Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Hoodie attached to jeans jacket. Maybe hiding something? A head injury?

  ‘But he looked upset . . . ?’

  Rio’s head lifted up away from her notepad.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure, but his eyes were bloodshot, like he’d been crying, or at least going at it with a bottle of something strong.’ He leaned back. ‘There was something about him that put me in mind of my granddad when my Nan passed away. He looked kind of lost, like he’s on the way to somewhere in my cab but don’t really know where he’s going.’

  Upset? Or in pain from an injury? Head injury? Bullet wound?

  He took in a long breath, not from his nose this time, but from deep within his mouth. ‘Thought I’d have to tell him to get out when I thought he was smoking.’

  ‘So he was a smoker?’

  He leaned forward again. ‘Well, he said that he didn’t have a fag, but he definitely had something in his hand. Don’t know what it was, but he pushed something back inside his jacket.’

  Something inside his jacket. Gun? Knife? Or maybe just an everyday pen?

  ‘How tall was he?’

  ‘I’d say . . .’ He twisted his lips. ‘About five eleven, five ten; he didn’t top six foot.’

  Five ten or eleven.

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  He shook his head. ‘When I heard the news report on the radio, I thought I should drop in and have a word. I mean, it might mean nothing, but no harm coming in. I mean he could’ve been anyone, just wanted dropping off in a rough part of town . . .’

  ‘Where did you drop him off?’

  He told her.

  Brixton.

  Rough end of town? Rio half smiled at that. She’d tried to buy a flat there a few years back and couldn’t afford the three-hundred-G-plus price tag.

  ‘I’m going to get one of my colleagues to get a police sketch artist to get your description computerised.’

  A few minutes later, Rio was back on her own, leaning against the wall outside the interview room, staring at her notes.

  Male.

  Hotel on Crawley Street. Names of the other hotels?

  Thirty-two years old. Maybe older, mid-thirties?

  Hoodie attached to jeans jacket. Maybe hiding something? A head injury?

  Upset? Or in pain from an injury? Head injury? Bullet wound?

  Something inside his jacket. Gun? Knife? Or maybe just a freaking pen?

  Five ten or eleven.

  Brixton.

  The cab driver’s passenger might not have anything to do with the investigation. Might just be a guy taking a ride from A to B. Might be the client of a prostitute who just didn’t want to be recognised? Or was this her naked cop?

  forty

  Mac’s finger twitched against the trigger. But what if it wasn’t your kid? What if it was Sergei’s? The guilt was overpowering, but doubt was starting to creep through. Mac’s inner cop kicked into gear, allowing his mind to take that step back and see all of the evidence:

  Elena is murdered on the same day Sergei’s girlfriend goes missing.

  The description of this Katia-Anna-Annalisa fits Elena.

  He’d only ever met one woman who showcased a red star tattoo.

  His mind twisted back. But if that was your child, are you really going to let some bastard get away with killing him? You owe it to Stevie, and maybe you owe this child too. Justice. Revenge.

  Slowly Mac eased the gun from his mouth. Put it away and took out the bottle of pills in two swift moves. He still wasn’t sure if these were the same meds that Doctor Warren had doled out to him, but if he was going to find out the truth, he couldn’t go around with the head that currently sat on his shoulders. As he popped two pills, the toilet door swung open. A woman with blonde pigtails. She became flustered when she saw him.

  ‘This is the Ladies loo,’ she said, her voice still clinging to its Russian roots.

  Yellow crop top, blowsy blonde pigtails. The pole dancer from the dance floor downstairs. Only when he caught her face did Mac realise that she was something else as well – the woman he’d rescued from Elena’s burning building.

  They both stared back, surprised. Hurriedly she twisted round, but Mac was on her in two steps. She gasped as he dragged her back inside and pushed her against the grass-green tiled wall. The tabs hit Mac’s blood, heating him up. He looked her up and down, the same way he’d assess a suspect during an interrogation. Her eyes darted around, fingers resting on the strap of her bag curled, uncurled, curled.

  The power of the drugs pushed his face a half-inch from her own. ‘You claimed not to know Elena this morning. Said that you were just a neighbour.’

  ‘I’ll scream . . .’ Her voice jerked, her accent stronger.

  ‘Go ahead.’ Mac’s breath blew against her skin. ‘But the boss of the club isn’t going to be happy that you wouldn’t tell me what you know about Elena’s disappearance.’

  At the mention of Reuben, her eyes widened. ‘I don’t know her really . . .’

  ‘Then how come you work in the same club that she comes to?’

  Her hand tightened against her bag. ‘I just dance, that’s all, keep the men happy and my eyes to myself.’

  He shifted his body closer to her. The pattern of her breathing changed to a distressed and rapid in-and-out motion.

  ‘I’m a man, so why don’t you keep me happy by telling me the truth?’

  She thought for a few seconds. ‘All I know is she comes here with her friend. Another woman. Bit younger than her, I don’t know her name. I don’t ask questions.’

  The last was said as if he should be doing the same.

  A calmness came over him and a strength of mind that he hadn’t felt in a long time. ‘So who did you see come to her flat? Boyfriends?’

  ‘She wasn’t that type of girl,’ she threw back vehemently.

  ‘So you did know her?’

  ‘All I know is, she had a few problems . . .’

  ‘What problems?’

  A whoosh of air left her throat. ‘I don’t know. Family stuff, I think. I could sometimes hear her arguing . . .’ Her lips clamped together like she’d realised she’d said too much.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘I don’t know. Last night I saw her go out and only realised she was back when I heard the voices coming from her place upstairs . . .’

  ‘What voices?’

  She shrugged. ‘Hers . . . I think another woman’s. I think it was family stuff because they kept mentioning the word “papa” . . . you know, father. I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got a family back home to think of . . . a little girl . . . I’ve told you what I know so leave me alone.’

  It was the mention of her daughter that made him step back, give her enough space to rush out. He’d been a family man once, having to work all God’s hours to provide for Stevie. Mac pulled out the remnants of the photo he’d found in Elena’s fireplace. Two men, obviously pleased to be in each other’s company. Maybe one was her father? So she was having family troubles – hey, didn’t everyone? It probably had nothing to do with anything. But who was the woman she was arguing with? He thought back to the blanket and makeshift pillow on Elena’s sofa. Probably this woman had been staying with her. The questions roamed his mind until he came to one conclusion – the only person who might have some answers was Sergei.

  Mind clear, Mac left the Ladies and made his way to the exit upstairs. As he neared the door, a voice called out behind him. Jeff.

  ‘That’s her in the photo. Sergei’s lady.’

  He pointed at one of the photographs in the frame hosting lots of other pictures; Mac realised they were showing off people having a good time at the club.

  It was a party shot of about ten people gathered together. On the right, in the background, was a woman in a pink wig with her arm round a woman with chin-trimmed black hair.

  Elena.

  forty-one

  2:35 p.m.

  Ri
o stood in front of the whiteboard where Detective Martin had pinned and written all the information relating to the case.

  Three photo shots of the gruesome remains of the victim.

  Two shots of the bloodstained bed.

  Rose Hotel.

  Rohypnol.

  Pregnant.

  Photo of the towel found at Doctor Mohammed Masri’s.

  Hotel security film.

  Doctor Mohammed Masri.

  Cab driver.

  Rio picked up a thick black marker and wrote: 1402c.

  Just writing the undercover cop code made her fury at Phil increase. She was so fucked off with him. She almost laughed out loud at that. He’s fucking her over while she’s letting him fuck her. He knew who the naked cop was. Knew what he’d been doing in the hotel room. Just frigging-hell knew. She stared back at the board and the big, red question mark that James had placed in the middle showing they still didn’t know who the vic was. Rio was going to find out who that undercover bastard was, even if that meant she didn’t sleep. She hadn’t figured out yet how she was going to do it . . .

  ‘What’s the number mean?’

  She turned to find Martin behind her, nursing a cup of coffee as he stared up at the board.

  Rio didn’t answer him. Should she tell him? Shouldn’t she? Never hold out on your partner – that was one of the golden rules of teamwork, along with making sure you looked after your partner’s back.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she answered slowly with the half-truth.

  James sipped, then asked, ‘But where’s it from?’

  ‘When I’ve figured that out, you’ll be the first to know. I take it our international friends still haven’t come back with an ID?’

  She didn’t hang around to catch his answer because she already knew what it was. So with the anger towards Phil churning inside, she swiftly moved to her desk. Didn’t sit down, but leaned over and picked up the telephone receiver. Punched in a number. Stood straight.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Rio Wray from Scotland Yard. I’m calling to find out if a DNA match has been secured on a murder I’m investigating . . . Yes, one of my detectives called through with a request earlier today . . . No problem, I’ll wait.’ She kept the phone to her face as Martin joined her.

  The person on the other end of the line came back a few minutes later, obviously with news that made Rio twist her mouth. ‘Well, tell Officer Branaski that when he gets back from his meeting he’s to call me immediately.’ Her voice softened. ‘And please tell him that we really need to know who this young woman is because our priority is to let her family know what has happened to her as soon as possible, and that we’re really grateful for his assistance in this. Thank you.’

  Rio ended the call and turned back to the younger man; the expression on her face had moved from soft to steaming. ‘Lazy bastard. If he doesn’t pull his finger out, I’m catching a plane, and before he knows it he’s going to have me and my shadow following him around until he comes up with the goods.’ She finished with the rush of a train going helter-skelter off the tracks.

  Martin gave her one of his ‘What’s up?’ stares. ‘Do you need a cup of something, DI?’ His voice was as gentle as the way he placed his cup on the corner of her desk.

  Agitated, Rio ran her fingers through her ’fro. ‘What I need is to solve this case.’

  ‘But what if they don’t have a record that matches the DNA?’

  It wasn’t what she wanted or needed to hear. ‘Then we’re going to have to tear this town apart until somebody starts singing the words I need to hear. Somebody out there knows who she is. She’s got to be somebody’s daughter, lover, sister or friend.’ Rio pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

  ‘I’ll get you that—’

  Her eyes snapped back open. ‘Some woman has been butchered on my watch and you think I’m going to be able to sit around here with my feet up taking afternoon fucking tea?’ Rio ran a palm over her mouth. Let her shoulders drop. Got back in control. ‘Right, what’s happening with the techy guy for the security film?’

  Martin just stared back.

  ‘Find out where he is and how long it’s going to take him to get here.’

  Martin quickly moved, but Rio yelled at his back, ‘And take that with you.’ She pointed at the cup he’d left on the desk.

  Alone again, Rio pulled off the top file in her in-tray. Flipped the cover back. Took out the top sheet of paper.

  White.

  Male.

  Thirties.

  Hoodie attached to jacket.

  She stared at the e-photo of the cab driver’s description of the passenger. Something familiar kept flitting across her mind, but she couldn’t place it. Why did the drawing look so familiar?

  She needed to find out who the cop was, but Phil was her only lead. Damn. Who else could she connect with on this? Who? Who? Her mind flicked through contacts in other departments. Vice? Drugs? Counter-terrorism? The list went on, but no one person jumped out at her. What she needed was another contact in The Office Research Unit, but that division kept itself to itself. Secrecy was what kept its wheels turning. There must be someone. Some . . . Her mind froze. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of him before?

  Mac.

  She threw the Photofit back in the file and pulled out her mobile. But before she could contact Mac, a voice near her desk said, ‘DI Wray?’

  A woman clutching a large bag stood by her desk. She was much smaller than Rio, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that stretched the already stressed skin of her face. Her eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming up? They said it was OK to do so downstairs.’

  It took Rio a while to place her, but then she did. ‘You’re Doctor Masri’s receptionist.’ She pulled a nearby empty seat towards her desk. ‘Please,’ she offered.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Rio asked gently once the woman was sitting down.

  ‘Patricia.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to your employer and am grateful for any help you can give us in apprehending his murderer. But you didn’t need to come, you could have just given the information to the officer I sent with you—’

  ‘No,’ the other woman cut in softly. ‘I wanted to do this. I felt I owed it to Doctor Masri.’

  She opened her bag. ‘I found the missing patient . . . Doctor Mo’s patient.’ Her voice was thin and breathless with nerves.

  The dead doctor’s receptionist placed a manila folder on the desk. Rio used a finger to swivel it round towards her. Opened it. Read the name.

  ‘DI?’ Detective Martin shot out excitedly across the room. He practically ran towards his superior. ‘Europol just came back with a DNA match to our vic in the hotel. We’ve got a name.’

  ‘Elena Romanov?’ Rio asked.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  Rio held up the missing patient file. A stunned Martin read out the name written in typed black ink inside. ‘Elena Romanov.’

  forty-two

  ‘Do you think your feelings towards her have changed since she passed away?’ Doctor Alicia Warren asked her two thirty appointment in her office.

  The calmness of her consultation was disrupted by the sound of a commotion coming from outside. Raised voices, one of which was her receptionist’s and the other she couldn’t identify. Male voice. Low and urgent.

  ‘Excuse me a moment . . .’ she apologised to her patient as she started rising from the chair.

  But before she could complete the action, the door burst open.

  ‘I’ve told you that you can’t go in there,’ her receptionist shouted behind the man who stood in the doorway.

  ‘We need to talk,’ the man fired at the doctor, ignoring the receptionist.

  Doctor Warren twisted her lips together as her fine-shaped eyebrows lifted in annoyance. ‘I’m in the middle of a session and you should not be here—’

  ‘Well, we’re all in the middle of sessio
ns, Doctor, so now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ the man cut in.

  She should insist on him leaving, but he was her most valuable client, bringing in substantial levels of work that most therapists could only dream of.

  Doctor Warren turned to her patient. ‘I’m really sorry, but would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes?’

  As soon as the patient was gone, she turned all her professional fury onto the intruder. ‘Mr Delaney, I told your PA that I would see you this evening. Just because I’ve got a contract with your department does not give you the right to come here and behave like this.’

  Phil Delaney took a seat. ‘This can’t wait.’

  Resigned to the situation, the therapist said, voice cool and level, ‘I can only give you a few minutes of my time.’

  ‘John MacDonagh. Give me a window into his state of mind.’

  The doctor leaned forward. ‘John MacDonagh . . . ?’ She stopped, her mind thinking back. ‘The police officer whose son died?’ At Phil’s curt nod she continued. ‘I can’t talk about my sessions with him; you know that, it’s confidential. I submitted a summary report a year ago . . .’

  ‘I need more than a report filled with technical jargon.’

  She leaned back, but a look of concern stretched her face. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Do you think that he’s dangerous?’

  Silence. Then she spoke again. ‘In my report I made it very clear that he was suffering considerable trauma and shock over the death of his young son.’ She neatly crossed her legs. ‘What I didn’t make so clear was that most of that trauma stems from the guilt and the blame he feels regarding his son’s death. Do you know what it must feel like to lose a child?’

  ‘This isn’t about me, it’s about him. If he was back at work, in the field . . . ?’

  ‘Tell me you’re joking.’ For the first time, emotion came through her tone. ‘Tell me that you did not allow him to come back to work. I made it clear, in my opinion, he was not ready to return to work.’

  Phil didn’t answer, just kept direct eye contact with her.