They went out to the car park. Wright opened the door to the Fiesta for Sean and waited until he'd fastened his seatbelt before getting in himself. It took several turns of the key before the engine burst into life. Wright drove to Regent's Park, doing his best to keep the conversation going. His son seemed happy enough, but it was clear from the number of questions that Wright had to ask how little they knew about each other.
'Here we are,' said Wright, stopping in the zoo car park. As they walked towards the entrance, spots of rain began to fall. Sean pulled up the hood of his blue anorak. 'You're not cold?' asked Wright.
'I'm okay,' said Sean.
Wright looked up at the clouds gathering overhead. They were grey rather than black and the rain didn't seem to be getting worse, but Wright wondered if he should suggest going somewhere else. The problem was, he couldn't think of a single place to take a seven-year-old boy on a wet Saturday morning.
He paid for them to get in and they walked together towards the large cats enclosures, which was always Sean's favourite part of the zoo. They passed several other father-and-son couples. The zoo was a popular place for divorced fathers to go with their children.
'Can you see them?' Wright asked.
Sean shook his head. 'Lions don't like the rain,' he said.
Drops of rain began to pitter-patter on the hood of Sean's anorak and water trickled down the back of Wright's neck. 'I'm sorry,' said Wright. He put his hand on his son's shoulder.
Sean looked up at him. 'What for?’
'The rain.’
Sean smiled up at him. 'It's not your fault.’
In the distance there was a flash of light followed a few seconds later by a roll of thunder. Wright and Sean hurried back to the car as the skies opened.
Sean looked out of the window as Wright drove towards Tavistock Place. 'Where are we going?' he asked.
'It's a secret,' said Wright.
It was only when Wright pulled up in front of the Gothic-style brick building in Tavistock Place that Sean realised what their destination was.
'It's your office,' he said, his eyes wide.
'Smart lad,' said Wright. 'You should be a detective.' The black metal gate rattled up and Wright drove through to the courtyard. There were fewer than a dozen cars parked there and Wright pulled up next to Tommy Reid's Honda Civic.
They found the man himself in the CID office, slouched in his chair with a naked foot propped up on his desk, clipping his toenails. He seemed totally unfazed by the appearance of Wright and his son and continued to drop pieces of clipped nail into a wastepaper bin. 'I thought you were playing video games,' he said.
'Nah, they encourage violent tendencies,' said Wright.
Reid raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Do they now?' he said. 'I must remember that.’
- I 'Then Sean here said he wanted to see animals. So I thought. . .' He gestured around the office.
'What better place?' Reid finished for him with a wry smile. He put down his clippers and pulled on his sock. 'How are you doing, Sean? My name's Tommy.’
Sean said hello but he was more interested in a large whiteboard which Reid had placed in front of the window on an easel. On it Reid had stuck a photograph of the body in the tunnel. 'What's that?' asked Sean, pointing at the photograph. 'It's a body, isn't it?' he said, stepping forward for a closer look.
Too late, Wright realised what Sean was looking at, and dragged him away. 'What the hell's that doing up here?' he yelled at Tommy. 'It's meant to be in the incident room. That photo's enough to give the boy nightmares.’
'They've only just finished connecting the phones and computers downstairs.' Reid went over to the coffee machine. 'I'm still checking lists of missing persons on the Police National Computer.’
'Any joy?' asked Wright.
'Do you have any idea of how many middle-aged men go missing every year?’
'A lot?’
'Yeah. A lot. Mind you, I thought of doing a runner when my wife set her solicitor on me. You were probably the same, right?' He froze as he realised that Sean was listening. He looked across at Wright, who shook his head admonishingly. 'Do you want a coffee?' asked Reid.
'Sure,' said Wright coldly.
Reid made a gun of his hand and pointed it at Sean. 'Coke?’
'Yes, please,' said the boy. Sean looked up at his father, his face suddenly serious. 'You're going to find the man who did it, aren't you?’
Wright nodded. 'Sure I am.’
J ody Meacher pulled the door closed and walked down the dimly lit corridor. He took his pocket watch out and opened it. With luck he'd be back in Washington for lunch. A door opened to his right and Meacher flinched, but a single eye glared at him for a second and then the door slammed shut again. Meacher put his watch away and pushed open the door that led to the stairs. This time the smell didn't seem as bad.
He switched the briefcase to his right hand. The briefcase had been mainly for show, a badge of office. The briefing he'd given Kruse had been entirely verbal: no papers, no photographs, not even a copy of the Polaroid that had been sent to the senator. Kruse had listened in silence as Meacher explained what had to be done. There had been no questions, a credit to the thoroughness of Meacher's briefing and the sharp intelligence of the man who had been nicknamed 'Missile' during his brief time in Special Forces. Kruse hadn't even asked how much he'd be paid this time.
Meacher wasn't concerned by the man's apparent lack of enthusiasm. Or by his curious living arrangements. Meacher knew that between missions Kruse simply shut himself down, like a piece of machinery that was surplus to requirements.
Meacher knew that in his resting phase, Kruse was almost robotic; but primed and briefed, given an objective, he became a human juggernaut. His personality underwent a transformation, too, like an actor assuming a role. Kruse would produce whatever characteristics were necessary to get the job done, almost on demand.
Meacher walked slowly down the stairs, taking care not to touch thfc walls. He had come across Kruse five years earlier, shortly after he'd left the army. Kruse had served with distinction in Desert Storm and had stayed behind in Saudi Arabia as part of a special anti-terrorist unit protecting the Saudi royal family, but one of his best friends had been killed by a suicide bomber. Kruse's retaliatory attack had killed three Iranian terrorists, but bad timing had led to two innocent bystanders being injured, one of them a Saudi prince. The Americans pulled Kruse out before the Saudis discovered that he was involved.
On his arrival back in the States Kruse was given a battery of psychological tests, the result of which was a recommendation that he be removed from Special Forces. He'd quit the military a week later, and according to an FBI report that had passed across Meacher's desk, he'd tried to begin work as a contract killer. He approached a New York Mafia family but they were suspicious of the non-Italian and sent three of their own men to kill him. They were found two days later in a dumpster, shot with their own guns. That was when Meacher approached Kruse, offering him a chance for occasional work on condition that he worked solely for him. The arrangement had worked perfectly so far.
Kruse didn't know the reason for the missions he was given, and as far as Meacher knew, Kruse was unaware that Meacher worked for a US senator. The man simply didn't care. All he cared about was being given the chance to use the skills he had. Killing skills.
Wright dropped Sean back at McDonald's to meet Janie, then after spending a lonely and depressing evening in an Indian restaurant he drove back to Tavistock Place, parked his car in the BTP courtyard and walked up to the CID office, showing his warrant card to the security guard at the entrance. The guard was reading a first edition of the News of the World, his feet on the desk. He nodded a greeting at Wright and then went back to his paper.
Wright went up to the first floor, but the CID office was deserted and the whiteboard had gone, so he took the stairs down to the incident room in the basement. He took off his coat and dropped it on the back of a chair, then went over to th
e whiteboard and stared at the photograph of the mutilated corpse for several minutes, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. Wright picked up a black marker pen and drew an ace of spades next to the photograph on the whiteboard, carefully shading it in. He stood back and admired his handiwork. The playing card was the key to solving the murder, he was sure of that.
He tapped the pen on the palm of his hand as he nodded slowly. He smiled tightly, then stepped forward and began writing on the board in large capital letters. WHO? he wrote. WHEN?
HOW? WHY? He circled the last word. Then he circled it again. And again.
Superintendent Newton pushed open the door to the incident room. It was seven o'clock in the morning and he didn't expect to see anyone in before him, but to his surprise Nick Wright was sprawled in a chair, his head slumped down on his chest. He was wearing a pale green cotton shirt rolled up to the elbows and khaki Chinos, and scuffed, dirty Nike training shoes. Newton frowned and his pale lips tightened into a straight line. It was most definitely not the standard of clothing he expected to see his plainclothes operatives wearing. Newton walked over to Wright and stood looking down at him. Wright continued to snore quietly. A thin dribble of saliva had run down his chin and plopped on to his shirt. Newton clasped his briefcase to his chest and coughed. Wright shifted his legs. On Wright's desk was an opened can of Coke and a plastic-wrapped sandwich. The superintendent realised that Wright must have spent the night in the office. He coughed again, louder this time. When Wright still didn't react, Newton gently kicked his leg.
Wright opened his eyes sleepily. 'Huh?' he said, trying to focus. 'What?’
'What are you playing at, Nick?' asked Newton.
Wright sprang to his feet. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and grinned shamefacedly. 'Sir? Sorry. I was, er . . .' He swallowed and realised there was saliva on his chin. His hand flew up ^o cover his embarrassment and he wiped away the mess.
'Have you been here all night?' Newton asked.
Wright wiped his hand on his trousers. 'I must have fallen asleep,' he said. He picked up his can of Coke and drank, swilling the cola around his mouth before swallowing. 'Sorry,' he said. 'My mouth felt like something died in it.’
'When I said that you should move out of Tommy's place, I didn't mean to suggest that you should take up residence here,' said Newton dryly.
'Oh no, I wasn't--' began Wright, but he stopped short as he realised that the superintendent was joking. 'I'll go home and change,' he said.
Newton looked at Wright through narrowed eyes. 'Are you okay, Nick?' he asked.
'Yeah, really. I fell asleep, that's all.’
Newton nodded at the whiteboard covered with Wright's doodles. 'The tunnel case?’
Wright put down his can of Coke. 'I was going through the PNC, checking missing persons.’
Newton waved for Wright to sit down. Wright dropped down into his chair and Newton perched on the edge of his desk, his briefcase still in his arms. 'How far have you got?' he asked.
'Based on what little we've got, the PNC computer's generated some two hundred-odd possibilities,' said Wright.
'That seems a lot,' said Newton.
'That's the number of men aged between forty-two and fifty-eight who've been reported missing and who haven't been accounted for yet,' said Wright.
'Nationwide?' asked Newton.
'Except Northern Ireland,' said Wright, picking up a printout of names and addresses. 'Trouble is, it's not an exhaustive list. A lot of men that age go walkabout and nobody misses them. Single men, contractors, tramps.’
'And you can't be more precise about the age?’
'Pathologist reckons fifty, give or take five years. We widened the age range a bit, just to be on the safe side.’
'And you're telling me that two hundred men in their forties and fifties have gone missing?’
Wright handed the print-out to the superintendent, who ran his eyes over it as Wright talked. 'They've been reported missing within the last three months, but a lot will have turned up, it's just that the police weren't told. People are quick to call up if someone goes missing, but not so quick to phone to say that the guy's turned up again. I've been going through the list, checking to see who's still not been accounted for and requesting photographs where possible. The problem is, sir, the face is in a real mess and I don't think we can rely on getting a match from a photograph.
I want to narrow it down before we start bringing in people to identify the body.’
'Agreed,' said Newton. 'The last thing we want is a stream of people filing past the corpse wondering if it's their nearest and dearest. What about identifying marks on the body?' He smiled thinly. 'And I don't mean the fact that his dick was cut off 'The post mortem mentions some scars on his back but doesn't go into detail. We weren't in on the post mortem because the pathologist called in the Met instead. I'm going to talk to her to see if there's anything else that might give a clue as to who he is.’
'What about a search of the crime area?’
'We had a fingertip search of the tunnel and a general sweep outside, but there wasn't anything. It was well planned, his clothes had been taken away, there were several knives used. Anyone who went to that amount of trouble isn't likely to have left anything lying about outside.’
Newton exhaled deeply. 'And no witnesses?’
Wright shook his head. 'There are no houses or gardens overlooking the area, and anyone using the road can't see down into the culvert. There was some dog shit around so we've got a man there interviewing any dog walkers. We're going to start a house-to-house once we've got the rotas worked out.’
Newton stood up and went over to the whiteboard. He looked at the words Wright had written, and at the ace of spades he'd drawn. 'Who, when, how, why?' Newton read. 'Well, answer those questions, Nick, and the mystery is solved.' He turned around. 'I sasW you on TV.’
'Ah.' Wright looked embarrassed.
'At least you didn't allow yourself to be drawn on that serial killer question.' Newton sighed despondently. 'I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. Go home and change, Nick. You've got a busy day ahead of you.’
K ristine Ross rolled over and hugged her pillow, luxuriating in the warmth of her bed. She opened one eye and looked at the clock radio on her bedside table. It was just after two a.m. She closed her eye and tried to get back to sleep. Her alarm was set for six a.m. so that she could be in the office by seven thirty. She listened to her own breathing, then jerked involuntarily as she heard a soft scraping sound from the far side of her bedroom, as if the door had opened and brushed against the carpet. She opened both eyes. The door was closed. She sighed and tried to slip back into sleep.
Sleep wouldn't come. She tossed and turned and rolled on to her side. Working for Senator Burrow was demanding, both physically and mentally, and normally she was so tired that she dropped off as soon as her head touched the pillow. The skin on her back tingled as if she was sleeping in a draught. She pulled up the quilt and drew her knees up against her stomach, curling up into a fetal ball. It was no use. She was wide awake. She opened her eyes. Immediately she stiffened. There was a dark shadow in the corner of the room in a place where she'd never seen a shadow before. She frowned, wondering what it was, cursing herself for being so stupid, but then the shadow moved.and she gasped.
'I've got a gun,' she said. 'If you don't leave now I'll shoot.’
There was a soft chuckle from the shadow. 'You didn't have a gun when I checked this morning, Kristine. I hardly think you bought one on the way back from the office.’
He knew her name, but Kristine was sure that she didn't know who the man was. She sat up, holding the quilt up to cover herself. Suddenly she realised what the man had said. He'd been in her apartment before. She began to panic and her hands shook uncontrollably. 'Take what you want,' she said.
'I intend to,' said the man. He walked over to the light switch and flicked it on.
Kristine blinked and tried to focus on the man. H
e was wearing a grey suit and a white shirt and a conservative tie in muted reds and greens. He looked more like a stockbroker than a burglar or a rapist, but then she'd seen enough police documentaries to know that burglars, rapists and even serial killers didn't always conform to type. His light brown hair was greying prematurely and it was cut short in military style. He was trim and fit but not over muscular, and he was, Kristine realised, the type of man she often went out with.
'Just don't hurt me. Please.' She felt weak and vulnerable and hated herself for it. " 'I'll try not to,' he said.
Kristine was seized by fear. tOh God. Please, take what you want and go!’
The man pursed his lips and pressed his index finger to them. He was wearing gloves, Kristine realised. Tight-fitting black leather gloves. 'Try to keep your voice down, Kristine. I know how stressful this is for you, but if you raise your voice I'm going to have to use more force than I want to. Do you understand?' He raised his eyebrows and nodded and Kristine found herself nodding along with him. 'I want you to get dressed,' he said. 'There's a blue cotton dress in your wardrobe, the one with the white flowers. Put that on. Are you wearing underwear?’
'What?’
'Are you wearing underwear?’
'No,' she said, her voice trembling.
'Put a bra and panties on. White.’
She slid out from underneath the quilt and scampered across the thick-pile carpet to the chest of drawers where she kept her underwear. He watched her, but there was nothing salacious about the way he looked at her. She turned her back on him while she pulled up her panties and put on her bra.
'Do you work out?' the man asked. ^ 'What?’
'Do you work out? Exercise? You've got a great body.’
'Thank you.' The words came out instinctively and she mentally cursed herself for thanking the intruder. She went over to the mirror-fronted wardrobes and pulled open the doors. The blue dress was on a hanger. She took it out and put it on.
'Let's go to the kitchen,' said the man.
Kristine was confused. 'What?’
'The kitchen. Now come on, Kristine, you're not being a very good host, are you?’
The Tunnel Rats Page 6
