‘That would be optimistic. Four would be more realistic.’
The patient nodded. He turned around. ‘Enough time to get my affairs in order,’ he said. ‘Ensure a smooth transition and all that.’
‘How’s Elaine taking it?’
A sudden sadness flashed across the Vice President’s face. ‘She’s only just gotten over her father,’ he said. ‘I intend to spend as much time with her as possible before . . .’ He left the sentence hanging and gave a small shrug. ‘I’ll see you next week, then, Pete.’ He headed for the door. ‘Give my love to Margaret.’
Two Secret Service agents in dark suits were waiting for the Vice President in the reception area. They escorted him to the elevator, one of them whispering into a concealed microphone as they walked.
Tommy Reid carried two plastic cups of coffee over to his desk and sat down heavily. His desk was pushed up against Wright’s and they shared three telephones between them. Reid looked over his shoulder and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a quarter bottle of vodka and winked at Wright as he poured a slug into his cup. He held up the bottle, offering Wright a shot, but Wright shook his head. Wright was trying to arrange a photofit artist but no one was available. A bored secretary had put him on hold and for the past six minutes he’d been listening to a computerised rendition of something that a child could play with two fingers. He watched Reid sip his laced coffee.
Reid put down his coffee. ‘What?’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Wright.
‘You were staring at me like I had something in my teeth.’
‘Nah, I was just thinking.’
Reid passed over Wright’s cup of coffee. ‘Yeah, well, you don’t want to be doing too much of that.’
Wright slammed down the receiver. ‘It’s a plot by British Telecom, that’s what it is.’
‘What is?’
‘The music they play to keep you hanging on. In the old days they’d say that they’d call you back. Now they put you on hold for hours. Who profits, huh? British sodding Telecom, that’s who.’
Reid grinned. ‘The old days,’ he said. ‘How old are you, Nick?’
‘Old enough.’ The middle of their three telephones rang. Wright raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose you want me to get that?’ he said.
‘Wrong, Wright,’ said Reid. He picked up the receiver as he took another sip at his coffee.
Wright began pecking away at his computer keyboard. He was working on a report of the morning’s undercover operation and had come to the section where he had to explain what had happened in the tunnel.
Reid replaced the receiver. ‘That can wait, Nick. We’ve got a body on the line.’
Wright stopped typing. ‘Jesus. Another? That’s three so far this month and we haven’t even had a full moon yet.’ He picked up his notebook. ‘All the pool cars are taken. Can we take your car?’
‘Sure. I could do with the mileage.’ The detectives were supposed to use pool cars when available, but if they had to use their own vehicles they were paid a substantial mileage allowance.
They went down together to the car park. Reid’s car was a four-year-old Honda Civic with forty-three thousand miles on the clock and a back-seat littered with empty fast-food containers.
They drove out on to Tavistock Place, headed south to the River Thames and turned right along the Embankment. It began to rain and Reid switched on the wipers. They smeared greasily across the glass.
Wright flicked open an A to Z. ‘Where are we going exactly?’
‘Nine Elms, not far from New Covent Garden Market. Nearest road is Haines Street, off Nine Elms Lane. I thought I’d swing across Vauxhall Bridge and double back, the traffic’ll be lighter.’
Wright tossed the street map on to the back seat. ‘I don’t know why you bother having an A to Z,’ he said. ‘You know every bloody road there is.’
‘Just one of my many talents, Nick. You hungry?’ Wright shook his head. ‘Thought we might stop off at a pub or something.’
‘Maybe afterwards,’ said Wright.
Reid snorted contemptuously. ‘What, want to see it on an empty stomach, do you?’
Wright said nothing. It wasn’t his stomach he was thinking about: he was more concerned about his partner turning up on a job smelling of drink.
It took them a little under twenty minutes to reach Nine Elms. They saw two police vans and a white saloon parked at the roadside, and Reid pulled in behind them. Wright climbed out of the Honda and peered down an embankment overgrown with nettles. A beaten-down pathway through the vegetation showed where the occupants of the vans had gone down to the tracks. The sky was a dull grey and a fine drizzle gave the scene the feel of a washed-out watercolour painting.
‘I thought you said this was a body on the line?’ said Wright.
‘That’s right,’ said Reid, opening the boot and taking out a pair of mud-covered Wellington boots. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘See for yourself,’ said Wright.
Reid took off his shoes, pulled on the Wellingtons and joined Wright at the edge of the embankment. The two lines down below were crusted with rust and dirt. ‘Ghost train?’ said Reid. He popped a mint in his mouth and started down the slope. Wright followed him, his shoes slipping on the muddy path.
At the bottom they looked up and down the tracks, unsure which way to go. To the south, they could see several hundred yards before the lines were swallowed up in the drizzle; to the north, they curved to the left. Wright looked down at his feet. A trail of muddy footprints led north. He nodded in their direction.
Reid grinned amiably. ‘You ought to be a detective,’ he said.
They followed the trail. Moisture flecked Wright’s suit and he put his hands in his pockets and shivered. Reid was wearing a brown raincoat which fluttered around his boots, and from somewhere he’d produced a battered tweed hat. He looked like a farmer setting out to market.
As they walked around the bend they saw a young uniformed policeman in a fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket standing at the entrance to a tunnel. The tunnel entrance was of weathered stone crisscrossed with veins of moss and overgrown with ivy and brambles. The policeman tensed as the two men approached.
‘British Transport Police,’ said Reid, taking out his warrant card and showing it to the constable. ‘Tommy Reid. This is Nick Wright.’
‘Reid and Wright?’ The constable rubbed his hands together. ‘Sounds like a comedy act.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ve heard all the jokes,’ said Reid wearily.
‘Our guys are already inside,’ said the constable.
‘Then they’re wasting their time, it’s a BTP case,’ said Wright.
‘There hasn’t been a train along here for ten years,’ said the constable.
Wright shrugged. ‘Makes no odds. It’s Railtrack property, so it’s ours.’ He put his head on one side and listened to a rumbling noise from inside the tunnel. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Generator,’ said the constable. ‘The SOCO boys brought it with them to run the lights.’
Reid stepped into the tunnel. Wright stayed where he was. ‘Nick?’ said Reid.
Wright swallowed. ‘Yeah, coming.’ He followed Reid into the tunnel mouth. He shivered involuntarily. Ahead of them they could see white, ghostly figures moving around, and beyond them, a bright wall of light. Wright stopped. He could feel his heart pounding.
‘Nick, are you okay?’
Wright took a deep breath. ‘Yeah.’ He shook his head and started walking briskly down the line, towards the lights. As they got closer, they saw that the ghostly figures were Scene of Crime Officers in white overalls and boots, gathering evidence. Two dark silhouettes carrying flashlights walked towards Reid and Wright, tall men with their hands in the pockets of their raincoats. Wright recognised them immediately and his heart sank. The slightly shorter of the two, Inspector Gerry Hunter of the Metropolitan Police CID, was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties with black curly hair
and tanned skin. His sidekick was Detective Sergeant Clive Edmunds, slightly older with receding hair and a thickening waistline.
‘What brings you on to our turf, lads?’ asked Reid goodnaturedly.
‘A uniform found the body and called it in,’ said Hunter. He nodded at Wright. ‘Thought we’d have a look-see.’
‘What was the uniform doing down here?’ asked Wright. ‘Having a kip?’
Hunter smiled coldly and ignored Wright’s sarcasm. ‘A down-and-out name of Annie Lees was sheltering from the rain a couple of days back.’
Edmunds lit a cigarette. ‘She’s a bit crazy. She kept talking about finding Jesus.’ He offered the pack of cigarettes to Reid and Wright but both men shook their heads.
‘Jesus?’ repeated Reid.
‘You’ll understand when you’ve seen the body,’ said Hunter. ‘No one took her seriously at first.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Reid.
‘We’ve got her back at the factory. We’ll keep her for you.’
Reid nodded. ‘Cause of death?’
Edmunds chuckled. ‘Well, it wasn’t suicide.’
‘The doctor’s there now,’ said Hunter, ‘but I think it’s safe to say we’ve got a murder enquiry.’
‘We?’ said Wright quickly. ‘This is our case.’
‘Yeah, handled many murders, have you?’ asked Edmunds.
Wright felt Reid’s hand on his shoulder. He realised he was glaring at Hunter and he forced himself to relax.
Hunter started to walk away and he motioned with his chin for Edmunds to follow him.
‘Don’t forget your gloves, lads,’ said Edmunds.
Wright was about to reply when Reid squeezed his shoulder. ‘Don’t let them get to you, Nick. They’re just taking the piss.’
They continued along the tracks towards the lights. There was a flash, then, a second later, another. ‘What’s that?’ asked Wright.
‘Photographer,’ said Reid. They walked by a small generator. A white cable snaked away towards two large fluorescent lights mounted on tripods.
A woman came down the tracks towards them. She was in her forties with greying blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing disposable rubber gloves and carrying a large moulded plastic briefcase.
‘Excuse me, are you the doctor?’ asked Reid.
‘Pathologist, actually,’ she said brusquely. ‘Anna Littman.’
‘Tommy Reid and Nick Wright,’ said Reid. ‘British Transport Police.’
‘I’ve already spoken to your colleagues,’ she said briskly, and stepped to the side to walk past them.
‘They’re not our colleagues,’ snapped Wright.
She raised her eyebrows and stared at Wright with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. ‘I’ve known Gerry Hunter for three years,’ she said. ‘I can assure you he’s a detective.’
‘He’s with the Met, Dr Littman,’ said Reid. ‘We’re British Transport Police.’
‘Sounds like too many cooks to me,’ she said.
‘Can you tell us what we’ve got here?’ asked Wright.
‘What we’ve got is a dead white male, late forties, I think, and he’s been dead for several days.’
‘It’s murder?’ asked Reid.
‘Oh, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘Murder weapon?’ asked Reid.
‘A knife, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘The body’s in a bit of a state. The rats have been at it. I’ll know better after the post mortem. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’ She brushed past Wright.
The two men turned to watch her go. ‘Nice legs,’ said Reid.
‘I’m off women just now,’ said Wright.
Reid sighed and turned up the collar of his raincoat. ‘Why would anyone dump a body down here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bound to be found eventually. If you really wanted to hide a body, you’d bury it, right?’
They walked down the track, their feet crunching on gravel. ‘No footprints,’ said Reid. ‘And none outside if it was two or three days ago.’
‘No drag marks either. So how did they get the body in here?’
‘Carried it, maybe.’
‘Which brings me back to my first point. Why carry it in here? Why not bury it?’
A Scene of Crime Officer stood up and stretched. He was in his fifties with steel-grey hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Nice day for it,’ he said.
‘Found anything?’ asked Wright.
‘Lots of stuff. Problem is knowing what’s relevant. Down-and-outs have been sleeping here, kids playing around, dogs, cats, rats. There’s litter, used condoms, sweet wrappers, empty bottles, cigarettes. We’ll bag it and tag it, but as to what’s relevant and what isn’t, well, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘No sign of a murder weapon?’ asked Wright.
The man snorted softly. ‘No, and I haven’t come across a signed confession. But if I do . . .’
Reid and Wright walked past one of the tripod lights. A woman in white overalls was kneeling down, examining a wooden sleeper. Wright flinched at a bright flash of light. The photographer was a small, squat man in a dark suit, standing with his back to them. He took a step back, adjusted his focus and took another picture of something against the tunnel wall.
Wright moved to the side to get a better look. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.
‘Yeah, practically crucified,’ said the photographer laconically. ‘I don’t think they cut Jesus’s dick off, though, did they?’ He turned his camera side on and took another photograph. ‘Who are you guys with?’ he asked.
‘British Transport Police,’ said Reid.
‘Don’t think he was hit by a train,’ said the photographer.
A young man in blue overalls joined them carrying a large metal suitcase. He placed it on a sleeper and opened it to reveal a large video camera and a halogen light. ‘Are you going to want the video, then?’ he asked, pulling the camera out of its foam rubber packing.
‘Yeah,’ said Wright, handing him a BTP business card.
The body was naked, spreadeagled against the wall, the hands impaled on thick nails. The man’s groin was a mass of blood, and strips of flesh had been ripped from his chest, arms and legs. A knife had been thrust into the chest.
‘That’s not what I think it is in his mouth, is it?’ asked Reid.
Wright lean forward. Between the man’s teeth was a piece of bloody flesh. Wright’s stomach lurched. He screwed up his face in disgust. ‘What sort of sick bastard would do that?’ he whispered.
‘Black magic?’ said Reid. ‘Some sort of Satanic ritual?’
Wright shook his head. ‘There’d be symbols. Candles. Stuff like that. This guy’s been tortured to death.’ He took a step closer to the body. There was something impaled on the knife. A playing card. Blood from the man’s face had trickled down over the card. Wright reached out his hand.
‘Don’t even think about touching that!’ boomed a voice.
Wright looked around. The grey-haired man in overalls was standing behind Wright holding a polythene evidence bag. ‘I wasn’t going to touch anything,’ said Wright defensively.
‘Who are you anyway?’ asked the man. ‘Gerry Hunter’s already been over the crime scene.’
‘I’m Nick Wright. This is Tommy Reid. British Transport Police.’
‘Been at many crime scenes, have you, Mr Wright?’
‘What?’
The man sealed the evidence bag. Inside was a cigarette packet. ‘Standard procedure is for detectives to wear gloves and shoe covers before they go trampling over a crime scene.’
‘Yeah, well, we’ll watch where we put our feet,’ said Wright. ‘And it’s Sergeant Wright. What about the victim’s clothes?’
‘No sign of them. Assuming he didn’t walk in naked, the murderer must have taken them with him.’
Wright put his hands in his pockets and turned to look at the body again. He peered at the playing ca
rd. ‘Ace of spades,’ he said. ‘Now what the hell’s the significance of that?’
‘Bridge game got a bit nasty, do you think?’ said Reid.
‘It must mean something, Tommy. Someone went to a lot of trouble to stick that on his chest.’
Kristine Ross opened the UPS package, taking care not to damage her blood-red fingernails. Inside was a manila envelope, with the senator’s name and ‘private and confidential’ typed across it. She picked up the UPS wrapper and looked at the name of the sender. Max Eckhardt. It wasn’t a name she recognised. The address was an apartment in London, England. The space for the sender’s telephone number had been left blank. She clicked her mouse on the logo for the senator’s contacts book and entered the name Eckhardt. Nothing. She scrolled through the Es, just to be on the safe side, but there was no name that was even remotely similar. It wasn’t unusual for members of the public to mark their mail private and confidential in the hope of reaching the senator’s desk unopened, but it was Kristine’s job to make sure that he made the maximum use of his time. Whoever Max Eckhardt was, he wasn’t known to the senator and so his envelope was fair game. She slit open the envelope and peered inside. All it contained was a Polaroid photograph. Kristine closed the envelope and tapped it on her desk, a tight feeling in her stomach. She doubted that it was a wedding picture. There was no letter, no card, just the photograph, and the fact that it was a Polaroid meant that it probably wasn’t the work of a professional photographer.
People sent strange things to the senator. His mail was scanned before it reached Kristine’s desk, but X-rays couldn’t weed out all the nasty surprises. In the twenty-two months she’d been working for Senator Dean Burrow she’d seen pornographic pictures of housewives offering themselves to him, hatemail written in crayon, obscene drawings, and on one occasion a small bottle of urine from a woman who said that the FBI were trying to poison her. Anything threatening was passed on to the Secret Service; anything obscene went into the shredder. Kristine sighed through pursed lips and tilted the envelope so that the Polaroid slid out, face down. She turned it over. For a second or two she stared at the image, unable to believe what she was looking at, then she felt her stomach heave.
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 3
