by Michael Kerr
“What happened to her breast?” Ryan said, his eyes drawn to the puckered scar.
“Mastectomy. Looks to be maybe a year, eighteen months since it was done. It isn’t relevant, unless this is a staged suicide. Maybe she couldn’t get her head round having lost her breast. Some women can’t.”
“Hell of a way to top yourself,” Eddie said.
“Less messy than putting your head on a railway line, or jumping off a high building,” Bob came back. “And when someone is disturbed enough to take their own life, they don’t always do it in what you would consider a rational or pain free way.”
Ryan didn’t like it. Why have an electric fan in the bathroom? It wasn’t summer. Maybe to disperse the steam. It didn’t compute. He saw the scissors in the bottom of the bath. They weren’t nail scissors. Another anomaly. He didn’t think people cut their hair while they were sitting in the tub. And there was no mirror that she could look at to see what she was doing. If it had been suicide, why not just have a few drinks, cut her wrists and bleed out? They say that’s as good as any way to go, to just drift off in the hot water as your lifeblood pumped out. Goodnight Vienna.
He went out on to the landing. “Who turned off the power?” he asked a uniformed officer.
“The woman who discovered her, sir,” the PC replied. “A Mrs. Sonia Purvis. She fuc... compromised the scene. Dragged the body out of the bath. She’s still downstairs. You want a word with her?”
“In a minute,” Ryan said. He went into the bedroom and looked it over. There had been dust on the flex of the fan. After a few seconds, he stood on tiptoe and examined the top of the wardrobe. Being six-four had its benefits. There was a hardback world atlas under a fabric lampshade, and a shoe box alongside it. Next to the box was a square outline in the patina of dust. He knew it would match the base of the fan. Why would the woman suddenly get it into her head to take it down and set it up in the bathroom? She wouldn’t. It was a set-up. He was positive that Katy Baxendale had been murdered.
Downstairs, a WPC had made a cup of tea for Sonia Purvis.
“You want a cup of tea?” WPC Wendy Leach said to Ryan and Eddie as they entered the kitchen.
“Coffee, black, no sugar, please,” Ryan said.
Eddie declined. The sight of the dead woman with the missing breast had unsettled him. His late sister, Helen, had undergone the same surgery, but it had only bought her another two years. The cancer had got into her bones. In the end, like a ravenous wild animal, it had just swallowed her up.
“We understand you were a good friend of Katy’s, Mrs. Purvis, is that correct?” Ryan said after introducing himself and Eddie to the obviously shaken woman.
“I was Katy’s best friend, Sonia said. “I still can’t take in what has happened.”
“What do you think happened?” Ryan said.
“I’m confused,” Sonia replied, a frown corrugating her forehead. “Katy was a very intelligent woman. I can’t believe that she would be foolish enough to have anything electrical in the bathroom. Certainly not a fan next to the bath.”
“Do you know if anything was troubling her to the extent that she might have taken her own life?”
Sonia managed a pained smile. “If you had known her, Inspector, then you wouldn’t be asking that question. Katy was full of life; loved it, and threw herself at it wholeheartedly. She thrived on adversity. I’ve never seen her back down from anything in her life. Even when she got breast cancer, she gave the disease a name: Freddy, after the guy with the melted face and blade glove in the Elm Street movies. Katy said that if she could give it an identity, then she could fight it better. She held a party when they said that they were sure it had been caught in time. Called it a ‘Farewell to Freddy’ night. She had an off-the-wall sense of humour. To look at, she came across as a Jean Brodie-with-piles type. She was anything but.”
“You got a hunch?” Ryan pushed.
“Yes. I don’t know how, but I believe someone whom she had caused grief, threw that bloody fan in the bath. Nothing else comes close to making any sense. Does that sound stupid, Inspector?”
“No, Mrs. Purvis. I’m inclined to believe that you’re on the money.”
Ryan arranged for forensics to attend. This was murder, not accidental death.
Eddie drove back to the Yard without talking much. Ryan didn’t press. His sergeant seemed subdued and contemplative. Something at the scene had upset him. It was hard to fathom what. They had attended a lot of horrendous crime scenes, that made the sight of Katy Baxendale almost minor league.
The week that Eddie had joined the squad, they’d been called out to a warehouse off Victoria Dock Road in Canning Town. Two boys had broken into the abandoned building to explore it. Below ground level was a warren of store rooms, and in one of them, the lads had found the corpses of three women hanging from a girder by hooks attached to rusted chains. All three had been eviscerated, and a nearby grill – set up on breeze blocks as a makeshift barbecue – was littered with the remains of cooked human organs. There was also a large pan with traces of mould-covered stew stuck to it. The contents were analysed and found to contain human flesh, potato and carrot.
The killer had cannibalised them. Empty whisky bottles littered the bloodstained ground. The horrendous sight and smell of the partly flensed bodies had made all but the pathologist and his assistants feel physically ill.
The Canning Town Cannibal, as the police and press labelled the perp, was apprehended when he attempted to abduct an undercover vice cop posing as a prostitute in Islington. The man, a street-person or vagrant was, on being searched at the police station, found to be wearing a necklet fashioned from human teeth; some of which were matched to two of the corpses found in the basement area of the warehouse. Fibres, hairs and dried blood on his clothing confirmed that he had been in physical contact with the deceased women. The man had no ID, would not talk to anyone, and was eventually found unfit to plead and committed to Northfield Park, the maximum security hospital for the criminally insane that David Wilde worked at.
“If Katy Baxendale was murdered on Gorchev’s instructions, why would he want it to look like an accident, boss?” Eddie said as they neared the Yard. He had shaken off his melancholy, was back on track, and appreciated that Ryan had not asked him to explain his morose interlude. Ryan was not just his boss, he was also a friend.
“Gorchev is Russian Mafia, Eddie,” Ryan said. “They don’t want to attract attention. He obviously knew that she was going to do a number on him, and must have thought that a timely accident would be the best way to shut her up, permanently.”
“You think that he might have used Tyler?”
“Maybe. But if Gorchev has done a deal with Savino to help him find Tyler, it doesn’t compute. I think it’s time I met Gorchev and let him know that his involvement is drawing us to his door.”
“Easier said than done, boss. He’s like a bloody ghost. How do you propose to set it up?”
Ryan grinned. “Call Ghostbusters.”
They took the lift up to the incident room. There was nothing new. Vinnie was still going round in circles, like a snake with its tail in its mouth, trying to tie Teal Towers to the Russian. He couldn’t.
They looked at everything again. Checked in with Angie Duke, who was spending every shift at Ruby Tyler’s place at Croydon, working back-to-back with DC Bill Steel. There had been no more phone calls, but Ryan was sure that given time, Tyler would make a play, to maim or kill his mother. He wasn’t prepared to pull out and miss a chance to apprehend the guy. Angie said that Ruby was making them feel at home. Treating them like family. And she thought that the old girl might have the hots for Bill, who had taught her how to play backgammon, and was now losing two out of three games.
Julie came down and handed Ryan a sheet of A4 copy paper. On it was a colour shot of a swarthy guy who looked like someone you wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night.
“Gorchev?” Ryan said. “How did you get this?”
“
The artist worked up a likeness with the manager of the Paradise Club,” Julie said. “Then Computer Section used their toys to create a digital image from his drawing. When the guy at the club saw it, he said it was almost spot on. This is an updated version that is supposed to be right on the money.”
“You got a few of these?” Ryan said.
“It’s on computer.”
“Can you get me half a dozen? I plan to head over to Teal Towers and see if I can get Gorchev to come out of the woodwork and talk to me.”
“Not by yourself?” Julie said.
“Yeah. I want a nice informal chat. He’ll know that I’m covered.”
An hour later, unarmed, Ryan walked into the foyer of the apartment block, to be approached by a bruiser two inches taller than himself, and built like the Incredible Hulk. The guy had a face that even his mother must find hard to love. It was criss-crossed with scars; his saddle nose had been broken beyond reparation, and he had a large gap between his front teeth: A diastema. Ryan recalled Mack the Knife mentioning that term once during an autopsy.
“Residents only,” Hulk said to Ryan. His accent was pure south of the river, not Russian.
Ryan showed him his ID. “Tell Sergei I want a word.”
“Who?” Hulk said with a practised, vacant look.
“Sergei Gorchev, the Russian guy who pays your wages. Recognise him?” Ryan said, unfolding one of the full-colour mug shots.
Benny White was not sure what to do. He was supposed to play dumb and get rid of anyone that was not a resident or authorised visitor. Teal Towers was like a gated community in the States. But this cop knew his boss’s name, and even had a photograph of him.
“I gotta make a call,” Benny said. “Wait here, okay?”
“No problem,” Ryan said. “But make it clear that I’m here by myself for an unofficial chat. If I don’t get to see him, then I call in the cavalry with warrants to take this place apart. And nobody will get to leave the building while it’s going down.”
Up on the eighth floor, Gregor Kirov answered the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s Benny, downstairs. I got the filth here. A DI called Ryan with a picture of the boss. Says he needs to speak to him.”
“That will not happen,” Gregor said. “Do your job and get rid of him.”
“I think he just wants to talk off the record. Says if he doesn’t get any joy, then the place will be swarmin’ with the filth.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Gregor went through to the large lounge, where Sergei was laid back on a crème, leather settee, his shoes off and feet up on a pouffe. He was drinking tea and reading the Financial Times.
“There’s a Detective Inspector Ryan downstairs,” Gregor said. “He has a photograph of you and wishes to talk. He told Benny that the alternative is an official search of the entire building.”
Sergei closed and folded the newspaper. Sipped his tea as he mulled the problem over.
“Have him checked for a weapon or wire, and get on to someone at the Yard who can access his file. I want to know everything about this cop. And then I’ll meet with him on the top floor.”
Benny waited nervously. It was five minutes before the phone rang.
“Yeah. Yeah,” he said and hung up. “I need to check you. See if you’re wired or carryin’ ” he said to Ryan.
Ryan smiled. The big guy had sweat beading his top lip. Maybe the Hulk was armed and didn’t relish a bust.
After being quickly but professionally frisked, Ryan was led over to the nearest of two lifts. The door slid open to reveal a short, weasel-faced guy in a shiny, tan suit, who beckoned Ryan to step inside.
They travelled up to the top floor in silence. Weasel led Ryan out and along a corridor to a door that opened at his knock on to what was probably three apartments knocked into one. There was a window wall facing north, affording a panoramic view of the city. A chunky guy stood in front of it, looking out. He had his hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn round to face Ryan.
“Take a seat,” Sergei said to Ryan, cocking his head towards a corner filled by soft easy chairs and an oak coffee table as big as a door.
Ryan made himself comfortable, put one of the pictures of Gorchev on the tabletop, face up. Crossed his legs and waited.
“What is to stop me from having you thrown out of the window, Detective Inspector Ryan?” Sergei said, still looking out at the grey cityscape.
“You trying to scare me, Gorchev?” Ryan said.
Sergei turned round, walked over and sat facing Ryan. Looked at the image of himself and smiled. If anything, it was slightly flattering. Made him appear younger.
“No, Francis,” he said, after picking up the compu-fit picture and studying it, before crumpling it into a ball. “When I decide to scare you, then you will know. You are a dedicated policeman, who I am informed cannot be bought, or threatened easily. You are like a trained seal, who performs well for its keepers. Your reward is not a bucket full of dead mackerel, but a pittance of a salary, paltry pension, and the job satisfaction of putting what you consider to be serious offenders in prison. Now tell me, of what interest am I to your SCU?”
Ryan could see a sparkle of amusement in the older man’s black eyes. He was treating this as little more than an interesting aside. His curiosity had been sparked.
“I’m looking for the man you hired to hit Cornell Flynn, then Katy Baxendale,” Ryan said. “I know that you’re in contact with Ray Savino, and that you will almost certainly lift the shooter and deliver him to Savino’s associates.”
“As you are well aware, knowing and proving something are two entirely different things, Inspector. That is the beauty of conducting business in this country. I am protected by the very law that seeks to prove that I am guilty of so many things. Back home, I would be arrested, held on fictitious charges, and probably beaten and tortured until I confessed. The UK is a magnet to criminals and illegal immigrants, because you do not have effective deterrents in place to properly deal with organised crime. The west is too preoccupied with the notion of pseudo-democracy, and the civil rights of the masses.
“If your only interest is in finding this imagined contract killer, then why worry if you are so sure that he will be dealt with?”
“I go through the motions, Gorchev,” Ryan said. “I know right from wrong, and do things by the book...most of the time. My job is to find and arrest Tyler, not sit back and let scumbags like you and Savino run the show.”
Sergei’s eyes widened. He was not used to being insulted.
“This is not personal, Ryan. Do not make the mistake of thinking that because you are a policeman, that you are in some way safe from retaliation. I have personally cut men’s tongues out for treating me with less disrespect.”
“You’re like any other lowlife, Gorchev. You prosper by using fear, suffering and pain to profit by. I didn’t expect you to be of any worthwhile assistance. I just wanted to meet you face to face and let you to know that I’m on your case.”
“Do you think you are some kind of super cop who can do what none of your other departments can?”
“Yeah. When I get my teeth into a case, I give it everything. I treat it as a personal challenge. Just relentlessly keep going till I get a result. And you’re right, I can’t be bought.”
“You can be killed though, Francis Ryan. You are just one cop. A nonentity to me. But maybe your irrational quest to bring about my downfall will result in your mother, Jessica, becoming the victim of a fatal accident. Do you suppose she is safe, living alone? Do you want her death on your conscience? Am I really that important?”
Ryan wanted to dive over the table and choke the Russian with his bare hands, but the gangster’s henchman was attentive, and his hand moved inside his jacket, to where Ryan had seen the bulge of a holstered pistol.
“You came to me, Ryan,” Sergei said. “Whatever may transpire between us will be at your instigation. I am only letting you know that I respond with extreme prejud
ice to anyone who threatens me, or my business. I own too many people in places of high office to ever be arrested, or found guilty of any wrongdoing. But please bear in mind that I am not in the business of killing people. It is sometimes necessary, but not carried out indiscriminately. The public at large are unaware of, and in no danger from my organisation.”
“You deal in death, Gorchev,” Ryan said. “Among other things, you distribute drugs and sell arms. How many pushers are peddling the shit you smuggle into the country to kids in school playgrounds?”
“It’s called commerce, my friend. Supply and demand. I provide services that people want. I live in the real world. You, on the other hand, sound like an antivivisection protester, screaming about how wrong it is to use rodents and other animals for medical research, but happy to accept lifesaving or painkilling drugs to cure you of anything from a headache to diabetes. You are basically a violent man, Ryan. You would take great pleasure in harming me, now, am I right?”
“You threatened my mother. Be advised that if she so much as falls and sprains an ankle, then I will choose to hold you responsible. You better hope that she dies in bed aged a hundred and ten, and of natural causes.”
“Is that a threat, Inspector?”
“It’s a promise, Gorchev. Give me reason, and I’ll find you and kill you.”
“And become as bad as the people you condemn?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Like I said, it is not personal.”
“Was Katy Baxendale personal?”
Sergei paused before answering. “Between you and me, yes, Inspector. She took it upon herself to try to bring down an organisation that is more powerful than most governments. She was warned, but did not have the commonsense to take heed. Like you, the woman had a choice. She chose to follow the wrong path.”
There was no more to be said. Ryan got up and walked to the door.
Gregor Kirov opened it and followed him out into the corridor.
“Be very careful, Inspector,” Gregor said before Weasel arrived in the lift to escort Ryan downstairs. “All Sergei has to do is order it, and you will be dead. Check out Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ellis of your drug squad.”
