The Murder Exchange

by Simon Kernick

  Another patrol car had arrived now and two more officers went into the house. The van containing the prisoner remained where it was while Ramsay and the other two officers chatted among themselves, ignoring the steady rain that beat down from the night sky.

  I didn’t say anything. I was pissed off. It struck me as ridiculous that Berrin and I should be sent out on worthless exercises like this that did nothing to bolster morale or understanding, while every effort possible was being made to squeeze the life out of the Matthews murder squad. Capper and Hunsdon had now gone over to the aggravated burglary inquiry involving the pregnant woman, and I’d even had difficulty holding on to Berrin. Knox had lost interest in the case. Particularly now there was no evidence to back up his theory of a Matthews/Iversson partnership. Maybe if the Crimewatch mugshot helped to flush out Iversson, things would change, but for the moment Matthews’s murder was slipping down the endless list of priorities.

  The sound of a baby crying came from inside and I walked back in. The kid on the stairs had gone, and the two officers who’d just arrived were talking in the doorway of the room where WPC Farnes had taken the victim, who was still sobbing and cursing. Since no one else seemed bothered about the crying baby, I mounted the stairs, wrinkling my nose against the smell, and walked onto the landing. I found a light switch, flicked it on, then went to the door where the crying was coming from.

  The smell when I opened it was foul, fetid. I had to work hard to stop myself from gagging as I switched on the lights.

  The room was a cramped mess of toys, boxes, tissues, all sorts. It was difficult to make out the floor in places. In the corner was a cot, and in the cot was a baby of no more than six months, naked except for a nappy and crying hysterically. The stench of shit was horrendous, and I saw that a lot of the tissues were stained brown with it.

  I walked over to the cot, the smell getting worse with each step, and looked down at the crying infant. He or she had sores round the thighs where the nappy, which looked almost full to bursting, must have been chafing. I wanted to turn round and walk out of there, and I could have done, too – there was nothing to stop me. It wasn’t my business if this family, and I used the term loosely, couldn’t look after their own. But it wasn’t the kid’s fault either so, steeling myself against the smell, I leant down and picked it up. My hands immediately felt wet and slimy and I knew without looking that they were covered in shit. Grimacing, I turned the baby over and saw that the nappy had leaked and the stuff was all up the poor little kid’s back. No wonder it had been crying, having to lie helpless in its own waste. Nobody had changed this nappy for hours, possibly days.

  ‘Whatchoo doing with her?’ came a hostile voice from the doorway.

  I turned to see the kid who’d watched us come in standing in the doorway. ‘Trying to change her,’ I said. ‘Find me some wipes or a tissue, will you?’ The kid didn’t move. ‘Look, do as I say. I’m trying to help her.’

  As the kid rummaged through the crap on the floor, I laid the baby on her front and removed the nappy, using it to mop up the worst of the stuff that clung to her. I folded it up and put it on the floor, for want of a better place. ‘Here y’are,’ said the kid, handing me a half-used roll of toilet paper. Not quite what I had in mind, but at least it was clean.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, continuing the grim process. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Wet some of these tissues as well, and see if you can find a cloth. If you do get one, put soap and water on it, and bring it in.’

  ‘Is she all right?’ asked the kid.

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine. I think she was feeling a bit neglected.’

  The kid came back a few moments later with a cloth and two wet bundles of tissues. ‘Right, see that plastic bag over there?’ The kid nodded. ‘Put the dirty nappy in it, then bring it back here so I can chuck this stuff in it.’ The kid did as he was told, and I thought he’d probably make a good assistant.

  When I’d finished making the baby half-presentable, the kid and I hunted round for a clean nappy, finding a bag of them in the corner. ‘Have you ever changed your sister before?’ I asked him.

  ‘Course I have,’ said the kid.

  ‘Good. What’s her name?’

  ‘Karen.’

  We cleared a place on the floor, then I lifted her out of the cot and put her down gently on her back. ‘OK, Karen. Your brother’s going to change you now, while I go and sort myself out.’

  I found the poky little bathroom and washed my hands thoroughly in the dirty sink. There were a load of hairs clogging up the plughole – hopefully from heads, but it wasn’t that easy to tell – and I thought that this woman and her partner deserved absolutely no sympathy whatever. They behaved worse than animals – which was fine if that’s how they wanted to live, but to ruin their kids’ lives too, that for me was unforgivable.

  I went back into the bedroom and helped the kid with the rest of the nappy. Then we both put Karen back into her cot. She was still crying.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

  ‘Dean,’ he said.

  ‘I think Karen might be hungry, Dean. You go to bed now, and I’ll sort out some feed for her.’

  The kid disappeared without a word and I walked wearily back down the stairs, thinking that he didn’t really have a chance with parents like that. Neither of them did. The ambulance had arrived for the mother and they were tending her wounds in the lounge while WPC Farnes looked on. The mother was wailing drunkenly and I found it hard not to hate her for her selfishness.

  ‘Your baby needs feeding,’ I told her. ‘I presume she’s on bottled milk.’

  There was a commotion outside the front door and Berrin walked inside, talking excitedly to PC Ramsay. He saw me and immediately came over. ‘Sarge, we’ve got an all units out. There’s been a shooting.’

  ‘You’d better wait here until social services arrive,’ I told Farnes. ‘And sort out the baby’s feed, can you?’ Farnes tried to say something but I wasn’t listening. ‘Where’s this shooting at?’

  ‘Heavenly Girls.’

  Iversson

  It’s true I stood to make a lot of money from the abduction of Krys Holtz, but I’ll tell you this, I was going to earn every fucking penny of it.

  It was our third night in a row outside Heavenly Girls, and tempers were fraying, particularly mine. It was Johnny Hexham. He was driving me mad. After two nights stuck in the back, I’d finally decided to risk sitting in the front where it was a lot more comfortable. I now had a full beard, and with a cap on and a pair of specs, I looked a lot different than I had two weeks back. In fact the look quite suited me, to tell you the truth. Showed my intellectual side.

  But unfortunately there was no escaping Johnny, who’d spent the night constantly trying to weasel information out of me about what we were doing on this street, and coming up with all these theories, some of which veered dangerously close to the truth. Not to mention the complications of his love life, which he insisted on going on and on about even though I wasn’t in the least bit fucking interested. Apparently, his ex-girlfriend Delia was pregnant, the result of a flying visit by Johnny to pick up some CDs he’d left there, but she was already shacked up with some seventeen-stone black bloke who thought the baby was his and who was going to have something of a shock come the happy day. Delia wanted to run away with Johnny, who it turned out she still felt something for, and was threatening to tell the boyfriend Johnny had raped her if he didn’t. But Johnny, not surprisingly, wanted nothing further to do with her, and was getting worried that any day now he was going to receive a leg-breaking visit from half a dozen of the boyfriend’s mates. Also, he had another serious girl now, Amanda, who he’d met at Arcadia some weeks before, and who he was really smitten with. Matters were further complicated, if you could believe it, by the fact that Amanda was vigorously bisexual and wanted Johnny to share her with her other lover, German student Beatrix.

  ‘The problem is, Beatrix is, like, a full-on Magnus.’

  ‘A wh
at?’

  ‘Magnus Pike, dyke. She wouldn’t touch a dick if her life depended on it, so there’s no way of, you know, having a bit of fun with both of them together, which would definitely have helped to numb the pain of having to share her. But I don’t want to lose Amanda. I don’t know what I’d do if she pulled the plug on it. But it’s a bit of an odd fucking way to run a relationship, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know, Johnny,’ I said, taking a swig from my bottle of mineral water, ‘you are the only thirty-four-year-old I know who complains that he gets laid too much.’

  ‘It’s not like that, Max. Honest. I really love her, but I know what’s going to happen. Beatrix is going to make her choose between us.’

  ‘So buy her some flowers or something. Get in there first.’

  ‘No, Max, you don’t understand.’

  ‘I know I fucking don’t.’

  ‘Amanda says there’s something special about girl-on-girl love. It’s more gentle than the stuff you get with a bloke, more sort of tender. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really, Johnny, no. I’ve never really thought about it, to tell you the truth. I’ve seen women at it with each other in porno films, though, and they always seem to be enjoying themselves.’

  ‘I tell you, Amanda swears by it. Says it’s the only way for her to achieve a multiple orgasm. There’s no way she’s going to turn down that sort of action, is there? Which means it’ll be me who gets the old heave ho. It’s making my life a fucking misery, it really is.’

  ‘I’m sure there are millions of blokes out there who really sympathize.’

  I turned away and stared out the window in the direction of Heavenly Girls, a hundred yards away down the road. It was raining steadily again, which at least was helpful. We’d been parking on the same stretch of road night after night, so we had to be careful about the amount of attention we attracted. Every wasted night increased the risks, not to mention the stiff-legged, claustrophobic boredom of it, blunting our senses and making reaction times just that little bit slower – something that could prove fatal in this sort of operation.

  Johnny continued to rattle on about Amanda, Beatrix, Delia and all his other birds, but I was blanking him totally now. I had enough worries of my own. The waiting around was beginning to lead to the first rumblings of discontent from the others. Kalinski had suggested that snatching him froma place he only visited periodically, and with no obvious advance warning, was tempting fate, which was true I suppose, but there were no other suitable venues. Joe hadn’t helped matters either by remarking, after we’d finished a frustrating four-and-a-half-hour stint the previous night during which Kalinski had stunk the place out by shitting in a Tesco carrier bag, that maybe it might be an idea to knock the whole thing on the head. I knew Joe was feeling a bit spooked thanks to his almost daily visits from the Law, but I hoped it was just the frustration talking. If he – or, to be honest, any of us – pulled out then the whole thing was bolloxed and I’d be back to square one. On the run, skint, and with the near rape of my girlfriend unavenged.

  I took another swig from the water as Johnny recounted how Beatrix was the dominant partner in the lesbian relationship even though she wasn’t good-looking at all, and was, in his opinion, bullying Amanda into dropping him. ‘She’s got whips and chains and everything,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘Apparently, her gaff’s like a fucking torture chamber. She’s even got a selection of butt plugs. How’s Amanda meant to resist?’ In the back of the van, I could hear movement as they shuffled about trying to make themselves comfortable.

  A Land Cruiser pulled up outside the brothel. It looked familiar. The time was ten to midnight.

  ‘Are you listening, Max, or are you fucking ignoring me?’ Johnny whined.

  Krys Holtz, Big Mick and Fitz stepped out, and the car did a U-turn and pulled away, driving past us. It looked like the driver was Slim Robbie, and I wondered if he’d be coming back.

  ‘I’m ignoring you, Johnny,’ I told him, watching as Krys and his men rang the buzzer, and a couple of seconds later went inside. Johnny hadn’t seen them, which suited me fine. If he’d had half an inkling that our job was to kidnap Krys Holtz, he would have been out of the van faster than Wile E. Coyote and running all the way back to Amanda, Delia, even Beatrix and her butt plugs, without stopping.

  ‘I thought you was a mate of mine,’ said Johnny, sounding put out, but I hardly heard him. My blood was up, and like a youthful Elvis I was ready to rock and roll.

  I banged three times in quick succession on the van’s interior panel, then twice slowly, the signal that they’d arrived. Three more bangs came back to acknowledge that the message had been received and understood.

  ‘Sorry, Johnny, but we’ve got work to do. Start driving.’

  Johnny pulled the Mercedes van away from the kerb and drove slowly along the road until he was about fifteen yards past the entrance to Heavenly Girls.

  ‘All right, stop here,’ I told him. ‘Double park.’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s going on now, Max?’

  ‘No.’

  I banged on the interior panel twice to let them know we were in position. The back doors opened and I saw Tugger Lewis in the wing mirror as he walked up the steps to the entrance. It was on.

  I pressed the stopwatch and watched it as the seconds ticked by, knowing that this was it, the big one. Just like the old days. All my senses fusing together into one single core of absolute concentration. It’s life or death, this. Nothing’s got higher stakes. You fuck up, you die. Your life ends, just like that. Kaput! You’re history. But nothing beats it either. Nothing ever beats the pure adrenalin rush, the intensity, the sheer joy of battle. I bet not even one of Amanda’s multiple orgasms comes close.

  Thirty seconds. Forty. Johnny said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him. His voice was just interference, meaningless. Fifty seconds. Time to go. I banged the interior panel five times in quick succession, put the stopwatch in my pocket, and stepped out of the van. I pressed my mouth against the half-open window. ‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘Do not move.’

  I turned away before he could answer and walked towards the front entrance of the brothel, Joe and Kalinski coming up beside me. Joe had a holdall over his shoulder. No one spoke. As we walked, we took black balaclavas from the pockets of our regulation blue boiler suits, and pulled them over our heads. The rain was coming down in sheets and the street was empty. We didn’t look suspicious, we just looked like three normal kidnappers.

  Kalinski pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open straight away. So Tugger had the reception area under control. Good. Part one had at least gone to plan. We stepped into the lift, and Joe put the holdall on the floor and took two automatic shotguns with sawn-off barrels out of it, handing one to Kalinski. He then pulled out a dozen spare shells which he stuck in one of the pockets of his boiler suit before replacing the holdall on his shoulder. We didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. While he was doing this, I produced the Glock, gave it a quick check, and chambered a round. We were ready.

  The lift opened directly into the reception area and the three of us stepped out, weapons at the ready. Tugger was standing there in his suit, balaclava on, in front of a good-looking young receptionist with strawberry blonde hair. She had her hands flat down on the desk in front of her. Tugger was facing her but pointing his gun at two well-built doormen in dickie bows – one white, one black – both of whom had their hands arrow-straight above their heads, their faces suggesting there was no way they were going to be heroes. I couldn’t blame them. Being a hero can be a very overrated pastime. And you don’t even get paid.

  The receptionist’s eyes widened when she saw us come striding in and she looked like she was going to scream. Tugger put a finger to his lips. ‘Now now, pet, don’t go causing a scene. No one wants to hurt a pretty little thing like you. Just tell us which room Krys Holtz is in.’

  I saw the white doorman’s eyes widen, like he couldn’t believe we’d be mes
sing around with someone like Krys Holtz. Believe it, my friend. Believe it.

  ‘He’s in the Lovers Suite on the next floor up,’ she stammered, keen to co-operate. ‘It’s the second door on your left when you come out of the lift.’

  ‘What about the other two with him?’

  ‘I don’t know which rooms they’ll be in, but they’ll be on the same floor. They always stay close together.’

  Tugger pulled her to her feet while Joe and me handcuffed the two bouncers under the watchful eye of Kalinski. When they were secured, and Tugger had got hold of the CCTV tape, we shepherded the three of them towards the room to our left. At the same time a potbellied businessman emerged from it on the arm of a stunning-looking oriental girl.

  ‘Ohmigod!’ whispered the girl. The businessman simply stood there, looking surprised.

  I raised the gun and pushed them back into the room, following them in. Two more men in suits sat in the corner with two equally stunning and scantily clad women, while another girl sat at the bar talking to the lone barman, a baby-faced guy in his early twenties. All eyes went to the door as our unusual-looking convoy entered, but no one was stupid enough to cry out.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said in my best public-speaking voice as we ushered everyone into the far corner of the room, ‘you have nothing to fear. We are here to collect a debt from an individual within the building, and are interested in that man only. If you do as you’re told and co-operate, no one will be hurt and we’ll be out of your hair within a few minutes.’ I motioned to the barman with my gun. ‘You, get over in the corner with the rest of them. And you.’ The girl sitting at the bar scowled at me but did as she was told, as did the barman.

  It was exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds from the moment Tugger had entered the building, and so far things were running smoothly.

  Kalinski was tasked with guarding those in the bar, so he stepped forward and stood blankly watching his charges, shotgun pointed towards them, while the rest of us exited and headed up to the next floor, using the stairs behind the reception area. Tugger was leading because he’d gone up that way the other night. When he got to the next floor, he slowly opened the door and looked down the corridor, then turned and gave us the all clear. We followed him in, and Joe took up position by the lift where he could make sure no one interfered with things. Tugger and me crept quietly towards the second door on the left.