The End

by Dave Lacey

  ***

  The emergency services operator took the call at 23.30 on Friday evening. She did not raise any alarms, for she dealt with many frantic calls from the public. Nor did she manage to get any significant details from the caller, other than the fact that his name was Paul and he was calling in regard to a female who had recently died. He had been almost inconsolable during the call, and the operator was deeply concerned for his wellbeing. The information obtained from the call would not have raised any alarm bells at all, had it not been for the compassion and lateral thinking of the person who took it.

  She took a transcript of the call and emailed it through to two different departments: one covering accidental deaths, the other homicide. The latter happened to be Superintendant Whittaker. And so it was that when Whittaker dropped into the office on Saturday morning to pick up his reading glasses, he happened to scan the transcript his secretary had printed out and left on his desk. It was not an immediate moment of revelation, but rather an afterthought that prompted him to drop it onto Jack Sumner’s desk with a Post It note attached which read ‘Worth checking out?’

  Jack arrived early on Monday morning. He had been awake for a while, and decided at four thirty that there was little point in lying in bed trying desperately to go back to sleep. He had risen, showered, shaved and dressed. By five he was on the M62 eastbound. Half an hour later he walked through the empty banks of desks to his own. There was something comforting about being in work when nobody else was, something satisfying. It was the peace and quiet, the absence of distraction. Maybe it was all of those things that caused the email to resonate the way it did. For Jack, it was seeing the name Paul without seeing a surname, seeing it on paper exactly the way he had heard and seen it for the past week and a half. He read through it again.

  Operator: Hello, this is the emergency services. You’re through to the police. How can I help?

  Caller: (Obviously crying) Hello, I need to speak to somebody.

  Operator: Hello, sir, are you okay? Can I take your name please?

  Caller: It’s Paul. I need to speak to somebody.

  Operator: Okay, Paul, can I take your surname?

  Caller: It’s my mum. I don’t think she fell, I think she was murdered (Really upset)

  Operator: Okay, Paul, can I take your mum’s name please? I need to get some details from you so that I can help you, okay?

  Caller: No, I can’t, they’ll come after me. It’s all going bad now.

  Operator: Can you calm down for me? What makes you think your mum didn’t have an accident, Paul?

  Caller: Because she’s not the first. It’s because she told me, and I told him, and now they’re gone, and I don’t know what to do.

  Operator: Take a deep breath now, Paul. Now, what happened to your mum? Can you tell me?

  Caller: They’re saying she slipped in the shower, but she didn’t. Who slips in the shower?

  Operator: Paul, I know you’re obviously upset about your mum, but you’d be surprised how many people die this way. Is there anybody there with you, your dad maybe?

  Caller: No, not him, we don’t get on. Not at home.

  Operator: Where are you then? Can you tell me?

  Caller: No, it’s too dangerous. Can’t tell.

  Operator: You can tell me.

  Caller: No, I need to go now, too dangerous. You need to find out what happened. You need to find out who’s doing this. It’s because she knew, and I know. (Caller hung up)

  He couldn’t say why, but he knew with absolute certainty that this was him, this was their Paul. But what he didn’t know was what had happened to his mother. And what was it they had ‘all known’? He felt excited for the first time in what seemed an age. Finally they had a breakthrough, assuming he was right. His instincts were generally very good. He got up and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Thank God for Nespresso, he thought, and thank God the force had been generous enough to buy a machine for CID.

  He made himself an espresso with a shot of condensed milk, and savoured each of the three mouthfuls. He leant back against the cupboards and considered their next step. He had all but put the incident with Joe Roach out of his mind, but now it came back to him. He wondered if the ‘it’ that Paul, his mother and Alphonse had known about led back to Roach and his associates. Having said that, he believed Roach when he had pleaded his innocence. He couldn’t wait for Smithy to get to work. He genuinely thought they had gotten their break.

  When he got back to his desk, he logged on and went straight to the police records system. It was a vast database which stored all cases, whether solved, open, closed, dormant or otherwise. He used the search function to look up cases containing shower-accident-death-female in the past two weeks. It would take a few minutes, so he took the liberty of calling his partner in crime.

  “Hmph?”

  “Good morning, Sunshine, it’s time for police work.”

  “Is that you?”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “Why couldn’t Roach have kept you over the weekend?” Smithy mumbled.

  “Lovely. You’re a charming little man, Mr Smith.”

  “What could you possibly want at…seven o’clock on a Monday morning?”

  “Surely you’re on the point of getting up anyway? Plus, we’ve had a little break in the case.”

  “Okay, I’m all ears.” Smithy was suddenly awake and businesslike.

  “Emergency services took a call on Friday night from a young man named Paul; he was very upset about the death of his mother, whom he believed had been murdered rather than having slipped in the shower. He insisted it was because she’d known something that he knew and that a third party, male, had also known, and that was why they were both dead.”

  “Shit. Do we know his surname? Where he is? Who his mother is?”

  “None of that was given over the phone.”

  “Shit.”

  “But…” The ding from the PC told him his search was complete. “I’ve run a search on a few details through the system, and we have two results. Lindsey Sharne, aged twenty-three from Oldham, and Susan Warwick aged forty-five from Bowden. Wife to Edward, and, wait for it, mother of Paul.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 16

  When Smithy arrived, he and Jack made their way across to see the team that had been out to the Warwick property after Edward had arrived home and reported the death of his wife. They discussed the details of the case: what the scene had looked like when they got there, if there was anything amiss, etc.

  Everything had looked above board they insisted, and the scene had been managed professionally. It was what it was – an accident. They had also asked if the son had been present at any time. They were told no, and that at the time it had seemed a little odd, that maybe the father had been a bit strange when asked about his son. The only thing that stuck out about the whole thing was what had come back from the coroner just that morning.

  “Which was?” Smithy asked.

  “Well, the husband had been at work all day, which we verified, but it seems that Mrs Warwick had had sex sometime in the afternoon of the day she died,” one of the officers replied.

  “Forced?”

  “No, consenting apparently. There were no defence marks on her body, and no tearing or bruising on or around the sexual organs. Mrs Warwick was playing away.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t tell him?” Smithy asked.

  “The husband? No, not yet.”

  “But you’re going to?”

  “The boss hasn’t decided yet. Is there some reason we should?”

  “I’m also guessing, then, that you didn’t receive the transcript of the telephone call that operations took on Friday evening?”

  “No. Look, what’s going on?”

  Jack and Smithy then explained to the officers present about the content of the call and its implications. There were bemused looks all round; without exception, those present looked sceptical at best. Jack to
ok the looks in, and explained their situation.

  “Look, I know how it sounds, and I can see you clearly think this was an accident, that this call is the result of a son, upset about the death of his mother. But…the kid has lost his partner, and now his mother, and we know that the partner was killed…”

  “He was a gangster. Is it so impossible that this is a coincidence?” interrupted the group leader.

  “No, it’s not, but I’m asking you if it’s so impossible that the mother didn’t have an accident?”

  “It’s not impossible, but it’s highly improbable. There’s absolutely nothing, no evidence at all that somebody broke in and faked a slip in the shower. The deceased didn’t display any evidence of having struggled, she –”

  “You didn’t find anything at all?” Smithy asked from in front of the case display. He’d been studying the associated pictures and reports for a couple of minutes before he chipped in.

  “I’ve stated this on a number of occasions.” The leader was getting riled. “There was no evidence to suggest anything nefarious took place.” His face looked flushed, and he was on the point of losing his temper.

  “Okay, take it easy,” Smithy suggested. “I only ask because I’m trying to think of how somebody might have gone about it, you know faking an accident.” He held up an appeasing hand. “Wait, I’m not suggesting you’ve not done your job, but without any indications to the contrary why would you look for signs of a murder? If somebody had killed Mrs Warwick, how would they have done it without giving themselves away, and quickly enough that there were no signs of resistance?”

  They all stood and pondered for a moment. One of the investigative team looked sheepish. “He could have pulled the bath mat out from under her as she stepped out?” he offered.

  “Possibly, but that would not have guaranteed a one strike kill, and if you wanted it to be an accident, you couldn’t afford two separate blows to the head. How about…he stood to one side, then, as she came out, he clamped a hand on her face and drove her backward into the shower?” Smithy had stood, back against the wall, then re-enacted the step, grab and drive as he gave his opinion on what had happened. Then he turned to face the gathered police men and women.

  “I guess there aren’t too many ways he could have done it…if anybody did do it,” the leader said quickly, still not wishing to concede any ground.

  “That’s right, and if that is how he did it, there may be fibres or skin cells on Mrs Warwick’s face.”

  Chapter 17

  Manhattan, New York.

  Nick Moretti held his hands out towards the pathologist in the universal gesture that means ‘What gives?’ Abner Rosenstein, a tall, gaunt man in his late sixties, had the hangdog expression of one who has seen a great many things he would just as soon not have. He had a full head of slate grey hair, bushy eyebrows and grey blue eyes that engendered trust.

  “Easy, Nicky, I just have a few oddities I would like to bounce off somebody.” He looked pained, but, then, he always looked pained.

  “Doc, this was my friend, and because of that I would rather not be your sounding board.” Nick was very uncomfortable at present. Something had been nagging at him since he had been to see the Russian. If he looked too hard he might find something he didn’t like. Added to that, he was standing in the morgue with the pathologist, his friend lying on a cold gurney under a sheet three feet away.

  “I can ask somebody else if you prefer. I just thought you would have more of an interest in following through on this?”

  “What is it?” Moretti started again.

  “Your friend, Zefram, was he a fitness fanatic? Did he run?”

  “Not to the best of my knowledge, Doc, no. Is there a point to this?”

  “Okay, to start with, he had high levels of lactic acid in his blood. The normal amount of lactic acid circulating in the blood is about one to two millimoles per litre of blood. The OBLA, onset of blood lactate accumulation, occurs between two and four millimoles per litre of blood. In non-athletes this point is about 50 to 60 per cent VO2 max, and in trained athletes around 70 to 80 per cent VO2 max–”

  “Are you kidding me with this?”

  “I’m sorry; your friend had been running for a fair while, and quite hard, less than an hour before he died.”

  “Okay, that’s not so weird.”

  “He was not wearing sports kit. Also, judging from the primary wounds and displacement of body parts,” Rosenstein looked at Moretti apologetically, “I would say that he was lying face down on the tracks when the train hit him. Thirdly, his left leg had odd markings on it. I don’t know what they are yet, but I will in time.”

  “You have a theory on the markings?”

  Rosenstein was hesitant.

  “Hmm, maybe. It’s a guess…”

  “Go ahead.”

  “They look like burn marks –”

  “Abe, he was on electrical train tracks –”

  “No, these were not caused by the tracks.” Rosenstein paused before he went on. “They look like a vampire has bitten him on the lower thigh”

  “Okay. Out with it.”

  “I think a taser, or stun gun, was used on him.” He looked slightly embarrassed, but determined.

  “So, you think my friend ran for a while, was then tasered, and then lay face down on train tracks to die?”

  “Nicky, I don’t know. I’m just offering my opinions.”

  “So give it to me as you see it.”

  “I think it’s highly unlikely he committed suicide. It would appear that he did run for some time. I think he was tasered, and I think that, while incapacitated, he was left on the train tracks, face down.” Rosenstein looked sad.

  “Jesus, I never thought he killed himself, but I never for a moment imagined anything this complex. I mean, why? Why not just shoot him if you had a beef?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. But I’m fairly certain I will not be pronouncing a verdict of suicide. It’s safe to say he had some help.”

  Moretti sat in his car outside the morgue, mulling over the half hour he had spent with Abe Rosenstein. If what the coroner had told him were true, if his assessment of Zefram’s wounds were accurate, it seemed clear that his friend had been murdered. He had been chased, zapped, then placed on train tracks and left to die. Nick realised that his knuckles had turned white due to his merciless grip on the steering wheel. He eased off and leant back in his seat. All at once the situation had taken on a completely different complexion, one that demanded his intervention. It would not be easy, but he made a promise to himself that he would not rest until he found his friend’s killer or killers.

  The feeling of unease that had dogged him since visiting Ryabukha a week ago came back to haunt him with sudden force. To make matters worse, he had a feeling he knew what it was. The big man had been visibly shaken and upset by the news that Moretti had delivered first hand. However, Nick had felt something else rise to the surface which he had then quickly suppressed. Fear.

  He had almost missed it at the time, his thoughts elsewhere. Even as he saw it, he had dismissed it as nothing more than a tumult of emotions. Now, though, he knew there was more to it, and he was going to find out just what that was. He called Eastern Promise, Ryabukha’s club downtown. The phone rang for a minute until it was answered.

  “Da?”

  “I need to speak to Ambrosii.”

  “Not here,” came the flat response.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a police officer. Now, where is he?”

  “I do not know. Back later maybe.” The line went dead.

  “Fuck!”

  Nick was really angry now, and he had a suspicion that Ambrosii was aware of his misgivings, and might be avoiding him. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration. A call came over the police radio advising of a gas explosion over in Queens, which had taken out two apartments, killing seven people. It never ended in this city, the city that never sleeps, he
thought. Starting the car, Nick set off for Eastern Promise having decided he would wait there until Ryabukha came back.

  ***

  Ambrosii Ryabukha leant against the container, which was lined up with its sister units at right angles to the dock edge. The call would need to be made soon; this was no time for indecision. His daughters were on their way to the docks even as he stood there. He drew deeply on his Cuban cigar, screwing up his eyes against the harsh smoke.

  It was seven hours since Nicholas had called Eastern Promise looking for him. He had been there, and he had also known why he was calling. He had known he would call since Nick had visited him to give him the news about Zefram. The brief cloud that had passed over his face had given him away.

  Ambrosii would not be able to keep the secret safe if Nick found him, so he had done the only thing he could think of: he ran. To compound matters, the news had come through only minutes later that his associate, Stanislaw Kasprowicz, had been killed in a gas explosion in his apartment in Queens, along with his wife and son. Stanislaw had been Ryabukha’s most trusted employee, his closest confidant. They had known each other for thirty years, through good and bad. Ryabukha of course was under no illusions as to why his friend was dead.

  Zefram and Stanislaw were dead because they both knew something they shouldn’t and because they had talked. Ambrosii Ryabukha was now standing on the dock waiting for his daughters because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was going to suffer the same fate as Kasprowicz if he stayed put. The people that would soon be looking for him, if they weren’t already, would be relentless. He didn’t know them, but he knew their type. He also knew how important the information was, and how vital it was to prevent it from getting into the public domain.