'What's in Manchester?’
'A lead on the tunnel killing.' Kruse shivered. 'Can I come in?’
The journalist opened the door. Kruse walked into the hall. He looked up the stairs. There was no sign of Vincent's wife. On the wall alongside the stairs hung dozens of framed newspaper articles and photographs of Vincent in several trouble spots. In one Vincent was standing in front of three blazing oil wells. 'Kuwait?' Kruse said, nodding at the photograph.
'Yeah, I was there during Desert Storm.’
'Must have been hell,' said Kruse.
'It was rough,' agreed Vincent.
Kruse nodded. He could have told Vincent a few stories about how rough it had really got in Kuwait. As a journalist covering the war, Vincent would have been fed the Allied line: smart missiles, clean kills, the antichrist as the enemy. It wasn't as clear cut as that, Kruse knew, but he wasn't there to enlighten Vincent. 'It must have been,' he said.
Vincent closed the door. Upstairs, the landing light clicked off. Kruse wondered if the wife had been listening. 'Through there,' said Vincent, pointing towards a door. Kruse pushed it open. It was a sitting room, large and airy with white walls, pine furniture and lots of potted plants, with wooden blinds on the windows. More framed articles and photographs hung on the walls. Modesty clearly wasn't one of Vincent's qualities. There was a wedding photograph on top of a big-screen television, Vincent in his twenties about to kiss a frightened blonde. He looked more like a vampire about to go for the throat than a just-married groom preparing to kiss his bride.
'Pretty girl,' said Kruse. There were no photographs of any children and no toys in the room. 'No kids?’
'Not yet,' said Vincent. 'Still trying. Fancy a drink?' 'No, thanks,' said Kruse. 'But don't let me stop you.’
Vincent nodded at a mug of coffee on a pine table next to a crystal ashtray in which a half-smoked cigarette smouldered among a dozen or so butts. 'I was having coffee. Do you want one?’
Kruse waved his hand dismissively. 'Never touch it,' he said.
'Can I tape our conversation?' asked Vincent. 'My shorthand's a bit rusty.’
'Sure.’
Vincent went over to a rack of shelves filled with paperback books. There was a small tape recorder on one of the shelves. Kruse pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his suit pocket. He slipped them on and walked quickly behind the journalist.
He clamped his right hand over Vincent's mouth and gripped the man's throat with his left, applying pressure to the carotid arteries with his fingers and thumb. Vincent tried to turn but Kruse pushed him forward, taking care not to bang his head against the shelves. Vincent clawed at Kruse's gloves but his strength was already draining away as the brain began to feel the effects of the curtailed blood supply. Kruse was more than capable of crushing the man's windpipe with his left hand but he didn't want to do major damage. A post mortem wouldn't show up tissue damage, but broken cartilage or bones wouldn't be missed. It was a delicate balance, but it wasn't the first time that Kruse had choked a man to death, and he knew exactly how much pressure to apply. Too much and there'd be small haemorrhages under the skin and pinpricks of blood in the whites of the eyes.
Vincent's chest began to heave. He let go of Kruse's gloves and started to flail around with his arms. Kruse pulled him away from the bookshelves until they were standing in the centre of the room. Kruse shuffled to his right so that Vincent wouldn't hit the coffee table when he fell. He felt the journalist's legs begin to buckle, and watched in the mirror over the mantelpiece as Vincent's eyes fluttered and eventually closed. Kruse let him slide slowly to the ground, maintaining the pressure on the man's arteries all the way down.
Kruse lay down next to Vincent, his hands still around the man's neck. If he kept the grip on long enough Vincent would die from suffocation, but that wasn't what Kruse wanted. There had to be smoke in the lungs, and. corpses didn't inhale. He stayed curled against Vincent like an attentive lover until he was satisfied that the journalist was unconscious, then he took his gloved hands away and stood up. ? He listened intently, but the only sounds he could hear were the clicking of the water heater in the kitchen and the rustle of leaves outside. He walked on tiptoe to the foot of the stairs, then crept up them, keeping close to the wall so that the stairs wouldn't creak. Four doors led off the landing, but only one was ajar. Kruse peeked in. Vincent's wife was lying in bed, reading a paperback by the light of a table lamp. He pushed open the door and walked quickly across the plush pile carpet.
'Who was it?' she asked, still reading.
Kruse said nothing. He moved around the side of the bed. The curtains were drawn. The woman lowered the book. Her eyes widened in terror and she opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound Kruse sat down on the bed and put his left hand across her mouth and nostrils. She dropped the book and clawed at his face but he grabbed both of her wrists with his right hand and forced her arms down. She struggled but she was no match for him. He straddled her on the bed, taking care not to bruise her flesh. The fire would probably obliterate all traces of tissue damage, but Kruse took a professional pride in his ability to kill without leaving marks. He pinned the woman's hands to her stomach, gripping with his thighs so that he could use his right hand on her neck. He found the carotids with his thumb and fingers, pushing in between the muscle to block off the blood supply. The woman kicked and bucked but Kruse was too heavy and strong. The brain held only enough oxygen for between ten and fifteen seconds, and she was soon unconscious. Kruse waited a further minute, to be absolutely sure, before climbing off the bed.
He put the woman's book on the bedside table, then went downstairs. He picked up Vincent and slung him effortlessly over his shoulder. Vincent was breathing heavily. Kruse knew from previous experience that the man would be unconscious for at least fifteen minutes. He carried him upstairs and lay him down on the bed before stripping off all the journalist's clothes. There was a raffia laundry basket under the window and Kruse dropped Vincent's shirt, underwear and socks into it. He took a wooden hanger from the wardrobe and hung up Vincent's suit. Kruse put the shoes Vincent had been wearing at the bottom of the wardrobe next to three other pairs. He closed the wardrobe door and looked around the room. The tie was downstairs, on the back of the sofa, but Kruse decided to leave it where it was. He quickly checked through the drawers of the dressing table and a cupboard, but there were no pyjamas. Vincent obviously slept in the nude, as did his wife.
Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Kruse rolled Vincent under the quilt, lying him on his back. He went downstairs and stood in the centre of the sitting room, checking that nothing was out of place. He went through to the kitchen and locked the back door. In the sink there was a pile of dirty dishes but Kruse figured that Vincent was the type who'd have left them until the morning.
He switched off the kitchen light and went back into the sitting room. The cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. Kruse picked up the ashtray and a box of matches that were lying on the coffee table and took them upstairs.
He knelt down by Vincent's side of the bed, then pulled the man's arm from underneath the quilt and slid the lit cigarette between the first and second fingers. After a final look around the bedroom to check that everything was as it should be, he took one of the matches out of the box and lit it. He held it against the quilt cover. It went out almost immediately. He lit a second match. This time the cotton quilt cover began to burn.
The fire spread quickly across the quilt. Kruse knew that the room with its wooden furniture, woollen carpet and cotton curtains would be an inferno within minutes. He switched off the light and went downstairs. He pulled the front door shut behind him and walked quickly down the street, his footsteps echoing in the night air.
Clive Edmunds stopped off at a video rental store in Camden High Street on his way home. He left his car on a double yellow line with his hazard warning lights flashing while he went inside. The girl behind the counter* smiled, recognising him as a
regular customer. 'Anything new come in?' he asked, heading for the new releases section.
'Not since you were last here,' she said. 'Well, there's another of them talking dog whatsits, but they're not really your thing, are they?’
'Bloody right,' said Edmunds, running his eyes along the video cases. He was an avid movie watcher and there was nothing on the shelves that he hadn't already seen or dismissed as not worth viewing. He pulled a face and went over to the action section. He fancied a good action movie, something with blood and guts. An early Schwarzenegger maybe, or a late Jean-Claude Van Damme. His eyes stopped at Apocalypse Now. It was the widescreen version, released after the film had won two Oscars in 1979, for Best Cinematography and Best Sound. It deserved more, Edmunds reckoned, but it was ahead of its time, before America was prepared to come to terms with Vietnam.
Edmunds turned the case over. On the back were two stills taken from the film, one of Marlon Brando, one of Martin Sheen. Edmunds scratched his bald spot. There was something at the back of his mind, something niggling him, that kept the video in his hands even though he'd seen it three times already, once on the big screen and twice on video. He tapped the video case against his forehead as he struggled to work out what it was about the movie that was troubling him, but the more he tried to concentrate, the more elusive the feeling became. It was like a mild case of dejd vu, but it wouldn't go away. He took the case over to the counter and handed it to the girl. 'I'll have this,' he .said.
Len Kruse was in the middle of his third set of sit-ups when the telephone rang. He unlinked his fingers from behind his neck and reached over for the phone. 'Yes?' he said.
'Jim? It's Clive.’
Kruse got to his feet. 'Yes, Clive, what's up?' Kruse was bathed in sweat but there was no sign of strain in his voice. He stared at his reflection in the mirror on the front of the wardrobe. His face was a blank mask.
'What do you know about the Vietnam War?' asked Edmunds.
Kruse's face remained impassive. 'I know it's one we lost, Clive. What exactly do you have in mind?’
'Can you come around to my place now? There's something I want you to see.' > Kruse picked up a pen from the bedside table. 'Give me your address, Clive. I'll be right over.’
Nick Wright parked his car opposite May Eckhardt's flat and switched off the engine. He sat back in his seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing. It was almost midnight. He should have been at home. Wright snorted. He didn't have a home any more, he thought ruefully. All he had was a sofabed in Tommy Reid's tmy flat. He looked across at the mansion block where May's apartment was. The lights were off and the curtains were open. The moon was reflected in the sitting-room window, glaring down at him like a single baleful eye. Wright wiped his hands on his face and then up through his hair. He'd actually been on his way home. Maida Vale was well out of his way, but he'd been struck by a sudden urge to see May Eckhardt.
May Eckhardt had been very much on his mind over the previous few days. He'd telephoned several times but there'd been no answer. There was something vulnerable about her, something that made Wright want to take care of her, to protect her from the world that had killed her husband. She was so different from his ex-wife.
Wright had never felt that Janie needing looking after, even when she was ill. Wright had once read in a magazine that couples were always referred to in order of dominance. He wasn't sure if it was true or not so he'd asked several of his friends and they'd all agreed that it was Janie and Nick. It had come as something of a shock because Wright had always felt that their marriage was a partnership of equals. But the more he'd thought about it, the more he'd realised that when it came to making decisions, usually Janie got her way. She'd chosen the house, she'd had the final word on what car they bought, and it had been her decision to come off the pill when she did. They always talked through their problems, but it was always Wright who gave way. Because he loved her and she knew it.
He'd read in another magazine that the most successful marriages were where thejiusband loved the wife more than the wife loved the husband. Wright was living proof that the theory was flawed.
He wondered what May Eckhardt's marriage had been like. Had it been Max and May, or May and Max? He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat, trying to recall her face. Wright shivered. The car interior had cooled quickly with the engine off and he rubbed his arms, trying to keep warm. An old man wearing a raincoat and a flat cap walked by with a Yorkshire terrier on a bright red lead. He turned to look at Wright as he walked by. Wright smiled and gave him a small wave.
Wright looked up at the window again. The room was still in darkness. He checked the parked cars but there was no sign of her VW. Wright rubbed his chin. She didn't strike him as the sort who'd stay out late. He climbed out of his Fiesta and stretched, then locked the door and walked down the path towards the entrance to the mansion block. A light came on, presumably motion-activated because no one opened the front door. He ran his finger down the bell buttons, then frowned. The piece of cardboard with Eckhardt written on it had gone. He stared at the blank space under the bell, his forehead creased into a puzzled frown.
'Can I help you?' said a voice behind him.
Wright jumped as if he'd been poked in the ribs. He whirled around to see the man in the flat cap standing behind him, his dog cradled in his arms. The man was in his seventies and there was an aggressive tilt to his chin as if he suspected Wright of being up to no good. The dog yapped twice and the man put a hand on its muzzle to silence it.
'I'm a policeman,' said Wright, recovering his composure.
'Really,' said the man. 'Well, I'm with the Neighbourhood Watch and I've never seen you around here before.' The terrier struggled to escape the man's grip on its muzzle. 'Hush, Katie,' the man whispered.
'I suppose that's your guard dog,' said Wright good naturedly, but the joke fell flat.
The man tilted his chin higher. He was a small man, barely reaching Wright's shoulder, but he wasn't intimidated by Wright's relative youth or height. Wright had the feeling that he was a former boxer, and that if push came to shove he'd be prepared to take a swing at Wright, despite his age. Assuming he put the dog down first.
'I'd like to see your identification,' said the man.
'Sure,' said Wright. He reached into his inside pocket, took out his wallet, and opened it to show his warrant card and badge.
The man released his grip on his dog's muzzle and took the wallet. He stared at the warrant card as if committing it to memory. 'This says you're with the British Transport Police,' he said.
'That's right.' ? The man compared the photograph on the card with Wright's face, then handed it back. The dog growled softly. 'So you're not a real policeman, then?' he said.
Wright smiled tightly but said nothing.
'And who is it you're here to see, Sergeant Wright?’
'May Eckhardt,' said Wright. 'Flat four.’
The man smiled smugly. 'She's gone,' he said. 'Good thing too, the photographers were a bloody nuisance. Night and day, standing on the pavement, talking and laughing. Called the police but they said there was nothing they could do, they weren't trespassing.’
'Gone?’
'Moved out.’
'Do you know when?’
'Why? Is she a suspect now?’
'No, she's not a suspect, Mr . . .?’
'Jenkins,' said the man. 'I live in the flat below the Eckhardts.' He fished a key out of his raincoat pocket and Wright stepped aside so that he could unlock the door. 'Two days ago, that was when she left.’
'There's no "for sale" sign up,' said Wright:
'They rented,' said Jenkins.
'From who?’
'The landlord's a Mr Sadiq, I believe. Never met the man, though. He owns several flats in the area.' He pushed open the door and put down his terrier. It ran along the hallway and up a flight of stairs, its stub of a tail wagging furiously.
'I don't su
ppose you've got a telephone number for him, have you?' asked Wright.
The man shook his head, then pointed to a noticeboard on the wall. Several letters were pinned to it. 'The managing agents should be able to tell you. That's their address.’
Jenkins turned to follow the dog, but Wright asked him if he could spare a few minutes. Jenkins looked at his wristwatch, then nodded.
'What sort of couple were they?' Wright asked.
Jenkins narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 'What do you mean?’
'I meant when they lived above you. Were they quiet? Did they argue?’
'Never heard a peep,' said Jenkins, taking off his hat and unbuttoning his raincoat. 'Hardly saw them. I was a bit worried when they first moved in, her being Chinese and all. I was a bit worried about the smell, you know?’
'The smell?’
'Cooking. Chinese food. The smell lingers, doesn't it? It was never a problem, though. Delightful girl. Spoke perfect English.’
'What about her husband?’
'Oh, he's American. Terrible English.’
'I meant what was he like?’
'A photographer. That's all I know. He liked jazz. I had to complain about the noise one Sunday, but generally they were perfect neighbours.' He looked at his watch again. 'Anyway, if there's nothing else, Sergeant Wright, I have to give my wife her medicine.’
Wright thanked him. Jenkins waited while he copied down the name and telephone number of the managing agent, then closed the door behind him.
Dean Burrow smiled at the office receptionist and wished her a good morning. He pushed through the glass door that led to his outer office and almost bumped into a black UPS deliveryman on his way out. Burrow held the door open for him and the deliveryman nodded his thanks.
'Good morning, Sally,' he said to his office manager. Sally Forster had been on his staff for more than fifteen years and was one of his most devoted staffers.
She looked up from the stack of mail on her desk and put a hand up to push her spectacles higher up her nose. 'Good morning, Senator,' she said brightly. A cigarette smouldered in a small brass ashtray. Sally smoked sixty cigarettes a day and the nonsmoking members of staff had twice tried to declare the senator's office a no-smoking zone. They'd failed both times: Sally was as adept at office politics as she was at running the senator's diary.
The Tunnel Rats Page 15