The Heights

by Parker Bilal

  Drake pulled up to the loading bay and parked the car. There was a rumble of traffic in the distance. A train screeching across rails. The slow howl of rising jet engines from an airliner leaving nearby Heathrow. Somewhere in the midst of all that a bird could be heard singing. It sounded like a tiny miracle.

  ‘How do you want to play this?’ asked Crane.

  ‘My plan was to improvise. How does that sound?’

  ‘Works for me.’

  Climbing up onto the concrete ramp running along the front of the building, Drake pushed his way through a curtain of rubber strips and shivered. He was inside a refrigerated storage area. A man in a white coat was dragging a pallet jack stacked with boxes across the floor.

  ‘Where do I find the manager?’

  The man stared at them blankly for a moment and then pointed wordlessly in the direction of a battered red door. It opened onto a narrow corridor that ran down one side of the building. The walls were scuffed and the air was fetid and stale. They walked along until they reached an open plan office with about six desks ranged about it. Only two of these were occupied, both by women who chattered into headsets while their fingers moved across keyboards. At the far end was another office that was closed off from the main area. A sign on the door read ‘Manager’. Through the glass window a plump man with sweat stains on his shirt was shouting and gesticulating wildly at a slender young woman who stood facing his desk, looking down at the floor. Then, without hesitation, he struck her with the back of his hand, hitting her so hard she spun away and careened into the glass window. Crane muttered something and started forward. Drake put out his hand to stop her.

  ‘Maybe give it a second before you break both his arms,’ he said. Turning, he smiled to the woman sitting behind the nearest desk. ‘Excuse me, is that …?’

  The woman’s flat stare did not waver. ‘That is Mr Farooki.’

  Drake stepped neatly through a gap in the counter and walked towards the office. Crane was right behind him.

  ‘Sir? Excuse me, sir, you can’t just go in …’

  They both ignored her. Drake knocked and opened the door without waiting.

  ‘Mr Farooki? I hope I’m not interrupting …’

  The man was still yelling in what might have been Urdu. When he caught sight of Drake, he switched to heavily accented English.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?’

  The slender woman took advantage of the distraction to duck past Drake and out through the door. She ran down the office and disappeared. Crane went after her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Drake said. ‘I have another appointment after this and I was just wondering …’

  ‘What?’ The man stared at Drake as if he were mad. ‘Maderchod!’

  ‘If this is a bad time …’

  He was an ugly man, and anger made him uglier. There was a vein throbbing in the middle of his forehead. His face was painted with a patina of sweat. He waved a finger at Drake.

  ‘Who are you, and what do you want from me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was told we could do business.’

  ‘Business? You want to buy meat?’

  ‘Not meat,’ said Drake.

  ‘Not meat,’ repeated the man. He took a moment, rocking his head from left to right. ‘Who told you to come here?’

  ‘A man named Khan. Maybe you know him?’

  ‘Khan?’ Mr Farooki frowned.

  ‘Big guy. Has a tattoo here.’ Drake put a hand to his neck.

  Mr Farooki’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know this man?’

  Drake shrugged. ‘He said we could do business.’

  ‘We are meat processing plant. We pack … meat. Wait here.’ Mr Farooki pushed past Drake into the outer office. He went over to the second woman, who was still at her desk. The two of them conferred in low voices.

  Crane followed the young woman from Mr Farooki’s office down the corridor and out into the main area of the warehouse. She watched her crossing the floor of the front storage space, where two electric forklifts were busy shuttling pallets out to the loading bay. The pallets came from an interior area, closed off by plastic strip curtains. Crane watched the woman slip through these and out of sight. The temperature dropped on the other side. This section was refrigerated and the pallets, wrapped in plastic, stood waiting to be loaded. A small door led into the processing area, where cuts of meat were being sorted on long steel tables. There were about fifteen people in there, all of them men. They were dressed in bloodstained white overalls, hairnets and rubber boots. A good number of them wielded very sharp-looking knives. Crane felt their gaze following her as she moved down the production line. Signs overhead divided the areas into chicken left, lamb and beef right.

  The noise grew worse the further in she went. Through another barrier, and suddenly there were high-pressure hoses delivering bursts of steam and water. A shrill electric whine filled the air. Carcasses hung from hooks in the ceiling. Men operated handheld power saws. The sound of steel ripping into bone set her teeth on edge. The floor was slick with moisture and drenched in red. Unidentifiable bits and pieces of flesh and cartilage slithered about under her boots. The woman leaned close to one man and spoke to him. He pointed down to the far end. Crane hurried after her, wondering where she was going. All she wanted to do was talk to her. She saw her duck behind a row of carcasses swinging round on an overhead rail. Here the men were covered from head to toe in white. Their faces were shielded by goggles and masks. They moved through the maze of dead animals like ghosts in a macabre forest. The floor was wet and the air was icy damp. Plastic trays filled with carcasses trundled along a conveyor belt. It was enough to put you off meat for life.

  A big man pushed by her carrying a large carcass slung over his shoulder. Crane felt him brush against her. Something wet on her shoulder. When she put her hand to her jacket it came away red. She looked around for something to wipe it on but there wasn’t time. Ahead of her the woman disappeared through a large set of steel doors.

  Crane stepped through behind her and felt the blood in her veins cool instantly. It was difficult to see. There was white mist swirling over everything. She could make out long rows of metal shelves going deeper inside. Careful not to touch anything, she walked along the passage between these. At this temperature her skin would stick to the metal instantly.

  ‘Hello!’ she called out. There was no reply. The hum of the machinery and the grumble of chain links behind her was punctuated by the high-pitched whine of the saws.

  The shelves were stacked with Styrofoam boxes. Inside some of them were large cuts of meat packed in thick plastic bags. It was almost impossible to see what they actually contained. She found herself staring at a bag full of frozen sheep’s heads.

  Something made her turn.

  He was standing right behind her. A big man. Broad shoulders. Ninety-five kilos maybe. It wasn’t his size so much as his expression, or lack of one. He stared dully at her and didn’t say a word. There was no doubt in Crane’s mind that he intended to harm her. She was already calculating her chances and trying to work out a strategy. In this confined space she was limited. She needed to get past him to reach the door. She started with a smile.

  ‘Hi there, I seem to be lost. I was looking for someone.’

  There was no response. Not a word, not a flicker of recognition.

  That was when she saw the tattoo on his neck. It was exactly as Drake had described it. Khan.

  48

  ‘What do you mean, she left?’

  Drake was having trouble understanding what the woman was talking about. He was pretty sure she spoke English perfectly, but right now she was pulling a theatrical number, shaking her head, shrugging, clasping her hands in supplication, imploring him to believe her.

  ‘She wouldn’t leave here without telling me.’

  The woman held thumb and little finger to her ear. ‘Phone call, sir. Most urgent.’

  Drake still didn’t believe that Crane would go off without hi
m. On the other hand, being impulsive was not exactly out of character. He pulled his own phone out and tried calling her but only got her voicemail. Either she had it switched off or her battery was dead, or she was out of range of a signal. He might have done something more about it, except at that precise moment his phone began ringing. It was Kelly Marsh.

  ‘You’ve had words with Pryce.’

  ‘Well, he’s getting ready to pounce. He’s talking to the CPS about whether there’s enough to issue a warrant for your arrest.’

  ‘Pryce is nothing if not predictable.’

  ‘Anyway, he believes we are dealing with a cell of radical jihadists.’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘The van left outside the Tube station on Clapham Common. Green Gardens Halal Meat Packing. Possible link to Islamic State sympathisers. Decapitation being one of their hallmarks.’

  Drake groaned. ‘Never a man to let logic get in his way. Is that why you called?’

  ‘Hold on, Milo wants a word.’ There was a scratching noise and then Milo came on.

  ‘Chief? I haven’t had much time. They’ve been pushing us pretty hard.’

  ‘I know, Milo, but I’d appreciate anything you can give me.’

  ‘Well, I managed to trace it back to Castelnau.’

  ‘What is that again?’

  ‘Castelnau? It’s a road in Barnes. Named after a French baron, I think. It’s Occitan for New Castle.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ There would come a day when Milo wouldn’t be able to surprise him any more, but Drake was pretty sure that day was still a long way off.

  Marsh came back on the line abruptly. ‘Sorry, but we don’t have time for this now.’

  ‘What’s up, Kelly?’

  ‘We’ve had a report of an abduction. It’s a boy of nine.’ Another long pause. ‘It’s at your home address, Cal, and you’ve been named as a possible suspect.’

  ‘Wait a second. What child?’ He knew the answer. It came to him even as he spoke.

  ‘The boy’s name is João. His mother is Maritza Pereira.’

  Drake was already running for the door. He jumped into the Astra which, to his amazement, started first time. He swung it round and went straight through the gates, feeling the bottom of the car scraping on the ramp. He was trying to find Maritza’s number on his phone while changing gears and turning a corner. The phone slipped from his hand to the floor. He seemed to have forgotten that he was no longer a member of the Metropolitan Police, that his vehicle was not fitted with flashing lights and a siren. The fact was that he no longer cared. Instead, he leaned on the horn and put his foot down. His rational side overruled. Putting his own life and that of others at risk, he cut through red lights and charged across intersections with reckless intent.

  There were already a number of emergency vehicles stacked up around the entrance to the building by the time he arrived. Red and blue lights flashed, reflecting back off the surrounding walls. Drake pushed his way through the crowd until he found himself barred at the front door.

  ‘I need to speak to the officer in charge,’ he told the uniform blocking his way.

  ‘And I just need you to stand back, sir.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, I live here.’

  ‘Let him through!’

  One of the uniforms had recognised him. A burly Mancunian by the name of Collins. ‘You’re like a bad penny, Drake, always turning up when nobody wants you.’

  ‘I live here. I need to know what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, well, take a number and wait.’

  ‘Just let me talk to the mother.’

  ‘Know her, do you?’

  ‘Yeah, and I think I know why they took the boy.’

  ‘Hold on, I need to check.’

  As he turned away to speak into his radio, Drake ducked past him and went through the open door. He had no choice. As soon as Collins mentioned his name he would no doubt he ordered to hold him, which would mean more delay. Behind him he heard shouting, but by then he was already on the stairs.

  The door to Maritza’s flat stood open. The boyfriend, whose name Drake could not remember, was standing outside with a couple of officers. Drake recognised one of them as DS Bishop.

  ‘There he is!’ The boyfriend launched himself at Drake. ‘What have you done with him, you sick bastard!’ he yelled.

  The second officer stepped in front to block him. DS Bishop rolled his eyes.

  ‘Should have known you’d be mixed up in this, Cal.’

  ‘What’s the story here?’

  ‘Arrest him. Why don’t you arrest him?’ The boyfriend was still gesticulating wildly as he was pressed back across the hallway.

  Bishop said, ‘The boy went outside to play early this afternoon. He never came back.’

  ‘That’s all you’ve got?’

  Bishop jerked a thumb at the boyfriend. ‘That and his claim that it was you who took him.’

  ‘You’re jealous!’ The boyfriend was yelling. ‘You can’t accept that she chose me over you.’

  ‘Why would I abduct Joe to get her back?’

  ‘Because you’re a sick fuck!’

  ‘Shane!’ Maritza appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were red as they fell on Drake. ‘Cal, what’s going on?’

  ‘You need to tell me everything.’

  Bishop didn’t like that. ‘Hold on a minute. You’re no longer on the force, remember? And besides, you’re suspect number one.’

  Drake ignored him and stepped towards Maritza. ‘Did Joe mention anyone? Someone he was going to meet?’

  ‘He mentioned you,’ Shane thrust his finger at Drake.

  ‘What do you mean, me?’

  ‘That’s what he said. He was going down to the playground to meet you.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Bishop pulled a phone from his pocket. ‘I’m calling DCI Pryce.’ He pointed a finger at Drake. ‘You stay right here.’

  Drake addressed Maritza. ‘Why did Joe think he was meeting me?’

  ‘You must have told him.’

  Drake shook his head.

  ‘Your mate,’ Shane said. ‘Your friend spoke to Joe.’

  ‘What friend?’

  Maritza was shaking her head from side to side. ‘Perdão, perdão meu amor,’ she murmured to herself in Portugese.

  ‘I’m going to get him back,’ Drake said quietly.

  Her eyes came up to meet his. ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ Drake turned to Shane. ‘This man you saw, can you describe him?’

  ‘Come on, you sent him.’

  ‘I didn’t send anyone. Describe him.’

  ‘Look, this has gone far enough,’ said Bishop, taking Drake aside. ‘I have orders to keep you here until Pryce gets here. He wants to take charge personally.’

  Drake kept his voice low. ‘If that happens we’ll have no chance of finding the boy. If I’m right, then this person is after me. He’s not interested in the boy. He wants me. We can’t afford the delay.’

  Bishop was shaking his head. ‘What are you talking about? You don’t even know who this person is.’

  ‘That’s the thing. I have a feeling he’s linked to the Clapham Common head.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Bishop wiped a hand over his mouth. He looked nervous, like a man who just realised he was holding a time bomb in his hands.

  ‘Tell us what you can,’ Drake said, turning back to Shane. ‘What did he look like?’

  Shane was wagging his head and backing away. ‘No. I’m not happy talking to him.’

  ‘For god’s sake!’ Maritza begged. ‘Tell him what you know!’

  ‘You can’t trust him,’ he insisted.

  ‘We have no choice.’

  He wasn’t happy about it, but even he could see there was no point in protesting further. He kept his eyes on Drake.

  ‘I saw him a couple of times,’ he began. ‘He was hanging around outside when I brought Joe home from school. He would smile and wave. I thought Joe knew him. He thought I did. One day he
said that he was waiting for a friend and did we know you.’

  ‘He mentioned me by name?’

  ‘I think so. He knew you were a policeman. Joe knew immediately who he meant.’

  ‘How often did this happen?’

  ‘Like I said, a couple of times. I didn’t pay him any attention.’

  ‘Did you ever see him inside the building?’

  Shane thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, he was in the lift once. He went up with us. Always smiling.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Young, maybe in his twenties. Very dark eyes.’

  ‘Did he have a hat? Like a baseball cap with a logo on it?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember that. A name.’

  ‘Fender?’ asked Drake. Shane gave a shrug.

  ‘You know this man?’ Maritza was frantic. ‘How do you know him? What does he want with João?’

  ‘I don’t think he means to harm Joe. I think he wants me.’

  ‘By why?’ Maritza began to cry. ‘Why my boy?’ Shane put his arm around her and turned to lead her back inside the flat.

  ‘I have to go,’ Drake said.

  Bishop shook his head. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘This is not on you.’ Drake leaned closer. ‘I promise you, once Pryce starts stamping around with those oversized boots of his, we’ll have no chance.’

  Bishop looked Drake in the eye. He wasn’t the only one who had little faith in Pryce’s abilities.

  ‘Go. Get out of here.’

  49

  Crane realised she was freezing to death. She couldn’t at first remember where she was or how she had got there. It came back to her slowly. The man she knew as Khan. The tattoo on his neck. He hadn’t said a word and she’d realised that her options were limited. She couldn’t fight him in there. It was too small a space, and he was too big to begin with, maybe forty kilos more than her in body weight and most of that was muscle.