02-A Price to Pay

by Chris Simms

  His voice returned. ‘No!’ He sank down and spread the fingers of his good hand over his head, unable to see where the next blow was coming from.

  The man took more care this time, swinging the hammer at a slight angle so, when it connected, it was with the part of the skull just above Philip’s ear. The young man pitched face-first on to the hallway floor, arms loose at his sides. One leg started jumping about as if he was trying to kick his shoe off.

  The man pushed the front door shut and slid the bolt across at the bottom. A swift search of the flat upstairs, find the laptop and its carry case then leave by the back way.

  A lock rattled as the door on his right began to open. A woman started to speak, her voice groggy with sleep. ‘Will you bloody pack it in? Do you know how much noise you’re making?’

  The crack in her door was a good eight inches wide. He could see a bare foot, a section of fluffy pink dressing gown. Above it were puffy eyes and tousled hair. Her glance had gone to the student’s prostrate form. ‘What on earth is …’

  He ran shoulder-first at the door, causing it to crash against her. She flew back and then fell on her arse, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. A line of blood opened above her eyebrow. He continued forward, hammer-arm arcing down like that of a fast bowler.

  She stared up at him, disbelief keeping her mouth open even as the hammer caved in the top of her skull.

  TEN

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure, Andrew. I’m really not. You bought me the mobile telephone and I think that’s quite enough, I really do.’

  ‘Mum, will you stop fretting? Wait until you see what this can do. Honestly, you’ll love it.’

  ‘But what if I break it? Look at all those fiddly keys. The last time I used a typewriter was your father’s. That was … I don’t know when. Really, Andrew, I’m not convinced this is a good idea.’

  ‘You can’t break it. These things are sturdier than they look.’

  ‘And expensive, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Andrew Williams!’

  ‘It wasn’t! It’s not new, Mum. I bought it from this little place along from the Aquatics Centre. He gets in computer equipment big organisations don’t want any more – banks, the university, probably. Those kinds of places. He cleans them up and sells them on.’

  ‘If it’s from a bank, won’t it be full of bank information?’

  ‘I don’t know if this particular one came from a bank. Even if it did, he formats – I mean, wipes them clean. Like a blackboard.’

  ‘He must be very clever. They frighten me, these things. Don’t laugh, Andrew, they do.’

  ‘Sorry. Now, where shall I put the carry case? You won’t be taking it out of your flat, so this could go in a cupboard. Or to the charity shop, if you want. It’s only a cheap one.’

  ‘It looks too good to give away.’

  ‘No, it’s just nylon. Binto? I’ve never even heard of that make. The seams are already coming loose.’

  ‘Leave it on the sofa. I’ll find somewhere for it.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that so we still have the case if you decide not to keep the computer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘All right. Now, think of this as a tool waiting for your orders. They do what you tell them to do, nothing more.’

  ‘Tools don’t wait for orders, Andrew. Spoons, forks, knitting needles: they don’t take in what you want, then act accordingly.’

  ‘OK, good point. I know what you’re thinking, though. You’re thinking of Hal, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hal? Who’s Hal?’

  ‘The computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The one who takes over the ship.’

  ‘Yes! The film your father loved watching?’

  ‘Well, it’s not like that. You can send emails on this.’

  ‘Email. There you go again. Email, shme-mail. I don’t understand.’

  ‘You know how you write to your friend in Cape Town? You can write to her on this.’

  ‘What’s wrong with paper and pen?’

  ‘Nothing. But rather than stamps, envelopes and visits to the post office, you just press send. It will appear on her computer a few seconds later.’

  ‘Judith? Did she get you to buy this? Was it her?’

  ‘She might have mentioned it would be good for you to have one.’

  ‘That sneaky so-and-so, I should have guessed.’

  ‘See? You’re smiling. You know it makes sense. Come on, I’ll show you how it works.’

  ‘What’s that bit there?’

  ‘A lens.’

  ‘A lens?’

  ‘It has a built-in camera, Mum. I’ve already set it up. The concierge has given me the code for the wireless network here. We can chat to each other – just like on the telephone – but see each other, too.’

  ‘It will film me? Why would I want to be filmed, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘It won’t film … well, it won’t record you. There won’t be anything stored. The image is live – you’ll just see my face on the screen and I’ll see your face on my screen. Think of it as a video phone. When we press the button to hang up, the picture cuts, too.’

  ‘And how much will these calls cost?’

  ‘They’re free.’

  ‘Free? How can they be free?’

  ‘It’s the internet, Mum. A whole new world. You’ll be one of those silver surfers before you know it.’

  ‘Silly.’

  ‘You wait. OK – here’s something else I set up for you. This icon, here? If I click on that it takes us to this web site.’

  ‘Spotify? Is that an actual name?’

  ‘Of a service, yes. Right, you and Dad liked records. Who was a favourite? Who did you like listening to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you and Dad were courting, before I was even born, who would you listen to with him?’

  ‘Oh, gosh. That’s such a long time ago.’

  ‘Jazz. You listened to that together, didn’t you? Name me a jazz singer you liked.’

  ‘Billie Holiday. He listened to her a lot. When we lived near Grasscroft.’

  ‘That cottage with the damson tree in the front garden?’

  ‘That damson tree – the fruit I took off that little thing! How its branches didn’t break under the weight of it all.’

  ‘What was a favourite song of hers?’

  ‘Of Billie Holiday’s? Your father played one a lot. It had the word fine in the title, I think.’

  ‘There’s one listed here called “Fine and Mellow”.’

  ‘That could be right. Look at all those songs! Is this a kind of library?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Andrew pressed play and the clear tones of Holiday filled his mum’s small flat.

  She started, as if pricked by a pin. Then her mouth opened slightly. She stared at the machine with the word Dell embossed on its silver case. The singing continued, misting her eyes with a rush of memories. Memories of such sudden and unexpected power they caused tears to roll down her finely wrinkled cheeks.

  ELEVEN

  ‘This is it,’ Roebuck announced, coming to a stop outside a dark, sombre-looking box of a building. Iona counted the rows of windows. Five. Five floors – each one once packed with piles of cloth, people hurrying to fulfil orders from across the globe.

  Another unmarked car from the CTU pool was pulling up behind them, a pair of blue lights taking it in turns to wink from behind its radiator grill.

  ‘Got some more intel,’ an officer announced from the back seat, a laptop across his knees. ‘Proprieter is Shazan Quereni, business first registered at Companies House three years ago. Mainly deals with residential lettings within the city centre. Five staff – four now with Khaldoon Khan disappearing.’

  Roebuck’s eyes were on the rear-view mirror. ‘Anything more on him?’

  ‘No. Border Agency said they’d have full details within the hour.’

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sp; There was a click as Roebuck’s seat belt was released. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see what this Shazan character has to say.’

  The lobby was unmanned; a noticeboard named the companies on each floor.

  ‘Spyro-gyra web-site design. Kelly and Lee photography. Spotlight Market Research. Zig-zag, whatever the hell that is,’ the officer who’d been sitting in the back of the car muttered. ‘How times change.’

  They clumped up the stairs to the second floor, six sets of feet. The wide stone steps, with their cast-iron railings, looked like they’d been built for a race of giants.

  Shazan Quereni was waiting to meet them at the door of CityPads’ office. Thirties, big belly, shock of wavy black hair. Iranian, Iona guessed. He looked taken aback at the number of officers who filed in. ‘Coffee? If we have enough cups …’

  Apart from a side room with a door that was slightly ajar, the office was open plan. Screwed to the wall above each desk was a whiteboard listing various properties and their statuses. Empty. Viewing 11 a.m., Tuesday. Under offer. Awaiting contracts. Sold.

  Three women were doing their best not to stare. A call came in and they all reached for their phones to answer first.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ Roebuck replied. ‘Could we speak in your office?’

  Shazan nodded. ‘Of course. There are two chairs. If we need more—’

  ‘Two is fine,’ Roebuck responded. ‘Alastair? With me.’ He turned to Shazan. ‘Is it OK if Damian, Paul and Martin ask a few questions of your colleagues, here?’

  ‘No, that’s quite all right.’

  ‘Is someone missing?’

  The owner pointed at an empty desk in the far corner. ‘Nirpal is out on a viewing. He’s due back shortly. The desk next to his is Khaldoon’s.’

  ‘Iona? Could you check over there?’

  She made her way across, catching a look from one of the women. Tied back blonde hair and pencilled eyebrows gave her a sharp, inquisitive appearance. ‘Sorry to barge in like this,’ Iona said. ‘Not your normal Saturday morning, I bet.’

  The woman’s smile was uncertain. ‘Are you all detectives, then?’

  ‘You mean our uniforms?’

  The response had come from Martin Everington, a detective drafted in from DCI Palmer’s team. Iona knew that, after her, he was the youngest member of the CTU. He was also the rank above, having joined the unit straight after graduating.

  He brushed at his denim jacket. ‘Dress-down day. We have them each Saturday.’

  ‘Really?’

  Iona rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t listen to Martin, he’s full of it. Yes, we’re detectives.’

  ‘In the normal police?’

  ‘I like to think I’m normal. Martin there, he can be a bit odd.’ She sent him a jokey look that wasn’t returned.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I mean you’re with Greater Manchester Police?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Iona didn’t want the line of questioning to continue; the fact they were CTU was something the women, at this stage, didn’t need to know. ‘Which desk is Khaldoon’s?’

  ‘The one on the right.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She sat down in the man’s empty chair, getting an unwelcome impression of a bony behind from the dip in the cushioning. She leaned back to survey the workstation. The other officers started asking the three women usual background stuff: how did Khaldoon seem in the days before he disappeared? What sort of a person is he to work with? Has office equipment ever gone missing in the past?

  Quietly slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Iona studied the surfaces before her. Empty leads trailed where the laptop once sat. A telephone. A Manchester United mug full of biros. A mouse mat calendar. A couple of folders, Perspex sheets inside profiling flats. She examined his whiteboard. Four sales already this month. Three properties awaiting contracts. She wondered if that was good. Probably was, if he was assistant manager.

  She opened the slim drawer at the top. Paperclips, a lump of Blu Tack and a bottle of correction fluid. The middle drawer was locked, as was the large one at the bottom. She leaned forward to check right to the back of the top drawer. No key. She ran a hand along the underside of the desk, hoping it might have been secreted there. Nope. A glance at Nirpal’s desk revealed similar-looking leads. The three females all had a Dell laptop on their desks.

  She waited for a pause in the questioning of the blonde-haired girl. ‘Excuse me? Sorry to interrupt. Your laptops – they’re replacement ones, yes?’

  She nodded. ‘Shaz got them with his own money. The insurers are dragging their feet, surprise, surprise.’

  ‘And Nirpal’s?’

  ‘With him. That’s the idea, the mobile office. We can pick up emails and access the server wherever we are.’

  Iona looked at the cables once again. ‘But when they went missing, was that overnight?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Ah – you’re wondering why we didn’t have them with us?’

  Iona nodded.

  ‘Khaldoon was in charge of IT stuff. You know, backing up the system each evening, fixing it if the thing started running slowly. He called all our laptops in last Saturday for some updates or something. Said they’d all be ready for Monday morning. That’s the last we saw of them – and him.’ Her mouth turned down as she raked the chair Iona was sitting in with a seething look.

  ‘Petty cash, too?’

  ‘Yeah, that was in Rachel’s desk.’

  The girl nearby looked over. ‘He had a spare key to my drawer. Unlocked it and emptied the lot.’

  Iona pointed at the drawers of Khaldoon’s desk. ‘Anyone got a key for here?’

  They shook their heads.

  Iona wondered what might be in there. It seemed certain the man was behind the thefts. It had obviously been pre-planned. Gather in every laptop, grab the cash and go. But, in doing so, he’d sacrificed his job: maybe the life he had. Surely he knew we’d come after him? But if he was trafficking women – and worse – losing a job at an estate agent’s would have been no major loss. Not if –

  A figure with short, spiky hair appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a suit and had a laptop carry case in one hand.

  Iona started to stand. ‘Are you Nirpal Haziq? We’re with Greater Manchester—’

  He took a step back and bolted to the side. Footsteps drummed down the corridor. ‘Bloody hell!’

  The other officers’ heads were turning as Iona darted across the room. ‘Radio the car out front! Asian male, early twenties, charcoal suit!’

  She emerged from the office and looked left. His bag was lying abandoned on the floor. The stairway door banged shut and she sprinted forward, kicking it open and checking he wasn’t waiting on the other side before jumping through.

  Martin shouted out from behind her. ‘I’m with you!’

  She ran through to the top of the stairs and bounded down the first flight, glancing over the handrail. People were down in the foyer, their loud voices drowning out any sound of footsteps.

  She was at the bottom within seconds. ‘Where’d he go?’

  The group looked at her blankly.

  ‘The bloke in a suit, about twenty!’

  They turned to each other before one glanced back at her. ‘Who?’

  She ran over to the doors and looked out on to the street. One of the drivers was out of his car, radio in hand. He looked at her with raised eyebrows. Turning on her heel, she barged back through the doors. Martin was on the landing. ‘First floor!’ she shouted. ‘He’s up there!’

  He turned back and reached for the door as she sprinted up the steps. ‘You sure?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. Go on!’

  They burst through together and started scanning the corridor. Empty.

  ‘I’ll go this way.’ Iona set off to the left. The corridor took a right-angled turn and, up ahead, she saw an open emergency exit door. A metal fire escape led down to street level. No sign of him. She met Martin back at the stairwell. ‘Gone. Out the fire escape.�
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  ‘We’ll get uniformed support – he’s still close. Has to be.’

  Iona pictured the warren of narrow streets that made up the Northern Quarter. ‘Damn it!’

  They were halfway up the flight of stairs when her mobile started to ring. Office number. ‘Iona here.’

  ‘It’s Stuart. Is Roebuck with you?’

  ‘Yeah – well, no. He’s on the floor above. What’s up?’

  ‘Let him know we’ve had word from the Border Agency, will you?’

  Iona kept climbing. ‘In relation to …?’

  ‘Khaldoon Khan.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘He left the country on Monday the nineteenth. Early morning flight.’

  The very day the laptops were reported as missing, Iona thought. ‘Going to?’

  ‘Islamabad. Left Manchester at seven fifty. Paid in cash.’

  Now at the top of the steps, Iona glanced at Martin. ‘Don’t suppose it was a return, was it?’

  ‘No. And it wasn’t just him, either.’

  ‘He wasn’t travelling alone?’

  ‘No. He paid for two tickets. Him and a female.’

  ‘Really?’ Iona could now see Shandy and Rihanna in her head. Had he gone abroad with one of them? Was another bombing imminent? She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Have you a name?’

  ‘I do. It was a Sravanti Khan. His fifteen-year-old sister.’

  TWELVE

  Nina’s arms were folded as she surveyed the table. On it were two Dell laptops. Beside each of them was a carry case and an assortment of cables.

  Liam watched the cigarette that burned in her hand, following the smoke as it flowed up over the smooth, shiny folds of her silk blouse. He wanted to do the same with his finger, but her rigid posture made him worry that he’d done badly. To touch her now would be a mistake. He’d so wanted to do well. To put a smile on that troubled face.

  She uncrossed an arm to drag deeply on her cigarette. Then she jabbed it at the laptop on the right. ‘It was in her bedroom?’

  He gave a single nod.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘What’s the problem? I mean, apart from it not being your computer …’