The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  Wright looked away. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ There was a photograph of the Eckhardts on one of the shelves in the alcove, both of them smiling at the camera. Wright didn’t remember seeing it last time he was in the flat. ‘By the way, an American might get in touch with you. An FBI agent.’

  May’s eyebrows knotted together and her forehead creased into a frown that made her look suddenly much older. ‘FBI?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, his name’s James Bamber. The FBI have sent him over to help with the investigation.’

  Her frown became even more severe. ‘Why? Don’t they think you can find Max’s killer?’

  ‘It’s not that, he’s just here to help co-ordinate with the Americans, Max being an American and all. He said he might want to talk to you.’ Wright looked around the room, not wanting eye contact with her. Something strange happened to his stomach each time he looked into her soft brown eyes. ‘Do you have food?’ he asked. She looked puzzled. ‘So that you don’t have to go out to the shops,’ he added. ‘The photographers outside are waiting for a picture. If you stay inside, they’ll go away eventually.’

  ‘I’ve enough food,’ she said. ‘I don’t have much of an appetite, anyway. How long? How long do you think they’ll stay there?’

  ‘A couple of days, then they’ll be chasing after another story.’

  ‘That’s all Max’s death is? A story?’

  Wright sat forward. ‘No, of course not,’ he said earnestly. ‘I meant that’s how the media regards it. It’s much more than that to me. And to my colleagues.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I will find his killer, May. I promise you.’

  She rubbed her cheek against the robe. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  There were half a dozen empty glasses lined up on the bar and Tommy Reid tapped them one at a time, trying in vain to play a recognisable tune.

  Vincent patted him on the back. ‘My round,’ he said. In fact, they’d all been Vincent’s rounds. Alcohol loosened tongues, and loose tongues produced page leads. He winked at the waitress and she produced fresh drinks without being asked. ‘Your partner’s a bit touchy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Nick? He’s okay.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Vincent hurriedly, not wanting to offend the detective. ‘But it’s like he’s got something to prove.’

  ‘He’s young.’

  Vincent finished off his cigarette and stubbed it out in a plastic ashtray. ‘Dog in a manger,’ he said.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Reid. ‘He’s co-operating with the Met team, and with the guy the FBI sent over.’

  Vincent’s heart began to race, but he kept his face expressionless. It was the first time anyone had mentioned an FBI involvement and he sensed a good story. He decided to use a softly-softly approach. Reid was drunk but he was clearly used to consuming large amounts of alcohol and Vincent didn’t want to scare him off. ‘He hasn’t been on a murder case like this before, has he?’

  ‘I don’t think any of us has ever seen anything like it before,’ said Reid. ‘It’s a one-off.’ He gulped down his vodka and tonic and looked at his wristwatch.

  ‘Not in the States, even? There’s all sorts of weird stuff goes on there.’

  ‘The FBI guy says no.’

  ‘So why’s he come over, then?’ Vincent pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and waved it at the barmaid.

  ‘Because Eckhardt’s an American.’

  ‘They do that? They send over an FBI agent when an American dies?’

  Reid shrugged. ‘I guess so. I’d better be going.’

  Their drinks arrived. ‘You might as well have one for the road,’ said Vincent, picking up his pint. ‘So what’s his name, this guy?’

  ‘Bamber,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Jim Bamber.’

  Vincent turned around. The speaker was a man in his late twenties, slightly shorter than Vincent with light brown close-cropped hair that was greying at the temples. Bamber’s hand was outstretched. Vincent transferred his glass to his left hand and they shook. The American had a firm grip but Vincent had the feeling that he wasn’t using all his strength. ‘Ted Vincent.’

  ‘Careful what you say, Jim,’ said Reid. ‘He’s a journalist.’

  ‘Yeah? Which paper, Ted?’

  ‘The Mirror. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Sure. Scotch. On the rocks. How’s it going, Tommy?’

  Reid shrugged as Vincent ordered Bamber’s drink. ‘Did you see the press conference on TV?’ asked Reid.

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘So you know how it’s going.’

  Vincent handed Bamber his whisky and they clinked glasses. ‘Cheers,’ said Vincent. ‘I was asking Tommy if it was normal practice to send an FBI agent over to investigate the death of an American national.’

  ‘Depends on the circumstances,’ said Bamber.

  Vincent could already see the headline: ‘Train Cops Call In FBI.’ He sipped his beer, taking his time. ‘And are you taking an active part in the investigation?’

  ‘I’m asking a few questions, sure. This isn’t an interview, is it, Ted? I wouldn’t want to say anything on the record.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ said Vincent dismissively. He pulled his pack of Rothmans from the pocket of his sheepskin jacket and offered a cigarette to Bamber. The FBI agent declined and Vincent lit one for himself. ‘What’s your perspective on this, Jim?’ Vincent asked. ‘How do you think the investigation’s being handled?’

  ‘It’s a tough case,’ said Bamber.

  ‘Would they do it different in the States?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a tough case. We just have to wait for a break.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, without a witness and without some sort of forensic evidence, it all comes down to motive, that’s what I reckon.’

  Bamber sniffed his whisky but didn’t drink it. ‘You might be right, Ted.’

  ‘So which office do you work out of?’

  ‘Washington.’

  ‘FBI headquarters?’

  Bamber nodded but didn’t reply.

  ‘I’ve got to tell you, Jim, what I’d really like to do is have an interview for my paper. An exclusive.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bamber quietly.

  ‘It might help bring people forward. Any publicity is good publicity and all that.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Bamber repeated. His voice was barely audible, little more than a soft whisper, but there was a hard edge to it.

  Vincent sensed the man’s reluctance and tried to put him at his ease by smiling broadly and squeezing him on the shoulder. Bamber didn’t react to the physical contact. He stared unsmilingly at Vincent and the journalist took his hand away. ‘How about another Scotch?’

  The FBI agent smiled, but without warmth. ‘I’m okay,’ he said.

  Vincent ordered another pint for himself and a vodka and tonic for Reid. ‘So, how long will you be over on this side of the pond?’ asked Vincent.

  ‘Depends,’ said Bamber.

  ‘The Bureau’s happy to leave it open ended? Some murder investigations take months.’

  ‘And some are never solved,’ said Reid. He ran his fingers along the top of his empty glasses. The waitress returned with fresh drinks and reached out to take the empty ones, but Reid waved her away. ‘I need an A flat,’ he explained.

  ‘I mean, can you imagine the BTP sending one of their men to investigate a death in another country?’ said Vincent. ‘Wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Nah, you’re dead wrong there,’ said Reid, banging the flat of his hand down on the bar. ‘British cops have been sent to the Falklands, to Kenya, lots of places.’

  ‘Yeah? But you’re talking about real police, not the BTP.’

  Reid looked sideways at the journalist. ‘Hey, you don’t hear me saying that the Mirror’s not a real newspaper, do you? You don’t hear me saying that it’s a comic with a reading age in single figures.’

  ‘And I’m grateful for that, Tommy. You’re all heart.’

  Bamber put his drink on the
bar. ‘Do you two always fight like this?’

  ‘This?’ said Reid. ‘This is just the warm-up.’ He chuckled and rested his arms on the bar.

  ‘It’s a symbiotic relationship,’ Vincent said to Bamber. ‘We publicise their successes, we help with appeals for information, and in return they give us stories to help us sell papers. Which brings me back to you, Jim. I’d really like to do a story on you and your involvement in the tunnel murder.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bamber.

  ‘Come on, Jim. I don’t actually need your co-operation, you know. Freedom of Information Act and all that. I can call Washington and get the scoop from them. They’ll have a press office, right?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Ted,’ said Bamber.

  ‘So talk to me. Give me an interview. That way you’ll be able to put your own slant on it.’

  ‘No,’ said Bamber. He took a step forward so that his face was only inches away from the journalist’s. His pale hazel eyes stared at Vincent so intensely that the journalist flinched.

  Vincent was a good two inches taller than the FBI agent and several pounds heavier, but he still felt intimidated by the man. ‘I’m just trying to do my job, Jim,’ said Vincent. He heard his voice wavering and laughed to cover his embarrassment. It was a hollow laugh and Bamber continued to stare at him. Vincent took a drag at his cigarette. His hand was shaking and he dropped it to his side, not wanting Bamber to see the effect his stare was having on him. Reid watched them in the mirrored gantry. ‘Okay, I guess I’d better be going,’ said Vincent, taking a step back.

  ‘Yeah, see you,’ said Reid unenthusiastically.

  Vincent waved to Reid’s reflection, still backing away.

  ‘Nice meeting you, Ted,’ said Bamber. He smiled and the hardness faded from his eyes. He seemed suddenly friendlier, and when he stuck out his hand Vincent shook it. Bamber put his left hand on top of Vincent’s as they shook. ‘It’s been a rough day,’ said the FBI agent. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  Vincent felt suddenly relieved, as if a snarling dog had begun wagging its tail. He smiled gratefully at the FBI agent. ‘No offence taken, Jim.’

  Len Kruse pressed the doorbell. It buzzed and a few seconds later the hall light went on. The door opened and Ted Vincent peered out. ‘Jim?’ he said.

  Kruse grinned good naturedly. ‘Hiya, Ted. I wanted to apologise for giving you a hard time earlier.’

  The journalist ran a hand through his unruly hair. He was still wearing his suit but he’d removed his tie. ‘No problem.’ He frowned. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  ‘Tommy Reid told me.’

  ‘Tommy knows my address?’

  ‘I guess so. Look, I had a long talk with Tommy, and he convinced me that we’ve more to gain by co-operating.’

  ‘Co-operating?’

  ‘On your article. I thought maybe we could do the interview tonight.’

  Vincent looked at his watch. From upstairs a woman called. ‘Who is it, Ted?’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s for me,’ he shouted. He shrugged apologetically at Kruse. ‘My wife,’ he explained. ‘Can we do this tomorrow?’

  Kruse gave him a pained look. ‘No can do. I’m heading up to Manchester tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What’s in Manchester?’

  ‘A lead on the tunnel killing.’ Kruse shivered. ‘Can I come in?’

  The journalist opened the door. Kruse walked into the hall. He looked up the stairs. There was no sign of Vincent’s wife. On the wall alongside the stairs hung dozens of framed newspaper articles and photographs of Vincent in several trouble spots. In one Vincent was standing in front of three blazing oil wells. ‘Kuwait?’ Kruse said, nodding at the photograph.

  ‘Yeah, I was there during Desert Storm.’

  ‘Must have been hell,’ said Kruse.

  ‘It was rough,’ agreed Vincent.

  Kruse nodded. He could have told Vincent a few stories about how rough it had really got in Kuwait. As a journalist covering the war, Vincent would have been fed the Allied line: smart missiles, clean kills, the antichrist as the enemy. It wasn’t as clear cut as that, Kruse knew, but he wasn’t there to enlighten Vincent. ‘It must have been,’ he said.

  Vincent closed the door. Upstairs, the landing light clicked off. Kruse wondered if the wife had been listening. ‘Through there,’ said Vincent, pointing towards a door. Kruse pushed it open. It was a sitting room, large and airy with white walls, pine furniture and lots of potted plants, with wooden blinds on the windows. More framed articles and photographs hung on the walls. Modesty clearly wasn’t one of Vincent’s qualities. There was a wedding photograph on top of a big-screen television, Vincent in his twenties about to kiss a frightened blonde. He looked more like a vampire about to go for the throat than a just-married groom preparing to kiss his bride.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ said Kruse. There were no photographs of any children and no toys in the room. ‘No kids?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Vincent. ‘Still trying. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Kruse. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’

  Vincent nodded at a mug of coffee on a pine table next to a crystal ashtray in which a half-smoked cigarette smouldered among a dozen or so butts. ‘I was having coffee. Do you want one?’

  Kruse waved his hand dismissively. ‘Never touch it,’ he said.

  ‘Can I tape our conversation?’ asked Vincent. ‘My shorthand’s a bit rusty.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Vincent went over to a rack of shelves filled with paperback books. There was a small tape recorder on one of the shelves. Kruse pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his suit pocket. He slipped them on and walked quickly behind the journalist. He clamped his right hand over Vincent’s mouth and gripped the man’s throat with his left, applying pressure to the carotid arteries with his fingers and thumb. Vincent tried to turn but Kruse pushed him forward, taking care not to bang his head against the shelves. Vincent clawed at Kruse’s gloves but his strength was already draining away as the brain began to feel the effects of the curtailed blood supply. Kruse was more than capable of crushing the man’s windpipe with his left hand but he didn’t want to do major damage. A post mortem wouldn’t show up tissue damage, but broken cartilage or bones wouldn’t be missed. It was a delicate balance, but it wasn’t the first time that Kruse had choked a man to death, and he knew exactly how much pressure to apply. Too much and there’d be small haemorrhages under the skin and pinpricks of blood in the whites of the eyes.

  Vincent’s chest began to heave. He let go of Kruse’s gloves and started to flail around with his arms. Kruse pulled him away from the bookshelves until they were standing in the centre of the room. Kruse shuffled to his right so that Vincent wouldn’t hit the coffee table when he fell. He felt the journalist’s legs begin to buckle, and watched in the mirror over the mantelpiece as Vincent’s eyes fluttered and eventually closed. Kruse let him slide slowly to the ground, maintaining the pressure on the man’s arteries all the way down.

  Kruse lay down next to Vincent, his hands still around the man’s neck. If he kept the grip on long enough Vincent would die from suffocation, but that wasn’t what Kruse wanted. There had to be smoke in the lungs, and corpses didn’t inhale. He stayed curled against Vincent like an attentive lover until he was satisfied that the journalist was unconscious, then he took his gloved hands away and stood up.

  He listened intently, but the only sounds he could hear were the clicking of the water heater in the kitchen and the rustle of leaves outside. He walked on tiptoe to the foot of the stairs, then crept up them, keeping close to the wall so that the stairs wouldn’t creak. Four doors led off the landing, but only one was ajar. Kruse peeked in. Vincent’s wife was lying in bed, reading a paperback by the light of a table lamp. He pushed open the door and walked quickly across the plush pile carpet.

  ‘Who was it?’ she asked, still reading.

  Kruse said nothing. He moved around the side of the bed. Th
e curtains were drawn. The woman lowered the book. Her eyes widened in terror and she opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound Kruse sat down on the bed and put his left hand across her mouth and nostrils. She dropped the book and clawed at his face but he grabbed both of her wrists with his right hand and forced her arms down. She struggled but she was no match for him. He straddled her on the bed, taking care not to bruise her flesh. The fire would probably obliterate all traces of tissue damage, but Kruse took a professional pride in his ability to kill without leaving marks. He pinned the woman’s hands to her stomach, gripping with his thighs so that he could use his right hand on her neck. He found the carotids with his thumb and fingers, pushing in between the muscle to block off the blood supply. The woman kicked and bucked but Kruse was too heavy and strong. The brain held only enough oxygen for between ten and fifteen seconds, and she was soon unconscious. Kruse waited a further minute, to be absolutely sure, before climbing off the bed.

  He put the woman’s book on the bedside table, then went downstairs. He picked up Vincent and slung him effortlessly over his shoulder. Vincent was breathing heavily. Kruse knew from previous experience that the man would be unconscious for at least fifteen minutes. He carried him upstairs and lay him down on the bed before stripping off all the journalist’s clothes. There was a raffia laundry basket under the window and Kruse dropped Vincent’s shirt, underwear and socks into it. He took a wooden hanger from the wardrobe and hung up Vincent’s suit. Kruse put the shoes Vincent had been wearing at the bottom of the wardrobe next to three other pairs. He closed the wardrobe door and looked around the room. The tie was downstairs, on the back of the sofa, but Kruse decided to leave it where it was. He quickly checked through the drawers of the dressing table and a cupboard, but there were no pyjamas. Vincent obviously slept in the nude, as did his wife.

  Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Kruse rolled Vincent under the quilt, lying him on his back. He went downstairs and stood in the centre of the sitting room, checking that nothing was out of place. He went through to the kitchen and locked the back door. In the sink there was a pile of dirty dishes but Kruse figured that Vincent was the type who’d have left them until the morning.