The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  Phil Evans flashed Dundas a thumbs-up.

  ‘Now, you know as well as I do how this is going to work. It’s a joint investigation, with the BTP and the Met working hand in hand, brothers-in-arms in the fight against the forces of darkness. That’s the PR shit. In reality we’ll tell them fuck all and they’ll treat us like mushrooms. I know I’m pissing in the wind, but please try to remember that we’re supposed to be co-operating. Try to share something with them, otherwise we’ll have two investigations going and that’s not going to help anyone. Any questions?’

  ‘Who’s on the Met team?’ asked Wright.

  Dundas opened his file and held out a sheet of paper on which was a typed list of names. Wright scanned the list. His heart fell. The third name on the list was Detective Inspector Gerry Hunter. The sixth name was Detective Sergeant Clive Edmunds. He handed the list back to Dundas who gave it to Phil Evans. Dundas smiled at Wright. ‘Any problems?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Wright.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Dundas. He left the incident room, humming to himself.

  ‘Hunter’s on the case?’ asked Reid.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That should produce a little creative tension, wouldn’t you say?’

  Wright drank the rest of his coffee and stood up. ‘Maybe.’

  On the way out, Wright checked his mailbox by the door. There was a single envelope, blindingly white, with his name and the address of the office typed on the front. He ripped it open on the way to the elevator. It was from the Child Support Agency, asking for details of any savings accounts he had. It was the third letter from the agency that he’d received that month. He treated it exactly the same way as he’d treated the previous two. He screwed it into a tight ball and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.

  A middle-aged man wearing a bloodstained dark green glossy apron over light green scrubs squinted at Wright’s warrant card and told him that Dr Anna Littman was in the middle of a post mortem but that he could go in if he wanted. He nodded at a pair of green-painted swing doors with metal protective strips at waist height. Wright shook his head and said that he didn’t mind waiting. The man pulled off bloody rubber gloves and dropped them into a bin, then stripped off his gown and put it in a black bag before going over to a stainless-steel sink and carefully washing his hands. ‘Don’t see many of you chaps here,’ he said. ‘What happened? Somebody fell under a train?’

  ‘Murder,’ said Wright. ‘I’m Nick Wright.’

  The man nodded. ‘Robbie Ballantine.’ He wiped his hands on a towel. ‘Oh, of course, the body in the tunnel. Gruesome business that.’

  ‘You saw it?’

  ‘I helped Anna with the post mortem, actually. Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, not really. I just wanted more information, that’s all.’

  ‘The report seemed comprehensive to me.’

  ‘It’s not that. I’m more interested in seeing if there was anything about the body that might help me identify the man.’

  ‘You still don’t know who he is?’

  Wright shook his head. ‘Can you think of anything? The scars on his back, for instance.’

  Ballantine raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah yes. The scars. They’re in the report, aren’t they?’

  ‘The report refers to them as old scars, but doesn’t say how they got there.’

  ‘No real need to,’ said Ballantine. ‘They were very old wounds. At least twenty years, I’d say. No connection at all with the crime.’

  ‘Knife wounds?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Ballantine. ‘They were too jagged for that. Fragmentation scars, I’d say.’

  ‘From a grenade? A war wound?’

  ‘Could be.’ He looked up at the ceiling and waggled his head from side to side as he thought about it. ‘An explosion of some sort, certainly. It could have been a gas cylinder exploding, something like that.’ He looked at Wright again. ‘I actually hadn’t given it much thought. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘Because if it was a grenade I’d be looking for someone with a military background. If it was a bomb, then he could have been caught up in a terrorist incident.’

  The swing doors behind Wright banged open and Anna Littman burst into the room, her gloved hands held out in front of her. Her hair was covered with a green plastic cap and she was wearing scrubs and a bloodstained green apron. ‘Nick Wright,’ she said. ‘Rank unknown. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Wright was surprised that she’d remembered his name. Surprised and flattered. She turned her back on him as she stripped off her protective clothing.

  ‘It’s sergeant,’ said Wright. ‘And I need your help.’

  ‘Take two aspirins and call me tomorrow.’ She took off her cap and her greying blonde hair spilled out. She looked over her shoulder at him and winked mischievously. ‘That’s a doctor joke,’ she said.

  ‘I just came to tell you that your car’s been towed away,’ he said.

  ‘I only . . .’ she began, but she stopped when Wright’s face broke into a grin.

  ‘That’s a policeman joke,’ he said.

  Her green eyes flashed, then she smiled. It was an open, honest smile, thought Wright. He decided that he liked Dr Anna Littman. She seemed a lot less prickly than when they’d met in the tunnel. She went over to the sink and washed her hands.

  ‘He was asking about the tunnel corpse,’ said Ballantine, putting on a fresh apron.

  ‘Was he now?’ said Dr Littman. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and fastened it with a small black band. ‘You got my report?’

  ‘Eventually,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know where to send it, so I figured that Gerry could hand it on to you.’

  ‘The report was fine,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘I just wanted to pick your brains.’

  Ballantine pulled on rubber gloves. ‘Duty calls,’ he said to Wright, and used his shoulder to push his way through the swing doors.

  ‘So, Sergeant Nick, pick away.’ Dr Littman leaned back against the sink and watched him with amused eyes.

  ‘I’m having trouble identifying the body,’ said Wright. ‘The face was messed up so badly it’s impossible to get a match from photographs. Hundreds of men go missing every year, and other than the scars on his back there don’t seem to be any identifying features. Robbie there was saying he thought they might be shrapnel scars. An old war wound. Or an accident. Something like that could help me identify him.’

  ‘I see. Do you want a coffee?’

  The change of subject took Wright by surprise and for a moment he was flustered. ‘Coffee? Sure. Yeah, that’d be great.’

  ‘Come through to my office.’

  Wright followed her down a corridor. Even in the shapeless scrubs it was clear she had a good figure. Wright wondered how old she was. Late thirties, certainly. Maybe early forties. At least six or seven years older than he was. She opened a door and he followed her into a small office with a single window overlooking a car park. There were several feminine touches: a fern in a pot, a watercolour of a young girl playing with a puppy, and several framed photographs on the desk. One of the pictures was of a good-looking man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles with two young boys in his lap. Dr Littman poured two cups from a coffee-maker on top of a filing cabinet. ‘No milk, but I’ve got Coffeemate,’ she said.

  ‘Coffeemate’s fine,’ said Wright.

  ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Wright, sitting in a leather armchair. On the wall to his right was a poster of a rock group, half a dozen beefy men with long hair and leather waistcoats holding their musical instruments in phallic poses. Wright wondered if Anna Littman had a thing about rock musicians. The poster certainly seemed out of place in the office.

  She stirred white powder into the coffees, gave him his cup and then sat in the high-backed swivel chair behind the desk. ‘I’m not sure how much of a help the scars on his back will be,’
she said. ‘They were very old, hardly noticeable. A wife would probably know about them, but they wouldn’t be common knowledge.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Wright. ‘Was there anything else that you saw, maybe something that wasn’t in the report but which I could use to narrow down the possibilities?’

  Dr Littman looked at Wright over the top of her cup. Small frown lines appeared across her forehead. She put down her cup. ‘He was circumcised,’ she said. ‘That should help. I think you’d probably be able to eliminate two thirds of the possibilities on the basis of circumcision alone.’

  She warmed her hands on the steaming cup of coffee and chewed on the side of her lip, deep in thought, staring into the middle distance as she tried to recall the body.

  ‘Contact lenses,’ she said. ‘He had contact lenses. The disposable type, the ones you wear for a day and throw away.’ Suddenly her eyes widened. ‘Oh God, I clean forgot. I think he played bass guitar.’

  Wright burst out laughing. ‘Come on, Anna. What on earth makes you say that?’

  She looked at him seriously. ‘I was checking his hands for defence wounds. They were soft, as if he wasn’t used to manual work, but the skin on the fingertips of both hands was hard.’

  Wright shook his head, still chuckling.

  Her eyes flashed and she flicked her hair to the side like a horse swishing its mane. ‘Do you want my help or not, Sergeant Nick?’

  Wright did his best to stop laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but that’s a feat of deduction that Sherlock Holmes would be proud of.’

  Dr Littman pointed at the poster. ‘See the guy third from the left. With the bass guitar?’

  Wright looked at the musician. A tall, good-looking man in black leather with shoulder-length jet-black hair and a white guitar thrusting up from his groin. ‘Yes . . .’ he said, not sure what she was getting at. Dr Littman turned the framed photograph of the man with two children around so that he could see it more clearly. He did a double-take. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You married a rock and roll star.’

  ‘He used to dye his hair,’ she said. She smiled at the photograph. ‘And he has to wear glasses these days.’ She looked up at Wright. ‘He still plays. And I’d know a bass guitarist’s hands anywhere.’

  ‘Okay, I’m convinced, but why are you so sure he played bass and not lead guitar?’

  Dr Littman sat back in her chair, smiling broadly. ‘Lead guitarists use plectrums, so the skin isn’t so hard on the fingertips of their right hands. And Spanish guitarists have long nails on their right hands so that they can pluck the strings.’ She gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘What can I say? I’ve been married a long time. My husband could probably tell you half a dozen causes of hypertension.’ Wright was suddenly very envious of Dr Littman’s husband. Her love and affection for him was written all over her face. Wright doubted that Janie had ever felt the same way about him. ‘So, have I been of any help?’ the pathologist asked.

  Wright grinned. ‘Of course you have,’ he replied. ‘I’m looking for a short-sighted, circumcised bass player. How hard can that be?’

  When Wright got back to the office, Tommy Reid was devouring a carton of Kentucky Fried Chicken. ‘Wanna piece?’ asked Reid, offering a leg.

  Wright shook his head. He sat down and studied a note that had been left on his desk. His ex-wife had called. Three times. Wright held up the note.

  ‘Yeah, she’s not a happy bunny,’ said Reid. He wiped his greasy lips with a paper napkin.

  ‘Did she say what it was this time?’

  Reid picked up a handful of French fries. ‘Nope.’ He slotted the fries into his mouth and chewed contentedly. ‘How did it go with the lady doctor?’

  ‘I think I can narrow the list down quite a bit. Our man played bass guitar.’

  ‘Yeah? What colour?’

  ‘I’m serious. Playing the guitar affects the fingers, apparently.’

  Reid pulled a face. ‘You learn something every day,’ he said.

  ‘What about the card?’ asked Wright.

  Reid reached for his notebook and flicked through it. ‘I had no problem identifying it. I took it to a magic shop in Kensington and the guy there knew what it was straight away. It’s a Bicycle brand, one of the most common brands, unfortunately. Manufactured in Ohio by the United States Playing Card Company. They make millions of the things.’

  ‘Any chance of telling where our card was bought?’

  ‘If we had the box they came in, maybe. But not from the card itself. Game shops, department stores, magic shops, newsagents, they all sell playing cards. And a hell of a lot of them sell the Bicycle brand.’

  Wright heaved himself out of his chair and went over to the whiteboard. He massaged his temples with his knuckles as he stared at the photograph of the mutilated corpse. ‘I wonder what it’s like to die like that?’ he mused. ‘To have your skin peeled off, bit by bit.’

  ‘Hey, I’m eating here,’ complained Reid. Wright turned and was about to apologise, but his partner was already biting into his chicken leg.

  There were two detectives, big men in cheap suits with the careworn faces of cops who had been on the job long enough to have seen it all. They were polite enough, and the senior of the two, an inspector called O’Brien, had shaken the senator by the hand after they’d shown him their identification. The questions were routine, O’Brien had said, and he didn’t expect to take up too much of Burrow’s time. They’d rejected his offer of coffee and O’Brien’s partner had taken out a pen and notebook after they’d seated themselves in front of the senator’s desk.

  ‘How long had Kristine Ross been working for you, Senator?’ asked O’Brien.

  ‘Just under two years.’

  ‘As your secretary?’

  ‘As one of three secretaries. Four, if you include my office manager, Sally Forster.’

  ‘Did she seem depressed?’

  Burrow leaned forward. ‘I thought it was an accident? She tripped, I was told.’

  O’Brien made a patting motion with his hand and shook his head emphatically. ‘These are standard questions, Senator. Whenever we get an accidental death, we have to rule out any other possibilities. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I did otherwise.’

  Burrow sat back again. ‘I understand, Officer, but Kristine was a delightful, high-spirited, wonderful girl, and I wouldn’t want it to get around that she might have killed herself. No, she was most definitely not depressed.’

  ‘To the best of your knowledge, did she have a drinking problem?’

  ‘A drinking problem? Absolutely not. Why, was drink involved?’

  ‘She’d drunk a bottle of wine before she fell.’

  Burrows shrugged. ‘That surprises me,’ he said.

  ‘Was she under a lot of stress here?’

  ‘No more so than the rest of my staff. We all work long and hard here, Inspector O’Brien, but it goes with the turf. Kristine knew what was involved before she joined. She didn’t appear to me to have any trouble coping, but Sally would know better than me. You should speak to her.’

  ‘We have, Senator, and she agrees with you.’

  Burrow held his hands out, palms upward. ‘There you are, then.’ He stole a glance at O’Brien’s partner. The detective was scribbling in his notebook. He finished writing and looked up. Burrow flashed him a confident smile.

  O’Brien stood up and held out his hand. Burrow shook it again and looked the detective in the eye. The senator knew how important eye contact was: it demonstrated sincerity and openness, qualities that Burrow was a master at projecting.

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Burrow.

  ‘Accidents happen,’ said the detective. His partner put away his notebook and nodded a farewell to the senator. ‘Did you know that more accidents happen in the home than on the roads?’ O’Brien asked.

  ‘Is that so?’ said the senator. ‘I had no idea.’

  He walked the two detectives to the door and showed them out. Sally Forster was waiting to escort them out
of the main office. Burrow closed the door and sighed deeply. His heart had been pounding throughout the interview, even though he knew that Jody Meacher would have left nothing to chance. There wouldn’t be anything to connect Burrow to the murder, and it was a murder, he was sure of that. Meacher hadn’t said what he was going to do, or when it would happen, but Burrow knew that Meacher was behind Kristine Ross’s death. More than that, Burrow didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that Meacher was taking care of things, just as he’d promised.

  Nick Wright spent the afternoon methodically working through his list of missing persons. The list had been generated by the Police National Computer after details of the corpse had been fed in: height, weight, eye colour, age, and distinguishing features. The wide age bracket was the main reason that the list was so long, but he hadn’t wanted to narrow it any further. Each missing man had his own page giving physical details, the name and telephone number of the investigating officer and a PNC code that identified the police station involved in the enquiry. What the PNC didn’t supply was a photograph, or details of next of kin; for that Wright had to contact the officer handling the enquiry. It was slow, methodical work. Often the officer involved wasn’t available, so Wright had either to leave a message or find someone else who could pull the file for him. If there was a photograph available, Wright arranged to have it sent to Tavistock Place, either through the Photophone system that the Force Intelligence Bureau had on the third floor, or by faxing it to one of the two fax machines in the incident room. Sometimes he was able to eliminate a possibility solely on the basis of a photograph, but the mutilation of the face and the poor quality of the photographs meant that more often than not Wright would have to telephone the next of kin for further details.

  At first he’d felt a little embarrassed asking relatives if the man who’d gone missing was circumcised, and several times he’d been accused of being a pervert and had had the phone banged down on him. Despite his embarrassment, he’d already ruled out more than twenty names. Wright was about to dial another number when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and his heart fell as soon as he heard his ex-wife’s voice.