The other woman was grim as she peered closely at the victim. ‘No, “I’ve seen something like this before” interesting.’
That got Rio’s full attention. The other woman carried on. ‘It was years back. I was doing some international work in Russia. Working on a joint op with the forensics team there. A small place, Vayasibirsk, not the type of place most people would have heard of. Quite pretty, really, except for the gang violence that was going on. A speciality of one of the gangs was sticking syringes full of bleach into the eyes of any witnesses they thought were going to inform on them to the police.’
Rio frowned. ‘Why choose that method of murder?’
She kept her gaze fixed on the victim. ‘It’s like these Mafia killings in Sicily, message deaths. We found one victim, a young woman, dead beside her crying baby son. Next to her was a note: “The tongue speaks, but the head doesn’t know.”’ She turned to look at Rio. ‘Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut.’
Rio was about to tell the officer to take note of what the forensic expert was saying, but when she turned to her she was already writing the information down. So was this murder gang-related? A Russian gang who continued to use ways of murdering people from the old country in their new homeland? Maybe the doctor had patients he was seeing out of hours? The type of patients who didn’t like going to hospitals?
‘Who found the good doctor?’ Rio asked the responding officer.
‘His receptionist. She found him when she arrived at work after ten this morning. She was the last one here yesterday evening and locked up, so it sounds like he got here this morning. She said that he usually got here after eight.’
‘Did she notice anything unusual?’
When he shook his head, Rio said, ‘Which patients were booked to see him today?’
‘None. The receptionist says that he always used Fridays to catch up on paperwork.’
Rio stared back at the forensic team at work, then at the body, and instructed Detective Martin, ‘Ask around at the other practices. Find out if anyone saw anything or anyone this morning.’ She called to another member of her team. ‘Check the computer for medical records.’
Then Rio did a slow walk-through of the scene. The office looked tidy, nothing looked out of place. She opened drawers, went through bookshelves, inspected the floor. Nothing. She opened a filing cabinet, which sat next to a medical waste bin. Opened it. It contained the standard, manila-coloured patients’ files. If the doctor had been treating someone off the books, she didn’t expect to see their name inside, but you never knew. She took her time going through each folder. Names, ailments, treatments. She took out another folder. Most of the label on the front of it had been torn off, taking away the name of the patient. Rio opened it. Nothing inside, unlike the other files, which had listed patients’ medical histories. A missing patient connected to the doctor’s murder?
The urgent voice of the member of her team at the computer interrupted her thoughts. ‘There’s evidence that someone’s been tampering with the database in the computer.’
Rio stared at the folder in her hand. Then back at the computer. Who could the doctor have been treating that could lead to his death?
‘I bet it’s connected to this empty patient’s file. Rio waved the folder at him. ‘Talk to the receptionist again about who the patients were. If we can find who the missing patient is, we get our first link to discovering whoever sent Doctor Mohammed Masri to an early grave.’
As her colleague left the room, she placed the empty folder in an evidence bag. As she passed the evidence to another member of her team, she noticed the medical waste bin again. Noticed something odd about it. The heaviness of the bin had left an imprint, a semicircle, on the carpet. An imprint would only be seen if the bin had been moved that morning.
Rio lifted the lid. Bent over and started looking inside. Bottles of out-of-date drugs. And something else. She stopped when she realised that she was looking at a strip of towelling covered in blood.
‘Another evidence bag,’ she called out quickly.
With her gloved fingers she slowly pulled out the towel. Held it up to the light. She looked away from the blood as something else caught her attention on the other side of the towel. Turned it around. There was some type of stamp on it. She brought it closer to her face. Black writing. Rio squinted, trying to read it:
The Rose Hotel.
The Rose . . . Rio froze. That was where they’d found the woman in the bath. So The Rose Hotel had once been an upmarket affair, with its name stitched in the linen, and now had fallen to become one that was used for turning tricks. Rio squeezed her eyes closed, blanking out the world around her. Instead she let her mind conjure up an image of the bloody bathroom she’d been in earlier. She took in the scene again.
Faceless body.
Bathtub.
Blood and bone splattered against the walls.
Sink.
Towel.
No, not towel. Torn towel.
Her eyes snapped open. Could this be the missing part of the towel? A jigsaw piece that linked the crime scene she was in with the one at the hotel?
The detective questioning the receptionist came back into the room.
‘She says that she can’t remember off the top of her head who all the patients are but, apparently, she kept backup paper copies of all the patients’ files off-site for security.’
‘Off-site? Is that allowed?’
‘One of the advantages of going private, I would think.’
‘Make a note of all the patients’ names from the folders in the cabinet. Then get the receptionist to check the list against the files . . .’
‘We can get one of the techy guys to have a look at the computer—’
The ripe curse word that Rio let loose cut the suggestion off. Rio didn’t need reminding that getting any type of IT support quickly in The Met, with the cutbacks, seemed as likely as her hooking up with Denzel Washington and having beautiful, cry-free babies.
‘No, our quickest option,’ Rio continued, ‘is to get the receptionist to ID the patient from the records she keeps off-site.’
Rio placed the bloody strip of towel in the evidence bag.
twenty-four
12:20 p.m.
Mac thought he was back in the hotel room, except this time it was his arms and neck that were messed up. He opened his eyes, squinting with the pressure of pain. He faced a high, cream-coloured ceiling, with all the fancy work of an early Victorian house. He looked across the naked wooden floor and noticed a pair of legs in stormy-weather-grey-toned trousers, which ended in super-shiny polished black shoes.
He raised himself up, gritting his teeth to deal with the pain. Once he was sitting he gazed at the man, who sat in a chair with his arms folded. The man was in his mid-forties, with one of those ordinary faces that were invisible in a crowd.
‘Did you have to whack me so bloody hard?’ Mac grumbled at his superior officer, Phil Delaney.
‘You’re lucky I only hit you a couple of times with all the trouble you’ve caused me. Mac, what the hell has been going on? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why hasn’t your phone been on? Why haven’t you called in?’
As Phil blasted him with question after question, Mac eased his legs over the side of the couch. His movement was heavier near his ankle and he realised that Phil hadn’t discovered his new mobile phone. He knew where he was – The Office Research Unit, which was the official name for Mac’s undercover division. Instead of being based in a police station, the unit existed behind the anonymous walls of a four-storey Victorian house in North London. A house that looked like a wreck from the outside, which was a cover so that no one guessed what was going on inside.
Mac followed his boss’s questions with one of his own. ‘Were you following me earlier near Harley Street?’
‘Harley Street?’ Phil looked at him as if he’d gone crazy. ‘Believe me, if I’d seen you there, you would’ve been back at base a lot sooner. The only place I tracked you
to was some hotel with a blind woman manning the desk. So what’s going on, Mac?’
So who was in the Merc at the doctor’s? Clearly a black Merc like Phil’s.
‘Things happened,’ Mac finally responded.
‘What things? Like that cut in your head with the stitches?’ Phil stabbed his finger at Mac. ‘You’d better start talking or I might have to push this one upstairs.’
Mac contemplated the threat while he located his baseball cap. Shoved it on; winced as he walked over to a glass of water sitting on the large desk next to Phil’s chair. He drank greedily, only realising then that it had been hours since he’d had any food.
Still holding the empty glass he said, ‘Time just ran on, you know what it’s like . . .’
Of course his superior did know what it was like. He’d become a legend as an operative in the field before taking over the head honcho’s position in the unit five years ago. What had made Phil’s major-league rep was his face – so unremarkable that people saw through him, past him. The ideal attribute for a naked cop to have. Phil had taken a personal interest in Mac and gone out of his way to share tips of the trade, which made Mac feel disloyal with the untruths he was about to tell.
‘I was just doing my job,’ Mac continued. ‘If you want me to stay here and write a full report . . .’
Phil turned the intensity of his gaze onto him. ‘Don’t BS the man who taught you how to bullshit in the first place.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been in trouble before, haven’t we? Loads of times. We can sort things out – but I can’t help unless you tell me what’s wrong.’
Phil gave him a long stare, which seemed to include all the years they’d worked together and all the things they’d been through.
Mac looked away. ‘I’ve already told you—’
But Phil interrupted again. ‘Is someone after you? Are you being threatened? You’ve upset a lot of criminals and prevented a lot of crimes over the years – is one of those guys back on the outside and trying to get his revenge? If they are, I’ll sort them out for you. Or is it something to do with your work in this gang?’
Mac placed the glass gently on the desk.
‘This is all my fault, Mac,’ Phil went on. ‘I was advised to find you a desk job and not send you back into the field. After what happened, I should have—’
Mac snapped and shouted, ‘This has got nothing to do with that and it’s a bit cheap of you—’
But Phil slapped him down. ‘You lose your son in tragic circumstances twelve months ago to the day. The only reason I took you back was because you reassured me you were ready to come back to work, that you were off the meds that were dealing with your PTSD . . .’
The strain pumped up through Mac’s body as he screwed his hands into fists at his side. ‘I’m not a fucking nut job . . .’
‘I’m not saying that you are, but you know that stress can be a killer in our line of work. It’s not easy pretending to be someone you’re not, and also having to hold on to the baggage of the death of someone close to you. Everyone told me I was crazy to place you on a Level One assignment.’ Mac’s superior took a deep breath. ‘So I’ve decided that you need to be placed on sick leave . . .’
‘No fucking way.’ Mac took a furious step towards the other man. ‘I’ve got to get to Reuben . . .’ Mac clammed up.
Phil remained seated. ‘The Mac I know would never have threatened some defenceless teenage girl in a shop. The Mac I know is a clear thinker. Logical, cool, an assessor of facts and information. You’re not that Mac any more. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all got our limits and you’re well past yours. You’re not well. You’re not thinking straight.’
Not thinking straight? It was the same phrase Calum had used. And Mac resented it all the more because he knew it was true. And he was well past his limits. More than Phil realised. He played his last card.
‘I can’t leave the case now. There’s something big going on tonight with Reuben Volk . . .’
‘And what is it?’ Phil now eased slowly to his feet.
‘I don’t know, but something is happening at eleven tonight . . .’
‘Don’t worry about tonight, I’ll take care of things. You’re done for now.’
‘You can’t do this to me. I’ve got to get to the Russian’s—’
‘Your gun, Mac. Then I’m taking you home. Let me deal with Reuben Volk.’
Mac knew there was no point arguing. He swore as he slammed the EDC handgun Calum had given him on to the desk.
twenty-five
Fifteen minutes later Phil Delaney closed the door of Mac’s home, a flat that Mac had downsized to eighteen months ago when his wife had booted him out, divorced him and moved back to Hertfordshire. Phil stopped outside for a few seconds, just listening. When he heard Mac moving around, he headed downstairs for the exit. When he got back to his Merc, he stared at Mac’s bedroom window. Then pulled out his phone.
‘He knows about tonight.’
The curtains at the bedroom window snapped shut. Electric light came on.
‘Well you’d better get him sorted out or else—’ the person on the other end of the line came back furiously.
‘Don’t worry,’ Phil cut in. ‘He isn’t going to be any more trouble. He understands it’s over and that he’s to stay well away from the Russian. Something’s gone wrong, but he doesn’t want to tell me what it is. It must have been serious, though. I did a trawl on the databases this morning and found he’d booked himself on a flight to Cambodia this morning, which he obviously didn’t make for some reason.’
Phil took a steady breath as the light in the bedroom went off. ‘We’d better hope he hasn’t mentioned anything to anyone, or that’s really going to mess things up.’
As soon as Phil disconnected the call, he made another one to his PA.
‘Shazia, I need you to call Doctor Alicia Warren and tell her to meet me in the office ASAP.’
Phil kept his gaze pinned to Mac’s home for another ten minutes. Only when the light came on again, behind the shadows of the curtains in the bedroom, did Phil leave the scene satisfied. A light that Phil didn’t realise was programmed to go on and off and on again by an automatic timer.
twenty-six
1 p.m.
Insane. Insane. Insane.
The word battered the four corners of Mac’s mind. The madness of revenge was the only explanation for why he was now standing in front of the barred iron gates that led up to Reuben’s villa. The cop inside him ordered him to turn back; listen to Phil; to go home and mourn in the dark silence behind closed curtains. But then he felt her bracelet in his pocket. The madness deep in him grew.
He stared hard at the gang leader’s home. A luxurious North London property of the type favoured by millionaire bankers, lawyers, media types. And arms traffickers. Standing behind the iron bars, dressed in Armani suits like rich zookeepers, two huge guards were keeping careful watch. They studied their new guest carefully and then one asked his name. When Mac gave it, the guard who’d remained silent pulled out his phone, eyes still on Mac, and verified who he was with someone inside the house. Reuben’s other man flicked his gaze off Mac and got back to scanning the avenue and neighbouring properties for any sign of anything. In the distance, behind the house walls, Mac could hear children shouting and screaming. An image of young ones hyped high on happiness at another party swamped Mac’s mind. Quickly he shoved the unwelcome memory away.
The guard finished his call and unlinked a rope chain from round the gate. He opened up, but only with enough space for Mac to pass through. Mac heard the crunch of gravel under his feet as he walked a few paces and then heard an angry call of ‘Hey’ behind him. One of the men took him by the arm and led him off to the portico.
The guard expertly patted him down, checking for hardware, a move Mac had only anticipated as he almost reached the house. He’d only remembered as he’d approached the gate that he still had his Luger stuck in his waistband. He’d backtracked and hidden it und
er a wheelie bin in front of a house further down the street and then returned. So Mac tried to remain relaxed, legs wide, arms spread. When the guard finished his search, he went through it again, more slowly this time, before finally, looking slightly disappointed, he motioned with his head that Mac was free to the join the kids’ party.
Mac walked on, over the gravel, gunless and defenceless.
Insane, insane, insane.
He’d didn’t even have a plan. Still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that Reuben was his man. But when he was sure, he’d need to choose Reuben’s moment of death carefully. Of course a child’s birthday bash was no place to commit a murder. But if this was his only chance, he had no alternative but to take it.
Click. Click. Click.
In the house opposite, from the master bedroom, a man took a few shots with a long-lens camera.
Click.
A picture of a man in a baseball cap approaching the main door.
Click.
A picture of the door opening.
Click.
A picture of one of the city’s newest criminals, Reuben Volk, in the doorway.
twenty-seven
Mac looked into the eyes of a killer. But was it the right killer?
The man known as Reuben Volk on the passport he’d used to enter Britain, and AK Reuben to those in the underworld, had a face that was disciplined to show little emotion. He was an inch off Mac in height, had a body that stayed pumped up and tuned from the weights he used every day in his private gym, and wore his hair in the short-back-and-sides style of a soldier. The only jewellery he wore was a white-gold bracelet and a pair of shades parked on the top of his head like they were his most prized possession. But what Mac always remembered about his features were his eyes. So dark a brown that it felt like Mac was being drawn into the despair and dark of a never-ending tunnel. Were those brown eyes the last thing that Elena saw?
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