by Andy Wiseman
He readied himself for the questions, and the demands, and the threats that would surely come. He knew that whatever answers he gave could very well determine his future well-being. He readied himself to lie, to say whatever it would take to survive. Anything but the truth. Telling the truth would be confirmation of his guilt - whatever that might be.
But when he felt hot breath against his ear, and he heard the question, his determination deserted him. Only the truth could possibly save him. And then he wasn’t really sure.
‘Tell me about the Eastern Europeans,’ said Harry.
The Weasel whimpered again, then pissed his pants.
CHAPTER 30
Steve drove back to the station, returning the car to the pool. As he entered the main reception, the Desk Sergeant informed him the Forensics team was down at Tricky Dicky’s premises. He also gave him a handful of telephone message slips, all of them from the reporter, Isobelle Harker.
Sighing, Steve shoved the message slips deep into his pocket, then turned around and headed back out the door to Tricky Dicky’s place. He decided to walk. It would only take ten minutes or so, and he couldn’t be bothered to sign-out another pool car.
He strode-out along Willesden High Street, taking in its multicultural diversity through the variety of restaurants, shops, and his fellow pedestrians.
Stopping outside one of his favourite shops - a serve-yourself green grocers - he pondered on what to have for dinner that night. Steve loved to cook and, equally, to select the food he intended to cook. After a few minutes of squeezing and sniffing for freshness, he bought two large red peppers and two un-waxed lemons. From a delicatessen two doors further along he then bought some black olives, a jar of capers, mozzarella cheese, and a fresh ciabatta bread loaf. With his goods in a large paper carrier bag - because Steve believed in being environmentally friendly - he continued on to Tricky Dicky’s place.
Parked outside the Adult shop was the Scientific Investigation Unit’s van, and guarding the entrance door from over inquisitive members of the public, was a bored uniformed constable who Steve didn’t recognise. He flashed his ID at the young constable who, after checking it, politely nodded and stepped aside.
Inside the shop, Steve gazed around at the variety of merchandise neatly arranged on the shelving. There was a tall stack of cardboard boxes on the counter next to the cash register. A box lay on the floor, its contents spilled, a variety of sex toys - some of them an eye watering size. Steve figured the box was probably dropped or knocked over in the panic to evacuate the building.
Seeing a door wedged open in the corner of the room, Steve made his way through to the rear of the building, the acrid smell and taste of burnt materials growing stronger in his nose and the back of his throat the further he went. A light was coming from an open door at the far end of the corridor. He stepped through into a medium sized room, eerily lit by portable halogen lights. Steve made the assumption the fire, or the large amount of water used by the fire brigade to extinguish the fire, had fused the electrics.
An area adjacent to the bar had been taped-off to preserve the crime scene, ghostly white suited figures cautiously moving about. Everything was blackened with ash and smoke damage: the ceiling, walls, furniture - everything.
Steve knew the fire brigade had pumped out the excess water prior to the investigation team going in, but there was still enough left for him to squelch through as he approached the taped-off area, while still taking care not to brush against any of the ash covered surfaces. If Steve had been dismayed earlier at the fish oil stain on his expensive leather shoes, he was now mortified. He berated himself for not brining his Wellington boots.
The door to Tricky Dicky’s office was gone, leaving only a charred gaping hole. The Forensic Officers were picking their way through what was left of the contents of the office. Just inside the doorway was a blackened shape in what appeared to be the foetal position.
On seeing Steve, one of the Forensic Officers walked over to the tape, nodding a greeting as he removed his mask.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Steve.
The Officer shook his head. ‘There’s not much left to analyse,’ he replied, ‘and what we’ve got left is soaking wet. The fire door did its job. It kept the fire contained long enough for the fire brigade to turn up, but it also kept that poor sod in too,’ he said, indicating the blackened form with a nod of his head.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Steve, frowning.
‘While most of the door has gone up in smoke, we still have the mortice lock - it’s in the locked position.’
‘He was locked in?’ said Steve, incredulously.
‘The door was locked,’ replied the Officer, ‘from which side, I can’t yet say.’
‘And the key?’ asked Steve, after a moment’s pause.
The Officer shrugged, replaced his mask, and turned back to his work.
‘Constable!’ came a loud voice from behind Steve, making him jump.
Steve turned to see D.I. Carson approaching, in green Wellington boots, hands stuffed deep into trouser pockets. ‘Sir?’ said Steve.
Carson stopped next to Steve. He momentarily watched the Forensic Officers at work, all the while jingling the loose change in his trouser pocket. Turning to Steve, he said, ‘They got anything yet?’
‘Not really, Sir,’ replied Steve. ‘They think that even if any evidence has managed to survive the fire, it’s quite likely to have been destroyed by water or smoke damage.’
They both watched as the Forensic Officers carefully worked around what was left of Tricky Dicky.
‘They did say,’ said Steve, nodding towards the Forensic Officers, ‘that the door was locked at the time of the fire.’
Carson’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘I guess Tricky finally pissed-off one person too many,’ said Carson, with a hint of a smile. ‘A fitting end, some might say.’
Steve turned to look at his superior officer. Carson was a man of medium height and in his middle fifties, though looked considerably older. His greying hair was greased back and over his collar; it had probably been a fine looking ‘mullet’ when Carson was in his prime. His stony face bore the pockmarked scars of teenage acne, and his posture was poor: shoulders hunched, beer belly protruding. This coupled with his choice of suits from the cheaper end of the retail market, gave an overall impression of slovenliness. That impression could not be further from the truth. D.I. Carson was ‘old-school’, and he was as hard-as-nails. Steve was yet to meet a person who didn’t look uncomfortable when talking to Carson. It was the eyes. Carson’s eyes were a light hazel brown, and unblinking. He had the gaze of a reptile; the gaze of predator - which could be very useful when interviewing suspected criminals.
He now turned that gaze upon Steve, who immediately started to fidget, and just as he was about to look away, Carson’s gaze dropped down to Steve’s carrier bag. ‘What’s in the carrier bag, Constable?’ asked Carson, jingling the loose change in his pocket.
‘Food, Sir,’ replied Steve.
‘Food?’ said Carson, who hadn’t eaten since earlier that morning. ‘What kind of food?’
‘Err, red peppers, black olives and capers, Sir,’ replied Steve, deliberately omitting to mention the more palatable ciabatta and mozzarella, knowing from past experience just where the conversation was going.
D.I. Carson pulled a face that was somewhere between a look of distaste and a sneer, before turning back to the crime scene. ‘Let me know when - if - they find any evidence that might indicate who, or what, killed this worthless piece of shit,’ he said, turning to leave.
CHAPTER 31
A trail of battered and bruised victims had led Harry to a cosy little pub on the outskirts of Richmond, south west of London, where he had a window seat and was now enjoying a pint. Mollie’s car was parked on a meter, which Harry had filled with what seemed to him an extortionate amount of money.
The only information the Weasel had been able to give Harry was meagre, but, coupled wi
th some of his old connections in crime, had been enough to lead him from petty criminal, to pimp, to prostitute, their information bringing him to this part of outer London.
As pleasant as the pint and pub were, this was not where Harry’s interest lay. His interest lay in the large detached Edwardian building across the road, a house large enough to make Isobel’s father’s place look like a weekend retreat. Judging by the number of windows and waste pipes on the front facade, Harry figured it had at one time probably been a hotel. It was now - he’d been reliably informed - an ‘exclusive’ gentlemen’s club. He’d also been informed that the club was owned by a mysterious figure yet run by Eastern Europeans - namely Russians.
The club itself was a legitimate business, but behind the scenes it was a different matter. Crime money was being laundered through the club’s bars, restaurant, and licensed gambling facilities. The young women who worked in the club as ‘hostesses’, were also Eastern Europeans, brought over to the UK on the promise of a better life, the cost of their passage having been paid for them on the condition that they repaid that cost once they’d found employment. On arrival in the UK, however, they’d been presented with a different scenario. A scenario of imprisonment, physical violence, rape, and forced drug taking. Once they’d been mentally broken and addicted to drugs, they were then forced into prostitution and expected to work wherever they were sent across the country.
Harry knew the link between Cutter’s claim of having sold Mollie to the Eastern Europeans, and this particular club, was tenuous at most. From what he’d recently learnt, the sex slave trade was rife, and the chance of finding Mollie was slim, but it was all he had.
He took a sip from his pint, and studied the house across the road, brooding over his next move. He was going to have to go in there. The question was: how? Tall, black iron spiked railings ran around the perimeter of the property; the gates were electronic and intercom operated. Harry didn’t fancy his chances of scaling the fencing’ without being seen or doing himself a serious injury - or both. But then he could hardly just walk up the drive and in through the front door, either. These kinds of clubs didn’t just let in any old Tom, Dick, or Harry; you had to be rich and connected - and Harry was neither. He also had no doubt they would have security of some kind, probably CCTV, possibly Doormen: hired muscle.
It was mid-afternoon and there were a few large, expensive cars parked on the gravel forecourt. Lunchtime crowd, thought Harry. He watched a silver Daimler pull up to the gates. The electric window came down and arm reached out to press the intercom. A moment later, the gates swung open.
Another twenty minutes passed before he saw a young man and woman walk up to the gates, press the intercom, to then also be let in. He could see, despite their winter coats, they were dressed in ‘black and whites’: catering uniform. He ruled out trying to sneak in with the staff; he was a stranger, and clearly not dressed for the part. In fact, if he were honest with himself, he was starting to look like a tramp.
Harry had finished his pint, and was at a loss as to what to do, when he saw a Luton van pull up to the gates. The driver’s door opened, and the driver jumped down, sauntering over to the intercom. The van had a roller shutter rear door, a Checker Plate step, and a grab-rail fixed either side to aid access to the rear of the van.
Harry made a split second decision. Hastily pulling on his jacket, he left the pub and walked quickly across the road. He now knew how he was going to get in. What he hadn’t yet figured out, was how he was going to get out.
Taking hold of a grab-rail, he stepped up onto the Checker Plate step, just as the driver jumped back into his cab, put the van into gear, and drove through the now open gateway and up the drive towards the large house. Not wanting to risk the chance of the driver catching sight of him in his wing mirrors by looking around the back of the van, Harry hung on: waiting, judging the moment.
When he heard and felt the van start to slow, and it’d slowed to a walking pace, he hopped off, quickly disappearing into the shrubbery that bordered the property. Using the borders as cover, he then slowly and silently made his way around to the rear of the house, and in the direction of the disappearing Luton van. After a few minutes, he reached a point from where he could watch the van being unloaded of tinned food and groceries.
Crouched amongst the wet and muddy shrubbery from the recent rains and an agonisingly long forty minutes later the unloading was complete, and with his clipboard duly signed, the driver jumped back into his cab, did a three-point turn, and then drove away. As Harry went to stand, cramp shot up through his legs, causing him to involuntarily cry out.
Lunging for a nearby tree sapling to give him support and to ease the agony of his cramped legs, he quickly looked around, checking to see if anyone had heard him. Nothing.
Despite the autumnal chill, beads of perspiration broke-out on his forehead as he used the sapling to pull himself upright, but in doing so, dislodged a shower of rain drops from its leaves, soaking him further. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he said, now more wet than dry and covered in mud. Harry wasn’t into all this covert crap, he’d much rather go through the front door, all-guns-blazing - metaphorically speaking, of course. Harry was ‘old school’, he didn’t like using knives or guns, just pure physical violence.
When the feeling had almost returned to his legs, he hobbled out of the shrubbery and across the gravelled drive, and to the door the delivery driver had used. It was unlocked. He gently eased it open, listening carefully, all the while anticipating a cry of alarm to ring out. Silence.
He peered inside. A long corridor with a red quarry tiled floor and white painted walls with doors leading off, stretched out ahead of him. He quietly entered, closing the door behind him. Immediately to his right, was a door with a wired glass viewing panel in the upper centre, the muted crash and bang of metal upon metal could be heard from within. The kitchen, he assumed.
As he started to move forward, the overhead lighting flickered into life, causing him to abruptly halt, anticipating company and his discovery.
Nothing. Silence.
He took another few steps. The next overhead light flickered on. Motion sensors, he realised with relief; the lights only came on when there was movement: people about. He noticed the large number of marks on the painted walls and doors along the corridor, suggesting regular traffic passed through. He carried on, wary, before stopping at the first closed door: no glass viewing panel and no signage to indicate what lay behind. He listened for a moment and then eased the door open, the light flickering on to show boxes of groceries and tinned goods. The driver’s destination.
The next door along was a cleaner’s cupboard.
Harry knew that the chances of finding Mollie in that part of the building were slim, but he believed in being thorough - and he had to start somewhere.
Next door along: locked.
The next door had a ‘Private’ sign. Also locked.
The next room was different. As the light came on, Harry could see it was carpeted, had a desk, a chair, a desktop computer, filing cabinets, and shelving full of box files. He stepped in. The writing on the spines of the box files, and the stack of invoices and delivery notes on the desk, indicated it was the Catering Manager’s office. He wasn’t going to find any clues in there, so he turned to leave. As he did so, he noticed a trail of muddy footprints leading into the room. ‘Fuck!’ he said. He retraced his muddy footprints back to the open doorway. Peering around the door frame, he saw a trail of mud leading back to the outer door. ‘Shit!’
It was at that moment when he felt cold metal touch the back of his head. While Harry was anti-gun, he was certainly familiar enough with them to know when one was pressing against his skull.
So much for covert!
And that was his last thought, as he was clubbed across the back of the head, and sent into blackness.
Harry was in trouble. Serious trouble.
The ignorant bliss of unconsciousness prevented him from being aware of just
how serious his plight was. But soon enough, he would be. Soon enough, he was going to wake to his worst nightmare, his greatest fear. Soon enough, the panic, the sheer terror, and the thrashing of limbs would set in. Soon, very soon, he was going to scream his lungs out, in the desperate hope that someone, somehow, would save him.
CHAPTER 32
‘Tosser!’
Izzy was back behind the wheel, and carving her way through the London traffic. After her fruitless visit to the hospital that morning, in search of Cutter - and still annoyed with the offhanded attitude she’d received from the nurse - she’d spent the remainder of the day in her office. This was for two reasons. The first was to appease her editor, who’d given her a serious telling-off for not delivering the church story in time to go to print, making it perfectly clear that he didn’t “give a flying fuck” who she was related to, and if she didn’t pull her finger out, she’d be “looking for a new job!”; the other was to go through the laborious task of completing the paperwork for the insurance claim on her car, and to organise a hire car - the cost of which, she’d discovered to her dismay, was not covered by her insurance policy.
As she drove, she found herself reflecting on the conversation she’d just had with her father. How she’d informed him the Saab - which he had bought for her - was now a write-off. Izzy had gone to great lengths to explain to her father that this particular accident had not been her fault, that it had just been “one of those things”. Other than asking why she had been at that particular place at that particular time, her father had said very little, which usually meant he was angry and no doubt disappointed with her - again. She had the sneaking suspicion her father had already talked to her editor, and if her editor did follow through with his threat to sack her, her father wouldn’t intervene to prevent it.
Well, at least it’s a nice hire car, she thought. She had opted for a Smart Car, for no other reason than it looked cute in its black and red livery.
