by Tom Wood
The man’s face was pale and soaked in sweat and tears. “Yes,” he yelled. “Hurry the fuck up and ask me.”
“Tell me you understand.”
He nodded. “I do. I understand. Please hurry.”
“Just so we’re clear: who are you here for—me or Gisele?”
“The woman. We saw the light on. We thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought. And you should care about answering my questions only because you haven’t got enough life left to waste even a second of it.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“How long have you been looking for her?”
“A few days.”
“Be more specific.”
He thought for a moment. “A week.”
“Be more specific,” Victor said again.
“I don’t know. Christ . . . Since last Tuesday.”
“Eight days?”
“Yes. Fuck. Eight fucking days.”
“I’ll forgive you the language because of the circumstances. But don’t push it. Who are you working for?”
A half moment of hesitation. “Blake Moran.” He spoke the name with reverence and fear, even with a knife in his abdomen.
“That’s nothing but a name. Who is he? Tell me about him.”
“I don’t know. . . . He’s the boss man. He’s . . . God, it hurts so much.”
“A drug dealer?”
The man nodded. “The biggest.”
“I doubt that,” Victor said. “At this moment who are you more afraid of: him or me?”
The man didn’t answer fast enough so Victor took hold of the knife’s grip and twisted it—just a little, but enough. He muffled the resulting scream with a palm over the man’s mouth.
“You!” he yelled when Victor removed his hand.
“Remember that before you answer my next question. Where can I find Moran?”
“He has a big house in Bromley. Like a fucking fortress, with guards and dogs—”
“Yeah, yeah. I get the idea. What about businesses? Clubs, bars . . . ?”
The man grimaced and gulped. “A café. In Lewisham. Near the station.”
“What’s it called?”
“I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll find it.”
“Please, that’s all I know. Call me an ambulance.”
“Remember what I said about not having time to waste?” The man nodded. “So stop wasting it. Who told Moran to find the woman?”
“No one. No one tells him what to do.”
“Everyone takes orders,” Victor said. “Even men like Moran. What were you going to do with the woman, had you found her here?”
“Secure her and take her someplace safe.”
“Where?”
“One of Moran’s sites. A derelict house. The address is on my phone.”
“That’s bad form. Even someone like you should know that. Once you’d taken her to this house, then what was the plan?”
“Call Moran. Tell him we had her. Wait for further instructions.”
Victor patted down the man until he’d found the phone. He checked it, then showed the man the screen. “Is this his number?”
The man nodded. “That’s him. I’m starting to get cold. Please, call the ambulance.”
“Are you supposed to use a password or some sort of code?”
“I . . . I don’t understand. The ambulance, man.”
Victor slipped the phone into a pocket. He considered for a moment. “I think that’s it. Thank you for your honesty. It’s saved me a lot of time and hassle. I appreciate that.”
“So . . . you’ll call me an ambulance now?”
Victor looked down at him. “You didn’t seriously believe me, did you?”
The man’s eyes widened. “What? What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to call you an ambulance. And even if I did, they’re not going to be able to keep you alive.”
“But you said . . . What about the surgeons?”
“If you were on the operating table at this very moment, maybe. But even that would be a long shot. The wound is mortal. That was the point.”
“Please. Don’t kill me,” the man pleaded.
“I already have,” Victor said.
“But . . . you told me—”
“I lied,” Victor said. “I’m not a very nice person.”
The man began crying and reached out when Victor stood. “Don’t leave me.”
“If you pull the knife out, the pain will be over sooner. Otherwise you have maybe five minutes. If you believe in God, now would be a good time to start begging him to forgive your many sins. And even if you don’t, it can’t hurt, can it?”
Victor walked away.
Behind him, the man prayed.
Chapter 20
An hour later, Nieve Anderton climbed out of her black Audi. Two police cars were parked outside the building. Another sat on the gravel driveway. Parked next to it was the ambulance. The Audi was a solid, powerful sports car. The door was big and heavy. She made sure it didn’t slam. Not to avoid the noise, although she preferred to remain quiet and unheard, but to stay in control. Being in control was important.
A brown leather blazer covered the blouse that hung loose over her belt. The blazer was smart and of a tailored fit. The blouse carried a designer’s stitched logo on the chest pocket. Her jeans were similarly labeled. Her boots were made from polished rattlesnake skin. She liked to dress well. She liked to make a statement.
The street was quiet despite the police presence. Residents kept to themselves. They didn’t make a fuss. A few silhouettes at windows were about as obvious as they were going to get. A paramedic stood on the pavement outside the driveway, looking at his phone—texting or checking e-mail or watching funny cat videos. He was in no hurry, no more than the various cops and crime-scene techs. There was no need to rush. Everyone was dead. Three corpses, Anderton had been told. So far unidentified.
They looked like criminals, apparently. Burglary gone wrong, people speculated.
“One’s bled out from a knife wound to the abdomen,” the crime-scene coordinator was telling her as she slipped on plastic overshoes. “The other two have broken necks. One’s facedown; looks as if he’s been stamped on. The other has had his head wrenched.” He did the action. “Like this. Nice, eh?”
“How many assailants?” Anderton asked, zipping up her overalls.
“That I can’t tell you. No footprints in the blood. No other obvious signs. We’ll know more once the nerds have finished.”
“Nerds?” Anderton echoed.
“Hey, I’m allowed to say it. I used to be one.”
Neighbors were being questioned by police constables. No one seemed to have seen anything, but plenty of people heard doors being kicked open and sounds of a struggle. Then screaming.
Anderton left the crime-scene coordinator to attend to the various plastic-bagged exhibits that were being ferried out of the building. She squeezed her way past a couple of detectives who looked at her with measurable disdain, and entered the building.
“All the way up to the top, ma’am,” a uniform offered.
“Thank you.”
She ascended the stairs. It was difficult. The overalls were far too big for her frame, and the shoes had little grip on the carpetless steps. Anderton reached the top, slightly out of breath. She was in shape, but didn’t hit the gym anywhere near as much as she used to. Age was catching up with her. Life would begin in a couple of years, she’d heard plenty of times.
“And who the flying fuck are you?”
A burly detective in a poorly fitting suit stepped out of the apartment. He looked about forty years old and smoked about forty a day. Even without the aggressive attitude, she knew he would be trouble. She could r
ead people well enough to know that just from the way his shoulders sat, bunched and widened, attacking because he was defensive. Not the smartest man to show his hand so easily.
“My name’s Nieve Anderton,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m from the Security Service. And who might you be?”
“The guv’nor. Detective Chief Inspector Crawley. And you’re on my crime scene, Ms. Anderton, so I suggest you piss off back to the salon. This is a police matter.”
She smiled through the insult. “Are you always this personable, or is it only with the ladies?”
“Oh, this is me in first gear, love, I assure you. I haven’t even begun to turn on the charm.” Crawley rested his hands on hips. His beer gut was bigger than his ego.
She met him at his own game. “When you do turn it on, be sure to let me know. I wouldn’t want to miss it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go in there.” She pointed to the open front door.
Crawley looked astonished. “You do? Well, why didn’t you call ahead? I could have had the red carpet brought down and rolled out for you. Guess we’ll have to make do without. Tell you what—I’ll lie down and you can walk over me instead.”
“I assure you, I’d like nothing more than to trample you with my four-inch Pour La Victoires, but I wouldn’t want to pop you open like a balloon.” She glanced down at his distended stomach. “So I guess we’re both out of luck. Therefore, why don’t you save us a lot of time and give me your cooperation and access to your crime scene? I’d certainly appreciate it.”
“I’d very much appreciate it if you would get lost and let me and my men do our job. You MI5 clowns can balls it up after we’re done. How’s that sound?”
Anderton took a breath and stepped close enough to smell the fried chicken on Crawley’s clothes. “I’m sorry you didn’t get many hugs as a child, Inspector. But this really has gone beyond a joke. You’re obstructing official Security Service business, and if you don’t let me in there, then I make a call to your superintendent. David, isn’t it? We’re on first-name terms, you see. Lovely wife, he has. Beautiful kids too. His eldest has a bit of a crush on me, I think. Do you get what I’m trying to tell you? Or should I make it clearer? How’s this? Back off, or I’m going to have to bend you over and fuck your career up the arse until you’re shitting blood.” She smiled at him. “Okay?”
He stepped back. “Nice mouth you have there, sweetheart. And you called me charming!”
“Oh, I assure you, this is me in first gear. Do you understand me, DCI Crawley?”
“Yes, I understand you.” He sighed and shook his head. “You’re the guv’nor.”
“That’s correct,” she said, and stepped around him. “Walk me through it.”
He followed and gestured. “Door kicked in. All three were killed in the lounge over there. Other rooms have been tossed. Nothing taken, far as we can see.”
The bodies had yet to be removed. The forensic people were milling around them and the rest of the flat. Tape placed by the crime-scene coordinator marked areas of interest. One of the corpses lay facedown on the laminate flooring. He looked as though he had suffered a hell of a beating. The back of his neck was red. Underneath the skin, the spine was broken, but the exterior wound was almost nonexistent. The second corpse, again with a broken neck, was more obvious in the manner of death: the head was at an unnatural angle to the rest of the body. There were no other injuries.
The third body was drenched in blood, originating from a wound to his belly, and soaking his clothes and forming a pool around him. Anderton almost couldn’t believe the amount that had come out of him. His skin was so white it looked as though he was wearing makeup—a vampire in an old horror flick.
Interestingly, the knife that had killed him was clutched in his right hand. He had pulled it out. Which was about as stupid as it got. Anderton thought every man and his dog knew never to remove a blade. It was suicide.
“Some blokes messed ’em right up,” Crawley said from behind her.
She turned to face him. He was scratching at his crotch. He didn’t stop when he saw she noticed. No brains. No manners. No class. She spotted a ring on his finger and felt enormous sympathy for the man’s wife.
“So,” he continued. “Are you going to tell me what a supersecret agent from MI5 is doing at my crime scene?”
Anderton smiled. “You surely don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Defense of the realm, national security, need to know—blah, blah, blah.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself, Inspector.”
“You do realize that if you showed me the courtesy of sharing a little intel that, A, it would encourage cooperation and, B, help us both out?”
“You mean the same courtesy you showed me in the hallway?”
“Yes, well. Call me psychic, but I knew exactly how this was going to turn out, and I’m not keen on me and my boys doing all the legwork on this investigation so you can swoop in at the end and steal all the glory.”
“I’m not in the glory business, Inspector. I’m in the protecting-this-country business. The same business that you should be in.”
He looked away.
“Any evidence left by the killer?”
“Killers,” he corrected. “And no. Nothing so far.”
Anderton pivoted on the spot, analyzing the scene. She pointed. “He stood there, close to the door and out of sight. When they came in, they had split up, searching the other rooms. The one farthest away from the door was the first to die. We can see that because there are absolutely no signs of a struggle. He rushed straight past the killer—had no idea there was any threat—and was attacked from behind before he could get farther into the flat. Pressure on the carotids from behind. A classic rear naked choke would have taken him out in seconds. Killer then waits for the next one to show. That’s when it gets a little messy, because the third one must have been following close behind.”
Crawley was shaking his head. “Excuse me, but what the hell are you talking about? What’s all this about one killer? The CSC doesn’t know how many attackers there were. And these weren’t plastic hard men. No way one guy took them all out.”
“Look around this place,” Anderton said. “There’s barely any mess aside from the three corpses and the blood. How did that happen if there were multiple attackers? There would be multiple signs, wouldn’t there? This flat would be a bomb site. But it’s not. We have a ridiculously neat arrangement of bodies, all in this area just inside the lounge entrance. How did multiple attackers hide well enough to catch three men by surprise and then kill them without leaving a single trace? If you know, I’m all ears.”
Crawley was still shaking his head, but he didn’t respond.
“And look at the way they’re lying,” Anderton said. “Two of them have their feet pointed at the hallway.”
“And?”
“That means two of three were taken down without even having the chance to turn around. No way that happened unless a single attacker took out the first without the second one knowing about it.”
Crawley shrugged, defeated. “All right. You might have a point. We’ll look into it.”
“Who owns the flat?” Anderton asked.
“One Gisele Maynard. Twenty-two years old. Lives alone. Neighbors we’ve spoken to haven’t seen her for days. I hope you’re not suggesting a girl—sorry, a woman—beat seven shades of shite out of these three, are you?”
Anderton acknowledged the ridiculousness of his question with a smirk. “I think you would be surprised what we’re capable of, Inspector, when we’re allowed out of the kitchen. But in this case I’m with you. No, I don’t see it.”
“Wow, you agree with me. It’s like all my Christmas mornings rolled into one.”
“I wouldn’t get used to it, if I were you.”
Anderton smiled at him and h
e matched the smile. She handed him her card and he took it without the slightest hesitation. This pleased her. Not because she wanted him to like her, but because he was a once-disobedient hound now loyal to his new master.
“Let me know if you turn up anything else, Inspector.”
Chapter 21
Blake Moran’s café was located between a kebab shop and a narrow single-lane road, on the other side of which lay a bowling alley. Like the kebab shop next to it, the café was no chic eatery or coffee shop. It looked the kind of place that nonregulars hurried past, concerned by the hordes of unsavory men that hung around inside all day long. Metal tables and chairs stood outside on the pavement. A freestanding blackboard listed today’s specials in indecipherable script. Victor thought he made out the word soup.
He waited at a bus shelter thirty meters away, on the other side of the street. He pretended to study the route and timetable listings while he performed the last stage of his surveillance. The cover was probably excessive. No one inside the café seemed to pay any attention to the goings-on outside. Intermittently, men would come out to smoke. Often they had lit up before they made it to the door. Victor didn’t envy the public-health inspector who would have to give the proprietor a verbal warning.
He’d operated against, and been around, enough organized criminals in his time to recognize a front. The café was a bad establishment in a worse area, and filled with gangsters. Any hapless passerby who had the misfortune of stepping inside for a drink or meal would never elect to go back a second time. But the custom, or lack thereof, didn’t matter. Cafés had a high percentage of cash turnover, which meant they were good places to launder money. Every cup of surprisingly expensive espresso or bottle of mineral water the goons inside ordered would be delivered with a receipt. No money would change hands, but the day’s take equivalent in illicitly gained cash could be put through the books and come out the other end clean and declarable.
The same went for the kebab shop next door, judging by how friendly those who ran the two establishments were. Combined, the two likely gave Moran a tidy legitimate income that covered his everyday expenses and kept the tax man and the police off his back. So, he was reasonably smart. The three men he’d sent after Gisele had one pistol between them. If they regularly carried guns, they would have had them on them in the apartment, or at least in their car. If those four had only one gun between them, Moran’s crew members were not universally armed. A few knives, blackjacks, and brass knuckles, no doubt, but light on firearms. That made things a little easier for Victor.