The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  Wright picked up the magazines, wondering what sort of reading matter was thought suitable for a mortuary. Most of them were old copies of Hello!

  He looked up as the Oriental girl walked in. She was a little under five feet six, with shoulder-length glossy black hair. As she approached Wright he realised that she was older than he'd first thought, certainly in her late twenties, maybe older. The fringe and her small frame gave her the appearance of a schoolgirl from a distance, but she walked with authority and he saw the swell of firm breasts under her open fawn Burberry raincoat. She had an expectant look on her face and Wright figured that she worked in the mortuary. He was about to point to the receptionist when she spoke.

  'Sergeant Wright?’

  Wright's mouth fell open in surprise. The cultured uppermiddleclass voice was totally at odds with the petite Oriental. 'Yes?' he said, momentarily confused.

  'May Eckhardt.' She held out her hand. 'We spoke on the phone.’

  She seemed to be deliberately trying to put him at ease and he realised she must have sensed his confusion. 'I'm sorry,' he said, trying to regain his composure. 'Of course, Mrs Eckhardt, I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere.' He immediately regretted the words. It was possibly the worst day of May Eckhardt's life and he'd told her he was thinking about something else. 'I'm sorry,' he repeated. He shook her hand. It felt tiny within his own, but it was strong and firm and he felt her nails press against his flesh. The sensation was decidedly sexual and he felt a slight tingle down his back. She withdrew her hand quickly and seemed flustered herself as if she'd sensed what he was thinking. 'Thank you for coming,' he added, and felt another surge of embarrassment. It wasn't as if he'd invited her to a party.

  Wright took her down the corridor to the viewing room in silence. He didn't trust himself to speak without making a fool of himself again. The viewing room was little more than a cubicle, about six feet wide and ten feet long, painted a putrid yellow. The only furniture was a narrow table on which stood a white oval vase containing a bunch of faded ?r* silk flowers. Set into one of the walls was a white-framed window, and on the other side was one of the post mortem v rooms. Robbie Ballantine was waiting on the other side of the glass. Wright nodded that they were ready and Ballantine pushed a trolley over.

  The body was covered with a sheet the same colour as Ballantine's scrubs. He slowly pulled back the sheet until the face was revealed. It was considerably less bloody than when Wright had last seen it, but the cuts were clearly visible in the pale dead flesh.

  Wright looked across at May Eckhardt. She was staring at the body, her face devoid of expression. 'Is it your husband?' he asked.

  She didn't reply and Wright wondered whether or not she'd heard him. He was going to ask her again when she gave a small shake of her head. 'I'm not sure,' she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Ballantine looked at Wright expectantly. Wright shrugged. 'Take your time,' he told her.

  She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was feeling the cold. 'It's just . . .’

  She didn't finish, but Wright knew what she was trying to say. People never looked the same after death. 'There's no rush, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  She turned to face him. 'Can I get closer?’

  Wright wanted to dissuade her, but he knew that her request made sense. 'Okay,' he said. 'Come this way.' He took her along the corridor to the post mortem room. Ballantine had realised what was happening and was holding the door open for them. He flashed Wright a warning look as he went by, a silent reminder not to allow her to pull back the sheet. Wright nodded.

  May seemed not to notice the non-verbal communication between the two men, and walked hesitatingly over to the trolley. She stared down at the body for a few seconds, then looked up at Wright. Her lower lip was quivering. She tried to speak, but words wouldn't come and she just nodded. Wright reached for her arm, wanting to guide her away from the trolley, but she took a step back, leaving him grabbing at empty air. She turned, bent down and kissed her husband on the forehead. Her hair swung across the corpse's face, then she straightened up and walked quickly out of the room.

  Wright gave a small sigh of relief. He had feared that she might break down and he wasn't sure how he would have dealt with that. Her high heels click-clacked along the tiled floor and Wright had to jog after her as she hurried along the corridor. She rushed through the door to reception and it slammed in Wright's face. He pushed it open and called after her. She stopped in the centre of the reception area, facing away from him. The receptionist was engrossed in her computer.

  Wright walked up behind her. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Eckhardt,' he said, 'but I have to ask you, for the record. Is that your husband in there?’

  She spun around, her eyes filled with tears and contempt. 'What do you think?' she spat.

  Wright held up his hands as if trying to ward off her rage. 'Please, Mrs Eckhardt, I have to ask. I can see you're upset . . .’

  'Upset!' she hissed. 'Upset? That's my husband in there and you can see that I'm upset?’

  Wright ran a hand through his hair, wondering what he could possibly say that would calm her down. 'I'll be asked at the inquest, Mrs Eckhardt. I'll be asked if you positively identified the body as being that of your husband, and it won't be enough for me to say that you reacted as if it were. I have to hear you say the words. I'm sorry.' He kept his head close to hers and his voice down to a hushed whisper.

  She took a deep breath, and gradually regained her composure. 'No,' she said. 'I'm the one that's sorry. You're right, of course. Yes, that is my husband. Max Eckhardt.’

  The strength seemed to fade from her legs and Wright reached for her as her eyes closed and she fell forwards. He grabbed her around the waist. She was as light as a child and he swept her up and carried her over to the chairs, where he sat her down and loosened her coat.

  Wright looked over his shoulder; the receptionist was continuing to type obliviously. 'Excuse me, do you think you could get me a glass of water?' Wright asked her.

  The receptionist gasped when she saw May slumped in the chair. 'Oh my goodness,' she said. 'That's the third one this week.’

  'A glass of water,' said Wright. 'If it's not too much trouble.' He fanned May's face with a copy of Hello! until the receptionist returned with a plastic cup of tepid water. By then May had opened her eyes again and she sipped gratefully at the water. 'What happened?' she asked.

  'You fainted,' said the receptionist. 'You're the third one this week.’

  Wright glared at her and she shrugged carelessly and went back to her desk behind the counter. He took the cup off May. The rim was smeared with pink lipstick.

  'What happened to Max?' she asked.

  Wright shook his head. 'I'm afraid he was murdered, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  'Murdered?' What little colour remained in her face visibly drained away and Wright put a hand on her shoulder, afraid that she was about to faint again.

  She shook him away. 'I'm all right,' she insisted, but she took the cup off him and drank again.

  'Is there someone I can call for you? A friend? A relative?’

  She shook her head. 'I don't have any friends in London,' she said. 'We've only been here a few weeks. And I don't have any relatives.’

  'What about on your husband's side of the family?’

  'He left home when he was a teenager.' She snorted softly. 'Not that he ever called it home. He hasn't spoken to his parents for thirty years, doesn't even know if they're alive.' She bit down on her lower lip. 'Didn't,' she corrected herself. 'He didn't even know if they're alive.' She looked at Wright with large, tear-filled eyes. 'When do you start thinking about them in the past tense?' she asked.

  Wright took one of her small hands in his own. This time she didn't seem to resent the physical contact. 'It takes a long time,' he said. 'Sometimes you never get to think of them in the past.’

  She shuddered and slowly withdrew her hand, a faraway look in her eyes. Wright gave her back the cup of water and she sipped it. 'What am I goin
g to do?' she asked.

  Wright didn't know what to say.

  'I have to go home,' she whispered. 'I have to take the car in for its service. I have a lot of things to do.' The words came out singly, each separated by a distinct pause.

  'Are you going to be all right?' he asked, the words sounding woefully inadequate.

  She looked up at him as if she'd forgotten that he was there. 'I'm sorry?' she said, frowning. 'What did you say?’

  'Will you be all right?’

  She stood up and adjusted the belt of her raincoat. 'I'll be fine,' she said, her voice robotic.

  'I'll need to talk to you again,' he said. 'There are questions I have to ask you.’

  She turned away. 'Of course,' she said.

  'I'll telephone you tomorrow,'he said.

  She pushed open the door. 'Do that,' she said. The door swung closed behind her.

  Wright went over to the window and watched as she went over to her car. He half expected her to break down in tears, but she opened the door, climbed in, and a few seconds later she drove away. She didn't look in his direction.

  Ballantine walked into the reception area. 'Did she identify him?’

  'Yeah. It's her husband. Max Eckhardt.’

  'Okay, I'll do the paperwork. Do you-want to stay and watch a post mortem? I've got a victim of parakeet poisoning.’

  Wright frowned. 'Don't you mean paraquat?’

  'Nah, someone shoved a parrot down his throat.' Ballantine chuckled and slapped Wright on the back. 'Just trying to lighten the moment, Nick.' He walked away, still chuckling.

  Wright drove back to the office. Reid was squinting at his VDU and cross-checking a list of names against a computer printout.

  'The victim is Max Eckhardt,' said Wright. 'Definitely.’

  'Thank God for that,' said Reid. He sat back and massaged his right shoulder. 'I think I'm getting RSI,' he complained. 'You want to contact the press office?' He shook his hands, then clicked his knuckles.

  'I think I'll wait until I've interviewed his wife.’

  'Widow,' corrected Reid. 'Speaking of ex-wives, your solicitor rang.' He handed Wright a piece of a Burger King wrapper on which he'd scrawled a telephone number.

  'Did he say what he wanted?’

  Reid shook his head.

  'Great,' sighed Wright. He was sure of one thing: it wouldn't be good news. 'Where's Ronnie?’

  Reid gestured upwards with his thumb. 'With the governor.’

  'I'd better tell him I've identified the body.' The door to the incident room was pushed open. 'Speak of the devil,' said Wright as Ronnie Dundas stepped into the incident room, closely followed by Superintendent Newton.

  Wright got to his feet. 'Sir, we know who the victim is. Max Eckhardt. Number sixty-three on the PNC list.’

  'Great,' said Dundas. The chief inspector turned to the superintendent. 'At least we can show the Met boys something, Governor,' he said.

  Newton nodded, his mouth a tight line. 'Where are they going to sit?' he asked.

  Dundas pointed at a group of desks that had been pushed together to the right of the door. 'We've given them their own HOLMES computer and I've asked Phil to assign two uniformed WPCs to input their statements and reports. I don't think they'll have any reason to moan.’

  Newton pursed his lips as he looked around the incident room. He looked at his wristwatch. 'They're due in at three,' he said. 'Bring their chief inspector up to see me when they get here.' He turned and left the incident room.

  Dundas went over to his desk and picked up a carton of milk. 'Okay, tell me about Eckhardt,' he said.

  Wright logged on to the PNC terminal and called up Eckhardt's details. 'Forty-eight years old, American, married and lives in Maida Vale.’

  Dundas cursed as his fingers slipped and the carton fell to 1 the ground. Milk splattered over his shoes as he retrieved m it. 'Why the hell do they make these damn things so dif ficult to open?' he asked. He took a long drink and wiped iK his moustache with the back of his hand. 'Missing since when?' m 'A week ago. His wife reported it on Tuesday.’

  'Did she say why he was in Battersea?’

  m 'I haven't interviewed her yet,' said Wright. 'She was pretty ? shaken up. I thought it best if she went home. I'll go along and Psee her later.' 'Okay,' said Dundas. 'Get a picture circulated. The Met boys'll .-- be handling the house-to-house in Battersea. They'll be glad of ? the overtime.’

  'Couldn't we handle that?' asked Wright. If there was going to be an early break on the case, it would probably come from a witness who'd seen the killer in the vicinity.

  'It's a joint investigation, Nick.’

  'Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  'I'm serious.' Dundas held his arm up in the air. 'That goes for everyone!' he shouted. 'I know we're not the best of buddies with the council cops, but the key word here is cooperation. Everything goes into HOLMES. Everything. No holding back tidbits for yourself. And at morning prayers we share ideas, not hurl insults. Is everyone clear on that?’

  There were assorted mumblings from the detectives in the room.

  'Good!' Dundas shouted. 'Just make sure we solve the case before the bastards!’

  Roy Casper's office was little more than a broom cupboard, with half a window that looked down on a street of shops, most of which had 'For Sale' or 'To Let' signs in their windows. The office had once been twice the size but a plasterboard wall had been fitted, splitting it down the middle. There were no pictures or framed certificates hanging on the wall and Nick Wright wondered if the solicitor had been warned that it wouldn't take the weight. The few qualifications that Casper had hung on the wall by the 1* door. Wright had never looked at them; for all he knew they could have been primary-school swimming certificates.

  The office furniture wasn't dissimilar to that in Wright's own office: a cheap teak-effect desk, three shoulder-height metal filing cabinets, and swivel chairs covered in grey fabric. The solicitor had a computer on his desk but it was probably a decade older than the one Wright used. Casper hadn't even switched it on.

  Casper was smoking a cigarette that he'd rolled himself and scattering ash over the file he was reading. Wright waited impatiently, knowing that he could only have been summoned to the poky little office to hear bad news.

  J 'Here it is, sorry,' said Casper, pulling out a letter. Casper was only a few years away from retirement and Wright had the feeling he was coasting. Everything about the man suggested he'd given up taking care of his appearance. In a perfect world Wright would have had a more high-powered solicitor, but Casper was all he could afford.

  Casper squinted at the letter, clicking his teeth as he read, and Wright had to fight the urge to grab the letter from him. Casper looked up at him. 'She wants to cut back on your visitation rights . . .’

  Wright jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair flew backwards and banged into the wall. 'She what?' He grabbed for the letter, almost tearing it out of Casper's hand. His whole body shook as he read it.

  'Calm down, Nick,' said the solicitor.

  'Once a month!' Wright spat. 'She wants me to see him once a month! For God's sake, he's going to forget who I am. She can't do this.’

  Casper began rolling another cigarette. 'She can try,' he said. 'Read on.’

  Wright read through to the end. Janie was claiming that Sean was having nightmares after the unauthorised visit to his office. 'This is bullshit,' said Wright.

  Casper used a red plastic lighter to light his cigarette and he blew smoke over the file. 'Did you take Sean to your office?’

  'Yes. I'd taken him to the zoo, it started raining, I figured he might like to see where I worked, that's all.’

  'But your ex-wife specifically told you not to?’

  Wright shook his head vigorously. 'No, that's not what happened at all. Look, whose side are you on?’

  'You're paying my bill,' said Casper. 'Though I should mention that I'm still waiting for your last account to be settled.' He took a long pull on his roll-up. 'Your e
x-wife alleges that your last visit has had a detrimental effect on your son's mental wellbeing. Accordingly, she wants to decrease your exposure to him.’

  'Can she do that?’

  'It'll have to go before a judge. But if she gets a medical report on her side, I wouldn't be surprised if the judge decided in her favour.’

  Wright tossed the letter back on to the solicitor's untidy desk. 'Terrific,' he said bitterly.

  Casper put the letter back in the file. 'How do you want me to proceed?' he asked.

  Wright put his hands either side of his head and massaged his temples. 'What are my options?’

  'I can say that we'd like our own psychologist to examine your son. They'll have to agree to that, and by the time he's been examined, he'll probably be over the nightmares.' Casper put up his hands as Wright scowled at him. 'That's my recommendation, anyway.’

  'I've a better idea,' said Wright. Casper raised his eyebrows expectantly. 'I could kill her.' Wright bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. 'I'm only joking, Roy,' he said. 'Honest.’

  I May Eckhardt's address was an apartment in a four-storey mansion block in Maida Vale. Her black VW was parked in the road and Nick Wright pulled in behind it. The exterior of the mansion block was orange brick and white-painted pebbledash with a slate roof that looked brand new. There was a narrow well-tended strip of garden in front of the block and a black and white cat with pale green eyes watched him from the safety of a small chestnut '"tree as Wright walked towards the front door. There were eight bells and a brass speakerphone to the right of the door. Most of the bells had brass nameplates, but the one under the Eckhardt bell was written on cardboard. Wright pushed the bell. There was no answer and he pressed it a second time. There was still no reply, but the door lock buzzed and when he pushed the front door it swung open. He looked around and saw a closed-circuit television camera tucked away at the top of the entrance alcove. She'd obviously seen him on that. He smiled up at the lens, and immediately regretted it. He wasn't there on a social call.