The John Milton Series Boxset 4

by Mark Dawson

  He raised his hand and, with a hard and firm downward strike, he crashed the butt of the pistol against the top of the man’s head.

  69

  BRUNO MENDOZA felt as though his head was split down the middle. It was the pain that brought him around; it throbbed and pulsed and, as he opened his eyes, he was rewarded with such a pounding that, for a moment, he felt as if he was going to be sick.

  He tried to bring his hands to his face but found that he could not.

  He glanced down.

  He was sitting on one of the wooden chairs from the dining room. A length of cord had been fastened around both wrists and looped beneath the seat of the chair. Another length of cord had been bound around his torso, securing him to the seat back.

  A man was sitting opposite him. He had positioned the standard lamp so that it made a silhouette of him, obscuring his face and shining into Mendoza’s eyes. The glare made his headache worse. He blinked the brightness away. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the man had a pistol pointed at his head.

  “Wake up, Bruno.”

  He grunted woozily.

  “Speak English, please.”

  He swooned. “You—”

  “Your head’s a bit sore, is it?”

  “You hit me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man reached up for the lamp and twisted it so that the brightness fell down onto his own face.

  Mendoza recoiled. The man’s face was bruised and disfigured, his skin a mess of purples and blacks and reds, but he recognised him.

  Smith.

  “You’re supposed to be—”

  “Locked up?”

  Mendoza struggled, trying to free his hands.

  “I was locked up. That’s right. Because of you, wasn’t it?”

  The man reached for the shade and angled it so that it shone directly into Mendoza’s face again.

  He blinked. “No,” he gulped out. “I didn’t—it wasn’t—” He stopped.

  “Don’t worry,” Smith said. “I’d rather not have to hurt you. If you answer my questions, there’s no reason why anything bad should happen.”

  The threat was implicit and unmistakable. “What do you want?”

  “Let’s get back to me being locked up. You were involved, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know—”

  Smith leaned forward and pressed the muzzle of the pistol against his forehead.

  “I think honesty is going to be your best policy here, don’t you? Let’s try again. What did you do?”

  Mendoza gulped for air. “They told me to have you transferred to Bilibid.”

  “And you did that?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “What?” Smith said. “They threatened you?” He gestured around the room. “Look at all this. You’re on the take. They paid you.”

  “They would have killed me if I said no. I didn’t have a choice, I swear.”

  Smith brought the chair a few inches closer. The angle of the light changed, and now Mendoza could see his face more clearly. He could see his eyes. They were icy cold, glacially blue, and without any hint of compassion or empathy.

  “We’re going to have a discussion,” Smith said. “You and me. I’m going to ask you a few questions about what happened and you’re going to answer them. If you don’t, I’ll have to persuade you why it’s better to cooperate. That won’t be a pleasant experience for you.”

  “I’m a police officer,” he managed to protest.

  “And I’m a fugitive on the run from a prison break. I’ve got nothing to lose. If you can’t help me show that I didn’t murder my friend, what use do I have for you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who have you been working with?”

  “He’s English.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He had an accent like yours.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Your height. Black hair. Well dressed. Like a peacock. He always wore a suit, even in this heat.”

  “Name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it Logan?”

  “He never told me.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “I was working for someone else.”

  “Fitzroy de Lacey?”

  “Not for him, for his company. Tactical Aviation. They wanted me to find evidence that they could use to get him out.”

  “How long had that been going on?”

  “Two years? Three? I can’t remember exactly.”

  “But they paid for all this?”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “They said I would be working with someone else on a new project.”

  “When?”

  “A week ago. They told me to go to the docks in Tondo and this man met me there. He said there had been a murder that day. I said ‘Which one?’ We have murders every day. He said it was in a cheap hotel. An Englishman had killed a girl. We had you in custody by then—I knew it had to be you.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “He said to make sure that the investigation was wrapped up quickly. We weren’t to dig into it too far. I was okay with that. We’re too busy, and I didn’t think we’d find anything even if we did. And then he said you were to be transferred to New Bilibid.”

  “But suspects waiting their trials stay in Quezon City.”

  “I told him that, but he said it was important that you were moved.”

  “He say why?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “I met him again the next day. He said that one of my officers was causing trouble. He said she was stirring things up. That wasn’t what we’d agreed, and he said that I wouldn’t get paid unless she backed off. So I told her. I said the case was closed, you were guilty, she needed to move on. But she wouldn’t let it drop. I found her at the bar where you and the girl went the night she was killed. She was trying to get the tape from the security camera.”

  “And?”

  “And I told the man.”

  “And then the barman was killed. Did you know?”

  “I saw the report.”

  “Was it you?”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t—”

  “You might not have pulled the trigger, but he’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you, wouldn’t he?”

  Mendoza swallowed.

  “Keep going,” Smith said.

  “He called again. He said that my officer had gone to visit you in Bilibid. He told me to deal with her.”

  “Meaning?”

  He didn’t answer. “I had to get her to stop.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I tried to frighten her.”

  “Did you put something under her door?”

  “A picture of her son.”

  “And?”

  “A bullet.” Mendoza swallowed and looked away.

  “Okay,” Smith said. “You’re doing very well, Inspector. A few more questions. This man—how do you get in contact with him?”

  “I can’t—”

  “When you told him about the video at the bar, how did you reach him?”

  “A phone number.”

  “Can you remember it?”

  “I have it written down.”

  “Good,” he said. “You’re going to call him for me and set up a meeting.”

  He squirmed; the cord cut into the soft flesh of his wrists. “Please. I don’t—”

  “You’re going to call him and set up a meeting and then you’re going to the police station and you’re going to sign a confession admitting to everything you just told me.”

  “That’s not—”

  Milton stopped him mid-sentence. “Josie?”

  Mendoza was suddenly aware that there was someone else in the room with him. He heard the sound of footsteps and, as he turned his head to the left, he saw Josie Hernandez.

&nb
sp; “Did you get it?”

  She was holding a smartphone.

  “Josie?” he said.

  “Hold on.”

  Josie played with the phone.

  “He came back the next day. He said that one of my officers was causing trouble. He said she was stirring things up—”

  Mendoza’s eyes widened a little as he listened to his own voice.

  “Josie—”

  “You piece of shit,” she spat at him.

  “It’s not what it—”

  Smith reached ahead and backhanded him. “Pay attention, Inspector. The recording is one thing. The other thing, and you want to remember this very carefully, is this: I know where you live. Here and your place in the city. And even if you run and you go somewhere else, I’ll find you. You might think that the man you were dealing with is dangerous, but you don’t know me. The reason you’re still drawing breath is because Officer Hernandez wants to do this the right way. But, and I swear to God, if you deviate a fraction from what I’ve told you to do, I’ll hunt you down and I’ll make whatever you think he might have done to you look like a gentle stroll in the park.”

  Josie had a pair of cuffs dangling from her hand.

  “Officer!” Mendoza barked. “What are you doing? Remember who I am!”

  Josie stared at him with undisguised disgust. “You have the right to remain silent,” she said coldly as Smith unknotted the restraints, stood the inspector up and prompted him to put his hands behind his back. “Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.”

  Mendoza’s appeal to authority was abandoned pitifully quickly. “Josie, please.”

  She fastened the cuffs around his wrists and dragged back on the chain until he stood.

  “Please. Think of your family. Your son.”

  She struck him across the face and then, barely pausing, she continued. “You have the right to an attorney during interrogation. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

  “It’s not what it looks—”

  “I’ve heard enough. You’re under arrest.”

  70

  MILTON HAD frisked Mendoza after he had knocked him out. He had found his Glock and his smartphone. He held up the gun now so that Mendoza could see it.

  “Just so you don’t get any stupid ideas,” he said.

  He laid the smartphone on the table. Mendoza was sitting at one end of the table. Milton had pulled a second chair around so that he could sit next to him. He rested his arm on the table, the pistol held loosely in his hand.

  “Call him,” Milton told him.

  Mendoza did as he was told, his finger navigating the display with a series of deliberate presses.

  “Put it on speaker.”

  Mendoza pressed a button on the screen and they could hear the buzzing of the repeated chirps as the call tried to connect.

  “Hello?”

  The accent was unmistakably English. Milton recognised the voice. It was Logan.

  Mendoza swallowed. “It’s me,” he said, his voice straining a little.

  “Who?”

  “Mendoza.”

  There was a pause for a moment. “What do you want?”

  “You’ve got a problem. With our friend.”

  “I shouldn’t have, Inspector.”

  “Have you been watching the news?”

  “What problem? I paid you to make sure I don’t have problems.”

  “This isn’t something I could have done anything about.”

  “Go on.”

  “There was a riot at Bilibid. Very serious. The doors were opened and the inmates got out. The place is overcrowded. The guards were outnumbered. The rival gangs got to each other and then the army stormed it—one way or another, a lot of inmates got killed.”

  There was a new focus to Logan’s voice. “And our friend?”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “He got out?”

  “Dozens did. I just checked. He wasn’t one of the bodies and he’s not where he’s supposed to be. So, yes—he got out.”

  There was another, longer pause. Mendoza looked as if he was going to vomit. Milton gestured to him, circling his finger in a suggestion that he should continue.

  His voice cracked when he spoke again. “It might not be as bad as you think.”

  “Really? You don’t know our friend like I do.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m saying I know where he is. I can help you fix it.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Logan said sarcastically. “And this is out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve already done what I said I would. You wanted him moved. I did that. You wanted the investigation wound up. I did that, too. Everything just like you asked. But this is extra.”

  “You’re going to need to give me a little more than that, Inspector.”

  “He’s been getting help. My officer, Hernandez, she went to see him again. She knows he didn’t do it. That’s where he is. With her.”

  Mendoza couldn’t help looking up at Josie as he said it; she glared at him, and he looked away again.

  “I thought you’d handled that?”

  Mendoza stared at the phone. “So did I.”

  “And now you want payment because something you didn’t handle is causing me a problem?”

  Mendoza looked as if he was about to speak, but Milton held up a finger and he held his tongue.

  “All right,” Logan said. “You’ll tell me where she is?”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you there.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty.”

  Milton found that he was holding his breath.

  “Meet me the same place as before. I’ll have your money. I’ll pay you and then we can sort this out.”

  “When?”

  “Midnight.”

  The line went dead. Milton took the phone and double-checked that the line was closed.

  “Where do you meet him?” Milton said.

  Mendoza looked like a beaten man. “Tondo,” he said. “I told you.”

  “It’s in Manila,” Josie added. “It’s a slum down by the docks.”

  Milton looked at the clock on the wall. It was twenty to ten. “How long to get there?”

  “Depends on the traffic. Ninety minutes?”

  “Logan will get there earlier than midnight,” Milton said. “We need to get there first.”

  71

  MILTON AND Mendoza had driven north into the teeth of a ferocious storm. Hicks and Josie followed behind in the rental. The rain had started to fall as they passed Santa Rosa. It had been a light drizzle at first, but, as they continued into San Pedro and Muntinlupa, the conditions worsened until Mendoza had to slow down just to be able to navigate the road. The sky had been lit by regular veins of lightning, and thunder boomed loud enough to be audible over the growl of the Boxster’s engine.

  Milton told Mendoza to take the expressway into the city. The policeman had a prepaid E-Pass that raised the barrier as they pulled up to it. There was a camera attached to the side of the booth and Milton made sure that he was looking into it as they passed through.

  Tondo was in the north of Manila. It was famous for Smokey Mountain, a vast pile of garbage that was picked over by impoverished locals who somehow scavenged a meagre living from it. There were clutches of kids in shorts and T-shirts, congregating on the corners despite the late hour and the apocalyptic conditions. One young child, surely no older than five, was hauling a cart behind her that had been loaded with plastic bottles. Another child stared at them as they went by, a wall of plastic sacks stacked up behind him. The child was barefoot, his face covered with grime that was streaked by the rain. The area earned its name thanks to the fires that burned around its edges. The locals burned tyres and wood, and now, despite the rain, the acrid tang of the smoke seeped into the car with a cloying sensation that settled on the tongue and in the back of the throat.

 
The inspector drove carefully. Milton was next to him, covering him with the pistol that he had stolen from the bedroom.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Mendoza complained, gesturing to wipers that were struggling to keep the windshield clear.

  “Keep going.”

  Milton glanced up into the rear-view mirror. The second car was close behind them. Hicks was driving, with Josie next to him. Milton had given careful thought to the best way to proceed. His preference would have been to bring the inspector to the rendezvous alone. He would have waited until the meet took place, secured both participants, got the information he needed and then shot both of them. He would have no further use for either and he had no interest in being merciful. But Josie had insisted that she take Mendoza into custody, and Milton had reluctantly agreed. She had put herself at risk to break him out, and he owed her for that. And, he found to his surprise, he liked her. For as long as it was possible, he preferred that she not see him the way he saw himself. Milton was a killer, and, even though he suppressed that with the strategies that he had learned in the rooms, he always would be.

  He would give her Mendoza.

  He couldn’t promise her the same for Logan. The same mercy would not be extended to him. Hicks and Josie could take Mendoza away when Milton had Logan. Milton wanted to be alone with him.

  They passed through a rusty arch that read “BRGY 105 TEMP HSG.” The area beyond was a temporary housing site that had outlived the notion that it might be transient and had taken on a permanence that would now be shifted only by fleets of municipal bulldozers. There were more people here, slathered in mud from streets inundated with water from the ongoing downpour. The smell changed: now it was a mix of urine, sweat, smoke, and rot.

  Mendoza drove them northwest to the docks. A sign read NAVOTAS FISH PORT COMPLEX. He turned off the main road before they could reach the complex and picked a route through a warren of narrow streets until they reached the water’s edge. A series of rickety huts had cropped up on the waterfront, some of them projecting over the water and supported by struts that were buckled and bent. The water was slicked with grime, pocked with cakes of yellow crust that rose and fell on the gentle swell.

  Mendoza parked. The Boxster was a seventy-thousand-dollar car and it was hopelessly out of place here. Hicks pulled up behind them.