by Ian Rankin
“The one who got shot?”
“Could be.”
“You’ve got to be careful, man. Sometimes Scotland Yard or MI5 stick keywords into the system. If you say the word and they catch it, they record your whole conversation.”
Allan was always trying to impress me—or scare me, I didn’t know which—with this sort of comment.
“Her husband may be the subscriber,” I carried on. “He’s called Frederick Ricks. According to the tabloids, they live in Camden. I’ll need their address, too.”
“Got it.” He paused. “You said a couple of names?”
“Joe Draper, he heads a TV production company. He’s got a house in Wiltshire, the phone number there would be useful, plus any address for him in town, apart from his office. His office is in the book.”
I could hear Allan writing the information down. I gave silent blessing to the British media, who had provided me with the information I had.
“I see inflation’s in the news again,” he said at last.
“Not another hike, Allan. You’re pricing yourself out of the game.”
“As a special offer to regular subscribers, the increase has been held to ten percent for one month only.”
“Generous to a fault. Same address?”
“Who can afford to move?”
“Tens and twenties all right?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, one more name . . .”
“Now who’s pushing it?”
“Call it my free gift. Scotty Shattuck.” I spelled it for him.
“Somewhere in London probably, always supposing he’s got a phone.”
“Right, I’ll do my best. Later today, okay?”
“I’ll stick your fee in the post. If I’m not here, leave the details with reception. Here’s the number.”
I gave it to him and terminated the call. Downstairs, Bel was already seated in the small dining room, pouring cereal from a one-portion pack.
“I see you’re not one of these women who takes forever to dress.” I sat down beside her.
“Know a lot about that, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She poured milk and started to eat. I knew what she meant. She meant she was good-looking and I hadn’t made a pass at her, so what did that make me? She was wearing trousers and a blue blouse and jacket. They were the plainest items in her luggage. I tried to see her as a police officer. I couldn’t. But then I’d be the one doing the talking; I’d be the one they’d be looking at. And examining myself in the mirror this morning, I’d seen a hard-nosed copper staring back at me. He looked like he wanted to take me outside.
“Aren’t you eating?” Bel asked.
“I never eat much in the morning. I’ll just have some coffee.”
“You will if anyone turns up to serve you. I haven’t seen a soul since I came in. The stuff’s all on that sideboard, but there’s no coffee.”
I went to the sideboard to take a look. A thermos flask turned out to contain hot water, and there was a jar of instant coffee in one of the cupboards.
“Yum yum,” said Bel.
The coffee tasted the way thermos coffee always tastes. It reminded me of sports fields, of games watched with my father, the two of us sheltering beneath a tartan travel blanket or umbrellas and hoods, depending on the weather. There’d be coffee and sandwiches at halftime. Thermos coffee.
“So the schedule for today,” said Bel, scraping up the last of the cereal, “is a visit to Testosterone City, yes?” I nodded. “And I provide the decoration while you ask your questions?” I nodded again. “Are you quite sure you need my expensive skills, Michael?
I mean, performing monkeys come cheap these days.” Then she touched the back of my hand. “Only teasing. Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here. This dining room’s like something out of a horror film. I keep thinking all the other guests and staff have been murdered in their beds.” She started to laugh, but stopped abruptly, and her look was somewhere between embarrassment and fear. I knew exactly what had struck her: that there was only one murderer around here.
*
*
*
I didn’t know where to find Scotty Shattuck, but wasn’t prepared to sit around the hotel waiting for Allan to get back to me. So we got a taxi on Marylebone Road and headed for Oxford Street, where, above a shop selling what can be best described as tat, there was a gym and health center called Chuck’s.
Max had been able to offer a good physical description of Shattuck, and it pointed to a man who did more than jog around the park to keep himself in shape.
“He’s like a cross between a Welsh pit pony and a brick shit-house,” Max had said.
There were a lot of gyms in London, a lot of places where sweaty males pushed weights, goaded by other muscle-bound lifters. Some of them no doubt took a few drugs to aid muscle development and performance. They were the sorts who have gaps between their upper arms and their torsos when they walk, and can’t do anything to close those gaps.
A lot of gyms, but only one or two like Chuck’s. Chuck’s was more than a gym, it was a place to hang out, a haven for those who need to keep fit between assignments. You didn’t get the grossly overmuscled at Chuck’s. You got authentic hard men, men who’d been in the armed forces, or who had come out but still kept fit. Men sometimes recruited for work overseas, work they talked about in Chuck’s, but seldom outside. I’d been introduced to Chuck’s by an ex–Royal Marine who’d been my contact on an earlier job. He wasn’t there when we walked in, but Chuck himself was.
He was about fifty, hair like steel wool, and he wore a green combat-style T-shirt, straining across his chest. The men on the machines behind him whistled appreciatively at Bel as Chuck came toward us. Bel’s face reddened with anger.
“What can I do for you?”
“Are you the owner of this establishment, sir?”
He got a bored look on his face. One question had established in his mind who he was dealing with. I knew he wouldn’t recognize me; I’d changed a lot since Brent Storey had brought me here.
“That’s right,” he said warily.
“I’m looking for someone called Scotty.” Chuck’s face stayed blank.
“As in ‘Beam me up’?” he hazarded. I didn’t smile.
“Scotty Shattuck,” I went on. I had one hand in my pocket. I was wearing tight black leather gloves, as was Bel. We’d bought them on the way here. Her idea. They shouldn’t have worked, but in fact they did make us look more like police officers. “He works weights,” I went on. “Little guy, but well built. He’s ex-army.”
“Sorry,” said Chuck, ignoring all this, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“West, Detective Inspector West.”
“And this is . . . ?” He meant Bel.
“DC Harris,” she said, stony-faced. Chuck gave her a good long examination, not caring if I noticed or not. The two customers using the apparatus had stopped and were sauntering this way, rubbing their necks with towels. Another three men were squatting by the window. The noise of traffic was a low persistent growl, with vibrations from the buses shaking the mirrors on the walls.
“Well,” Chuck said at last, turning back to me, “can’t help, I’m afraid.”
“Look, we don’t want any trouble. It’s just that I need to talk to Mr. Shattuck.”
“I don’t think so.” Chuck was shaking his head, hands on his hips.
“He’s not in trouble or anything, Mr. . . .”
“People just call me Chuck. Know why? Because if I don’t like someone, I’m liable to chuck them out of that window over there.”
“Ever tried a policeman?”
“Funny you should say that. Just tell me what you want to talk to Scotty Shattuck about.”
“You know him then?”
“Maybe I’m just curious.” He was checking the floor between us.
“Come on,” said Bel, “let’s go.”
Chuck looked up. “
All I want to know is why you want him.”
The last time I’d been here with Brent, the atmosphere had been very different. But then I’d been with a member, with someone everyone knew. I hadn’t been a policeman then either. I’d misjudged this place. It looked like Chuck had a score to settle with law and order.
“Afraid not,” I said, shaking my head. “But I can assure you it’s nothing serious.”
“No?”
The two hard men were flanking Chuck now. They knew they didn’t need to say anything. Their voices would only have spoiled the picture they made.
Suddenly Bel flipped open her ID the way she must have seen actors do on the television. “If you don’t tell us where to find Mr.
Shattuck, you’ll be hindering our inquiries. That could be construed as obstruction, sir.”
Maybe she’d been watching too much daytime TV.
Chuck smiled, first at one of his men, then at the other. He seemed to find something interesting on the tips of his shoes, and studied them, talking at the same time.
“I’ve nothing to say. I don’t know anyone called Scotty Shattuck. End of story. Good-bye, adios, au revoir.”
I stood my ground for a moment longer, knowing I didn’t believe him. We could back off, or we could try another tactic. We didn’t have time to back off. Besides, if we left now, word could get back to Shattuck, causing him to disappear. There was one option left.
So I drew the gun.
It’s not easy to conceal a Heckler & Koch MP5, but it’s always worth the effort. It was why I’d borrowed a Barbour jacket from Max. It was roomy, and he’d sewn a pocket into it so the gun could be carried more easily. So what if I sweated in the heat?
At twenty inches long and six pounds weight, the MP5 can be carried just about anywhere without creating a stir. It only created a stir when you brought it out and pointed it at someone. I held it one-handed and pointed it directly at Chuck.
“This thing’s got a fifteen-round mag,” I said, “and I’ve set it on a three-round burst. You’ve been around, Chuck, you know what that’ll do to you. You’ll be lying in two pieces on the floor, and so will everybody else. Whole thing’ll take just a couple of seconds.”
Chuck had taken a couple of steps back and raised his hands slightly, but otherwise seemed fairly calm under the circumstances.
“I want to know where he is,” I said. “When you tell me, I’m going to go talk to him. That’s all, just talk. But if he’s not there, if someone’s warned him, then I’m coming back here.”
Chuck’s minders couldn’t take their eyes off the gun. To be honest, I didn’t think I could aim the thing properly, never mind fire it. I wasn’t used to submachine guns, far less ones so short you could use them one-handed like a pistol. I was brandishing it for two reasons. One, I knew it would scare the shit out of everyone. Two, I didn’t have time to take no as the answer to any question I needed to ask.
“I didn’t think you were a cop.” Chuck sneered.
“I only want to talk to him.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The men who’d been crouching by the window had risen to their feet. I could hear Bel breathing just half a step behind me.
I should have known a pretty face wouldn’t have been enough for people like Chuck. They’d gone way beyond pretty faces in their time.
He wasn’t going to speak, so I waved the gun around a bit.
One of his minders spoke for him, maybe for all of them.
“Scotty lives in Norwood, near Crystal Palace.”
“I need an address.”
He gave me one. “But he hasn’t been in for a while. I haven’t seen him around either.”
“You think he’s got a job?”
The gorilla shrugged.
“Okay,” I said, “sorry for any inconvenience.” I started backing toward the door. Bel was already on her way. “I’ll let you get back to your weight gain. Looks like a few of you have lost a pound or two into your underwear.” I looked at Chuck again and waved the gun a final time. “They call it the mercenary’s life support.”
Then we were gone.
The taxi took us south of the river.
Bel said she felt drunk, with the excitement at the gym and then our brief jog to the traffic lights where a taxi was just unloading. I didn’t want to talk about it, not in a taxi, so she waited till the driver dropped us off. We were standing on Church Road, a busy two-lane street of large detached houses. The area must have been posh at one time, but most of the buildings had fallen into disrepair to a lesser or greater degree. The house we were standing outside definitely fell into the category of greater degree. It was a huge monstrous affair, all angles and gables and windows where you’d least expect to see them. Paint had faded and peeled from it, and some of the windows were covered with blankets for curtains, or with boards where the glass should be.
The even larger house next to it had been added to and converted into a hotel. I imagined the cheapest rooms would be those to the side.
Bel wasn’t looking at the house, she was looking at me, wanting me to say something.
“I wouldn’t have used it,” I offered.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She broke into a nervous laugh. “The look on their faces.” It was one of those laughs which can easily turn to sobbing. “I was scared, Michael, and I was behind the bloody gun!”
An elderly lady was wheeling her shopping trolley past us.
She smiled a greeting, the way some old people do.
“Keep your voice down,” I cautioned. Bel quickly took my meaning.
“Sorry.”
“Look, Bel, I don’t want to stick around London any longer than I need to. That’s why I used the gun. I can’t hang around being pleasant and polite and waiting for answers. I need them fast.”
She was nodding. “Understood.” She turned at last to the house. “God, it’s ugly.”
“Let’s make this short and sweet,” I said, heading for the front door.
The expansive front garden had been concreted over some time before, but weeds and grass were pushing their way through. There were huge cracks and swells in the concrete, doubtless caused by the roots of several mature trees nearby. A car sat on the concrete, covered by a black tarpaulin which itself now sported a covering of wet leaves, moss, and bits of rubbish.
It was sitting so low to the ground, it either had flat tires or none at all. Past it, a dozen steps led to the front door, rotten at its base. There was an intercom next to the door, complete with buzzers for eight flats. Only three had names attached. None of them was Shattuck. I pressed one anyway. There was no reply. I pressed another, then another. Still no reply. Bel placed her hand against the door and gave it the slightest push. It swung inward.
“Shall we?” she said.
There was a lot of mail in the entrance hall, along with litter which had blown in over time, and an untidy moldering heap of free newspapers. Someone had left a bicycle frame against the wall. There was no sign of any wheels.
Some mail sat on an upturned cardboard box. Most of the letters were for Scotty Shattuck, some identifying his address as flat 5. I checked the postmarks. They went back almost a week.
“Doesn’t look good,” I said.
We climbed the creaking stairs, hearing no sounds from the other flats, and encountering not a soul. Flat 5 was three stories up, near what had to be the top of the house, though the stairs kept winding. The door was cheap and newish, a wooden frame with thin paneling over it. A single Yale had been fitted. The door had no handles or nameplate. There were scrapes on the jamb near the lock.
“Looks like someone kicked the old door in.”
“Maybe he locked himself out.”
“Maybe. Since when he’s had this new one fitted, but hasn’t got round to adding decent locks yet.”
“That’s handy,” said Bel. She pulled a small kit of tools from her pocket. “I brought this along, thought it might be usef
ul.”
She got to work on the Yale. It took her less than a minute to open it. Not fast, but quieter than a burst from the MP5.
“I knew there was some reason I wanted you with me,” I said.
She smiled. “My dad taught me how to do it years ago. We only had one front-door key back then. He said this would save him having to get one cut for me.”
“That sounds like Max, all right.”
Bel put away her lockpicker’s kit and we entered Scotty Shattuck’s flat. You could tell straightaway he hadn’t been there for some time. The place felt lifeless. It was a bachelor pad, slop-pily decorated with nude mags, beer cans, and empty containers from Indian takeaways. There was one chair, separated by a foot-stool from the TV and video. In the only bedroom, the bed-clothes were messed up. The magazines here were a mix of middling porn and specialist titles for arms collectors and users.
A few empty cartridge cases had been lined up like ornaments on the mantelpiece. Mirror tiles had been fixed to the ceiling above the bed.
“Ugh,” said Bel.
The room was dark, its walls lined with large cork tiles to which Shattuck had pinned pictures from his magazine collection. Women and guns. Sometimes he’d cut carefully around the guns and taped them onto the women so it looked like the nude models were carrying them.
“Ugh,” Bel said again.
I started opening drawers. What was I looking for? I didn’t think I’d find a forwarding address, but I might find something.
I’d know it when I found it.
What I found were packets of photographs. I sat on the bed and went through them. They were mostly of Scotty and his colleagues in action: first in what I took to be the Falklands, then later in what might have been Yugoslavia. The soldiers were fully kitted, but you could tell Scotty was regular army in the Falklands, and mercenary by the time of Sarajevo. In the later shots, he wore camouflage greens, but no markings. His smiling colleagues looked like nice guys to do business with. They liked to wear green vests, showing off biceps and triceps and bulging chests.
Actually, most of them were going to seed, showing beer guts and fat faces. They lacked that numb disciplined look you see in the regular army.
I knew Scotty from Max’s description. I knew him, too, because he was in a few photos by himself. He was dressed in civvies, and photographed at ease. These photos were taken by the sea, and on some parkland. Probably they’d been taken by a girlfriend. Scotty flexed his muscles for her, posing at his best.