Tony folded his arms and put his head on one side. He pressed a finger against his lips as he studied the passenger. ‘He works out,’ he said. ‘Look at those thighs. What is he, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?’
‘His hair is starting to go grey,’ said Gwen.
‘Prematurely, darling,’ said Tony. ‘Nothing a little Grecian Two Thousand wouldn’t hide.’
‘Is that what you use?’
‘Bitch!’ hissed Tony playfully. He ran a hand through his own unnaturally blond and coiffured hair. ‘A little peroxide, that’s all I allow near my locks.’ He put his forefinger to the side of his face as he glanced at the profile of the passenger. ‘He’s a professional footballer,’ he said eventually. ‘Played for a first division club, but was plagued by injury—-’
‘Didn’t have a limp,’ interrupted Gwen.
‘Is this my story or yours?’ asked Tony. ‘Knee problems, or Achilles tendon. Nothing serious, but enough to keep him from giving his best, so he decided to quit playing before he was over the hill. He’s just joined a second division club, as assistant manager.’
‘Oh, did I mention that he was American?’ said Gwen.
‘They play soccer in the States,’ said Tony. ‘All right, Miss Know-it-all, what do you think?’
‘Mafia hitman,’ she said. ‘Look at his eyes. Cold, cold eyes. That man could pull the trigger and not care. The Mafia send him all over the world to get rid of people who are causing them problems. He gets well paid for what he does, but he doesn’t do it for the money.’
Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I could persuade him to indulge in a little S and M.’
Gwen giggled and Tony gave her a playful push. The man in 17A turned his head slowly and looked at them across the cabin. His eyelids were half closed and his face was devoid of any emotion, but Gwen and Tony both stopped laughing immediately. Tony shivered, and this time Gwen knew he wasn’t faking it. He turned away and began to busy himself with one of the trollies. The passenger held Gwen’s look for several seconds, but to the stewardess it felt like an eternity. She was transfixed by his pale hazel eyes, unable to tear herself away. The man smiled, but his lips didn’t part. It was a humourless smile and it sent a chill down Gwen’s spine. Eventually he looked away. Only then did she realise that she’d been holding her breath all the time he’d been staring at her, and she exhaled like a deflating balloon.
Tommy Reid put down a cup of coffee in front of Nick Wright. ‘Morning prayers in five minutes,’ he said.
Wright sipped his coffee. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. The two detectives went downstairs to the incident room. Most of the BTP detectives were already there, sitting on tables or standing around, drinking coffee or chewing on bacon sandwiches brought from the canteen. Only half of the Met contingent had turned up, but Hunter and Edmunds were there, huddled over a HOLMES terminal. Several of the detectives fidgeted with pens or pencils – Newton was a vehement anti-smoker and had banned smoking in the room. The detectives would have to wait until after the briefing before lighting up.
The superintendent walked in, a clipboard under one arm, followed by Ronnie Dundas and the Met’s senior officer on the investigation team, Chief Inspector Colin Duggan, a balding Welshman in a dark blue suit. The assembled detectives stopped talking and waited while Newton studied his notes. ‘Day eight, gentlemen. One week and a day. I have so far approved four hundred and eighty hours of overtime and I appear to have precious little to show for it. I know you’re all keen to have that central heating installed or upgrade your car or pay for that foreign holiday next year, but the powers that be are going to want to see some sort of return on their investment. And frankly, so am I.’ His upper lip barely moved throughout his speech, though his eyes fixed on each of the detectives in turn. Most of them averted their eyes under his stony gaze; they were all well aware of how slowly the investigation was proceeding.
‘So, let’s recap. We know that Max Eckhardt left his hotel intending to walk to the station, but none of the station staff remembers seeing him. Nick, have we spoken to every member of staff?’
‘Everyone who was working on the Monday. And if he did buy a ticket, he didn’t use a credit card.’
‘We’ve interviewed passengers on the train that he should have caught,’ said Reid. ‘And the trains either side. We’ll do another sweep next Monday, just in case there are passengers who only travel then. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’
‘Agreed,’ said Newton. ‘Julian, any joy on the surveillance tapes?’
‘Afraid not,’ said Lloyd. ‘We’ve been through all of them, but there’s no man with a holdall and two leather cases. We’re trying to decide whether we go through them again to see if he’s lost the gear, but that’s going to take days. We’d have to look at the face of every white male, and the quality’s not that good.’
‘I think we should,’ said Wright. ‘It’s the only way we have of finding out if he arrived back in London.’
The detectives looked at Newton, waiting for him to reach his decision. His lips tightened to the point where they almost disappeared, then he relaxed. ‘Okay. But organise it so it’s done between other enquiries. No overtime. What about forensics?’
‘Nothing,’ said Reid. ‘At least nothing that we can definitely say belonged to the killer. If we had a suspect, it’s possible we might be able to link him to the crime scene.’ He grinned. ‘But then if we had a suspect, we could just beat a confession out of him anyway.’ He held up his hands. ‘Joke.’
The superintendent glared icily at Reid. ‘As always, we’re grateful for you trying to lighten the moment, Tommy. But I’d rather you left the song and dance act until we’d at least got some of the way towards solving this case.’ Newton looked around the room as if daring any of the others to crack a joke. ‘Gerry, anything new on the knife?’
‘Nothing,’ said Hunter. ‘When we eventually get a suspect, maybe we’ll be able to link them to the knife, but it’s not going to point the way. I’m more concerned at the moment about finding Eckhardt’s camera equipment. I’ve distributed serial numbers and descriptions. That equipment’s worth over two thousand pounds, it must be somewhere.’
Newton nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I want that equipment found, and found soon.’ He looked around the assembled detectives before tapping his clipboard. ‘Right, two more things. First, we’re going to hold another press conference tomorrow. We’ll announce that we’ve identified the victim, then release his picture and appeal for witnesses again. I’m also going to release details of the missing camera equipment. This time I’ll conduct the press conference, along with a press officer. That’s tomorrow at three. Second, Max Eckhardt’s funeral is this afternoon. Tommy and Nick, I want you two to attend.’
‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it, sir?’ asked Wright.
‘Not really. It’s been more than a week, and the cause of death isn’t going to be disputed,’ said the superintendent. ‘The pathologist says they don’t need anything else, so they contacted the widow. She called in a firm of undertakers and they had a slot today. I gather there weren’t any other relatives to inform, and it suits us to have the funeral before the press conference so that we don’t have a pack of photographers pestering the mourners.’ He looked around the room. ‘Any other thoughts?’
None of the detectives spoke. The first few morning briefings had produced a stream of ideas and theories, but the initial flush of enthusiasm had faded and most of the detectives were now resigned to the fact that the case, if it was ever going to be solved, would be solved by routine investigation rather than a flash of deductive reasoning. That, or a lucky break.
The superintendent didn’t appear to be surprised or disappointed by the lack of response. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Oh, by the way. For those that don’t know already, an FBI agent has been seconded to the investigation. James Bamber’s his name. He has no jurisdictional powers in t
his country. That means he has no powers of arrest, no right to acquire a warrant or to question suspects. That said, he’s to be offered every assistance.’
The superintendent left the room, and half a dozen of the detectives immediately went upstairs to light up. Hunter and Edmunds took their coats off the rack by the door and headed out.
‘Shit,’ said Reid.
‘What?’ said Wright.
‘I’m not wearing my black suit.’ He grinned, expecting to get a smile out of Wright, but Wright wasn’t amused.
‘Newton’s right, you know. Sometimes you’re not funny.’
There was a single red rose on the polished pine coffin, and it vibrated as the wooden casket slid along the metal rollers and through two green velvet curtains. Recorded organ music oozed out of black plastic speakers mounted on shelves close to the ceiling. The vicar closed his leather-bound Bible as if impatient to get on with his next function, be it a wedding, a christening or a funeral. Wright wondered if the young vicar, who was still in his twenties, showed a similar lack of enthusiasm for weddings as he’d shown for the funeral service. It had taken a little more than ten minutes and he’d hardly looked up from the Bible, as if embarrassed by the handful of mourners who’d gathered to say farewell to Max Eckhardt. There were eight in all, including Reid and Wright, who stood together in the pew furthest from the vicar and his lectern, their hands clasped across their groins like footballers in a defensive wall.
May Eckhardt stood alone in the front pew, wearing black leather gloves and a lightweight black coat that reached almost to her ankles. Her hair was loose and she kept her head down throughout the service so that it fell across her face, shielding her features like a curtain. The rest of the mourners were Eckhardt’s co-workers: Steve Reynolds, Martin Staines and Sam Greene were there, along with two young women who looked like secretaries.
‘Not much of a turnout,’ whispered Reid.
‘She said he didn’t have many relatives,’ said Wright.
‘None by the look of it. No friends of the family, either. Just colleagues.’ The curtain slid over the rear of the coffin and the organ music stopped abruptly. The vicar looked at his watch.
Wright wondered how many mourners there would be at his funeral if he were to die tomorrow. His mother was in a nursing home in the West Country and he only visited her two or three times a year. He had a brother in Australia, but they hadn’t spoken for more than five years. He looked across at Reid. His partner would be there, Wright was certain of that, probably wearing the same brown raincoat and carrying the same tweed hat. And Reid would probably twist a few arms to get some of his colleagues to attend. Superintendent Newton would be there, but out of duty rather than friendship. Would Janie attend? Probably, with Sean at her side. Wright could picture her in black, a comforting hand on their son’s shoulder, telling him not to worry because Sean had another daddy who loved him just as much as his real daddy did. Wright shivered.
May Eckhardt was walking down the centre aisle, the vicar at her side. The top of her head barely reached the vicar’s shoulder and he had to stoop to talk to her as they walked. She saw Wright and gave him the smallest of smiles. For a brief moment their eyes locked and Wright felt something tug at his stomach. Wright smiled back at her but she looked down as if the contact had frightened her.
The mourners filed out of their pews and followed May and the vicar out of the church. The vicar stood at the doorway with May and together they thanked each person for attending. Wright and Reid were the last to leave. Wright nodded at the vicar, but had no interest in talking to him. The service had been perfunctory and the man appeared to have been operating on auto-pilot throughout. Wright felt that May had deserved better.
‘Thanks for coming, Sergeant Wright,’ said May, and she held out a slim gloved hand.
He shook it. Her hand felt like a child’s in his. ‘How are you?’ he asked.
She withdrew her hand. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘How are people usually? After . . .’ She faltered and put her hand to her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wright quickly. ‘Stupid question, really.’ The news agency staff stood together on the pavement as if unsure what to do next. ‘Is there a reception?’ Wright asked.
May shook her head. ‘No, I just wanted a service. In fact, I didn’t really want that. Max wasn’t one for religion. He always said that the Apaches had the best idea: lay the body on a rock and let the birds eat it.’ She forced a tight smile. ‘I didn’t think Westminster Council would look too kindly on that. Besides, Steve Reynolds called me and said some of the people in the office wanted to say goodbye . . .’ Her voice faltered again. She brushed away a tear.
Wright wanted to step forward and comfort her. She tensed as if she’d read his thoughts. ‘What are your plans now?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to go back home. Then I . . . I don’t know. I’ve been taking it one day at a time. His clothes are still on the chair in the bedroom . . .’ She mumbled incoherently, then shook her head as if clearing her thoughts. ‘I’ll be fine, Sergeant Wright.’
‘Nick. Call me Nick.’
She looked at him for several seconds until he began to feel that he was lost in her soft brown eyes, as if she was pulling his soul towards hers. He blinked and the spell was broken.
‘Nick,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She thanked the vicar and then walked away.
The church was only half a mile from her flat so Wright assumed that she was going to walk, but then he noticed her VW Golf parked at the roadside. He watched as she unlocked the door and climbed in. She put on her seatbelt and started the engine. At the last moment she turned and looked at him. She flashed him a quick smile and gave him a half wave, then drove away.
Reid finished talking to the vicar and came up behind Wright. ‘Okay?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. I guess.’
Wright turned and looked up at the outside of the church. It was a modern building, all brick, the windows shielded from vandals by wire mesh screens. It looked more like a fortress than a place of worship, bordered by roads on three sides. A poster on a noticeboard by the door advertised the services of the Samaritans and next to it was a handwritten notice asking for donations of clothing to send to a church project in Africa. The young vicar disappeared inside and closed the door.
‘He didn’t even know her,’ said Wright. ‘There was nothing personal in the service.’
‘That’s the way it goes these days. People don’t go to church, but they want weddings and funerals. I asked the vicar and he said he’d never seen the Eckhardts, didn’t even know where they lived other than that they were local.’
‘What happens to the coffin?’ asked Wright. There was no graveyard attached to the church.
‘It gets taken to the crematorium,’ said Reid. ‘Then she takes delivery of the ashes.’
‘I wonder what she’ll do with them?’
‘Bury them maybe. There’s a place at the crematorium. Or maybe he wanted them scattered somewhere.’
‘Yeah? What would you want doing with your ashes?’
Reid rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m going to have them thrown into my ex-wife’s face,’ he said. ‘By a nineteen-year-old blonde with big tits.’
‘You old romantic, you,’ laughed Wright. They watched the AFP staff hail two taxis and climb into them. ‘Not much to show for a life, is it?’ asked Wright. ‘Half a dozen mourners, a handful of ashes, then nothing.’ He shivered, though it wasn’t a cold day.
They walked together to Reid’s Honda Civic. ‘Can you do me a favour?’ asked Wright.
‘Depends on what you want,’ said Reid, cautiously.
‘I want to go and look at the tunnel,’ said Wright.
Reid looked puzzled. ‘What’s the story?’
‘No story. I just want to get a feel for what happened.’ It was clear from Reid’s face that he didn’t understand. ‘I thought it might help me get inside the killer’s head.’
Reid look
ed even more confused but didn’t say anything.
Wright felt that he had to justify his request, but words failed him. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he said. ‘I just feel that I have to go and have a look.’
Reid raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, if that’s what you want, we’ll go.’
‘Alone,’ said Wright. ‘I want to go alone. Can I borrow the car?’
Reid rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment it looked as if he was about to argue, but then he handed the car keys to Wright. ‘I’ll get a cab,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Tommy. I’ll see you in the office in a couple of hours.’
‘Just be careful,’ said Reid. ‘With the car.’ He walked away, but after a few steps he hesitated, then turned and shouted to Wright that there was a flashlight in the boot.
Wright got into the car and drove south to Battersea. He pulled up at the side of the road that ran parallel to the disused rail line. He retrieved the flashlight from the boot, and stood for a while staring down the overgrown embankment. A cold wind blew from his left, tugging at his hair and whispering through the grass and nettles that hadn’t been trampled down by the investigation team. The sky above was pale blue and clear, but there was a chill in the air. Wright shivered inside his raincoat. He went down the embankment, his hands out at his sides for balance, skidding the last few steps and coming to a halt next to the rusting rails.
The cutting sheltered Wright from the wind, and there was a stillness around him as if time had stopped. Wright headed towards the mouth of the tunnel. As it came into view, he saw that a wooden framework had been constructed across the opening. Yellow tape with the words ‘Crime Scene – Do Not Enter’ had been threaded through the wire and the message was repeated on a large metal sign. Wright cursed himself for not realising that the tunnel would have been sealed off. He walked up to the wire and peered through it into the blackness of the tunnel. He heard a noise, a scuffling sound, and turned his head to the side, trying to focus on whatever it was, but the noise wasn’t repeated. He remembered the rats and what they’d done to the body of Max Eckhardt.
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 12
