The Wolves of London

by Mark Morris

  ‘Another time, Mr Locke. See you last week.’

  And with that he tapped the heart once, lightly, on the arm of his wheelchair. I staggered back, buffeted by what I imagined a minor aftershock of an earthquake would be like, and when I looked again McCallum, the wheelchair and his bodyguard were gone.

  The sirens grew louder still, and then, with a final blip, seemed to halt right outside the house. I wondered what to do, whether to go deeper into the house and hide or try to make good my escape. I hovered for a second or two, then decided on the latter – decided, in fact, to adopt a casual, confident air in the hope that I could bluff my way out of the situation. I exited the way I had come in and instead of running or hiding, simply strolled along the gravel path towards the garden gate. My heart was pounding in my chest, but I was hoping my nervousness didn’t show. I was about ten metres from the gate when it opened and two uniformed police officers appeared.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  The officers regarded me a moment, and then the chubbier and older of the two said, ‘Can I ask what you’re doing here, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m responding to a text.’

  ‘A text?’

  ‘Yes. My name’s Alex Locke. My daughter went missing last week. I received a text, supposedly from the kidnapper, telling me to meet him here at noon. I turned up, but the kidnapper didn’t.’

  The chubbier policeman frowned. ‘I see. Could I see the text, sir?’

  This was the tricky bit. I shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I deleted it.’

  The chubbier policeman looked at me in disbelief. ‘You deleted it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t tell him it was because the text had named me as McCallum’s murderer. ‘I did it by accident. I was trying to get the sender’s number.’

  The officers glanced at one another. It was clear from their expressions that they didn’t believe me.

  The chubbier one said, ‘Are you aware that this house is a crime scene, sir?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘So you didn’t see the tape on the gate?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. But…’

  ‘But?’

  For a moment my mind went blank, and then I said, ‘I thought whoever sent the text might have put it there as a sort of… marker.’

  The younger officer snorted softly. Looking over my shoulder at the house, his chubbier colleague said, ‘May I ask how you gained access to the property, sir?’

  ‘Through the French windows. They’d been left open.’

  There was silence as the older, chubbier officer seemed to come to a decision. He leaned towards his companion and murmured something. His companion nodded. The chubbier officer turned back to me. ‘I’m going to check the house, sir, so if you wouldn’t mind accompanying my colleague.’

  ‘Accompanying him where?’ I asked.

  ‘Our car is parked on the road, outside the gate.’

  ‘It’s all right, I don’t need a lift anywhere,’ I said.

  His eyes narrowed as if I’d made a facetious remark. ‘But I’m sure you’re eager to notify the officer in charge of the inquiry into your daughter’s disappearance of this latest development, sir? In fact I’m surprised you haven’t already done so.’

  I stared at him a moment, and then I nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

  The older officer gave an abrupt nod and stomped past me, up towards the house. The younger, slimmer one offered me a tight smile and gestured rather unnecessarily at the gate.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  STOLEN PROPERTY

  The constable who escorted me to the interview room assured me that DI Jensen would be along ‘in just a few minutes’. An hour later he still hadn’t turned up, by which time my mind was jittery with questions.

  How much did the police know about me? Why were they keeping me waiting? Were they trying to unnerve me or had they simply forgotten I was here? Had Jensen been detained or called away? And if so, was it to do with Kate and why hadn’t I been informed?

  I’d tried the door after ten minutes, to find it locked. Did this mean I was a prisoner or was it simply procedure? Were the doors to all the interview rooms kept locked, regardless of who was in them, purely as a security precaution?

  I didn’t know, but it was disquieting enough to make me restless. After texting Clover to let her know what was happening, I paced the room for a while before it occurred to me that hidden cameras might be observing and recording my every movement. So I sat back down, rested my arms on the table and lowered my head, trying to look as though I was using the delay to take an afternoon nap. After a while, the bland, duck-egg blue of the walls began to irritate me, so I closed my eyes. I kept them closed until, sometime later, the door abruptly opened.

  I raised my head to see DI Jensen sliding into the seat opposite me, and placing a silver MacBook on the edge of the table. He was wearing a hairy grey jacket that had seen better days and his throat looked scraped and raw, as though he had had to use a blunt razor to shave because he had forgotten to buy new ones. He looked grouchy, and waited until he had pointedly smoothed down his green tie with one flat palm, as if to prevent it from curling up like old bacon, before leaning forward, clasping his hands on the table and locking his eyes on to mine.

  ‘Sorry to keep you so long, Mr Locke,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all.

  ‘I expect you’re busy,’ I replied.

  ‘We are,’ he said, as if that was partly my fault. ‘Very.’

  Sensing a presence behind me, I glanced over my shoulder to see that a uniformed constable had followed Jensen into the room and was now standing like a guard beside the door.

  ‘You seem nervous, Mr Locke,’ Jensen said.

  I turned back, trying to make it look casual. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m fine.’

  He indicated the MacBook. ‘Mind if I record our interview?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He opened the MacBook and busied himself with it, his fingers dancing over the keyboard. Finally he nodded with satisfaction. ‘There we go. Isn’t technology wonderful?’

  ‘Mm,’ I said.

  ‘Now.’ He laced his fingers together again. ‘Would you mind explaining to me why you were in the grounds of number 56 Bellwater Drive, Kensington, at approximately 12.15 p.m.?’

  ‘I explained all this to the officer at the time,’ I said.

  Jensen’s facial muscles twitched into something approximating a smile. ‘I appreciate that, Mr Locke, but please indulge me. I would prefer to hear your explanation first hand. And also for the record, of course.’ He nodded at the MacBook.

  Trying not to sigh, I told him again about the text.

  ‘May I see?’ he asked.

  ‘I deleted it.’

  Although I suspected he had already been informed of this, he looked at me as if he was astounded. ‘You deleted it?’

  I told him what I had told the officer earlier. He stared at me as if to encourage or intimidate me into saying more, but I remained silent.

  Finally he sighed and said, ‘Was that the only reason you were at 56 Bellwater Drive today, Mr Locke?’

  I felt my heart quicken. ‘Yes.’

  He was silent for another long moment, and then he said, ‘Did it occur to you to wonder why my officers apprehended you at the Bellwater Drive house?’

  Apprehended. It was only a small step from there to ‘arrested’.

  ‘I expect someone told you I was there.’

  ‘You expect correctly,’ he said, and fell silent again.

  I wanted to ask him who had told him, but I waited patiently for him to continue. I had learned long ago that in situations like this it was best to say no more than you had to. After a moment he said, ‘Were you aware, Mr Locke, that the house on Bellwater Drive was a crime scene?’

  ‘Not until your officers told me, no.’

  ‘And were you, or are you, aware who the house on Bellwater Drive belonged to?’

  ‘
No.’

  ‘Were you similarly unaware that the owner of the house on Bellwater Drive was murdered during what is believed to have been a robbery last week?’

  ‘No.’ I felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck. ‘I mean… yes, I was unaware.’

  ‘Have you any idea what was taken from the house on Bellwater Drive during the course of the robbery, Mr Locke?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and this time I couldn’t prevent myself from blurting, ‘How would I know?’

  Jensen paused, looking at me a moment longer, and then he shifted his gaze slowly and deliberately to fix on his interlocked hands. He looked as though he wanted to give the impression he was thinking hard, mulling over my responses, though I suspected that he knew exactly what he was going to say next and was only prolonging the moment to exacerbate my unease. My lips were so dry they were sticking together, but I felt loath to part them with my tongue. I felt another trickle of sweat run down my neck and soak into the already damp collar of my jacket.

  ‘What was taken was a small artefact about so big.’ He held up his hand, indicating the size by spreading his thumb and index finger. ‘It was a carving of a human heart, made of obsidian. Do you know what obsidian is, Mr Locke?’

  This time I had to lick my lips in order to answer. ‘It’s a black rock,’ I said.

  ‘Correct. More to the point it’s a volcanic rock. It resembles black glass. I’m told obsidian is formed when lava solidifies very quickly. An artefact like that would be very distinctive, don’t you think?’

  Aware that the trap had been sprung, I said, ‘Yes.’

  Jensen gave me a thin smile. ‘Would you mind turning out your pockets, Mr Locke? Purely as a courtesy, of course.’

  I felt suddenly enervated. My limbs were aching, my ankle hurting so much that it felt as though the dog was still gnawing on it. Delaying the moment, hoping that the heart would transform or even disappear, I half-rose from my seat and placed the contents of my jeans pockets on the table. Cash, receipts, keys (including the key to McCallum’s French windows, which I hadn’t needed on this occasion), my wallet, other bits and pieces. Then I patted my back pockets and the side pockets of my leather jacket, all of which were empty, before finally, reluctantly, slipping my hand into the jacket’s inside pocket.

  I knew, even before I touched it, that the heart had let me down. I could feel its weight, its solidity, resting against my ribcage. I closed my fingers around it, willing it to change. When it didn’t I felt a spike of anger, a sense of well, fuck you then – and then I withdrew it from my pocket.

  Even now I expected the heart to respond, to save me somehow. I wondered how this dour policeman would react if I were to disappear in a flash of light before his eyes. I put the heart on the table, but rested my fingers on it for a moment, giving it one final chance. Then with a sigh I let it go.

  The air in the room felt heavy. Jensen looked at the heart, then at me. Pointedly he said, ‘Mr Locke has produced a human heart carved out of obsidian from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table.’ He took a long, slow breath, in and out, and then he said, ‘Could you explain how this object came to be in your possession, Mr Locke?’

  Before I could even think about it, I said, ‘It was sent to me.’

  ‘Sent to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Another pause, his eyes burning into mine. ‘And how was it sent?’

  ‘Through the post. In a padded envelope.’

  ‘Through the post?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Though Jensen’s voice was low and, like his face, bereft of emotion, he managed to convey the impression that he didn’t believe a word of what I was saying. ‘And was there a return address with this package?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was there a message of any kind?’

  Though I paused for no more than a split second before answering, I felt certain that my hesitation would not have gone unnoticed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what form did this message take?’

  ‘It was a note.’

  ‘Hand-written or printed?’

  ‘Er… printed. In block capitals.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What was the message written on?’

  ‘A word processor, I suppose.’

  He gave a brief, exasperated hiss. ‘What kind of paper?’

  ‘I don’t know… normal. Typing paper. White.’

  ‘Lined or unlined?’

  ‘Er… unlined.’

  ‘And what did the message say?’

  ‘It said…’ I paused, pretending to rack my brains, though in truth I was simply trying to avoid saying something that would trip me up. ‘I can’t remember the exact words, but it said that if I wanted to see Kate alive again, I had to look after what was in the envelope and keep it safe.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you to inform us that you had received this package?’

  ‘I was told not to.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By the man who sent me the heart.’

  ‘Oh, I see. He called you, did he?’

  ‘No, he… in the note he said not to tell the police. That he’d kill Kate if I did.’

  ‘But I thought you said that the note simply instructed you to keep the heart safe?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I forgot about the other bit.’

  Jensen looked incredulous. ‘You forgot that the sender threatened to kill your daughter if you told the police? Are you in the habit of forgetting when the lives of your loved ones are threatened, Mr Locke?’

  ‘No, it’s just…’ I paused, took several deep breaths. His eyes were still drilling into me. I rubbed at my forehead to block out his gaze and said, ‘I’m stressed, that’s all. My head’s all over the place. Wouldn’t yours be if your daughter had been kidnapped?’

  He didn’t answer my question. Instead he asked, ‘Where is this note now?’

  ‘I threw it away.’

  ‘You threw it away?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands.’

  ‘You do realise that that note could have provided us with important forensic information? That it might have led us to your daughter’s kidnapper?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’

  ‘Where have you been staying these past few days, Mr Locke?’

  ‘What?’

  He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if I was hard of hearing. ‘Where have you been staying?’

  ‘I told you. With a friend.’

  ‘And does this friend have a name? An address?’

  ‘Yes, but… I’d rather not say what it is.’

  ‘Really? And why’s that?’

  ‘Because he wants to remain anonymous.’

  ‘My last question applies. Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s got a certain… reputation. A criminal record. He doesn’t want his name bandied about. He doesn’t want the police to jump to the wrong conclusions.’

  ‘And what conclusions might they be, Mr Locke?’

  I wafted a hand, as if to brush away his question like a troublesome fly. And then almost immediately I felt a welcome surge of anger, of irritation. Glaring at him, I said, ‘Why are you treating me like a criminal? My daughter’s been missing for bloody days. Why are you wasting time with me instead of trying to track down the real perpetrator?’

  Jensen’s eyes were like flint. ‘Do you really want me to answer that question, Mr Locke?’

  ‘Yes I do, actually.’

  ‘Very well.’ His voice remained calm, even. ‘As I’m sure you will agree, it would be remiss of me not to thoroughly explore every avenue of enquiry in this investigation. And frankly, Mr Locke, your behaviour has become suspicious enough to more than warrant this interview. The fact that you have deliberately put yourself out of contact over the past few days, and that you now refuse to reveal your recent whereab
outs, is suspicious enough in itself—’

  I raised a hand to interrupt him. ‘All right, point taken. But hasn’t it occurred to you that someone might have set me up to make me look suspicious?’

  ‘Of course it has. Which is precisely why I feel it would be in your best interests to be entirely honest with us.’

  Touché, I thought, and slumped back in my seat. My collar and underarms were wet with sweat. I knew I’d have to give Jensen something, that he wouldn’t let me alone until I did. But I couldn’t tell him I’d been in London the past few days, not after letting him think I’d been somewhere more remote, where I couldn’t get any signal – besides which, Clover had advised me not to reveal the address of the ‘safe house’ to anyone.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you. But I’m going to be in so much trouble with my friend for dragging his name into this.’

  ‘Given the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll forgive you,’ Jensen said evenly.

  I hesitated a moment longer, then gave him Benny’s name and address. It was a huge risk – I didn’t even know if Benny had survived the confrontation at the cemetery – but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  ‘There,’ Jensen said, ‘that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Whether he’ll confirm I was there or not, I don’t know.’

  ‘Let us worry about that,’ Jensen said. For the first time he reached across the table for the heart. I tensed. He picked it up carefully, as if it was so delicate it might crack at the slightest pressure of his fingers – or as if he knew what it was capable of.

  ‘Do you mind if we photograph this?’

  It was a request I could hardly refuse. ‘Will I get it back?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On what we decide to do with it. The heart is evidence and needs to be examined. It may also be stolen property.’

  I felt like a parent arguing with a social worker who was threatening to take their child into care. ‘But I was told to look after it. Whoever’s got Kate will kill her if I don’t.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, Mr Locke?’

  ‘I daren’t not believe it.’

  Jensen raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘If what you’re telling me is true, then the way it looks is that the only reason you were ordered to keep the heart safe is so that you’d be found with it on your person leaving Bellwater Drive. Though why your daughter’s abductor should want to set you up I have no idea. Maybe in an effort to discredit you? Or just to inflict even more hell on you than you’re no doubt already going through – there are some sick and sadistic people about. But the good news is that if this is the case, then the threat from Kate’s abductor is more than likely an empty one. You were told your daughter would be killed simply in order to ensure you were found with the heart in your possession. Ipso facto, Kate’s abductor wanted that to happen.’