avoid being traced to his own computer. I found this strange. If he was such a computer expert, he would surely know enough about computing to make his own computer safe from enemy infiltration. And even though he was cautious enough to use a public computer, Shapiro had managed to trace his whereabouts, so his vigilance had been easily compromised, and in just over half an hour while I waited in Brad’s kitchen. The whole world of internet and computing seemed mysterious - and deadly. But then, what did I know about it? Other than how dangerous and threatening it had become to me and my family, and I almost wished I was back in the dark ages when I used to watch Roger Moore in The Saint on a black and white telly and the best invention was a Teasmaid.
When I entered the internet café, I could see it was well used. There was a long glass counter displaying a variety of cakes and biscuits, and at the back of the serving area an espresso machine, and a fridge cabinet containing soft drinks and bottled beers. Computer booths and flat screen computers were placed next to one another in rows - there must have been twenty or more - all of which appeared to be in use, and in the centre of the café a small space was set aside for tables and chairs, several of which were taken by young customers presumably waiting their turn on a computer.
Standing behind the counter attending to a customer was an attractive young girl with dark hair, and at the far end of the counter was a man in his thirties, designer stubble and spiky hair gelled upwards into a trendy clump. He talked on a mobile, and the way he leaned over sideways as he spoke, I guessed he was about to end the call. If he was in charge, I could either approach him now to ask about the Russian or spend a bit more time surveying the customers. But what good would that do? I wouldn’t know who the hell I was looking for. The only way to find this Russian, I decided, would be through a generous bribe with the zlotys I had changed from sterling at the airport.
The man clicked his phone off, slid it into the breast pocket of his shirt, and I could see he was about to exit through a door behind the counter. I hurried over the other end of the counter and waved a hand at him.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Are you the manager?’
He stopped, his hand on the door handle, and stared at me poker-faced, but with a suspicious gleam in his eyes. I waited for his reply but he continued to stare at me without moving. I smiled to ease the tension.
‘Do you speak English?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I spend many years in England. Muswell Hill.’
I laughed nervously. ‘Ah yes. Know it well. Been drinking in many pubs there. Are you the manager here? ’
‘Yes, but what is it you want?’ he asked impatiently, shuffling from one foot to the other.
I leaned closer to him across the counter and lowered my voice. ‘I’d like some information.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What about?’
‘About one of your customers who comes in here regularly.’
He shrugged and pursed his lips. ‘Why should I...?’ he began, but seemed distracted, looked towards the door, and changed his position again.
‘I’m willing to pay,’ I said. ‘One hundred zlotys, just to point out a regular customer to me.’
He stared at me without speaking, strain showing on his face. ‘OK. You wait there. And I come back in a minute.’ He started to open the door, then looked back over his shoulder and half smiled. ‘A call of nature, as you say in England.’
Then he was gone, leaving me feeling slightly more relaxed and amused having discovered my clandestine operation was suspended by someone bursting to go to the loo. I turned and leant back on the counter, surveying the internet customers. At a nearby booth, a pair of eyes caught mine. Then he looked down at his keyboard again. It may have been curiosity but I thought it unusual. Nearly everyone working on a computer concentrates on the screen, paying little attention to their surroundings. Except the one person in the café who had caught my eye.
Could this be Eclipse? I wondered. And if it was, why was he expecting me? Had someone in the UK warned him I was on my way over? And who the hell could that person be now that Chapmays was dead? But I’d be stupid to think there were only two of them. After all, Tim Bayne had been heavily involved in something illegal and dangerous up until the time he was murdered.
The man who had caught my eye continued to work on his computer, but I got the impression it was false, a pretend concentration, taking care not to look in my direction again. He had steel grey hair, was maybe in his late-forties, a smooth clean-shaven man wearing a blue blazer on top of a yellow polo shirt. I watched as he moved his computer mouse several times, clicked the computer off and stood up. He came over to the counter. The way he avoided looking in my direction was so studied especially as he passed within a few feet of where I stood. No one could have walked so close to someone and avoided catching their eye, which gave me an even greater reason to be suspicious.
‘Only ten minutes today,’ the young girl behind the counter said as he gave her money. ‘Very expensive way to use computer.’
He laughed nonchalantly, patting his blazer pocket. ‘A text on my mobile from my wife. And when she hollers, I have to drop everything.’
He was an American.
‘Please, keep the change,’ he said, then without a glance in my direction he turned and left the building.
For a m
oment I debated whether to follow him or not. I decided against it. I was here to find a Russian named Alexei. Maybe the brief eye contact with the American was me being paranoid, seeing spooks everywhere. Perhaps it was at that very moment I looked in his direction that his mobile alerted him to the text, and not wanting to disturb the concentrated peace of the internet users, he happened to look up and made eye contact with me.
The manager of the café returned. He leaned close to me and dropped his voice. ‘A hundred zlotys you offer just to point out a customer. Why do you want to know about him?’
‘I’m a private detective. He got a girl in England pregnant three years ago. She had a child and she wants me to find him.’
He nodded and looked amused. ‘If he did not give her money when child was born, what makes her think he will do it now?’
I shrugged. ‘That’s what I told her. But she still wants me to find him.’
I took the hundred zloty note out of my pocket and slid it across the counter. I kept my hand on it as I waited for him to accept my offer in return for details about the Russian.
‘Does this man have a name?’
‘His name is Alexei.’
‘Popular name.’
‘It’s a Russian spelling. The man is Russian.’
He looked up at the ceiling momentarily, then said, ‘I think I know who you want. Yes, he comes in here often. But not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. Maybe the next day. But he is often here. He spends a long time on the computer. A good customer.’
I let go of the zloty note and he shoved it into the pocket next to his phone.
‘Thank you...what’s your name?’
‘Ludwik.’
‘Thank you, Ludwik. I would be grateful if you would keep this just between you and me. Please, whatever you do, you mustn’t warn this Alexei. If I come back tomorrow, and if he happens to be here, perhaps you can let me know who he is. There’ll be another hundred zlotys in it for you. I need to try and find out where he lives. On behalf of my client.’