The Murder Exchange

by Simon Kernick

  I’d almost escaped, too, even after all the shit those bastards had put me through. While Gallan had been occupied by Elaine and the bloke with her, I’d grabbed the holdall with the money, opened up the window, and chucked it onto the roof of a parked Audi before jumping out myself and landing arse-first on the holdall and the roof. Unfortunately, in my haste, and due to my somewhat disorientated state, I’d neglected to put any clothes on and, though I’d made a manful bid for freedom, limping naked along the street with near enough half a million quid on my back, I was always going to look a little bit too conspicuous to be able to melt, commando-like, into my surroundings. I did manage about two hundred yards, though, with half a dozen coppers chasing me Benny Hill-style on foot, before a vicar, of all fucking people, who was cycling to his morning church service, had leapt from his environmentally friendly transport and rugby-tackled me from behind. That was it, then. I’d had enough. With even men of the cloth against me, I knew it was the end of the road.

  But since then I’ve perked up. You know what they say: it ain’t over till it’s over. Believe it.

  I leant over and picked up the book I was reading: How to Get Ahead in Business. You see, I was thinking of opening my own survival school, and after all that had happened there weren’t going to be many people better placed to teach survival than me. It was going to have to be from scratch, of course, now that the ransom money from the Holtz job had been lifted by the forces of law and order, but I knew it could be done.

  There was a knock on the door and I looked up. It was Gallan again, looking quite spruced up by his standards, a smile on his face.

  I tell you, I didn’t trust that bastard one inch.

  Gallan

  ‘Hello, Max,’ I said, entering the room. I stopped at the end of the bed. ‘The doctors say you’re healing fast. Should be out of here in a few days.’

  ‘That’s right, and when I do, I don’t want you lot on my back. I’ve co-operated as much as possible and I’m not saying anything else, apart from I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about with all this kidnapping and killing lark. Is that clear?’

  I smiled, used to Iversson’s clumsy attempts at putting me in my place. ‘Clear as a bell.’

  ‘Because I’ve got bigger fish to fry now.’ He showed me the book he was reading. How to Get Ahead in Business. Somehow I didn’t think Richard Branson would be quaking in his boots. ‘I’ve always been legit, and that’s how I intend to stay. I’ve held up my hands to that assault on those coppers who stopped me, but I was under duress at the time. So, I’m hoping to get bail, and to start again.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, Max.’

  Iversson’s expression hardened. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘Why the fuck not? I haven’t done anything. If it’s about that money, I had nothing—’

  I held up my hand to quieten him. ‘It’s nothing to do with the money you were carrying.’ Looking surprised, he stopped speaking. ‘Max Iversson, I’m here to inform you that you are under arrest at the request of the German federal authorities who wish to question you with regard to the murder on the twenty-sixth of February 1993 of Elsa Kirsten Danziger.’

  Iversson looked at me in utter disbelief, then seemed to slump in the bed. ‘I don’t believe this. You’ll be blaming me for John F. fucking Kennedy next.’

  He really looked put out, and I might even have been tempted to believe him if I hadn’t already heard that the sample of DNA taken from him in the hospital a week earlier had been confirmed as matching that of the killer. He was one of the better liars I’d come across.

  I turned slowly and walked away, thinking it was ironic that we would probably never solve the Matthews case, yet its investigation had almost single-handedly provided the clues that had successfully concluded so many others. As I thought about Neil Vamen languishing in a cell of his own design, it also proved my point that crime might have been a viable short-term business opportunity, but as a long-term career it was always the wrong move. And as the technological aids open to the police become more and more advanced, so even the crimes of the short-timers will come back to haunt them. Be sure your past will always find you out, as a preacher might say.

  When I got back to the station, I went straight to the Matthews incident room, now the incident room for the investigation into the attempted murder of eighteen-year-old Barry Sevringham, knifed in the neck the previous night in a pub fight in King’s Cross. The world was already moving on, as were the criminals, never ones to sit around. Berrin was in there, as was WDC Boyd. Everyone else, I assumed, was out talking to witnesses and possible suspects. They both smiled at me as I walked in, and I thought that Boyd was looking good. She had red lipstick on, and it suited her. I hadn’t seen much of her these past couple of weeks and it struck me then that I’d missed her company. Maybe I’d see a bit more of her now we were working on the same case. I hoped so.

  ‘The DCI’d like to see you,’ said Berrin, motioning towards the office he’d been using for the Matthews inquiry.

  ‘Do you know what it’s about?’

  They both said they didn’t, but I thought I saw the traces of a smile on Boyd’s red lips. I knocked on the door and went in.

  ‘John,’ said Knox, who was sitting behind the desk, ‘come in and sit down.’

  I did as I was told. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Your work’s been excellent these past few weeks,’ he answered, and waited briefly for the obligatory thanks, which he got, before continuing. ‘Thanks in no small part to your efforts, and your persistence in the Matthews inquiry, it looks like we’ve got a number of results. The north London underworld’s in a lot of trouble as a result of the dismantling of the Holtzes, and it’s particularly good to be able to close the file on the Robert Jones case, and to give his family some sort of opportunity to move on. I’ve recommended to the superintendent that you be commended for your work on the Jones case, and I’ve also got a letter here from SO7 stating how much help your work’s been.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It’s always nice to be appreciated.’

  ‘But that’s not what I asked you in here for.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I want you to know that I’ve also recommended that you be considered for a DI post here at the station, and that the recommendation’s been accepted.’

  I allowed myself a smile. ‘That’s excellent, sir. Thanks very much. I wasn’t aware there was actually a vacancy.’

  ‘Well, an unexpected one’s come up on this team,’ said Knox. ‘DI Capper’s asked for a transfer, and he’s moving on to another station.’

  ‘Really? I thought he was very happy here.’

  Knox didn’t say anything for a moment, clearly debating with himself how much it was worth letting on. ‘Suffice to say some information came in from an anonymous source that didn’t cast him in a very positive light, and it seems that a number of officers in the station are aware of it. He didn’t think his position here was tenable and he’s moving to another division next week. He’s also dropping back down to DS level.’

  So, there was justice in this world, and, more importantly, in the Metropolitan Police.

  ‘Between you and me,’ he added in a loud whisper, ‘it turns out he was something of a regular visitor to Heavenly Girls, which put him in a bit of a compromising position, and we can’t afford that. Better to get him out of the way rather than have the embarrassment of him remaining here with everyone knowing about it.’

  Somehow I managed to keep the smile off my face. ‘It’s bad news losing such an experienced officer,’ I said worthily, remembering that it’s always best to play the game.

  I wondered who it was who’d dobbed him in. It was either Jean Tanner or Berrin. Jean had told the two of us when the tape had been off that he’d been a long-standing and not particularly well-liked customer at Heavenly Girls (apparently he had a lot of difficulty getting it up, an unfortunate affliction for which he tended to blame the girls).
I suspected that it might have been Berrin. Just a hunch, but it made sense. Jean was too much of a cold-blooded pro. Me, I would have kept the information to myself. You never know when it might have come in useful.

  ‘So, you’ll take up the post, then?’

  Wild horses wouldn’t have stopped me. ‘Of course I will, sir. When’s it effective from?’

  Knox smiled. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘You’re in charge of the Barry Sevringham case. Here’s what we’ve got so far.’

  Iversson

  I never meant to kill her, that’s all I can say. I’m going to be pleading not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, or whatever the defence is these days. There was no way I was in the right frame of mind when I bashed her head in that night. I’d been driven mad by her constant shagging of other men, and women, plus the fact that she didn’t care one fucking whit that I knew about it. And that Johnny Hexham reckoned he had girlfriend problems! He should have hung round with Elsa for a few days. She went through bodies like an overworked mortician. In the end, it just got too much, I snapped, and the rest is history. It was bad what I did, and I feel terrible about it, but I’m not the only villain in all this. She brought a lot of it on herself. And that Fenzer did smack her around a bit earlier on that night, I saw him do it. I heard that he often hit women, so he got what he deserved as well, didn’t he?

  Anyway, who the fuck ever said life was fair? Not Max Iversson, that’s for sure. Never has been, never will be.

  Epilogue

  Max Iversson was charged with the kidnapping of Krys Holtz, and is currently in custody awaiting trial. He has also been charged in absentia with the murder of Elsa Danziger, and is the subject of extradition proceedings being brought by the German government.

  Neil Vamen was charged with murder, extortion and importation of Class A drugs, and is currently awaiting trial. None of the charges relate to the events covered here.

  Jack Merriweather is being held in a segregation unit at Belmarsh Prison, London, where he too faces charges relating to the importation of Class A drugs. He is to be the prosecution’s main witness in the trial of Neil Vamen and six of his associates.

  Elaine Toms was charged with the attempted murder of Max Iversson but was granted bail and promptly absconded. She is currently at large.

  Jean Tanner has a new boyfriend and as yet faces no charges in connection with either the murder of Shaun Matthews or Craig McBride. Police are keeping a close eye on the boyfriend’s health.

  Asif Malik remains at SO7, where he’s concentrating his investigation on several north London crime families who have had something of a bonanza since the collapse of the Holtzes.

  And me, well, I’m a DI again, and at least halfway back to the position I was in a year ago.

  You see, there is justice in this world. It’s just that sometimes it can take a long time to show itself.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Briefly, I’d like to thank the following people for their help in getting this book to where it is now: Selina Walker, my editor at Transworld; Amanda Preston, Amelia Cummins, Vanessa Forbes, Luigi Bonomi, and everyone at my agent’s, Sheil Land Associates; all those at New Scotland Yard Press Office who’ve provided invaluable technical assistance with their customary efficiency and courtesy; and last but most definitely not least, my long-suffering wife, Sally, who’s always been there to provide encouragement and support. As well as the occasional much-deserved kick up the arse.

  I raise my glass to you all.

  Simon Kernick’s sensational new novel

  DEADLINE

  is now available from Corgi Books

  Here’s a taster

  One

  The first thing Andrea Devern noticed when she stepped out of her Mercedes C-Class Cabriolet was that there were no lights on in the house. It was 8.45 p.m. on a breezy Tuesday night in mid-September, and she had only a minute of normality left in her life.

  Clicking on the Mercedes’ central locking, she walked the five yards to her front gate, glancing both ways along the quiet residential street because as a Londoner born and bred Andrea was never complacent about the potential for street crime, even in an area as upmarket as Hampstead. Criminals moved around these days. They no longer kept to their own patches. They gravitated towards the money, and on Andrea’s tree-lined avenue of grand three-storey townhouses, barely spitting distance from the Heath, there was plenty of that.

  But there was nothing out of place tonight, unless you counted the fact that her house was in darkness. Andrea tried to remember if Pat had told her that he had arrangements, or whether he’d taken Emma off somewhere. She’d had a stressful day dealing with the management team of one of the five health spas she and her business partner owned. They’d taken it over a year ago and it had underperformed ever since. Now they were going to have to make redundancies, something that Andrea never liked doing, and it was up to her to decide who was for the push. She’d been mulling over who was going to have to go all the way back from Bedfordshire, and still she couldn’t decide. By rights, it should be the manager. He was paid well over the odds, and since he was the one who’d presided over the mess the spa was now in, it appealed to Andrea’s sense of justice to give him the boot; but with no one to replace him, that was looking less and less viable. Better the devil you know, and all that.

  Andrea decided to worry about it tomorrow. For now, she needed a long, slow glass of Sancerre and a relaxing cigarette. Not the healthiest of options, but a woman needs some pleasures in life, especially when she worked as hard as she did.

  She pressed the card key against the pressure pad on the security system and stepped through the gap as the gate slid open smoothly. As always when she entered her front garden and left the outside world behind her, she experienced a familiar sense of relief and pleasure. Sheltered by a high brick wall, the garden was a riot of colour, courtesy of the eight hundred quid a month she paid to the gardening company responsible for making it look like something from the front cover of a magazine.

  She breathed in the thick, heady smell of jasmine and honeysuckle, relaxing already as she opened the front door and deactivated the alarm.

  Then the phone rang.

  It was her mobile. She reached into her limited-edition Fendi Spy Bag and fished it out. The ringtone was ‘I Will Survive’, Gloria Gaynor’s classic anthem of feminine defiance. It was only later that she realized how much grim irony there was in this.

  The screen said ‘Anonymous Call’, and though she never liked answering her phone to anyone she couldn’t identify, she also knew that it was possible it was business, even at this hour, and Andrea never said no to business, particularly when the market was as tough as it was at the moment. As she stepped into her empty hallway she put the phone to her ear and said, ‘Hello, Andrea Devern.’

  ‘We have your daughter.’

  The words were delivered in a high-pitched, artificial voice which sounded vaguely like a man impersonating a woman.

  At first she thought she’d misheard, but in the slow, heavy silence that followed, the realization came upon her like an approaching wave.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘We have your daughter,’ repeated the caller, and now Andrea could tell that he was using something to disguise his voice. ‘She’s not there, is she? Look around. Can you see her?’ His tone was vaguely mocking.

  Andrea looked around. The hallway was bathed in gloom, the rooms leading off it silent. There was no one there. She felt a rising sense of helpless panic, and fought to keep herself calm.

  ‘You can’t see her, can you? That’s because we have her, Andrea. And if you ever want to see her again, you’ll do exactly as you’re told.’

  Andrea felt faint. Needing some kind of support, she leaned back against the front door, her movement clicking it shut. Keep calm, she told herself. For God’s sake, keep calm. If they’re phoning you, then it’s got to be a good sign. Surely?

  ‘What do you want?’
she whispered, her whole body tensing as she waited for the answer.

  ‘Half a million pounds in cash.’

  ‘I haven’t got that sort of money.’

  ‘Yes, you have. And you’re going to get hold of it for us as well. You’ve got exactly forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Please, I’m going to need longer than that.’

  ‘There’s no compromise. You have to get us that money.’

  Andrea began to shake. She couldn’t believe this was happening. One minute she’d been thinking about winding down after her meeting, the next she was plunged into a crisis involving the most precious person in the world to her: Emma, her only daughter. She exhaled slowly. It was still possible this was some kind of hoax.

  ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you want to hear your daughter scream?’ replied the caller matter-of-factly.

  Oh, Jesus, no.

  ‘Please, for God’s sake, don’t do anything to her. Please.’

  ‘Then do exactly as we say, and don’t ask stupid questions.’

  ‘She’s fourteen years old, for Christ’s sake! What sort of animal are you?’

  ‘One who doesn’t care,’ he snapped. ‘Do you understand that? I don’t give a toss.’ His tone became more businesslike. ‘So listen closely. It’s ten to nine now. At nine o’clock on Thursday, in forty-eight hours’ time, you’re going to receive a phone call on your landline. At that point you’ll have the half a million ready in used notes, denominations of fifties and twenties. Do you understand that?’

  Andrea cleared her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll be told where and when to deliver it. As soon as we’ve received it, you get her back.’