The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  'You work too hard, Sally,' said the senator. It was a common refrain. She generally put in a sixteen-hour day, and appeared to have no life outside the office.

  She made a dismissive waving motion with her ringless left hand. 'Bullshit,' she said. 'If you want something doing . . .’

  'And there's no one does it better than you,' said the senator. 'But you make me look bad by always getting in before me.’

  She grinned slyly. 'I could give you an early morning alarm call, Senator.' She picked up her cigarette and inhaled.

  Burrow chuckled. Sally was the only member of his staff who could get away with such teasing.

  Burrow spotted a UPS document package on her desk and he twisted his neck to get a better look. It was from Bangkok. He reached for it but Sally beat him to it. 'It's not been scanned, Senator.’

  'Who's it from?’

  Sally read the waybill affixed to the package. 'Eric Horvitz. Bangkok, Thailand.’

  Burrow felt a chill run down his spine. 'That's okay, I know Mr Horvitz,' he said. She held the package out. 'You're sure that's his signature?’

  Burrow didn't even look at the scrawl. 'Yes, don't worry, I've been expecting this.’

  Sally let go of the package and Burrow took it. 'Coffee?' she asked.

  Burrow shook his head. 'No, thanks. Maybe later.’

  'There's a list of calls on your desk. And the Washington Post wants an interview. You've^got a twenty-minute slot at three.’

  'Three's fine. Who are they sending?’

  'Jane Owen. With a photographer.’

  Burrow nodded. 'Okay, go ahead and confirm. Better have Kimberly in to do my hair at two thirty.’

  'Already booked,' said Sally.

  Burrow acknowledged her mindreading ability with a slight nod and went through to his own office. He ripped open the package as he walked around his desk. There was only one thing inside a Polaroid photograph.

  Burrow stopped dead. For a second or two he felt faint and he reached out with his free hand to grip the desk. He stared at the image, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was almost identical to the previous Polaroid he'd received. A man, his flesh turned ghostly white, spreadeagled against a wall, shiny red blood smeared over his mouth and chest. Burrow narrowed his eyes as he looked at the face of the corpse. It had been more than a quarter of a century since he had last seen Eric Horvitz, but Burrow was reasonably sure that it was Horvitz in the photograph.

  The senator dialled Jody Meacher's number and put the picture on to his blotter as the telephone rang. Meacher's answering machine cut in and Burrow left a brief message.

  There was a discreet tap on his door as he replaced the receiver, and Sally popped her head in. 'Ready to go over your diary?' she asked.

  Burrow opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and tossed the photograph into it. 'Sure,' he said, closing the drawer and flashing his 'everything's all right with the world' smile. 'And I'll have that coffee now, too.’

  There was an ambulance in the road outside Edmunds's house but the blue light wasn't flashing and the driver stood by the rear doors smoking a cigarette. Two police cars were parked on the opposite side of the road, both empty. Gerry Hunter climbed out of his car and locked the door. A group of housewives huddled together on the pavement, staring over the hedge at the front door.

  An old woman in a faded housecoat and slippers saw him coming and Hunter heard her say 'CID'. They all turned to watch him walk towards the gate.

  'Isn't there something on television you could be watching?' shouted Hunter bitterly. One of the women had the decency to blush, but the rest were unfazed by his outburst. 'Go on, piss off!' he said.

  One old woman tut-tutted and Hunter had a sudden urge to push her over the hedge, or better still to drag her into the house so that she could see for herself what was inside. Maybe if she came face to face with a few corpses she wouldn't be so keen to gawp. Hunter glared at her so aggressively that she took a step backwards.

  He pushed his way through the onlookers and walked briskly down the path to the front door. It was ajar and he pushed it open with his foot. A uniformed constable was there, picking his nose. 'Get those people out of here!' Hunter barked. 'This is a crime scene, not a circus.' The constable opened his mouth but before he could speak Hunter cut him short with a warning ringer. 'Just do it,' he said. 'Where's the body?’

  'Upstairs, sir,' said the constable.

  'Doctor?’

  'She's there already, sir.' The constable edged past Hunter and out of the front door. Hunter closed it.

  A second uniform came out of the sitting room, this one a sergeant. Hunter recognised him. 'Hiya, Mick,' said Hunter.

  'Gerry. Have you been upstairs?’

  'Not yet. What's the story?’

  'Choked on his own vomit by the look of it.’

  'Jesus.' Hunter walked through to the sitting room and looked around. He'd spent many an hour in that room, drinking and watching Sky Sport with his partner, their feet propped up on the coffee table. It was a comfortable room, a man's room, with cigarette burns on most of the furniture, and irregular-shaped stains on the brown carpet. Edmunds had never been married and his house was a female-free sanctuary for his friends and colleagues.

  'Nothing suspicious?’

  Mick shook his head. 'Made himself a snack and drank the best part of a bottle of whisky.’

  Hunter rubbed his jaw. Edmunds was a heavy drinker, though he tended to drink in company rather than on his own. 'No visitors?’

  'Doesn't look like it. Just the one glass.’

  Hunter sighed. He wasn't sure if he'd have been happier if there had been suspicious circumstances. Dead was dead, when all was said and done. 'Okay, cheers, Mick. I'll go up and see the doc’

  Hunter went slowly upstairs, holding on to the banister as if afraid that he'd lose his balance. A third uniformed officer was in the bedroom, standing at the window and staring down at the street. He turned as Hunter walked into the bedroom. It was Sandy Peters, an old friend of Hunter's. They'd joined the force at the same time, and despite the fact that Peters had remained a constable while Hunter had risen relatively quickly through the ranks, they were still firm friends.

  'Hiya, Gerry,' said Peters.

  'Sandy. Thanks for the call.’

  Dr Anna Littman was bending over the bed, examining the body. She nodded a greeting to Hunter.

  Peters walked over to Hunter. 'Yeah, they said it was your day off, but I thought . . .' He shrugged, not sure what to say.

  'I'm glad you did,' said Hunter.

  'I'm sorry,' said Peters. 'He was a good guy.’

  'Yeah. I know. Who found the body?’

  The. His car was giving him trouble and I was going to pick him up from the garage. He didn't turn up so I came here. The curtains were drawn and I thought maybe he'd overslept. Tried his mobile, no answer.’

  'How did you get in?’

  'Broke a back window. I'll have it fixed.' He fiddled with his tunic. 'I'd better go downstairs, check that everything's sorted.’

  Hunter nodded. He patted Peters on the arm as he went by.

  Dr Littman stood up and draped the quilt over Edmunds's body. 'I'm sorry, Gerry.’

  'Yeah,' said Hunter.

  'You'd worked together for quite a while?’

  'Three years. Give or take.' Hunter walked over to the window. Outside, the young constable was shepherding the neighbours away. 'What do they expect to see?' asked Hunter. The doctor didn't answer. 'What happened, Anna?’

  'Choked on his own vomit. Youvd be surprised how often it happens, Gerry. A lot of drunks . . .' She walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that Clive was . . . you know what I mean.' She squeezed his shoulder gently. 'Are you okay?’

  'It's such a stupid way to die,' said Hunter quietly. 'If he'd been on duty, if he'd been shot . . .’

  'Then you'd have a murder to investigate. You'd be able to do something.’

  Hun
ter sighed. 'Yeah, I guess that's it.’

  'It's your day off, isn't it? Go home.’

  'Yeah, and drink something sweet. A nice hot cup of tea. I know the routine.' He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. 'I'm sorry, Anna. I didn't mean to snap.’

  'I could give you something . . .’

  Hunter shook his head. 'I'll be okay. I'll have to go and see his mother. She'll have to be told. Jesus, what do I tell her? He choked on cheese on toast?’

  'Just say he died suddenly in his sleep. There's no need to go into details.’

  'They always want details,' said Hunter.

  The doctor took her hand away from Hunter's shoulder. 'Do you want a copy of the post mortem report?’

  'Not unless there's anything unusual.’

  'There won't be, Gerry. I'm sorry.She went back to the bed and picked up her medical bag. 'Come on,' she said. 'Come downstairs with me.’

  Hunter continued to stare out of the window. 'Just give me a few minutes,' he said.

  He waited until she'd left the room before going over to the bed. He stared down at the bump in the quilt and reached out his hand, but then changed his mind. He didn't want to see his partner's corpse, he wanted to remember him as he had been.

  'Yotr stupid, stupid, bastard,' he whispered. Tears filled his eyes and he wiped them away with his sleeve.

  Tommy Reid unscrewed the cap off his bottle of vodka and poured slugs into two polystyrene cups of coffee. He handed one to Nick Wright. 'Congratulations, partner,' he said.

  They bashed their cups together and toasted each other.

  'Never thought we'd get the bastard,' said Wright.

  'All things come to him who waits,' said Reid, drinking his coffee and smacking his lips.

  The mugger who had escaped from Wright during the undercover operation had finally been caught and was safely under lock and key in a custody suite at Edbury Bridge, the BTP's area headquarters. He'd almost killed an old man on the Victoria Line with his stun gun but had been overpowered by a group of rugby players on their way home from a training game. They'd almost broken one of the mugger's legs and blacked both eyes before handing him over to the British Transport Police. Reid and Wright had been over to identify him as the mugger they'd pursued through Paddington. It was definitely him - he was wearing the same motorcycle jacket. They'd left him screaming obscenities and threatening to sue the rugby players for assault.

  Wright would have preferred to have caught the man himself, but he was happy to settle for second best. He sipped his spiked coffee and swung his feet up on to the desk.

  'Hey, Nick, did you get the box?' called Dave Hubbard.

  'Box? What box?’

  Hubbard pointed over at the far corner of the CID office. 'Came first thing this morning.’

  Wright pushed himself up out of his chair and went over to the large cardboard box and knelt down beside it.

  'Not ticking, is it?' shouted Reid.

  It had been delivered by a courier firm and Wright studied the documentation stuck to the top of the box. 'It's from my ex-wife,' he said.

  'Bloody hell, it probably is a bomb!' shouted Reid. He and Hubbard giggled like a couple of schoolboys and Wright scowled across at them.

  He pulled open the box. Inside were pieces of model railway track and more than a dozen small parcels swathed in bubble-wrap. He picked one of them up and carefully unwrapped it. It was a green and black model steam engine.

  'You bitch, Janie,' said Wright under his breath. Stuck into the side of the box was an envelope. Wright opened it, read it, and ripped it in half.

  Reid walked over and looked down into the box. 'A train set?’

  'Brilliant deduction,' said Wright sourly.

  Reid knelt down and picked up the model locomotive. 'Beautiful,' he said.

  'My dad's,' said Wright. 'It was in the loft. Janie's had a clear-out.’

  'Must be worth a bit?’

  'Probably.' He stood up and went over to his desk. He picked up the phone and banged out Janie's number. She answered after half a dozen rings. 'Janie, what the hell are you playing at?’

  'I don't know what you mean.’

  'The train set.’

  'Good. It arrived, did it?’

  'That's for Sean. You know I gave it to him.’

  'Sean doesn't want it. He's too old to play with trains.’

  'He's seven.’

  'Exactly. Anyway, he doesn't want it. It was just cluttering up the attic’

  'That's what attics are for, to be fluttered up.’

  'I'm having it converted,' she said. 'Into a sewing room.’

  'Hell's bells, Janie. I wanted Sean to have it.’

  'He doesn't want it.’

  'Can I speak to him?’

  'He's at school.’

  'I'll call later.’

  'If you like.' She hung up.

  'Bitch!' shouted Wright. He slammed the phone down.

  'Ex-wives, huh,' sympathised Reid. 'What can you do with them?' He leaned forward conspiratorially. 'I've got an idea.’

  'What?’

  'Why don't you kill mine, and I'll kill yours. Like in Strangers On A Train. The Hitchcock movie.’

  Wright shook his head in disgust. As far as he was concerned, his ex-wife's vindictiveness was no laughing matter.

  Phil Evans walked over, grim faced. 'Hey, did you guys hear about Clive Edmunds?’

  'Yeah? What did he do?' asked Reid. 'Break the habit of a lifetime and buy a round?’

  'He's dead, Tommy.’

  Reid's face fell. 'Shit. What happened?’

  'Choked on his vomit. Died in his sleep.’

  'Bloody hell.' Reid looked across at Wright. 'Better make sure I kip on my stomach from now on.’

  Evans glared at Reid. 'Gerry Hunter's been on the phone. The funeral's next Friday. The Super thinks we should be represented.’

  'Is Newton going?' asked Wright.

  'Nah. Budget meeting with Railtrack. Can either of you two make it?’

  Reid and Wright shook their heads.

  'Great, that makes a grand total of zero so far. At this rate I'm going to have to go myself.’

  'Well, it's his own fault for being such an unlikeable bastard,' said Reid.

  'Come on, Tommy, he's dead,' said Evans.

  'I'll go,' said Wright.

  'You sure?' asked Evans.

  'Yeah. He was a cop, he deserves to have someone there from the office.’

  'Cheers, Nick. I'll get the details for you.' He went over to ask Hubbard and Lloyd.

  'I can't make-you out,' said Reid. 'You hated him. He was forever taking the piss out of you.’

  Wright shrugged. 'Professional courtesy.’

  'You're a soft bastard.’

  'Yeah, maybe you're right.’

  Reid sipped his coffee. He groaned. 'Okay, you can stop looking at me like that.’

  Wright raised an eyebrow. 'Like what?’

  'Like a puppy that wants to go for a walk. Okay, I'll come with you. Just don't expect me to throw myself on the coffin.’

  'You're a soft bastard, too,' said Wright, grinning.

  Reid leaned forward. 'Maybe. But if you tell anyone, I'll kill you.’

  Gerald Manville rolled over on to his back and stared up at the ceiling fan which was doing its best to keep the air circulating in the windowless room. He raised his arm and looked at his wristwatch. He'd booked the room for two hours and he still had fifteen minutes left. He dropped his arm and groaned. It was his fifth day in Pattaya and he was exhausted. Sun, sea, sand and sex - Thailand was the perfect holiday destination, especially for a man with needs like Manville's. Three times a year he flew over to the Land of Smiles, to enjoy the sort of sex he could only dream of back in Plymouth. He had hit the bars within hours of getting off the plane from Heathrow, and since then the days and nights had blurred into one long session of sex and drink, with the occasional visit to a restaurant for food.

  He turned on to his side and ran hi
s finger down the silky smooth back of the figure next to him. Thai skin was so unbelievably soft, like silk. Manville kissed the boy between the shoulderblades, revelling in the salty taste of the xthirteen-year-old skin. He felt himself grow hard again but he hadn't the inclination to start something he didn't have time to finish. They'd soon be knocking on his door to let him know that his time was up.

  He patted the boy on the hip and went over to the shower. He rinsed himself clean and wrapped a threadbare white towel around his waist. When he went back into the bedroom, the boy was already dressed in a T-shirt and shorts and was sitting on the edge of the bed. Manville^ picked up his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He gave the boy a five-hundred-baht note. The boy smiled and put his hands together in a 'wai' of thanks, bowing as if he was saying his prayers, then he scampered over to the door and rushed out.

  Manville smiled to himself as he dressed. He loved Thailand. He loved the food, he loved the climate, and he loved the boys. He had another six years before he could retire from his job on a halfway decent pension, then he'd be on the first plane out with a one-way ticket. He'd have more than enough money to rent a small house with a garden, close to the beach, to run a car and to buy himself all the companionship he needed. Six more years. It seemed like a lifetime.

  He checked himself in the bathroom mirror, then left the room. The door opened out on to a small concrete area across which a thick purple curtain had been drawn. Many of the customers at the short-time hotel arrived in cars, and the curtain hid their vehicles from prying eyes. Manville had walked from the nearby bar so he put his hands in his pockets and strolled out into the sunshine. Two chambermaids in blue uniforms giggled as they hurried by with a cart piled high with sheets and towels.

  Manville decided he'd have a drink on the beach before heading back to his own hotel. He walked along the narrow street that led to the beach road, shading his eyes from the bright afternoon sun with the flat of his hand. Two Thai boys sitting on a low wall smiled up at him hopefully. Manville had already been with one of the boys, but he didn't recognise the other. Neither was much older than fourteen. Manville arranged to meet them both later that night and gave them each a one-hundred-baht note to seal the deal. Both boys gave him a formal 'wai' and he was almost tempted to go back to the short-time hotel with them there and then.