by Adam Maxwell
This corridor ran almost the full length of the building, with a few doors coming off at points and a stack of old plastic chairs at the far end. Violet crept towards a windowless door with a chipped, green plastic sign that read ‘Manager’. She heard nothing coming from the office. In fact, she could hear nothing but her own panting, out of breath from climbing the stairs and inhaling smoke from the fire. Still, she waited, her face pressed against the door.
When she was sure there was nothing to hear, she reached for the heavy handle.
It wouldn’t budge, even when she leaned her full weight against it.
Of course it wouldn’t, she thought. Because that would save time.
Violet dropped to one knee and slid the backpack from her shoulder, quickly availing herself of the lock picks she needed. It was a mortice lock. ‘Insurance approved’ was how they were invariably advertised. She smirked at the thought. If there was any evidence of what she was about to do left after the fire then it wouldn’t be approved much longer.
Mortice locks weren’t as delicate as, say, padlocks and required a tension tool that was much more weighty. This one even had a small handle like a manual corkscrew. Violet gripped it and slid it into the lock, getting a feel for the amount of pressure she needed to use. With her other hand she took out a curtain pick, which was much longer and thinner, hooking at a right angle at its end. She fed it into the lock, giving it a few half-turns before following up with a twist of the tension wrench and with a clunk the lock gave up and opened.
She stood up and wiped the sweat from her brow on her sleeve then pushed open the door and entered the cluttered office. There were boxes piled high on top of one another with the names of different gins stamped on the side. Tanqueray, Hendricks, Bathtub, Edinburgh, Valentine Liberator… Violet recognised some of them, but others were lost on her.
Closing the door, she moved silently to the manager’s desk. Stacked on it haphazardly were four slim monitors, each one showing a different scene from inside the club.
On one, she could see smoke billowing across the dance floor. On another, flames licked towards the lens. The third showed two firefighters in breathing apparatus and protective clothing trying to ascend the stairs Violet had so successfully set alight. The fourth screen showed the door to the manager’s office she stood in. A stocky fifth monitor sat to one side, keyboard and mouse in front of it.
Violet pulled her mobile from her jacket pocket and tapped ‘Zoe’ in her contacts. As it rang, she nudged the mouse and the monitor flickered to life.
“Rio Pizza. You dial, we deliver.”
Violet froze, moving the phone screen into view to check she hadn’t misdialled.
“Every bloody time,” she said.
Zoe laughed. “Sorry. It’s too much to resist. Everything going to plan?”
“Probably. Looks like it. Maybe. Yes.”
“I’ll pick one of those answers and run with it. You at the office?” asked Zoe.
“Yeah. Looks like the security set up is as you expected,” said Violet.
“Shit, you mean?”
Violet laughed her staccato laugh. “Yeah, proper shit.” She was interrupted as her phone vibrated.
Moving it into view again the screen blinked at her:
10% Battery Remaining
Activate Low Power Mode?
Violet’s brow crumpled into a frown and she tapped ‘No’, mainly to get rid of the message, but was immediately distracted by movement on the CCTV monitors in front of her. The fact that she was running out of batteries was worrying, but slightly more worrying was what she had spotted on the fourth monitor, the one which showed the door to the manager’s office. The same door she currently had her back to.
Not that the door particularly worried her. What was worrying was that the manager was now standing outside, key outstretched. Violet’s eye twitched with irritation as she heard the manager’s key rattling clumsily in the lock. Ignoring the noise, Violet continued her conversation with Zoe.
“Everything okay?” asked Zoe cautiously.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” said Violet, returning her attention to the computer. “Manager is incoming but you’ll be able to see that yourself if we get this sorted.”
“Are you sure about this?” asked Zoe.
“About what?”
“The job. The job we’re pulling right now,” said Zoe.
“Of course,” said Violet. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It just seems a long way to go to teach someone a lesson is all.”
Violet took a moment before she responded. “It’s necessary.”
“But—”
“We don’t have time for this, Zoe,” said Violet. “We’re criminals. And we’re women. Well, most of us are. The ones who matter.”
Zoe laughed.
“I’m not claiming to be a fucking suffragette or anything but do you think he would have paid a man with counterfeit notes?” asked Violet.
“Probably not,” Zoe admitted.
“We are dealing with vicious, sociopathic bastards. Getting paid with toy money is the thin end of the wedge. What if next time they let us do the job and just shoot us in the face as payment?”
“Well—”
“Well nothing,” said Violet. “Reputation is everything. And once we’re done here no-one will try this shit again.”
“But the fire, isn’t it a bit excessive?” asked Zoe. “Not to mention dangerous.”
“We need to take everything away from him. Otherwise he’ll just bribe his way out and we’ll wind up having to do something bigger and stupider. And frankly I can’t be arsed.”
“Right,” Zoe replied. “Stop pissing about then. Open a browser.”
“Wh—” Violet began.
“Any. Makes no difference. A Microsoft one. They’re the worst.” Zoe waited a beat then continued. “Now type this into the address bar…”
Violet did as Zoe instructed. A website appeared on the screen at the same moment the manager of the club walked back into his office.
The manager was in his early 50s but dressed like a man half his age. For a moment he stood still, as if unable to believe that Violet had materialised out of thin air, but he quickly came to his senses.
“Oi! Mate!” the manager shouted, striding forward and pulling at Violet’s shoulder. She moved slightly, shrugging off his hand, and as she did something dawned on him. This wasn’t a man alone in his office, bent over his desk. It was a woman.
“Hello, my dear,” he backtracked. “I thought you were… well, never mind. Now that I know you’re…” His eyes dropped to admire Violet’s arse. “I don’t know how you got your pretty little self in here but auditions for strippers were yesterday.”
This time, Violet's eyes were twitch free as she stared intently, her attention focussed on the progress of the firefighters on the security monitor. They had successfully made it through her fiery attempts to discourage them and had split up. One of them was exploring the floor beneath the office, while the other continued upstairs.
“Do you have what you need?” Violet asked.
“Well, that all depends,” the manager replied.
“Yeah, I’m in,” Zoe also replied. “It’ll take a minute to get the Trojan installed on their system then a couple more to get up in their shit. Then I’ll have splice in the footage of Elias going in and out at the appropriate times. Cover my tracks and push it to the cloud.”
“Bottom line?” asked Violet.
“Bottom line is three minutes and you never existed on their cameras. Four minutes and Elias is going to look like he set the fire. Five and their system is toast.”
“Bottom line is,” said the manager as his eyes slid greasily over every inch of Violet’s body, “that if you show me your assets and… willingness to please your potential employer then I’ll consider a position for you. Of course, you have to appreciate the level of filth these girls were prepared to stoop to with me. There was one, she couldn’t have been mor
e than seventeen—”
“You’ve got three minutes,” said Violet.
“Affirmative,” said Zoe and hung up.
“Three minutes, eh?” the manager growled in what he probably imagined was an alluring manner, and pressed his crotch against her. “Time to show me what you got?”
With one swift movement, Violet swept everything that lay on top of the desk, pens, paper, even wrapped rolls of pound coins and silver change, clattering onto the floor. She removed her backpack and bandolier, placing them carefully on the desk in front of her, and unzipped the bag.
As the manager leaned forward to breathe into Violet’s ear, he glimpsed what was in the backpack. It was filled with money. Wads and wads and wads of the stuff, all neatly tied up with bands.
“But…” he began. “Where did all that come from?”
Violet remained unresponsive to him. Her gaze still flickered between the computer and the movement on the monitors. One firefighter was almost at the manager’s office now. She could smell stale alcohol and sexual failure.
“Listen, Philip Gary Gibson of 16 The Elms…” Violet finally turned to face him, then prodded the manager in the shoulder with her index finger. He took half a step backwards in disbelief at what he’d just heard.
“How did you—”
“Do you think that little Janeece Jo Gibson wants to hear what her father really got up to on her seventeenth birthday?” asked Violet.
As if queued up by some unseen hand the computer speakers crackled to life and Philip Gary Gibson of 16 The Elms’ voice suddenly filled the room. “…the level of filth these girls were prepared to stoop to with me. There was one, she couldn’t have been more than seventeen—”
For a moment the manager said nothing, just stood, frozen, his anger forming around him faster even than the smoke spiralling in the stairwell.
And then he appeared to decide. And unfortunately for him that decision was to deal with the interloper in his office by force.
His hand rose, his fingers spreading to grab the hair at the back of her head, but he stopped abruptly as a firefighter arrived, fire axe in hand, filling the whole of the doorframe and having to duck to fit the helmet through the jamb.
The manager spun around, momentarily smoothing down the imaginary creases in his expensive suit as he took in the enormity of the figure.
“Hey bud,” he said, a grin slithering across his face. “I know there’s a fire and what have you but I’m sure you could give me five minutes with my lady friend here? I’d make it worth your while.” His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out his wallet before peeling off a couple of fifty pound notes. “I’ve got a problem we need to resolve and it’s pretty urgent. Whadya say?”
The firefighter seemed to expand still further. Their full height apparently unachieved until now, they towered above the manager and cocked their head to one side. Under the layers of uniform he could see muscles flexing, moving around one another like supertankers parallel parking and causing the head of the axe to bob worryingly. Through the mask and breathing apparatus it was impossible to tell what outcome was being considered, but when the manager pulled a third fifty pound note out a decision seemed to have been reached. The firefighter reached up and carefully took off the helmet, turning it on its side before slamming it into the manager’s face. The manager’s nose exploded in a burst of blood, popping like a tomato under the heel of a dominatrix. It gushed viscous red across the yellow peak of the helmet as the force of the blow threw him across the small room. He hit the wall and slid down like a rag doll shot from a cannon.
“Katie,” said Violet.
Katie took off her mask and shook her head, freeing a pony tail that had been tucked into her collar.
“You took your time,” added Violet, a wicked grin playing across her lips.
Katie, as was her wont, said nothing but smiled back warmly.
“Suppose you want to know how it’s all going?” asked Violet.
Katie curled her lip and shrugged slightly.
“It’s going really well, actually,” Violet said, a little deflated. “Five by five. Anyway…” She gestured toward the CCTV monitors. The other firefighter was climbing the stairs behind them. “Company,” was all she said before walking across the room to a filing cabinet. She dragged it away from the wall then slid herself down by its side and out of sight.
Katie shrugged and replaced the mask and blood-stained helmet. She scooped up the manager in what could only be described as a fireman’s lift. The second firefighter arrived at the door and Katie handed off her unconscious cargo before making some sort of gesture to indicate they should transport him to get medical attention while the search for anyone trapped up here continued. The second firefighter nodded in agreement, before descending the stairs with the manager slung over his shoulders.
As quickly as Violet heard the footsteps receding, she stepped from her concealment. She plucked the last smoke grenade from her bandolier and set it off just outside the door to the office, before closing it behind her. Things were about to get even more messy and that was just the way she wanted it.
seven
Detective Roach had no idea why he was acting furtively — he was the bloody police. But he knew only too well that, in Kilchester, ‘I Am The Law’ sometimes wasn’t enough. The glass doors of Elias Croft’s office building slid open and Roach stepped onto the white marble floor of the unnecessarily air-conditioned reception. The north of England needed air conditioning like an alcoholic penguin needed ice for his gin and tonic. Roach suppressed a shiver and increased the length of his stride, hoping that by the time he had reached the receptionist’s desk he would feel more confident.
He didn’t.
But the good news was, it wasn’t necessary. There was a swivel chair, sumptuous and, more importantly, empty behind the dark marble of the desk. At last he would catch a break.
Roach made his way across the expanse of the entrance hall, quickly drinking in the details, the potential for interruptions. They were mercifully few. A plain door immediately behind the reception desk, a corridor to the left signposted ‘toilets’ and another to the right leading to some ground-floor offices. Better yet, before you reached the corridor to the offices were four very conspicuous doors. The doors to the lifts.
The lifts that led to Elias Croft.
He stood for a moment, surveying the scene. As far as he could see there were only two cameras and they were both pointing at the desk. Odd in some ways, perfectly reasonable in others. You’d expect someone like Elias Croft would want to see exactly who was to-ing and fro-ing in his building. But you’d also expect that those people wouldn’t want anything more than the backs of their heads appearing on any recordings. Doubtless he’d be able to deal with whoever it was, friend or foe, regardless. With violence, if necessary. No-one would dare to come in here uninvited. Well, almost no-one.
He sauntered behind the desk. Hidden from view was an under-desk with a laptop, sudoku book and a clipboard. If his life in law enforcement had taught him anything it was that clipboards were a source of endless tidbits of seemingly innocuous information.
As it turned out, the only piece of information on there this evening was the staff roster for reception. Roach ran his finger over it and found that the person who had deserted their post was ‘Val Morris’. Once he was sure good old Val wasn’t about to burst from an unseen portal, he glanced over his shoulder one last time and strode with actual confidence to the lifts.
Four polished gold doors. He smiled at his reflection, his teeth gilded by the gaudy garnish, and reached out a finger to press the call button.
And found that there wasn’t one.
He spun around and checked the lifts behind him only to find the same problem. His eyes darted up, looking for technology, a sensor perhaps, to automatically call the lifts, but there was nothing to be found. Nothing except a raised black plastic receptacle with space enough to slide a pass card through. Next to it was a
red light. It was unlikely to turn green from the force of his will alone.
“Do you have an appointment?” The words floated with the same menace and contempt they had elicited since they were first conjured by three witches on the Scottish moors in the olden times.
So there was a receptionist on duty. Even at this time of night. Of course there was, after all what self-respecting gangster left the front desk unattended? Roach raised his eyebrow at his reflection, his confidence undimmed by the querulous question, and turned to face his inquisitor.
“Because I’ll call the police.” The receptionist addressing him was a dumpy woman who looked like she was made of teeth and impatience. She had half-moon spectacles that hung on a chain around her neck, but the look on her face said she was more likely to throttle you with the chain than use the glasses to read a book. Roach walked calmly over to her, placed his hands flat on the cold marble of her desk and smiled.
“There are other people I can call who will make you wish I’d phoned the police,” she concluded and raised an eyebrow expectantly. Apparently Roach was supposed to kowtow to these miniature threats but it just made him want to push back.
“Valerie Morris.” Roach reached into his jacket and produced his warrant card. He opened it and, with a grin, brandished it to the receptionist. “I am arresting you for section five; threatening words and behaviour.”
“Whuh-what?” she stammered.
“I know I don’t look very frightened but deep down inside I’m having a little cry,” said Roach and pulled a sad face. “I am also arresting you for suspicion of participating in the activities of an organised crime group, conspiracy to pass counterfeit notes and conspiracy to murder.” He really didn't understand where that last one had come from but had no doubt she had seen the aftermath or cleanup of something along those lines.
And at that, he had her.
No matter how many times he arrested someone, Roach never tired of the myriad reactions he encountered. Each one made a nuanced statement about the guilt or innocence of the suspect in question.
Of course the guilt or otherwise of Miss (he was pretty sure she was a Miss) Morris was not in question. On the one hand she worked for Croft, so she knew the score. On the other hand, if she didn’t do as she was instructed he’d kill her and bury her in her own back garden with a suicide note on the dining room table. Croft wasn’t the greatest criminal mastermind but he was a vicious bastard and he had money.