by Lloyd Otis
He lay the SIG on the table, nothing more than a trophy, a precious black market prize for all to see.
‘Drop the SIG into the Thames when you’ve finished. I don’t want it back down here.’
Troy wondered how many times it had been used to kill as he picked it up and tucked it away.
‘Thank you.’ He shook Dexter’s hand.
‘You’re welcome. Any friend of Dai’s is a friend of mine.’
Kyler and Troy left the basement to walk back the way they came. Neither saw Dexter beckon Silas. Neither of them heard him say, ‘Gather a couple of trusted men and head up to London to deal with the Dvoraks, before they come and deal with us.’
By the time the bright light of the cafe greeted them, Joe had switched off the television and was standing by the door with his coat on, fidgeting and looking anxious. Kyler handed Troy the keys to the car and told him he’d be along soon, then engaged in a hushed conversation with Joe.
Once inside the car, Troy adjusted the passenger seat and let it recline back, almost disappearing from the view but not quite. He saw Joe leave the café in a rush but Kyler hadn’t emerged. Seconds later a red Rover P6 pulled up and four men got out. He couldn’t see the faces but assumed they came to conduct business. They went inside just as a wave of tiredness swept him up, and not for one moment did he believe he’d fall asleep, but he did.
*
Troy’s eyes flapped open. Kyler was back in the car but different. Dazed and zombie-like. Red marks were smeared on the collar of his shirt, and across the cheeks of his face. He turned the key in the ignition and floored the accelerator.
‘What’s going on Kyler?’
‘Four men came and attacked us. Kept hacking away!’ Kyler swerved to avoid a cyclist.
‘Who’s hurt?’
‘Dexter’s been shredded.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He wasn’t moving.’
‘Are you hurt!’
‘No I don’t think so.’ Kyler was still in shock and stared at his shirt while pelting along at high speed. ‘This is not my blood, it’s someone else’s.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road damn it!’
Kyler broke every speed record known before screeching to a halt outside his home. The burning rubber marked the asphalt and the smell of petrol wafted in through the open window. Troy noticed the blood encased around Kyler’s fingernails.
‘Did you touch anyone there?’ he asked.
‘Huh?’
‘Can it be proved that you were there?’
‘I can’t remember.’
Troy lost patience and jogged round to the driver’s side to help Kyler clamber out, then got him inside.
‘You need to get cleaned up straight away.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
Kyler struggled up to the bathroom and looked a sad sight. Troy bit his nails like they were food. Why the hell would Proctor send him here? The safety had long ago disappeared. And what if he had been at Old Joe’s Café at the same time as those men? It didn’t bear thinking about and for the first-time Troy began to wonder just whose side Proctor was on.
Retching sounds filtered down from upstairs so Troy rushed up to see Kyler coughing up blood. On his knees and bent over the toilet, mumbling incoherently. Troy spotted patches of red from around his left side and feared the worse. A knife wound. Kyler would have to return with him to London but none of this made any sense.
‘You’re going to have to come with me. We’re leaving Cardiff.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘You’re in a bad way. No choice.’
‘I’m not going.’
A fed-up Troy left him but when Kyler drifted out of the bathroom he stumbled down the stairs. He regained his footing then made a move for the door. Troy blocked his path.
‘Do you want me to take you to a hospital?’
‘You know I can’t go there. Those guys might be looking for me.’
Troy recalled Kyler’s hushed conversation with Joe, and Joe looking anxious as he left. A few things weren’t adding up. ‘Who were the men that did this?’
‘They travelled down from London.’ Kyler paused to catch his breath. ‘Don’t worry, I’m almost finished here. There’s a lot of money involved.’
‘Who’s behind the Dexter hit?’
‘I can’t say.’
Kyler’s reluctance to open up annoyed Troy. ‘I need to know the part you played in this!’
Kyler refused to talk about it anymore so Troy moved aside to let him leave the house. He retrieved his rucksack and cursed, but when he made his way to the door, he found Kyler on the floor. The colour had drained from his face.
Troy took a closer look at his finger-deep wound and wiped away the claret. Someone had twisted the knife after inserting it, and Troy couldn’t stem the flow of blood that pumped out. He could see Kyler fading away and the deafening wail of sirens forced him to make a decision. They were getting closer. The police were moments away. Troy checked Kyler’s pulse. He was gone. The shock froze him but he had to move. He knew that.
Troy escaped through the rear of the house and burst through the patio doors, straight into a weed infested garden. Amongst the broken bits of wood scattered like debris, a Vienna Flared stone vase was the prettiest thing to admire.
Troy scaled a high fence and landed on top of a pillow of prickly thorns. When he fought free of them, they scratched his skin but the adrenaline kicked in hard and numbed the pain. He found a spot to hide, next to a wild stretch of bush and rested there. He allowed the memories to flood in, feeling devastated and emotional, because he had no way of bringing back his friend from the dead.
Troy soon found enough courage to peer out from beyond the bushes. The way ahead seemed clear so he moved out and followed a path to a main road. Nothing mattered except his escape and in order to stay off the grid, he slipped down a side road and soon found himself standing in front of an abandoned house.
Troy forced open the door to the boarded-up property and the smell of damp, which carried a pungent kick, hit him. He traipsed into a ground floor room lit by a beam of light that shone through a crack, and a broken stool had been propped in a corner. Troy sat down with the SIG in his hand and took off the safety, just in case he needed to use it.
*
One minute turned into two, then multiplied into many more, before Troy felt safe enough to leave. He walked away from the house without a nearby destination and passed a street where he spotted a man working on a car. The engine purred and the vehicle had its door open so Troy hung around. When the man popped into his home he grabbed his chance.
He walked towards the car, closed the bonnet then jumped inside. Troy released the handbrake and made the car crawl away until he reached a main road. From there, he upped the speed without knowing how far the car would take him. It didn’t matter because one thing ran through his mind. Kyler. A good friend for many years.
The time had come to return to London and he planned to collect his new passport and find out who framed him. But most of all, with an untraceable gun in his possession, he promised himself he wouldn’t end up dead like his friend.
FORTY SEVEN
London
Arlo Breck stood at bottom of the stairs staring at Molly’s suitcase. They enjoyed their impromptu visit to the circus but the ‘psychiatrist’ conversation cropped again afterwards. This time Molly decided to meet him halfway and agreed to stay with her aunt who once worked as an assistant clinical psychologist. On paper, she possessed enough useful knowledge to be of help to her niece. Molly still struggled to move on so it seemed for the best, and it’d be a good idea for her to spend a bit of time in Tunbridge. She had coped well enough when Breck travelled to West Yorkshire but different surroundings might swifter aid her recovery. Breck wanted to move on from the past too. He just didn’t know if it would ever happen.
Molly edged her way downstairs by holding onto the banister and Breck rose to his fee
t to help her down. She refused his offer in an attempt to display her own strength which he understood.
‘The taxi is outside. Sorry I can’t come with you to the station. Are you sure you have everything?’ Molly nodded but her eyes were distant. ‘It will be nice to get out of London for a while don’t you think?’
She gave Breck a gentle kiss before he picked up her luggage and walked her to the taxi. The driver popped her belongings into the boot while Molly climbed onto the backseat.
‘Ring me when you get to Tunbridge.’
‘Yes, OK,’ she said. ‘Arlo, one thing.’
‘Yes of course, what?’
‘You wouldn’t be unfaithful to me, would you?’
Breck felt a lump in his throat, taken aback by the question. He wondered why she had asked that unexpectedly, then when he considered it, found the answer. The shirt. The one he wouldn’t buy in a million years. He needed to reassure her. ‘Don’t be silly, what made you ask such a thing?’
‘Oh nothing.’
Breck didn’t believe her. ‘Give me a ring when you get there.’
‘I will.’
When the taxi pulled away, a morose looking Arlo Breck stayed in place until it disappeared from view. He hoped Molly would return to him as she once was and remain so, and he saw her trip as a step in the right direction. Breck opened the door to his VW and made his way to the station.
*
When Breck reached his desk, he received good news straight away. Beatrice had located Troy’s Blackfriars pub and showed him two signatures.
‘This is something that I collected from my pub crawl.’ Breck didn’t smile. ‘I’m joking,’ she said. ‘One of the signatures on this list confirms that Troy did in fact sign into a working gym in Blackfriars. It validates the story to some extent I suppose, of a man following him. The one he thinks could be setting him up. What do you want to do?’
‘I want to find Troy and his married lover then wrap this bloody thing up. That’s what I’d like to do but it’s not going to happen yet. Since the press conference and subsequent media coverage, we’ve received many calls but most have turned out to be false leads. Good work anyhow.’
Breck dialled Morten Hoebeck in Norway, fearing he was beginning to look out of his depth. There’d be someone within the SCU waiting to jump into his shoes should he fail. Not just Riley. After a few rings he got through to Morten.
‘Hello, Morten, how are you?’
‘I was minutes away from ringing you, and in answer to your question I’m good and bad.’
‘How come?’
‘Good because I had the breakfast I wanted this morning and bad because of the news I have to tell you.’
‘What news?’
‘We’ve found your POI.’
‘That’s great news.’
‘You don’t understand. The POI is dead. We believe murdered.’
‘No, no.’ Breck couldn’t believe it.
‘We found the body in a small fishing boat floating out to sea, wrapped up in a net.
‘How did he die?’
‘The harpoon through the eye that came out the other side of his skull, is a big clue, but our pathologist will confirm the exact cause.’ Breck felt defeated. ‘Here’s a break for you though. It looks like the killer was a bit careless.’
Breck gained some hope. ‘In what way?’.
‘The victim’s wallet had been stripped of cash and most other things but we found a folded scrap of paper inside that his killer missed. On it is a UK 01 phone number. A lead perhaps?’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Bavarian sausage and sauerkraut normally works with a flask of beer to wash it down with.’
‘I owe you one, friend.’
Morten gave Breck the number. ‘We’ll run through the normal processes here but is there anything else you want me to do while that is ongoing?’
‘Get an odonatologist at your end to carry out a test on the POI.’
Forensic odonatologists were used to either identify human remains when fingerprints were unobtainable. Or to examine bite marks in a criminal investigation. They could also be called upon to determine age by examining a subject’s teeth. Breck suspected a slight difference in age between the two men at the centre of the investigation. Although the procedure carried a chance of being less accurate on anyone over the age of fifteen.
‘OK, I’ll fix it.’
Breck hung up with Beatrice standing beside him looking a little bit anxious.
‘Do you know where Pat is?’
‘No idea but can I help?’
‘They found the body of our POI in Norway, but this number was found in his possession. Here it is.’ Breck handed the number over. ‘Find out who it belongs to, Bea, and make that your top priority.’
FORTY EIGHT
The Messenger
No one would have blamed Jacob Simpson for feeling relieved after escaping from Breck’s clutches. The sour smell of the interrogation at Cransham station still clung to him, and made him feel more uncomfortable than seeing scattered cat faeces at the entrance to his block. He side-stepped a few broken syringes on his way up the stairs and even a used condom didn’t register.
Simpson pulled out his key and opened the door. Then it happened.
Someone pushed him inside. Simpson’s feet disappeared from underneath him and he fell flat on his face. A boot slammed down on top of his head, pinning him to the floor.
‘Hey, this must be a mistake, man.’
No reply.
A subtle rustle of a plastic could be heard before the foot was released then a bag slipped over his head. Simpson felt his body elevate upwards and he was pushed onto the sofa. A small hole had been cut out at the front of the bag to allow him to breathe, but there were no eye slots. He had little time to think before a boot crashed into his chest, jerking his body backwards, and although the sofa cushioned him, the sting still forced him to let out a faint whimper.
Simpson must have guessed something terrible would befall him. He sprung up and made a desperate run for the door but was pulled back. A barrage of blows rained down on him. Each punch zapped Simpson’s resistance. He felt himself being dragged along by his ankles, and being taken to, what he believed to be his bedroom, where he was forced to his knees.
Simpson’s hands were pulled back and tied together.
This was a pro at work. He had upset the wrong people and Simpson understood what this was about – the very public arrest by Kearns and Breck outside the Riverdale. Simpson knew a lot of secrets that plenty would want him to keep quiet about, but the way he had been subdued carried its own signature. He knew who was in the room with him and what to say.
‘The pick-up was routine, nothing else.’ Footsteps moved away from Simpson but when they returned, the atmosphere worsened. Another blow connected with Simpson’s head and sweat crawled down the side of his face after he felt something grip his pinkie. He let out a horrifying scream. ‘They wanted to know about guys I met!’ He became breathless from the pain and felt what he believed to be a nut cracker, grip the next finger on his hand. Simpson flopped to the ground. The lever was released from his finger. ‘Peter Clarke and his mate Alexander Troy. They wanted to know who set up Troy, man. Simpson used to be my solicitor that’s why they visited me. Troy is looking for way out of his mess but they’re amateurs. I ripped them off for couple of quid and spun a story.’
Those desperate words flicked on the light switch within the mind of the man that intended to kill him. He had the option to allow Simpson to plead for his life until the fear paralysed him. Until it polluted the core of his mind. Then grab a pillow from the bed and press it against his head before pulling the trigger on his Beretta. Not once but twice. The silencer would dampen any noise and he’d scoop up Simpson’s body, throw it over his shoulder, and walk out of the flat like he owned it. For the grand finale, he’d use the sole of his boots to crack a few fingers or a forearm, Simpson’s neck even, and grind the
bones into dust, then dump Simpson down the rubbish chute. The other option was to show leniency. Let Simpson live to serve him another day. Him not his bosses. He weighed it all up with the Beretta pressed against Simpson’s head and Simpson feared the end unless he gave up something valuable.
‘Wait, there’s something you don’t know. It’s about one of the coppers investigating Troy. It might be useful.’
The movement behind him ceased. ‘Her name is Patricia Kearns and she’s a DS.’ The Beretta eased away from Simpson. ‘Let me live and I’ll tell you what she asked me to do.’
For the one they call The Messenger, the deal interested him because after this visit, he had an important meeting, and the keys to a greater kingdom lay just ahead.
*
A flurry of people, joggers and dog walkers, had begun to pass through Greenwich Park to make the most of the day’s sunshine, while The Messenger walked like someone in a rush and headed towards Aychm Dvorak – a man of advanced years dressed in an immaculate dark suit. Aychm sat on a park bench with polished Cuban heels on his feet while two men stood at equal distances watching over him.
The Messenger joined him on the bench.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Aychm removed his hands from his pockets. ‘You know, we should make the most of every day is what I say to whoever will listen. No one wants to listen. Not even my nephew. People want to complain and get greedy. Even those closest to you. I’ve seen many friends fade away and when you get to my age, it can wear you down.’ Aychm patted the knee of his guest and inhaled. ‘No one knows your true name and it’s difficult to contact you but I’ve considered your request and it sounds reasonable.’ He paused. ‘I understand that you just want to know where to find the man that attacked her is that correct?’
