The Hard Way

by Duncan Brockwell

  Taking her phone out of her pocket, Hayes asked Miller to get her notepad and pen. Hayes spoke to the receptionist, introducing herself. “Listen, we need your help. We’re at the workshop, and we can’t see any of the staff here. Could you look on your system and give me the names of all the employees registered as working here, please.”

  Miller leaned on the bonnet, her pen poised. ‘Vanu Parekh’, ‘Paula Lang’, ‘Yurika Ishii’, and ‘Nathan Stewart’. Her partner thanked the receptionist and hung up. “Good going. We’ve got some tracking to do this afternoon.”

  “They’re doing a proper number on your brother. Whatever he’s been making in there, it’s costing people their lives.”

  Mrs Edwards stood and regarded Hayes over the roof. “I don’t know how. Valves are valves. Why would someone want to murder another person over one. Now, if my brother invented a new kind of energy, or new breed of phone, I’d understand, but this?”

  Ignoring their chatter, Miller walked to their car, sat in the passenger seat and entered ‘Vanu Parekh’ into the PNC. There weren’t many, funnily enough. “I’ve got it. Not much info though. He lives a few miles away. Will take about an hour or so to get there.”

  “Great idea. Good work.” Hayes sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine.

  Leaning outside, she waved at Mrs Edwards. “We’ll see you tonight. Hayes will let you know what time we’re getting here.”

  With the woman out of earshot, Miller turned to Hayes. “Let’s hope it’s not Mr Parekh who was run off the road.”

  48

  Walker pulled up behind a Honda Civic at a set of traffic lights. The radio crackled in the background, with Vodicka playing with it. “I’m worried, though. I haven’t heard a thing from him since I saw him at the pub. I told him to keep in touch. I even went over to his on Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t home. I hope he hasn’t done a runner.”

  The Sarge sat next to him in the passenger seat. “I hope not, too. He’s still got to pass his psych evaluation and survive the inquest. He’s not safe yet, and it won’t look good if he does a runner.”

  Walker studied Vodicka in the rear-view mirror. “What’s up, Voddy?”

  “It’s pretty quiet, how about we drive over to Zuccari’s now? He might be in, you never know.” She leaned forward, waiting their approval. “It’s only ten minutes out of our way. No one’ll miss us for half an hour, will they?”

  “What do you say, Sarge? Shall I go for his house?” Walker accelerated when the light went green, spotting a good turning point up ahead.

  “Let’s go find him,” the sarge ordered finally. “See what trouble he’s got himself into. He’s such a fuck-up. I’m not sure my nerves can take the beating.”

  Walker drove the BMW X5 cruiser through the capital’s streets until he turned onto Eastern Avenue, then onto the A12 towards Brentwood, where Zuccari had a tiny flat. They all listened out for the radio in case they were called to an incident. So far, the day had been quiet.

  It took another fifteen minutes to arrive outside Zuccari’s block of flats down the road from the Slug and Lettuce pub on the High Street. They passed The Gardeners, Zuccari’s regular drinking hole. Walker parked on the pavement outside the building.

  “Wait here with the motor, Voddy,” Sarge ordered.

  Walker would have suggested himself. Their vehicle housed several weapons, a battering ram and rocket launcher. If scumbag locals got their hands on their cruiser, there would be hell to pay. At least Vodicka would put up a fight if someone came along. And she would win. “We won’t be long. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

  Acting like they were on duty, a pistol holstered on his hip, and his carbine in both hands, Sarge next to him, Walker made his way to the front doors. It always surprised him to see the level of degradation people put up with. The flats were beyond scruffy; they smelled too. The lift reeked of piss. “He’s on three.”

  Holding his breath as much as he could, Walker joined Sarge on Zuccari’s floor. He strolled towards his front door, stood, knocked.

  A noise came from inside.

  He waved, knowing that Zuccari used his peephole. “Come on, mate, open up. We’ve come to see how you’re getting on.” Nothing. “Open up, I mean it.”

  The door almost sighed, opening slowly. Zuccari’s swollen face appeared in the crack. “Look, I’m fine. Just leave me be, please?”

  The Sarge took one look at Zuccari, then barged his way inside the pokey flat, putting his arm around Zuccari’s shoulder and walking him through to the lounge. The big guy sat the flat owner on the sofa and stood looking down at him. “The fucking state of you.”

  “Gee, thanks, Sarge, you say the nicest things.”

  Walker could read through the bravado. His colleague and friend was petrified. He noticed Zuccari hiding his left hand, sitting on it. “Show us your hand.” He could see a white bandage that had turned almost grey.

  “What? Fuck off. You’ll be asking to see my dick next.”

  “Ah no, that comes after dinner.” Walker leaned over and grabbed Zuccari’s arm. His little finger and ring finger were missing. “What the fuck! Who did this to you? Where are your fingers?”

  Whipping his arm back, Zuccari sat on his hand again. “I had an accident with a saw, is all. They couldn’t sew them back on, so the nurses disposed of them.”

  “It was those Turkish gangsters, wasn’t it?” Sarge said.

  Zuccari broke down. “They blindsided me, bundled me into a van and took me to some barn out in the middle of nowhere. They beat on me until she arrived. That’s when they took out the circular saw and sliced off my fingers. Melodi’s demanding I pay it off in part by keeping her in the know on your girlfriend’s case, that triple murder.”

  “She wants a cop on her payroll, Zuccari. If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else.” The Sarge’s eyes flared, angry. “This fucking bitch and her thug cousins are going to get what’s owed them. Where are your fingers really?”

  “Melodi wrapped them up in a hanky and put them in her bag, then she left and the Inans beat the crap out of me, bundled me back into the van and dropped me off outside a hospital. I don’t remember much about the latter part; I passed out, woke up in a hospital bed attached to tubes this morning. I only got home quarter of an hour ago.”

  “Why’s she interested in Rachel’s case? Why that one specifically?” Walker couldn’t understand the specificity of it. “I mean, having a cop on the payroll makes sense, but why earmark a certain investigation?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe she had them killed and she wants to keep an eye on how the investigation’s going? You tell me! You’re shacked up with Miller, you must know more about it than I do.” Zuccari’s eyes were wild, darting all over the place, scared. “Help me, please. They said if I don’t come up with the goods, they’re going to take my hand next.”

  Sarge bent down and helped Zuccari to his feet. “You’re coming with us. If you’re in our custody the whole time, they can’t touch you. Luke, get the door, would you?”

  “Where am I supposed to stay? They’ll find me.”

  “Not at mine, they won’t.” Sarge helped him out into the hallway. “And while you’re recovering, we’re going to pay the Inans and Melodi Demirci a little visit, aren’t we, Luke? They can’t get away with this kind of crap, not on one of my boys.”

  Walker closed Zuccari’s door, cursing. He had an inkling Sarge wasn’t all talk on this one; he meant every word. The fact one of “his boys” had been hurt by the Inans was a slight to his name personally. Walker was positive Sarge would find a way to repay the favour, with interest.

  49

  Charlotte couldn’t motivate herself at home knowing Richard was being grilled by the police, the NCA, or whoever. Since arriving home, she tried to put her efforts into cleaning the house, which she failed to do, never wanting to stray too far away from her landline phone in case he called her on it. “Ring, you bloody thing, ring!”

  Sat on the third
stair up, she took out her mobile and checked she didn’t have a missed call from him. Hopes dashed for the fifteenth time, she sighed, got up and went to the kitchen, switching the kettle on. The stress of it made her want to smoke.

  In her handbag hung on one of the kitchen chairs, she reached in and felt around the bottom. “There you are!” She continued rummaging, until she found what she was looking for: a lighter. “I shouldn’t, but sod it.”

  Carrying her packet of cigarettes outside, she slid out a Silk Cut and put it between her lips, the familiarity comforting. Back when she used to hide smoking from Samuel, she’d kept an ashtray hidden by the side of the shed. Charlotte retrieved it, sat on a patio chair, and lit her cigarette.

  And boy was it worth the wait. The smoke harsh but lovely on her lungs as she inhaled for the first time. Stupid, really, given how into exercising and eating healthy she was. Why would she smoke? It was barbaric in this day and age, yet so enjoyable. With no one else around to scorn her, she tilted her head back and drew on her “cancer stick”. “Why did I ever give you up?” She knew why.

  Her landline phone rang. Charlotte sat up, choked, waved away the smoke, before getting up from the white plastic chair. And when she did, the head rush kicked in. It was heaven. Woozy, she made her way through the kitchen, to the lounge.

  On the sixth ring, she answered. “Richard, it’s you! Are you all right? Where are you? Is the solicitor with you?” She didn’t wait for him to answer.

  “Lottie, I love you, but please shut up. This is important.” His voice was hushed, but angry, like he was trying to be quiet, and talk. “I haven’t long. They’re probably listening to us right now, but I don’t have a choice. That which I showed you earlier will fit in Neelkanth Safe Deposit, okay? When you go, shake off anyone following you. No one but you can open the locker, not even me now. Everything will be explained when you see what’s inside the locker. I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  The line went quiet. “Richard? What? Neil what?” She wasn’t expecting him to come out with such a vast amount of information; she was scared she didn’t hear it all. “Richard?” Nothing. She hung up.

  Deciding to do some investigating, Charlotte picked up her laptop. After waiting for it to load, she clicked on Google, typed in Neil Safe Deposit, and waited. “Well, shit…”

  On screen came her entries; the second one down made her heart light. Google had filled in the missing word for her. Neelkanth Safe Deposit, and when she clicked on its website, one address was near Richard’s workshop.

  Thinking back to Richard’s one comment before he so abruptly hung up, he said, “That which I showed you earlier will fit in Neelkanth Safe Deposit.” What did he mean by “that which I showed you earlier”? He didn’t show her anything earlier, unless he meant the text. Glancing at his earlier message, it clicked: the key.

  Her brother had hidden the key in the drain to prevent anyone from taking it, then he had to give her a cryptic clue as to what the key would fit. She had it: she would snatch the key from inside the drain, then drive to this Neelkanth place, pick up whatever he left in the locker, and that would be that. Why had he apologised to her?

  Since she wouldn’t be sneaking into the workshop until after dark, she wouldn’t be able to use said key to open the safe until the morning. Charlotte picked up her phone, found Hayes’ card, and phoned the number. “Yeah, it’s Charlotte Edwards. I know where we need to go with the key once we’ve got it.”

  After a short conversation with the detective, Charlotte hung up. In a few hours she would know why her brother’s and her lives were imploding. She would hopefully know why Colin and Henry, Brandy and Kurt had been murdered.

  50

  “This is the card the police officer gave me.” Mrs Parekh handed it to Hayes.

  “Thank you, Mrs Parekh. I appreciate this, I really do.” Hayes exchanged sorrowful glances with the grieving wife. “I understand how hard all this is, believe me. And I know you have your suspicions about how your husband died.” She sat on the sofa next to Miller, who remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the interview.

  “The truth is, Mrs Parekh, we’ve been having the same doubts as you.” Miller’s first words made Parekh take note. “You told us earlier that he’d driven out of his way?”

  With tears rolling down her cheeks, the dainty Indian woman studied Miller. “I phoned him when he said he was on his way home. When I found out where he’d crashed, I couldn’t get over why he would be there. It’s in the opposite direction. There was no reason, unless–”

  “Unless he was chased,” Hayes finished. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? You think he was run off the road?”

  Her interviewee nodded. “I’m not one for conspiracy theories, detective. I’m a level-headed woman; I have to be in my line of work. Vanu could be quite paranoid at times, to the point of him scaring me, but he was very good at his job, and he told me one night how important his work at Fisher Valves was, about how when their project was complete, it would change the world as we know it, and how we’d be set for life.”

  Hayes regarded Miller. “Mrs Parekh, please tell us what he’s working on.”

  “I can’t do that. I don’t even know myself.” She sniffed. “But I know my husband, I know my Vanu; he wouldn’t just make that up. And I think that project is what got him killed. He was talking about being followed, all the time, about vans following him from the workshop. My guess is, the project’s almost complete, time to erase everyone associated with it. I saw on the news they picked up Richard Fisher for child pornography. They’re cleaning house, that’s what they’re doing.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Hayes took her mobile out of her pocket and dialled the number on the card Mrs Parekh handed her. She introduced herself to the inspector. “Yeah, I’m calling with regards the Vanu Parekh collision.” She listened to him, said, “uh-huh” a few times. “I see. Can I trouble you for the photos?”

  When she hung up, she gave Mrs Parekh a soft smile. “He’s emailing me the photos. He says they found two sets of tyre tracks on the approach to the collision site. They’re looking into the possibility of the car having collided with another vehicle, only he thought it more likely a hit-and-run. He’s not in full receipt of the facts.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “I can’t say, I’m sorry. Maybe he wanted to get more evidence.”

  Miller interrupted. “We ought to get going. It’s getting late, we should go see the tyre tracks for ourselves, if they haven’t been washed away already.” She turned to Mrs Parekh. “I don’t suppose you met, or knew any of your husband’s colleagues, did you?”

  “Only Paula, we were quite good friends, actually,” Mrs Parekh replied. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering if you had her address? The one we have for her might be old.” Miller followed their host to a bureau. “Thank you so much; this is a big help.”

  “Is she the only one?” Hayes checked. “You never met Yurika Ishii, or Nathan Stewart?” When she received a negative, she nodded. “Okay, we have enough to be getting on with. Thank you, Mrs Parekh, you’ve been a huge help. And we’ll be in touch when we know more.” She waited for Miller to leave the room, then followed her out.

  Outside in their Peugeot, Hayes sat in the driver’s seat. The email came through from the inspector she’d spoken to. “Look, clearly two sets of different tyre tracks. I think that says it all, don’t you?” She slid the key in the ignition and turned over the engine.

  “Let’s see what Ms Lang has to say, shall we?” Miller looked at her.

  As she drove away from the kerb, Hayes mused, “So, I wonder what they’re working on. It can’t be just a new valve, surely. How can a valve be society-changing?”

  “No, it has to be something bigger than that.”

  “Let’s hope Charlotte Edwards finds something good in that deposit box.” Hayes turned into a road on their right.

  “Fingers crossed, huh!” Mil
ler stared out of her side window.

  Hayes drove them to Paula Lang’s huge, secluded house. It was surrounded by acres of land, its nearest neighbour a quarter of a mile away. “Nice digs,” Hayes said to Miller, who whistled at the decadence. “Look at the garden. Wow!”

  “If she’s been bumped off like Parekh, we can’t hope for neighbours to have seen anything, can we? Look around.”

  Ignoring her partner’s negativity, Hayes got out and joined Miller as they walked along the gravel to the front door. There were two cars on the drive. She stepped up to the wooden door and knocked.

  Nothing.

  She tried a further three times, each knock louder than the last, until she smashed the knocker. Trying the handle, it turned, the door opening. Hayes checked with Miller, who stood to the side and let her take the lead. Her cosh was in her hand extended before she realised what she’d done. An automatic reflex. Miller also had her metal baton out. “Paula Lang? I’m Detective Inspector Amanda Hayes. Please shout out if you’re here.”

  Nothing.

  Stepping inside, nerves on edge, Hayes walked through the house room by room. With no sign of life, no sign of a struggle, she cleared the downstairs, proceeding up to the bathrooms and bedrooms, where she expected to find someone, dead or hiding. Miller followed her upstairs.

  Upon clearing the fourth and final bedroom, bathrooms included, Hayes breathed a sigh of relief at not finding Paula Lang and her husband dead. She’d found victims this way before. “There’s something not right about this. Their cars are here, the front door’s unlocked, her handbag and phone are on the kitchen counter, and I saw a wallet and mobile on the coffee table in the lounge.”

  “Shall we call it in?” Miller retracted her cosh and put it back in her suit jacket. “Although, what do we call it in as?”