The Assassin's Keeper

by John McClements

  Outside, he sat in the car for a few minutes to make sure no one was in the building. Then, certain that the office was closed for the day, he went around the back, walking quickly. As it was getting dark and as he really had to act quickly, the only way in was through the window, which he hurried over to.

  John needed to get into Pedro's office so he could – hopefully – find something of interest, and after hesitating for a moment, he decided to break the window glass, careful not to let it fall on the floor. Instead, he put the broken pieces into a black rubbish sack before checking behind him, making sure that no one was watching him: the last thing he needed was for the police to come.

  Fully aware that Pedro was too clever to believe that this was simply a burglary, he had to clean up after the break-in, and after measuring the size of the glass, he went over to the nearby glazier and bought a sheet of glass and a tube of silicone. He knew Pedro was going to be away for a few days, which meant that he had a bit of time to try to find out as much as he could.

  Back in the office, he turned on one of the desk lights, aware that the overhead lights would be too bright. Pedro had this thing about really bright lights, which was good for when you were working, but bad when it came to covert operations.

  Pedro always kept the key for the filing cupboard in the desk drawer, and John flipped through the stack of notes but found nothing of real interest.

  After a few more minutes of fruitless searching, he sat at his desk, trying to think. Would Pedro keep anything here in his office? Leaning his arms on the table, he tried to think like him, studying the walls as though looking for some meaning in the plaster. After having a good look around, he methodically picked his way through various bits of papers that had been left scattered around the room. Most of Pedro’s private paperwork wasn’t there; John knew that Pedro carried it in his briefcase, but it was worth a look anyway.

  He was getting towards the end of his search when his eyes widened. In one of the filing cabinet drawers was a cardboard box wrapped in brown Kraft paper. It was heavy, around ten pounds, and reinforced with filament tape. There was no writing on the paper. Mysterious. Very mysterious.

  He removed the box, placed it on the floor between his feet, and then stared at it, so ominous in this new setting.

  Suddenly, a sense of dread descended on him. Why haven't I found this before? I should have found it. Plus, if he opened the box now, Pedro would know that someone had been looking around his office. There was only one thing for it: he decided to place it back in the drawer.

  He used the sleeve of his sweater to wipe the filing cabinet – just in case he’d left any fingerprints – and then continued with his search. He found nothing except for a piece of paper in the waste bin with a long-distance telephone number written in marker pen. On the back of the paper, the name of a café was written in black ink.

  Could it be that the parcel was meant for someone at the address of the cafe? His skin crawled at the possibilities. Thinking that the number might come in handy, he took his pad and pencil from his pocket and immediately jotted it down. He then put the piece of paper back where he’d he found it in the waste bin. That was when he noticed something else: several timetables for the London Underground. He looked closely but found nothing of importance on them.

  Just sitting at his desk, he experienced that sickening feeling people have after engaging in something deeply private only to find out that they’d been observed. To tell the truth, he was half expecting Pedro to walk through the door – maybe he was losing his cool or something like that.

  Suddenly, the telephone started to ring, and John ignored it in case it was Pedro checking in. On the sixth ring, the answering machine kicked in, making him jump. He couldn't ignore the call altogether though, so John sat up, tapping his pencil against the table top. There was a crackle.

  "Hello, this is Milan. Can you call me? I need to talk to you." The tone of his voice was laden with worry. The background noise faded on the line.

  Not expecting any meaningful clues, John decided to keep an open mind and not jump to any conclusions. Whatever was going on with Pedro was his business alone; John just wanted to make sure that he wasn't involved. After a strained pause, he told himself for the hundredth time that he should be careful.

  Eventually, John decided to call it a day; he wasn’t going to find anything else in the office, and the more time he spent there, the more likely it was he’d be seen by someone.

  Before he climbed out of the window, he cleaned up any remaining broken bits of glass from around the window frame, then set the silicone around the edge of the frame before gently pushing the new glass into its layer. It was getting dark now, which made it much easier for him to move around.

  He walked around the front with the black dustbin bag, then threw it randomly in someone’s front garden. Once he’d got back into his car, he sat there, thinking. John knew he needed to do something, but what? He could try to expose Pedro, which might be the answer, but how could he do that without exposing himself? He decided the best way was to play along with Pedro's plan and just wait for the right moment to make his move.

  Chapter 22

  Samuel was waiting at a small table outside a fast food joint when Pedro pulled in. The only reason he'd spotted him was because he was a slightly taller version of his father, right down to the grim lips and hard jaw. He looked just about as approachable, too.

  "Samuel?" Pedro asked, extending a hand.

  "Yeah, that's me," said the man, slowing coming to his feet and returning the handshake. He carried himself as though he was operating on too little sleep and too much stress. "I appreciate you meeting with me in spite of your busy schedule. Can I get you a drink or something?"

  Pedro shook his head and sat down.

  Samuel nodded. "Then let's get started. This is the new file. He will be coming soon, so expect him shortly."

  Showing little emotion, Pedro raised his head and said, "Okay, leave it with me," then slid the file into his briefcase. He didn't want to say too much. Instead he shifted on his stool, as though he was rearranging himself.

  Samuel got up, scratched his head, held his hand out to Pedro and said, "Yeah, nice to meet you."

  Pedro cocked his head curiously. "Okay." The meeting over, Pedro got up and walked away. It had been a long wait – tens of thousands of man hours of prep – and the meeting was now done. If Pedro was going to complete his contract, he knew he'd have to get John on his side.

  It was getting dark, and Pedro tossed his briefcase haphazardly onto the passenger seat as he sped off in his dark blue BMW. Parking quickly, he rushed up the steps to the office and sat down at his desk. He was in a dangerous mood, having spent the day considering his next move, and he was very much on edge.

  Just then, Pedro heard the screen door slide open and Sue approached from behind, gently touching his shoulder. Over the last week she had opened up to him – had shared so much with him – and in return he had revealed almost nothing of his past, except that he had briefly worked for the Argentine Central Intelligence Agency. It had taken a considerable degree of craftiness and charm to get that much out of him. Pedro had begun his career as a young analyst, but it wasn't long before he found his way into the Operations Directorate. That was all she knew.

  The traffic was bad and John was running late, his smile fading as he considered his situation. He looked at his watch, driving quickly as he weaved in and out of the constant stream of cars, passing under a glowing billboard that was promoting cigarette smoking. Coming to a halt, he turned the engine off and slammed the car door shut.

  "I'm sorry I couldn't get here any earlier, traffic was heavy," John's eyes went watery, cheeks flushed. "Sorry again."

  Pedro studied him, making John feel scrutinised; he reached up and self-consciously smoothed his ruffled hair.

  Just after John had reluctantly agreed to work for him, Pedro had increased the team and brought in Reg Wright. At the time, Pedro had chewed on t
he right words to describe Reg: "He has spent over twenty-five years in forensics at Scotland Yard," was all he would say, and John had looked unconvinced. To this day, no one could understand why Pedro had employed Reg; he had to be ready to collect his pension, and his value and worth to the business wasn’t readily apparent.

  In the office now, Reg didn’t look happy as he took off a pair of cheap reading glasses. "Listen to me, I can walk through a house once and know more about its occupants than a psychiatrist could after a year of sessions," he boasted.

  Sue didn't even try to hide her smile; she even let out a tiny laugh. "Oh, really?"

  "Sue! Take it easy," Pedro snapped.

  Sue looked contrite. "Sorry, Reg. I shouldn't have teased you."

  "As long as you do a good job, I don't care." Pedro took a deep pull of smoke, held it in his lungs for a glorious moment, then let it swirl from his nose.

  Reg ignored her apology. "I can't believe you; I mean, this is me we’re talking about." With that, he picked up his glasses and returned them to the bridge of his nose.

  Sue was watching him. "I don't even know what I'm saying sometimes," she said quietly.

  "As an example,” continued Reg, “I like a house that looks lived-in – general wear and tear is a healthy sign. A house that's too antiseptic speaks as much to me of domestic discord as a house in complete disarray. Alcoholics, binge eaters, addicts, sexual deviants, philanderers, depressives – you name it – I can see it. I can see it all in the worn edges of their nest. You catch the smoky reek of stale scotch and cigarettes, a desperate abundance of smells. Normally I don't even have to go inside the house to make a diagnosis; the curb side analysis is usually enough."

  Sue and John exchanged looks. Her raised eyebrow spoke volumes, as in, What's he talking about?

  Pedro looked at Reg and said, "If you ever have a question, just ask me. I don't usually bite."

  John's eyes flared and he turned away with a secret smile. "No, you don't. Not usually."

  Pedro had to take a call, and after a few minutes he placed the phone down, stood up very slowly and took off his jacket. His expression unchanged, he coughed a quiet cough and told them all to sit down.

  They had been asked to re-examine a crime scene where the police had discovered a decapitated corpse. “The medical examiner thinks that the blow was struck with a long serrated-edged blade into the mouth. He understands that there have been similar cases."

  Sue glanced over at him. "How do you mean?"

  "Three other deaths over the last three years. All stabbed in the mouth with a serrated-edged blade. What we have is a serial killer in London.” He paused dramatically to let this statement sink in with everyone. “Let’s take Reg with us. He might be able to help."

  "Okay, I’ll get the camera. Let’s see what we can find – you never know."

  "Listen you two, we cannot be too involved with the case. We just need to give a second opinion, okay?"

  Sue nodded, before adding, "Let’s go in my car."

  They all walked out to Sue’s car, and as soon as he’d got in, John had the thought that it was like sitting in a perfume boutique. She must have sprayed her car that morning, but it wasn’t a bad thing – it was a cheerful surprise.

  Reg shrugged out of his jacket, slumping down in his seat next to John while Pedro sat in the front. The traffic was bad, as ever, but soon they were very close to the crime scene, and as Pedro always said that was the time you had to keep your eyes peeled, they slowed down on approaching the traffic lights.

  Sue eased back on the accelerator, pumping the brake in an attempt to stop, but the tyres on the car began to lose their grip and they felt the vehicle swerve across the road. Sue quickly remembered to steer into the skid to keep the car on track, and after the wheels had locked, they eventually came to a stop.

  John shivered, but it wasn’t just the cold that was giving him goosebumps: he thought they should have been more careful. He looked at Reg, whose mouth was quivering, his dentures clacking against his remaining teeth.

  “I’m not feeling too great,” said Reg, wiping sweat off his forehead.

  “Easy buddy,” whispered John, who had tilted his head back against the headrest, suddenly exhausted. When he leaned forwards and saw just how sick Reg looked, he grabbed a towel that had been lying on the middle seat and pressed it to his temple.

  Reg's eyes shot open and he jumped a little, moving his head against the towel. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This is terrible." He sounded as though he was consumed by remorse and embarrassment; his mouth was tight as he spoke, his voice shaking with pent-up fury.

  Pedro suggested that Reg should wait in the car while they went over to the crime scene, and everyone agreed. Luckily, the mobile flashing light on the roof of the car guided them through the darkness to the scene, where yellow crime scene tape festooned several brownstone houses, and where uniformed officers had taken up their positions on the corners. An ambulance was now on the scene, as were several vans from the local media.

  "So what have we got?" asked Sue.

  A group of men stood around the body: the fluorescent yellow of the ambulance men waiting to take it away, and policemen in black waterproofs and chequered hats who thought they had seen it all before. Until now.

  They parted wordlessly to let Sue through, and the first thing she saw was the police surgeon crouching down, leaning over the corpse and delicately brushing aside the soil with latex fingers. He looked up, and as she loomed overhead, Sue saw the brown withered shin of the dead man.

  "He’s been dead for a few hours?" she asked.

  "No more than that," agreed the man.

  "How did he die?"

  "Violently, by the looks of it. There appear to be several wounds to the throat and mouth, but it'll take the pathologist to give you a definitive cause of death." He stood up and peeled off his gloves. "Better get him out of here before the rain comes."

  Sue nodded, but she couldn't take her eyes off the face of the young man. Although there was a shrivelled aspect to his features, they would be recognisable to anyone who knew him. The last victim had bled to death, and the thought made Sue sick. From the look of this one, she would guess the same. Thankfully, though, it wasn't her job to guess.

  "Myuhmyuhmyuh.” It was a thick-tongued noise, a noise she always made when she wanted to convey her indecisiveness, accompanied by a dazed roll of the eyes. It was all she could say at the moment.

  A man had peeled off from the crowd and was now walking towards the crime scene. In his late thirties, he had dark hair and heavily muscled shoulders. Maybe another policeman, Pedro thought, though he didn't recognise him.

  "Inspector Long," said the man, holding out his hand.

  Pedro took his hand, his handshake tight but quick.

  "As of this moment, we have uniforms securing the external perimeter. There are men posted here, here, and here,” he pointed. “Uniforms have already evacuated the ground floor flat. We haven’t had contact with anyone inside the residence yet, which, frankly, doesn't make me happy. Can you make yourself useful and have a look?"

  "Perfect," Pedro replied.

  He picked up his pace. Now charged with a task, he had choices to make, and he ran through them quickly in his mind. First off, he instructed Sue and John to look around the grounds while he checked the upstairs flats. Once that was done, he would think of what needed doing next.

  After a while of searching, Pedro heard the distant sound of breaking glass coming from the direction of a window in the building across the street. He suspected it came from the balcony that overlooked the crime scene, but when he scanned each room, he couldn’t find anyone. He had now been on the scene for ten minutes and he reported in the detail.

  Sue took a deep breath and immediately regretted it: it was the smell that made it worse. The repulsive combination of spilled booze, urine, and the weird, almost metallic odour of blood. While holding a cup of coffee in one hand and desperately wishing she had a cigarette
in the other, she was momentarily conscious of the fact that she wasn't wearing any makeup, and her hair, which she wore tied back, was probably sticking out in a way that made her look slightly deranged. She'd been to enough crime scenes over the years, however, to know it was a waste of time to worry. Instead, her eyes returned to the body of the victim where it lay, both humped and sprawling.

  Trying to take over, she suggested that if you looked closely, you’d see that some of the blood had been sprayed back towards where the body was lying. "I suspect the killer did it to wash away his or her footprints," she added.

  "Yes, I agree, and if you look closely, you’ll also see that the killer must have moved the body – there is blood by this tree," John said.

  She looked at him with an air of astonishment. "No," she said. "The body was struck by the tree and he somehow must have wandered over and fallen."

  Inspector Long, who was leading the investigation, interrupted. "Also, I think we may have a partial print to the right of the body along the fence." He pointed to a small patch of mud and the corner of what looked like a tennis shoe track. "Can we get someone to cast that before we step on it?"

  "Thanks for the input, Inspector."

  Inspector Balls was also at the crime scene, and he surprised the hell out of Sue by patting her on the back and offering a hand that was completely ignored until he eventually let it fall casually to his side.

  For her part, Sue had hoped to get through the rest of her life without ever seeing Inspector Balls again, but tonight her luck had ran out. Balls had been one of the officers who’d turned against her when she’d worked on the pop star drug case. As her gazed shifted to the other side of the crime scene, Balls called out far too loudly, "A pleasure to see you. It's been far too long!"