by Thomas Emson
Lawton went for him. Scar kicked out. Lawton avoided the attack.
He kicked, catching Scar in the thigh and Scar screamed. He bared his teeth, his cheeks reddened with anger. He fired the gun.
The bullet thumped into the ceiling, gouging through the plaster.
Lawton dived on top of Scar. He grabbed Scar’s wrist. Blood ribboned down the gunman’s face from the eye wound. Lawton rained fists on the man. Scar lashed out, clawing at Lawton’s face. They rolled, they cursed, blood sprayed. The gun jammed between their chests.
Lawton felt the barrel press into his ribs.
If Scar pulled the trigger . . .
Lawton gritted his teeth. He tried to twist the man’s wrist. Swung punches at his head. Scar hammer fisted Lawton bicep, making it go dead.
The barrel angling up towards Lawton’s heart ...
Lawton’s muscles tightened.
The gun fired.
Lawton flinched and felt a bolt strike his chest, and pain filled his head.
Scar leered up at him.
Lawton felt a warm wetness spread over his chest.
* * *
“Will he help?” Murray had asked Lithgow, and Lithgow had said, “You’re not his son, so he just might.”
And Murray asked the same question again: “Will he help?”
Lithgow, chewing his nails, told her, “Dad’s one of those barristers who love going up against the cops, so if you say you’re trying to get them to search Religion, and they’re refusing, he’ll probably start salivating and help you out.”
Bernard Lithgow’s offices were near Victoria Station. The waiting room smelled of varnish, and it made Murray dizzy after her lack of sleep. She wondered how Lawton and Sassie were getting on while she waited for Lithgow senior, and she thought about her children.
She gazed around the waiting room. Hunting scenes hung on the panelled walls. A piece of scarlet cloth, old and worn, was framed.
Murray stood and went over to the framed cloth. It was a rag, stained and ancient. It lay on a white satin background in the glass case. The frame was gold.
A memory flared in Murray’s mind and she tried to retrieve it, but it was lost before she grabbed it. She shook her head, her brow furrowed.
She thought, Where have –?
“Mr. Lithgow will see you now, Mrs. Murray,” said a voice.
Murray turned. A blonde woman, mid-twenties and glossy, peered from behind a door.
“Thank you,” said Murray to Lithgow’s assistant.
She entered his chambers. The assistant, throwing a smile towards the QC, left and closed the door.
Lithgow senior sat behind an oak desk. The barrister, beckoning Murray, absent-mindedly brushed the desk. He was in his fifties, tall and lithe, and Murray saw Fraser in the man’s face.
“Sit,” he said, and Murray sat. Still he brushed at the desk. His cheeks were flushed, and his Oxford shirt open at the neck. Murray thought, He’s just been having sex with that girl.
Lithgow senior said, “Very unusual situation, Mrs. Murray. Why do you think the courts should issue a search warrant?”
Murray explained, telling him that the owners of Religion had links with the suspected owner of the house where a vessel containing drugs was found.
“And,” said the QC, taking a yellow legal pad from a drawer in his desk, “why is it, do you think, that the Metropolitan Police are unwilling to pursue this warrant?”
Murray said she didn’t know, couldn’t understand why. She said her sons had disappeared, that she thought they were victims of whoever was responsible for these murders, “and I think they’re being held at Religion,” she said.
The barrister scribbled on the legal pad with a pencil.
“Any proof?” he said.
“No proof,” she said.
His eyes narrowed and he chewed the top of the pencil. He said, “Have you spoken to Detective Superintendent Phil Birch?”
She said she had, but had no luck.
Lithgow senior nodded and hummed.
“You know, Mrs. Murray,” he said, “I’m not sure I can help you at all – I don’t think a court, any court, would issue a warrant on just a hunch – ”
She started to say something but he raised a hand.
He said, “But what I will do is put in a few calls. I know Mr. Birch. I know a minister in the Home Office. I’ll guarantee you, if there is any truth to your allegations, we’ll try our best to dig them out. How’s that?”
“Well,” she said, “it’s a start. But I – I don’t know how much time – ”
“I understand, I understand. You’re a concerned mother. I’m a concerned father, as you know. But this is all I can do.”
Murray nodded, and got up.
Lithgow stood, leaned over the desk to shake her hand. He said, “Give my regards to that son of mine, if he’s still around? Still around, is he?” Lithgow’s eyebrow arched.
“Yes,” said Murray, feeling something twist in her gut, “yes he is.”
She said goodbye and turned, walking out of the office.
Behind her, Lithgow clicked an intercom and said, “Estella, would you come back in here. I seem to have lost my – my – yes, yes, that would be delightful, Estella.”
The door opened. Estella the blonde bounced in. She smirked at Murray and sashayed past her, breasts moving, hips swaying, heels clicking on the varnished floor.
“Shut – shut the door, Mrs. Murray,” said Lithgow.
She glanced over her shoulders. Estella perched on the edge of the desk. She watched Murray until Murray had closed the door. And after shutting it she listened outside for a moment. A groan came from inside the office. It sickened Murray, and she moved away, backing off across the waiting room. Then the red rag in the gold frame caught her eye again, and she turned to look at it.
A muffled moan came from behind the barrister’s door, but it faded as Murray focused on the scarlet cloth.
And a cold, slick fear crawled up from her belly.
* * *
Ed Crane said, “That’s nonsense, Sassie. You’re an archaeologist. You deal in facts, in truth.”
“I know, Ed, but – but I can’t deny what I’ve seen,” she said. Her throat was dry. She eyed him. She wondered about the cuneiform on the lip of the clay pot. Crane said it didn’t mean anything; Wilson said it was a warning. Had Crane got it wrong, or was he lying?
He folded his arms and leaned back in the armchair. “And what have you seen?” he said.
“I’ve told you, I’ve told you what I’ve seen. I drove a stake” – she got up from the sofa, started pacing the room – “through someone’s chest who then turned to dust before my eyes. And I’ve seen people attacked in the street. I’ve seen my friend drive a stake through things that have also just – ” She stopped pacing, looked at him. “That’s what I’ve seen, Ed.”
He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands. He said, “I’ll admit that there are awful, awful things happening. But we can’t revert to pseudo-science, pseudo-history, to explain these events. We research, we consider, we evaluate, we conclude – a reasonable answer will show itself if we keep our heads, Sassie.”
“I wish you were right.” She turned and faced the window. The streets lay quiet under a constant drizzle.
Hands fell on her shoulders.
She spun around and drew away from him, and he smiled at her, saying, “Hey, delicious, don’t be jumpy.”
Sassie shuddered. She said, “Ed, I need to sleep – ”
“Good, where’s the bedroom?”
“No, Ed, please.”
He stepped towards her. “You and me, we’ve got to get friendly, you know.”
Her temper blazed. “Ed, would you please – ”
He closed the space between them, and she leaned away from him.
He grabbed her arms. Sassie grappled with him.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“It’s all right
,” he said, “it’s all right, come – ”
She kicked his shin and he yelped, letting go of her. Sassie stepped back, tears welling in her eyes. Fear flushed coldly through her veins.
She said, “I want you to go. I want you to go – ”
He slapped her across the face. She reeled away. Her skin burned, as if someone had laid a red-hot poker across her skin. She stared at him, mouth open and tears rolling down her cheeks. She tried to say something, but shock had muted her.
Ed sneered and came towards her.
Finding her voice, she said, “Ed – Ed – what are you – Ed –?”
He seized her arms and shook her like a rag doll. Her bones rattled and her neck whiplashed.
“You fucking little bitch,” he said, “you’d better start appreciating me, because if you don’t you’ll be fucking meat, I tell you, fucking strung up like a pig and bled.”
He shoved her against the table. Hot liquid washed up her throat and she retched. She wanted to shout for Jake, but she knew he wouldn’t come.
She tried to say Ed’s name again, but nothing came out, only a gasp.
He grabbed Sassie’s hair, and the pain ripped through her scalp. He dragged her across the room, and she screamed. Ed shoved her against the wall and slammed himself against her, knocking the wind out of her. Then he mashed his mouth against her lips.
Her bladder chilled and felt heavy, and she almost puked again. She couldn’t breathe, his mouth pressed against her mouth. She started to choke. Panic made her body twitch and her lungs filled with hot fluid that she couldn’t throw up. She dug her nails into his shoulders, struggled against him. Her vision blurred. Her head felt as if it were swelling, filling with blood.
Sassie bit his lip until she tasted his blood in her mouth.
Ed screeched, pushed himself away and put his hand to his mouth.
Blood pulsed from his split lip. He glowered at Sassie. “You little cow,” he said. “Enjoy taking bites out of people, do you? Right – we’ll see if you like a taste of you own medicine.”
He strode towards her. Blood poured down his chin. He raised his fist. Sassie moaned and begged him not to hurt her.
He was on her and she cowered and screamed.
He punched her on the jaw.
Her head snapped back against the wall.
White light exploded in front of her eyes.
And then everything went black.
* * *
He rolled away from the body and put his hand to his chest. Blood soaked his T-shirt, a dark stain seeping through to dampen his skin. He got up, stared down at his chest. He took his T-shirt off and dropped it next to the dead man. He crouched next to the body, checked for a pulse in the neck. Blood masked the man’s face. His eyes stared up at the ceiling. His mouth stood agape. The gunshot had burned away the man’s shirt and charred his skin. Blood bubbled from a wound near the centre of his chest.
Right through the heart, thought Lawton.
He went to the door, looked into the corridor. The Bangladeshi lay dead. The poor guy had never hurt anyone. He’d always been polite to Lawton, always smiled and said hello. Probably faced abuse since he came to this country, but still managed to be civil with everyone he met.
Even his killer, Lawton supposed.
The Bangladeshi had probably thought he was doing Scar a favour, letting him up into the flats. Then he got a gun pointed at his head, and his brains blown out.
Lawton dragged the Bangladeshi into the flat and locked the door.
He laid the youth next to the scarred man. Lawton got a blanket out of the airing cupboard and draped it over the Bangladeshi’s body.
He left Scar uncovered.
Lawton thought about how he should handle this. He had two dead men on his floor, one of whom he’d killed himself; in self-defence, in a struggle, but still – the police would presume him guilty before discovering he was innocent.
He thought of phoning Murray, telling her what happened. He nodded to himself, deciding that was the best option. He went to the phone, then the Crazy Frog ringtone started up.
Lawton looked at Scar.
The phone vibrated in the dead man’s jacket. It looked like a rat trying to get out from under his armpit – while singing the Crazy Frog tune.
Lawton shook his head, scattering the bizarre image from his mind.
He squatted and reached into Scar’s pocket for the phone.
The phone’s screen read, phone #3.
Lawton pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear. He didn’t say anything.
A voice Lawton recognized but couldn’t identify said, “H-hello? Hello, Ion? Ion, is that – are you there? Have you got the spear?”
Lawton thought, Where have I heard that voice? He trawled his memory. Static filled the line. It sounded like the man was calling him from the top of a building in a gale. Lawton heard traffic in the background.
The man said, “Ion, can you hear me – it’s a really bad line.”
Lawton walked over to the kitchen, turned on the radio and found static. He brought the radio up to the phone and said, “I can’t hear you.”
“Bloody hell, Ion. That’s a really bad line. You sound weird. Have you got the spear? I’ve got the girl.”
Lawton’s guts turned cold.
The man said, “I’m taking her over there. Shit, this line – I’m going to have to go, Ion.” The man said, “fuck,” and hung up.
Lawton dropped the phone and switched off the radio.
He stared into space, his chest growing cold.
I’ve got the girl.
What did that mean? Which girl?
The strength drained out of him. He leaned on the counter. He knew the man meant Sassie. And then he knew who the voice belonged to.
Energy pulsed through his body. He grabbed a shirt, pulled it on.
He went for the door, unlocked it, threw it open and –
The man clubbed Lawton across the face.
Chapter 79
A LIONESS PROTECTING
HER CUBS.
MURRAY strode up Old Compton Street. Armed police wandered about. She looked at her feet, hiding her face under the brim of a baseball cap.
They weren’t going to stop her – not with their curfews, not with their guns, not with their plots and their conspiracies.
She weaved through pedestrians and police, keeping her head down.
The drizzle made the back of her neck wet. She stopped at a street corner, glanced up.
Religion stood on the opposite corner. A slab of wood covered the entrance. A sign read, closed until further notice. Yellow police tape crisscrossed the wood. She walked around to the side of the club, up a narrow, single-lane street. The tall, narrow windows were dark.
They stood ten feet off the ground and stretched up the building’s height. Seven of them lined the side of the building like guards standing watch.
Murray walked up the side street, gazing up at the windows, trying to think how to get in.
A black Toyota 4x4 swept across the street ahead of her and shot down an alley at the rear of the club.
Murray trotted up the street. The road, lined with warehouses and garages, was quiet and she faltered for a second, thinking if it was wise for her to be here on her own.
Then she realized why she was here: David and Michael.
She jogged up the street and came to the corner of the building.
She peered around and saw the car, about fifty yards down the passage.
The alley was narrow, only slightly wider than the 4x4. The driver would only have a foot or so either side to open his doors. She made a mental note of the registration number.
A man squeezed out of the driver’s side door. He was late thirties, lean and handsome. He came round to the rear of the vehicle and lifted open the back door.
A woman with a sack over her head lay in the boot. Her hands and feet were bound with tape. Murray gasped and her nerves tightened.
Th
e driver sat on the edge of the boot and made a call on his mobile. He chewed his nails, waiting for the call to be answered. No one at home, thought Murray when the man put the phone back in his pocket. He hauled the blindfolded woman out of the 4x4 and hoisted her over his shoulder. He shut the door and appeared to be tapping the wall. A screech of metal put Murray’s teeth on edge. Then, as if walking through the wall, the man disappeared into the building.
Murray sneaked down the alley and came to a metal door. Dents calloused its surface and rust scabbed the paintwork. On the door frame there was a security panel. That’s what the man was tapping: a code on the keypad. She flipped up the security panel’s cover and stared at the numbers.
No hope, she thought.
She put her hand on the door. She gave it a nudge, not expecting it to open.
It didn’t.
She looked up. A CCTV camera pointed down at her.
Sadness filled her heart. Her eyes welled up. She felt fear and loss for her sons. Were they in here? She would claw through the door with her hands if she had to, if she knew they were here.
She bit her lip and lowered her head, the brim of her cap hiding any tears she shed from the watching camera.
Murray wanted to crouch against this wall in this alley and weep.
She wanted the world to close in on her, the ground to swallow her.
She wanted to sleep and let this pass away.
But not until David and Michael were safe.
She braced herself.
She banged on the door.
“If my children are in here – I’m calling the police. I’m a journalist. I’ll have coppers and camera crews crawling all over the place unless you” – she held her NUJ card up to the camera – “open this door.
You’ve got missing children in this building.”
No answer.
She banged again, using her fist this time. Her skin chafed on the metal. But Murray didn’t care. Panic grew in her. She hammered the door again, saying, “Open this door. I’ll ring the Army. I’ll get the SAS. You’ll regret this. I’ll – I’ll kill you, you hear, I’ll kill you if you hurt my boys.”
But no one answered.
Murray was out of breath. She tried to calm down. She thought about what she could do. Ring for help, maybe. The police? But they still didn’t have a warrant.
