Mark of the Devil: a gripping thriller that will have you hooked (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 3)

by Tana Collins

  Watson shook her head. ‘Not here, but back at the station.’

  ‘Well, we know he’s got a locked gun cabinet room. But I doubt he’d hide the paintings in there.’

  They left the room and continued walking down the corridor. Fletcher put her head round another door. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘He has his own billiards room.’ Watson eagerly edged forwards, keen to get a look. Fletcher walked into the room, putting the light on as she went. Overhead lighting illuminated several tables. ‘Grief.’ She walked over to the nearest table and stroked the green felt.

  ‘Where would you hide a work of art?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Beats me. I’m not an art connoisseur.’

  Fletcher entered the room, looked underneath a couple of billiard tables and then felt her way along the walls, banging on them.

  ‘He must have a study somewhere. Usually they’re totally private. I’m wondering if there could be a hidden room.’

  ‘You might be onto something, but I don’t think we’ll find it here.’

  Footsteps sounded and Harris and the two DCs approached. ‘Found anything?’ asked Fletcher.

  Harris shook his head. He started checking his mobile for messages.

  Fletcher frowned. Wondered if it was police business. Knowing Harris, he could be setting up a drinking night with the boys. ‘Where’s the estate manager now?’ she asked.

  Harris shrugged.

  ‘Go and see if Cuthbert has a study he keeps locked. And keep Pip McGuire in your sight at all times.’ Harris disappeared.

  The two women left the billiards room and tried the door to the right. It was a bathroom with an enormous sunken bath. ‘Don’t think they’d be kept in here. Too much condensation.’ As they were leaving there was lighter footfall in the corridor.

  ‘There is a study Barry keeps locked, but only he has the key,’ said the estate manager. ‘Thought I might as well tell you. You’ll find it anyway.’

  ‘Show us,’ said Watson.

  They took a flight of stairs and second left she stopped outside a closed door.

  ‘This the room?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Yes, but like I said, Barry is the only one with the key and I don’t know where it is.’

  Fletcher looked at Harris who sighed, took a step back and then shoulder-charged the door. It splintered and Harris nearly fell into the room. He stood aside as Fletcher edged past feeling for a light on the wall. Her hand came into contact with the switch and she pressed it, illuminating the room and all its contents. She gazed around her at the wide pine desk, black leather chair, two bookshelves and drinks cabinet that held nothing but a bottle of whisky and two glasses. ‘Shit. I was so sure…’ She walked over to the desk and opened the drawers. Empty except for a manila folder and a couple of cheap pens. She brought out the folder and leafed through it. ‘A print-out of Cuthbert’s accounts for this tax year.’ After flicking through she put it back in the drawer which she shut. ‘Looks legit. This doesn’t make sense. Why would you keep a room locked when there’s nothing in it but books?’

  ‘Unless there’s another room behind this one,’ said Watson, walking over to one of the book cupboards. ‘Secret rooms or hidey holes are often hidden behind book cupboards.’ She took a few books out. Most of them were on accounting and business practice. Put them back. She walked over to the other bookcase. ‘This one isn’t just a bookcase,’ she said.

  ‘Looks like a bookcase to me,’ said Harris.

  ‘No, it’s more than a bookcase. It’s a door frame. And I reckon there’s something behind it. We just have to find how to open it.’ She turned to Fletcher and grinned. ‘I have a wee thing about secret rooms. I’ve done loads of research on them.’ She walked up to one end of the bookcase and pushed at it. Nothing. She walked to the other side and did the same. It didn’t budge. ‘I wonder,’ she said. Fletcher watched fascinated as Watson selected a heavy leather tome at the end of the middle shelf. Carefully she pulled it. Fletcher heard a click. ‘Got it.’ Watson pushed the door open.

  ‘Oldest trick in the book. No pun intended.’

  Hardly listening to Watson, Fletcher took a deep breath. She peered over Watson’s shoulder. There in front of them propped against the wall in a space smaller than her tiny bathroom was the Stubbs. But not only the Stubbs, there were two other paintings, both of which were unmistakable if you knew what you were looking for.

  ‘The missing Vettriano and Constable. I don’t see the Sisley though. So he hasn’t managed to sell them all on, yet,’ said Fletcher, staring at a small safe which was attached to the wall. ‘I’d really like to know what’s in the safe.’

  ‘I’ll get that organised,’ said Watson. With an expression of quiet satisfaction Fletcher said to Watson, who was still staring at the paintings, ‘We’ve got him. I’m going to get over to the hospital.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there,’ said Watson. ‘I’ve got a couple of things to do first, not least organise for someone to get into that safe.’

  The rain that had been threatening all day started to fall. The sky was a heavy leaden grey, fast-moving clouds scudding across it. A chink of blue light pierced the horizon, promising a return to summer. Fletcher ran to her car and yanked open the door, sure Harris would give Watson a lift back to the station.

  As she sat down she smoothed her skirt with her hands. Under no illusions as to the importance of the task ahead, she only hoped that she’d be able to convince Cuthbert to cooperate with the police. She hadn’t predicted the turn the investigation had taken. She, like everyone else, had been caught out.

  As soon as she’d parked up and entered the hospital Fletcher bought herself a coffee from the canteen. She took the lift to the second floor where Cuthbert was in his private room. As soon as she got out and turned down his corridor she stopped in her tracks. The place was in uproar. White-coated doctors running everywhere. She saw PC Murray’s overturned chair. There was a pool of blood outside Cuthbert’s room. The door to the room was wide open. She saw a flash of white inside as a medic leant over the bed. Fletcher’s mouth went dry.

  Fletcher dropped her coffee into a waste bin and sprinted towards the room. She could hear alarms beeping as she drew closer. She grasped the arm of a young doctor who was beginning to close the curtains on the patient in the bed.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She was just in time to see three medics leaning over an unconscious man, one giving CPR.

  ‘Are you family?’

  She tried to lean over his shoulder as she answered. ‘No, I’m a police officer.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you right now.’ The medic jerked his head towards the man’s unconscious form. ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Fletcher, with a growing feeling of dread.

  ‘He’s been shot.’

  Shit, thought Fletcher. Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘You’ll have to wait outside.’ As she said this, one of the medics drew the curtain firmly round the bed, preventing Fletcher from any further view.

  ‘Did you see who did it?’ asked Fletcher but the woman had disappeared behind the curtain.

  Fletcher threw her arms up. Wildly she turned round to look for someone to ask.

  She stopped a young doctor who was half running down the corridor towards Cuthbert’s room. ‘Where’s PC Murray?’

  ‘He’s being operated on.’

  Fletcher’s blood ran cold. Whoever was doing this was always one step ahead. And if Barry Cuthbert didn’t pull through, where would that leave the investigation? And where would that leave Jim? Wide open and vulnerable in a foreign country. Cuthbert had to pull through. He was the only link to the crimes and Aleks Voller. First Tamm. Now Cuthbert. With a heavy heart she turned away and fished out her mobile. Called Carruthers. No answer. Just as she was about to ring Bingham she was aware of movement within the room. The voice of a doctor said, ‘Time of death is 4.36pm. I’m afraid Mr Barnes’ next of kin need to be notified.’
/>   Fletcher snapped her mobile shut. Three serious white-coated men walked out of the room. As the last of the three passed her Fletcher whipped out her police ID and said, ‘Mr Barnes? I thought this was the room of Mr Barry Cuthbert?’

  The man stopped. Unsmiling, he said, ‘Barry Cuthbert got moved twenty minutes ago. I’m assuming he was the intended target?’

  ‘Looks likely,’ said Fletcher. ‘But what about…?’

  ‘Then he’s a lucky man. Luckier than Mr Barnes.’

  ‘How did this Mr Barnes end up in Barry Cuthbert’s room?’ said Fletcher, frowning.

  ‘As you know, Barry Cuthbert has been brought out of his coma.’ To answer Fletcher’s confused look he said, ‘He’s been transferred to another ward under another consultant. The James Mitchell Ward, next floor up.’

  ‘But why was PC Murray still down here?’ asked Fletcher.

  The medic, clearly in a hurry, told her as he walked off, ‘He would have been waiting until Mr Cuthbert was properly settled in his new room, I suppose.’ Fletcher mumbled her thanks. She knew Murray wouldn’t leave his charge like that. She stared at his overturned chair, noticing his jacket on the back. More likely he’d returned to collect his jacket.

  She ran down the corridor, out of the ward and took the lift to the new ward Cuthbert had been so recently moved to. Breathless, she stopped by the nurses’ station and, after showing her police ID, got directed to the new room Cuthbert was now in.

  The door was shut. She peered in through the glass panel. She could see his chest rise and fall. He was sleeping. He must have been given some pretty strong drugs to knock him out in all this mayhem, she thought. Barry Cuthbert definitely dodged a bullet. Sighing with relief she phoned Bingham, who was as shocked as she at this turn of events.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Bingham, recovering quickly and taking charge. ‘I’ll get armed response over right away. Interview everyone who was in the vicinity. Staff and patients alike.’

  Watson came running down the corridor. ‘Fuck, Andie. What’s going on?’

  ‘A man called Barnes has been shot,’ gasped Fletcher. ‘He’s dead. PC Murray’s in theatre. Undergoing an op to remove a bullet. Cuthbert’s one lucky bastard. If he hadn’t been moved…’

  She watched as a nurse wheeled a patient down the corridor towards them. Fletcher grabbed Watson’s arm. ‘We need to treat the hospital like a crime scene.’

  ‘We need the armed response team,’ said Watson.

  ‘Bingham’s already on it. We need to be careful. The intruder might still be on the premises.’ Once again she reached for the mobile in her pocket. ‘Need to contact Jim. He’s not answering his phone.’ She punched in his number, his new number. Motioned for Watson to draw closer. ‘See what you can find out about Murray.’ Watson nodded and walked towards the nurses’ station.

  No answer. Carruthers’ mobile went to voicemail. Fletcher snapped her phone shut. Just as she put it back in her pocket a male cleaner carrying a bucket of disinfectant and a mop walked through the exit door towards Cuthbert’s room. Frowning, Fletcher put her hand out. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t go in.’

  The man remained silent. She watched him, noting his hooded eyes and dark hair swept into a ponytail. What was he? About six foot? He glanced at his wristwatch. A Rolex. Since when could cleaners afford Rolexes?

  ‘No problem,’ he said. His voice was heavily accented. Eastern European.

  Fear flashed through Fletcher. She looked into his eyes. They were hard and emotionless. Aleks Voller. Had to be. He took a step towards her. She glanced behind him to the open door. She took a deep breath and tried to make a run for it but as she ran past him he caught her arm, bringing her closer in to him. In a flash he had produced a gun, had it to her head.

  ‘If you scream, I’ll pull the trigger,’ he said.

  She could smell his bad breath on her face.

  She could feel the cold weapon against her head as she closed her eyes. It was a gun that had already shot two men. Her breath caught in her chest. She was too frightened even to swallow. She heard a scream down the corridor. She opened her eyes. A nurse must have seen Voller holding the gun to her and had taken flight.

  Voller dragged Fletcher down the corridor with him. Kicking open the fire exit he half dragged, half pushed her down a flight of concrete stairs.

  ‘You won’t get out of here alive. I’ve called for armed backup. There’ll be police everywhere.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve got you with me, you stupid bitch. You’re my ticket out of here.’

  They descended another flight of stairs. Voller had his huge hand wrapped round her wrist in a vice-like grip. It hurt. His Rolex dug into her skin. At least he no longer had the gun to her temple. As they approached another flight of concrete stairs a door on the next landing opened and two female medics came out. It caught Voller off guard. He hesitated. There was a scream. Fletcher took her chance. She stamped on Voller’s foot then kneed him in the balls. The gun he had been holding clattered down several stairs.

  ‘Get back!’ screamed Fletcher to the medics, who seemed to be rooted to the spot. They disappeared through the door and it shut with a bang. Fletcher ran down the stairs as did Voller. She lunged for the gun but Voller managed to grab it first. Fletcher’s heart seemed to stop in that moment. In the distance she could hear footsteps running towards them.

  God, I hope it’s armed backup, she thought.

  Voller, keeping a tight grip on the gun, pointed it at Fletcher’s head. Showing discoloured teeth he smiled menacingly at her. As he cocked the gun, the door to the stairway opened to eject two uniformed officers. Voller sprang round and aimed the gun at one of the two officers. Fletcher, seeing what Voller was about to do, threw herself at him. The gun went off, the bullet hitting the wall. Voller cursed before bounding down the steps and away.

  ‘Stand down! We need an armed response here,’ shouted Fletcher getting up from the ground.

  One officer followed her command, but the other sprinted after Voller.

  ‘Are you OK?’ The second police officer who stayed for Fletcher was young and dark-haired. Before she was even able to answer him the shakes took over and if he hadn’t helped her to sit, she would have fallen.

  19

  Carruthers was sipping a coffee in an office in the Tallinn City Municipal Police Department. He was still feeling sick to his stomach that he had been duped by Sadie Andrews. If that was indeed her name. He had spent the time since he’d seen her get into the lift with Kert Ilves wracking his brain trying to think what he’d said to her in their quiet moments together. Well, what was done was done. He pushed the thought of her out of his mind as he nervously awaited the arrival of Andres Jakobson, Janek Kuul’s colleague.

  The door opened and a tall, dark-haired man in his thirties entered. ‘I believe you wanted to speak with me? I’m Andres Jakobson.’

  Carruthers assessed the man as they shook hands. Jakobson’s hand was dry and the handshake was firm. Carruthers approved of the first impression. He’s either got nothing to fear or he’s a cool customer.

  ‘I’m trying to get hold of Janek Kuul. I can’t raise him. It’s a police matter. He mentioned your name. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Why do you wish to speak with him?’ Jakobson asked. ‘And what brings you out to Tallinn? I take it that this is not a vacation?’

  Carruthers leant forward. ‘How well do you know Janek?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve known him for fifteen years. We’re friends as well as colleagues. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I need to find him. Is he due back in the station today?’ asked Carruthers.

  Jakobson rolled up his shirt sleeves. ‘I haven’t seen him today. I believe he had some holiday owing.’

  Carruthers played with his coffee cup. ‘Have you got a home address for him?’

  ‘You know I can’t give that out. Look.’ Jakobson took his phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll give him a call.’ He tapped in some numbers and waited.
Giving nothing away with his eyes, he spoke a sharp torrent of Estonian. Carruthers could feel his hope soar. But when Jakobson cut the call and placed the mobile on the table he felt the hope die away again.

  ‘Voicemail. I asked him to ring me immediately he gets the message. Sometimes he goes fishing.’

  Carruthers could feel the man assessing him.

  ‘He won’t be fishing,’ said Carruthers. ‘Like I said, he’s waiting for my call. He would answer it if he could.’

  ‘Do you want another coffee? And to tell me why you need to speak with him so urgently? You think something’s happened to him, don’t you?’

  At that moment the door to the office opened and a thin man in his forties with a receding blond hairline entered the room with a sheaf of papers.

  They exchanged a few words and Jakobson waved him impatiently away. Carruthers could feel the man’s curious eyes on him.

  ‘Look, I need to speak to you in strictest confidence. I’ve only been in Estonia a couple of days and it’s been a very…’ Carruthers chose his next word carefully, ‘eventful time.’

  ‘We will not be overheard if we speak in this office.’

  ‘OK.’ Carruthers leant forward. He looked into the eyes of the man opposite him. He saw both curiosity and concern. He’s OK, Carruthers thought. He’s one of us. One of the good guys. He decided to trust his instinct and put his cards on the table. ‘I know about the deaths of Olev Lepp, Mikael Tamm and Gunnar Aare.’

  As Jakobson went white, Carruthers continued quickly. ‘I flew to Estonia because a couple of cases I’m working on in Scotland, murder cases, involve one of your high-profile criminals.’

  Jakobson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘A man known as Kurat, the devil,’ continued Carruthers.

  ‘Marek Voller.’

  Carruthers’ mobile started to ring. He brought it out of his pocket and looked at it. It was Fletcher. The call would have to wait. He looked back at Jakobson. Was annoyed to see that he had missed the man’s initial reaction to the name of the gangster.