The Wait for Shadows

by Karl Holton

  Celso winked in return. “We look after our own.”

  Davidson had spent the first cash that he’d been given getting this flat and paying his rent. Without this he would not have been able to afford it. He decided it might be rude to continue counting and placed the envelope on the small shelf above the fireplace.

  Celso smiled. “Do you have it?”

  Davidson picked up a small white envelope off the shelf. “Yes, it’s here,” he replied, handing it over.

  Celso opened the envelope, took out the single sheet inside and started reading. “Very good; yes, that’s just what I needed … well done. This should work very well.”

  Davidson smiled at the unexpected praise. “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  “I’ve got some more info … but it will cost you.”

  Celso returned the paper to the envelope and placed it inside his jacket. “What is it?”

  Davidson shook his head. “It’s going to cost.”

  Celso looked impassive as he turned his back to him and walked back to the window onto the street. “You need to tell me what this bit of info is if you want to sell it.”

  Davidson raised a trembling hand. “Ok – it’s the third painting. I know what it is. I did some digging and found out about it. I know the painter and I have a description of it.”

  Celso didn’t react. He kept his eyes on the street. “Good … I suppose that could be useful.”

  “It’s going to cost you another twenty grand,” Davidson demanded.

  Celso laughed through his nose.

  Davidson stepped towards him. “Look … this is nothing to what you’re going to make on this deal. Come on, you know this is worth knowing up front.”

  Celso turned and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t have twenty thousand on me now and I don’t have the time to go and get it and bring it back to you.”

  “Come on, don’t —”

  “I’ve got five thousand on me now, that’s all.”

  “You’re shitting me; five grand?”

  Celso held out the palm of his hand. “I’ll give you what I’ve got, but if you cannot sell it for five then there’s nothing I can do.”

  Davidson shook his head before picking up his glass of scotch and finishing the contents. His hands were shaking. He undid the bottle and poured himself a larger measure. “Five now and fifteen later if you feel it was worth it. We can call it confirmation that you would like to work with me again. If you don’t feel it was worth the full twenty,” he said, raising his shoulders. “Well, we probably won’t be doing business again.”

  Celso chuckled and reached into his jacket and took out a thinner envelope. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you? It feels good to be bad, yes?” He held it in his hand in the air. “Where’s the info?”

  Davidson tried to grab the envelope but Celso pulled it away.

  “The info?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  Davidson stared at him. “Ok, it’s right here.” He turned and grabbed the beige envelope and then held it out. “Money.”

  The Italian smiled at him as he held out the envelope.

  Davidson took it from him and checked it. He started to relax and handed over the envelope.

  Celso opened the envelope and read the contents of the piece of paper inside. His pupils dilated as he held his breath. He nodded. “I’ll have the fifteen thousand sent to you tomorrow.”

  Davidson's fist pumped the air. “Ya see … I told you it was worth it.” As his smile broadened he pointed at the whisky bottle. “Let’s have a drink?”

  Celso nodded. “Sure.”

  Davidson put the envelope on the shelf with the other one. He looked around the room. “You need a glass.” He turned and started walking towards his kitchen.

  He didn’t hear Celso following him or putting his hand into his pocket.

  As he reached into his kitchen cupboard for a glass, he started thinking about buying his son a new West Ham kit. He’ll like that, he thought.

  Davidson coughed as the tip of the blade entered the back of his mouth.

  Chapter 23

  Day 9

  City of London Coroner’s Office, Upper Thames Street, London

  5.18 p.m.

  Benedict touched her forearm, as if cradling a small bird. His touch was tender. “Are you ok, Wallace?”

  She’d spotted the bodies lying on the coroner’s table to the right as they’d walked into the observatory area overlooking them. She’d seen numerous dead bodies at work. Why was she thinking about the moment she’d identified her husband after his murder in 2010? There are four naked dead men over there and only one has his head intact, she thought.

  Benedict deliberately stood in the way of the view and pointed at a chair against the back wall of the area. As she sat, the frosted glass in front of them covered the view. She closed her eyes and sucked in a few breaths which made her feel better.

  He knelt in front of her. “We see it all; all the evil and it never gets any easier. The abyss just becomes more familiar.”

  She nodded, silently sensing there was more to those words.

  Benedict stood up, walked over to the window and pressed the intercom. “Grant, can we speak?”

  The assistant in the room below walked over to the intercom button in the autopsy room and pressed it. Grant hadn’t looked up from the head of Billy Horne, which was facing one side revealing the exit wound.

  “Are you ready for us?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes … I heard you the first time, Benedict,” Grant said, pointing a scalpel at the huge hole at the back of the head. “Six bodies, Benedict; one from Hampstead and five from Essex. All sent here. We only have room for four at a time in this room.”

  He didn't want to apologise. He'd found in life that the social nicety of apologising was overused especially when insincere. "I have a feeling you might see a few more."

  Grant chuckled. "I hear you’re getting into some sticky moments yourself." She looked up at him. "Maybe you’ll be next?"

  He ignored her as his thoughts pushed in the image of the unknown assassin attacking Richter from behind, helping him to kill them. He let the vision go. “Have you spoken to the forensics team in Essex?”

  She returned her gaze to the body and shook her head. “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  Grant looked up at him; her head tipped to one side. “What do you expect me to say?”

  “Was I right?”

  “The forensic team is still checking,” she said, looking towards the assistant. “Can you go and call forensics and see where they are?”

  The assistant nodded. “Of course, Doctor.” He left the room.

  “So what can you tell me?” he asked.

  Grant pointed at the body on the far left. “Curt Garrett was shot with the bullet discussed; 5.56 NATO. We found the bullet in the bit of his head where we thought it was.”

  Wallace looked up. Curt Garrett’s body is here? she thought. She got up, walked over to Benedict and stood at his side.

  "So did Forensics agree the shot profile and rifle for Garrett?" he asked.

  Grant stepped towards the body. "Yes, they think it is right. If you need the technical data speak to them."

  Wallace grabbed his arm. "Do you think there’s a connection between the murder of Curt Garrett and what happened in Essex?"

  "Yes, something made me think it might be the same sniper. Here we have all the bodies of the men that we think were shot by the same person."

  Wallace looked into his eyes which were asking for trust. "What was it?"

  "Listen to Grant. She'll probably explain it better than I would."

  She nodded.

  Benedict had noticed that Grant had laid the three from Essex out in the order that he suggested they were shot. He pointed at the body next to Garrett with the single head shot. "Do you agree that he was shot first by the sniper? Did forensics find the bullet?"

  Grant grinned at his double question.
"So this is Benjamin Chambers, known as Benny. He was sat at the table in the office. It seems likely the sniper shot him first ... just as you suggested to them. But the sniper was too close given the power of his rifle. It went straight through his head and exploded on the wall behind him. That bullet is useless."

  "Where on the wall because —"

  "Yes, we do know how physics works, Benedict," she said. "The bullet hit about sixty-five centimetres above the floor. Given he was seated two metres away from the wall, he’d slumped into the chair with his head about one metre off the ground at the point of impact, we've calculated the trajectory and ...” she turned away to look at the corpse. “Well it appears you were right."

  Wallace looked at him. "About what?"

  He was looking down at the floor.

  Grant looked up at Wallace. "He told the forensic team that the sniper was most likely firing from one of the roofs on the other side of the road," Grant said. "And he told them that only these three individuals had been killed by that sniper."

  Wallace looked at Grant, expectantly.

  "He's right," she said. "And there's a reasonable chance he was right about its connection to Mr Garrett."

  “What connection?”

  Benedict didn’t let Grant answer. “What can you tell us about this second guy here, who was shot as he tried to escape?”

  “This is Toby Duffield. He was moving towards the back of the office when he was shot. The bullets severed his spinal cord hence why he dropped to the floor instantly.”

  Wallace looked at the body which was face down. She noticed the three close puncture wounds in the centre of his back. “How was he hit three times in such a close pattern at that distance when moving?”

  Grant looked at her. “Yes, it suggests the sniper was bloody good. But there’s another explanation … Benedict gave it to the forensic team.”

  Wallace looked at him.

  “Benny was shot first in the head with the rifle in single shot mode. Toby starts moving, the sniper flicks it to semi-automatic and fires a burst of three bullets in his back that hit him that close,” Benedict said, his mind conjuring the moment. “I measured the shot at approximately thirty-five metres from the roof; like Grant said, hitting that accurately at that distance means he’s not the average shooter.”

  Wallace started to understand, her eyes looking down at the third body from Essex, Billy Horne, naked and face up. “Then he flicks it back to single shot mode when he fires the rifle at Billy?”

  Grant moved across the room to Billy Horne’s body. “As you can imagine, with Billy even closer and at the steeper angle the bullet went straight through his head and shattered on the floor.”

  Benedict recalled seeing the faint impact point on the paving slab underneath the blood that had spread across the scene from Billy’s head wound.

  “Did you get a bullet out of Toby’s back? I thought there might be a chance with his movement.”

  Grant smiled. “Yes, one of them should provide what we’re after … it’s what the forensic guys are looking at right now.”

  Wallace watched as Benedict seemed to be calibrating his mind. “You suspected this before you knew about any connection. This could just have been a coincidence.”

  Benedict stared towards the floor. “Coincidence is two friends meeting on the corner of the street by surprise; not two unconnected people being killed in exactly the same way within days.”

  He took a deep breath. “Have you done the math on the shot that killed Billy Horne … was it from exactly the same spot?”

  Grant nodded. “Yes … the sniper only moved a few centimetres. Of course, we cannot be certain of the order but you were right, he was firing from the corner of the building opposite.”

  Benedict looked at her. “Did forensics find anything up on the roof?”

  “Yes … just as you suggested there was a single shell casing; a standard 5.56 NATO standing on its end. No prints, nothing. But forensics is checking both the bullets and the casings.”

  Her assistant pushed open the door and entered, his face flush. “He’s right, Doctor, it’s the same rifle.”

  Chapter 24

  Day 9

  The Albert, Victoria Street, London

  7.20 p.m.

  Rowe placed his hand on the cask ale hand pump. “Pint.”

  The barman noticed the cuts on Rowe’s knuckles and let his eyes run over him.

  Rowe glared. “Please.”

  The barman poured the drink and placed the glass on the bar without looking at him. Rowe sensed the barman knew he was police. He prefers tourists, Rowe said to himself.

  He paid and took the drink outside where a few groups of said tourists were drinking and talking in a variety of languages. He walked a few metres to a black lamppost with a gold motif, which caught his eye as the traffic headlights bounced off it. He took out his mobile and looked around to check that no one was close enough to hear him.

  He drank a mouthful of beer as he thought about his time working here in London. He knew he hated Victoria Street and all the tourists; he was glad when he heard the Met were moving offices. He knew his career was going nowhere long before this latest ravaging he received from Watkins today. Fuck ‘em, he thought.

  He placed the pint glass on the wall beside him and took looked at the screen of his police mobile. He found the number he was looking for and pressed ‘call’.

  The call connected. “Yes.”

  “Johnnie, is that you?” Rowe asked, knowing the answer. “Where the fuck are you?”

  Johnnie Gibbs said nothing.

  “You need to come and see me. I want you to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Don’t try and dick around; this is serious. You should have told me what was going to happen in Southend before it happened.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Bollocks. If Tommy did this then you knew. You should have told me.”

  “What happened? I don’t know what —”

  “Bullshit,” shouted Rowe, noticing a group of three elderly Japanese tourists staring at him, all shaking their heads and speaking softly to each other about the brutish Englishman. He grinned falsely at them and turned his middle finger up at them before turning away. He stepped further away. “No more lies, Johnnie, I’m fed up with it. I saved your arse, now you’re going to explain. I want you to come to me and then you’re going to give up Tommy and tell me where he is.”

  “I’ve got no idea where he is … how would I?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rowe took in a deep breath of the London air, thick with traffic fumes. “Right, where do you want to meet?”

  “I don’t.”

  Rowe laughed. “Don’t be stupid, just tell me where.”

  “I can’t. I’m not meeting you.”

  Rowe felt his anger building. “This is not a choice, Johnnie. Come and meet me or I’ll dump you so far in shit that you’ll never get out.”

  “You don’t understand … I’ve gotta go – run away.”

  Rowe considered his tone. It was different from the normal Johnnie. It was honest. “Did Tommy kill Billy Horne and his gang?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you there, Johnnie?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you … are you hiding with Tommy?” Rowe asked, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. “If you’re thinking of running with Tommy I’ll catch you. There’s nowhere I won’t find you.”

  “I’m not with him, dickhead … Tommy told me to get away. He told me to run. I think he worked out that I was working for you. That’s why I’ve gotta go.”

  Rowe watched a group of American tourists leave the pub and walk past him towards Westminster. They were all jabbering about Big Ben. “Come in, Johnnie. We can work something out. Tommy need never know that you worked for me.”

  “You mean that I was a grass?” Johnnie snapped.r />
  “We can arrest you like anyone else so it looks kosher and then put you in protective custody. If you were not involved in the murders then we can sort it out … you will still be able to see SJ,” Rowe said, smiling to himself.

  “Like that’s going to happen,” said Johnnie.

  “Did you know that Tommy was going to get revenge against the Horne family last night?”

  Johnnie stayed silent.

  Rowe sighed as a car horn beeped loudly. “If you help me now then we can work something out … but if you run I can’t help. Plus, I cannot help Tommy. His only chance is to come in and you can help that happen.”

  “It’s all gone wrong … everything,” Johnnie said.

  Rowe heard the dead tone on the phone.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, before hearing a family group of five Italian tourists start whispering behind him.

  The father stepped forward. “Can you watch your language? There are children present.”

  Rowe snarled. “Piss off, this is police business.” He turned and walked up to his drink and tipped the rest of the liquid into his mouth. The tourists watched him in silence before rushing away down Victoria Street.

  He put the police mobile in his pocket and took out the other mobile he had in his jacket. He turned it on, let it power up and then went to the last message received. ‘Find Johnnie Gibbs quickly and bring him to us’, he read. He smiled at the message as he thought about the amount of money he’d been promised for this simple task.

  Chapter 25

  Day 10

  Oriental Road, Silvertown, London

  7.30 a.m.

  Celso pulled the trigger on the pistol and the silenced weapon popped. The woman’s head flew back and she slumped down in the chair and onto the floor behind the desk. Her foot slipped out under the front of the desk as she came to stop. He reached down and pushed her foot back under the desk so it was hidden. Perfect, he thought.

  He placed the false MI5 identity that he’d shown her into his pocket and then slid the weapon into the holster inside his jacket.

  The smell of the fired weapon filled his sinuses as he walked over to the window and stared out. Given she’d told him that only the two drivers for the Narrow Street delivery were due here this morning, he knew what to expect.