by Jan Swick
She held out her phone. He snatched it.
"Google Plus," she said. "It's a social networking site, Mr. Techno. I put your picture on and that caption."
The caption said: GUESS THE LOGO. And there were a number of replies. One user had posted his reply in the form of a photo. It showed a red rose (not a cloud) nestled within a horseshoe (not a C on its back). Below the picture: LUCKY ROSE FLORIST.
Lisa looked out the window. Mum was still at the door, watching them. She waved when she saw Lisa looking.
"She thinks you'll never be back."
Matt looked up, too. He opened his mouth, as if to refute this notion. But no words came. He just waved.
The Mondeo drew up to the kerb. It was dark.
They were in Peckham, on a road of new blocks of apartments, each one named and coloured after an animal. The twin rows of blocks created a strange rainbow. The one they wanted was called Green Robin House, of which there was no such creature, and they could clearly see which one it was as soon as they turned onto the road.
Things were progressing well, moving forward quickly. Two hours ago they had still faced a dead end. Ninety minutes ago they had had a vague clue in the form of a scribbled image. In the time since, the snowball had gained mass and momentum.
Yell.com had a listing for Lucky Rose Florist in the City of Westminster. Lisa had called the supplied mobile number. The lady on the end of the phone immediately told them that the advert should have been changed: there was no longer a delivery van to go along with the shop, because she had sold the vehicle two weeks ago. The advertised sale price would, of course, be lowered in respect of this. Apparently the Yell advert was obsolete, but the shop had been put up for sale on some other website and it was this one the owner assumed they had used to find her. Going along with the woman's assumption that they were calling to buy her business, Lisa had insisted that she needed the van as well as the shop. The van was important, she said.
And it was. At the mention of such a vehicle, especially its sale just a fortnight ago, both Matt and Lisa had looked at each other, their eyes communicating the same thought: a van was a very nice piece of equipment for transporting a body.
"If I can get that van, I'll be interested in the shop," Lisa had said to the seller.
The seller had said she remembered the name she had to write on the log book, if only because of its unusual flavour: Ivor Tchevsky.
"He paid me three point five," she'd said, "but don't you go paying more than three thousand. It's only worth that."
The unusual flavour of the name Tchevsky also meant it shouldn't be hard to find. It wasn't. Another Internet directory listed fourteen people with that surname in the London area, but none called Ivor. However, of the fourteen, only three were of a practical age to own and operate a vehicle. It didn't take long to research those three using the website of the General Register Office and learn that one Lizzie Tchevsky, 38, of Green Robin House, Peckham, had married a chap called Ivor Peterson seven years ago.
They sat for a short time in silence, and Matt's mind turned back to the clue he had found. It upset him. Not the clue itself, but how he had come across it. It hadn't been by detective work. Detective work had thrown him up against a brick wall. Someone had given him that clue. Someone who knew that he was hunting his sister's killer. Someone who seemed to want to help. But who had fed him a vague piece of information, as if playing a game. Treating him like a rat in a maze. The thought unnerved him. He could almost feel eyes watching his every move. But he tried to ignore thoughts of unknown players out there. His hunt would eventually lead him to all and sundry.
Unless the clue was nothing of the sort. The note had been delivered to Danny, could be something to do with Danny's work or social life. If so, the brick wall would be back. But at least it would mean there was nobody out there watching Matt.
They would soon know for sure.
"We're climbing a ladder. And this ladder's rungs are made up of people. We climb one rung up at a time. We can't assume this Ivor Tchevsky is the killer. We look at him as just one rung, the man who will move us up onto the next rung. So we get from him a name. And up we go. At some point the ladder must end. When there are no more names to find, we will be at the top. The name at the top is our killer."
"Okay," Lisa said, thinking his theory a little strange, his explanation a little long-winded. But the idea made sense. A name. The next guy along. "And how do we work Tchevsky to get that name?"
He looked at her. "I know I've said it before. But I'm going to say it again. You've done enough for me, Lisa. So if –"
She put a hand over his mouth. "I'm bored of repeating myself, Matt."
Three times in the last hour, Matt had told Lisa that he was thankful for her help, that she had done a lot for him, but now it was time for her to leave and let him do his thing. Each time, she had knocked him back. She was in this until the end.
"I don't want you getting hurt."
She groaned. "Blah blah blah. And I don't want you getting hurt, which is why I have to come with you, so you don't mess things up with your big size twelves. Now stop going on about it. How you want to do this?"
Matt thought. "The pessimist's way. First, let's assume he's not there. If we go in there and be nice with Lizzie Tchevsky, we'll never know where her loyalty lies, until maybe it's too late. Either they're together or split. If split, she either knows where Ivor is or doesn't. If she does, she'll either tell us or not. And if she tells us, she'll either alert him or not after we're gone."
"So getting this to go our way is going to be like flipping a coin and trying to get four heads on the trot. We need four heads. If we don't fancy those chances, we forget the coin toss."
"I don't fancy them."
"So we use a two-headed coin. Or forget the nicely-nicely approach."
"I'm not much good at nice."
"Me either." She looked at him. "Nice to see you've chilled out."
"We're making progress."
She knew it wasn't just that. She was reminded of what his brother had told her, about Matt not trusting the human race as a whole. His comfort zone was in amongst people who might want to do him harm. In that zone his paranoia and suspicion could drive him, instead of taking a back seat. In that zone he got no nasty surprises, like a ghost train rider who knows where all the ghouls pop up.
"This could be the start of a downhill run, you know," Lisa said, watching him carefully. "Soon as the Tchevsky door opens, things might change for us. There might be no going back, no stopping." He didn't look concerned by that at all. "Do you think we should take ten minutes to sit and think about something different to try?"
He threw open his door, as she expected him to do.
Five minutes later they were at the main entrance of Green Robin House, waiting because they didn't have a card for the swipe. Matt didn't like this idea, but Lisa told him not to worry. A minute later a resident exited and Lisa grabbed the door and in they went. Matt watched the resident, expecting the guy to look back, maybe pull his mobile to call in the two people lurking outside, but he just walked off, clearly not giving a toss that he'd just let two people in who didn't have cards.
"Blessed be the non-paranoid," Lisa said. "Now calm down."
They needed flat 12b. Second floor. They took the stairs, whose walls were green, then pulled open a green door and strolled along a green carpet. The apartments were arranged behind bland wooden doors – not green! - that faced each other across a thin corridor. 12b faced 12a at the far end.
The woman who answered the door was stunning. Tall, slim, elegant, in jeans and a pink blouse, with her dark hair tied in a bun at the back. No make-up, but then she didn't need it. She immediately asked who they were and what they wanted. She sounded European.
"Is there an Ivor Tchevsky living here?" Lisa said. She noted that the woman had a mobile phone clipped to the waistband of her jeans. Right hip.
"Who asking?"
Defensive immediately. Lisa
and Matt glanced at each other, and each was thinking the same thing. That a woman only got instantly suspicious of people enquiring about her partner if that partner was engaged in activities that might send people to his door for negative reasons.
"He pranged my car, so I chased him up with the DVLA, and got this address. I need his insurance details."
Lizzie smiled, but it was clearly false. "You wait minute," she said, and closed the door on them. Matt and Lisa looked at each other.
"I think we just threw a tails," Matt said.
"See her look when I mentioned the DVLA? Ivor Tchevsky is no more registered with the DVLA than he is the Jehovah's Witnesses."
"You want to kick this door in?"
"Calm down, Bronco. Let's just wait a second."
It took another sixty seconds, but she was back, wearing the same fake smile. "Sorry. Thought he in bathroom. Must have gone left."
"Definitely tails," Lisa said. She didn't need to elaborate, because Matt had already seen it: Lizzie's mobile phone was still clipped to the waistband of her jeans, but on the left hip now. She had used it, and probably not to order a pizza for her new guests.
"Okay, good? Bye," Lizzie said, and started to close the door, but Lisa put her hand out and stopped it.
"Please, just a second…" Then she said, "Oh sod it," and pushed her way inside.
Love can change a man, they say. It did wonders for Richard Beck. He ran to Portugal to escape police interest in his own interest in young girls, met Lizzie Tchevsky, and returned to England a year later as Ivor Tchevsky, a man with no prison history, no fifteen thousand pound debt to HM Revenue and Customs, and no listing on the Child Sex Offenders Register. Two years later he and his new wife decided they hated each other and split, although they remained officially married. He only saw her twice a week these days, when he brought groceries round. There was sex but no love, but there was still a bond between them. Enough so that Lizzie had alerted him that two strangers had come to her door, asking for him. And enough that he felt extreme rage at what those strangers had then proceeded to do.
He was in a pub four miles from her home, sitting with three friends and enjoying a beer. Well, they were enjoying their beers. He had suddenly sobered right on up. So, someone with balls had finally made a move against him. He was surprised it hadn't happened before now. Taxing drug dealers was a risky business. Some of them got high on their own shit and then got a Superman complex.
His friends were laughing and joking, but he no longer heard them, no longer even acknowledged their existence. His world was now his mobile phone's little screen, which showed a picture of his wife with a gag over her mouth and a tea towel binding her hands by her waist. She was kneeling before a plain white backdrop that looked like a hanging bed sheet. A picture message sent from his wife's phone, the cheeky bastards!
He got up from the table and moved into a quiet corner, then phoned Lizzie's number. It wasn't Lizzie who answered.
"Hoodlum Asskickers Limited, how may I direct your call?"
He hadn't expected a woman. "Any clue about how big a mistake you just made, lady?"
"Are you Ivor Tchevsky?"
"That's me, and you just -"
"Then no mistake at all," the woman cut in. "Before you think about racing on round to here to save your precious woman, don't bother. We've moved her. You want her back?"
Ivor's nerves calmed slightly. He even smiled. "Where have you got her?"
"Five miles from where she lives. You'll find out soon enough, if you're lucky. We want ten thousand pounds, right now."
He had that amount within a few minutes' drive, for sure. But didn't want to be too agreeable with this woman, in case she suspected something. He told her it would take him two hours to get the money from his friend's house. Said he only had a couple of hundred at Lizzie's place. Where did she want to meet?
"And you bring her to the meet," he ordered. "And you harm one hair, you're dead. However many you are. You get?"
"That suits us just fine," the woman said. "The Red Lion pub on Baxter Street, two hours from now. And you mess with us and one hair is all you'll ever find of her. You get?"
She hung up. One of Ivor's friends was simulating drinking with an imaginary glass, which meant he was asking if Ivor wanted another drink. Ivor shook his head.
He pulled up the picture message again. He smiled. The kidnappers had claimed they weren't holding Lizzie at her home, but he knew that was bullshit. First mistake they made: the woman had said "round here," instead of "round there." Second mistake: the bed sheet, obviously hung so he wouldn't see his own apartment's walls. But on the right side of the picture the camera had captured a portion of the wall not covered by the sheet. Just a few inches at the far edge of the screen, but enough. He could see the stripy blue and red wallpaper he had put up when they moved in.
Ivor excused himself and left the pub. He got in his Fiat, and pulled away from the kerb.
Nine minutes later his Fiat drew to a halt a hundred metres from his block and he took a pistol from the glove box, slipped it into his coat.
He entered the building with his swipe card and went to the stairs. He exited onto his floor head first, peeking down the corridor. Empty. Good. He went down slowly, hand inside his coat, wrapped around the pistol.
He'd told the kidnappers the money was at a friend's house so they'd assume he wasn't planning to come back here for funds. And he'd told them it would take two hours to get the money so they would remain in the apartment for a while. They'd stay jumpy for a short time, then relax a bit, then maybe watch some TV, have a cuppa. And let their guards down. And never be expecting him to kick the door down and go in blasting. If he was quick enough, he could blast their faces right through Lizzie's Poundworld mugs, blood and tea spraying. But there was always the chance that they'd start shooting back, if they had guns. Bullets flying, with Lizzie right in the middle of the firestorm. Better if he could avoid her death, but he wasn't here to save Lizzie. He had to assume either his long-time false identity had been compromised, or newer enemies had found out where he lived. Either way, he was in bad shit and he was going to have to run again, and alive or dead Lizzie wouldn't be figuring in his future. So he needed to get used to that notion right now. He wasn't here to play hero. He was here to lessen the enemies' numbers, that was all. If she had any sense, she'd hit the deck when the front door flew open. If she didn't, well, it wasn't his bloody fault if she was stupid.
He reached his door. He let go of the gun to grab the key from his jacket pocket. As he was sliding the key into the lock, he heard the door behind him open. 12a. Shit, Mrs. Carter, that nosey old bag. He thought she was at bingo all day on weekdays. He froze, hoping she wouldn't start asking him questions, and prayed she wouldn't give away his position out here.
He turned, ready to ask her about her son's new car and the -
Someone headbutted him hard in the nose, breaking it, making him scream in shock and pain. Down he went. His disoriented mind freaked at the noise he'd just made, knowing it could give his position away, before a more succinct part of him realised that noise didn't matter, because they already knew he was here, they had tricked him, they had him.
His head was spinning, but he was aware of some someone rolling him over, powerful arms forcing his own arms behind his back. His fuzzy mind thought, But Mrs. Carter looks so weak! Handcuffs were slipped onto his wrists so quickly that they were locked before he realised what they were. He felt softness on them, knew it was the pair of fluffy pink ones Lizzie kept under her bed.
He was slammed onto his back, a knee on his chest, fingers taking the gun from his jacket. He couldn't move because his arms were trapped in the cuffs and against the carpeted floor. His clearing vision displayed a man, and he thought, Not Mrs Carter after all!
He was dragged into his own apartment by his legs. Beyond the man holding his feet, he saw a woman, just standing there in the living room doorway and looking smug, and behind her was Lizzie, still
tied up. They had tricked him, making him think he'd fooled them, when all along they'd planned for him to sneak here to ambush them. His pride started to hurt more than his nose.
Then his wrists, grinding against the carpet under his own weight, started to hurt more than anything else.
"Fuck you."
"I'll do you a favour. I'll acknowledge that you had nothing to do with my sister's murder. The people responsible are very intelligent, and you aren't. I'm guessing you were just given a job to do without knowing why. But they didn't advertise the vacancy in a job centre. So someone slightly higher up the ladder told you what to do. That person's name will move me higher. If you don't offer a name, I don't climb, I don't move forward, and the killers will escape. Are you going to help the killers escape?"
"Fuck you."
"If I can't get these people the justice they deserve, my parents are not going to have closure, and that's going to make them depressed and withdrawn. The strain will cause problems in the marriage and lead to divorce. Dad will move out, start drinking, and when he dies of liver failure, my mum will blame herself and commit suicide. Do you want to help kill my parents?"
"I said fuck you."
"That's two funerals, and I'll have to buy a tie. That's five pounds. You want to cost me five pounds?"
"Again, fu – uugh!"
"You want to cost me five pounds, you piece of shit?"
"Uuuggh. Jesus. Fuck you, you think that hurts me, dead man?"
"I think that first one you didn't see coming. It's more the threat of pain sometimes. When you know what's coming. When you can see the long road ahead. You've got nine more fingers and thirty teeth. After three hours of solid pain, you'll rethink that. Or maybe you'll get through it all and have a macho story to tell your criminal cronies."
"Damn right, dead man!"
"This guy must have saved your entire family's life every day for you to show such loyalty. Sweet. But this is your last chance. Talk, or I use this on you. See this? Bet you've used this on her over there many times, eh?"