Rio eased her cup down as suspicion clouded her eyes. ‘Why come to me to find out about this case? All you’ve got to do is check in with your superior – what’s his name, Phil? And I’m sure he’ll get all the details you need.’
‘I could do that, but it would take a while. If you could just tell me, I wouldn’t have to jump through all those boring hoops.’
Rio slowly licked the moisture from her lips as she kept her gaze on him. He kept his eyes steady on her face, knowing if he looked away she’d know that something just wasn’t right.
‘Come on,’ he coaxed softly. ‘You might have info that can tip my case in my favour.’ Then he said the one thing he knew would bring her round. ‘The sooner I get my case finished, the sooner I can get home, close the door and think about . . .’ His voice wavered. He couldn’t say Stevie’s name, just couldn’t say it.
He saw the suspicion in her gaze give way to sympathy.
‘The hotel murder? It was a pretty brutal and messy scene,’ she finally said. ‘A woman with her head blasted to pieces. No ID. So, genetics is all we’ve got to work with.’ She reached for her coffee again. ‘Pretty sleazy hotel, popular with prostitutes and petty criminals. Or undercover cops.’ She laughed. He looked into her eyes to confirm she was joking. She was. Rio became serious again. ‘So we’re guessing she was a prostitute. Russian, by the look of it.’
‘How do you know that?’ Only after he’d cut in did Mac realise his question sounded too eager, too probing.
Rio did a sweep of his clothing again. Settled on his baseball cap. ‘Are you all right? You look mashed. Battered and bruised – are you in some sort of trouble?’
‘I’m on a job,’ he explained. ‘Being battered and bruised comes with the territory. You know I can’t talk about that. This girl?’
‘You seem very interested Mac – may I ask why?’
‘I told you I’m on a case. There’s probably no connection but I need to cross-check.’ But he didn’t sound convincing.
Rio gave him a curious look before continuing. ‘The victim had a strange red star tattoo on her left arm.’ Mac eased back down. ‘It had Russian writing around it. I’ve never seen one like it before. But, mind you, it could be a girl from Romford who saw it on the Net, so we’re going to be asking around the parlours just in case it was done locally.’
‘DNA?’
‘The lab guys are still trying to find a match for our faceless lady on our system.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘I don’t know – how long’s a ball of string? If she’s on the system, when I get back to the office probably. Lunchtime? This afternoon?’
‘Any idea who pulled the trigger?’
‘Hard to say at the moment. But we did find evidence there was someone else injured in the incident. We’ve got that DNA as well, so we’re running it through the system. Maybe that’ll help, maybe it won’t. But, if you’re asking me who I think it is, it’s likely to be a John with a gun. But you know me, Mac. I always like to get my man, so we’ll do a thorough job. Especially when it’s a man who does something like that. If you could have seen what I saw, you’d know what I mean.’
Her gaze flicked back to him, her emotions firmly in place. ‘It won’t take us long to figure out who he is. If he’s injured he’ll turn up somewhere needing medical attention, although he hasn’t popped up at any hospitals that we’ve checked so far. I think that the killer might be the kind of sicko who doesn’t leave straight away but goes for a nap on the bed. But he was bleeding – how or why, I haven’t figured out yet. So he has a snooze, and when he wakes up goes back into the bathroom to gaze lovingly at his handiwork. We found footprints that suggest he then moved across the bathroom to gaze at himself in the mirror. A man who adores the look of his face after he’s murdered a woman. Nice type. The sort you could take home to your mum’s.’
Mac felt sick. What if Rio and her team caught up with him and really thought that’s what he’d done. Gloated in the mirror after . . . after . . .he’d pumped a shot into Elena. And possibly killed his own unborn child?
‘Mac? Mac? Are you OK?’
He heard Rio’s worried voice and looked up at her. Except it wasn’t her he saw, but Elena. Elena as she’d looked the last time he’d ever seen her. Smiling down at him as she lay on top of him, naked in bed. Her head arched back, her hair flowing with the abandon of an ebony scarf drifting in the wind. And her face . . .Her face had been a rosy white, not a mash of twisted flesh as he’d seen it last.
‘That’s it.’ The urgent tone of Rio’s voice pulled him back to her. She leaned over the table. ‘I’m going to contact this Phil . . .’
‘I’m OK.’
‘I don’t know why you’re undercover these days anyway. They should have given you a desk job after what happened to Stevie, and you being diagnosed with having PTSD . . .’
‘I don’t have post-traumatic anything,’ he hissed. ‘Phil needed me; there wasn’t anyone else he could use . . .’ He shoved up from his seat. ‘I need to go.’
He started to twist round but was stopped by Rio’s words. ‘We do have another angle on the killer.’
He froze. Turned back. Let her finish. ‘The hotel has got hidden security cameras in the reception. Not for customer protection, of course – the owner suspected his staff were stealing from him. We’ve got an image of a man, about your height . . .’ Mac’s breath stopped in his throat.
‘But the image is hazy and the receptionist’s description was crap. We’re getting one of the techy guys to work on it and should have it back in a matter of hours . . .’
The ring of her mobile stopped her words. She took the call. Listened. Then said, ‘I’ll be there ASAP.’
She stood up as she cut the call. Walked towards Mac. ‘I’ve got to go. Sounds like another murder. They’re like buses, aren’t they? – they come along in twos and threes. Let’s talk later.’ She started towards the door, but stopped as she pulled the handle. Turned back to him. ‘If you don’t ring Phil, I will.’
Then Mac found himself alone. He stood there for a while, sifting through the information Rio had given him. If Elena’s DNA was on the system, it would be a few hours before they identified her for definite. Either way, it would be a few hours before his DNA was identified, as he was on the system. Then there was the security camera footage that he hadn’t factored in. He needed time. But Rio wasn’t giving him any. And as soon as Rio realised he had been in the hotel room with the body, he would be the hunted, not the hunter.
Mac left the café. Got ready to pop two pills . . . then he saw the car. Black Merc, just like the one he’d seen outside Mo Masri’s clinic. He hadn’t seen the car anywhere near Elena’s flat, but maybe whoever was inside had been there as well, waiting to get him in a confined space so they could burn him alive? The heavily tinted windows were up so he couldn’t see who was inside. It was parked up on the other side of the road. Mac kept his head down. Started walking. He heard the engine start. His feet beat against the street, taking longer strides. Tyres squealed behind him.
twenty-one
Noon
Mac ran. Eyes darting as he looked for an escape. A short Victorian lane, protected by two bollards, headed off down to his right. Turning into it, he chased over the cobbles, assuming the car would be too wide for pursuit. He heard the engine behind him ease up slightly and the scraping of plastic as the bumper tried to force its way past the bollards. He kept running. There was a pause, then the car reversed, accelerated, and then crashed its way through. Now it was hurtling down the lane at full speed.
For as long as he’d been a cop, Mac had enjoyed chasing and being chased; there was something primitive about it. Second-guessing the pursued or pursuing, jumping walls, weaving in between cars, disappearing into crowds or spotting the slightly out-of-breath pedestrian trying to blend in with the everyday. But not today. Someone had killed Elena and they were now on his tail trying to put him down permanently too, like they’
d meant to in the hotel room.
At the end of the road, he reached out a hand and swung to the right on a lamppost, just before his pursuers could ram him. Although the brakes were applied, momentum carried the car out into the middle of the main road that lay in front of it. Mac turned and watched as passing traffic came screeching to a halt at angles to the Mercedes. Angry drivers sounded their horns. Yelled abuse at its driver. Mac kept running, looking and keeping a frantic eye open for any hiding place. For a few moments, the Merc sat motionless where it had come to rest, as if embarrassed at its mistake. Then it revved. Weaved its way past the angry drivers and began its pursuit again.
It soon pulled level with him and veered violently across the road, mounted the pavement and came to a halt, blocking the way. The driver’s door began to open, but Mac leapt onto the bonnet and skidded down the other side. He stole half a glance as he went over but the black tint on the windows meant there was no identifying the men inside. He crossed the street to where a bus had been taking on passengers and was preparing to pull away. He hammered on the door but the driver merely shook his head and the bus set off. Mac kicked the bodywork of the bus as it went. The driver applied his brakes and sounded its horn. There was some shouting but it wasn’t for him. The Mercedes had cut the bus up and was now thirty or forty yards down the road.
Mac seized his chance. He didn’t run. He walked casually across the road and down another street. He put his head down, but now he wasn’t being pursued, the energy in his legs started to slip away. He couldn’t think straight and the blood vessels in his head throbbed. He walked a block. More sounds of an engine being pushed to the limit followed by brake pads being burned out on the road he’d just left. The car had doubled back and was now hesitating out at the junction of the street it was on, unsure where its prey was. Mac stopped and looked in a shop window. A pet shop. Rabbits were trying to jump around in the cramped pen behind the glass. He stole a glance down the street. His pursuers did a turn and came down the street but seemed unsure.
Mac walked down the street as calmly as he could. The car went gently by while he went into the next shop. A mini-supermarket called Price Buster. The car came to a halt in the middle of the road, as if searching for a parking space. The shop was empty except for a teenage girl, wearing a sky-blue hijab with funky silver tassels hanging at one side, who stood behind the counter near a display of mobile phones. Seeing him, her hand fumbled under the counter. Panic button, he decided. Mac didn’t blame her. Sweating, out of breath, panic-stricken and wearing a baseball cap, he could hardly have looked any more sinister.
He leaned into her face. ‘Have you pressed an alarm?’
She gestured at the door. ‘Get out.’
Mac panted, ‘Is your alarm connected to the cops?’
But the girl was brave and she leaned towards Mac with attitude, until their noses were nearly touching. ‘Get out – unless you want to get banged up.’
So her panic button was connected to the police – but in an area like this, it could be ten or fifteen minutes before they arrived, and Mac might be dead by then.
He leapfrogged the counter, the suddenness of his move making the girl stumble back. On a stand nearby was a plastic statue of Buddha, like the ones found in cheap tourist shops in the Far East. Mac grabbed the statue and pulled the painted figure from its base. It gave way to reveal a long metal spike.
He cornered the girl. Pressing the spike against her neck he warned, ‘I’m not a criminal and you’ll be all right as long as you do as you’re told. I’m going to hide down under the counter, but you pull any shit and I’ll run this through the femoral artery in your leg? You do know what will happen if I do that . . . ?’
‘I’m not a dummy, mister; I’ve got a GCSE in biology. Probably bleed out and be dead in minutes if you cut me at an angle. But if it’s a straight cut—’
‘All right, enough with the mouth.’ He crouched down. Pressed the makeshift weapon to her thigh.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Call the cops.’
twenty-two
‘They said they’ll be here in five minutes,’ the girl said, reporting back her conversation with the police.
‘What’s your name?’ Mac asked.
‘What? So you can get the spelling right on my gravestone?’
The girl was full of sass; if this had been any other day, Mac would’ve admired that.
‘Lean over to one of those throwaway mobiles and top it up,’ he instructed.
He felt her move and without being asked she threw the mobile down to him. With one hand, Mac raised the bottom end of the right side of his trousers, then stuck his new phone into his sock. Once his trouser leg was back in place, he laid his other mobile on the floor.
‘Nice and easy, I want you to pick up the mobile and take the SIM card out of it and pass it to me.’
She did what he asked. He tucked the card in one of the front pockets of his trousers, putting the phone that linked him to the outside world out of action for good.
Jingle. The door opened. Mac tensed. Someone was in the shop. Couldn’t be the cops because five minutes wasn’t up. He pushed the spike, just enough pressure for a warning.
Footsteps. Then a voice. Male.
‘Twenty Benson, love.’
Mac relaxed. Just a customer. The girl leaned sideways and pulled a pack of ciggies off the shelf. The transaction was done quickly. Footsteps faded towards the door. Jingle. The door opened as the man let himself out. Mac gently tapped the girl’s leg with the spike as a mark of approval.
Abruptly, the girl started yelling, ‘Behind the counter.’ She kicked Mac in his arm. ‘He’s got a blade! He’s got a blade! Behind the counter!’
The girl rushed to the side. Who the fuck was she talking to? Then he realised that the man with the cigarettes must have let someone else into the shop when he’d opened the door to leave.
Mac stormed up, spike raised. All he saw was a blurred, one-two, black movement of something coming straight at him. Bang, bang. Something hit his right arm, then his left. He grunted as the spike tumbled from his hand. He cried out as something hit him hard in the side of the neck. He went down. Stayed down as he lost consciousness.
twenty-three
The victim was tied to a chair. His eyes wide open. A hypodermic needle was sticking out of each eye. Rio Wray crouched down by the chair in the doctor’s surgery as she stared at her second murder scene of the day. She winced. She’d had a thing about needles since she was a kid. Rio didn’t wrinkle her nose at the stink coming off the body. She’d smelt that stench too many times before – the victim had lost the contents of his bowels and bladder as he’d died.
‘Do we know who the vic is?’ she asked the responding officer who had been first to attend the scene.
He stood behind her, next to Detective Martin. ‘He’s a Doctor Mohammed Masri. This is his clinic, a lucrative private practice by all accounts.’
Rio turned back to the unfortunate doctor. Looked over his body. Blood lay in dried stripes, layered on top of each other, beneath his eyes. The blood had a glaze to it; she presumed some type of clear liquid that had come from his eyes, but she wasn’t sure. She’d get the forensic specialist to check it out when she arrived. The needles were stabbed into his eyes with little finesse, like someone aiming at the dartboard for the first time. The needle in the right eye was stuck just outside the pupil. What colour his eyes had been she couldn’t tell because of the leakage of blood. From his name she guessed he must’ve been Asian, so his eyes were likely to have been some shade of brown. Rio switched her gaze to the other eye. Here the needle was almost dead centre in the pupil. Something to the side of the needle caught her eye. She leaned closer. Peered deeper. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked like there was another tiny hole in the white of the eye, almost as if the murderer had stabbed the eye before and then thought better of it, taken the needle out and stuck it in the pupil. A murderer who thought the
y had time on their hands. A murderer who took pleasure in the pain they were inflicting. Most people would be shocked to hear that most of the murderers she’d caught hadn’t thought about the pain they were causing. Most had been domestic situations; a husband angry at finding out his beloved was having an affair, a childish dispute between teenagers, a wife who just couldn’t take the beatings her husband had been giving her for years any more.
The needles hadn’t been the murder weapon. What had been inside them had been. Whatever had been pumped inside his eyes, travelling down through his body, had delivered the fatal blow. What that had been, she didn’t know, but the autopsy would determine that. His mouth was open. The tongue hanging out like he’d been screaming until the very end. Froth and blood lay encrusted round his lips. She shifted away from his face and studied his tied arms. No, tied hands, she corrected herself. Each hand was secured to the thick black plastic arm of the large swing-back chair. The three middle fingers rested on the arm, while the thumb and small finger were tucked underneath. Tied with rope that was red and twisted like the twine of a washing line.
Rio stood up and spoke to one of the officers holding the security log. ‘Make sure that forensics identify what type of rope was used to tie him. If it didn’t come from here, we might be able to trace where it was purchased.’
‘I didn’t expect to see you again this morning,’ a voice said.
She turned to find the forensic specialist, Charlie, and her team behind her.
‘It’s looking like one of those days for murder,’ she answered.
The forensic expert stepped forward. Moved towards the victim. ‘Interesting.’
‘Like “your usual murder” interesting? “Serial killer” interesting? Or it just “gets your forensic blood flowing” interesting?’ Rio asked as she moved to stand beside Charlie.
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