Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ten

  ‘The dead always speak,’ the forensic investigator said to Detective Inspector Rio Wray, who stood in the bathroom doorway.

  Rio was now kitted out in a white forensic suit and matching foot and headgear. Her nose twitched at the metallic residue of blood in the air.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been out on the razzle,’ the forensic expert continued, her gaze settling, with surprise, on Rio’s lipstick. Rio wasn’t a make-up girl – well, not at work, anyway; she only ever put on a bit of colour when she was stepping out somewhere special.

  ‘A mate’s hen night that went rocking into the morning. Got the call to come here on my way home. So what’s the damage here, Charlie?’

  ‘What you see is what you get, I’m afraid,’ came the answer.

  Rio stepped forward to join Charlie, who was already crouched down by the bath. The vic was female. Rio’s mouth tightened as she took in the already decaying mush that had once been the woman’s face. Blood, bone and brain splattered thick and high onto the wall. What a bloody mess.

  ‘The injuries are typical of being shot in the back of the head,’ Charlie continued. ‘Probably a close-range shot just below the start of the crown at the back of the head. All it takes is the speed and impact of one bullet coming out of the other side to pull the face to shreds.’

  ‘So the killer knew what he was doing?’ Rio threw back, keeping her gaze on the massive injuries.

  ‘That’s your department. Mine is just to assess the forensics.’

  Rio peered closer. Although much of the woman’s hair was the colour of matted, drying blood, she could see it was dark, deep brown or dyed black. Without a face, it might take a while to verify who the victim was.

  ‘If she was shot in the back of the head, wouldn’t the body be lying forward or slumped to the side?’ Rio asked.

  ‘That’s what you would expect . . .’

  ‘Maybe the killer pushed her back?’ Rio interrupted. ‘Why would he do that?’ Then she spoke directly to the corpse. ‘We need to find out who you are.’

  ‘Probably a prostitute,’ another voice added. ‘It’s that kind of place.’

  Both Charlie and Rio turned to find another officer standing in the doorway. Detective Jamie Martin. He was a good five years younger than Rio’s thirty-three, with neat, formal sandy hair and grey eyes that darted around like he was trying to store every detail around him. He was also the newest member of her squad, one of those fast-trackers, which really pissed her off. But she couldn’t show her irritation in public because she’d been tasked with ‘easing him’ into the team. He had just completed his first year and his performance review was due any day now.

  ‘The hotel’s a favourite haunt for ladies of the night to take their Johns,’ Martin carried on, his voice fast with the eagerness of a young man wanting to do a good job. ‘It’s not the first time our lot have been called here.’

  Rio swept her gaze over the victim again. The right arm rested at an angle across the woman’s torso with the hand laid against the stomach. Had the murderer posed the victim like that? And that’s when Rio noticed something else. Something on the right arm . . . She peered closer, just above the wrist. A tattoo. Small with a red star and yellow border. It wasn’t a tattoo she recognised as a stamp of allegiance for any of the gangs she knew. Mind you, everyone and their dog was sporting tats these days. There was some type of lettering above and below it in a foreign script.

  С волка?ми жить

  по-во?лчьи выть.

  ‘It’s Russian,’ Martin supplied. Rio hadn’t even been aware he’d come to stand beside her. ‘Cyrillic script.’

  ‘Any idea what it says?’ When Martin shook his head she added, ‘Make sure someone takes close-up shots of the tattoo. Any witnesses?’ She eased to her feet.

  ‘Apart from the woman who flagged things up, guests in the neighbouring rooms are saying that they heard nothing and the hotel manager claims he ‘can’t remember’ who he let the room to. There’s nothing in the hotel register to say who booked the room – for which the manager is blaming the young kid who was on duty at reception last night who is “new” and “hasn’t got the hang of things yet” . . .’

  ‘Is the manager known to us?’

  ‘Of course – he wouldn’t be running a hotel round here if he wasn’t. Nothing too serious, though – mostly handling and receiving stolen goods from years back. Claims he doesn’t know a thing about last night.’

  ‘Pick him up – run him in, and bring the other staff who were on duty with him. I’ll talk to them later. Have you found out anything about the victim?’

  ‘No ID around. Judging by her tattoo, she’s East European. Russian, probably. Given this place’s clientele, she was most likely a prostitute or petty criminal – maybe she got into a row with a punter about money?’

  Rio shook her head. ‘Not unless her John was a professional gunman, she didn’t. Even your narkiest John doesn’t normally resort to firearms. It’s savage beatings usually. Perhaps it was something else. And, given the damage, he didn’t want a quick identification either.’

  ‘You think this was a hit?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Can’t say that yet,’ Rio answered. ‘All we can say is that the killer is handy with a gun.’

  They moved, with Charlie, to the other major scene of evidence – the bed in the main room. As they left the bathroom, Martin caught the arm of his superior, delaying her.

  ‘Sorry about that business outside.’

  Rio didn’t respond. It wasn’t the first time one of her own had fingered her for something else because of the colour of her skin. She’d known that being a black, female cop in The Met wouldn’t always be easy, but she was a woman heading for the top and sticks and stones and racists weren’t going to stand in her way.

  ‘Go and chat some more to the manager,’ Rio told him as she walked into the main room.

  Rio followed Charlie to the bed and peered down at one of its pillows, which was stained a deep colour.

  ‘I take it this is blood?’ Rio asked.

  ‘What we have is low-velocity blood splatter.’ Charlie pointed to the different-sized circular drops of blood staining the blue duvet cover. ‘It’s almost as if whoever was on this bed was lying down with blood dripping from them. They were definitely injured when they were lying down.’ Charlie pointed to the pillow and the pool of blood on it. ‘Can you see how the bloodstain is on the side of the pillow; this would suggest they had a head injury—’

  ‘But I thought you said that the victim was likely killed in the bath,’ Rio cut in.

  Charlie stared at her. ‘I’m not sure this blood belongs to the victim.’

  ‘You think this is the killer’s blood?’ Before Charlie could answer, Rio straightened and answered her own question. ‘So we’ve got a killer out there who’s in need of medical attention.’ Rio swung to the door and shouted. ‘Martin . . .’

  As soon as an excited Jamie Martin appeared in the doorway, Rio fired out, ‘We need to check hospitals. Walk-in clinics—’

  But the younger officer didn’t let her finish. ‘DI, the manager has got something I think you’ll want to see.’

  eleven

  The man got out of the Mercedes. Further down the street he could see the police coming and going behind their tape as they investigated the murder in the hotel that was all over the airwaves. He kept his head slightly down and to one side to shield his face and walked into the other hotel that Mac had left earlier. He ran his thumbs down the inside of the lapels of his jacket as he entered. The place was quiet except for a woman at reception. Her back was to him as she watched an old-style portable telly, her elbows pushing out to the side in a strange motion.

  As if sensing his approach she swivelled round in her chair. That’s when he saw the dark shades covering her eyes and the knitting in her hands.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, placing her knitting in her lap.

  ‘I’m looking for
a man who registered here, maybe last night or in the last couple of hours.’

  That bought a slight smile to her ageing face. ‘We get lots of men coming in and out of here.’

  ‘But you don’t look overrun with customers to me, so you must remember him.’

  She settled her hands over her knitting. ‘You have the sound of someone on official business.’

  ‘Don’t worry about my business; just tell me what I need to know.’

  Her head tilted to the side. ‘But it is my business.’

  His voice hardened. ‘I could jump over the counter and find out for myself, but that wouldn’t be very civilised, would it?’

  Silence. Her head straightened as she pointed at the register. ‘Last name in the book.’

  He flipped the register to face him. Read: ‘Room twenty-six. Mr Jones Smith.’

  ‘Some people just don’t want to be found,’ she told him smoothly.

  He looked back at her. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Well if I knew that, I would tell you.’ She pulled off her sunglasses and revealed her cloudy, milky eyes. They stared straight through him. She was blind.

  ‘How come you were watching the television?’

  The smile pulled back onto her face. ‘I do still have a pair of ears. I can hear the telly. I can also hear that you’re a desperate man.’

  He let her smart remark go over his head, instead saying, ‘Can I check out room twenty-six?’

  ‘No point, love, he’s long gone. But if you see him, tell him he owes me for trashing the . . .’

  He didn’t hear her finish as he walked out of the hotel back into the morning light.

  When he got back into his car, he took out his mobile.

  ‘It looks like he was there this morning but he’s left. Is his phone back on? . . . No, I didn’t think it would be for now. Stick to that screen – I want to know the minute he resurfaces. We might have a problem.’ He looked down the street at the taped-off police lines. ‘A big, big problem.’

  twelve

  9 a.m.

  The shotgun rested firmly against Mac’s neck. The voice of the man holding it spoke in a flat monotone.

  ‘Now, what would an undercover cop be doing breaking into my office? Apart from anything else, that’s breaking the law, isn’t it?’

  ‘Calum, I need your help.’

  A sour laugh erupted behind him. The shotgun jammed deeper into his skin. ‘Help? If PC Mac thinks quipping is going to save him from a double barrel’s worth of shot, he’s lost his touch.’

  Mac said nothing. A lifetime of seconds passed before he heard a grunt behind him. The cold steel slowly lifted from his skin. Click. The hammers slotted back into place. Calum Burns emerged from behind him. He was taller than Mac’s five eleven, more toned than bulky muscle, with a face that could range from cheeky to marble cold in the beat of a second. He wore marble cold as he rested the shotgun upright against a wall. Without looking at Mac, he slowly walked towards the desk, his steps uneven, but careful. His movements surprised Mac because Calum was a man known to walk with a cocksure swagger. But Mac clamped down on asking about what was up with his leg, instead watched Calum settle in a chair.

  Calum leaned idly back and stared at Mac with sharp green eyes. And spoke. ‘The traditional way to ask someone for help is to call them, or press the entry phone to their office – not break in through their windows.’

  ‘And what would you have said if I’d given you a bell?’ Mac seated himself opposite.

  ‘Fuck. Off.’

  The charged atmosphere intensified. Sweat bubbled up from the pores on Mac’s forehead. He flipped his hood back and peeled off the strip of towelling. Fished around in his pocket. Found Elena’s phone and put it on the desk. Calum took no notice of the phone; instead he studied Mac’s wound.

  ‘Pistol shot?’ Calum broke the silence.

  Mac ignored the question and pushed the phone across the desk. ‘I can’t get into this phone and I need to know what was on it. Names, addresses, phone calls, texts – the lot.’

  Calum twisted his mouth, but picked up the phone. ‘And why would I do that? And please don’t say “for old times’ sake” or I really will blast you to kingdom come.’

  ‘You’re a security consultant-cum-fixer these days, aren’t you? One of the best in the business – or so I’ve heard.’

  Calum’s face turned hard. ‘You’re not getting me, are you? The question is not “Can I help you?” It’s “Why should I help you?”’

  This wasn’t going to be easy. Mac’s head flopped back, his line of vision coming into contact with a framed document on the wall opposite. It was an enlarged copy of Calum’s confidentiality agreement, which he’d signed, promising not to divulge any information about his ‘resignation’ from the police. It had formed part of his settlement when he’d left The Met for good. No one, not even Mac, had understood why Calum had been booted out of the Force. Of course there were rumours – a backhander, decked his superior, or been sharing whiskey shots with the wrong crowd. But no one really knew and Calum wasn’t telling. He wasn’t even telling why he wasn’t telling. A confidentiality agreement meant nothing to him. None of it had made any sense. Sure Calum had been a bit fly, occasionally massaged the rules, but he’d been a good cop. No, he’d been great. Outstanding. Upstanding.

  ‘This isn’t police business if that makes a difference . . .’ Mac started.

  ‘A difference?’ the other man slammed back, the muscles in his cheeks contorting madly. ‘Do you know how many of my former colleagues shook my hand before I left? Zero. Do you know how many of my former colleagues rang me up to wish me luck for the future? Zero. Fuck-all.’

  Calum didn’t need to point out that Mac had been part of the ‘fuck-all’ crowd. Mac wasn’t proud of not getting in touch with someone who’d been one of his closest friends, but Phil had warned him to stay well clear. If you breathe polluted air then everyone’s going to think you’re filled with poison, was the way his senior officer had put it to him. So he’d stayed away, tossed their friendship out of the window, blackballed him along with everyone else.

  ‘I suppose it was too much to hope that anyone would stand up for me when I got kicked out. That I could take. The whole world is spineless, so I don’t blame anyone for that. It’s their idiocy I couldn’t stand. Do you recall that nuclear shelter under HQ where the code for the door was so secret, it couldn’t be written down? So they made it “9999” so the relevant people could remember it? Idiots, fucking idiots. No wonder there’s so much demand for people like me.’ Calum was seething but he added in an undertone. ‘I could’ve used a few friends back then, you know . . .’ His eyes were fierce, like green dynamite.

  Mac leaned forward. ‘Maybe some of those friends were waiting for you to tell your side of the story?’

  For the first time Mac saw confidence replaced by uncertainty on the other man’s face. ‘Yeah . . . well . . . it was no one’s bloody business.’

  Mac slightly raised his hands. ‘Yeah . . . well . . . I need to know if you’re going to help me out with my bloody business?’

  There was a long silence before Calum asked, ‘Still playing naked cop?’

  Most undercover cops were called UCs but a few called them naked because they were stripped of their former life in order to assume another ID.

  ‘Who are you deep in with this time? Do I know them?’ Calum persisted.

  Mac didn’t answer. An undercover cop, who answers questions like that, isn’t an undercover cop any more. But he knew he had to say something.

  Leaning back, Mac answered. ‘I’m doing some work in the London end of an arms trafficking gang.’

  That was vague enough.

  ‘Let me guess?’ Calum said with a gleam in his eyes. ‘That’ll be Russians, then. Must be a big mob to attract your superiors’ interest. So that’ll be AK Reuben’s crew. If only because Reuben has put all the other gunrunners out of business . . .’

  Mac kept hi
s expression blank. ‘How do you know all of this?’

  ‘I’m a security consultant, it’s my business to know that sort of thing.’ Calum enjoyed the look on Mac’s face. He looked at the phone. ‘Why have you brought this to me? Any kid on the street could open that for you, never mind your techy colleagues. In some sort of trouble, are you?’ He looked at Mac’s exposed wound. ‘Got into a gunfight with someone you shouldn’t? No, it can’t be that, your superiors would cover that up for you.’ He sighed. ‘Not that it matters, I’m not choosy about my customers. My fees are five hundred an hour plus expenses.’

  Mac was overwhelmed with a strong urge to ram his fist into the other man’s face. To see his jeering mouth shoved to the backside of his brain. How could he joke when Elena was dead? Dead . . . Dead.

  He was back in the bathroom. Standing at the foot of the bath, facing Elena who was sitting inside it. Reuben stood behind her. And it was like Mac was chained to the floor because he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything as Reuben raised Mac’s gun. Luger and hand moved almost in slo-mo towards the back of Elena’s head. Her eyes caught Mac’s. It gave him the time to see her terror. To hear her scream. To see the tattoo as she stretched her arm, in a pleading motion, towards him . . . Bang. A bullet tore into the back of her head. The richest red he’d ever seen splashed against the wall. Hit him in the face. A drop landed on his tongue . . .

  ‘Mac? Mac?’

  He came to with his forehead on the desk, with Calum’s loud voice beating over his head. He couldn’t catch his breath. Couldn’t breathe . . . Mac knew he’d blacked out again.

  ‘Easy, easy.’ This time Calum’s voice was in his ear. The other man circled his hands around Mac’s upper arms and gently raised him.

  ‘What’s going on, Mac?’ For the first time there was no mockery in Calum’s words.

  Mac stared back at him. ‘I broke the cardinal rule. I fell for someone who was part of my investigation. Now she’s dead.’

  thirteen