Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner

by Murray Bailey

  Jackson said, “We need to find a genuine motive.”

  “The Polish girl,” Belmarsh said. “If there’s something between them, she could be using him. Maybe she’s connected to Polish mafia. Follow that and maybe we find the link to the stolen goods.”

  Jackson shook his head. “That’s a lot of maybes.”

  “We should watch him at least,” Limb said.

  Jackson placed a hand on the roof of the Vauxhall, thinking. “OK, we’ll keep an eye on him. Limb…”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “He hasn’t seen you before, so you keep tabs on our guy. I want to know what he does, where he goes, who he sees. And Belmarsh…”

  “Sir?”

  “You chase down the Polish connection. See if you can find a link to a gang. And if any of you see that damn reporter again, give him a kick in the arse from me.”

  Fox, posing as the reporter, stood under the overhanging building by a pillar. He was out of sight but just close enough to pick up a signal. As he’d avoided the clutch of the sharply dressed detective, he’d stuck a bug on his jacket. The guy hadn’t even felt it.

  As he hurried away, Fox could hear everything they said. Eventually, Limb, the one in the sharp suit, said goodbye and three car doors slammed. Moments later, an unmarked silver Vauxhall pulled out of the car park and headed west on Chiswick High Road. The inspector was driving. The woman, Belmarsh, rode shotgun and the junior Indian guy was in the back.

  The guy posing as a reporter pulled out his phone and dialled.

  “They’ve not arrested the rabbit,” Fox said without preamble. “In fact they are nowhere. They have a theory that the rabbit is involved but have no evidence. They’ve got less of an idea about who’s doing this than we do. Their best guess is Polish mafia, but that seems unlikely to me.”

  “Because of the dog walker?” The voice was deep and coarse from years of smoking.

  “Yes. They suspect there’s more to it, though I don’t think so.”

  There was silence for a moment. Fox could hear the rasp of the man’s breathing.

  “Owl? What do you want me to do?”

  The smoker said, “Stay on him.”

  “There’s a complication. The police have him under surveillance too.”

  “Anyone that’s seen you?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, stay on it until you can make a switch with Dog. After that, check out this Polish thing, just in case.”

  As Fox ended the call, MacLure and a bookish-looking woman came out of the main entrance. Fox also spotted Limb on the street pretending to read a noticeboard.

  MacLure shook the woman’s hand and walked away from the station. He crossed the road and turned right. Limb waited a moment and followed. A few seconds later Fox picked up the trail.

  ELEVEN

  Alex climbed a fence into his back garden. As he’d approached his street he’d seen a large number of people milling around plus vans parked on the opposite pavement. One had a TV company logo on the side. He quickly turned away and took a large detour, approaching the house from the opposite direction on a road perpendicular to his street. He climbed a wall and then a fence to get into his rear garden. He unlocked the back door, crouched and slid inside. Topsy rushed up and licked his face as he crawled into the lounge. He sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa. They couldn’t see him from outside, not unless they stood on their vans, and he’d seen no evidence of that. The temptation to take a peek was enormous, but he fought it. If they saw him inside, his life would become hell. Instantly

  He had to get out, get away. He had two calls to make. First he called Nadja.

  “Can you take Topsy?”

  “For walk? Sure.”

  “No, I mean until further notice.”

  Nadja didn’t respond straight away.

  Alex said, “Nadja, I need your help. I need to get away from this. The media are all over it. Hopefully it’ll only be a few days.”

  “It’s OK, Mr MacLure. Of course I do it. Take as long as you need to sort things out.”

  Alex thanked her profusely and rang off. Then he made the more difficult call.

  Pete answered immediately. “How did it go?”

  “Well they didn’t arrest me, so I guess it went all right.”

  “You didn’t mention me, did you?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Fuck, what did you say?”

  Alex let him sweat a moment before he said, “No, I didn’t mention you were there. It was damned hard though. They were suspicious of the coincidence. And that damned baseball cap made me look guilty! You owe me for that.”

  “I don’t owe you.”

  “Yes you do. If all I’m worried about is explaining a few thousand pounds in my bank account, I’d rather do that than face time in jail.”

  The line was quiet except for a slight static hiss. Finally Pete said, “What do you want?”

  “I need somewhere to go. The press are all over me like a rash. I’m hiding in my own damned house!” Alex realized his voice was rising. Could they hear him? Did they have sensitive listening devices? He spoke quietly: “Where do you live?”

  Pete started to make excuses.

  “Where do you live, Pete? You’re going to put me up for a couple of days while this blows over.”

  Minutes later, Alex was packing a gym bag. He kissed Topsy on the head and slipped out the back way.

  Pete’s apartment was on the edge of Hammersmith, just short of Fulham, and at the centre of a broad triangle between underground stations, a no man’s land of red-brick Victorian mansion conversions. Alex left Hammersmith station and walked south along Fulham Palace Road. Exhaust fumes from the solid stream of traffic made the air so thick he could taste it. Despite the pollution, there were many people on the pavements, heading to and from the station. Walking: the unhealthy mode of transport on Fulham Palace Road.

  Charing Cross Hospital looked like a classic 1960s’ motel stuck on the front of a tenement block of glass and concrete. He’d briefly dated a nurse who worked there. They’d met at Lindy Hop and dated for about three weeks. Karen: the girl who smoked e-cigarettes like each one was her last. She said she smoked more now they were supposedly healthy.

  Alex stopped at the railing and watched two orderlies chatting. One had an e-cigarette, the other a real one. Did Karen still work here? Was she even more addicted?

  Out of the corner of his eye Alex noticed a man wearing sunglasses, a sports jacket and a stone-coloured baseball cap with the number 62 in black. Rule 62, it said. The guy had a beard and looked like he worked out; nobody special, just an ordinary guy walking along the road. Most people in London don’t look at one another. But Alex had clocked the cap. He had first seen it going east on the Central line and then again at the Hammersmith tube station ticket barrier. The reason it attracted his attention was the number 62. The psychiatrist Sigmund Freud had a morbid fear of the number 62. Sigmund Freud was fascinating, not just for his contribution to psychology, but also for his theories on ancient Egypt.

  At the station the man glanced at him and then headed for the opposite exit. And yet here he was on Fulham Palace Road. Was he a reporter?

  Alex stayed at the railing, tense, ready to run if the guy challenged him. But the guy just walked past without a glance. Alex tracked him for thirty yards and watched him stop at the next junction. There, he seemed to be studying a book, possibly an A to Z. He looked back and their eyes met. It was for the briefest of moments, but enough to confirm Alex’s suspicion: a tail, most likely a newspaper guy.

  As the man looked away again, Alex reacted. He began to run in the opposite direction—back towards Hammersmith. His holdall banged on the railings and then his leg. In frustration, he slung it over a shoulder. A tall man in a grey suit grunted as it grazed him.

  Alex didn’t stop. He called out an apology and ran.

  At the next road he turned and followed the boundary fence of the hospital. When he cam
e to the next right he took it. Now he was going in the direction he wanted and was parallel to Fulham Palace Road, but instead of continuing, he darted through an iron gateway into a graveyard. Margravine Cemetery. A long path curved gently for a few hundred metres ahead. He knew this. He had cut through here on a couple of occasions to reach Barons Court underground station.

  No way could he stay on the path, it was too exposed.

  He darted right, through a phalanx of crooked tombstones and statues. There, he paused to check that no one was watching before scooting to hide behind an elm tree. As he peered around it, the man in the 62 cap appeared at the cemetery gate.

  Alex held his breath. Sweat covered his arms and his shirt stuck to his pounding chest.

  The man walked through the gate and placed a hand on it, breathing heavily. He began scanning the cemetery but didn’t move from the entrance. Alex shrank back behind the tree, counted to ten and peeked out once more.

  No one there.

  Was the man searching or had he left?

  Alex sat with his back to the tree and waited, listening intently. It was a good five minutes before his heart had stopped trying to burst through his ribcage and his breathing calmed. He took an apple from his bag and slowly munched on it, relaxing more with each bite. After another ten minutes and no sign of the pursuer, Alex stood and looked around, before running in a crouch to another tree. From there he ran to the statue of an angel, a mausoleum, and then another tree. Following a route he’d planned, and constantly checking for the pursuer, he made his way through the ancient stones to the south gate. When he reached the street, he checked it was clear and began to walk.

  Alex climbed the eighth and final flight of stairs and found Pete standing on the landing above, a glower etched on his face.

  “I hope you weren’t followed,” Pete grumbled.

  “There was one, but I lost him in the cemetery.”

  “You’re toxic right now, you know that?” Pete led him into his flat. The lounge was spartan. There was a large screen TV. It was free-standing with a DVD player and an Xbox games console. Discs were piled high and scattered beside it. There were two chairs, old and worn, with curved wooden arms. The only other furniture was a side table by the door. It had a tray for coins, a bunch of keys and a yellow lanyard with a fob on the end.

  “Cosy,” Alex said.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. And I’m doing you a huge favour.”

  Alex said nothing but glanced towards the doors off the room.

  Pete nodded. “OK, a quick tour of the place then I’m grabbing a few hours’ kip before I have to go to work.” He showed Alex the first room. It was next to the front door, with one wall that must have been at the top of the stairs, and the other side looked out at the rear. There were no curtains, just grubby nets. The view was of the rear of an identical tenement block. They had gardens between them, although most had been paved and all had sheds, some so large they took up half the space. There was no furniture in the room, just a small fitted wardrobe and a mattress.

  Pete shrugged.

  Alex said, “I know, beggars and choosers again.”

  “I’ll get you a sheet, but I’m afraid I don’t have a spare duvet.”

  Alex followed him into the kitchen and was shown what was in which cupboard, the usual stuff in the usual places. Pete said he would clear half of one so Alex could use it.

  After the kitchen was a door to the right. “The bathroom,” Pete said, pointing. “And that’s my room at the end. Help yourself to tea or coffee, although, when I’m asleep during the day, you need to be a church mouse.”

  “Of course.”

  Pete walked back to the lounge and looked out of the window. Alex joined him and checked up and down for anyone suspicious. Four storeys down, it was quiet except for a car trying to parallel park in a space that looked too small.

  “That’s rule one.” Pete held up a hand and counted off with his fingers as he spoke: “Two: you do not tell anyone where you are staying.”

  The car trying to park bumped into a BMW and then took off without checking for damage. Alex turned back to Pete. “That’s fine by me.”

  “Three,” Pete continued, “you can only stay for three nights to help you out. And four, if there’s any trouble, if there’s any sign of reporters or the cops, you leave immediately. That clear?”

  Alex nodded. “No trouble.”

  DS Limb called Jackson. “I lost him in Hammersmith.”

  “What was MacLure doing in Hammersmith?”

  “I don’t know, but here’s the thing: someone else was tailing him too.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Jackson said.

  “After leaving Chiswick, MacLure took the tube to Maida Vale. From there he walked home via a roundabout route. He was avoiding the reporters at the front of his house and it looked like he jumped a few walls to get in the rear. There’s a sixth form college opposite and I managed to get high enough so I could see into his flat. He was squatting in the lounge for a while and then disappeared, I think, to his bedroom. Anyway, shortly afterwards he crawled to the back door and let himself out. I was just quick enough to see him heading down the road again. This time he walked to Paddington and caught the tube.”

  “To Hammersmith?”

  “You’d think he’d have taken the Hammersmith and City line straight there, but he didn’t. He headed east and kept changing tubes at different stations. All the time, he was looking around, checking for a tail. But he never made me. Finally, we got the District line west and got off at Hammersmith. He stopped outside the hospital on Fulham Palace Road.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Not sure, sir. I slowed down, hoping I wouldn’t overtake him. After a moment, MacLure gave a guy a good long stare. The guy walked past but then stopped and looked back, dodgy as hell. MacLure took flight—bumping into me as he spun round.”

  Limb hesitated, thinking Jackson would comment. When the boss didn’t, Limb continued. “The guy started chasing MacLure. He ran past me so I got a good look.”

  “OK.”

  “They ran around the back and by the time I got there I was just in time to see the other guy go into the cemetery. MacLure got away. I’ve no idea where he went, but the other guy lost him too.”

  “And you questioned this other guy?”

  “I lost him.” Limb heard Jackson take a deep breath, imagined his face reddening.

  “Bloody marvellous, Limb.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get your arse back here and… No, wait. I want a full written description of this other guy and I want you to spend the rest of the day walking those bloody streets until you find either one of them. Now get off the phone and start searching.”

  The man, codenamed Fox, sat in a parked BMW and pressed speed dial on his phone.

  Owl, the man on the other end of the line, spoke first: “Where is the rabbit now?”

  “He’s still got one of the trackers on him.” The trackers had been placed on and inside items when they’d broken into Alex’s flat—the day Alex had found Topsy locked outside. “He’s in a residential building on a road between Hammersmith and Fulham. I’m close by.”

  Fox had been lucky to find a slot, although another driver seemed to think he could get his car in the gap behind the BMW.

  “And the detective?” Owl asked.

  “Dog was following him. Turned out there was another tail as well. Amateurs, both of them. Even the rabbit made them. There was a chase and the rabbit gave them the slip. The copper lost them both.”

  “And this other guy?”

  “The other guy following the rabbit… Dog’s on it. We don’t know who he is or his connection, but if he’s not with the rabbit…”

  He didn’t need to finish. They both knew this was their first big lead.

  There was a crunching sound.

  “What was that?” Owl asked.

  Fox said, “I’ve just been pranged. Idiot thought he could get in a spac
e.” Fox watched the other driver take off as though nothing had happened. “I can’t stay here.”

  “Not a problem,” Owl said. “You help Dog. Since we can track the rabbit, I’ll have Cat take over from here.”

  TWELVE

  Alex was up and eating a bowl of Rice Krispies when Pete came home from work.

  “Make us a cup of tea, would you?” Pete put a cup next to the kettle and flicked it on. “Sleep OK?”

  “A bit cold. I think I’ll invest in a sleeping bag today.”

  As Alex made them both tea, Pete went into his bedroom, re-emerged and headed for the lounge.

  Alex followed with the steaming mugs.

  “Knackered,” Pete groaned, flopping into a chair. “I have to find a job that isn’t nights. Though being up for most of yesterday didn’t help.” He switched on the TV and Xbox.

  Alex leaned against the wall and sipped his tea. “I’ve been thinking…”

  “Can be dangerous,” Pete chortled. He selected resume on the game that came on the screen.

  “You don’t want the press to know where you live.” Alex shrugged. “And quite frankly I’m pleased about that.”

  Pete paused the game and looked at Alex, puzzled. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Yeah, but it also extends to the police.”

  Pete didn’t comment.

  Alex continued: “The other day you said you didn’t want the police knowing where you are. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “You told me you’d spoken to the police, that they’d interviewed you.”

  “Right.”

  “But you also didn’t want me to mention you were at Highclere with me last Wednesday night.”

  “For your benefit as much as mine. The money…”

  “I don’t think the police interviewed you, did they? They don’t know where you live. Do they even know you were Ellen’s landlord?”