Dirty Business (The First Acer Sansom Novel)

by Oliver Tidy

  The fat man moved quietly to the door and looked through the spy-hole. He stepped back into the room.

  ‘You ordered pizza?’

  The phone continued its song and dance. She nodded.

  The tall one checked the street. ‘I don’t see a delivery bike.’

  ‘It’s from the place around the corner. I ordered it before I came up.’

  The phone continued its ringing and juddering.

  ‘Is it paid for?’ Eda nodded. Turning to his fat colleague, he said, ‘We might as well eat it then, while we wait.’

  They grinned at each other. The fat man disappeared back into the hallway. Eda heard the door open. The tall man read something on her face, held a finger to his lips and gave her a look that convinced her that it would be a bad thing for her and the delivery boy if she were to start making a scene.

  The phone continued its noise and distraction on the table.

  The fat man came back into the room holding two large pizza boxes in front of him. He was not wearing the look of a greedy man who had just been given free food. He was also no longer wearing his Glock with silencer attachment.

  Sansom came into the room behind him, the Glock out in front of him. A flash of fury scudded across the tall man’s features. His mouth began to snarl something as he brought up his own silenced pistol. Realising that he was in the line of fire, the fat man began his evasive action. Sansom delayed a split second and then fired. The shot hit the tall man in the middle of his chest, punching him back against a bookcase. Despite the bullet delivering him a mortal wound, he was able to fire one round himself before slumping to the floor.

  Sansom swung the Glock round to bear on his confederate but this proved unnecessary. A fountain of arterial blood was spurting from his neck. The fat man clamped his hands to his fat throat, collapsed to his knees and fell forward on to the coffee table. A metal dish crashed to the floor, scattering potpourri across his soon-to-be-dead form.

  The phone continued its song and dance.

  Eda sat rigid with eyes wide and a horrified expression contorting her face.

  ‘Are there any more?’ said Sansom. She shook her head. ‘Don’t move.’

  He went to the tall one, checked his neck for a pulse. Satisfied that he was dead, he turned to the other. His open staring eyes indicated that life there was also extinct. He turned back to Eda, ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded quickly. She saw him looking at the mark on her face. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. She started to get up.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, holding up his hand towards her. ‘Just, please, stay there while I think.’ She resumed her place. A pool of blood had begun to push across the polished flooring towards him. He stepped back from it.

  The phone stopped ringing. His telephone service provider was clearly unwilling to let it ring for ever.

  ‘You had no choice,’ she said. ‘He would have shot you.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘It’s self defence. You only killed one of them.’

  ‘Don’t forget that I’m also being sought for attempted murder. There was no self defence in that. Who do you think would believe me?’

  ‘But I’m a witness.’ She went quiet then, realising the reality of his situation.

  After a minute, he said, ‘There is a way out of this. It’s almost the truth.’

  ***

  10

  The senior police officer present, Captain Yasin Durum of the Istanbul Police Department, sat opposite Eda in her kitchen area. A small table, empty apart from an ashtray, sat between them. Both were smoking, the ashtray already half full. A bustle of activity filled the room behind them as forensic, mortuary and various police staff went about their businesses. Objectively and professionally, they surveyed, observed, photographed, collected and recorded evidence and information that would later be used either to convict Eda of a crime, or crimes, or exonerate her.

  The Captain, an experienced and seasoned homicide detective, hoped that his colleagues would find incontrovertible evidence because he didn’t believe the story of the woman in front of him. His eyes swept her face again, looking for evidence of her lying. While clearly in shock and anxious, she was far from the hysterical jabbering wreck he would have expected to find as the sole survivor and witness of such an incident.

  He couldn’t believe her story because, although what she described of the evening’s events was not physically impossible, it simply made no sense. And in his significant experience of investigating homicide in the city, statistically the vast majority of stories surrounding enough of them made some sort of sense. The remainder that didn’t had usually been concocted to hide something.

  Captain Durum was not the kind of investigative officer who charged in, questioning suspects in an aggressive manner. Too often he’d seen witnesses clam up, become uncooperative, start demanding their lawyers. With such approaches the due process of law could become a slow and awkward beast. Better to remain on good terms wherever possible. Don’t take diversion and lying personally. Pit one’s wits and do one’s best. After all, it was only a job; nothing to give oneself a heart attack over. He was a firm believer that the truth will out – eventually.

  The two dead men had been thoroughly searched and no form of identification had been found on either. In fact, neither man had anything in his pockets at all. No car keys, no mobile phones, no wallets, no small change – not so much as a stick of gum. This in itself was extremely unusual. The unusualness was compounded by the facts that both wore matching tailored suits and expensive shoes, and clearly neither was a Turkish national.

  Leaning forward, he positioned his elbows on the table in front of him, one fist enveloped in his other hand. Smoke curled up from the cigarette clamped between his fingers, making him squint. With his thumb, he absently caressed his moustache. A long moment stretched out between them, their eyes locked.

  He tried again, friendly, patient: ‘Just so that I’m quite clear on this, they were waiting for you inside the underground garage when you returned from work?’ She nodded. ‘They brought you upstairs at gunpoint?’ She nodded.

  ‘They brought you into the flat and then questioned you about someone who they were looking for?’ She nodded. ‘Someone who you’ve never heard of?’ She nodded. ‘When one of them struck you,’ he indicated the side of her face, ‘the other remonstrated with him?’ She nodded. ‘This argument between them escalated and they shot each other?’ She nodded.

  He’d hoped that such a simplified retelling of what was so obviously a ridiculous scenario would either shame or embarrass her into some kind of guilt and subsequent outpouring of truth. But he was wrong. The simplicity appeared to appeal to her more than her own slightly more detailed version of events.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and let out a long sigh. He didn’t doubt elements of her story – someone had obviously struck her face and there were two dead men in the flat – however, he was convinced that she was leaving out a good deal of information and almost certainly other people. Despite his professional suspicions and her obvious covering up, he had some sympathy with her.

  For Captain Durum, the strange thing was that the visible evidence in the room behind them did not contradict anything that she said. If anything, it all fitted too nicely. Perhaps the invisible evidence would not fit as well.

  He played his last card. ‘Well, I’m afraid that we’re not done with you yet. You’ll have to come down to the station with us and make a formal statement.’ He studied her face intently. ‘And as a formality, we’ll have to swab your hands for residue. Just routine.’ She nodded, clearly unperturbed by the prospect. He knew then that this too would be a mere formality. They wouldn’t find anything on her.

  *

  Tentatively, but with the urgency that the situation demanded, Sansom had explained his idea. He had been half fearful that she would explode at him for his assumption and suggestion that she should put herself in such a position so that he could remain out of
it.

  Although she was holding up well considering what she had just witnessed and the tableau of death that lay undisturbed in the next room, she was clearly in shock. She listened closely, questioned him on a couple of points, heard him out when he said that if things went badly for her with the authorities then he would come forward, take full blame, swear that he had threatened her, her family, put the fear of God into her if she didn’t cooperate. His other crimes in the city would lend a sense of authenticity to this. At the end of his reasoning, he repeated something that they had discussed only the day before – it would be up to the law to disprove her version of events. He would make sure that all the evidence agreed with what they discussed. Then it would be up to her to keep her nerve.

  She agreed to his proposal, agreed to put herself in extreme danger, not just from the legal system, but from the inevitable backlash that would come from Botha when it became clear what had happened to his men.

  Unknown to Sansom, she didn’t need much persuading for this. The incursion into her life, her home, by these gangsters; being threatened, beaten and pushed around by them was a final straw for her. She was not going to sit around doing nothing any longer, waiting for more of Botha’s men to come visiting. She had decided that she was going to do something about the way these men swaggered about her city with impunity. It might not be much, but it would be something. Her hatred for Botha raged inside her as it had at her brother’s death.

  When it was agreed between them, Sansom went about constructing the evidence to fit the version of events that Eda would give to the police. He went through the dead men’s clothing and removed all of their possessions – a tactic, he explained, designed to delay and confuse.

  Both men had been wearing leather gloves. Any residue from the gunshot would be evident on the glove of the man that Sansom had shot and his weapon would clearly show that he had indeed killed his partner. However, the man who had been shot through the neck would not have any such residue on his glove. Sansom had peeled one of these from the dead man’s hand, put it on himself, opened the window and after careful consideration of the environment, fired a round off high into the tree trunk opposite – the silenced pop inaudible above a passing vehicle. He had then replaced the glove on the dead man’s hand and the pistol in his tightening grip.

  Finally, he had collected the empty pizza boxes from the previous night, the dead men’s belongings, his belongings from the flat upstairs, the Audi car keys, and, after a final word with Eda, had left the building. They couldn’t take the chance that the police might discover that the flat upstairs was being minded by Eda and then have him found in it. As Eda watched him drive away, she put a call through to the police. Her delay in doing so could reasonably be attributed to shock.

  *

  Tallis pulled up outside the Gatwick hotel a little before nine o’clock. He could have made better time on his journey but reasoned that he should give the night shift the opportunity to settle into their duties.

  At reception, he introduced himself and was asked to wait for the duty manager, who appeared quickly and showed the DI through to a small office at the rear. After introductions, the policeman explained his reason for the visit. The duty manager summoned the register. The register bore no entry for an Acer Sansom. The policeman tried not to appear unduly disappointed by this. He asked if he could speak to whoever was on the desk the evening that he believed Sansom might have stayed there. A pretty, petite blonde girl was ushered into the office. Tallis smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He then produced a photograph of Sansom. It was an Army mugshot. Not a great likeness, he’d have to concede, but the best that he could do.

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’ he said. ‘He would have checked in late Monday night.’ Tallis suddenly held no great hope that the girl in front of him would be very helpful. She looked fifteen and about as attentive as a teenage girl with better things to do. She screwed up her face, holding the picture at arm’s length for a moment.

  With a conviction that surprised the policeman, she said, ‘Yes. It’s not a good likeness though. You should get a more up-to-date photograph. He’s lost weight since this was taken and has blond hair down to about here,’ she indicated her shoulders. The duty manager shifted uncomfortably at her blunt manner. Tallis beamed at her. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Sansom’s change in appearance.

  ‘But he didn’t check in under the name of Sansom,’ she continued. She examined the register, open still on the duty manager’s desk, and ran her finger down the relevant page. ‘Here he is,’ she said. ‘Daniel Fallon.’ She stepped back, evidently pleased with herself. Tallis didn’t feel the need to ask her if she was certain.

  Ten minutes later Tallis was sitting back in his car, his mobile phone to his ear, waiting for a response to his latest enquiry with Gatwick security. The twenty-four-hour culture of modern society had its uses.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Detective Inspector,’ said the young lady on the other end of the line. ‘Right, we have one Daniel Fallon travelling through the airport on Tuesday last – destination Istanbul. He caught the ten-thirty Turkish Airlines. It’s a direct flight, no stops. Gets in to Ataturk Airport, sixteen-thirty local time.’

  *

  Sansom climbed in behind the wheel of the Audi with no idea where he would go. But he knew he had to leave quickly and find somewhere to dump the bag of dead men’s belongings, then the car. Then he had to deal with the inevitable post-event emotions and decide what to do next.

  Once again, he reflected on how control of the unfolding of events had not been his. Yet again, events had dictated his actions, instead of vice versa. He was simply reacting to things that were happening. Such a process could be expected to lead to only limited success, if any. It was all accidental and accidents made messes. He had been fortunate, so far, with the way things had turned out. That kind of luck couldn’t hold.

  Moving off, he cast a look up to Eda’s apartment window, wondering once again how much she would be prepared, or able, to take.

  Sansom felt that the Audi, commonplace as a luxury car in the centre of Istanbul, where every other vehicle seemed to be a top of the range and recent model German car, became more conspicuous the further into the districts encircling the centre of the metropolis he pressed. Or was it simply his paranoia rearing up again? It was dark. There was less traffic. No one was actually turning to stare and point as he passed.

  Within the hour, he found himself on the outskirts of the city. Roads were clearer, houses once again more affluent – the Victoria sponge model of modern settlements that could be seen all around the developed world – affluence and wealth, the poorer communities and then more affluence and wealth. The have-nots always nicely sandwiched to service the needs of the haves and to do their dirty jobs. He considered turning around. He’d come too far. If he dumped the vehicle here, where would he go? How would he get back into Istanbul? Somewhere in the car a phone began to ring.

  He glanced down at the plastic bag on the seat beside him. An illuminated display was flashing in the darkness. He pulled over, took the phone from the bag and accepted the identity-restricted call.

  A strong, deep South African voice said, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Three down. How many to go?’ said Sansom.

  The inevitable pause that followed gave Sansom the opportunity to imagine the cogs meshing in the mind of the caller, computing, disbelieving, accepting, considering. Clearly disbelief was greatest.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  The voice, while remaining calm and patient, had developed an unmistakeable undertone of menace when it spoke next. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘You’ll find out who I am. And it’s not what I want, it’s who?’ Sansom realised that he was enjoying himself, his anonymity and his threat.

  The caller played along: ‘All right, who do you want?’

  ‘Every one of you. And then Botha.’<
br />
  The deep gravelly sound of laughter exploded out of the handset. ‘Very dramatic. You won’t get within a mile of him.’

  ‘I already have,’ said Sansom, ‘twice’.

  ‘Maybe on land. You’re a dead man walking, whoever you are.’ The false humour had gone. ‘You and that interfering bitch.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Sansom, sounding not the least bit amused, ‘you’re the second person to say that to me in as many days. And we both know what happened to the other one.’ He hung up and turned off the phone, feeling a small, feeble little victory. With less satisfaction, he also knew that Botha was now at sea.

  A municipal refuse-collection truck was making its erratic way towards him, like some drunken futuristic robotic creature, stopping to gorge itself on the contents of the metal skips that lined the road. Sansom left the car and threw the plastic bag of the dead men’s belongings into one of the skips. He kept two things – the mobile he had just spoken on and the silencer he had removed from one of the guns from Eda’s flat.

  Across the street was a small eatery. He was hungry and he needed time to think. A full stomach would help both.

  He’d ordered and was waiting when his own phone rang, a withheld number.

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ said Smith, ‘so I’m going to assume that the double homicide involving employees of our mutual friend is your doing.’

  Sansom cast a look around the restaurant. An old couple, each fixated with the food in front of them – nothing left to say to each other after a lifetime together – and a table of three men arguing over a game of backgammon. He doubted from their appearances that any of them would understand English even if they could hear him. He had already identified himself as a foreigner by the way he had pointed and grunted at the menu when he ordered his meal.

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ said Sansom ‘and you?’

  ‘You’re either very lucky or very stupid,’ said Smith, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘I haven’t decided which, yet.’