by S. B. Caves
He raised his glasses, rubbed his eyes. He had been working on the accounts since the afternoon, and the daylight had melted away without him noticing. Of course, for the more legitimate areas of his car dealership business he had a couple of qualified accountants who took care of things. For the movements he made in secret, Dekkers preferred to keep track of the numbers himself, especially given that he would now have to plug a nine-hundred-grand deficit if they couldn’t find Morley.
He blinked, yawned, and thought about pushing through for another half hour or so. He squinted at the screen but could no longer make sense of what he was looking at, and knew it was time to call it a night. He saved the worksheet, closed the laptop down, and then removed a bottle of Eagle Rare bourbon and a crystal tumbler from his desk drawer. Swivelling in his chair, he admired the winking city lights through the large rectangular window. The street sounds filtered in from below; a cacophony of car engines and garbled chatter. Such a dirty, noisy city, he thought.
He was just about to pour himself a small measure of Eagle when he felt his mobile vibrate in his inner breast pocket. When he removed the phone from his pocket and didn’t recognise the number, he felt the faintest twinge of curiosity. For some reason, perhaps a subliminal sense of apprehension, Dekkers hesitated before answering. He didn’t say hello. Just listened. After a few breaths rasped through the receiver, a voice said, ‘Mr Dekkers? Are you there?’
‘I am,’ Dekkers replied, rising from his chair. He didn’t immediately recognise the voice, and this agitated him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
‘Mr Dekkers, this is Ralph Richmond.’ When Dekkers didn’t acknowledge the name, Richmond said, ‘Sergeant Ralph Richmond. Do you remember me?’
‘Should I?’ Dekkers asked, finally pouring the bourbon. He picked up the tumbler, swirled it, and sipped.
‘Perhaps you should, but then again, probably not. I helped you about three years ago regarding a tip-off on a raid and—’
‘Don’t say anything more over the phone,’ Dekkers said quickly, but calmly. In his mental database, Dekkers assigned Richmond’s voice to the face of a tall, slump-shouldered man with gunmetal hair. Yes, now he remembered him. A sergeant at some pissant station who had been looking to get into Dekkers’ good books as an internal informant. Dekkers, who had met Richmond once, briefly, preferred to let Mikkel liaise with him. Dekkers thought the man dirty in a way he couldn’t rationally explain, and distrusted him deeply.
‘I’m using a phone box, so don’t worry,’ Richmond said in a tone that suggested Dekkers should relax.
‘What do you want?’
‘I have some information for you.’
‘Do you now?’
‘Yes. Take this number down – it’s the phone box I’m in.’
Dekkers picked up the fountain pen by his laptop and pressed the nib against the Post-it note pad. ‘I’m listening.’
Richmond reeled off the number and added, ‘I’ll wait here. Call me back when you find a clean line.’
The phone went dead. Dekkers gulped the bourbon down and picked up his blazer.
In the dark reception area, Mikkel’s stand-in sat sleeping in a leather armchair. Frans was only twenty-three but was built like a bull, his thick neck the width of an average-sized man’s thigh.
‘Wakey wakey, Mr Frans,’ Dekkers said softly. Outside a car drove past, briefly illuminating the reception with its headlights.
Frans stirred and then snapped awake. He cleared his throat and, in French, asked Dekkers if everything was OK.
‘Yes,’ he replied in English. ‘We’re going for a walk.’
Frans escorted Dekkers to a road just off Soho where they found a red phone box littered with prostitute cards. The phone box smelled strongly of alcohol and one of the windowpanes was missing, letting in a cool breeze that he wasn’t particularly annoyed about. Dekkers reached for the receiver, sighing when his palm made contact with the sticky plastic, and dialled the number that Sergeant Richmond had given him. Then, he removed his mobile from his jacket and held it up to the receiver, opened the voice memo app and pressed record.
Richmond answered after one ring. He began by saying, ‘This young man that got kidnapped, the one with the eight keys of brown. He one of yours?’
Dekkers didn’t answer the question. He wasn’t dumb enough to openly admit something like that over the phone, especially to a fucking police sergeant.
‘If he is,’ Richmond continued, seeing the error in his questioning, ‘I have something that might help you. Are you there?’
‘Mmm.’ Dekkers looked across the road, saw a tall, topless black man juggling while another man held out a flat cap for change.
‘I didn’t go to my usual guy on this because I thought you might want to hear it direct, especially given the scale of things. Before I say anything, I want you to know that I’m going above and beyond for you here. I shouldn’t even touch this with a fucking barge pole given the amount of heat involved.’
‘Mmm,’ Dekkers murmured.
‘OK. My spider senses tell me you’re gonna want the people that took your man from Frazier Avenue. Well, one of my men has just told me something that might prove to be very useful in that endeavour, if you catch my drift. Do you still have that pen?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Then write down this address.’
Chapter Forty-One
Dillon only realised he was walking funny when he left the petrol station bathroom. He had gone in to check his wounds in the privacy of one of the cubicles, and woken up some time later, unsure of where he was. Gradually, he realised that he had passed out on the toilet seat, although in the first minute or so, as he regained consciousness, he thought he was dead.
By some divine intervention, he hadn’t injured himself too badly, which really was a fucking miracle if his memory of the crash was anything to go by. He still didn’t feel much pain, although through his anaesthetised muscles he was vaguely aware that something hurt. He fingered more coke into his nostrils before sheepishly wandering out of the cubicle.
He spent very little time dwelling on Tara, only mourning the link he had lost to the people that kidnapped Craig. The car was stolen, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. She was dead, so she couldn’t talk. She was as helpful to him dead as she had been alive.
His reflection in the mirror depicted a bloodless phantom. He barely recognised the large, skittish eyes staring back at him. He washed his nose to rid it of the crusted blood, and then splashed some cold water on a knot that had developed on his forehead. Then, quite suddenly, he burst into tears. He stood bent over the sink, his hands badly shaking, the haunting sobs sailing out of his throat. He indulged in the misery a little while longer before the despair evolved into anger.
In the privacy of a petrol station toilet cubicle, Dillon checked the phone that the golem had given him. There was a missed call and a voicemail. His stomach filled with acid at the thought of what he might hear. He took a sip of Evian – purchased legitimately in the petrol station shop, so as not to arouse suspicion when he staggered into the toilets – and then listened to the voicemail. It was twelve seconds of his daughter crying. He hung up, fighting the urge to smash the phone against the mirror with every molecule of strength left in his body. A low, primal roar revved in his chest, and then he was seeing stars. He stumbled to the door and placed a hand against it for support, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass.
Now he had no car and no idea what to do next. Perhaps he should just kill himself. That seemed to be the most reasonable thought to have entered his head in a very long time. He could walk out of the station, find a bridge and throw himself off. What would that Dutch bastard do then? Dillon doubted he would really murder his family. He would probably just write the whole debt off as a loss and move onto the next bit of business.
His sinuses were stinging madly and he felt hot and itchy all over. His brain was a scratched record, skipping every time he had a coherent thought.
Dillon pulled open the door and was heading toward the petrol station exit when the phone began to vibrate in his hand. A groan escaped his lips, and his saliva turned to ash in his mouth.
He thumbed the button to accept the call and placed the phone up to his sweaty face. ‘Yeah,’ he breathed.
‘Christmas has come early for you,’ Mikkel said. In the background, Dillon could hear Peppa Pig being played on the iPad.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ Dillon said, his arid tongue lapping his lips.
‘It means Mr Dekkers has a gift for you. He has the name and address of the woman that took your friend.’
‘What?’
‘Shut up and listen,’ Mikkel ordered. In the background, Dillon’s daughter giggled and garbled something in baby talk. Mikkel said, ‘Your daughter is very cute. She likes the cartoons.’
‘I know,’ Dillon said, his voice sounding very far away in his own ears.
‘This is probably your only chance, so pay very careful attention. And Dillon?’
Dillon closed his eyes. A lance of pain shot through his head, as though Mikkel’s voice had chased away the high that kept him numb. ‘Yes?’
‘No more games. Your family are depending on you.’
Dillon listened to everything the golem said and then hung up. He palmed sweat from his face and stepped outside.
Beneath the white lights of the petrol station’s roof, Dillon saw a woman filling up her car. She was staring at the scrolling numbers, ghostly vapour escaping her mouth in the cold night air. Dillon bent his head, squinting to see if there was anyone else in her car, and saw that she was all alone. He began to laugh softly to himself. He couldn’t help it. He uncapped the water, took a large swig, and peeled the Evian sticker from the bottle.
Dillon hung back, watching as the woman went off to pay for her petrol. As she did, Dillon casually opened the back door of her car and sat directly behind the driver’s seat, scooting down so she wouldn’t see him upon her return. He listened to his ragged breathing, could feel the constant bounce of his heart. Sweat broke through his pores and trickled down his face.
Then he heard the woman’s approaching footsteps and all other thoughts scattered from his mind. He uncapped the Evian bottle again.
The door opened, and the woman got in with a grunt and closed the door. She was humming something under her breath. Dillon sat up and said, ‘Listen to me carefully because I’m only going to say this once.’ He slapped a hand across her mouth when she opened it to scream. ‘Don’t make a fucking sound. Look here’ – he held up the Evian bottle – ‘I’ve got acid, do you understand? Nod your head if you understand.’
He could feel her lips trembling against his hand, her chest hitching, the scream still tangled in her throat. She nodded erratically.
‘If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’m going to pour this over your face and melt it right off.’ At this, the woman squeaked and stiffened. ‘Shut up. I’m gonna take my hand off your face, but don’t make a fucking peep or I’ll burn you.’ Slowly he took his hand away from her mouth, and added, ‘Start the car.’
He listened to the keys jangle in her hand and then the soft purr of the motor.
‘Please… please don’t…’ she said, panting.
‘I’m not going to do anything to hurt you if you do what I say. And I said not to speak, didn’t I?’
‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry.’
‘Drive.’
She nodded, put the car in gear, and stalled the car. Dillon lurched forward. A sprinkle of water fell on the woman’s arm, but thankfully she didn’t feel it.
‘I didn’t mean t-to,’ she said, her voice almost reaching falsetto.
‘Do you want to lose your face? Do you think I’m playing with you? Start the car and get out of here. Now.’
‘OK.’ She started the car up again and this time, when she put it in gear, the car rolled forward.
‘That’s good. Take this left here,’ he said as she reached the exit onto the main road. He glanced through the window and could see the traffic clogging the motorway in the distance. Overhead, the burr of a low-flying helicopter, undoubtedly an air ambulance for his dearly departed friend, Tara.
He had an address and that’s all he cared about. Soon, this whole thing would be over.
Chapter Forty-Two
When Jack returned to the warehouse shortly before seven in the morning, Emily was sitting on a plastic chair just outside the oiling room, waiting for him.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, striding across the warehouse.
When he got near her, she caught the strong, oppressive smell of perfume clinging to his shirt. She thought about asking him where he’d been, because he was all dressed up and had a woman’s scent all over him, but she couldn’t be bothered.
‘He’s in a bad way,’ Emily said, pointing to the oiling room.
‘You opened the door?’ he asked gruffly and walked inside to check on their prisoner. Morley was asleep on the floor, shivering, with his teeth chattering madly.
‘I changed his dressing,’ Emily said. ‘He was banging his head against the pipe there.’
Jack looked at the pipe, saw the blood smears, and then glared over at her. ‘What did he say?’
She put her finger up to her lips and gestured for him to follow her. Jack left the room, locking the door behind him, and they went upstairs.
Limping, Jack said, ‘What happened while I was gone?’
‘He said he didn’t do it.’
‘Yeah, I gathered that. What’s all this about headbutting the pipe?’
‘He was trying to get my attention. It worked.’ She stopped and inhaled. The intake of air hurt her lungs.
Jack shook his head, a joker’s grin stretching across his lips. ‘I told you not to listen to anything he said. And the reason I warned you is because I knew he would try and turn you against me.’
‘Jack…’
‘Enough.’ Jack waved a hand across the air between them as though rubbing away her words. ‘Fine, my word as an eyewitness isn’t good enough for you. But how much more proof do you need? He’s got an arrest record a mile long. He’s got a song mocking us, Emily. He’s making fun of the murder right there on the internet, bragging ’cos he got away with it.’
‘But Jack…’ She could barely muster the energy to speak, and here she was using her last reserves of strength to defend Morley. Is that what she was about to do? ‘We could be wrong.’
‘I’m not wrong,’ he shouted and stuck a finger in her face, an inch from her nose. ‘I’m not wrong and fuck you for even suggesting it. I was there with Kate when she was dying. I saw it all. And you have the nerve to tell me different? How dare you? How fucking DARE you?’
‘Don’t blow your lid. I’m just saying…’
‘Don’t say. Just don’t say anything. It’s too late for you to voice your concerns now, Emily. We’ve done it, we’ve taken him off the street. And look what’s happening out there. Are you seriously trying to tell me that’s an innocent man?’
He isn’t innocent, she thought, but he might not be guilty of the crime we’re accusing him of.
Jack stood before her, his wide shoulders heaving, his eyes bulging with intensity, his fingers curling and uncurling.
‘You’re right,’ she said.
Perhaps it was her weary mind that felt like an overheated car engine, smoking through the bonnet from sleep deprivation, but she would be damned if he didn’t seem… crazy was the wrong word. But it was almost as if he had stepped offstage and discarded a disguise. He was not the meek man that had called her out of the blue, detailing a plan of dignified retribution. He was something else, and she felt deceived.
‘You said you wanted to talk to me about something.’ He stomped over to the kitchen and hunted for a bottle. Finding none, he swatted the box of PG Tips, scattering teabags onto the concrete. She watched his jerky, erratic movement from across the bare storage space and a fleeting thought infec
ted her mind. He tricked me. He’s more dangerous than Morley.
‘So talk if you’re going to talk.’ He began furiously undoing the buttons of his shirt, revealing the puckered red puncture mark on his chest from where Morley had stabbed him. He tore the shirt off and let it drop from his hand before rooting through a bulging bin bag. He pulled out a crumpled blue jumper with the word ‘STRIDENT’ emblazoned across it and put it on.
She would not tell him about Bernard now, not while he was in this state.
‘It’s nothing,’ she began cautiously. ‘I just don’t want to do anything too hasty.’
‘Hasty?’ he chuckled darkly. ‘Hasty. What’s too hasty then, Emily? Beating him over the head with a hammer? Kidnapping him?’
‘Burning him with boiling water,’ Emily interrupted. ‘I’d say that’s pretty fucking hasty.’
‘Then you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were.’
She recoiled and felt claustrophobia creeping up on her. The warehouse, which had seemed so large and cavernous before, was shrinking around her. Her lungs felt like they had about a thimbleful of air in them.
‘I don’t have to stay here and listen to this shit.’ She had to get out of this warehouse, away from the gritty air and the toxic, oppressive atmosphere.
‘Get back here, Emily.’
When she didn’t obey his command, he stalked after her. He had to walk quicker than he was comfortable doing to catch her at the stairs. He saw her ponytail swaying and wanted to grab hold of it and pull her off her feet. He resisted the urge and took the support of the banister instead. ‘Emily, will you just wait a second?’ She continued gliding down the stairs. He waited until he had reached the last step before grabbing hold of her arm. ‘I told you to stop.’
She spun and snatched her arm away. ‘Don’t you ever put your hands on me, Jack.’
