The Old Enemy

by Henry Porter

  He waited and watched. As the bars up Herbert Street emptied and the traffic on the pavements thinned, a young homeless woman wearing a large coat over a parka asked him for money. He felt his pockets for change and, finding none, gave her a £20 note. She looked up at him, astonished. Her face was pinched from a winter on the streets and there was a recent cut above her left eye. ‘Why are you out here?’ he asked. ‘Is there nowhere you can go?’

  These were questions she wasn’t going to answer. ‘Thanks for this.’ She was shaking. He asked if there was something the matter. She looked away. ‘Twenty quid! It’s been a while since someone’s been that good to me. They think you’re going to spend it on drugs, but I’ll get food with this and maybe a couple of cans of lager. Thanks, mate.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘A need is a need – you spend it on what you want.’ He hoped she might now leave him, but she leaned against the locksmith’s window, produced a bag of tobacco and rolled a cigarette, which she then offered to him.

  ‘I quit,’ he said, ‘but thanks.’

  She had trouble making her lighter work because her hands were cold. He took it and cupped his hand round the flame. The paper flared, she inhaled then spat out bits of tobacco. ‘I saw you before. Why are you here?’ she asked. The money was being stowed in a pocket somewhere beneath the overcoats. ‘My name’s Remy,’ she said.

  ‘Mine’s Paul.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  He looked down at the small pale face and lank brown hair and estimated her age at about twenty. The lights of the passing traffic washed her cheeks and glittered in her dark eyes. ‘I’m interested in what goes on in that building over there,’ he said. ‘Hoping to spot someone I know.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They raided that yesterday and took away a fella.’ She jerked her chin towards the front entrance of the Edgar Building. ‘But they got the wrong place.’ She stopped and examined him. ‘Are you a cop, Paul?’

  ‘No, Remy, I’m not a cop.’

  ‘I guessed not. Police wouldn’t give me twenty quid for nowt.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Leeds – my Dad was Belgian.’

  ‘Really! Why’re you on the street?’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve got a place. My stepdad’s why I’m down here, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s a cunt.’

  Her eyes moved restlessly over the street. In profile, she had a resolute chin and her mouth was clamped determinedly shut. She was far from the victim he’d taken her for at first. ‘Which building should they have raided?’ he asked.

  She gestured with her cigarette to the loading bay in front of them. ‘That one. But there’re only a few people in now. It’s a shame, ’cos they used to pay me and my mate to watch for ’em, tip ’em off, like, if there’s anything odd going on.’

  ‘What goes on there?’

  ‘Tons of things – art and shit. There are businesses in there. A recording studio, video stuff, anarchists and the like.’

  ‘Anarchists and the like – what do you mean?’

  ‘I dunno – political people. There’s two buildings, see, and they’ve got the same fire escape at the back. At the top there’s a kind of bridge. You can go between the two if the door’s not locked. That’s what they did the whole time, went in one building an’ out the other. So when they raided that place they didn’t find anything ’cos everyone’d already buggered off.’

  ‘Do you know what the police were looking for?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So who’s left?’

  ‘Some geeks.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because I live in the effing place! You want to see?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  She told him it would cost another twenty pounds, which he gave her. They set off along Herbert Street, with Remy moving at a lick, then turned left and came to a lane, cut through two large buildings, a space wide enough to take a vehicle, but blocked by five large refuse bins and a skip. Glass bulkhead lights illuminated the entrance, but the far end was cast in Victorian gloom. Remy went to a heavy wooden door that appeared to be sealed by two metal bars. But these were easily raised and she scraped it open across a concrete threshold. She looked at him in the dark. ‘I can trust you, can’t I, Paul? You’re not a fucking weirdo, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not a fucking weirdo. And, by the way, you were the one who approached me out there.’

  ‘True,’ she said, and led him into a dark space, flicked her lighter to locate a flight of stone steps that descended to another door, which had been crowbarred from the jamb but still took some opening. It was warm and Samson smelled heating oil. She flipped a switch and three naked lights came on. They were in a long white corridor with a dado line painted in blue and storerooms going off to the left filled with office furniture, old computers and printers. The last room, which was next to an oil-fired boiler, was what she called her ‘gaff’. He saw an executive recliner chair with a ripped seat, six flat black sofa cushions arranged to form a mattress, a table on which stood a kettle without a lid, a carton of milk, pots of instant snacks that required only hot water, and a candle in a jar. There were cans of lager, paperbacks and some magazines.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Samson.

  ‘Since Christmas, when the caretaker let me in. I pay him when I can, just a few quid. So it’s like a real home . . . well, sort of. And he doesn’t want anything. Doesn’t want to fuck me. I can be here at night and at weekends but never during the working day. And I can’t smoke down here. Never!’

  ‘You’ve made it nice,’ said Samson. ‘But it must be lonely sometimes.’

  She didn’t react to that observation and he wished he hadn’t said it. As Anastasia used to remind him, loneliness was chronic in the dispossessed and a big cause of mental illness. It was also, oddly, a subject of shame.

  They began her tour and Remy explained the owners were waiting to develop the two buildings together because they’d bought the whole site, but there was a campaign against tearing down the Edgar because it was full of artists’ studios and the building was regarded as a landmark with some architectural merit, so all the enterprises had only twelve-month leases. The two buildings were still managed separately, but she’d learned about access to the fire escapes and had explored the Edgar at night. She’d found a shower, which she used at the beginning of the weekend when the water was still hot and there was no one around.

  ‘Have you ever come across a woman called Ingrid here?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘She’s very tall, has brown hair and dresses well. She’s actually called Zoe, but she uses the name Ingrid Cole.’

  ‘Maybe in the Pit. Yeah, I’ve seen her there.’

  ‘What’s the Pit?’

  ‘It’s like a big room. It feels like it’s underground because there’s no daylight.’

  She led him to a long room where several tables had been pushed together at the centre. On the wall was a large TV screen from which connector leads hung. Leads and cables were everywhere, chairs were pushed back and the waste bins overflowed with disposable white cups, pizza boxes and sandwich packets. He noticed a laptop charger that had been left behind. It was still warm. Beneath a long whiteboard, five cables ran through a hole that had been messily punched in the plasterboard wall. There were no signs of a router of any sort, or a phone line, and Samson assumed that this arrangement was used to disguise their presence. His eyes came to rest on the whiteboard. The writing had been wiped but he could make out some column headings. Among them were the words ‘PIT’ and ‘EAR’. Of the other three headings only the letters O R A, R N and S F R O remained. He photographed the board with his phone and when his flash went off realised that the board was still damp – it had only just been wi
ped.

  He began investigating one of the waste bins to see if there were any discarded notes. It always amazed him what people consigned to the doubtful security of trash cans, but Remy held up her hand. ‘Shut the fuck up, will you! Someone’s in the bay.’ She listened with her head to the side then beckoned him to follow her through a door at the far end of the Pit. They went along a corridor and climbed a darkened stairway to an office, where a partner’s desk stood by a window overlooking the loading bay. The only light in the bay came from a small black van, waiting to exit. A figure was standing at the side of a shutter door to operate the switch that would bring the curtain up, but was evidently having some difficulty. The winding mechanism kept cutting out so the curtain would rise a little at a time. The driver joined him and they eventually got it high enough for the van to clear. The driver returned to the van and moved it forward so that his lights swept the tall, slender individual who waited by the controls to lower the shutter. A fraction of a second before he turned his face, Samson’s subconscious prodded him. By the time he saw the slightly crazy grin and a thumbs-up sign he already knew he was looking at the young man who’d once been known only by the codename Firefly – Naji Touma.

  Chapter 11

  Strains of Illyria

  Samson didn’t call out. No point. Naji wouldn’t hear him through the glass as he ducked under the shutter. Besides, nothing would be gained by showing his hand now, although his mind teemed with questions for Naji, and, for that matter, Zoe Freemantle, both of whom, it was now evident, had been set up by Harland in an operation that was paid for by Denis Hisami. What also became plain to him, as he and Remy went down to the loading bay so he could leave the same way as Naji, was that the operation in the Pit was probably the cause of both Harland’s death and the poisoning of Denis Hisami. He said goodbye to Remy in the street, gave her a little more money and the phone number for a woman called Rebecca Dunbar, a university friend of Anastasia’s who’d set up a shelter for young women. He didn’t know if the number still worked, but he hoped Remy would try. Remy shrugged unenthusiastically and went off to look for something to eat. Samson turned west and started looking for a cab. As he walked, he dialled Macy Harp and left instructions to call back as soon as he could.

  He always told cabbies to drop him near where the Grand Union and Regent’s canals meet at Little Venice so he could walk the few hundred metres to his building. In his street, he came across his tenants, Jericho and Derek, walking their new dog. Derek, who had an obsessive nature, was anxious to discuss the automatic lighting in the hallway, which wasn’t working, and the lock of the main door, which appeared to be loose. Samson said he would look into these the following day.

  ‘We thought you were in because we heard some movements,’ said Derek. ‘We knocked and didn’t get an answer so we left a note about the lights.’

  ‘It’s my friend,’ said Samson.

  ‘Well, there’s an invitation to Jericho’s premiere attached to the note, which is ultra, ultra polite. Promise!’ He looked at Jericho. ‘Unlike the note someone sent Mr Samson after a rush of blood to the head, but we won’t go into that now, will we, Jericho?’ His partner looked down rather hopelessly at the dog, which had wound its lead round his legs.

  ‘I’ll get the building manager to sort out the lights,’ said Samson, ‘but you know it’s not strictly my responsibility. You can call him direct. It will come just as well from you as from me.’

  ‘Never! You own most of the building,’ said Derek, walking the dog lead round Jericho.

  ‘What breed?’ asked Samson, taking in the animal’s huge bat ears and under-bite.

  ‘Non-specific dog,’ said Jericho.

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ said Derek. ‘She’s a Boston terrier with a twist of pug.’ They turned and walked with him towards the door of their building.

  ‘You should start calling the building manager yourselves,’ he said. ‘I’m away a lot.’

  ‘In the Balkans?’ said Jericho absently.

  Samson stopped at the door and wheeled round. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The strains of Illyria greeted us as we passed your door. Serbo-Croatian of some description, but I couldn’t swear to the region. Your friend, perhaps?’

  ‘A man’s voice?’

  ‘Yes, one voice, speaking on the phone, possibly, not mellifluous, by any means.’

  ‘Definitely not mellifluous,’ said Derek.

  Samson glanced up at the first floor. The rooms facing the street were dark and the blinds on to the balcony were up. ‘Have you got a phone with you? Good. Call the police. Tell them there’s a break-in at this address. Now go over to the other side of the street and wait for them.’ The couple looked astonished, but did as they were told.

  He unlocked the door and noticed, in the light of the street, fresh gouge marks on the bolts of both locks. They had been forced by a pry bar or a large screwdriver, a crude job that required only brute strength. He hooked the door so that it wouldn’t swing shut and send a sound reverberating through the three-storey townhouse. The automatic lighting didn’t come on, but that was to his advantage. He listened for a few seconds. No sound came from the basement, or the ground-floor flat. He moved along the hallway, climbed halfway up the first flight of stairs and listened again. He dialled Jo’s number. The phone sounded in the flat, but for just two rings before the call was rejected. That was all the confirmation he needed. Jo was in the flat yet hadn’t switched the lights on. He sent her a text – ‘See you in 30 minutes’ – and heard it ping about half a minute later. If the Serb was with her and reading her texts, he’d maybe relax. He crept to his door. Someone was moving inside, heavier than Jo. He put his face to the door. A slight draught bore Jo’s scent and something else – the smell of takeaway food.

  He could wait until the police arrived, although there was no guarantee they’d get there in time, or he could try to flush the man out. He went to the top floor and used his phone torch to find the fire extinguisher on the landing, lifted it from the stand and returned to the first floor. The noise of someone moving had stopped, but he heard the low rumble of a man speaking. He reached up to the smoke detector and pressed the test button. Alarms sounded through the building for thirty seconds then shut off. He did it again and moved quickly to put his key in the lock and turn it, knowing that the alarm would drown out the click. The door was slightly open. The alarm died. He waited, back pressed against the wall, straining for any new sounds in the flat. No sign of the police. He had to go in. He raised the fire extinguisher with one hand wrapped around the trigger and pushed the door open with his foot. Nothing moved. He peered into the dark of the flat. He saw little, but sensed the man was there and thought he heard him breathing heavily on the far side of the sitting room. He moved a few paces forward, through the opening into the flat’s main space. The first police siren entered the street and stopped outside the building; a second followed close behind. Lights pulsed on the ceiling. He became aware of a dark shape on the floor – Jo. At the same moment he saw the blur of a figure moving towards him.

  No training; no moves this time – just cold fury. He’d had a vague plan to let the extinguisher off to blind the man but instead he swung it with his right hand and connected with the bulk coming at him. There was a dull ring. He couldn’t be certain, but the extinguisher seemed to hit the man’s shoulder and glance upwards to the side of his face. He staggered. Samson swung the extinguisher again, and it skidded across the man’s back and landed at the base of his cranium. The man lashed out leftwards with a weapon and Samson felt a spark of pain in his leg. This wasn’t going to stop him. He turned to his right, seized the edge of the kitchen island, jumped up and toppled the knife block so the knives spilled towards him. He grasped one and hit the light switches on the wall nearby.

  What he saw was not the Matador, but a thinner man, reeling as though drunk. There was a knife in his right han
d, but it was held loosely and was about to slip from his grasp. The man clutched the side of his head with his left hand. He was in great pain, though there was no sign of any wound, no blood whatsoever. The knife dropped on to the rug. He screamed but not in any language that Samson recognised. Then came pure gibberish. He staggered two paces, froze, his hand still holding his head and rolled over on to the rug.

  Police were calling from the stairs. Samson yelled out, flung the knife on to the kitchen surface and went to Jo on the floor. She was bound and gagged and had been stabbed in her upper arm, he guessed some time before, because blood had dried on her jacket. ‘Get an ambulance,’ he shouted as two male officers rushed in. ‘She’s a police officer. She’s lost blood.’ He looked up. They were dithering. ‘Now!’ he shouted. ‘Do it now!’

  Jo was conscious and as he untied the gag she looked up and nodded to say she was going to be okay. ‘He was going to rape me, the bastard,’ she whispered. ‘You sent a text and he told me how he was going to fill the thirty minutes, then he told his friend.’ She jerked her head. A phone was on the lamp table. The line was open – the creep had been planning to describe what he was doing. Jo’s phone lay beside it. He turned her gently to one side so he could undo the tie used to bind her. He kissed her on the forehead and examined the wound, which was still oozing blood. ‘Hold on there,’ he said.

  He retrieved from his store cupboard a small emergency bag he’d taken to Syria, which consisted mostly of gauze and dressings, plus three shots of morphine which he’d bought in Turkey for a trip into ISIS-held territory then brought them back to Britain illegally, forgetting they were in his luggage. He packed the wound and held his thumb over it.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ she asked.

  ‘I had to change numbers. They were tracking me. That’s how they got this address. Are you in pain? I have something for it.’