‘No,’ said Pitt. ‘I knew she wouldn’t. She mistrusted doctors, never went....still doesn’t go anywhere near them if she can help it. I knew she wouldn’t be interested in that kind of thing.’
Hardyman recognised that the spirit of Pitt’s voice was gone, and that slowly he was winding the subject down.
‘She’s one of those people who makes her mind up about something, and that’s it. It’s a very attractive quality,’ added Pitt dryly, and Hardyman laughed. He knew all about that. ‘Maybe she thought her father had done something to her insides.’
Hardyman looked slightly taken aback.
‘Jesus... Sorry.’
Pitt shrugged.
‘She never talked to me about it. Or anyone else. I made that presumption. It’s a long time since I tried to have the conversation. A very long time. Maybe her father just died and that was all it took. I always wondered if there was more to it than that. Don’t know. Never will.’
Hardyman stared across the table for another second or two, realised that Pitt was done for the day, and that any further conversation was going to have to come from him or have a much more general subject matter.
‘Sure you don’t want a second glass?’ asked Hardyman. ‘I can always get another bottle.’
38
Pitt went back outside with the men, leaving Daisy to clean up after the meal she had not made. Another warm afternoon, there was a subdued atmosphere about the workers. Muldoon and Blain, usually the loudest, had been almost silent. Mrs Cromwell, sitting by the fire reading the newspaper, had begun to wonder if maybe one of them had helped Ju get out. Maybe they were all in it together.
Jenkins and Pitt hung back, while the others strode off towards the vines.
‘Has Ju gone then?’ asked Jenkins.
‘Yes,’ said Pitt. ‘But I still need the passport for her. I’ll get the photo.’
‘Where is she?’
Pitt did not answer. Expression blank. Jenkins nodded and looked away.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Pitt.
Jenkins took the hint, turned and walked away. He did not look back immediately, and, when he did, Pitt was gone. He assumed that he had returned to the kitchen.
*
Pitt opened the door to the cellar, wondering if Ju would have turned on any more lights, but knowing that she would have changed nothing. She would be sitting on the small wooden seat, quite possibly clutching her bag. Waiting in fear perhaps; at the very least, having no understanding of what was going to happen.
The cellar was illuminated by the same dim light in the corner. He had positioned Ju so that she could not be seen from the door. He walked to the far end of the cellar and round the last row of barrels. Ju was sitting in the chair, her legs together, her jacket over the back of her chair, with the book her grandmother had given her in her lap.
Her head was down, but she was not reading; her eyes diverted a few yards in front of her, waiting for Pitt. Hoping that it would be Pitt. Wondering what he was going to bring her, or do to her, or want her to do.
Pitt stood with uncertainty in front of her. Breathed in silently. He caught the slightest aroma of her, the same scent that he recognised from standing a foot away at the kitchen worktop, their fingers almost touching.
He took the camera from his pocket and held it out in front of her. She looked up curiously, and then a quick glance up into his eyes. He gestured with the camera, indicating that he needed to take a picture.
Yuan Ju nodded, slightly troubled. As much expression as he had ever seen on her face, which in turn troubled him. He turned the camera on, tried to remember the simple instructions that had been given to him in the shop.
Ju bent to her side and placed the book on the floor, then straightened up in her seat. She sat with her shoulders back, her head up, but her eyes dropped, staring at an indistinct point in front of her.
Pitt, feeling horribly uncomfortable, knelt down in front of her, fiddling with the zoom, trying to focus on Ju’s face. Under the scrutiny of the camera, Ju sloped her shoulder a little and slipped her dress down her arm. Then, hooking her finger under her bra strap, she moved that off her shoulder. She looked at the camera, her dress slipping down to the right, revealing the top of her breast.
Pitt hesitated for a moment, his hands lowered and he looked Ju in the eye. Felt himself shutting down. An instant, a slamming of the door. A curse travelled through his head, never reaching his lips. Everything he was feeling, the nervousness and discomfort, momentarily struck down.
This was what she expected of him. She didn’t think she was here to be saved. She thought he wanted her for himself. That was all. Locked away in a basement to get undressed.
He could have talked to her then, but he had no words. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to have to explain himself. Depression swept in and scooped him up in its grey hand.
Ju’s own discomfort was obvious. She could tell he was unhappy, but didn’t know whether to cover her shoulder or pull her top down further.
There was only one of them who could bring the indignity to an end. Pitt raised the camera again, quickly took three pictures of her face – suddenly, he had no doubts about which button to press or whether or not he was getting it right – then stood up. This was an awkward, horrible moment, and he had to end it, that was all. Words weren’t going to solve anything, and certainly not coming from him.
Ju did not look at him. Hands clasped, eyes low. Pitt walked to the door. Stopped with his fingers on the handle. He wondered again if he should go back and speak to her, but it was not the time. For the moment the trust had been unaccountably punctured between them and it would take time before it could be repaired. Neither of them had done anything wrong, but the strange chemistry had been dampened.
Pitt walked out of the cellar, closed and locked the door behind him. It was some time before Ju picked up the book that had been given to her by her grandmother.
39
Pitt had never killed anyone before and his ruthlessness surprised him. Those who knew him, of course, would have expected nothing less. The man who could so often appear grim and humourless. Only Hardyman had been used to seeing some other side of him, and, now that Hardyman was gone, no one else would.
However, as Hardyman had known and Daisy had long since forgotten, there was much hidden beneath the surface; the same mixture of confidence and uncertainty, the same juxtaposition between self-assurance and discomfort with others.
Pitt knew himself, of course. He knew what lay hidden. That was why, when it came to committing murder on behalf of a young woman to whom he had never spoken a word, he had assumed he would be nervous. He assumed there would be fear; fear of guilt, fear of being overcome, fear of dying, fear of detection and ruin and humiliation.
Yet, Daisy, and anyone else who thought the worst of Pitt because of his rude exterior, would have been proved right. For Pitt felt no fear, just an absolute certainty in the righteousness of his actions.
He used his bare hands to finish the job, although he had brought Chen Yun to his knees with a blow from the metal bar. He had planned to use his hands from the start; the metal bar had been a supplementary instrument of death that had fallen into his possession. He would perhaps use it again on the two outside, but at that moment all he was interested in was Chen Yun, and that he wanted to feel the life drain from him.
Chen had had the phone in his hand, but two quick steps and a heavy swing of the metal bar and the phone had been sent crashing from the desktop, breaking four of Chen’s fingers in the process.
Thereafter, Pitt was on top of Chen, raining down blows to the head, and then grabbing him by the throat. Of course, Chen struggled. No man allows himself to be strangled by a complete stranger. Indeed, as they fought, Chen landed several powerful blows with both feet and fists to Pitt’s body and the side of his head.
It did not matter, for Pitt had made up his mind. The man would die. The
blood from Pitt’s nose dripped onto Chen’s face, splashed on his cheek. A drop went into his tortured mouth, as he gasped for air. Pitt let the blood run, took the brutal kicks to the lower half of his body.
Chen expended a lot of effort in a short space of time, and then he was exhausted. Finished. He had conceded before he died because he knew. Perhaps he did not want to die fighting. Perhaps he wanted to die at peace. Perhaps he thought that, by giving up the fight, Pitt would relax his grip.
Pitt’s grip never changed; he could not tighten it any further, he did not slacken off. Chen died eleven seconds after giving up. His eyes questioned Pitt. He thought Pitt might stop to explain himself. Wasn’t that what killers did? Not assassins, perhaps, but barehanded killers. Did they not want to let the victim know the reason why they were taking such terrible revenge?
Despite the fact that he had not received a bullet in the head like he thought he might have done from a hired hand, Chen still assumed that Pitt had been paid to do the job. He had that look about him; eyes that spoke of nothing, eyes that had seen too much death, eyes that refused to be emotionally affected.
Chen spent his last few seconds thinking that his death had been inevitable from the second that Pitt had walked in the door.
Once Chen was dead, Pitt kept his grip tight for a further half minute. Delaying meant he increased the chances of getting caught, but he had never killed a man before and wanted to make sure. He was not worried at that stage that the police might be called; far more possible that Chen had extra men. A platoon of heavyweights on call for just such an occasion. However, the fact that there had only been one hired hand present implied that Chen was not used to trouble.
When Pitt was finally convinced that Chen would never breathe, walk or deal in women again, he let his head fall with a bump onto the floor, then stood up and looked over his shoulder. She was standing in the doorway, still clutching her throat, still struggling for breath.
She had not loved Chen. No one could love Chen. But Chen had been the heart of the operation, the one who knew the transport route across Asia and Europe, the man with the contacts. Chen had not groomed a natural successor, as he had trusted no one. Give someone else all the information they required, then what would the point have been of the man at the top?
He had not even worked by giving a little piece of knowledge to a lot of different people, because what was to stop them all working together? Plainly and simply, without Chen the entire operation would collapse. The good life, the easy life, the easy money to which Klimsky had become accustomed, was gone.
She had wondered about him when she’d seen Pitt for the first time; the look of him had scared her, but she had wanted to bide her time. She did not want a repeat of the Bugeri incident of a few months previously, when she had ejected the wealthiest businessman south of the M4 because she had taken him for an undercover police officer.
She had let him in and now Pitt had brought their destruction. As she looked across the small room, she thought that she had never hated anyone more in her entire life. And Klimsky had hated a lot of people.
She was not going to fight. She’d been involved in her fair share; she had ripped out eyeballs, and landed punches that had broken jaws and knocked out teeth. But she knew she did not have the strength to beat a man of the power and seemingly malicious will of Pitt. If Pitt had killed Chen with his bare hands, she was not going to waste her time trying. She had to get out. Retreat, re-group, hunt Pitt down and deal with him in much slower time.
Pitt did not wilt from the look of loathing, recognising that Klimsky was not just the hired hand. Perhaps she would know enough to continue Chen’s work now that he was gone.
Klimsky turned and started running down the corridor. A few large steps and Pitt was behind her. Had grabbed the metal bar on the way out of the office. The speed, the agility, the sure-footed movements were all alien to him, but Pitt was not operating on a normal level.
Again, he thumped her hard on the neck – a crashing blow from the back – and she collapsed on the spot. The top of her spine was cracked and smashed with one massive blow.
She was not instantly dead, but lay still on the floor, looking up at him with glazed eyes. As Pitt stood over her, breathing heavily, the henchman lay just behind. Pitt kicked her leg to see her reaction; it gave way limply. He felt absolute contempt and hatred for the woman. He had been aware of the crumbling of her neck beneath the blow from the metal bar and wondered if she would be paralysed.
The thought crossed his mind to leave her there, to let her suffer for her sins for the rest of her life.
A fleeting thought. He had to leave no bridge unburned.
He glanced over his back at the stricken body behind him. The guard was already dead. He turned, kneeled beside Klimsky’s broken body, placed his hands around her throat and throttled her.
She died quickly, unable to struggle.
When he was finished, and sure that the guard was also dead, he walked back to Chen’s office. He stopped, looked around, noticing for the first time the canvas paintings of Chinese art. Could have been stolen from Chen’s local restaurant.
There was a calendar with a picture of a bare-breasted Asian girl for the month of July. Two of the walls were completely bare, suggesting that the tawdry wall hangings that were in place had been an afterthought. Chen had not cared about his surroundings.
There was a window behind Chen’s desk that, as with the windows in the main room, looked as though it was permanently blacked out. Pitt walked around the desk, making sure not to soil his feet by stepping on Chen, and lifted the phone.
He called the police. Reported a murder, and then walked calmly back down the corridor and through the dimly lit room; the room with no natural light, where women were crying out in pain and men were drinking and enjoying themselves.
He walked down the stairs and back out into a warm late Bristol evening. As he took the long walk to his car, it started to rain. He lifted the bottom of his shirt to his nose and wiped the blood from his face.
40
‘They’re coming back tomorrow,’ said Jenkins.
They were at the bottom of the vineyard, where Pitt had come to look for Jenkins for the second time in the day. Blain had been there when Pitt had arrived, but Jenkins had dispatched him with a nod. Pitt wondered if Jenkins had let the others know that things were happening.
The vineyard is changing, just don’t discuss it with the boss.
‘What time?’ said Pitt. The words groaned out of his mouth.
‘In the morning.’
‘Is it the same woman?’
‘Yes. Horsfield. And she’s bringing reinforcements.’
‘What kind?’
‘Some sort of scientist. Like, not a wine scientist. A zoologist or whatever they call it. An ornithological science bloke. Some guy who’s going to be dull, but at the same time be some sort of enforcer.’
Pitt almost smiled at the description. What was he going to be doing tomorrow morning? Would his tasks involving Yuan Ju be done? The awkwardness of their previous encounter was behind him. Locked away, never to be thought of again. Now, nothing left but to wait for her passport. The other significant job that he required to sort out – that of making the decision of what was to be done with Ju’s life – he could do at any time; in bed that night, walking through the vines, sitting at the kitchen table. The kitchen table that seemed so bereft of light, now that Ju was no longer there.
‘We should have a press strategy,’ said Jenkins.
‘What?’
Another comment from out of the blue. Previously, Pitt had only ever thought about the wine.
‘Well, I’d been thinking, if this kind of thing gets out to the press, well, you know what they’re like. A slow news day, they love this kind of stuff. Birds are dying, a whole area of the country with no birds. And now that DEFRA are involved, it’s no longer just some strange little local difficulty. The government have come to town.’
Pitt didn’t say anything, as Jenkins had expected. When something new came up, Pitt never said anything rash, no matter how quickly he processed and categorised the information. Pitt had no word in his vocabulary with which to express surprise.
‘So, that was what I’d been thinking,’ said Jenkins. ‘Then I heard a bit of a rumour.’
‘From whom?’ asked Pitt.
‘I got a tip-off. One of my people.’
‘You have people?’
‘You know what I mean, boss. I know people. They tell me things.’
Pitt asked the question with his eyebrows.
‘The press have got wind of it already. Well, they’ve been given wind of it, and they’ll be here tomorrow when the folk from the government arrive. They’re coming. They’re all coming. Civil servants, scientists, the media.’
Pitt was silent. He gave a quick glance the way of his vines and then turned back, staring at the ground. He had been feeling he was losing the vineyard, maybe even since Hardyman had died. The concession to the bank had been a big step in walking away. Now the end seemed to be rushing at him, gathering pace for a final onslaught.
Jenkins waited. An onlooker might have thought that he was looking for leadership, but he expected nothing immediate from the boss. He could tell that things were changing, that Pitt, for the first time since he’d worked for him, had something else on his mind.
Jenkins, to an extent, liked the thought of the press turning up. He would get a bit of attention, more than likely would be spokesperson for the vineyard. It would set him up well for the start of the television series, if they managed to attract it. However, the downside was just how horrendous it could potentially be for business; and would the news be enough to drive the documentary crews away?
‘It’s not right what they say,’ said Pitt, mirroring Jenkins’s thoughts. ‘That there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’
Jenkins followed Pitt’s gaze up to the trees. There was a light breeze, warm, moving the leaves of the birch trees which made up a small wood beneath the line of the bottom end of the vineyard.
A Room With No Natural Light Page 15
