by Parker Bilal
‘So, where were you?’
‘Camped out at Magnolia Quays, hoping to catch sight of our security operative.’
‘Right. But if he’s the one, do you think it’s likely that he’ll show up pretending everything is fine?’
‘Human beings are creatures of habit, Milo, and besides, he thinks he’s cleverer than the rest of us.’ Drake tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. ‘Did we get anything more on Hakim?’
‘That’s a negative, boss. Forensics are working on hair and fibre samples but it’s slim pickings.’
‘And no sign of the missing limbs?’
‘Nothing.’ Milo tapped a pencil against the desk. Drake was just about to ask him to stop when he looked up brightly. ‘I did look into that name you gave me. Hicks.’
‘You found his military record?’
‘It all checks out. He was in the Light Brigade and he disappeared in 2013, probably in Syria.’
‘Right.’
‘You knew that?’
‘I had a chat with Doctor Crane. She has a source inside the MoD.’
‘Might have saved me some time if you’d shared that, boss.’
‘You’re right,’ Drake sighed, hauling himself to his feet. ‘I need coffee.’
‘There is one other thing,’ said Milo. ‘Hicks had a brother. Younger than him, never served. Luke.’
Drake stopped halfway across the room. ‘A brother? She didn’t mention a brother.’
Milo looked pleased. ‘Ah, well, maybe the good Doctor Crane is not infallible.’
‘Maybe. Is there any way you can get a photograph of this Luke?’
‘I can try. Where are you going?’
‘I just had an idea.’
‘Care to share?’
‘I’ll let you know if it pans out.’
‘And there’s everyone saying how secretive you are.’
‘Don’t believe a word of it. And if Pryce asks . . .’
‘I haven’t seen you.’
‘Attaboy.’
Drake found himself heading towards Paddington. It felt like he had exhausted all the possibilities. For some reason that made him wonder how Crane was doing. The fact that he hadn’t been able to reach her on the phone was beginning to bother him.
By the time he reached the mews behind Westbourne Terrace, the sun had slipped across the rooftops to the west and the sunken street was deep in shadow. He rolled to a halt and switched off the engine. The house looked quiet. There was a light on in the upstairs room that was her office. Drake walked over and leaned on the doorbell. He heard the buzz faintly upstairs. A bus rumbled by on the main road. He stepped back and reached for his phone to try once more. This time he heard a phone ringing.
The sound was coming from his left, behind the garage door, the living area. Drake moved over to take a look. There was no sign of light in the glass at the top of the double doors, but when he put his hand to it, the door slid sideways. He stepped inside. There was a low white light coming from the kitchen. The gentle hum of the refrigerator. The punch bag hung motionless in the air before him. The Triumph was parked off to one side where it had been the last time he’d been here. Now he could feel that something was wrong.
Ray’s phone was lying at the bottom of the stairs. He climbed cautiously to the first floor. The reception area was dark but for the white light in the top of the aquarium over on the far side. The door to Ray’s office stood ajar. As Drake walked towards it, his boots trod on something. He knelt down to take a look and found the thin electric wires that he knew came from a Taser.
Pushing open the door to Ray’s office he found it empty. The desk light was on but there was nobody in the room.
Drake returned to the reception area. He moved over towards the window and tried to picture what had happened here. Whoever had done this had been let in. There were no signs of forced entry. They had come in through the front door, walked upstairs, like any client. A client who had then turned a Taser on Ray and taken her out of here.
The hum of the water pump drew Drake’s eye to the aquarium to his right. The fish were swimming about as if nothing had changed. Well, not all of them. Several fish were grouped together in one corner of the tank. The light flashed off their flanks, silver and blue. They seemed to be busy with something. When he realized what it was, Drake swore out loud.
‘Fuck!’
He was looking around for something to fish the hand out of the water when he heard a thumping noise coming from somewhere further back. Someone was kicking a door. Thump thump.
There was a small bathroom in the corner of the little kitchenette area where they had a kettle and one of those espresso machines that feed on capsules. He pushed open the door and saw Crane’s assistant lying on the floor. She had a gag in her mouth and her hands were tied behind her back with a plastic strip.
CHAPTER 50
Drake didn’t wait for the cavalry. Heather had no information on the assailant, apart from his name, Richard Haynes, which meant nothing to him. It came to him then, as he was standing there looking at the hand at the bottom of the fish tank, that he knew where to go.
It was some kind of instinct that sent him back to where it all began: Freetown. In the wake of the previous night’s clash there was a sense of caution in the air. People hung back in the shadows waiting to see what would happen. Boys in hoodies melted round corners.
Outside the swimming baths there was no sign of the Kronnos Security van where he had seen it the previous night. The high old iron gates were locked with a heavy chain. It was completely dark now and the Klieg security lights on the perimeter fence illuminated the side of the building with cold white light. Nothing moved. He drove to the end of the block and parked the car. Then he sat back in the dark and waited. The palms of his hands felt sweaty. A part of him would have killed for a drink. Another part of him knew he didn’t want it. Not really.
There was a tap at the window. He looked up to see Jango turning in circles on one wheel. Drake wound down the window.
‘You spying on someone?’ the kid asked.
‘It’s my job, remember, keeping the peace?’
‘Right . . .’ Jango nodded slowly.
‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Same thing, innit?’
Drake nodded. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘You ever see anyone going in here?’
‘You mean, for a laugh?’
‘I mean regular like.’
Jango spun to look up at the brooding, dark building.
‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’
‘Werewolves.’
‘Werewolves?’
‘Yeah, like crackheads and oddballs. There was a whole family in there a while back. Runaways. From the war?’
‘What war?’
‘Fuck do I know? Always a war somewhere, right?’
‘So a lot of traffic.’
‘Right. Traffic. You being the feds an all.’ Jango chuckled at his own humour. ‘That’s all done now. They put up the fence. Security. Cameras and all.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Man comes by. Alarms, Holmes.’ He did another twirl. ‘You have to know where.’
‘You can get me in?’ Drake had a feeling this was going to cost him. He reached into his pocket. ‘Show me.’
‘Serious?’
‘How serious is this?’ He held out a twenty. Jango looked at it with disdain.
‘That’s just sad.’
‘Fair play. Same again when I get out.’
Jango considered the offer, then nodded and sped to the corner where he waited for Drake to catch up. He pointed to a gap at the bottom of the chain-link fence.
‘You expect me to crawl through there?’
‘Nah, man. Just use your bat cape an’ fly over, innit.’ The sound of the kid’s laughter echoed down the street behind him.
Drake shook his head, staring at the tear in the fence.
‘Well, it’s not going to get any easier,’ he s
aid to himself. Then he got down on his knees, rolled onto his back and dragged himself through. Something caught and he felt stitches tearing on his coat, but he was through. He dusted himself down, for all the good that might do, and started towards the house, trying to ignore the smell of dog shit that had now attached itself to him.
The windows were boarded up. Drake’s flashlight picked out the sheets of plywood that covered the entrance, now spray painted with tags and graffiti that meant nothing to him. The screws had been removed on one side. Drake pulled the wood out far enough to slip through.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. He saw a set of stairs leading up through an archway to a reception area on the first floor. He remembered the place now. A lot of the chequered floor tiles were cracked and missing. Debris was scattered about and there was makeshift scaffolding along one wall.
Feeling his way along, Drake came to another set of steps that led down to the left. There was a faint hum vibrating through his feet. It grew stronger as he moved down and along a small corridor to a door that was ajar.
The boiler room was hot and humid. A row of perspex cases ran along the scarred brick wall. An overhead strip light revealed their contents. At first he thought they contained some kind of smoke. The sides were black and somehow moving. Then he realized what it was: insects. It was so warm in there it could have been tropical. Flies, cockroaches, worms, thousands of them, they skittered over one another, crawling and flapping to try and get out.
Retracing his steps to the entry hall, Drake crossed to the other side and through an archway. Signs built into the wall announced Changing Rooms, Men and Women. At the far end another set of steps led up to the main pool area.
As he came out into the open space, Drake stood for a moment to admire the layout of the interior. It had class even though it was run down. The walls had been defaced with graffiti, slick tags that added their own nonsensical comment to the chaos, obscene diagrams that summed up the contempt with which this city viewed its own history. The tiled walls and wrought-iron suspension beams gave it the look of a seaside pier. It felt like stepping into the past.
Drake’s memories of coming here as a child were vague. It could have been in another lifetime. The hoarding outside announced it as a new commercial venture, another shopping centre or mall. The beginning of a makeover that he suspected would wipe the estate off the map. You want people to come in here and spend money, not fear for their lives. This was the shape of the future; take from the poor to feed the rich.
A spiral set of iron stairs led up to a gallery that ran the length of the pool. The upper floor was strewn with rubble, broken bricks, piles of junk left behind by temporary residents. Cartons of food, pizza boxes, crushed soft drink and beer cans, along with winking needles and scorched strips of aluminium foil. Against the wall, a foam mattress, sheets of cardboard. Rat droppings.
Drake’s eye was drawn to a flickering light at the far end. It was coming from something just out of sight, hidden behind a wall that extended from the right. The pulsations reflected on the wall, changing colour, suggesting a television screen. He walked slowly forwards.
The television was an old one, battered and grey, resting on a trolley. It was plugged into a laptop that was playing some kind of video. The images, Drake guessed, came from Iraq or Syria. Guerilla fighters in the back of pick-ups, the black flag of ISIS waving as they swept by. The music playing was a stirring war chant. Something ancient and mesmerizing about it. Drake saw children being pulled from rubble, babies, clearly dead, laid out in rows on the ground.
All of this was secondary.
Facing the television set was a hooded figure dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Seated upright in a chair. Whoever it was, they weren’t moving. Drake’s instinct was to rush forward, but he remained where he was. He listened until he was sure nothing was moving before going round the side of the chair. Crane was bound and gagged. Her head lolled forward to reveal a deep gash behind her left ear. It was a heavy old school chair with a folding desk panel across the front. Her arms were stretched out and held in place with duct tape. As he loosened her gag and crouched down beside her, her head came up and her eyes opened.
‘You took your time,’ she said, spitting out the gag.
‘Good to see you too. You were ahead of me.’
‘He was seeing me as a patient.’ Crane was trying to catch her breath, impatient to be free. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Flinders, or Hicks, whatever his name is. I was looking for him.’
‘I knew him as Richard Haynes. His real name is Luke Hicks. Is Heather all right?’
‘She’s fine. Where is he now?’
But Crane was looking past him, towards the television where another scene was unfolding. Drake followed her gaze.
On the screen a man in an orange jumpsuit was being forced to kneel in the sand. Another stood behind him. He reached to his waist and pulled out a large combat knife. He pulled the man’s head back, placed the knife to his throat and began to saw away. Drake closed his eyes.
‘Get me out of here, Cal.’ Crane squirmed, suddenly frantic.
There was a tool box in the corner. Going over, Drake dropped to his knees only to find that it was locked. He scrabbled about to find something to lever it open. A screwdriver lay on the ground. Picking it up he began trying to jam it in under the side of the plastic lid. At the back of his mind, he registered that Ray was mumbling something. Also that the sound coming from the television had turned to martial music. Jihadis singing of the glory of martyrdom. The volume was louder than it had been. Perhaps if he hadn’t been distracted, he might have realized that something was wrong, that Crane was speaking through a gag that he had just removed. The delay was only a matter of seconds, but it was enough. As he turned he felt the blow hit the back of his head.
CHAPTER 51
It came back slowly. A bad dream that just kept getting worse. He tried to roll over and found he was unable to. He could smell water. A heavy dampness that made his skin crawl. Then his feet started to lift off the ground. Rising, rising, followed by his legs and hips. His weight tilting, the blood rushing into his upper body. Drake had a bad feeling about this. His feet were bound together at the ankles and attached to a rope that ran up into the air.
‘How do you feel about heights?’
As his vision cleared Drake found himself facing the man he knew as Matthew Flinders, the bearded security guard from Magnolia Quays. Luke Hicks. He was holding Drake’s telephone. With a snort of bemusement he tossed it casually over the railings. There was a delay before Drake heard it crash to the bottom of the pool far below, splintering into pieces. There wasn’t time to think as Hicks began hauling on the rope again. Drake was dragged along the floor, through the dust and debris, broken plaster.
‘Me, I’ve never had a head for heights. Always gave me the willies.’ Hicks had rigged up a pulley system between the iron railings. He was grinning as he carried on pulling the rope. ‘Sounds like I have your attention now.’
‘You don’t need her, Luke. You’ve got me.’
‘Course I do. You’re a part of this, remember? You fought for this country. You believed in the cause, didn’t you?’
Drake grunted as the rope dug itself more tightly into his ankles.
‘She has nothing to do with this.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid. She is the final piece in the puzzle.’
The rope creaked, Drake felt himself lifted a few more inches into the air.
‘Why? What’s your point?’
The rope slackened slightly. ‘My point? You’re asking about my point?’ Hicks stared at the floor, shaking his head. ‘You know what it is. You were there. You saw the betrayal.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Hicks had the same vacant smile on his face. ‘You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you don’t.’
‘None of this has anything to do with Ray. Ju
st let her go and we can talk.’
‘Talk? The time for talk is passed.’ Hicks gave Drake a kick. The pain knifed through his ribs and he let out a groan. He swung back and forth, grazing along the floor. ‘You’re as much a traitor as anyone. You betrayed your religion, your people.’ Hicks paused to wipe his brow on his sleeve. He squatted down. ‘My brother was a good person. He fought to keep this country free of people like you. Sometimes being good isn’t enough, right?’
Drake flexed his wrists, checking how tight the rope was.
‘Your brother murdered civilians. That’s why he was thrown out of the army.’
Hicks spun and pointed in a rage. ‘My brother saw what we were up against. He knew. He understood the dangers we faced. I saw them too. I saw people like you. People with no moral fibre. Weak, foolish, corrupt. My brother gave his life in sacrifice.’ He brought his face close to Drake’s. ‘This is not about you, or me.’
‘What is it about, then?’
The boot swung again. A dull pain that echoed through his ribcage. Something had cracked. Drake ground his teeth together so as not to cry out. Hicks hauled angrily on the rope and he felt himself jolt upwards. He threw out his hands to steady himself as he was dragged along the floor, nails scraping through the dirt and rubble, on his back heading towards the edge of the gallery.
‘No, really, I’d like to hear.’
Hicks let the rope sag. He wasn’t finished. He had more to say. ‘Don’t you think it strange that our closest allies are the most barbaric of all? Isn’t that hypocrisy? The Saudis decapitate. They stone people. Well, I’m going to bring that little truth home to people in this country.’
‘Cutting off someone’s head on television isn’t going to change that.’
He twisted from side to side as the ground opened up beneath him.
‘Television?’ Hicks echoed. ‘Try live feed, the internet. The world is going to be watching.’
‘Help me to understand.’ Drake was clutching at straws. Like a man drowning in air, weightless, swaying from side to side. Talking was his only option. ‘Why kill Hakim?’
