Tracers

by Adrian Magson

  After two more circuits and with no evidence of Archer being at home, Harry rang Jennings and gave him the address. He did this with reluctance; their job wasn’t finished yet and he hated the idea of being cut out too early. Neither did he enjoy giving a blow-by-blow commentary of their activities.

  ‘There’s no sign of Archer,’ he informed the lawyer. ‘You want us to go in and check she’s there?’

  ‘No,’ said Jennings. ‘That’s not necessary. What’s the location like?’

  ‘Could be quieter.’ Harry described the layout. ‘It’s not going to improve until the shops shut. There are pedestrians all over.’

  ‘Leave it,’ Jennings told him. ‘Your part is over. Payment will be made as usual.’

  It wasn’t the response Harry had expected. Your part is over? What was that supposed to mean? ‘Is there a problem?’ he queried. ‘We’re right here, we might as well stay on it until we eyeball her.’

  ‘It’s not necessary.’ Jennings sounded calm but firm. ‘Others will take over from you.’

  Others?

  ‘Fine,’ said Harry. ‘You’re paying the bill.’ He switched off the phone. ‘Orders are to bug out. We’re done.’

  Rik scowled. ‘We haven’t confirmed her presence yet.’

  ‘No need. He wants us out of here. We get paid anyway.’

  Rik shrugged and started the car, heading north towards Battersea Bridge. Traffic was slow, and there was little to do but concentrate on the bumper in front of them and the occasional set of traffic lights; neither man spoke, both feeling a sense of anti-climax after the long trail they had followed.

  As they reached Chelsea on the northern side of the river, Harry swore at length.

  ‘Turn round.’

  ‘What?’ Rik stared at him.

  ‘Go back. This is a mistake. It’s not finished.’

  Rik smiled, sensing some action. ‘Now you’re talking.’ He made a fast U-turn, earning a volley of horns and flashing lights from other drivers, and stepped on the gas.

  ‘I don’t like leaving it like this,’ said Harry. ‘I want to see what this Joanne Archer looks like. You OK with this?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rik frowned. ‘We’re at a disadvantage, though, aren’t we, with all this shooting?’

  Harry gave it some thought. He had placed a briefcase in the back of the car earlier, but without mentioning what it contained. And so far Rik hadn’t asked. ‘We don’t know if she’s armed, and there’s no sign she had anything to do with killing the two men at South Acres. Of course, if I’m wrong,’ he added with dark humour, ‘and she shoots you, I apologize in advance.’

  ‘Cheers. And Jennings? He’s going to be really fussed when he finds out we came back.’

  ‘We’ll let him complain to our union.’

  It took half an hour to fight their way back through growing traffic to Archer’s flat. By the time they arrived, most of the surrounding shops were closing and pedestrian traffic had reduced dramatically. Harry paused long enough to delve in the briefcase, then followed Rik up the metal stairs. Once at the top they were in full view of a narrow window alongside the door. There was still no sign of a light.

  Harry moved ahead and reached for the door. Before he could knock, however, it swung open of its own accord.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Yale lock looked new, Harry noted. Shiny with no scratches or tarnish. But the wood where the latch should have fitted into the frame had been torn away, revealing a strip of yellow wood beneath the paint.

  He used his knuckles to push the door further back. It revealed more damage to the inside of the frame and a scattering of wood slivers on the floor of the hallway.

  There was no sound from inside.

  They stepped over the debris into a short, carpeted hallway. The atmosphere had a dead, sad feel, as if the soul of the place had fled the scene, leaving just the empty shell. No memories, no presence, no trace of past warmth . . . and no future.

  Harry used his elbow to switch on the hall light. It didn’t help much, merely highlighting the worn drabness of the decor. Bedsit land in the flesh, he thought dourly, temporary accommodation for the disconnected.

  The first door to the left was a bathroom with bath, sink and toilet. It was empty save for a few items of washing drying on a line and a faint smell of soap and perfume. The sink was half full of soapy water with a pale scum on the surface. Harry dipped his finger in; it was faintly warm. In the bath, a pair of tights lay coiled like a snake’s skin, and one of the taps was dripping into a brown stain on the enamel with a hollow, plunking sound. A crust of dried soap sat amid a dusting of talcum powder around the rim. The cabinet above the sink was empty save for a plastic razor.

  The kitchen was small and smelled of a spicy takeaway and grease. Other than a layer of dust, it looked little used. Two drawers revealed some basic cutlery and plastic bin liners, and a waste-bin contained a jumble of plain polystyrene cartons and foil lids stained with dark sauce. Whoever lived here didn’t seem to be much of a cook.

  ‘Harry.’ Rik was standing just inside a doorway along the hall, looking down at the floor.

  Harry joined him and peered past his shoulder.

  It was a bedroom. A young woman was lying on the carpet, one hand pressed to her stomach. She was face down, as if she’d been trying to hide among the worn, dusty pile. She wore a plain jumper and black jeans, and had short, cropped hair and simple stud earrings. A pair of spectacles and one shoe were lying nearby. The heel of the shoe was broken, the nails protruding like a rat’s teeth. She was clutching a hand towel in her other hand.

  Harry bent to check her pulse while Rik moved away to check the rest of the flat.

  The flesh was warm and damp, but there was no flicker of life. A worm of blood lay on the back of the woman’s neck, just beneath the hairline, which was damp. Closer inspection revealed an area of scorched skin just below her ear, and a dark, puckered hole. Up close, he smelled the aroma of burned flesh and gunshot residue. By the way the fingers of her hand were twisted into the clothing of her stomach, she’d probably been hit in the middle first, doubling her over, placing her in line for the killer shot from above.

  Harry felt a deep sense of outrage. Whoever had done this had acted with cold deliberation.

  ‘Not long happened.’ He wasn’t sure if Rik had heard, and realized he’d spoken without intending to. The killer couldn’t be far away, he reflected. They might even have passed him in the street. Another near miss, like the others. It was becoming a nasty habit.

  He stood back, automatically trying to read what had happened. Without a full forensic examination it was all guesswork, but he had to try. Archer looked as if she had been surprised in the bathroom and had tried to get away. But the killer had caught her, her shoe heel breaking in the process. She clearly hadn’t had time to put up a fight. The end had been brutal and quick.

  He walked through to the living room. Decorated in faded yellows and sparsely furnished with a brown leatherette settee, two hard-backed chairs and a table, it was more functional than homely.

  Rik was emptying a travel bag sitting on top of a neatly folded blanket on the settee. He took out a jumble of casual clothing: jeans, tights, underwear, trainers and T-shirts, a couple of cheap paperbacks and some cash in a purse. No documents, however; nothing to confirm the dead woman’s identity.

  The rest of the flat proved just as featureless. Nothing stood out. But then, Archer had hardly been here five minutes; there was no paperwork, no receipts or bills, none of the detritus of anything resembling an established life.

  It was only when Harry returned to check the top of the wardrobe in the bedroom that he turned up anything significant. He found a brown jiffy bag containing a photograph in a plain black wooden frame. It was the sort issued by official photographers. The photo showed a group of men and two women in army camouflage uniform. They were smiling self-consciously at the camera, the way comrades and friends do, caught in a moment of time and out of c
ontext.

  One of them was now lying on the floor nearby, a bullet hole in the back of her head.

  Harry compared faces, identifying Archer in the photo. She looked confident and easygoing, her head cocked slightly to one side as if she’d been caught momentarily off guard. Not for the first time, Harry thought grimly. But certainly the last.

  Rik joined him and peered over his shoulder. ‘Regimental Provosts,’ he said, pointing to a badge worn by both women and two of the men. ‘Tough bunch.’ He looked down at the body. ‘She was an army cop.’

  Harry nodded. At least he now knew where the photo frame from the flat in north London had gone. She’d carried it with her. Though it was so mundane, she must have valued it. ‘Park thought she’d been trained to handle herself.’

  He walked through to the kitchen, where a pair of faded yellow Marigolds hung over the edge of the sink. They were small but with a bit of pulling, fitted well enough. While Rik went to keep an eye on the back stairs, Harry carried out a more thorough search of the place, starting in the bedroom. He found a few neatly folded clothes in a chest of drawers, some shoes in the wardrobe, but not much else.

  It was the same with the bed and bedside cabinet; nothing helpful, merely items for everyday living. Through to the kitchen, which showed two empty wine bottles, a mug and a glass, all wet. Maybe Joanne Archer had been a drinker, in spite of the exercise regime. He checked the cupboards, drawers and air vents. There weren’t many places to look and it was soon clear that whoever had killed her must have cleaned out anything that might have helped fill in her background.

  ‘Nobody’s life is this empty,’ he muttered, sensing Rik coming back to see how he was progressing. ‘Even after a few days you pick up some rubbish.’ He checked the small waste-bin in the bedroom. ‘Not even a tissue. It’s unnatural. Either the killer had help to clean up, or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or Archer had already sanitized the place as a matter of routine.’

  ‘Makes sense. No clues, no trail. Just like her place in Finchley.’ Rik frowned. ‘Heck of a way to live, though. Who the hell is this woman?’

  Harry shook his head. The choice was stark, either way. It would take a professional killer to leave the area so empty of clues, and only a person living an extremely cautious life to have so little to show for her presence.

  He returned to the bedroom and studied the body. He checked the fingernails and knuckles, found them clean and unblemished.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘If Archer was such a hotshot in the gym, and a regimental cop, why didn’t she put up more of a fight? She should at least have got one good shot at the bastard who did this.’

  ‘Unless she knew him.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Then Rik said softly, ‘Harry.’

  Harry looked up. Rik was staring past him towards the bedroom door.

  When he turned his head, he found himself looking down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Who the hell are you two?’ The pistol was held unwaveringly at shoulder height. Behind it stood a young woman wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, with the nylon straps of a rucksack over each shoulder. She looked fit and toned, with cropped, dyed-blonde hair and nice skin. Her mouth was tight with tension and her gaze said both men would be in trouble if they made a wrong move.

  She glanced down at the dead woman, then up at the two men. There was no sign of emotion and the pistol didn’t move.

  Harry broke the tension. ‘I’m Harry, he’s Rik. We didn’t do this.’ He wasn’t sure why he thought she would believe him. ‘Who are you?’

  The woman ignored him and moved sideways, gesturing with her free hand. ‘The bed. Sit. Both of you. Hands away from your bodies.’ Her voice brooked no argument.

  ‘Hang on a sec—’ Rik began to protest, but she cut him short.

  ‘I said, sit.’

  Harry sat down and motioned Rik to do the same. From the way in which the woman had positioned herself, she was just beyond their reach and it was obvious that if they made a move towards her, they wouldn’t get more than a few inches.

  ‘Unusual weapon,’ Harry commented, nodding at the gun, although he thought the only unusual feature about it was that she had it and they didn’t. It looked workmanlike; anonymous, small calibre, no markings and disposable. ‘You got a licence for it?’

  She barely gave him a glance and looked disturbingly at ease with the gun. Distracting her evidently wasn’t on the cards.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. She moved to the chest of drawers and rested her gun on it, the barrel still pointing between the two men. Harry kept very still. He knew that resting her arm was not a sign of weakness. Guns are heavy pieces of equipment designed to stand fierce pressures and handling. But the weight can play havoc with the wrists and arm muscles, whether held by a man or a woman.

  ‘We were looking for her,’ Rik explained, nodding towards the body. ‘Joanne Archer,’ Harry let him speak. Since the woman had the upper hand and neither of them was about to get within six feet of her without being popped, there was little point in using delaying tactics. ‘We thought she might be in some sort of trouble,’ Rik added. ‘Looks like we were right.’

  ‘How do you know Joanne Archer?’ The question came back instinctively, but with a momentary hesitation in uttering the name.

  ‘We don’t,’ said Harry, deliberately drawing her eyes towards him. He smiled, aiming to get her to relax. ‘We’re paid to find people. It’s what we do.’

  ‘Paid? By who?’

  Neither of them replied. Instead, Harry said quietly, ‘That’s not her on the floor, is it?’

  He was holding the photo frame and looking down at the faces, his finger on one of the women. Although the cap and brown hair was enough to fudge the picture slightly and throw them off, it was now obvious that the woman he was looking at wasn’t the one lying here.

  She was actually standing right in front of them.

  ‘She was staying with me overnight.’ The comment was matter-of-fact. ‘Her name was Cath Barbour; we were in the same unit. She just got out.’

  ‘What kind of trouble are you in, Miss Archer?’ queried Harry.

  She blinked rapidly, then surprised both men by kneeling down by the body. If she saw either of them as a threat, she no longer seemed to care.

  ‘It would help if you put the gun away,’ Harry suggested. He was careful not to move, however; this woman was too full of surprises and might have a miniature Uzi tucked inside her bra.

  ‘I heard you talking,’ she said vaguely. She touched her fingers to the dead woman’s face, then sat back on her heels. ‘What are you – army?’ Her voice was dull, lifeless.

  ‘Used to be,’ said Harry. He left it at that. She wouldn’t be impressed by their background in the security services.

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘No. Not recently.’

  ‘Then you won’t be able to help.’ Her voice was soft, almost regretful, as if they were not what she had been hoping for. ‘You won’t be used to this.’

  ‘Death, you mean?’ Harry gave a shrug when she looked up at him. ‘Actually, we’re more accustomed to it than you might think.’

  ‘How?’

  He told her briefly about the past couple of days, how death seemed to be following them around; about Silverman and the events at South Acres, and the trail they had followed to this flat. Something told him she wasn’t about to go screaming to the police about Param and Matuq, and she clearly had a connection of sorts to Silverman, which made her a person of interest.

  She took it in without comment, then stood up. She studied the gun as if making a decision and clicked on the safety, switching her gaze squarely back to the two men. ‘I don’t see how any of this concerns me. I don’t know anyone called Silverman and I’ve no idea how he came to have my number or –’ she looked down at the body of her friend – ‘why anyone would kill Cath. She was just passing through
. . . she didn’t have anything to steal, either. It’s . . . crazy.’

  Harry studied her face. There was a flat quality to her voice which made her sound robotic. Yet she seemed almost too controlled, given the circumstances. Unless she had an unusually low panic threshold. Whoever or whatever she was, unusual seemed a fair description.

  ‘So why are you here?’ he asked, changing the direction of the conversation. ‘You’ve got a flat in north London, you train there, you have friends . . . you’ve got a routine. When you’re not travelling, that is.’ He gestured around them. ‘Why this place?’

  Archer didn’t reply. Her attention seemed to have drifted off somewhere far away.

  ‘We might be able to help,’ Rik offered gently. But there was still no reaction.

  ‘I’m going to reach into my pocket,’ Harry told her. ‘There’s something I want you to look at. You OK with that?’ She didn’t respond. ‘Joanne?’

  The sound of her name seemed to bring her back. She nodded assent, watching warily as Harry reached inside his jacket and pulled out the shot of Samuel Silverman from the airport camera. He flipped it the right way up and handed it to her. ‘This is the man we’re following. The one who had your phone number.’

  Neither of them knew quite what to expect. Logic suggested that there was little likelihood that Joanne Archer had ever set eyes on Silverman before. The fact that he had been in possession of her phone number and initials might have been one of those inexplicable convergences of detail that sometimes pops up, in the same way that siblings who have never met occasionally discover a brother or sister living in the next street, unknown and unknowing neighbours for decades.

  But Archer’s reaction on seeing the face in the photograph took them both by surprise. First came a look of intense shock, then her knees buckled and almost gave way, her face draining of colour. She stared at each man in turn, her lips working soundlessly.