Cold in Hand cr-11

by John Harvey

  "Jesus! You don't let go, do you?"

  "You called him back that evening after she'd gone."

  Daines's tone changed again. "Who says? Is that what he says? Bucur?"

  Resnick nodded.

  "His word against mine."

  "Yes? Which phone did you use? Office phone or mobile? It shouldn't be too difficult to check."

  "Okay, that's it," Daines said. "I've had it with this."

  He reached for the controls, but Resnick blocked him off.

  "You knew which train she'd be catching," Resnick said. "What time she'd be getting in. Not difficult to calculate how long it would take from the station."

  "Meaning what? What difference would it make if I did?"

  As soon as the words were out, he read the answer in Resnick's face.

  "You think I killed her." Daines was incredulous. "That's what you're saying? It is, isn't it? You think I killed her."

  "No, you'd be too careful for that. But you could finger her to somebody else who would."

  "You're crazy."

  Daines pushed past him and pressed the button, and the lift slipped into motion.

  "Someone," Resnick said, "who'd feel safer if she were out of the picture and not starting to dig around. Someone, maybe, who was bearing a grudge."

  The lift stopped on the fourth floor and as the door slid open, Daines stepped out.

  "You are crazy," he said. "Absolutely off your fucking head."

  The door began to close, and as Resnick jammed his foot in its path, he had a sudden urge, a near-blind impulse to throw himself at Daines, seize him by the shoulders and slam him back against the wall, then beat him with his fists.

  "We'll see." Resnick pulled his foot away so that the lift door closed and Daines was lost to sight.

  Forty-three

  Instead of reading about it first in the papers, as Resnick had suggested might be the case, Karen heard about it on the radio when she stepped out of the shower, and then, pulling on her robe, a towel wrapped round her hair, she switched on the television to catch what was still being billed as breaking news. In the early hours of the morning, officers from SOCA, the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, assisted by officers from the Metropolitan Police's Central Task Force and the Operational Support Department of the Nottinghamshire Police, had carried out raids on a number of addresses in north London and Nottingham. It was understood that firearms officers from the Nottinghamshire Force and from CO19, the Met's Specialist Firearms Command, had also been deployed.

  Pictures of armed police in all their gear, cars accelerating along city streets, and flashing lights were screened behind the newsreader's head-all stock footage, Karen was sure.

  By the time she had dressed, more details had been released. Raids had been carried out on several shops and homes in the Wood Green and South Tottenham areas of London, in addition to warehouses in Paddington and Finsbury Park. In Nottingham, police and SOCA teams had targeted buildings on an industrial estate in Colwick, east of the city, as well as in the Lace Market area of the city centre itself. A number of arrests had been made, and items seized were believed to include a considerable quantity of weapons and ammunition. There were reports, as yet unconfirmed, of shots being fired.

  The pictures this time were real.

  Video quickly released by the Met's public-relations team were mixed on screen with poorly focussed images e-mailed in by members of the public who had been awake enough to capture some of what had happened on their mobile phones. For a few unclear moments, the building housing the sauna where Nina Simic had been killed came into view, the front door hanging off its hinges, a police officer standing guard.

  Karen rang Dixon and then Daines, but, perhaps not surprisingly, neither was answering his phone. When she rang Chris Butcher, he spoke through a mouthful of toast.

  "You watching this?"

  "You bet," Karen said.

  "Any idea what's going on up there?" Butcher asked.

  "Only what you see on screen. How 'bout you?"

  "Give me an hour."

  "Will do."

  Wandering into the kitchen area, she made coffee, switching from national news to local and back again as she waited for it to brew. Firearms officers in Nottingham had fired eleven rounds, and in London an unconfirmed number. It was not yet known if any of that gunfire had been returned. Estimates as to the items taken varied, but sources close to the Serious and Organised Crime Agency were suggesting that as many as six hundred illegal weapons had been seized, together with several thousand rounds of ammunition. The weapons, in the main, were Baikal IZH-79 pistols, which were believed to have originated in Lithuania. According to the Reuters News Agency, the Lithuanian Police Bureau, in a carefully coordinated operation, had carried out a number of arrests in different parts of the country, including Rauba and Vilnius, the capital.

  Karen finished her coffee while she was fixing her makeup.

  She was on the point of leaving the apartment when Chris Butcher phoned. A total of fourteen individuals had been arrested in London, seven more, he thought, in Nottingham. She could check that herself. No Viktor Zoukas, no Valdemar. The police had gone to the house where Viktor was thought to be residing, but he wasn't there.

  "Somebody tipped them off," Karen said.

  "Looks like."

  "How about Lazic?"

  "No sign."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "My thoughts exactly."

  "I'll be in touch."

  "Do that."

  A brush through her hair, and Karen was on her way.

  At Central Police Station, rumours were ripe as flies fastening on a dead dog. The number of firearms officers who had discharged their weapons varied from seven to two; shots on target from four to none. That a brief exchange of fire had taken place seemed certain, only the scale was so far open to question. One man who had taken a flesh wound to the back of the thigh was currently under police guard at Queen's Medical Centre; claims that a second man had been hit when he himself had opened fire on the police were so far unsubstantiated; none of the accident and emergency departments in the area had reported anyone else suffering from gunshot wounds. No officer had been hit.

  As far as Karen could tell, the SOCA office in the city had failed to open that day, and calls to its London HQ were put on hold. Graeme Dixon's line at the Central Task Force was per manently busy; whoever he was talking to, Karen thought, it wasn't her.

  She and Euan Guest shared some minutes of mutual regret that Ivan Lazic had so far avoided capture.

  After that, Karen tried to occupy herself with the small mountain of paperwork she'd been studiously avoiding, but it proved no antidote to her sense of annoyance and frustration. She was about to go and prowl the corridors in search of someone to berate when her phone sounded. Resnick at home.

  "I'd like you to tell me," he said, "if Lazic was involved, that he's in an Interrogation Room somewhere right now spilling his guts."

  "Not quite as much as I would myself," Karen said.

  "Got away?"

  "We don't even know if he was around."

  Resnick was silent for several seconds. "You've talked to London?"

  "I'd talk to the devil if I thought it would help."

  Certainly did a lot for Robert Johnson, Resnick thought, but he kept it to himself; however keen she might be on Bessie Smith, he didn't think Karen would be up to exchanging small talk about blues singers right now.

  "Could do worse," he said.

  "So they say."

  After Resnick had rung off, Karen had another brief conversation with Chris Butcher, but he had little to add to what he had told her before. She fought with a few forms, checked in with Mike Ramsden, and told him to hell with it, she was going out to get some lunch.

  "As long as you're buying, I'll string along."

  "Not this time, Mike, okay?"

  If he was disappointed, he hid it well.

  Karen walked down past the Victoria Centre, along Bri
dle-smith Gate and turned left towards the site of the new Centre for Contemporary Art on Weekday Cross. Just along High Pavement, there was a large converted church which was now a Pitcher and Piano and, on the opposite side, farther down, a pub called the Cock and Hoop-not too crowded, not too large and with a menu that looked promising. She was two bites into her rib-eye steak, and enjoying it, when Frank Michaelson called on her mobile. She even hesitated a moment before taking the call.

  "Sally, boss," Michaelson said. "From the sauna? She's this minute rung. Ivan Lazic, she says she knows where he is."

  "Knows?"

  "That's what she said."

  "Nothing more?"

  "She said I have to go in, talk to her in person."

  Karen cut off another piece of tender reddish meat. "Where are you now?"

  "That's the thing, I'm up at HQ."

  "Out at Sherwood?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. I'm just round the corner. I'll go along."

  "Okay."

  "And Frank…"

  "Yes, boss?"

  "Phone Mike, let him know."

  Karen popped the piece of steak into her mouth and pushed the plate aside regretfully.

  There were stone steps, worn down at the centre, leading up towards the front door, which was still attached by only one hinge and sagged against the frame. A hastily written sign had been fixed inside the sex-shop window, closed until further notice. On the floor above, curtains had been pulled tight across. The sign above the door had been switched off. Karen pressed the bell and waited. Pressed the bell again and identified herself into the small mouthpiece alongside. Glancing up, she thought she saw a small movement at the right-hand window, the fold of a curtain falling back into place. She wasn't sure.

  A car went slowly past along the street behind her, looking for somewhere to park.

  Karen manoeuvred the door open carefully, closed it behind her, and walked towards the stairs; dust had gathered in the corners of each tread, and the carpet running up the centre was well worn. There was a light ahead.

  On the landing, she stopped and called Sally's name.

  No response.

  Opening another door, she went along a short, narrow corridor and then out into what she imagined was some kind of reception area, a counter to one side, settee and chairs to the other, a few magazines strewn around, posters showing naked girls with unlikely breasts on the walls. At the back of the counter was another door, a small sign reading office between two panes of frosted glass.

  "Sally?"

  She thought she heard a noise from behind the office door.

  "Sally. This is Detective Chief Inspector Karen Shields."

  Another sound, muffled and small. Moving quickly around the counter, Karen turned the office-door handle and stepped inside. Sally was sitting pressed back against the side wall, legs folded beneath her, arms tied, a wide piece of tape across her mouth.

  Even as Karen registered a movement at her back, the hard, small circle of a pistol barrel pressed cold against the nape of her neck.

  "Don't move."

  The gun slid upwards until it was resting under the base of her skull.

  "Now slowly lift your arms. Slowly! Slowly! Slow."

  Sally's eyes, watching, were wide with fear.

  "Now step away, into the centre of the room. Stop. That's all. Good. Now turn around."

  Ivan Lazic's pale face contrasted sharply with his dark eyes, the dark brown, almost black, of his short-cropped hair and beard. The scar that zigzagged his cheek stood out like a lightning flash.

  "Identification. Show me."

  Carefully, Karen opened her wallet and held it out towards him.

  Lazic smiled thinly. "Detective Chief Inspector, that is good."

  His accent sounded Russian. Russian, Serbian, Karen couldn't tell the difference.

  "Now sit." Lazic gestured with the gun. "Behind the desk, there. Sit on your hands."

  When she was in position, he dragged a second chair across and sat facing her at the other side of the desk.

  "What do you want?" Karen asked. The room was small and windowless, and she could already smell her own sweat.

  "I want to give myself up."

  "There's a police station in the centre of town. All you had to do was walk in."

  "And get myself shot."

  "That wouldn't happen."

  "No?"

  "If you went in waving that gun, perhaps."

  "And still, if not?"

  "Police in England don't shoot unarmed men."

  "No? Like they didn't shoot this Brazilian, on the train in London. How many shots? Five times to the head?"

  "That was different."

  Lazic laughed. "Different, yes." He caught his breath. "You know, when I was growing up, in my country, I read about the British police, how they never carry guns, and I think, how stupid, how brave. But now

  … this morning, for instance, here." He looked at her. "That was different, too."

  He laughed, and when he laughed he gasped, and when he gasped, a small sliver of blood appeared at one corner of his mouth. Between the lapels of his coat, the wool of the sweater he was wearing was stained, Karen could see now, pinkish red.

  "You need a doctor," Karen said. "Hospital."

  Lazic smiled. "Sally, she was my nurse."

  There were beads of sweat visible on his forehead now. Karen wondered just how badly hurt he was, how long he could hold on. She looked down at the gun in his hand, and instinctively he tightened his grip.

  "I want to make deal," Lazic said.

  "What kind of deal?"

  "I tell everything I know, everything."

  "It may be too late for that."

  Lazic winced and bit his lower lip. "No. Valdemar, Viktor, they have run, I know. I am sure. Leave me… leave me… what is expression? Holding baby. I do not think so. You take me. I go with you. We make deal."

  Karen shook her head. "Even if I wanted to, it's not as easy as that."

  "Easy, yes. And only with police, not Customs." A tiny smile lifted the edges of his mouth. "One of officers, Customs officers, he and Valdemar, they are friends. Valdemar give him money, girls. I know. I have tape. We make deal."

  For a moment, he leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. Long enough for Karen to think about going for the gun, but no more.

  "You will arrange doctor for me. Soon."

  The stain on his chest was darkening, spreading.

  "The gun," Karen said. "First you must give me the gun."

  He looked into her eyes. Then slowly, very slowly, he leaned forward and placed the pistol on the desk.

  "I must use my phone." Karen reached towards her pocket.

  But Lazic was no longer really listening.

  Forty-four

  "Christ!" Butcher's voice reverberated in her ear. "You did what? What're you after, some medal for valour? The George fucking Cross?"

  Karen smiled, enjoying his indignant surprise. "All in a day's work."

  "'Give me the gun,' you said, and instead of letting you have one between the eyes, he just puts it down? 'Here, help yourself.'"

  "More or less."

  "More or less? This is the guy who's killed two as far as we know."

  "As far as we think."

  "Who's killed two, possibly three in the last month, and God knows how many in the past. The scourge of fucking Serbia, and you get him to surrender, nicely-nicely."

  "He was pretty badly wounded in this morning's raid."

  "Not badly enough."

  "And he wanted to make a deal."

  "The only deal he'll get, parole after twenty years instead of twenty-five."

  "Maybe."

  "When're you shipping him down to London? We're the primaries on this, remember? Agreed."

  "Yes, but look, I don't think he's going anywhere right now. Not for a good few days, at least."

  "While you interrogate him, you mean?"

  "Chris, he's not talking
. Not to anyone. Too doped up with painkillers to think."

  "No problem getting a sample, though. Have a word with one of the docs. I want to check his DNA against what we found under that girl's fingernails."

  "Will do."

  "And, hotshot-"

  "Yes?"

  "Keep me up to speed, okay?"

  "You got my word."

  There'd been prolonged applause when Karen had walked back into the CID office that afternoon and a note of congratulation had already come down from the Assistant Chief. Mike Ramsden had been busy organising a right royal piss-up for that evening.

  "If there's a male stripper, Mike, that's it. I'm leaving," Karen told him.

  "One?" Ramsden said. "For you we've got a whole bloody chorus line."

  She was filling out a report when the phone interrupted her thoughts.

  "Principal Officer Daines," the switchboard operator said.

  Karen looked at her watch. It hadn't taken long. "Put him through."

  "Chief Inspector, I hear congratulations are in order." His voice smooth as shit on the sole of a shoe. "News travels fast."

  "Lazic-I thought we had him this morning, but somehow he slipped away."

  Karen didn't reply.

  "Of course, we've had our eye on him for some time, just waiting for the right moment to haul him in. A file on him that stretches all the way back to Kosovo and beyond. But most recently he was near the heart of this gun-trafficking deal, more or less Zoukas's right-hand man." He paused. "I guess, with his injuries, we'll have to wait a day or so before you can hand him over."

  "I think," Karen said, "if any handing over's to be done, it'll be to the Met. SCD1, Homicide and Serious Crime Command."

  Daines's voice tightened. "I don't think so."

  "I'm not sure what exactly you were considering charging him with," Karen said, "but whatever it is, I think you'll find murder takes precedence."

  "Murder? What murder?"

  "Take your pick." Karen was still smiling when she broke the connection and immediately dialled Ramsden's number. "Mike, the guard on Lazic's room at the hospital, I want it doubled. And clear instructions: Nobody gets to talk to Lazic, wish him well, grapes, flowers, anything. Understood? And that does mean anyone. SOCA especially. Got it?"