I looked at him, but he wasn’t being ironic. When I told him our destination, he nodded. It seemed that he had no problem with me running the operation. I was the one who had doubts, but there was no time for them now. I got us each a ticket to Sydenham Hill from a machine. The early train wasn’t full.
“Where did you and Pete go after you got back from Oxford?” I asked as we pulled out.
“Needed a drink. Problem was, we stank. Eventually we found a twenty-four-hour pub next to the meat market at Smithfield. Everyone stinks there.”
I took a sniff. “But you don’t anymore.”
“Good nose, Sherlock. I went back to my place to clean up and change.”
“You what?” I said, raising glances from other travelers. I lowered my voice. “Are you out of your mind? Sara or Karen might have the place under surveillance.”
“Well, they didn’t. Anyway, I took precautions on the way up here. Trust me, nobody was on my tail.”
So much for me being in charge of things.
“Let me see that note you found on the body in Oxford,” I said, my mouth close to his ear.
He opened his bag and handed me an old newspaper. Inside was a plastic bag. I examined the writing, making sure no one else could see what I was looking at. Sorry was the only clearly legible word. The script looked like it could have been Sara’s. But why would she have left a note, never mind a body, in the house she herself had bought? Was she so confident that no one could touch her?
“We’re going to see Mrs. Carlton-Jones, I guess,” Andy said.
“Correct, Watson.”
“Ha. How do you want to handle it?” He was asking me to play general, after all. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that anymore. The idea that my decisions could lead to my friends being injured, or worse, was getting hard to handle.
He nudged me gently in the ribs. “I trust you, Wellsy. Dave once told me that he was certain you’d nail Sara, even if something happened to him.”
I felt my eyes dampen. Dave had said something similar to me, but I’d laughed it off. I never imagined anything would happen to him. He was our strong man, he’d been through SAS service in Northern Ireland and the first Gulf War, he’d won medals. He was our own local hero and now he was gone. I blinked and looked out into the drizzle that was blurring the shapes of the houses and car breakers’ yards.
I managed to order my thoughts. Leaning close to the American, I told him what I wanted him to do. He showed no surprise and nodded his assent.
When we came out of the station, we separated. I took a detour to Northumberland Crescent to allow Andy to get into position. Then I walked up the quiet road to number 47. There was a small Toyota in the driveway. As I’d expected, Sara’s birth mother was still at home at this early hour. I put my hand under my jacket and grasped the butt of my silenced Glock. There was no sign of a motorbike, though. I was still puzzled about what the rider-presumably my former lover-had been trying to hand Mrs. Carlton-Jones.
Taking off my cap and putting it in a pocket, I looked at the upstairs windows. All the curtains were open. Unless her bedroom was at the back, the occupier was up and about. I went up the paved path, looking into the front room as I approached the door.
I took a deep breath, one hand still on my weapon and the other holding my Crime Writers’ Society ID card. It had been designed in the form of a warrant card. I wondered if any of my fellow novelists had used the card for nefarious purposes. Josh Hinkley, the poor sod, would have been a likely candidate, perhaps to get complimentary services from the knocking-shops near his flat.
I rang the bell. After about a minute, a gray-haired woman appeared behind the small diamond-shaped window in the door. She didn’t seem to have changed much since I’d tried to interview her for my book. I hoped the mustache would prevent her from recognizing me.
“Who is it?” she said, keeping the door closed.
“Detective Chief Inspector Mark Oates,” I replied, holding up my card. “We spoke on the phone a few days ago.”
There was a pause. “I remember, Chief Inspector.” The chain rattled and the door opened.
With my thumb obscuring the Crime Writers’ Society logo, most of the photo, and my name, I kept my card visible long enough for her to register that it was official, but not long enough for her to see the details. She didn’t complain when I put it back in my pocket. People had a worrying tendency to believe that strangers were who they said they were. Then again, Doris Carlton-Jones might know exactly who I was and was luring me into a trap. What if the motorbike rider had been trying to hand her a weapon, and had been back since I pulled Andy off the surveillance? Then again, I could just be getting paranoid after everything that’s happened.
The woman was dressed in a dark blue trouser suit. She led me into the sitting room. “Sit down, Chief Inspector,” she said. “How is Inspector Jansen?”
“He’s well,” I said with a smile. “Hard at work.”
“Undercover,” she said, looking at me seriously. “Which you, presumably, are not, since you carry identification.”
“Just plain clothes,” I said. Mrs. Carlton-Jones didn’t miss much. “I won’t beat about the bush,” I said. “It’s come to our attention that your daughter has returned to London.”
“My daughter?” she said, her eyes wide. “I…My husband and I didn’t have children.”
“I’m aware of that,” I said. “But you did, before you met Mr. Carlton-Jones.”
Now she looked upset. There were beads of sweat on her brow and she started rubbing her hands together. “I…Yes, I did,” she said, looking down.
“Contrary to what you told Inspector Jansen,” I said harshly. “Let’s stop these games, Mrs. Carlton-Jones. It’s in the public domain. We’ve made the connection to Leslie Dunn, the White Devil. His twin sister, your daughter Sara Robbins, is wanted for murder, conspiracy to murder, kidnapping and malicious wounding, as well as fleeing a crime scene. I have a simple question for you.”
“I know what it is,” the elderly woman said, her voice querulous, “and the answer is no, I haven’t seen her.”
I was watching her carefully. She was pretty convincing, but I needed more, and needed to seem authoritative. “Then you’ll have no objection if I search the house.”
She met my gaze. “Shouldn’t you have a warrant for that?”
“I should, and I will get one if necessary, though failure to cooperate won’t do you any favors. If you allow me to check the house, I can be out of here in a matter of minutes and it’ll be the last you hear of it.” I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “Go where you like.”
I stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Carlton-Jones,” I said, raising a hand. “Please don’t get up. I’d prefer to do this on my own.” I looked around the room, then moved to the rear, where a door led into the kitchen. I opened cupboard doors and ran my eye over the fridge door for any sign of messages from Sara. There was nothing. I checked the drawers, too, in case there was a concealed weapon. There were kitchen knives, but that was all.
I went out of the door that opened on to the hall. There was a cupboard under the stairs-it was full of boxes and a vacuum cleaner. Moving upstairs, I glanced out of the window on the side of the house. I couldn’t see Andy. There were four doors on the first floor, two of them open. The front room must have been the main bedroom, a double bed with an embroidered cover neatly spread over it. There was a photo of Doris Carlton-Jones with a smiling bald man, presumably her dead husband. She looked reserved. I wondered if there had ever been a time when she wasn’t troubled by the children she gave away in the first days of their lives. The woman looked at least ten years younger in the shot, so it had been taken long before the White Devil and Sara became the focus of frenzied tabloid attention. I tried to imagine what it must have felt like to know that your children were vicious killers. I shivered as Lucy’s face flashed before me. My beautiful daughter was in hiding because of t
he woman downstairs’s child. Strangely, I didn’t feel anger, but sorrow. I told myself to get a grip. Sara might be waiting for me down the hall.
I took out my pistol and walked to the first door. I touched the handle, then opened the door quickly. Inside, both hands gripping my weapon, I pointed it at the corners, one by one, as Dave had taught us. Nobody. The room was a study, a computer on a desk and rows of books on the shelves. It didn’t take me long to find The Death List. The spine showed it had been opened frequently. My photo was on the back cover. That put me on my toes. I went toward the next door, glancing into the bathroom to be sure it was empty. I breathed in and followed the procedure again when I flung the door open. This room too was unoccupied. The duvet on the single bed was plumped and perfectly aligned. I slid a hand underneath. It was stone cold. Back on the landing, I looked up at the ceiling. There was a panel in a wooden frame. I took the chair from the study and stood on it. I was in an awkward position, because I couldn’t cover more than one angle with my pistol. There was nothing for it. I pushed the panel up and aside, then looked around. Apart from the water tank and a lot of insulating material, the space was empty.
I put the panel and chair back, and went downstairs, pistol back in my jacket. Mrs. Carlton-Jones was waiting for me.
“Satisfied?” she asked brusquely. Clearly she was no longer shaken. “Chief Inspector, I can assure you that if I saw Sara Robbins, I would tell the police immediately. I know what she looks like, thanks to the photographs that were all over the newspapers and TV channels.” She shook her head. “And that awful book her lover wrote.”
I tried not to look embarrassed and was glad she hadn’t recognized me. It was suddenly obvious how much pain The Death List had caused. I remembered what Karen had said, about the book being a Faustian pact. I’d arrogantly signed up to write it, oblivious to the feelings of others-not just of Sara’s birth mother, but of the families whose members the White Devil had slaughtered. Maybe some stories were better left untold.
I thanked Mrs. Carlton-Jones.
As she closed the door, she said, “I hope we won’t meet again.”
I walked away, feeling like a leper. Then I saw Andy appear from behind the garage. His expression was grim and he was carrying what looked very much like a human skull.
Faik Jabar had found a heap of old clothes outside a charity shop in Stoke Newington. They didn’t smell too good, but neither did he. In a dank alleyway, he stripped off his trousers, gasping as the fabric came away from the wounds on his legs. The trousers were an old man’s, the bottoms flapping above his trainers, and the ancient tan duffel coat was tight across his shoulders. At least the pistol he’d taken from his tormentor fitted into one of the inside pockets. Head down, Faik walked out on to the pavement and headed west. He had no money, so he couldn’t use public transport. Walking was the only option. It took him three hours to get to Soho.
The strip joints and massage parlors were open, but there wasn’t much activity. At the first one he tried, a thick-set muscle-man told him to go fuck himself, there were no Albanians there. But he struck lucky at the next one. He went upstairs, following the signs to! Sexy Susie’s Sauna EtSEXera! When he asked for Safet Shkrelli, the bottle blonde, who must have been older than his mother, told him to wait.
A thin man with a pencil mustache, wearing a grubby suit, came out to meet him. “What does a piece of crap like you want with Mr. Shkrelli?” he demanded, eyeing the young man and wrinkling his nose. “What are you? A Turk?”
“Kurd,” replied Faik. “Tell him I know where his missing numbers man is.”
The man raised an eyebrow, then took out his cell phone. He spoke rapidly in a language like no other Faik had ever heard. When he’d finished, he smiled insincerely. “Mr. Shkrelli would like to see you. Come downstairs when I call.” He headed for the street.
A few minutes later, Faik heard his voice again. When he reached the main door, he saw a black Mercedes at the curb, its engine idling and the nearside rear door open. His weapon was taken by a gorilla. Faik thought of what had happened the last time he’d got into a gang member’s car, but he didn’t hesitate. Someone had to stop the bitch with the devil’s face who had set the gangs at each others’ throats, and Safet Shkrelli was the best bet, probably the only bet.
Neither the man from the sauna nor the heavily-built driver spoke to him. They went north, but after King’s Cross he was told to put his head between his knees. He felt the point of a knife in his side, so he obeyed. He preferred not to know where Shkrelli lived.
After what Faik thought was about twenty minutes, the car drove over gravel and stopped. He was told to stay as he was, then a door opened and a black hood was pulled over his head. He was led inside, tripping on steps. It seemed they walked for a long time before he was pushed into a seat and the hood tugged off.
Faik blinked and took in a large, young-looking man with close-cropped black hair. He was sitting behind an enormous desk.
“I’m Safet Shkrelli,” the man said, picking up a silver revolver with pearl handles. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.”
“You know why,” Faik replied. His voice was steady; he had nothing to lose. “I can take you to your numbers man.”
“Where is he?”
Faik shook his head slowly. “I take you there,” he repeated. “Then you protect me.”
Shkrelli thought about that. “Is he alive?” he asked.
“He was when I last saw him-just.”
“What happened to him?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
The muzzle of the weapon was suddenly pointing at Faik’s face. “Are you setting me up, boy?” the Albanian asked. “Are your people planning on ambushing me? I use dum-dum bullets. Do you know how much damage one of them can do? Your own mother won’t recognize you.”
Faik held his gaze. “This is no setup, Mr. Shkrelli. There is no ambush. All I want is for you to protect me until you find the…the person who took your man.”
Safet Shkrelli drank from a bottle of water. “So take me, boy. Tell me the district.”
“Stoke Newington.”
The hood came back down over Faik’s head. He was taken through the process in reverse and heard someone else join the driver in the front of the car. After they had driven for about a quarter of an hour, the hood was removed. Faik looked around, recognizing the streets around Finsbury Park station. Ahead, he could see two more black Mercedes and behind was a black Land Cruiser. All the vehicles were full.
“Tell us the address,” the driver said.
Faik did so and the driver relayed it via his hands-free device. The column drove down Green Lanes. People stared and some of them raised cell phones to their ears. The local gangs-the Shadows, the King’s men-wouldn’t be slow to gather. Faik’s armpits were drenched in sweat, but his breathing was regular. The lead car turned into the street and stopped, blocking the road. Men got out, their hands in their jackets. The man with the thin mustache got out and beckoned to Faik to follow. He did so, then headed for the door he had come out of that morning-it seemed like days had passed.
When he pushed the door open, not particularly surprised that it hadn’t been shut by the last person to leave, he turned his head and saw Safet Shkrelli get out of the second Mercedes. Bodyguards quickly gathered around him and walked him to the house. Suddenly it struck Faik that if his captor had managed to remove the body, Shkrelli would dispose of him in seconds. He went up the stair quickly, nervous for the first time.
He needn’t have been. The Albanian numbers man was still in the second-floor flat. His body was on the living room floor, as it was when Faik had escaped. But his head was on top of the television, his hands in the bathroom and his feet in the bedroom.
After looking around, the man with the mustache threw up on Safet Shkrelli’s shoes.
Twenty-Four
I walked toward Andy, signaling to him to stay where he was to avoid scaring the neighbors. I joined h
im at the rear of the garage.
“It was in a trunk in the garage,” he said. “I forced the door at the back because I got curious.”
I pulled on latex gloves like the ones he was wearing and took the skull from him. I had no idea how old it was, but it was very clean and so white that I wondered if it was plastic. But the feel of it was definitely bone. The question was, who did it belong to? And also, where was the rest of the body?
There was the rasping roar of a motorbike engine.
“Shit!” Andy said, running past me to the front of the garage.
I followed him, trying to shield the skull under my jacket. I was in time to see a figure in black leathers and helmet crouching over a powerful bike, as Doris Carlton-Jones climbed on behind. Jesus, was it Sara?
Before I could put the skull down and draw my weapon, the metallic red motorbike rocketed down the street. Not long afterward I heard a less deafening engine noise to my left.
“Get in, Matt!” Andy said from the driver’s seat of Mrs. Carlton-Jones’s hatchback.
Somehow I managed to do that without dropping the skull. Andy reversed at speed, spun the wheel and set off down the street.
“Hot-wired,” I said. “Nice one, Slash.”
“Being in a teen gang had its uses,” he said, swerving out of the driveway and accelerating after the motorbike. “So the old woman was in on it all along. I’ve seen that machine before.”
I grabbed my door handle as he braked hard and then turned out of the crescent. The motorbike was still in sight, but there were several cars between it and us.
“Looks like Sara and she have had a family reunion,” I said. “Bloody hell, what are you doing?”
Andy had veered into the opposite lane, provoking loud horn blasts.
“That’s an idea,” he said, hitting his horn. In under a minute, we were only one car behind the bike. “It’s a Transalp, a powerful beast. This piece of crap has got no chance of catching it on an open road.”
“Cool it, big man,” I said, my heart still pounding. “The rider’s bound to have seen us.”
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