Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  I add huskily, ‘It’s the dagger … cultural artefact. Stolen.’

  ‘You mean this old thing?’ The Asian raises the knife in front of my face, and shouts, ‘THIS?’

  ‘Yes, it’s worth $3.3 million.’

  The Asian laughs.

  The Turk moves to get a better look at the dagger.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Look at the inscription.’ I cough. I can hardly hear my voice, but I watch as the two men peer at the engraving. The Asian turns it toward the light, where a large fly is hovering aimlessly above us.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ I ask.

  The Asian doesn’t reply, but the Turk says to him, ‘Could it be that valuable? Let me look at it.’ His hands are massive by comparison.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ the Turk asks. ‘From the boss?’

  ‘Of course,’ the Asian replies, then he turns to me. ‘You want the dagger?’

  ‘Yeah.’ My arms are searing in agony, straining at their sockets, and my back and legs hurt. I’m going to pass out. ‘Please let me down.’

  ‘If it’s worth that amount of money, we could sell it,’ the Turk says excitedly. ‘We could keep it.’

  ‘You could get a replica made. I can help you. Please let me down …’

  The Turk steps forward with the dagger in his hand. The blade is inches from my naked vagina.

  ‘I’m going to cut you,’ he whispers.

  ‘No! Please!’ I wriggle my hips to pull away, but then he grabs me from behind. I’m caught in his grasp. My naked body pushed against his chest, his breath against my stomach.

  ‘I’m going to—’

  His legs buckle from under him, and he falls to the floor. The dagger clatters on the concrete floor.

  ‘What did you do?’ The Asian moves quickly, bending to pick up the knife and, crouching low, he looks around. The warehouse is empty and silent, apart from the wind wailing through the broken windows.

  My throat is dry, and I lick my lips. I’m swaying. I’m in pain. And, at my feet, the Turk is lying face down on the ground.

  ‘I didn’t do anything—’

  The Asian moves quickly, and raising the blade, he lunges forward. The glittering knife coming closer, I close my eyes, but suddenly there’s a light thud, and then his body crumples.

  He lies soundlessly at my feet.

  I can’t see anything, and I’m shaking so hard that I’m almost rattling. My teeth are moving against each other, chattering uncontrollably.

  I hear soft sounds. There’s movement, and I steel myself, looking in one direction and then the next. Tears begin to trickle down my face.

  A soft voice says, ‘You’re okay. You’re safe.’

  There’s a black uniform. A gun. Then more uniforms.

  Someone grabs me by the waist and shouts, ‘I’ve got her. She’s alive.’

  The pulley is released and my arms go slack. I collapse on the floor, sobbing. Someone places a warm, clean blanket over my shoulder. ‘Mikky?’

  ‘Peter?’ I find his shoulders and throw my aching arms around his neck.

  ‘It’s alright. You’re safe.’

  ‘But, but … you … found me?’

  ‘Of course.’ I recognise his familiar smile and short beard as he holds me tightly, kneeling on the cold cement floor. ‘Can you walk? It stinks down here.’

  ‘Yes.’ I try to stand with his help but then my legs buckle.

  He catches me. ‘That’s a feeble excuse for me to carry you.’ He lifts me effortlessly into his arms. ‘There’s an ambulance outside.’

  ‘How did you …’ I don’t finish the sentence. I pass out.

  * * *

  When I come round, I’m conscious of a paramedic leaning over me. I’m in an ambulance and Peter is sitting beside me.

  ‘She seems okay.’ The paramedic moves away. ‘Paracetamol will help with the pain.’

  ‘I thought she’d be fine.’ Peter stands up. ‘Put these clothes on,’ he says to me.

  I struggle into a dark shirt and trousers that are far too big for me, but he throws me a belt to tie around my waist.

  ‘Shoes?’ I ask.

  ‘Trainers, but they’re probably on the large side.’ He tosses them at me. ‘The female shooter is a size larger than you.’

  I glance at him but say nothing.

  ‘Mulhoon is outside,’ he says.

  The paramedic opens the door and Peter helps me out.

  ‘Such a gentleman.’

  ‘Here.’ He thrusts a bottle of water at me and hands me two white tablets. ‘For the pain.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, sipping gratefully, my throat soothed, and the sensations begin to return to my arms and legs. I walk slowly beside Peter, taking in my surroundings. It’s a massive unused warehouse near the coast. Around us are fields and marshes.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

  ‘Suffolk.’

  Two ambulances, SWAT police vans, and searchlights light up the area. Inside the warehouse, the forensic team have already begun their jobs. The bodies of the Asian and the Turk are where they fell.

  The police forensic team haven’t touched the dagger. It’s still lying on the floor. Away from the crime scene, Mulhoon stands to one side in discussion with a female officer.

  Peter says, ‘There will be evidence of your blood on the blade, plus we have the video evidence that we took from the fly drone.’

  ‘Fly?’ I vaguely remember a fly hovering over us.

  ‘We used it to see what was going on inside.’

  ‘I thought only the military used mini-drones that small? Was that your idea?’

  He grins. ‘We were lucky. It can be noisy, but with the wind howling through the broken windows, they didn’t hear it. I think there’ll be a very clear picture of what went on.’

  ‘Peter, it was like something out of the SAS. So calm and controlled, the way they shot them both. They didn’t know what happened. What hit them.’

  ‘One of the best SWAT teams in the world.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’ Peter moves closer to me.

  ‘You came here with the police to rescue me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask. ‘How did you know where I was? They stripped me and threw my clothes and iPhone into the canal.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Just don’t be mad at me.’

  I link my arm through his and watch Mulhoon approaching us.

  ‘You’re a magician; how could I possibly be angry with you, my saviour?’

  * * *

  It takes time to bring Mulhoon and his team up to date while a search team, including tracker dogs, as well as white-suited forensic scientists, scan the warehouse; bagging and tagging items for evidence, and marking areas with various cordons. I watch people go backwards and forwards to different vans and cars.

  Eventually, I’m allowed to sit in Peter’s van. I climb wearily inside, and I pull his thick coat over my body and yawn.

  Peter starts the van’s engine. ‘Mulhoon has said we can go, and I told him we’d be at the flat if he needs anything else.’

  ‘Okay,’ I whisper.

  My eyes are already closing, and I’m happy to doze as Peter drives us back to the safety of London and Josephine’s loft apartment.

  I wake as we’re on the outskirts of London. It’s almost seven, and Peter turns on the radio for the news.

  There’s an interview with the chief inspector, and with the election tomorrow, he’s emphasising the importance of the death of the two drugs gang leaders – an Asian and a Turk. He emphasises the positive effect it could have on the existing government, and he hints that a statement will be made shortly by the prime minister.

  Peter pulls the van into the underground parking space and kills the engine, and I stare at him. ‘We haven’t got the main man.’ I pull off my seat belt and Peter turns to open the van door.

  ‘The thing is,’ I continue, unwrapping myself fro
m Peter’s coat and handing it back to him, ‘whoever arranged for the daggers to be replicated is behind this whole operation – and responsible for the main drug-smuggling ring.’

  ‘Mikky, that’s enough!’

  ‘Did you tell Mulhoon about Ali visiting Raymond Harris’s office?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There wasn’t time. We were focusing on the Asian and the Turk, but I suggested we meet him tomorrow for a proper debrief after you’ve had a good rest.’

  ‘Good idea. I want a hot bath, to rid my head of the images of those two awful men, and a decent drink.’

  ‘Then we must phone Joachin.’

  ‘Then we must phone Joachin,’ I echo, and I link my arm through his and allow him to guide me upstairs to the safety of Josephine’s apartment.

  * * *

  I’m running a bath when Peter appears, and by the look on his face I know there’s something wrong.

  ‘You did WHAT?’ I say when he confesses to me.

  ‘Come on, Mikky,’ Peter urges me. ‘Don’t be angry. You promised!’

  ‘I can’t believe it! I’m furious with you, Peter!’

  ‘Shush, Mikky. Don’t make a fuss – it would be a criminal offence; you know it would be. You have to pretend you’re okay with it and that it was part of our plan.’

  ‘You could go to prison for what you did to me.’

  ‘Look, I did it because I made a promise to Joachin and Josephine that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.’

  ‘But you can’t do this – that,’ I hiss angrily, pulling my bathrobe across my body. ‘Is nothing sacred?’

  ‘Pull open your gown,’ Peter whispers, ‘and turn around.’

  ‘You HAVE to be joking!’

  He giggles.

  ‘Stop laughing at me!’

  ‘Sorry! I’m not laughing at you, but your face is a picture, Mikky. You’ve never been so angry with me.’

  ‘How would you feel if you had been tagged like a dog?’ I turn my back to him and lower the dressing gown to my waist.

  ‘You haven’t been tagged, Mikky. All I did was insert a bar code chip under your skin. There it is, look!’

  I look in the bathroom mirror and then I turn to look over my shoulder and run my finger over the fading scab at the top of my buttock. ‘I can’t feel anything.’

  ‘It’s the size of a grain of rice. I can get it out, but I think we should leave it until the police have examined you. They might need proof.’

  ‘Tracked like a dog,’ I hiss, pulling my gown back over my shoulders and tying the belt securely.

  ‘This is the world of spying, Mikky. Soon, everyone will have them. They will help all sorts of people; you know, parents who want to keep track of their children, and also for the elderly – people with dementia who go missing from care homes—’

  ‘You are seriously morally and ethically nuts!’

  ‘Mikky!’

  ‘Would you put one in your child – in Zofia?’

  ‘Er, well no, probably not.’

  ‘Well, then.’ I turn my back and reach for my wine glass.

  ‘Please, Mikky, pretend to the police – and Joachin – that you knew all about it. And remember, the Asian and the Turk did throw your clothes and phone into the river. If I hadn’t put it under your skin, then I’d never have found you—’

  ‘Don’t get all pious with me. You’re behaving like you’re infallible, like you’re the Almighty.’

  He holds up his hands. ‘I’m sorry but … well, I’m not sorry!’

  ‘When did you do it?’

  ‘The other night, after you’d – we’d – had a few drinks.’

  ‘You did it deliberately?’

  He looks sheepish, so I add, ‘You planned it! You took advantage of me?’

  ‘You were in a drunken sleep. It’s quick and easy to do, and I took all precautions. It’s easier than getting a tattoo, and I made sure I cleaned the cut to avoid infection.’

  ‘I have a vague memory of waking up with a small scratch. How did you know it would work?’ I ask.

  ‘I checked a couple of times, to make sure. But I couldn’t take any more risks, Mikky. Not after the last time, when you jumped off that building. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was too late to save you the last time …’ His voice trails off, and that’s when I see the guilt and sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Peter.’ I reach up and throw my arms around his neck and give him the biggest hug.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.

  ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  Peter cooks pasta and meatballs, and we enjoy a few glasses of Rioja. I’m sitting on the sofa in clean jeans and a T-shirt when we Skype Joachin.

  ‘It was a precaution,’ Peter explains. ‘We both knew how ruthless both of the men were, and we didn’t want to take any chances. Just in case …’

  He goes on to explain how he had gone for a lunchtime drink with Bill when Joachin had called him.

  ‘Mikky didn’t answer her phone when I checked the last location of it.’ Peter’s face is serious. ‘The tracking implant was activated. I located Mikky, and I assumed she was in a car or van and heading away from London, so I called Mulhoon. I told him the Asian had taken Mikky and I was able to track them. He activated his SWAT team immediately. I used the tracking gear in my van while Bill flew the helicopter at a discreet distance and we found the Asian’s car. Bill followed him in the air while I followed on the road.’

  ‘To Suffolk.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mulhoon’s team arrived within minutes. Bill and I stayed well back and let them deal with the rescue mission.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘Are you okay, Mikky?’ Joachin asks, regarding me thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m fine; thank you.’

  ‘The chief inspector seems happy.’ Peter smiles at the screen.

  ‘Yes. I spoke to Mulhoon, and he said that the prime minister is also relieved.’

  ‘Maybe he might phone you?’ I say. ‘He might like to thank you for deploying your team—’

  ‘Mikky! I didn’t encourage you, and I won’t pretend I did. I don’t like either of you flouting my orders. We are going to have to review our situation. We can’t work on this basis, with the two of you doing what you want to without any regard for the law or jurisdiction, and the unfortunate position in which you place me. You were fortunate this time, Mikky. You’re like a cat with nine lives, although I suspect that you must have used them all up by now.’

  The irony in his tone doesn’t fool me, but I smile anyway. ‘Peter and I are a good team.’

  Joachin gazes at the screen. His dark eyes seem to penetrate through the lens. ‘And now it’s over. All done. Finished.’

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ I say, and cough to clear my voice. ‘The thing is, is that we don’t have the ringleader. The person who started this gang – the one who organised the oath to the dagger, and the person whose idea it was to recruit these kids. That person is still out there – and they will find another psychopath like the Asian to do their bidding, and to terrorise the children and force them again into working in drugs rings.’

  Joachin doesn’t blink. He continues to stare at the screen until I say to Peter, ‘Have we lost the connection? Is the screen frozen?’

  ‘No,’ Joachin replies. ‘I’m still here. I’m listening.’

  I grin. ‘Sorry, Joachin! But we do have a lead,’ I say.

  ‘What’s the lead?’ asks Joachin.

  ‘We believe that Ali went to Raymond’s office the night he died, and that he was there for maybe ten to fifteen minutes. Ali met someone who betrayed him because a car was waiting outside, and we believe the Asian picked him up. But Ali managed to escape. The problem was, he knew that no one would believe his story. He also knew that the Asian would kill him. He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, and that’s why he killed himself. Our theory is that the person he spoke
to was in a position of authority …’

  ‘He had Matt?’

  ‘I don’t think Matt could have saved him. Not that night.’ I rub my eyes. It still upset me to speak about Ali.

  ‘Do you think Raymond Harris is involved? Joachin asks.

  ‘When I asked him, he denied it—’

  ‘But,’ Peter interjects, ‘it can’t be a coincidence that the Asian knew exactly where to find Mikky. Raymond could have tipped the Asian off. I think he might have told the Asian and he started following her – he might have started tailing her after we left Dixon House.’

  ‘You’ll have to speak to Mulhoon and turn over all the evidence that you have—’

  ‘I can’t,’ Peter replies. ‘I can’t show them evidence because the CCTV footage wasn’t obtained legally.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ splutters Joachin. ‘Don’t you two understand that you can’t go around stealing CCTV and following people, let alone accusing them of serious crimes—’

  ‘The thing is, Joachin, the craftsman who made the dagger – he made two that were the same.’

  ‘So, the dagger that the Asian had obviously wasn’t the real one?’

  ‘No, but it was modelled on the original.’

  Joachin sighs and frowns. ‘This is very confusing. Are you telling me there are three daggers?’

  I nod. ‘The craftsman was asked to make two replicas.’

  Joachin rubs his temple, dragging his thumb across the skin. ‘So, you think someone stole the authentic dagger and took it to a craftsman and asked them to make two replicas, then put the original dagger back into Jeffrey Bonnington’s collection?’

  I smile.

  ‘You seriously expect me to believe that there are two replica daggers?’ Joachin stares at me. ‘And that the original was stolen from Jeffrey Bonnington’s secure collection that he has hidden somewhere in the world and that two replicas were made, and the authentic dagger was then returned to his collection – all without him knowing?’

  ‘That’s how the craftsman would have got the level of detail, and that’s how the head person convinced the Asian. You see, I think that the dagger the Asian had the first time, the one that I stole, was the original. It was different to the one that he had today. The engraving wasn’t as neat, the inscription was bigger, and the font was larger.’