Cold Kill

by Rennie Airth

  Charon was silent. He was thinking.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ Gogol’s voice took on a whining note. ‘Wait here, wait there. How much longer do you think it will be before—’

  ‘Your people catch up with you?’ Charon finished for him. ‘My friend, we both have the same problem. Try to keep your nerve. Why should they know you are here in London?’

  ‘Why should they not?’

  Charon sighed. There it was again. What could you do? The man had a lousy attitude.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Out of curiosity, who do you think they’ll send? Chekhov?’

  Gogol nodded grimly.

  Charon tried not to smile. It certainly had a ring to it. Chekhov versus Gogol. What would the coaches make of that?

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, ‘the girl is the key to this and now that you’ve introduced yourself, you’d better stay close to her. She will lead us in the right direction. The two of them are bound to meet, and when they do, we want to be there.’

  The Russian stared at him through the darkness. He licked his lips. ‘In that case we will have to dispose of her later – the girl, I mean.’

  ‘As you say.’ Charon inclined his head. ‘Can I leave that to you?’

  Give a dog a bone.

  He lay on the bed listening to the sounds from the next room. The woman was entertaining a customer and he could hear them through the thin walls. He had seen her twice in the corridor – once yesterday, and again this evening on his return to the hotel. Blonde and heavy-breasted, she had too much flesh on her for his taste.

  He thought about the girl in the mews. How she had stared at him, the look in her eyes.

  What’s the matter, bitch, don’t you like my face?

  He knew that look; he could guess what she was thinking.

  The woman was saying something, murmuring, coaxing. The man grunted.

  She was small and slight, the girl in the mews, hardly more than a child, and though a child would have been better, he thought about her and the way she had looked at him, and what he would do to her when he had her alone, what he was doing to her now as he shut his eyes and imagined her body between his hands, and the sound of breathing was loud in the next room and his own breathing raced along with it, and the bedsprings creaked faster and faster and the man cried out—

  Gogol’s body contracted in a spasm, and then slumped on the bed. The excitement drained out of him and as it evaporated the fear came flowing back; there was nothing but fear now.

  He rubbed his neck. The muscles still ached from the pain of Charon’s grip. But that was little compared with the torment he had suffered during those anguished moments.

  He had thought it was Chekhov waiting to ambush him.

  Chekhov with his hand on his neck.

  Chekhov come to settle accounts.

  Gogol shut his eyes. He could sense the presence of death. It was there in the room with him, lying silent beneath the bed. Death glared at him through the grimy windowpanes. It rose unseen with the smell from the clogged drain of the washbasin and mingled with the odours of sweat and stale scent that hung in the room like the musty reek of a long-sealed tomb.

  The thought of his own extinction filled him with terror. But was life any better?

  Pain, misery, death … these had been his offerings to others. The pleasures he had sought brought only despair.

  Gogol rose from the bed. He went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of vodka. He had bought it two days ago. The seal was unbroken.

  He put the bottle on the dresser and sat down on the bed. He looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  What’s the matter, bitch? Don’t you like my face?

  Despair was easily washed away. One drink, then another … one bottle, then another … and so it went on.

  If he started now, he wouldn’t stop.

  Gogol stared at the bottle.

  Perhaps it was better this way.

  THIRTEEN

  Fate. Providence. Call it what you will – Kimura was convinced that some unseen hand was guiding his steps. How else to explain the strange sequence of events that had led to his seeking refuge in the church, and to what had followed.

  He had awoken before dawn, gnawed by hunger pains and conscious of an even more urgent problem that had to be dealt with.

  Shoes.

  Without footwear of some kind he could not venture out on the streets again. Yet if he waited in the church much longer he was bound to be discovered – and sooner rather than later, since it seemed unlikely that Christian priests kept office hours.

  He could see only one solution. Wait for the priest to arrive and take his shoes.

  But what if there were more than one?

  Kimura did not doubt his ability to render harmless any number of holy men, but they would certainly report his presence to the police later on and give a description of him.

  Unless he silenced them.

  Traditionally, Kimura’s calling left little room for scruples. Pity, if he felt it at all, was purely a private concern. But the thought of doing that in this place made him uneasy.

  Returning to the vestry, he searched through the packing case of clothes again, but with no more success than before. Shoes were not among the items stored there. Next he considered tearing strips of cardboard off the case and binding them to his feet. The cardboard would soon become soaked in the snow – he realized that – and it would not be long before his feet were freezing again. But once outside he might encounter a lone pedestrian. The theft of a pair of shoes would seem bizarre, to be sure, but would hardly provoke any urgent police inquiries.

  With the first grey light of dawn beginning to filter through the vestry window – and since he would need to see what he was doing when he constructed his makeshift footwear – he decided to turn on the light. There was a switch by the door and he pressed it down.

  ‘Ha!’

  A gasp of amazement escaped his lips when he saw what the sudden blaze of light had revealed. Right by his feet, lined up neatly against the wall with the toes pointing inwards, was a pair of boots.

  With something close to reverence Kimura picked them up and examined them. They were made of some green rubberized material, knee-length and furnished with deeply scored soles like the treads of snow-tyres. Quickly he tried them on. Not surprisingly they were too big, but by adding another pair of socks to the three he already wore on each foot and tucking the trousers inside the boots he contrived to fill up the empty space.

  Who did they belong to – the priest? Why had he left them there? Did he perhaps use them to work in the small garden at the rear of the church? Kimura had no answers to these questions. To him, the sudden appearance of the boots had an aura of mystery about it. He couldn’t escape the feeling – no matter how irrational it seemed – that in some way, impossible to explain, the boots had been left there for him.

  Although he was impatient to leave now, he spent a few more minutes preparing for his departure. First he replaced the priest’s robes that had served him as bedclothes on their hangers and shut the cupboard door. His break-in would certainly be remarked, possibly reported, but he would leave nothing to indicate that he had spent the night there. Selecting a scarf and a pair of woollen gloves from the pile of clothes, he carefully folded the remaining garments and returned them to the packing case. Lastly, he collected the Arab woman’s clothes and knotted them in a tight bundle for later disposal.

  It was a few minutes after six by his wristwatch when he stepped out of the vestry door into the dark, snow-shrouded morning.

  FOURTEEN

  Addy woke to the sound of gentle knocking. She opened bleary eyes to see Molly’s face peeping in.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, my dear, but there’s a detective downstairs. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘A detective … wha—?’

  Oh, shit … that business last night … Addy rubbed the sleep from he
r eyes.

  ‘Don’t rush. I’ve given him a cup of tea. He’s waiting in the kitchen. How do you feel?’

  ‘All right … I guess.’ Addy wasn’t sure. She put a hand to her head and yelped. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Molly opened the door fully and stood there, concern written all over her face.

  ‘No, it’s OK … just my head … is there a bruise?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Molly winced. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll get dressed.’

  Molly retreated, shutting the door behind her. Addy sat up, yelped again. This time it was her stomach. When she lifted the T-shirt she’d slept in, she saw the bruise there: it was a peach. Fucking Arab. She dressed quickly and after taking a minute to brush her teeth and dab a little face powder on her forehead – there was a small tub of it in the bathroom next to the soap and scent – she made her way downstairs to the basement kitchen where she could hear them talking, Molly and the cop.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ Molly was disbelieving. ‘In Harrods, you say?’

  She turned to look at Addy as she came down the stairs.

  ‘You won’t believe it.’ It was plain Molly didn’t. ‘Tell Miss Banks what you’ve just told me.’ She glared at the cop.

  It was the younger of the two, the one who had grinned at her while his partner was having his sphincter reamed. He looked different this morning: serious.

  ‘I’m told you haven’t heard the news. The body of an Arab woman stripped of her clothes was found in Harrods this morning. The department store,’ he added, in case she needed telling.

  ‘No shit?’ Addy was stunned. ‘My Arab woman?’

  ‘We think whoever attacked you was wearing her clothes, most likely a man.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Speechless for once, she stared at him. ‘You said her body … you mean he killed her?’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘And then put on her clothes and … and broke into my aunt’s house? Why?’

  ‘We’re hoping you can tell us.’

  Addy just shook her head. Molly cut in.

  ‘Haven’t you upset Miss Banks enough?’ she said. ‘Do you have to keep on at her?’

  The cop turned his head slowly to look at her. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him, but as far as Addy could see he hadn’t touched it.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

  ‘You said you needed her to sign a statement … well, for goodness’ sake get on with it.’

  Molly had moved into the attack mode Addy remembered from last night. Her voice had hardened. The cop eyed her coolly.

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘when I’m ready.’ And then, in case she didn’t get it, ‘This is a police inquiry, Lady Kingsmill.’

  ‘I’m well aware of it. And while we’re on the subject, I’d like the name of your superior.’

  ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Clarkson. You’ll find him at West End Central. I’m sure he’ll be glad to speak to you.’

  The cop stared at her. Molly turned bright red.

  ‘Just get a move on.’

  Turning on her heel, she stomped up the stairs. He waited until she was out of earshot.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Addy grinned. She’d enjoyed the past few seconds. Theatre-in-the-raw. It was the first time she’d taken a good look at him, this young cop. He was lean and sharp-looking, with hair that was blacker than hers and olive-tinted skin that hinted at some Mediterranean blood.

  ‘What happened to your buddy?’ she asked. ‘MacSomething?’

  ‘Retired hurt. He didn’t want to face her ladyship again.’ He caught her eye. ‘It looks like I’ve been landed with you.’

  ‘I don’t recall us being introduced.’ Addy cocked her head on one side. ‘I’ve watched plenty of British cop shows. Are you an inspector – a DI?’

  ‘No, a sergeant. DS Malek. That’s me.’

  ‘What kind of name is that?’

  ‘Lebanese. My dad came here to work in a restaurant. He married a local girl and ended up staying. Look, we ought to move on. I’ve typed out your statement here.’ He pulled two sheets of paper from a file he had on the table in front of him. ‘It’s a summary of everything you told us last night. I’d like you to go through it. If there’s anything you want to change or add, you can amend it.’

  Addy did what he asked. There was silence while she scanned the two bits of paper.

  ‘No, it’s all here.’ She looked up. ‘Do I sign it now?’

  ‘In a moment.’ He’d turned serious again. ‘I’d just like you to go over in your mind what happened one last time. You see, we can’t think of any reason why this man – we’re assuming it was a man – broke into your aunt’s house. Are you sure you can’t help us?’

  Addy shook her head. ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  ‘As we see it there are two possibilities: either he broke into the wrong house …’

  ‘Or?’ Addy prompted him.

  ‘He was looking for someone, and it wasn’t you.’

  ‘You mean my aunt.’ She scowled. ‘That can’t be true. You don’t know her. There’s no way Rose would get mixed up with … with some crazy guy dressed up like an Arab – a killer, too.’ Even as she spoke, Addy felt her heart give a lurch. The talk she’d had with Molly last night came back in a rush … all that shit about Rose’s mysterious trips and had she met someone she didn’t want to talk about, some man? ‘You’ve got the wrong idea,’ she insisted. But she wasn’t so sure any longer.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe, but as things stand, none of it makes sense. You do see that?’

  Addy saw it all right, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

  ‘Have you had any contact with your aunt – since last night, I mean?’

  Addy shook her head. ‘I tried calling her phone. She told me she’d lost it when she wrote me, but I thought she might have found it before she went to Paris. No one picked up.’

  ‘If you give me the number, we may be able to trace the phone, where it is, I mean, even if she lost it.’ DS Malek’s dark eyes were unreadable. Addy hesitated. Why did they need Rose’s phone? Because they wanted to find out more about her, that was why.

  ‘OK.’ She wasn’t entirely happy with the request, but she wrote the number down at the bottom of her statement and then signed the document in the space provided.

  ‘You’d better put yours there, too – your mobile number. I may need to get in touch with you. And here’s my card in case you want to call me.’ He slid it across the table to her.

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ For a moment she wondered if he was flirting with her, then saw from his face that he wasn’t. Fuck! She was turning into a basket case. First Mike, now this cop. Anyone would think she’d come to London just to get laid. ‘If you find out where her phone is, will you tell me?’

  Nodding, he gathered his things together and got ready to go. As Addy watched, he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his forelock back. It had a habit of falling down over his forehead, making him look even younger. It was something she had noticed about him.

  ‘What’s your name, anyway?’ She made it sound casual.

  ‘I told you – Malek.’

  ‘No, your first name.’

  ‘Dave.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘And yours is Adelaide.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘But of course – you’re a detective.’ OK, so she was probably making an asshole of herself, but he was kind of cute. And just so he didn’t miss the hint … ‘My friends call me Addy.’

  They spent the morning in a dither, she and Molly, both of them wanting to find out where Rose was, what had become of her, but not knowing how to go about it. Addy tried calling her on her cell again, but with the same result as before. There was no answer: no one picked up. As a last resort she called Rose’s house phone and left a message on the answering machine. ‘Rose, I
really need to talk to you. I’m staying with Molly. Please call.’ That was in case she got back from Paris and didn’t notice Molly’s message on the mantelpiece.

  Molly made some calls of her own – to friends she and Rose shared, she said, people who might have news of Addy’s aunt, but none did.

  ‘They haven’t seen or heard of her, not for more than a fortnight.’

  Earlier, Addy had wanted to go back to Rose’s house to collect the rest of her stuff and asked DS Malek before he left if that was OK.

  ‘Not right now,’ he had told her. ‘Our forensic lads are going over it. Maybe later.’

  ‘Is it worth the trouble?’ Addy was surprised. ‘He was only there for a few minutes, the guy who broke in, and I don’t remember him touching anything.’

  ‘Except you.’ He had caught her eye and grinned. ‘But that was yesterday and you’re right, it didn’t seem such a big deal. But now it’s part of a murder inquiry, that’s the difference.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s the one who killed that woman in Harrods?’ They had gone upstairs to the front door where Molly had joined them. She was listening.

  ‘Hard to imagine it was anyone else.’ Malek shrugged. ‘It looks like he dragged her behind a screen in the beds department and did her there. Don’t ask me why. She was with some other Arab women, but somehow they got separated. We’ve put out a call for witnesses.’ He saw the look on Addy’s face. ‘I know, like I said before, none of it makes sense.’

  He’d promised to call her when the forensic team was through so that she could return to the house to collect her things. Then, with a brisk nod to Molly, he’d gone on his way.

  ‘I’m not sure I cared for that young man.’ Molly’s nose was still well out of joint (as the Brits liked to put it).

  ‘He was OK.’ Addy was more forgiving. ‘Just doing his job.’

  ‘Perhaps I was a bit short with him.’ Molly bit her lip. ‘It’s this whole business, Addy. It’s so upsetting. What’s going on? Where’s Rose?’