by Dawson, Mark
“You’re going to get another beating tonight, John. It’ll be the same tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Every day, John, over and over and over until you can’t tell where you end and the pain begins. I want you to think about me and what you did. Every time they leave you in a heap on the floor, I want you to see my face. Because I’m going to be outside, living my life. And you’re finished. The only way you’ll ever leave here is in a box.”
De Lacey nodded and Tiny held Milton upright. He had no strength in his legs, but the man was strong enough to suspend him.
De Lacey took a pair of knuckledusters from the table. He slid his fingers inside, closed his fist, and struck Milton in the side of the face. The metal cut into his cheek and clashed against the bone. His mouth filled with blood.
“You stole ten years from me, John,” de Lacey said. “You’ve got ten years of pain to catch up with.”
33
MILTON WAS taken out into a yard at the back of the villa and tossed to the ground. The big man, Tiny, took off his shirt and worked him over once more. Milton covered up, protecting himself as best he could. It was mercifully brief this time, although each blow heaped pain upon pain until his body felt like one single throbbing bruise.
He was picked up and hauled back through the prison to his cell. The door was opened and he was dumped inside.
“Are you okay?”
Milton groaned.
“Hey. Wake up.”
Milton put his palms flat on the floor and raised himself up. He tried to open his eyes and found that his right was already swollen shut. He opened his left eye. A man was kneeling down in front of him. He was thin, with spindly limbs and elbows and knees that jutted out from the sleeves of his orange prison-issue shirt and the legs of his shorts. His face was deeply tanned and lined with age.
Milton struggled to raise himself. The man reached down and helped him into a sitting position with his back against the wall of the cell.
He tried to speak, but his mouth felt as if it were clogged with dust.
“Here,” the man said, handing Milton a plastic bottle of water. He put it to his lips and poured the water in, swirling it around and then spitting it out onto the floor at his side.
“Drink,” the man urged.
Milton did, slugging the tepid water down until his thirst was slaked.
He gave the bottle back to the man. “Who are you?”
“My name is Francisco,” he said. “Everyone calls me Isko. You are John, yes?”
“How do you know that?”
“I have been in Bilibid for many years. Some of the guards are friendly to me. They talk. They tell me about you. You are John. You are English. They say you murdered a Filipino girl.”
The sky through the window was dark. The only illumination was from the bulb overhead.
Milton took the opportunity to look at the man more closely. He was more than just thin; he was emaciated to the point of malnutrition.
“I didn’t,” he muttered.
“They all say that, John.”
“How did you get in here?” Milton asked him.
“This is my cell, too. They moved me here this afternoon. We will share it.”
Isko gestured to the side and Milton saw a second bedroll that had been arranged on the floor. There was barely enough room for it next to his.
“You think this is cramped?”
“A little,” Milton admitted.
“We are lucky. There are sixteen thousand men in Bilibid. It was built for a quarter of that. Many cells like this have six or seven men inside.”
“I don’t think I’m the sort of person you’d want to be around.”
The old man waved that away. “You need a friend, I think. Someone to help you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you need it. I have done bad things in my life, John. I seek to make amends for them. I try to help when I can. And I think you need help. You have made a powerful enemy.”
Milton closed his eyes and saw de Lacey’s face again, the bloodlust in his eyes as he had watched Tiny laying into him.
“Tell me about him,” he said.
“Mr. Fitz is a very important person in Bilibid. He cannot leave, but he lives like a king.”
“I saw his place,” Milton said.
“His villa? Yes, I have seen it from the outside. There are several just like it where the men with money live. His neighbours are the drug lords. They say he has parties there. The guards bring women and alcohol and drugs. He has money and power. He does not mix with the rest of us. Why should he? He has his own cook, who prepares his meals for him. And he has men he pays to protect him and to make sure that others do as he wants.”
“I met one of them,” Milton said, wincing as he arranged himself into a slightly more comfortable position. “Big guy. Gold teeth.”
“Tiny,” Isko said with a nod. “He is a dangerous man. He has killed many other men for Mr. Fitz.”
Isko reached forward with the bottle and put it to Milton’s lips again. “Why did Fitz do this to you?”
Milton had no interest in revealing too much to a man he had only just met. “We have history. It goes back a long way.”
“Why are you in here?”
“I’m still trying to work that out.”
“But you didn’t kill the girl like they say you did?”
“No,” he said. “I think they drugged me. Fitz set me up.” Milton swallowed a mouthful of water, tasting his own blood as it went down.
“You must be careful here,” Isko said. “The other men notice you because you are English. Maybe they find out what they say you did. Men who kill women do not last long in a place like this. Or maybe they find out that Mr. Fitz is your enemy, and they want to make him their friend. You understand?”
“I don’t think I need to worry about that,” Milton said. “Fitz wants to keep me around for a while yet. I’m going to be punished before he gets rid of me.”
“I just say be careful. This is not a safe place, especially not for you.”
“You should be careful, too,” Milton said. “If he finds out you’re helping me, it might not go down well.”
Isko smiled, revealing a mouth full of snaggled and tar-blackened teeth. “I am an old man, John. I have been here most of my life. I will never leave. What are they going to do to me?”
Milton raised a hand to his face and prodded at it. Each press and poke was rewarded with a shot of pain. “How do I look?”
“Like you have been hit by a truck. Have you eaten?”
“No,” Milton said. “Not since breakfast.”
“Here.”
Isko handed Milton a package wrapped in paper. He opened it and looked down at a handful of dried sardines.
“It is dried in the sun and then dipped in vinegar.”
He took a mouthful. His jaw ached every time he tried to chew and the food was cold and unpleasant. But he was hungry, and he knew that he would need to maintain his strength if he was going to survive. He finished the fish, screwed up the paper and put it down on the floor.
“Thank you.”
Isko held up his hands. “You are welcome. Now, you should sleep. I show you around properly tomorrow.”
34
IT TOOK Josie two hours to finalise the paperwork that set out the case against John Smith. The procedure was straightforward enough: Smith would be brought to the courthouse and given the opportunity to plead guilty or not guilty to the murder charge that would be laid against him. In the event that he pleaded not guilty, he would have a minimum of fifteen days to prepare for trial and then the trial would begin thirty days after he received the pre-trial order. The president had made it a campaign pledge to improve the efficiencies of the legal process. One way was to reduce the number of suspects who ever made it as far as trial, the trail of bodies in the streets a testament to how diligently that course of action had been pursued. The other way was to ensure that the courts ran smoothly, dispensing
verdicts and shuttling the guilty into custody without delay.
Josie’s evidence made it obvious that this was a simple case and that Smith’s culpability was clear. She had no doubt that the case would be brought against him and that he would be found guilty and sentenced to life behind bars before the end of the month.
Yet as she studied the photographs that had been emailed to her by the crime scene techs, she couldn’t dispel the doubts that had been nagging her ever since she had started investigating the events of the previous day.
The death of the bar owner.
The burglary at the guesthouse.
And the unexplained transfer of Smith from Quezon City to Bilibid.
Josie spread the photographs out on her desk. The evidence was strong. Smith had no answers to rebut the case against him. She knew, though, that he had been holding something back during their conversation. That was his choice, but it left her with no alternative but to make the case against him.
She collected the photographs, slid them into their plastic sheath and clipped them into the ring binder that she would send to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow.
Josie looked at her watch. It was eight. Damn. She had completely forgotten that she had promised her mother that she would be home in time to put Angelo to bed. She would need to call her so that she could tell her that she was going to be late again.
She took her phone out of her pocket and saw that she had voicemail. She remembered: the two calls that she had ignored on her way down to Bilibid.
The phone was very nearly out of juice. There was just one message. She played it.
“Hello. This is a message for Officer Hernandez. This is Mr. Santos from the guesthouse in Malate. I forgot—we have a Wi-Fi backup for all of our data. It’s in the other room. The murder, the burglary, it’s made such a mess of things it completely slipped my mind. My wife insisted on it… I feel foolish for not telling you. I checked it today and it’s all there. The footage you wanted. I think you need to see it. I’m no expert, but it looks like it’s important. So… I don’t know, call me back, please? I’ll call the station. Maybe you’re there. Goodbye.”
35
SHE SAW the plume of smoke from miles away.
At first she thought it must have been because of the celebrations. The sky was regularly lit up with colour as fireworks rocketed up from the park, detonating high above the city. But, as she drew nearer to it, she saw that it was something else. The smoke stretched up into the sky, a darkening pall against the dusk. She thought nothing of it until she drew closer to Malate and she realised, with a sense of growing unease, that it was coming from the direction of the hotel.
The traffic snarled up where Leveriza Street passed to the east of the Zoological and Botanical Gardens. Pedestrians milled around, spilling into the road as they made their way to bars and restaurants and to the municipal celebrations in the park. Josie had no option but to stare impatiently as the finger of smoke slowly faded into the darkness of night.
The traffic started to flow. She pulled off the street and into the parking lot and saw that the manager’s office was engulfed by flames.
Oh, shit.
A tender from the fire department was already on the scene. Firemen were arranged around the building, two of them attending to a hose that was directing a deluge of water over the flames. A crowd of men and women had gathered at the other end of the lot, kept away from the fire by the crew from the tender.
Josie parked her car at the fringe of the crowd and stepped out. The heat from the blaze was intense, even at that distance.
“What happened?” she called to one of the onlookers.
“I don’t know,” the man said, shouting to make himself heard above the angry crackle of the fire. “I’m staying over there.” The man pointed back at one of the rooms. “I saw smoke and then the flames. I called the fire department.”
“Where are the owners?”
“I haven’t seen anyone.”
Fireworks boomed as they exploded overhead. Trailers of bright light fired out in all directions and rockets whistled as they arched into the night sky. The smoke piled upwards, a column that reached for hundreds of feet. There was a call from one of the men aiming the hose and then a hand signal directed back to the tender; the water pressure weakened and then stopped.
Josie walked closer to the wrecked building. The fire looked like it was out, but the heat still radiated across the lot in thick, woozy waves. The windows had been shattered and the tiles on the roof had collapsed into the building, the blackened joists naked to the sky.
She caught the attention of one of the firemen. “You got it under control?”
The man’s face was covered in soot. He nodded. “It’s out.”
“I’m Officer Hernandez,” she said.
“Andrada,” the man replied, wiping the sweat and grime out of his eyes. “I’m the senior fire officer.”
“What station?”
“Malate volunteers.”
“What happened?”
“One of the guests called it in. By the time we got here, it was out of control.”
“Any idea what caused it?”
The man shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll have a look when the heat dies down.”
She took out her phone, ready to call it in, and noticed that she had ten missed calls.
They were all from her mother.
A huge rocket detonated, the echo of its explosion fading into the hiss and fizzle as it scattered red and blue sparkles over the city.
Josie felt a sudden weakness in her knees.
She tapped, trying to return the call, but nothing happened. She held it up again; the screen was black.
She had run out of battery.
She turned and ran back to her car.
36
JOSIE DROVE south as fast as she could. Her mother lived on Summitville, in a three-storey building that had been converted into six compact apartments. It was not an expensive area of town. The street was home to a number of vendors who hawked food and drink from carts that they parked on the sidewalk, and there were always groups of customers—usually male—who gathered around them to eat and talk. The buildings were rickety, often in need of restoration, and the bright paints that had been used to decorate them had been bleached by the sun. Electricity cables buzzed and fizzed, and lines weighted down by wet washing crossed overhead.
She parked and ran to the front door. She unlocked it and climbed the stairs. She unlocked the door to the apartment and tried to push it open. She couldn’t. The security chain had been fastened.
“Mama,” she called, “it’s me.”
She heard her mother’s footsteps as she shuffled down the hall. The chain was disengaged and the door opened.
“What’s the matter, Mama?”
Her mother looked frantic. She reached for her and drew her into an embrace. Josie looked over her shoulder and saw that one of the knives from the kitchen had been left on the table next to the telephone and the mail.
“Mama?”
“Where have you been?” she said as she released her.
“Where is Angelo?”
“Asleep.”
“Where have you been? I left messages for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Josie replied. “I’ve been at work and then my phone died. What’s the matter?”
Her mother went into the living room. Josie followed her to the coffee table. There was a plain envelope there. She handed it to Josie. The envelope had been opened, and, as she upended it, a single bullet dropped into the palm of her hand. There was something else in the envelope, too. She slid her fingers inside and pulled out a photograph. She recognised the building in the shot: it was Angelo’s school. There was a group of children coming out of the gates and, her stomach plummeting, she saw her son staring across the road and into the lens.
“Angelo?” she said, hurrying for the bedroom door.
“He is fine—”
Josie didn’t s
top. She carefully opened the door, pushing it open enough to look inside. Her son was in his bed, hugging his favourite teddy to his chest, the glow of his night light falling onto his upturned face.
Josie exhaled; she felt a wave of relief so sudden and dizzying that she had to put out a hand to steady herself against the frame of the door.
“He is fine,” her mother repeated, drawing her back and pulling the door closed once more.
Josie held up the envelope. “Where did you find this?”
“Underneath the door,” her mother said. “Two hours ago.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“No.”
Josie went to the door, locked it and then attached the security chain.
“There’s something else,” the old woman said, taking her daughter’s elbow and taking her to the window. The blinds were drawn. “Outside,” she said. “The car across the street.”
Josie parted the slats and looked out. It was dark, the illumination provided by the lights in the windows of the opposite building. There was a stall selling banana lumpias on the other side of the road, a line of empty tuk-tuk style tricycles parked alongside it with their drivers waiting to be served or bunched in groups together to talk.
“You see it? There, there!”
Josie followed her mother’s pointing finger and looked farther up the street. There were seven tricycles. Behind the last one, parked up tight against it, was a black BMW with tinted windows. It was close enough to their building for whoever was inside to keep it under easy observation.
“It’s been there for two hours,” her mother said. “There’s a man inside it. I saw him go and get food from Gregorio.”
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“It’s too far.”
“Anything, Mama?”
“Dark hair, I think. He was wearing a white jacket.”
“Stay here,” Josie said, heading for the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Stay here. Keep the door locked.”
She slid the security bolt, unlocked the door and opened it. She was aware that her mother was at the door, but she ignored her and started down the stairs to the entrance. She undid the retaining clip of her holster and rested the heel of her right hand on the butt of her Glock. She stepped into the damp muggy warmth of the night. The smell of the deep-fried banana and jackfruit was pungent, and the rowdy chatter of the tricycle drivers merged with the sound of the traffic on the busy road beyond the street to make a steady hum of noise. Gregorio looked up from his cart as Josie passed, but she did not stop.