The Raven's Eye

by Barry Maitland

  ‘That’s because you weren’t involved in the planning.’

  ‘And why the hell wasn’t I? What was it Dr Penney called himself—a subcontractor? That’s what we are, subcontractors, not given the whole picture, just called in at the end for a bit of dirty work.’

  ‘Right.’ Lynch turned back to them. ‘Let’s take you to meet Patsy.’

  He led them down the corridor to a room at the end that had been turned into an improvised dressing room, with a rack of clothes on hangers, a mirror and make-up laid out on a table, and several women who turned to consider Kathy. She recognised Patsy Bragg, noting the similarities in their height and build.

  ‘So you’re my double,’ Patsy said, coming over. She was obviously keyed up, nervous.

  ‘My name’s Kathy. Do you think I’ll do?’

  Patsy bit her lip, considering. ‘Yeah, reckon you might. What do you think, girls?’

  One of the other women nodded. ‘No worries. We’ll have to fix your hair.’

  Lynch frowned impatiently. ‘How long will that take?’

  They checked their watches. ‘We’ll have her ready by seven.’

  ‘All right. We’ll leave you to it. Come on, Brock.’

  While they worked on her, Kathy got Patsy to walk around the room and talk to her. Patsy told her that she had met Ashur Najjar many times at Fantasyland and she was sure that he would recognise her. Kathy got her to mime the scene of arriving in the taxi, talking to the policeman and opening the front door. She had a way of cocking her head when she was thinking, and of flicking through her keys, that Kathy thought she might be able to use. Kathy was intrigued to know how Patsy felt about this operation, in which her husband might be captured, hurt, or even killed. She got her answer when the girls had finished with her hair and make-up, and she was pulling on Patsy’s chic Katherine Hooker coat.

  ‘Blimey,’ Patsy said. ‘You are me.’ She looked troubled. ‘I hope you don’t find out why I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since I heard he was back.’

  ‘What do you mean, Patsy?’

  ‘For the first three years we were married, I thought Jack was an ordinary sort of bloke—a bit rough, but basically a normal bloke. I’d heard that he had this nickname, “Butcher”, but he said it was a joke, because his dad had been a butcher in Whitechapel, and Jack used to help him in the shop. Then one day Mr Lynch showed me photographs of what Jack had done to the Aaron brothers, because he wanted me to help him put Jack away. He said Jack had used a cleaver and worn a butcher’s apron, which he’d left at the scene, so people would know. I didn’t believe it, but when I told Jack, I saw from his expression that it was true. Later he admitted it. He said it was necessary for his reputation, for people to be frightened of him, to know what he’d do to them if they upset him. And I’ve upset him, good and proper.’

  ‘Well,’ Kathy said, ‘hopefully we’ll sort him out this time. So Mr Lynch has been after Jack for some time then?’

  ‘Oh yes, he goes way back. He was an inspector then. Jack nearly killed him once.’

  Well, Kathy thought, that makes things a bit clearer.

  As she gathered up the handbag and keys, Patsy said, ‘I don’t know how long you’re going to be in there, but if you get hungry there’s frozen meals in the kitchen freezer and drinks and snacks in the pantry. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The two women stared at each other for a moment, as if at their own reflections in a mirror.

  ‘Rather you than me, love,’ Patsy said, and walked away.

  Lynch returned and they had a final briefing before Kathy was led to the underground car park, where a taxi with a plainclothes police driver was waiting for her. When she got in Lynch leaned in to give her some parting words. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be a piece of cake.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and smiled reassuringly at Brock, standing behind Lynch’s shoulder looking worried.

  Brock stepped close to her and said, ‘You really sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Yes, I’m okay.’

  ‘Well . . .’ he said reluctantly, and reached into his pocket. ‘Take this.’

  Kathy felt him press a small object into her hand, and looking down she saw the sort of small pepper-spray canister that could be bought over the counter in the USA. She laughed. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I got some for Suzanne.’

  Kathy’s eyes widened. Would Suzanne really need this in the Sussex country town where she lived? ‘But I’ll have a Glock.’

  ‘All the same, keep this in your pocket.’

  If things went wrong it would be useless, she knew, but she was touched, picturing him, a senior police officer, buying illegal imports on the web to protect his partner.

  On the drive down to Sevenoaks, speeding down the A20, rain glittering in the headlights, Kathy exchanged a few words with the driver, then sank back into the seat in silence, trying to prepare herself for what lay ahead. Her fingers felt inside the pocket of the coat and closed around Brock’s gift, like a good luck charm.

  They turned off the main road into a succession of country lanes, until they slowed at an opening in a high brick wall, and swung in through the gates. Kathy heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and looked out through the window at thick undergrowth and the outline against the night sky of black branches, among which Ashur Najjar was supposedly perched. Bragg must be paying you well, Kathy thought, or have you very frightened.

  They drove past the police car and came to a stop near the front door. Kathy got out and stood by the cab window, back straight, poised as Patsy would have been. She took her time opening Patsy’s purse and handing over some notes. The cab driver murmured, ‘Good luck then,’ and the cab began to move while Kathy turned towards the front door. As she approached, a light sensed her and came on, and at the same time she heard the cop get out of the patrol car and call, ‘Mrs Bragg?’

  She turned, letting the light shine directly on her, and smiled at the man as he approached. He asked her if everything was all right and she said, ‘Well, I damn well hope so,’ tilting her head and gesturing in that way Patsy had.

  ‘I’ll be here if you need me,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ She fished in Patsy’s bag for the keys, flashed a Patsy kind of smile at the patrol officer and turned to the door, feeling her back naked to a sniper in the woods as she carefully inserted the correct key, stepped inside and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Anybody around?’ she called.

  A dark shadow moved in the gloom ahead. ‘Right here, ma’am, PC Lister.’

  ‘I’m going to put a light on.’ She reached out to where Patsy had told her and felt for the light switch. ‘Wow, this is nice.’

  ‘Yes.’ PC Lister nodded. ‘Very tasteful, Lutyens maybe, or even Voysey. Not what I expected for Butcher Bragg.’

  Kathy looked again at PC Lister, standing there in his body armour cradling a submachine gun. ‘All quiet then?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go on upstairs and switch this light off.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be down here in the living room, through that door there.’

  Kathy made her way up the oak staircase, treading silently on thick carpet, listening to the solid beat of a grandfather clock’s pendulum somewhere down in the hall. In the master bedroom she switched on the lights and closed the curtains. She took off Patsy’s good coat and laid it on the four-poster bed, then opened the suitcase and took out the Kevlar vest, the headset and the pistol and put them on. She looked around, taking in the details, and noticed a bottle of perfume on a dressing table. She sprayed a little on her wrist and sniffed it, expensive and very nice, then put more on her neck and returned down the stairs to join PC Lister. Through her earpiece she heard background noise, then a female voice telling her that Ashur Najjar had made a phone call to a number in Stanmore, on the far side of London. ‘That puts the target at least an hour away. You can relax.’

  ‘Did you get that?’ Lister
asked as Kathy came into the living room.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing to do but wait. At least it’s comfortable in here. Not like for poor old Najjar out there.’

  Kathy sat, listening to a fresh shower of rain pattering on the windows. The pistol, tucked into her waistband, cut uncomfortably into the small of her back. She tried to ease it around without success, then pulled it out and laid it on the coffee table at her side.

  ‘Have you eaten tonight?’ Lister asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Me neither. I had a look in the kitchen, but couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘There’s frozen meals in the freezer and stuff in the pantry,’ Kathy said. ‘You stay here, I’ll take a look.’

  ‘There’s a bad smell out there. Reckon something’s gone off.’

  Kathy made her way out to the hall again, her eyes now used to the dark. When she reached the kitchen she realised what Lister had meant about the smell. She opened the freezer compartment of the fridge, momentarily dazzled by the light, and found joints of frozen meat, but no meals. She closed the door, looking around for the pantry, and came upon a utility room. The smell was stronger here. There was a toilet inside, and when she lifted the lid she gagged, seeing a dark mass inside the bowl. She dropped the lid quickly and pressed the flush, then turned back to the kitchen. The pantry was on the other side, but she could find no sign of the drinks and snacks that Patsy had described.

  She gave up and returned to the living room. PC Lister was stretched out on the leather sofa, as if he’d fallen asleep. Kathy began to say something, then stopped, noticing a black stain spreading out from the sofa across the pale carpet.

  Then an arm came around her from behind and a hand gripped her throat tight. ‘Hello, Patsy, darling,’ a hoarse voice whispered in her ear. ‘Long time.’

  She tried to struggle, but the grip on her throat tightened, lifting her almost off the floor, knocking her headset off. The hand was gloved with chain mail, she realised: a butcher’s glove.

  ‘Ah, that perfume,’ Jack Bragg murmured. ‘Takes me back. Shame it has to end this way.’ He raised his other hand in front of Kathy’s face to show her the meat cleaver. ‘I’m wearing my dad’s old leather apron. He’d be proud.’

  ‘I’m . . .’ she croaked.

  ‘You’re what? Sorry? I’d like to hear it, doll, but I’d better not hang around. Chop, chop. I’ll start with the legs.’ He kicked her feet out from under her and as she fell awkwardly onto the carpet he came down on top of her. He knelt on her back and the mailed hand closed around her mouth and nose. Kathy, squirming helplessly, dug her fingers into the pocket of Patsy’s tight jeans and closed on Brock’s little present. She desperately tried to tug it out, fumbling with the smooth tube, then rammed her thumb on the button as she raised her hand, filling the air around them with a spray of choking gas.

  ‘AARGH!’ Bragg gagged, jerking backwards, and as Kathy began to wriggle out of his grip he brought the cleaver down. She twisted her head away and felt a blinding explosion of pain in her left shoulder, followed by chaos—searing gas, pain, a hammering at the door, Bragg screaming at her—and then a sudden silence.

  It seemed an age, a few seconds probably, before they came pounding in. Lights came on, men shouted, Kathy raised her head and saw PC Lister, his head almost severed from his poor slack body. Someone was talking to her, demanding an answer, ‘Where is he?’ Then a shout from the kitchen: ‘Back door’s open!’ She heard the sharp crackle of gunfire.

  14

  Kathy opened her eyes and saw a familiar figure, Brock, sitting reading a newspaper. He looked up and smiled at her. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She tried to reply, but her throat was gummed up and she couldn’t swallow. He seemed to understand, and reached towards her with a plastic cup. It was only then that she realised that she was lying in a bed. She took a sip of the water and he said, ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Dunno,’ was all she could manage. She looked around, taking in the curtain rails, the signs on the wall, the drip. ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve had an operation on your shoulder.’

  She struggled to think what that was about and had a sudden memory of being crushed on the floor. When she tried to flex her muscles she found that her right hand worked all right, but her whole left side seemed to be paralysed. She looked down and saw the bandages and straps.

  She gazed back at Brock, who nodded and said, ‘Bad fracture. Your vest saved you.’

  ‘Butcher,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We got him?’

  He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. ‘He slipped out the back door and disappeared into the night. So much for the ring of steel.’

  Now she had it, the whole sequence clear in her mind. ‘But how did he get in?’

  ‘He was already there. He had a cubbyhole in the cellar, probably been there for several days waiting for Patsy to come back.’

  ‘Taking food from the kitchen, not flushing the toilet. But I thought Ashur Najjar phoned him in Stanmore?’

  ‘Najjar must have phoned somebody else, who then used another phone to relay the message to Bragg. Najjar tried to shoot his way out. They killed him.’

  ‘Oh God . . . what a stuff-up. Is Lynch angry?’

  ‘Furious. So am I. It wasn’t done right. You should never have been put in that situation. That was his responsibility.’

  ‘Patsy told me that he and Bragg go way back. Sounds like a personal thing. She said Bragg almost killed him once.’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe that’s clouding his judgement. Anyway . . .’ he put a smile on his face, ‘. . . you’re going to be all right.’

  ‘Your little toy saved me. That stuff ’s horrible.’ She paused, stroking her bruised throat, feeling again the grip of the mailed fist. ‘He was convinced I was her—even at the end, he screamed he would come back and get me. I’d used some of her perfume, you see. He recognised it straight away. That’s how he knew, in the dark, that I was Patsy.’ She stared down at the drip disappearing into the dressings and whispered, ‘PC Lister . . .’

  ‘Yes. They’ve told his wife.’

  A vivid image came into Kathy’s mind and she turned sharply away and was sick before she could reach the bowl.

  Pale light was leaking into the sky as Brock returned to New Scotland Yard. Commander Lynch could only spare Brock a couple of minutes, his PA informed Brock, in a tone that suggested he should know better than to barge in without an appointment, even at dawn. He waited until Lynch’s door opened and D.K. Payne came out, clutching a sheaf of files. Payne nodded grimly back at the door, and Brock got to his feet and marched in.

  Lynch’s head was down, scanning a document. He said, ‘Yes, Brock?’ without looking up.

  ‘I’ve just come from the hospital. DI Kolla is in recovery. The doctors are satisfied with the way her operation went.’

  ‘Good, good. I’ll try to get down there later.’

  He was clearly exhausted, but Brock, furious, ploughed on. ‘I’m not happy that she was put in that situation.’

  Lynch looked up slowly. ‘Nobody’s happy. We lost an officer.’

  ‘There’ll be a major incident inquiry, I take it.’

  Lynch’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m working on an operational review now.’

  ‘But you were acting as senior investigating officer. The SIO can’t review his own . . .’ the word debacle came into his mind, ‘. . . case.’

  ‘I do what I’m told, Brock,’ Lynch said, anger clearly bubbling to the surface. ‘As will you.’ He glared at Brock for a moment, then snapped, ‘Sit down.’

  Brock sat.

  ‘While we’re on the subject of doing what we’re told,’ Lynch continued, ‘what were you and Kolla doing in Cambridge yesterday, exactly?’

  Brock took a deep breath, resenting this change of subject. ‘We spoke to the father of Gudrun Kite, the young woman who was found dead on a boat on the Rege
nt’s Canal last week.’

  ‘That’s Professor Desmond Kite, of the same Cambridge college that you attended?’

  Brock hesitated, wondering how the hell he knew that. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who else did you meet?’

  ‘People who knew Gudrun Kite and her sister Freyja, who died in an accident in Cambridge earlier this year.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘I wanted to assure myself that there was no connection between the two deaths.’

  ‘And did you assure yourself?’

  ‘No. There are aspects of both cases that merit further investigation, in my opinion.’

  Lynch rammed back in his chair, staring bleakly at Brock. ‘Last Friday week you attended a Strategic Review Tribunal at which DI Kolla’s conduct regarding the Gudrun Kite case was held up as a prime example of wasteful and regressive police practice. Now you’re spending your weekends together trying to justify her bungling, and at the same time impress your old college chums that you can do what the local plod could not.’

  ‘No, I—’

  But Lynch spoke over him, raising his voice. ‘You have a reputation, Brock, for being stubborn and intransigent, for keeping your head down and going your own way, for not being a team player, and for encouraging these traits in your subordinates.’

  Brock held himself in check. ‘There should have been more consultation on the Bragg case.’

  Lynch slapped his open palm down angrily on his desk. ‘You weren’t here, Brock! You were in fucking Cambridge!’

  For a moment they glared at each other, then the steam seemed to go out of Lynch. ‘Go away, Brock,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve got things to do. Go away and figure out how we can catch Jack Bragg now.’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ Brock said.

  Lynch blinked at him, as if wondering if he’d misheard. ‘What are you talking about? He could be anywhere by now, on a plane back to Manila for all we know.’

  ‘No. He still thinks that was Patsy in the house. As he left he yelled that he would come back and get her. So put out a press statement that Patsy Bragg was attacked in her home last night but has survived and is recuperating somewhere safe, anywhere but that hospital—it’s a disaster waiting to happen.’