The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  'I see. Do you want a coffee?’

  The change of subject took Wright by surprise and for a moment he was flustered. 'Coffee? Sure. Yeah, that'd be great.’

  'Come through to my office.’

  Wright followed her down a corridor. Even in the shapeless scrubs it was clear she had a good figure. Wright wondered how old she was. Late thirties, certainly. Maybe early forties. At least six or seven years older than he was. She opened a door and he followed her into a small office with a single window overlooking a car park. There were several feminine touches: a fern in a pot, a watercolour of a young girl playing with a puppy, and several framed photographs on the desk. One of the pictures was of a good-looking man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles with two young boys in his lap. Dr Littman poured two cups from a coffee-maker on top of a filing cabinet. 'No milk, but I've got ^Coffeemate,' she said.

  'Coffeemate's fine,' said Wright.

  'Sit,' she said. 'Sugar?’

  'No, thanks,' said Wright, sitting in a leather armchair. On the wall to his right was a poster of a rock group, half a dozen beefy men with long hair and leather waistcoats holding their musical instruments in phallic poses. Wright wondered if Anna Littman had a thing about rock musicians. The poster certainly seemed out of place in the office.

  She stirred white powder into the coffees, gave him his cup and then sat in the high-backed swivel chair behind the desk. 'I'm not sure how much of a help the scars on his back will be,' she said.

  'They were very old, hardly noticeable. A wife would probably know about them, but they wouldn't be common knowledge.’

  'Pity,' said Wright. 'Was there anything else that you saw, maybe something that wasn't in the report but which I could use to narrow down the possibilities?’

  Dr Littman looked at Wright over the top of her cup. Small frown lines appeared across her forehead. She put down her cup. 'He was circumcised,' she said. 'That should help. I think you'd probably be able to eliminate two thirds of the possibilities on the basis of circumcision alone.’

  She warmed her hands on the steaming cup of coffee and chewed on the side of her lip, deep in thought, staring into the middle distance as she tried to recall the body.

  'Contact lenses,' she said. 'He had contact lenses. The disposable type, the ones you wear for a day and throw away.' Suddenly her eyes widened. 'Oh God, I clean forgot. I think he played bass guitar.’

  Wright burst out laughing. 'Come on, Anna. What on earth makes you say that?’

  She looked at him seriously. 'I was checking his hands for defence wounds. They were soft, as if he wasn't used to manual work, but the skin on the fingertips of both hands was hard.’

  Wright shook his head, still chuckling.

  Her eyes flashed and she flicked her hair to the side like a horse swishing its mane. 'Do you want my help or not, Sergeant Nick?’

  Wright did his best to stop laughing. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but that's a feat of deduction that Sherlock Holmes would be proud of.’

  Dr Littman pointed at the poster. 'See the guy third from the left. With the bass guitar?’

  Wright looked at the musician. A tall, good-looking man in black leather with shoulder-length jet-black hair and a white guitar thrusting up from his groin. 'Yes . . .' he said, not sure what she was getting at. Dr Littman turned the framed photograph of the man with two children around so that he could see it more clearly. He did a double-take. 'My God,' he said. 'You married a rock and roll star.’

  'He used to dye his hair,' she said. She smiled at the photograph. 'And he has to wear glasses these days.' She looked up at Wright. 'He still plays. And I'd know a bass guitarist's hands anywhere.’

  'Okay, I'm convinced, but why are you so sure he played bass and not lead guitar?’

  Dr Littman sat back in her chair, smiling broadly. 'Lead guitarists use plectrums, so the skin isn't so hard on the fingertips of their right hands. And Spanish guitarists have long nails on their right hands so that they can pluck the strings.' She gave an exaggerated shrug. 'What can I say? I've been married a long time. My husband could probably tell you half a dozen causes of hypertension.' Wright was suddenly very envious of Dr Littman's husband. Her love and affection for him was written all over her face. Wright doubted that Janie had ever felt the same way about him. 'So, have I been of any help?' the pathologist asked.

  Wright grinned. 'Of course you have,' he replied. 'I'm looking for a short-sighted, circumcised bass player. How hard can that be?’

  When Wright got back to the office, Tommy Reid was devouring a carton of Kentucky Fried Chicken. 'Wanna piece?' asked Reid, offering a leg.

  Wright shook his head. He sat down and studied a note that ,4?ad been left on his desk. His ex-wife had called. Three times. Wright held up the note.

  'Yeah, she's not a happy bunny,' said Reid. He wiped his greasy lips with a paper napkin.

  'Did she say what it was this time?’

  Reid picked up a handful of French fries. 'Nope.' He slotted the fries into his mouth and chewed contentedly. 'How did it go with the lady doctor?’

  'I think I can narrow the list down quite a bit. Our man played bass guitar.’

  'Yeah? What colour?’

  'I'm serious. Playing the guitar affects the fingers, apparently.’

  Reid pulled a face. 'You learn something every day,' he said.

  'What about the card?' asked Wright.

  Reid reached for his notebook and flicked through it. 'I had no problem identifying it. I took it to a magic shop in Kensington and the guy there knew what it was straight away. It's a Bicycle brand, one of the most common brands, unfortunately. Manufactured in Ohio by the United States Playing Card Company. They make millions of the things.’

  'Any chance of telling where our card was bought?’

  'If we had the box they came in, maybe. But not from the card itself. Game shops, department stores, magic shops, newsagents, they all sell playing cards. And a hell of a lot of them sell the Bicycle brand.’

  Wright heaved himself out of his chair and went over to the whiteboard. He massaged his temples with his knuckles as he stared at the photograph of the mutilated corpse. 'I wonder what it's like to die like that?' he mused. 'To have your skin peeled off, bit by bit.’

  'Hey, I'm eating here,' complained Reid. Wright turned and was about to apologise, but his partner was already biting into his chicken leg.

  There were two detectives, big men in cheap suits with the careworn faces of cops who had been on the job long enough to have seen it all. They were polite enough, and the senior of the two, an inspector called O'Brien, had shaken the senator by the hand after they'd shown him their identification. The questions were routine, O'Brien had said, and he didn't expect to take up too much of Burrow's time. They'd rejected his offer of coffee and O'Brien's partner had taken out a pen and notebook after they'd seated themselves in front of the senator's desk.

  'How long had Kristine Ross been working for you, Senator?' asked O'Brien.

  'Just under two years.’

  'As your secretary?’

  'As one of three secretaries. Four, if you include my office manager, Sally Forster.’

  'Did she seem depressed?’

  Burrow leaned forward. 'I thought it was an accident? She tripped, I was told.’

  O'Brien made a patting motion with his hand and shook his head emphatically. 'These are standard questions, Senator. Whenever we get an accidental death, we have to rule out any other possibilities. I wouldn't be doing my job if I did otherwise.’

  Burrow sat back again. 'I understand, Officer, but Kristine was a delightful, high-spirited, wonderful girl, and I wouldn't want it to get around that she might have killed herself. No, she was most definitely not depressed.’

  'To the best of your knowledge, did she have a drinking problem?’

  'A drinking problem? Absolutely not. Why, was drink involved?’

  'She'd drunk a bottle of wine before she fell.’

  Burrows shrugged. 'That surprise
s me,' he said.

  'Was she under a lot of stress here?’

  'No more so than the rest of my staff. We all work long and hard here, Inspector O'Brien, but it goes with the turf. Kristine knew what was involved before she joined. She didn't appear to me to have any trouble coping, but Sally would know better than me. You should speak to her.’

  'We have, Senator, and she agrees with you.’

  Burrow held his hands out, palms upward. 'There you are, y-,then.' He stole a glance at O'Brien's partner. The detective was scribbling in his notebook. He finished writing and looked up. Burrow flashed him a confident smile.

  O'Brien stood up and held out his hand. Burrow shook it again and looked the detective in the eye. The senator knew how important eye contact was: it demonstrated sincerity and openness, qualities that Burrow was a master at projecting.

  'Terrible business,' said Burrow.

  'Accidents happen,' said the detective. His partner put away his notebook and nodded a farewell to the senator. 'Did you know that more accidents happen in the home than on the roads?' O'Brien asked.

  'Is that so?' said the senator. 'I had no idea.’

  He walked the two detectives to the door and showed them out. Sally Forster was waiting to escort them out of the main office. Burrow closed the door and sighed deeply. His heart had been pounding throughout the interview, even though he knew that Jody Meacher would have left nothing to chance. There wouldn't be anything to connect Burrow to the murder, and it was a murder, he was sure of that. Meacher hadn't said what he was going to do, or when it would happen, but Burrow knew that Meacher was behind Kristine Ross's death. More than that, Burrow didn't want to know. All that mattered was that Meacher was taking care of things, just as he'd promised.

  Nick Wright spent the afternoon methodically working through his list of missing persons. The list had been generated by the Police National Computer after details of the corpse had been fed in: height, weight, eye colour, age, and distinguishing features. The wide age bracket was the main reason that the list was so long, but he hadn't wanted to narrow it any further. Each missing man had his own page giving physical details, the name and telephone number of the investigating officer and a PNC code that identified the police station involved in the enquiry. What the PNC didn't supply was a photograph, or details of next of kin; for that Wright had to contact the officer handling the enquiry. It was slow, methodical work. Often the officer involved wasn't available, so Wright had either to leave a message or find someone else who could pull the file for him. If there was a photograph available, Wright arranged to have it sent to Tavistock Place, either through the Photophone system that the Force Intelligence Bureau had on the third floor, or by faxing it to one of the two fax machines in the incident room. Sometimes he was able to eliminate a possibility solely on the basis of a photograph, but the mutilation of the face and the poor quality of the photographs meant that more often than not Wright would have to telephone the next of kin for further details.

  At first he'd felt a little embarrassed asking relatives if the man who'd gone missing was circumcised, and several times he'd been accused of being a pervert and had had the phone banged down on him. Despite his embarrassment, he'd already ruled out more than twenty names. Wright was about to dial another number when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and his heart fell as soon as he heard his ex-wife's voice.

  'What the hell are you playing at, Nick?' she hissed. Janie rarely shouted. If anything, the angrier she got, the quieter she became.

  Wright was stunned. He had no idea what he'd done to upset her. 'What's wrong?' he said.

  'What did I say to you about telling Sean war stories?' she said. 'He had nightmares all last night and I had to take him to school with bags under his eyes. What the hell did you think you were doing?’

  'He wanted to--’

  'Just how long do you think the judge is going to allow you to see our son if he finds out the sort of photographs you've been showing him? Crime scene pictures, for God's sake. You showed him a photograph of a dismembered corpse.’

  'Okay, I'm sorry.’

  'Sorry doesn't cut it. I'm supposed to be able to trust you with Sean. I specifically told you not to talk about that case.’

  'Janie, it was raining, the zoo was a washout, I couldn't think what else to do with him. It was a mistake. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do, open a vein?' n 'An artery would be nice,' she said. 'Don't do it again, Nick.’

  The line went dead. Wright banged the receiver back on its cradle. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. 'Shit,' - he whispered. He stood up and went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He sipped it but the hot, bitter liquid couldn't shift the bad taste in his mouth. Wright went over to Reid's desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. The bottle of vodka was wrapped in a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag. Wright took it out and poured a slug into his coffee, then drank half of it in one gulp. He added more vodka, then put the bottle away and closed the drawer. Reid was out trying to interview dog-walkers and wasn't planning to put in an appearance that afternoon. More than likely he'd be in a pub somewhere. Wright raised his polystyrene cup in a silent salute to his absent partner.

  Wright sat down at his own desk and ran his finger down the list of missing persons. He'd already discounted most of the names on the first sheet. As he flicked over to the second sheet, his mobile telephone rang. The noise startled him and coffee slopped over his hand. He cursed, put the cup down and licked his hand as he picked up the phone and held it to his ear. He had a sinking feeling that it was his ex-wife, but the voice on the other end of the line was cultured and soft-spoken, the sort of voice that might belong to the wife of a Conservative Member of Parliament. 'Sergeant Wright?' she said.

  'Speaking,' said Wright.

  'You left a message for me to call you,' she said. 'My name's May Eckhardt.’

  Wright ran his eyes down the sheet. No Eckhardt. 'Do you by any chance have a relative missing, Mrs Eckhardt? A man?’

  'My husband,' she said hesitantly. 'Have you found him?’

  Wright found the name on the fourth sheet. Max Eckhardt. A forty-eight-year-old American living in Maida Vale. May Eckhardt didn't sound at all American, her accent was pure Home Counties. 'I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your husband, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  'Have you found him?' she repeated, a harder edge to her voice this time.

  'Mrs Eckhardt, at this stage all I'm trying to do is to eliminate names from a list of missing persons. A body was found in a railway tunnel and I'm trying to identify it. Could you tell me, was your husband circumcised?’

  'Excuse me?’

  'Your husband. Was he circumcised?’

  She hesitated for several seconds. 'Oh, I see. Yes. Yes, he was.' She had obviously realised why he had asked the question, for which Wright was immediately grateful.

  'Did he wear contact lenses?’

  'Yes. Yes, he did.' 'And were there scars on his back? Old scars, small ones.’

  'Oh my God,' she whispered.

  'Mrs Eckhardt, did he have scars on his back?’

  'Yes, he did. It's him, isn't it?’

  'I really couldn't say, Mrs Eckhardt, but I would like you to come in and take a look at the body we have.’

  'You think it's him, don't you?’

  'It's a possibility,' Wright admitted.

  'What about his wallet? He had a driving licence, his press card, his credit cards.’

  'There were no personal effects on the body, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  'But you said he was found in a tunnel. He was hit by a train, wasn't he?’

  'No, he wasn't hit by a train. Look, Mrs Eckhardt, I really don't want to say any more until you've had the chance to identify the body.’

  'When?’

  'As soon as you can,' said Wright. He gave her the address of the mortuary and arranged to meet her there within the hour. Wright put his mobile phone into his jacket pocket. He drank the rest of his coffee, bu
t the bad taste was still in his mouth. He hoped that the body wouldn't be that of May Eckhardt's husband, but he had a feeling that his search was over.

  Wright arrived at the mortuary in St Thomas's Hospital fifteen minutes before he was due to meet Mrs Eckhardt. He wanted to check with Dr Littman that the corpse was in a fit state to be viewed. The last time Wright had seen it the face was cut to ribbons and smeared with blood. Dr Littman wasn't there but Robbie Ballantine was, washing up after yet another post mortem.

  'What state's the tunnel body in after the post mortem?' Wright asked him. 'I've got a possible relative coming to identify him.’

  'The face was pretty cut up,' said Ballantine. 'We've put it back together as best we can, but it's still a mess.’

  'Recognisable?’

  'I should think so. How close a relative?’

  'Wife.’

  'Poor cow,' said Ballantine sympathetically.

  'If it's her,' said Wright. He looked across at the large clock on the wall over the sink. 'I'd better go along to reception. Can you get it ready?’

  'Sure,' said Ballantine. 'Does she know about the injuries?’

  'Not yet.’

  'Because the body isn't . . . complete. If you see what I mean. His dick's in a specimen jar, to put it bluntly,' Ballantine said. 'So if she's any thoughts about checking up on other parts of his anatomy to confirm that it's him, I'd think twice before you let her pull the sheet back.’

  Wright walked through to reception. There were two uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chairs to the left of the main entrance with a metal coffee table on which lay a few well-thumbed magazines. A bored receptionist was pecking away at a computer keyboard and she looked up as Wright walked up to the counter.

  'I'm waiting for a Mrs Eckhardt,' he said. .'She's here to view a body. Can you point her in my direction when she gets here?’

  The receptionist nodded but didn't say anything.

  Wright went over to a window which overlooked the car park. Dark clouds rolled slowly overhead, threatening rain. A black VW Golf cabriolet nosed into the car park, driven by an Oriental girl. The top was down and as she parked she cast a nervous look at the sky. 'Yeah, it looks like rain,' Wright said out loud. 'Better safe than sorry.' He smiled to himself as she put the top up.