by Mark Dawson
“And you were going to see her again today?”
“I asked for her. Please—”
“How did you find out about it?”
“Online,” he said. “There are forums. Reviews.”
“Like TripAdvisor?” Milton said bleakly, quite happy to make Astor squirm a little more.
“Please,” he gasped. “I can’t breathe.”
Milton pulled his arm away and stepped back. He folded the piece of paper and put it into his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Astor said.
Milton eyed him.
“Give that back.”
Milton punched him in the gut, a stiff right-hand uppercut that bent him over. He grabbed the lapels of Astor’s jacket and hauled him up until they were eye to eye again. “Don’t ever go there again.”
“I w-w-won’t,” he gasped out between gasps for breath.
Milton left him there and walked back toward the brothel.
Chapter Ten
MILTON HELD the piece of paper that he had taken from Astor and stared at it, thinking. There didn’t seem to be any point in waiting. He had confirmation that Nadia was in the brothel, and he didn’t want to leave her there any longer than necessary.
There was little to be gained by planning, either. He had broken into places more heavily secured than the flat, and he could already think of two ways that he could address this one.
The first was the direct approach, but he knew it was unlikely to work. The cage door was a significant obstacle, and, if he was unable to get in, he wasn’t interested in leaving a record of his presence on the hard drive that the security camera would be connected to.
The second approach was to use subterfuge and misdirection. That was more appealing. And Milton could do subtle.
He retraced his steps back along New Wanstead until he reached the building. It was four o’clock now and nothing had changed: the same steady flow of traffic, pedestrians walking by on both sides of the road.
He crossed over to the vet’s, made his way through the car park to his Polo and got inside. He could see the entrance to the building through the windscreen, together with another twenty metres to the right. The view to the left was obscured by a fence. It was a good enough view for what he needed to do.
He took out his phone and the small Bluetooth speaker he kept in the glove box. He connected the phone and the speaker, found the Faith No More playlist he had put together last night, and, as “Ashes to Ashes” played out, he settled down to wait.
#
MILTON HAD only listened to three tracks before he saw a possible candidate walking toward the block of flats from the east. It was a man dressed much like Astor, in an overcoat and suit. He paused when he was ten metres from the property, took out his phone and referred to something on the screen. A map, perhaps. Directions. He walked on, stopped at the gap in the wall, and looked up and down the road.
Milton could see that he was nervous. He switched off the music and watched as the man turned off the road and made his way down the path to the front door.
Milton took his chance. He stepped out of the car and crossed the car park.
The man hesitated again; Milton waited until he pressed the intercom and leaned forward to speak into it, crossing the road between two cars as the man pushed the door open and walked inside.
Milton walked briskly, crossed the pavement and made his way to the door. He could see the man inside, just making his way through the lobby to the corridor beyond.
Milton entered the code on the keypad, waited for the lock to buzz open and went inside.
He paused at the letterboxes, opened one and pretended to look through the junk mail that had been stuffed inside. He could see the door to number two. The man was waiting there.
Milton knew that he would have to judge this to perfection; timing was everything.
He heard a deadbolt slide back and looked up as the glow of the lights from inside the flat leaked out into the corridor.
Milton heard voices.
“Phillip?”
The name was pronounced with a harsh, guttural accent.
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
The man stepped back. There was the sound of a second deadlock sliding back and then a creak as the cage was opened. Milton dropped the letters and left the lobby, walking straight on past the staircase and into the corridor. The man he had followed from the street had stepped inside. A second man, well over six feet tall and heavily built, had stepped out into the corridor to let him pass. He was reaching for the cage door when Milton reached him.
“Excuse me,” Milton said.
“What do you want?”
Milton assessed him: six two, two hundred and fifty pounds. He was wearing jeans and a cut-off T-shirt that revealed sleeves of tattoos on both arms. He had a nose that looked like it might have been broken a few times in the past; small, mean, dark nuggets for eyes; and, above them, a thick, slab-like brow. A shaven head, with the faded track of a scar that curled from the point of his right ear around to the back of his head.
“This is Agincourt?”
The man glared at him.
“I’m looking for flat three.”
“Upstairs,” he said.
Milton was smaller than the man: two inches shorter and at least thirty pounds lighter. He doubted that the man would have realised the threat that he presented, and, certainly, he seemed content enough as he reached out for the bars to close the cage.
Milton stepped up, two quick steps, transferring his momentum into the straight jab that he landed square on the man’s nose. Milton put his weight behind the punch and followed all the way through, aiming at a point six inches behind the man’s head.
The man staggered backwards into the flat, and Milton followed him inside. Phillip was just inside the door, and both Milton and the big man tumbled past him. Milton glanced around quickly and saw the exact same layout as the flat that he had visited upstairs: kitchen to the left, corridor with doors ahead of him on both sides, another two doors at the end.
The big man stumbled back, but quickly recovered his balance. Milton followed up, throwing a left-right-left combination into his ribs and then both sides of his head, but the man had raised his guard and only the left cross into his ribs found its mark. Milton punched again with another right; the man managed to snag Milton’s wrist, hauled him closer and butted him in the face.
Milton saw stars and tried to free his wrist. The man had a firm grip, and, before Milton could loosen it, he lashed out with a left hook that caught Milton on the side of his jaw.
Milton opened and closed his mouth, feeling the click of the loosened bones.
Two trailers of blood were running freely from the big man’s nostrils; he reached up and swiped the side of his hand across his top lip, looking down at the blood on his finger and then wiping it against his trousers.
“You are dead man.”
There was a radiator fixed to the wall of the corridor with a wooden mantel atop it. A mobile phone had been left there, next to a china bowl that contained a handful of change and a set of keys. There was a butterfly knife next to the bowl. The man collected it and, with a nasty flourish, he flicked his wrist and snapped the blade open. The man lowered himself into a well-balanced crouch and, passing the knife from hand to hand, he started forward.
Milton backed away from him.
This hadn’t gone quite as well as he had hoped. Maybe he was getting old. Losing his touch.
One of the other doors opened and the face of a young woman peered out.
Milton became aware of movement behind him. He dared not turn, but he knew what had happened as soon as he heard the click of the front door: Philip had made a run for it. He had slammed the door shut. Milton would have to open it before he could leave, and he doubted the man with the knife would allow him the luxury of the time that he would need to do it.
He was committed now.
The man closed in on him.
Milton needed to change the environment. He stepped to the side, into the kitchen. It was the same as the kitchen he had visited earlier: long and narrow, with cupboards on both sides and an oven and hob at the end. He glanced behind him and saw a stack of saucepans, a row of plastic bottles, and microwave meals in cardboard sleeves. There were no windows, and no other way out. He looked for a knife of his own, but he couldn’t see anything.
Milton backed farther into the kitchen. It was so narrow that he would have been able to reach out and touch both sides at once. It was claustrophobically small.
The man followed.
“Let’s talk about this,” Milton said, raising his hands to ward the man off. “No need to do anything rash.”
“Too late for that,” the man said, the blood still running down his face.
Milton bumped up against the oven.
He was out of room.
The man penned Milton in.
He switched the knife to his right hand and lunged at Milton’s gut.
Milton was ready: he blocked down, slapping against the man’s wrist and forcing his thrust to the side, the blade scraping a track down the laminate coating on the cupboard door. The man barged forward, leading with his shoulder. There was no room to dodge, and Milton was bounced back against the oven. He gasped for breath and, as the man drew back the knife, he landed a left-hander into the man’s broken nose; it wouldn’t have been strong enough to damage on its own, but the nose must have been painful and it was enough for the man to fall back.
Milton took his chance. He reached for the bottles on the counter, grabbed the one he wanted, and twisted off the cap. He raised the bottle and squeezed it just as the man raised his knife ready for another thrust. It was bleach; it streamed out in a concentrated jet, splashing against the man’s chest until Milton adjusted the aim and played it across his face. He yelled out in pain as the liquid burned his eyes. He dropped the knife to the floor and tried to wipe it away, but it was no good.
Milton reached over to the counter and grabbed a bin liner that had been left there. It contained a little trash; food waste and an empty can fell out onto the floor as Milton upended it. The man stumbled blindly; Milton swept his legs to drop him to the floor and sat atop him, his knees pinning the man’s arms to his sides. Milton worked the bag over the man’s head, pulling it down and holding it in place with both hands around his neck. The man realised his predicament and tried to release himself. He could not. Milton had leverage; he held the bag in place and started to squeeze, pressing down with both hands and choking the man’s air supply. The man bucked beneath him, but Milton was able to stay in place and keep his arms at his sides. He squeezed harder with his hands, harder and harder, the bag pulsing in and out less and less as the man struggled for breath.
Milton held on until he felt the man’s body go limp, and then he kept the bag in place for another minute. He let go, rolling away from him and lying on his back to stare up at the ceiling as he regained his breath. The man was still. Milton crouched over him, removed the bag and checked that he was not breathing.
He wasn’t. He was dead.
Milton went out into the corridor. Both doors were open now, and two young women looked out at him with their mouths agape. He looked down at himself. Blood from the man’s nose had smeared across his right forearm.
“Nadia?”
Neither of them answered.
“Are either of you Nadia?”
The woman to Milton’s right shook her head.
“Where is she?”
“Not here. They moved her yesterday.”
Milton felt a flash of frustration.
The second woman ducked back into the room.
Milton looked at the woman who had answered his questions. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah.”
The other woman suddenly appeared in the doorway again. She had put on a coat and was carrying a bag. Before Milton could even think about whether he should stop her, she had bustled by him and hurried to the front door. She twisted the lock, opened it, and disappeared into the hallway beyond.
Sarah watched her go. She showed no signs that she was about to follow.
Milton looked down. There was a lot of potential information lying about in the corridor: the pile of envelopes on the floor, the mobile phone, a spiral-bound notebook. There was a carrier bag on the floor next to the envelopes. Milton collected the bag, scooped up the phone, envelopes and notebook, and dropped them all inside. He turned, saw where the cable from the security camera entered the flat and traced it down to a hard drive that was stored in the cupboard that was pushed up against the right-hand wall of the corridor. Milton pulled out the input cables and the power cord and put the drive into the bag.
Sarah was still watching him.
“You can go too,” Milton said. “You don’t have to stay here.”
She looked confused. “I have nowhere to go.”
“But you don’t want to stay here?”
“No.”
“Get a coat,” he said. “And anything you want to take. You can come with me.”
Still she paused.
“What is it?”
“What did you do to him?”
“Quickly—make up your mind. I’m going. It’s up to you.”
“Okay,” she said. “I come.”
She went into the room and Milton heard the sound of frantic packing. He checked the cupboard where he had found the hard drive, but found nothing else that looked as if it might be useful. He walked along the corridor and pushed open the door of the room from which the second girl had emerged. There was a bed, the sheets disturbed, and clothes strewn across the floor. He heard the sound of cursing from Sarah’s room, ignored it, and checked the final two doors. The bathroom was filthy, with stains on the floor and mould growing in the sink and the toilet. The final door, which would normally have led to the sitting room, opened into a converted third bedroom. The curtains were drawn and the room was gloomy, but the light from the corridor fell on a large bed, a rattan sofa and a mirrored dressing table that had been covered with cosmetics and bottles of shampoos and conditioners. Perhaps this had been Nadia’s room?
Milton closed the door and saw that the doors of all three bedrooms had been fitted with clasps that would have secured them from the outside. He was fingering the padlock on the sitting room door as Sarah emerged from her bedroom, a coat draped over her arm and a small canvas bag over her shoulder.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, then.”
Milton led the way. As he opened the door to the street, he became aware of someone watching and, as he turned, he saw the old woman from earlier staring down at them from the half-landing with a disapproving expression on her face. Milton wasn’t concerned. He doubted that the police would ever become involved—owners of brothels didn’t tend to enjoy the attention of the authorities, after all—but, even if they did, all she would be able to do was describe what he looked like. Milton could live with that.
Sarah followed him.
“I have a car on the other side of the road,” he said. “Come on.”
Chapter Eleven
MILTON DROVE to Bethnal Green Road. The café he had in mind was near the junction with Cambridge Heath Road. It was called E Pellicci, and it was something of a local institution. It was, at its heart, a simple enough greasy spoon, but it was so much more than that. The building itself had been listed by English Heritage, and the lovingly maintained decor was one of the reasons that the place had established such an enduring appeal. Chrome-lined custard-coloured Vitrolite panels covered the façade outside, there were colourful sarsaparilla bottles lined up in the window, and the bearded hipster and his tattooed girlfriend who went inside before them were an indication of how the clientele had evolved in recent years as the area became more and more trendy and authenticity became a prerequisite for commercial success.
Milton opened the door and held
it open for the girl to pass inside. The interior was lined with wood panelling, and the same Formica tables had been there for decades. The café had been open since 1900 and had been in the hands of the same family ever since. It had come to prominence in the sixties when the Krays, who lived in nearby Voss Street, held court here. The notoriety of the twins had propelled it into prominence, but it had maintained its popularity thanks to the friendly smiles and banter from Mama Maria and her children, Anna and Nevio Junior.
Anna was behind the counter and she smiled when she saw Milton come inside.
“All right, John?” she said.
“Good, thanks. Can I take the usual table?”
“Course you can, love. What do you want?”
“Two cups of coffee,” he said, and, looking down at the desserts inside the glass-fronted cabinet, he pointed at the Portuguese pasteis de nata and held up two fingers.
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll bring it right over.”
Milton led the girl to a table in the corner of the room. The table was beneath a monochrome picture of the original proprietor and his family. He sat down and indicated that she should do the same. She paused for a moment, looking back to the door. Milton could see that she was scared, but that wasn’t surprising, under the circumstances. It was possible that she might decide that she was safer on her own. He didn’t want her to think that. She would have been wrong.
She put her bag on the floor beneath the table and sat down opposite him.
“It’s all right now,” he said. “You’re safe. And you don’t have to worry about me.”
“That… m-m-man…” The words came in an awkward stammer. “What did you do to him?”
“He pulled a knife,” Milton said.
“What did you do to him?”
“I knocked him out.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I—”
“If you lie to me, I’m just going to go.”
Milton held his tongue.
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
“He would have stabbed me.”
And, Milton thought, you don’t think he deserved it? He let that ride.
