No one answered.
“I need to know if anyone saw her on the night she disappeared. She was reported as getting off the number seven bus at around 9 p.m. at the stop on
Hope Street. She was wearing a yellow t-shirt and a dark, knee length skirt. One side of her face was disfigured, and marred by a port wine stain. If you’d seen her, you’d remember.” Numerous pairs of vacant, glassy eyes blinked their incomprehension.
“Were any of you around that night?”
The hooded teenager sucked on his joint, held the smoke in, then exhaled in an act of sheer defiance.
“There’s a reward for any information that helps us catch the man that killed the girl,” Prosper continued.
A pretty blonde haired girl gave Prosper the finger. He hated teenagers. Caught between childhood and adulthood, they pushed boundaries, rebelled, became insolent and latched onto any new fad in order to mould their own identity. The fashion of hooded tops was still de rigour with lots of young kids, providing them with a look that proved menacing to many people because it acted as a mask of sorts, providing them with anonymity.
“Someone must have seen something. The girl was murdered, and if it happened to her, then it could happen to any of you too, so you owe it to yourselves to speak up if you saw anything.”
The hooded teenager grunted. “Wouldn’t ‘appen to me. I’d cut any fucker what tried anyfink like that with me.”
“And what if you didn’t have the chance to cut the fucker?” Prosper asked.
The teenager shrugged. “Wouldn’t ‘appen.”
“That’s probably what that girl said.”
Staring at the huddled teenagers wallowing in squalor and riding the fast track to a life of drugs and crime, he dreaded the thought of his son, Leon, ending up the same way, and he swore he’d do everything in his power to make sure it never happened.
The lad stared at Prosper, then took another long drag on the joint before dropping the remains on the floor and stamping on it. He held the smoke in his lungs for a length of time before exhaling. “We don’t wanna get involved. Whoever did this is a mad fucker. You seen what he did to those people.”
Prosper narrowed his eyes. They knew something, of that he was certain. “Anything you tell us is in the strictest confidence. No one needs know. We’ve got to catch him before he kills again.”
The lad sniffled and ran the back of his hand beneath his nose. “We didn’t see him clearly, that’s the truth, but he wrote somethin’ on the wall near the entrance to that alley you got cordoned off.”
“And how do you know he wrote it?”
“Because he had to drop the girl to write it. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Well what did he write?”
“Some gibberish. I dunno what it means. You’re the copper. You work it out.”
He believed the lad when he said he didn’t see clearly who it was, and his lips were clamped tighter than a clam, so he didn’t think it was worth pressing the boy for more details, and the ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine wouldn’t work with someone streetwise and savvy who distrusted anyone in a position of authority. He couldn’t force them to testify, and the rest of the group appeared just as reticent.
Although it would have been easier extracting teeth, he did manage to obtain the location of the writing before returning to the alley with Jill, where he stood and stared at the wall.
“Any idea what that means?” Jill asked.
Prosper scratched his chin, eyebrows knotted as he stared at the single word written in red spray paint that had run down the brickwork, qana.
“Whatever it is, it must mean something.” But for the life of me, I have no idea what.
CHAPTER 19
The moon peered from behind the brow of a solitary cloud like a baleful eye. Prosper shivered. With the lack of cloud cover, a cold chill persisted. At his side he saw Ty and Paris also shiver, although he guessed it wasn’t wholly down to the chill in the air. Wolfe meanwhile seemed unperturbed. He stood carving the doorframe of the betting shop doorway they stood in with a penknife, the same penknife he’d carried around as a kid, when he used to carve his name into tree trunks. They were going to kill someone, and yet he looked composed, almost cheery. Although the doorway reeked of piss and puke, its recessed position offered the best vantage point to watch the entrance to the massage parlour without standing in the open, advertising themselves.
Prosper recalled reading the e-mail Jerel sent containing instructions about their target, and giving them a date when their deed was to take place. He had supplied a name, itinerary, and photograph; everything they needed to find their target, right down to where the man ate his breakfast in the morning. The e-mail had made him feel sick because despite the tramp’s help, they hadn’t uncovered any evidence at the scene of Jane’s abduction that might lead them to a suspect, which meant the plan was still going to go ahead.
Although Prosper wasn’t going to be involved in the murder, Wolfe had insisted he should be present when they grabbed Mack Taylor – nicknamed Hatchet Man after once attacking a man with a machete – as they were a team, and they were in this together. After careful deliberation, Prosper conceded. The last thing he wanted was for them to fuck it up in any way.
The four of them had easily followed the large, bald man with his permanent scowl. His primitive features made him look Neanderthal and a scar on his forehead resembled a third eye closed in quiet contemplation. We won’t miss him when he finally exits the building, but how much longer is he going to be? Prosper stared across the road at the Pleasure Dome massage parlour and then checked his watch again.
“What do you think he’s doing in there?” Ty asked.
“Probably the same thing you would be doing if you were in there.” Whatever it was though, it would be a damn sight better than standing outside waiting.
Although Hatchet Man came across as a thug with his constantly collecting money for his bosses, running girls, and selling drugs, Prosper pitied him a little. He no doubt had parents somewhere who would mourn him. Jerel had already ascertained he didn’t have a wife, or a steady partner, but he was someone’s son; the somewhat bruised apple of someone’s eye. And Prosper couldn’t get past that.
“What do you think, Prosper?” Ty asked. “How much longer is he going to be?”
“Do I look like Mystic Meg?” Prosper snapped. After a moment, he sighed and put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Look, sorry.”
Ty shrugged. “It’s OK.”
“No, it’s not. I’m just nervous. This is wrong on so many levels.”
Ty looked away and didn’t reply.
They’d all chosen dark clothes, jogging suits or black jeans, except for Wolfe who wore a grey sweatshirt over green cargo pants.
The one thing they all had in common was the ski masks they’d each brought.
“We’re all nervous,” Paris agreed, as though trying to bond them in their apprehension.
Ty turned back. “No shit,” he said, seemingly surprised.
Prosper put a hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Of course we’re nervous. Who wouldn’t be?”
He noticed Ty surreptitiously look at Wolfe.
Wolfe remained steely-eyed, his hair tied back in a ponytail. He didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation as he focused on the Pleasure Dome, his hands working automatically as he sliced at the doorframe.
“I hope none of this is going to ruin my shoes,” Paris said as he admired his footwear.
Prosper looked down at his friend’s brogues and sighed in disbelief. He imagined the shoes must have cost a lot of money, so he couldn’t understand why Paris had worn them. He wasn’t exactly dressed for murder, more like a formal occasion with his banking partners.
“He’s come out,” Wolfe hissed, snapping the blade of his penknife shut.
All eyes focused on the massage parlour as Hatchet Man emerged, pulling the lapels of his bomber jacket down as if to reaffirm his dignity.
Hatchet Man
’s size worried Prosper. People that big breezed through life in the assured safety their size provided. He must have stood six feet six and almost as wide, built like a tank, his fists the cannons, twin howitzers that would pulverise whatever they struck.
Jerel’s wife wouldn’t have stood a chance. He thought how he would feel if it had been Natasha, and a sudden anger coursed through his veins, bringing him out in a cold sweat.
“We’ll have to wait until he gets off the main thoroughfare. Jerel says he always goes to The Beaver Club after he’s been here, and he always walks,” Wolfe said. “That means he’ll take the alley that cuts between
Pearl Street and Cushing Road ... And that’s when we’ll do it.” Prosper swallowed, surprised by how easy Wolfe was finding it to plan and organise such an event.
“Yes, good idea,” Ty said, nodding enthusiastically.
“Prosper, you come with me. Paris, you go with Ty. If you two drive to
Cushing Road, and we go to Pearl Street, we should get there at least fifteen minutes before him and then we can take him by surprise in the middle.” Paris and Ty nodded and headed towards the car they’d hired. Wolfe and Prosper went the other way, to their own hired vehicle, a BMW. Wolfe had paid for it. He said he wanted to travel in style.
Prosper settled himself into the passenger seat of the car, although he felt anything but settled. His stomach gurgled as though he had eaten a bad meal and he felt clammy. Wolfe sat in the driving seat, started the engine and pressed his foot to the accelerator, the wheels spinning as he pulled away from the kerb. Prosper cringed. Talk about keeping a low profile.
By now, Jerel should be safely ensconced in the police station. His plan was to make a commotion in a late shop, even try stealing something if he had to, and with a few swallows of whisky, pretend he was drunk.
Now it was down to them.
The journey to
Pearl Street took less than five minutes. As Wolfe parked the car, Prosper sat staring out of the windscreen, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath, heart pounding away to itself.
“What’s the matter?” Wolfe asked.
“You know damn well what the matter is. This is crazy. I can’t believe you’re planning to go through with it.”
Wolfe grinned.
“Anyone would think you’re looking forwards to it.” Prosper grimaced.
“Well it’s something different. It’s not everyday you end up killing someone, and I like to try new experiences.”
“Different!” Prosper shook his head and willed his pulse to slow down. His fingers tingled, and he took careful breaths to avoid hyperventilating. Wolfe, meanwhile, closed his eyes, as though meditating. He seemed too calm, too cool.
Prosper kept his eyes on the digital clock in the dashboard. After five minutes, he said, “OK. The others should be there by now.” He stared at Wolfe, sure that he was asleep, when his friend’s eyes sprang open.
“Let’s go,” Wolfe said. He opened the car door and let in a wave of cold air.
Prosper swallowed to wet his throat and try to dislodge the lump that had formed, and then he exited the car and shut the door behind him. He heard the car alarm beep as Wolfe thumbed the remote in his hand. The sound echoed along the deserted street of terraced houses, making Prosper wince. He looked around, anxious.
Satisfied no one had noticed them, he followed Wolfe to the alley and winced again when Wolfe whistled to attract Paris and Ty. They appeared like furtive rats at the other end of the alley and waved in acknowledgement before scurrying back into the shadows.
“Over here, in this passageway,” Wolfe said, opening a creaking door.
Although Prosper’s job relied on him being in charge, this time he passed the baton to Wolfe without any complaint. Deep down, he still hoped they wouldn’t go through with it, that they’d bottle it or that something would go wrong to stop them.
After the tramp’s statement, Prosper surmised that the Oracle must have used something like chloroform as an anaesthetic on Jane Numan, which gave him the idea of using chloroform too, as a way to overpower Hatchet Man. If they planned to emulate the Oracle, they may as well do it right. He took the bottle of liquid and a handkerchief from his pocket and doused the material. The odour was sweet and cloying in the semi-confined space.
As he stood waiting, Prosper felt like time had stopped. He reached for a cigarette, but then let his hand drop. The passageway ran between the terraced houses and allowed the residents’ access from the front to the back of the buildings. Looking along it, Prosper found the inky blackness unnerving. Anything could be lurking back there. As if in response, he heard a door open, the sound echoing along the tunnel, followed by the chink of milk bottles being put out or knocked over.
He held his breath, his eyes trying to penetrate the gloom. As usual, Wolfe seemed unperturbed, leaning against the wall and surveying the alley through a crack in the door. The meow of a cat emanated from somewhere, followed by a hiss and the sound of heavy footsteps. Prosper’s heart thundered and his breathing quickened. Was this Hatchet Man?
He couldn’t see the alley, but Wolfe went as still as one of his sculptures, which was the closest Prosper had seen to an actual reaction.
What the hell was going on?
The footsteps drew closer, louder. Heel to toe, one foot after the other on the concrete.
Then the sound stopped as though a foot was held in mid stride, toe held hesitatingly in the air.
An ominous silence descended.
A sick feeling swelled within Prosper’s stomach and his head felt buoyant, as though he were about to faint. The walls seemed to constrict. He couldn’t breathe. The smell of the chloroform accentuated his nausea and light-headedness.
Hatchet Man knew they were here.
He must have a gun. People like Hatchet Man always carried guns. It was the nature of their business and Prosper mentally berated himself for not preparing better.
He was going to die, shot dead in an alley that would become his tomb.
The foot came to rest with an audible slap. How had he got himself in this mess?
The catch began to lift.
The door began to open.
CHAPTER 20
Prosper wanted to scream. He watched the door begin to open, a chink that grew into a crack that grew into a veritable hole, and he gripped the chloroform soaked handkerchief, hoping he would get a chance to use it before Hatchet Man pulled the trigger.
Wolfe backed away from the door and placed a hand on Prosper’s to stay him as a figure stepped into the entrance.
“Whas thish then?” the figure asked, slurring his words as he peered at them.
Prosper sighed with relief. It was just a drunk.
He watched the skinny young man stagger past and lean against the wall a few feet further on, a bottle of beer in his hand and a quizzical expression on his face. He had medium length, dark hair, the stubble on his chin either fashionable or laziness, and he had hooded, almost predatory eyes.
There were more footsteps outside. Heavier. Louder.
“This is him,” Wolfe whispered.
Prosper looked at the drunk as he took a swallow from his beer. He turned to face Prosper and grinned, his eyes rolling like the wheels of a fruit machine.
The man staggered as he took another drink.
“We can’t do it, not with him here,” he hissed, grabbing Wolfe by the shoulder.
Wolfe scowled. “By the look of him, he won’t remember anything about tonight. Ty and Paris will already be on the move. We’ve got to do it, now.”
Prosper winced at Wolfe’s mention of their friends’ names in front of a potential witness, but before he could argue further, Wolfe pulled on his balaclava, opened the door and ran out. Wolfe’s footsteps grew distant, and against his better judgement, Prosper pulled on his own headgear and followed.
He saw Hatchet Man up ahead, a towering behemoth who looked even larger and more primitive close up. Then he saw Ty and Paris approachin
g from
Cushing Road, their eyes glinting from the peepholes of their balaclavas like rabbits caught in the glare of car headlights. The hoods made them look somewhat menacing, but Hatchet Man looked even more menacing, and he wasn’t wearing one. “What’s going on?” Hatchet Man growled.
“Payback,” Wolfe spat as he charged.
Prosper watched as Hatchet Man swung a mallet sized fist, knocking Wolfe aside without breaking stride. He ignored the sound of Wolfe crashing in to the side of the alley as Hatchet Man reached into a pocket. Prosper’s limbs grew heavy as he contemplated what he was about to withdraw: a cosh, a knife, a gun?
Ty charged, head down like a bull. Hatchet Man tried to avoid the collision, but he reacted too late and Ty’s head struck his stomach. Hatchet Man grunted and Ty dropped to the ground. It was hard to work out who’d come off worst, but it stopped Hatchet Man from withdrawing whatever he was reaching into his pocket for as he placed his hands on his stomach to quell the pain.
Before Hatchet Man could recover, Paris leapt astride his back and locked his arms around the larger man’s neck like a bizarre rodeo cowboy.
Hatchet Man brought his head back in a quick blur, taking Paris by surprise. Prosper heard the distinctive crunch of a broken nose and he winced in empathy as Paris released his grip and fell to the ground, clutching his face and screaming.
Without hesitating, Hatchet Man brought his foot down on Paris’s stomach, causing him to emit a gush of air and cutting off his scream, his hands going from his face to his stomach and his body curling into a ball like a hedgehog.
Then it was Prosper’s turn. Without giving Hatchet Man time to react, he kicked out, hoping to catch him in the balls, but his foot missed its target and struck the inside of his thigh.
“Who are you?” Hatchet Man demanded. “Don’t you know who you’re messing with here?”
Too busy trying to formulate a plan, Prosper didn’t respond. Events had taken a turn for the worse, but then they didn’t usually attack people trained in violence. He should have known better; planned better. His self-defence training wasn’t going to help against Hatchet Man.
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