He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face. Kristine stared down at the man's jacket. She had seen enough Secret Service agents around Senator Burrow to know that no matter how well a weapon was concealed, there was always a telltale bulge.
The man smiled. It was an easy smile, showing perfect teeth. 'I don't need one,' he said, as if reading her mind.
'What?’
'You keep saying that, Kristine, and frankly I don't think it's especially polite. Didn't your mother teach you to say, "I beg your pardon" or "Excuse me"?’
Kristine shook her head, now totally confused and unable to speak.
'Let's try, shall we?' said the man. 'You can say, "I beg your pardon?" can't you?’
Kristine felt suddenly light headed and for a moment she feared she was going to pass out. She fought to steady herself. 'What do you want?' she asked. This wasn't a robbery. Did he want to kidnap her? That didn't make any sense: she wasn't married and her parents didn't have money.
'I think you need a drink,' he said. 'There's wine in the kitchen.' He held the door open for her. 'After you.’
He followed her along the hall to the kitchen. 'You know where most accidents happen?' he asked as she switched on the overhead fluorescent lights.
Kristine shrugged. 'The roads?' she guessed.
The man pointed a gloved finger at her. 'That's what everyone thinks. But it's the home. Home sweet home. More people are hurt at home than anywhere else. Homes are dangerous places.’
'Red or white?' she asked. She was feeling braver. He'd made no move to hurt her and seemed to be going out of his way to put her at ease.
'You choose,' he said. Kristine pulled a bottle of Chianti from the rack by the door and picked up a silver-plated corkscrew, a housewarming present from her mother. She removed the cork and reached for two glasses. 'Just the one glass,' he said.
'You don't want any?' she said. It was important to keep him talking, she knew. She'd seen an Oprah Winfrey show once about how to deal with attackers, and a policeman had said that it was important to establish a rapport with the criminal.
'I don't drink,' he said.
Kristine half filled the glass, and raised it. 'Cheers,' she said. 'Do you have a name?' She stared at his face, trying to imprint it on her memory. It was important to remember details that couldn't be changed, the detective had said. Not clothing, or jewellery, which is what most witnesses fixated on. Things like the dimple in the centre of his chin. The light brown hair that was starting to grey. The pale hazel eyes.
'Len,' he said. 'Short for Leonard. Let's go into the lounge. Bring the bottle with you.’
He held the door open for her and she smiled at him as she walked by. 'Thanks, Len,' she said. Use his name if you knew it, the policeman had said. Make the process as personal as possible.
He followed her into the lounge and closed the door, then switched on a table lamp. 'Have some more wine, Kristine.’
She turned to face him. 'I don't want any more. I've had enough.’
'Do it for me anyway,' he said pleasantly.
Kristine shook her head. 'Please, really, I've had enough.’
The man's smile widened but all the warmth vanished. It was a cold, harsh smile, the smile of an attacking shark. Kristine shivered. 'I'm asking you nicely, Kristine, and I expect you to do as I ask. If you don't, I'm going to rape you, then I'm going to fuck you up the arse and then I'm going to shove a carving knife so far up your cunt that you'll get a nosebleed.' The warmth seeped back -into his smile. 'So drink up. Please.’
Kristine drained her glass and refilled it with shaking hands. She forced herself to drink but she almost gagged and wine spurted from her mouth. 'I'm sorry,' she said.
The man ignored her apology. 'Keep drinking,' he said. He perched on the back of her sofa with his arms folded and watched as she forced down the wine.
Kristine began to giggle. Her stomach felt as if it were glowing and she could feel the alcohol coursing through her system. The most she usually drank was a couple of glasses of wine and that was while she was eating. She poured the last of the wine into the glass and put the empty bottle on to the coffee table.
'Very good, Kristine,' said the man. 'What about some music?' He nodded at the stereo. 'Something mellow.’
Kristine walked unsteadily over to the Panasonic stereo system and looked through the rack of CDs. Her mind was in a whirl as she frantically searched for a way out of her predicament. The wine was making her dizzy and she knew that she wouldn't be able to run. Besides, even if she was sober she doubted that the man would have any problem catching and restraining her. There was a telephone in the bathroom - if she could convince him that she had to go to the toilet then perhaps she could call the police. She chose a Lloyd Cole CD and slotted it into the player.
'I need to use the bathroom, Len,' she said. She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face and tried to make herself look as appealing as possible. Make them think you were cooperating, the policeman had said. Then choose your moment.
'Later,' he said. 'There's still some wine in your glass.’
He turned on a table lamp and walked over to the sliding window that led to the balcony. He flipped the lock and slid the window open. Kristine frowned, wondering what he was doing. She picked up her wine glass. Despite the threat he'd made in the kitchen, he clearly wasn't going to rape her; he'd had every opportunity to do that in the bedroom. And if he was planning to rob her, why make her drink the wine? Maybe he thought the wine would knock her out so that he could make a clean getaway. But that didn't make sense either because all he had to do was tie her up.
'Beautiful view, isn't it, Kristine?' said the man. He had his back to her as he stared out at the lights of the nation's capital. 'Come and look.’
Kristine was totally confused. He was treating her more like a girlfriend than a hostage. She walked slowly across the room, both hands cupped carefully around the wine glass as if it was a sacred chalice.
The man moved to the side and gestured with his left arm for her to go out on to the balcony. It was a big balcony with room enough for a white-painted cast-iron table and three chairs, and was one of the main reasons she'd chosen the apartment. 'It's a beautiful home you have,' he said. 'Are you buying or renting?’
'Buying,' she said.
'You're a very lucky girl, Kristine,' said the man.
Kristine opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak she felt a thump in the small of the back and she stumbled forward. Her arms flailed as she tried to regain her balance, but she was pushed again, this time harder, and she pitched across the waist-high rail, falling towards the car parking area eight floors below. She tried to scream but her throat was full of wine and vomit and all she could manage was a terrified gurgle before she slammed into the tarmac.
Nick Wright handed a cup of coffee to Tommy Reid, who looked at his wristwatch theatrically. 'Wet leaves on the line?' Reid said.
Wright sipped his coffee and sat down. 'I didn't leave until seven o'clock this morning,' he said. 'I got back to the flat just after you'd left.’
Reid snorted. 'I assumed you'd pulled a bird,' he said. He pointed at the polythene-wrapped sandwich on Wright's desk. 'I suppose that's still fresh, then?’
Wright shook his head in disgust. He tossed the sandwich to his partner.
Reid caught it one handed. 'Hey, I could have just eaten it before you got here.’
'That would've been theft,' said Wright. He took another sip of coffee. 'And I would've pressed charges.' - Reid unwrapped the sandwich and took a large bite out of it. 'You came back here last night?’
'Yeah.’
Reid gestured at the whiteboard. 'That's your artwork, then?’
Wright nodded. 'I was brainstorming.’
He picked up the list of missing middle-aged men. 'I've managed to eliminate a dozen names so far,' he said. 'I want to eliminate a few more before we start bringing people in to look at the body,' said Wright. 'We know our m
an's fingerprints aren't on file with New Scotland Yard's Fingerprint Bureau, so I want to check if any of those missing have had their prints taken. Any that have, we can eliminate.’
Reid nodded. 'Makes sense.’
'I've arranged for a DNA sample to be sent to the DNA database at Priory House in Birmingham but they're struggling with a backlog and it'll be at least five days before they get back to me. And I'm going to see the pathologist. See if there's anything else she can tell me about the body. Stuff that might help us identify him. Or at least rule out some of the names on that list.’
'Busy, busy, busy,' said Reid. He handed the list of names back to Wright and picked up the second sandwich.
'What about you?' asked Wright. 'Any thoughts?’
'Ronnie's asked me to canvas the area again for witnesses and check with the uniforms, the ones checking dog-walkers. But according to Ronnie, the Met boys'U be in later today and they'll probably take over that end of it. He says we'll stick with the crime scene and the forensic, the Met will handle the trace and any witnesses.’
'That's bollocks,' said Wright. 'We've already started trawling missing persons. Hell, between us we've already discounted twenty per cent of the names.’
'Don't argue with me, mate, speak to Ronnie.’
'Speak to Ronnie about what?' boomed the chief inspector from the doorway.
Wright twisted around in his seat. Dundas was carrying a pale blue file and a carton of milk. He had recently acquired an ulcer, and a pint of milk a day was his one concession to his doctor's plea for a change in lifestyle.
'I think we should handle the identification of the body,' Wright said.
'What, you've started so you want to finish?’
'Exactly.’
Dundas pretended to consider what Wright had said. He drank from the carton, leaving a smear of milk across his upper lip. 'Remind me again how you got on with your inspector's exam, Nick?' he said eventually.
Wright scowled but didn't reply. There was no need to. Dundas knew exactly how badly Wright had done.
'Oh, I remember,' said Dundas, waving around his carton of milk. 'Not an inspiring performance, was it?’
'And your point is?' sighed Wright.
'That when you're a chief inspector, you can call the shots. Until then . . .’
'Okay, okay, I get the drift,' said Wright. 'Do you have any objections to my going to see the pathologist? See if I can get any more physical characteristics?’
'Now you're sulking,' said Dundas. He gestured at Reid. 'What do you think, Inspector Reid?' he said, stressing Reid's title. 'Should we allow Sergeant Wright to go to speak to the nice pathologist?’
Wright shook his head in disgust.
Dundas and Reid exchanged grins. 'Might keep him out of trouble,' said Reid.
'Thanks, partner,' said Wright.
'What about you, Tommy? Any thoughts?’
'Thought I'd have a go at following up the playing card. The forensic boys haven't got any prints off it, but it must have come from somewhere.’
Dundas nodded approvingly. He looked around the incident room. There were half a dozen detectives sitting at desks and three female uniformed officers working on the computers. 'Lads and lassies, could I have your attention for a few moments, please,' ?i*e boomed. All heads turned to look at Dundas as he took another drink from the carton. 'Just to let you know that the Met team will be arriving later this afternoon. Twelve officers in all, the ' brightest and the best, no doubt.' He grinned and there were several guffaws from around the room. 'Most will be coming from the Battersea station and you'll probably recognise a few familiar faces. I see you've spread yourselves out but it might make more sense to stake a claim to one side of the incident room and let them have their desks together. They're a sensitive bunch and they feel happier in a pack. Phil, make sure they have enough phones and terminals, will you? I don't want them complaining that they're getting the short end of the stick.’
Phil Evans flashed Dundas a thumbs-up.
'Now, you know as well as I do how this is going to work. It's a joint investigation, with the BTP and the Met working hand in hand, brothers-in-arms in the fight against the forces of darkness. That's the PR shit. In reality we'll tell them fuck all and they'll treat us like mushrooms. I know I'm pissing in the wind, but please try to remember that we're supposed to be co-operating. Try to share something with them, otherwise we'll have two investigations going and that's not going to help anyone. Any questions?’
'Who's on the Met team?' asked Wright. Dundas opened his file and held out a sheet of paper on which was a typed list of names. Wright scanned the list. His heart fell. The third name on the list was Detective Inspector Gerry Hunter. The sixth name was Detective Sergeant Clive Edmunds. He handed the list back to Dundas who gave it to Phil Evans. Dundas smiled at Wright. 'Any problems?' he asked.
'No, sir,' said Wright.
'Glad to hear it,' said Dundas. He left the incident room, humming to himself.
'Hunter's on the case?' asked Reid.
'Yeah.’
'That should produce a little creative tension, wouldn't you say?’
Wright drank the rest of his coffee and stood up. 'Maybe.’
On the way out, Wright checked his mailbox by the door. There was a single envelope, blindingly white, with his name and the address of the office typed on the front. He ripped it open on the way to the elevator. It was from the Child Support Agency, asking for details of any savings accounts he had. It was the third letter from the agency that he'd received that month. He treated it exactly the same way as he'd treated the previous two. He screwed it into a tight ball and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.
A middle-aged man wearing a bloodstained dark green glossy apron over light green scrubs squinted at Wright's warrant card and told him that Dr Anna Littman was in the middle of a post mortem but that he could go in if he wanted. He nodded at a pair of green-painted swing doors with metal protective strips at waist height. Wright shook his head and said that he didn't mind waiting. The man pulled off bloody rubber gloves and dropped them into a bin, then stripped off his gown and put it in a black bag before going over to a stainless-steel sink and carefully washing his hands. 'Don't see many of you chaps here,' he said. 'What happened? Somebody fell under a train?’
'Murder,' said Wright. 'I'm Nick Wright.’
The man nodded. 'Robbie Ballantine.' He wiped his hands on a towel. 'Oh, of course, the body in the tunnel. Gruesome business that.’
'You saw it?’
'I helped Anna with the post mortem, actually. Is there a problem?’
'No, not really. I just wanted more information, that's all.’
'The report seemed comprehensive to me.’
'It's not that. I'm more interested in seeing if there was anything about the body that might help me identify the man.’
'You still don't know who he is?’
Wright shook his head. 'Can you think of anything? The scars on his back, for instance.’
Ballantine raised his eyebrows. 'Ah yes. The scars. They're in the report, aren't they?’
^'The report refers to them as old scars, but doesn't say how they got there.’
'No real need to,' said Ballantine. 'They were very old -wounds. At least twenty years, I'd say. No connection at all with the crime.’
'Knife wounds?’
'Oh no,' said Ballantine. 'They were too jagged for that. Fragmentation scars, I'd say.’
'From a grenade? A war wound?’
'Could be.' He looked up at the ceiling and waggled his head from side to side as he thought about it. 'An explosion of some sort, certainly. It could have been a gas cylinder exploding, something like that.' He looked at Wright again. 'I actually hadn't given it much thought. Why are you so interested?’
'Because if it was a grenade I'd be looking for someone with a military background. If it was a bomb, then he could have been caught up in a terrorist incident.’
The swing doors behind Wri
ght banged open and Anna Littman burst into the room, her gloved hands held out in front of her. Her hair was covered with a green plastic cap and she was wearing scrubs and a bloodstained green apron. 'Nick Wright,' she said. 'Rank unknown. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Wright was surprised that she'd remembered his name. Surprised and flattered. She turned her back on him as she stripped off her protective clothing.
'It's sergeant,' said Wright. 'And I need your help.’
'Take two aspirins and call me tomorrow.' She took off her cap and her greying blonde hair spilled out. She looked over her shoulder at him and winked mischievously. 'That's a doctor joke,' she said.
'I just came to tell you that your car's been towed away,' he said.
'I only . . .' she began, but she stopped when Wright's face broke into a grin.
'That's a policeman joke,' he said.
Her green eyes flashed, then she smiled. It was an open, honest smile, thought Wright. He decided that he liked Dr Anna Littman. She seemed a lot less prickly than when they'd met in the tunnel. She went over to the sink and washed her hands.
'He was asking about the tunnel corpse,' said Ballantine, putting on a fresh apron.
'Was he now?' said Dr Littman. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and fastened it with a small black band. 'You got my report?’
'Eventually,' he said.
'Oh yes, I'm sorry about that. I didn't know where to send it, so I figured that Gerry could hand it on to you.’
'The report was fine,' he said, putting his hands in his pockets. 'I just wanted to pick your brains.’
Ballantine pulled on rubber gloves. 'Duty calls,' he said to Wright, and used his shoulder to push his way through the swing doors.
'So, Sergeant Nick, pick away.' Dr Littman leaned back against the sink and watched him with amused eyes.
'I'm having trouble identifying the body,' said Wright. 'The face was messed up so badly it's- impossible to get a match from photographs. Hundreds of men go missing every year, and other than the scars on his back there don't seem to be any identifying features. Robbie there was saying he thought they might be shrapnel scars. An old war wound. Or an accident. Something like that could help me identify him.’
The Tunnel Rats Page 7