Room 15: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Charles Harris

  When the footballers have muddled away to a room at the front, Malda says how pleased they both are that I came in on a cold Sunday to ask these questions and find out the truth, however painful that might be. ‘You’re a good man.’

  Rimas erupts suddenly. ‘We know gangs and drugs. Under the communists and now.’ He stops, his English spent. I start to thank them for their time when he calls out loudly, ‘Vaida, what did Javtokas argued about?’

  Vaida emerges from the back of the café, pulling on a smartly tailored jacket. She says something while continuing to look straight at me.

  ‘She wanted to talk to you when you first came,’ Malda translates. ‘She wanted to speak to you about the Kleizas. Anyway, now you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry if–’ I begin, but Rimas interrupts.

  ‘And the arguing?’ he says impatiently. ‘Mr Blackleigh want to know what did this student argued about.’ These arguments seem to have become very important to the man and there’s nothing I can do to deflect him. Vaida speaks sharply to him and then to me.

  ‘You must talk to his girlfriend,’ Malda says.

  ‘Talk to girl,’ Vaida repeats in English.

  I show her the photo of Amy Matthews, not mentioning that talking to her might be difficult, but Vaida shakes her head and says, ‘No.’ She continues at length in Lithuanian and with many hand movements.

  ‘What does she mean, “no”?’

  ‘This is not his girlfriend,’ Malda tells me. It seems Darjus used to have a girlfriend who worked for a short time in the café. ‘Very suitable, from Vilnius. She did cleaning. Good cook.’

  ‘What does she know about her?’

  ‘Why want to know?’ Vaida asks.

  ‘It’s important,’ I say.

  ‘Not right.’ Vaida shakes her head unhappily and disappears suddenly into the café.

  Rimas mutters in Lithuanian and Malda says, ‘All boys want London girls. Darjus has a stubbornness.’

  Vaida’s gone a long time and I grow anxious. She could be phoning the Kleiza gang. Or the police. I’m about to look for an excuse to leave, when she returns, waving a slip of paper. She says in English, ‘Live there.’

  ‘This is his ex-girlfriend’s place?’ The address is only a mile away. I could be there in three minutes.

  She nods. ‘So close. Is shame not work out.’

  Malda Atauskaite slides her glasses back up her nose and says, ‘I’m sorry we know so little to help.’

  35

  The ex-girlfriend’s flat is in a grubby three-storey semi off City Road, over the border with Islington. I park the Honda on the other side of the street and examine the front. Judging by the buttons there are six flats and the address Vaida gave me is Flat C, which should theoretically be on the first floor, but I want to be sure. I don’t want another blank raid. It’s just after three and the afternoon sun has come out fiercely behind me. On the first floor left, the windows are dark; on the right, the blinds are half down and I can see the vague shapes of a man and a woman inside.

  I stand watching, trying to make out any features without success, and then suddenly the man turns and walks to the window and stares straight at me. Darjus Javtokas.

  In shock, I step back rapidly into the shadow under a concrete overhang, but for some reason he doesn’t react in any way. Then I realise the sun is in his eyes, dazzling off the inch-thick snow.

  He gazes aimlessly out of the window and looks very young, not like a killer. They rarely do. Saying something to the woman behind him, he turns back to her.

  I dial Becks and tell him I’ve found Javtokas, and Becks says, ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t call it in. I’m supposed to be on sick leave. Get the heavies over here and I don’t care what story you give to Gerry. Say you had an anonymous, say you had a vision, a dream, say you saw it written on a mirror in the gents toilet.’

  I give Becks the address and he goes, ‘He won’t buy it for a minute.’

  Then I remember where I am. ‘Shit, you don’t need to go through Gerry at all. I’m in Islington. Get onto Islington CID. Tell them you had a call from one of your snouts in their area and they can get Javtokas for themselves. That way he’ll go to their nick, they’ll get to look good on TV and we can keep him away from Kentish Town.’

  ‘Oh fuck. You’re dumping me right in it, boss.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find an informer who can take the praise. And the fact is if we get this bastard and find out who’s behind him, nobody will care how it was done. But you need to be quick.’

  ‘I’ll be quick, boss, but I’m on the phone to you and you’re still talking.’

  ‘I’m not now,’ I say, and ring off.

  Checking my watch, I try to estimate how long it will take Becks to sort out his story. The house stands near a dock on Regent’s Canal, facing down a sharp dog-leg in the road, which means Javtokas will see the police cars as they approach, whichever direction they come from. I’ll spot him if he tries to escape out the front, but not if there’s a way out at the back, and now I’ve thought of it I have to go and see.

  He hasn’t returned to the window, so I make my way quickly across the snow-covered road. There are few people out. Nearby, I can hear a family having a late Sunday lunch, angry voices raised and a rattling of knives and forks. Between the buildings is a bin store: ripped black bags thrown on top of wheelie bins. I clamber past and come to a small yard with two cars and a rusty old truck. Round the yard runs a brick wall topped with vicious razor-wire. No escape that way. Yet still there’s something I feel I’m missing. I’m about to leave the tiny car park when it occurs to me: how did cars get in here?

  I circle the house, keeping out of sight of the first-floor windows, and beyond I find an electricity substation with signs warning of death. To check behind it, I need to go round a Fiat parked right under Javtokas’ back window. I step out warily and look up. I can make out the jars of herbs and spices of a kitchen, but nobody’s in sight.

  And then beyond the substation, there it is: a battered metal gate. It leads one way to a side road and the other down to the canal.

  Still there’s no sound of police cars approaching, which worries me. Why is it taking so long? I think of all that could have gone wrong. Has Becks lost his nerve? Has he bottled it and ratted on me to Gerry? And I remember one thing I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind: that Becks was also on duty last night when Javtokas tried to kill me.

  I’m trying to work all this out when I automatically step away from the house to return round the Fiat, and glance up again at the kitchen window.

  Darjus is standing right there, holding a beer, about to light a cigarette. He looks straight at me, right in the eyes. And this time, at the back of the house, there’s no sunshine to dazzle him.

  36

  For at least two seconds neither of us moves. And then he disappears inside and I sprint desperately to the front to cut off his escape, slipping on the ice, scraping my hand on the wall, righting myself and running, clambering over the bags and bins. To my dismay, there’s nothing, no Javtokas, no police.

  I kick the metal fence furiously. Angry with myself. Then I hear a sound from the rear.

  I scramble back through the split bin bags and the gate at the far end stands wide open.

  I run through, ignoring the pain in my legs, and I can hear him clattering down stone steps, slipping, grabbing railings, and there are sirens far off, but it’s too late, the boy’s running. I can see the prints in the snow and it’s as much as I can do to keep on my feet. I’m down the steps and round the corner of the alleyway, through weeds and old shopping trolleys covered in snow, and there’s a fork in the alley, but his prints go to the right, down icy steps to a narrow canal towpath.

  I limp as fast as I can down to the towpath: to one side a barbed-wire fence, to the other, the canal dock, iced over. After the dark alley, the blazing white of the ice has me wincing for a second, like a punch in the face.

  A metal bar comes swi
nging out of the glare. But this time I’m ready for him. I duck as it glances off my shoulder, a stinging pain.

  Javtokas tries to slam the bar against my side but I manage to twist half away and it hits my ribs, and then I’m on him. I grasp one sleeve of his anorak and it tears.

  He hits out at my head. In desperation, I try to protect myself, slip-sliding on the icy ground, then grab at the bar and knock it out of his hands.

  I shout that I’m arresting him and he swears at me in his strong accent and struggles and punches. I try to dodge, but his fist strikes my cheekbone with a searing stab. His eyes are flat and strange, his face red with fury. A kid who doesn’t know how to fight but will try anything. I hit his face with a wild punch and then grab and twist his right arm and feel it give with a horrible crunch. He makes a half grunt, half whimper and tries to fight back, clumsily with his left hand, and I fling him round and I’m yelling at him to stop, to give himself up.

  I’m exhausted, fed up with being beaten, attacked, lied to, even by my own mind. I call on R to help me, to give me the power I need to win this one.

  And as I do, Javtokas tries to lunge at me, head first in an inept rugby tackle. I chop downwards on the back of his neck. He falls and twists and he looks up at me puzzled – this is not what he planned but he’s hot-headed angry like the young can get – stupid-angry. I could swear he’s almost crying, and he kicks up at me and I get it on the back of my leg and it hurts to hell.

  I shout at him to tell me why he’s doing this, who’s behind it, who he’s working for but he spits at me and tries to scramble to his feet. But the snowy path is treacherous and one of his feet gives way.

  I connect with his head, a heavy thud, heavier than I expected.

  This time the boy staggers and I’ve drawn blood. He stares blankly and he’s looking sick, like a child. He should stop, I keep telling him, but something won’t let him. He slips off the path, arms and legs don’t make sense. Still he won’t give up and he tries again to punch me and falls back, and one foot breaks through the ice.

  I snatch urgently at the kid’s arm and catch his torn anorak by the cuff. I’ve got him securely.

  I tug him back towards the path and safety. But the idiot struggles and pulls away, and his cuff rips and he screams something in Lithuanian.

  The ice cracks further and both his legs are sliding into the freezing greasy water. The dock is deep here and there’s a strong flow under the ice. He shouts at me, splashing desperately. I don’t understand what he’s saying and he tries in English but can’t find the words. He tries to hold on to the ice. My fingers are numb and I fumble his arm and lose it. His hands slip off and he goes under.

  He’s only inches away and I can almost reach him, but not quite. He’s already gone too far. I glimpse the boy’s face staring up at me from under the freezing water. He looks confused, surprised as he slides beneath the ice and disappears.

  37

  I’m running, limping along the side of the canal basin in the direction he went under. Desperately I wrench a wooden sign from the path: Danger, it says. I step onto the ice, treacherous thin ice, and smash holes. I reach deep into the black water, feeling under the surface for some contact, for the kid’s body, a hand, a leg, but all I feel is the frozen touch of discarded supermarket bags and crumpled beer cans.

  Then I stop. Breathing heavily, hands on my knees. The dock is motionless. Glorious in the freezing afternoon. Above, the bright unbroken blue sky. Below, jagged gaps in the ice and the filth of the water slopping inside.

  At first I simply want to disappear, like the kid beneath the ice, get out of there and not Be. I can’t forget his face as he slid under – looking up at me, shocked, as if dying was not part of the plan. The two-tone sirens grow louder and cars skid to a halt. Painfully I make my way back off the ice and back along the towpath. There are three police cars in the road, blues flashing, and local people in the street, two of them pointing towards the canal. A young sergeant runs towards me followed by four PCs. He sees the way I’m holding my arm and the blood on my cheek and I say it’s no big deal and show my warrant card. ‘You’re too late.’

  ‘Escaped?’

  ‘No. Under there.’

  The sergeant looks over my shoulder at the ice. Then he organises his men, calls in backup to search the canal, requisitions a tinfoil blanket, leads me to a police car. I don’t want to sit there like a victim, but he insists and I don’t have the energy to argue, so I sit half in, half out, feet on the dirty snow with the silver foil round my shoulders. ‘I grabbed him, but–’

  ‘He tried to do a runner, sir?’ The sergeant squats next to me.

  I nod slowly, wiping freezing mud off my hands. The case is to shit. I’ve tried to do the right thing, but another person is dead.

  ‘You know it’s technically death in custody, sir.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘DPS will need to be in on it.’

  ‘Call them in. They’ll want to start an investigation. That’s what the rules say. You tell them to do that.’

  Ten minutes later, a silver Volvo V50 arrives. Gerry Gardner walks over and talks easily to the sergeant. Then he looks down at me and says, ‘Death in fucking custody.’

  I watch the uniformed police run around, trying to look in control, and he says, ‘Why weren’t you in the hospital? I thought we had an agreement.’

  ‘I got a lead. I got a lead that told me where to find the major suspect for a murder, an attempted murder and an assault on a police officer. And I found him. I had my hands on the killer, Gerry. He’d been hiding up there with his ex-girlfriend. Someone should talk to her.’

  ‘You can walk?’

  ‘I can walk.’

  ‘Walk over to my car. I’m getting you away before someone arrests you.’

  He asks me for the Honda’s key, tosses it to a DC who’s with him and tells him to follow.

  I stare numbly through the windscreen as Gerry Gardner drives too fast and I say, ‘You can’t take me off this.’ Behind, the Honda struggles to keep up.

  ‘Watch me.’

  ‘I found you the killer, didn’t I? So he tried to escape – of course he did. He was shit scared. It all points the same way, Gerry. Someone was running Javtokas. Someone had something on him and used him to kill Amy Matthews and attack me and Crystal. We still have to find who he was working for.’

  ‘Well, let’s ask Darjus Javtokas who it is. Since he’s our only lead. Oh no, we can’t, can we? He’s under the ice.’

  Gerry turns a corner at speed and the car slides on the snow. I’ve never seen him so angry. His face is almost purple. ‘I hope you’ve got a good story for Winstanley. Why you lied about your amnesia. Why you and Becks kept on going despite orders not to.’

  ‘Don’t dump on Becks for this. I pushed him.’

  ‘Fuck that. He jumped with both feet. Very happily.’

  ‘And Winstanley’s just looking for a way of putting me in the frame.’

  ‘She can join the club.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  Gerry takes his eyes off the road for a moment. ‘Are you screwing me around, Ross?’

  He accelerates towards a yellow light, goes through after it changes red and stays silent for a full minute as he overtakes crawlers in the snow, hitting the horn hard.

  ‘I brought you in to the borough for a reason. I mean, I’ve known you since you were two foot high, and you and your father are like family to me, but I also know you can be a bastard. You really don’t remember what happened next, do you?’

  I take a deep breath and say, ‘I don’t remember.’

  He fights the gears. ‘Four months after you joined the team, you caught Freddie Dewhurst. He was a PC who kept back cash he found on a raid. I knew you would. I didn’t even have to tell you to look out for shit like that. You always wanted to be holier than thou even if everyone hated you for it.’

  I stare out of the side window at the dirty ice and slush on the streets. This isn�
�t me he’s talking about.

  ‘Two months later you got a tip that one of our female DCs was sleeping with a suspect. Bang to rights. She’d screwed up a two-year investigation. You were doing what I asked you to do, but she was another copper everyone liked.’

  ‘You set me up?’ His smugness is infuriating me.

  ‘You didn’t need setting up, Ross. You couldn’t wait. The place was falling apart. I needed to sort out the mess without getting official over it. I needed someone who’d make examples and didn’t give a fuck what people thought of him. You were on the ladder for promotion and on the side of the righteous. What did you care? I admire you. I admire your certainties. I’ve never known anyone quite like you. I might not go to church like you and Paul, and I’m never so certain that God and duty are on my side, but that’s me. Then last month, you got that look in your eye again.’

  ‘So I was after another corrupt copper and you knew it.’

  He jams his foot on the brake and swerves to avoid a white van coming out of a side road. ‘You dropped hints. No details. You always liked to work things out on your own. But now, Ross, you’ve really fucked up. I warned you at the pub. I can’t get you out of this one.’

  In the window I catch glimpses of my own face reflected back at me, looking older and more fatigued than I’ve ever seen it before.

  My mobile rings. It’s Becks. I leave it ringing. Gerry’s voice changes. ‘You know, Ross, I’m too fucking exhausted. Sod friends. Sod loyalty.’

  I don’t need to feel responsible for his psychological well-being. Not now. Not here. I’ve got enough to deal with. The phone stops and then rings again. This time I tell Gerry I have to take it and he says nothing, so I answer and ask Becks if it’s urgent and he says, ‘I’m back at the nick. I heard what happened. Is Gardner with you?’