The Jungle - John Milton #9 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  She looked as if she was about to respond, but bit her lip instead.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Hicks said.

  She turned away so that he couldn’t see her face. “Is it? How do you know that?”

  “John will help you.”

  “And what is John going to do to do that? You said it yourself—he will tell me to leave, just like you did. And what will I do then?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said. “I don’t know what he’ll say. But he’s a good man. He’ll do whatever he can to fix things for you.”

  “Enough,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Hicks exhaled, a little of the tension dissipating. She went into the kitchen, and, after a moment, he followed. She had filled the kettle and put it back on its stand to boil. Hicks went to the sink and filled it with hot water and detergent. The plates and utensils that they had used last night were stacked on the counter and needed to be washed.

  “You want a coffee?” she said.

  “Please.”

  “Don’t worry, Hicks. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She scooped a spoonful of coffee granules and poured it into one of the cups.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She held out the jar. It was empty.

  “I’ll go and get some.”

  “I need cigarettes, too,” she said.

  “And I could do with some more beer. Do you want to come?”

  “I’d rather stay here,” she said. “Do you mind?”

  Hicks paused. She was right; there was a risk that she would be seen this close to Wanstead. “No,” he said. “Of course not. Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll stay inside.”

  Hicks decided that it would be good to let her have a little time to herself. They had been together for the better part of a week. They would both benefit from a little time alone to decompress, especially after what had happened the night before. She had said it herself: she would stay inside. She was frightened. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I’ll be back at lunch,” he said. “No later than that.”

  “We need some more vegetables for dinner,” she said. “I could write you a list.”

  “Okay.” Hicks indicated the pen and the notebook on the counter. “Write down what you need, and I’ll go and get it.”

  He went out into the hallway and put on his jacket and zipped it up so that his shoulder holster and the Sig Sauer were hidden. He went back into the kitchen. Sarah had finished the shopping list. She tore it out of the notebook and handed it to him. “Carrots, green beans, orange juice, yoghurt, cigarettes. Anything else?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “What kind of cigarettes?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Okay.” He folded the list and put it in his pocket.

  She followed him to the door. “Thank you, Hicks.”

  “No problem. Lock the door behind me.”

  He stepped outside into the cool morning air. There was a group of young boys gathered around the bandstand at Arnold Circus, and Hicks could hear the dull thump of music from the open windows of a parked car. He set off, leaving the building behind him and making his way to the convenience store on the main road.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  DRAGO’S WAKE was held at the pub that Pasko owned in Maida Vale. It was a detached, mock-Tudor building of two storeys, standing alone on the corner of Maida Vale and the Kilburn High Road. It had black painted half-timbering and a concreted-over beer garden, where drinkers sheltered beneath mismatched parasols. There was always a barbecue outside, whatever the weather, with men grilling beef and lamb just like they did in the Balkans.

  Konstantin Pasko and his wife, together with Florin and the other members of his close family, had lined up at the door and welcomed the other mourners. The men were first, all of them standing in single file, and then the women came next, their heads covered with black scarves. The mourners were taken down the line and introduced to the family by Pasko’s grandchildren. Within ten minutes, the room was filled. The children took turns serving everyone with food, raki, and cigarettes.

  Pasko sat at the head of the main table. He was supposed to accept the condolences of the other mourners, but each new platitude wound him just a little bit tighter. His jaw began to ache from clenching his teeth, and his knuckles popped as he squeezed his fists. His wife noticed and told him to go outside to get a breath of fresh air.

  He didn’t argue. With a curt nod, he excused himself from the table and left the room. There was a fine drizzle falling, and he turned up the collar of his coat. Maida Vale was a busy road, and traffic rumbled by in both directions. The strain of keeping a lid on his anger was telling on him. He had a splitting headache and he needed a drink. But that would keep.

  “Father.”

  He turned. It was Florin.

  “You know what I want?” Pasko said to him.

  “Father—”

  “You know Ilya is keeping pigs now? I want to find whoever did that to Drago and feed him to them, inch by inch, until he begs me to stop.”

  “Father—”

  “What, Florin?” Pasko snapped.

  “That’s why I need to speak to you—what happened to Drago. Llazar has one of the girls.”

  “What?”

  “One of the girls from the flat. She’s here.”

  “Which girl?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “She’s here now?”

  “Yes. Upstairs.”

  #

  THERE WAS a door to the side that gave access to the rear of the pub and the stairs to the upper floors. Pasko and Florin went through into the private hallway next to the armoured door that guarded access to the upper floor. There was an intercom panel next to the door, and Pasko pressed the button.

  He heard Hashim’s voice. “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Let me in.”

  The lock buzzed and Pasko pulled the door back and climbed the stairs. There were several rooms on the first floor: three bedrooms, a relaxation area, a bathroom. A sitting room had been turned into an office. There was a pool table, a small bar and a large flat-screen television that was usually showing football or boxing. Pasko opened the door and went inside. Hashim, one of his deputies, was leaning against the bar. He had fought alongside Pasko at Staro Gracko and Volujak. He was a large man, prone to bouts of depression, but unquestionably loyal.

  Pasko stepped inside the room and saw the other occupant. She was young and pretty, but dressed trashily, like a little tramp. He remembered her from when she had been brought into the country. They had bought her from the smugglers, just like the others they had purchased to swell the staff at their brothels. Syrian, he thought. He remembered her name: Sarah. He recalled it because she was one of the girls who was due to have been in the flat when his son had been killed.

  One of the girls who had run.

  “It is Sarah, isn’t it?” he said.

  The girl nodded. She was frightened.

  Florin followed his father inside and closed the door behind him.

  Pasko turned back to the girl. “Do you know who I am?”

  “No.”

  “I am Konstantin Pasko. You have heard of me, I expect?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand that you left the flat where we were so kind to let you have a room.”

  “He took me. He made me go.”

  “Who?”

  “The man who attacked…” The words trailed away.

  “The man who murdered my son?”

  The girl did not speak, but became even more pale.

  “You know I am upset about what happened to him.”

  “Yes…” she started. “Of course.”

  “You look thin, Sarah. Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head.

  There was food on
the bar: a platter of smoked meat and pickled preserves. Pasko’s attention was drawn to a black pot that had been placed on a serving plate. He took two bowls and a ladle and scooped out two servings. He indicated that the girl should follow him to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She sat, and he put one of the bowls down in front of her. He sat opposite.

  “This is paçe,” he said. “You know it?”

  “No.”

  “It is an Albanian delicacy, especially popular in the mountains. You take a sheep’s head and boil it until the meat comes off easily. Then you stew it with garlic, onion, black pepper and vinegar. You add flour, too, to thicken the stew. It is a hearty meal. Try it. You must eat. You are skin and bones.”

  She started to eat. It was obvious that the meal was not to her taste, but she dutifully ate the first spoonful, then the second and third.

  Pasko ate with her for a moment.

  “This man,” he said at last. “The man who killed my son. Who is he?”

  “His name is John Smith.”

  “And that is a fake name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think so.” He took a spoonful and slotted it into his mouth. “Tell me what happened.”

  “It was a normal day. A client came to see me. I was waiting for him. Drago opened the door, and then Smith forced his way inside. I heard the crash and came out to see what was happening. They were in the kitchen. I don’t know what happened, but when I looked inside, Drago was on the floor. He had a bag over his head. He must have suffocated him.”

  Pasko felt a tremble of anger and concentrated on the stew. He ate two spoonfuls of it, chewing deliberately, looking down into the bowl until he had mastered himself again.

  The girl was looking at him nervously when he finally looked up.

  “What did he want?”

  “He had come for a girl.”

  “Which girl?”

  “She was working in the flat the day before he came. Her name is Nadia. Smith was asking me questions about her. That’s who he wanted.”

  “Why?”

  “She has a brother. John said—”

  “‘John said?’” Florin repeated, interrupting her. “You are on first-name terms with this nënë-qim?”

  “Be quiet,” Pasko snapped at his son. “Go on, Sarah. He said what?”

  “He said that she stole a man’s phone and contacted her brother. She told him where she was. They’re immigrants, like me. The brother came to get her, but he was arrested at the port. Smith was involved somehow, I don’t know how, but he is helping the brother. He came to the flat to get her. That’s why.”

  “Do you know the brother’s name?” She shook her head, upset that she didn’t, and he moved to reassure her. “It doesn’t matter. We can just ask Nadia instead.”

  “Where is Smith now?” Florin asked.

  “I don’t know. He left to do something. He didn’t tell me what.”

  “So where have you been?”

  “At his flat.”

  “On your own?”

  “No. There is another man, a friend of Smith’s. He has been guarding me.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “His name is Hicks.”

  “And?”

  “He was a soldier. That’s how he knows John Smith. They were both soldiers.”

  “So why did you take so long to come here?”

  She swallowed. “Because they wouldn’t let me leave.”

  Pasko looked at the girl, levelling his gaze at her. She looked down to her hands. Pasko looked at them, too; her nails were chewed. She was lying; her duplicity was as obvious as the nose on her face. He knew what had happened. She had nowhere else to go. She had seen that her rescuers would not be able to offer her what she needed. She wanted to stay in a country that she had worked so hard to reach. She feared that they would abandon her to the authorities, and that would mean that she would be deported. The only man who could offer the certainty of being able to stay was Pasko. She might not like her side of the bargain, but, given the alternatives, it was the best that she would be able to do. There had been runaways before, many of them, but they almost always came back to him. This little putane was no different.

  Pasko laid down his utensils, took a paper napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth. “So. Mr. Hicks. Where is he now?”

  “He went out for the morning—that’s when I got away.”

  “And you came to us.”

  “I—” She stopped, her throat clotted.

  “Hush,” Pasko said. “You’ve done the right thing. I’m pleased you trust me. Do you think he is still out?”

  She looked at the clock on the wall. It showed eleven thirty.

  “Probably. He said he would be back for lunch.”

  Pasko took both bowls and stacked them on the table. “You will take us to him now, Sarah.”

  Pasko stood. Florin was waiting at the edge of the room. He went over to him.

  “What will you do?” his son asked.

  “This man, this milosh—I will talk to him. He will tell me about the man who killed Drago. And then I will kill them both.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  HICKS WALKED for an hour to clear his head.

  He went east, all the way to Brick Lane, picking a path through the crowds of people who were in the area for the market. He went south, passing the brightly lit curry houses that made the road famous, ignoring the fast-talking touts who stood outside, encouraging diners to choose their establishment over those of their rivals. He walked all the way down to Quaker Street, turned right and walked on until he reached Commercial Street. He continued to the north, turned onto Shoreditch High Street, and passed shops selling trendy sneakers, art supplies and antiques. He reached Calvert Avenue and turned back to the east, going by the little shack that had been built at the side of the road as a café for taxi drivers. A sign said that it was Syd’s Coffee Stall and that it had been there for nearly one hundred years. It reminded Hicks of the shelter where Milton had worked, and that made him think of Milton and how he was determined not to let him down.

  He stopped at the convenience store and bought the things on Sarah’s list. He checked his watch. It was midday. He had promised her he would be back for lunch. He thanked the man behind the counter, collected the bag of shopping and stepped outside again.

  He set off back to the flat.

  #

  THE DOOR WAS STILL LOCKED.

  Hicks took out his spare key, unlocked it, and went inside.

  “I’m back,” he called out.

  He took off his coat and hung it on one of the spare hooks that were fastened to the wall.

  “Sarah?”

  Her voice came from the sitting room. “I’m in here.”

  Hicks stopped in the kitchen and put the plastic bag on the counter. The dirty washing from breakfast was still in the sink. That was unusual, he thought. Sarah had been getting ready to clean them when he had left the flat. He dismissed it. She was waiting until the things from lunch needed to be cleaned. They had got into the habit of doing the washing-up together. He washed, she wiped. They spent the time talking. Hicks enjoyed the little routine.

  “You want a drink?” he called out.

  “No, thanks,” she called back.

  Hicks filled the kettle and set it to boil. He took the packet of cigarettes from the bag and went to the sitting room. The door was ajar. He pushed it open and went inside. Sarah was sitting on the sofa, her back to him.

  “Are these okay?” he said.

  He tossed the cigarettes onto the coffee table. She didn’t turn. She didn’t move to pick them up.

  Hicks stepped into the room.

  “Sarah?” he said. “What is it?”

  He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, but, before he could react, he felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck. A sensation of coldness spread both up and down his body, and a wave of enervating weakness crippled him. The strength in his legs vanish
ed and he stumbled forward, catching himself on the back of the sofa. Sarah got up quickly, turned to him and then backed away, almost falling over the low table.

  She looked up. She wasn’t looking at him; she was looking at someone behind him.

  Hicks tried to turn. His knees buckled and he fell down, dropping onto his backside. His eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted down, and he had to struggle to keep them from closing. His vision was blurred and, as darkness massed on the edges of his sight and started to swell, he saw a man coming toward him.

  Chapter Forty

  HICKS COULDN’T OPEN HIS EYES.

  He was lying on something uncomfortable, with sharp edges digging into his flesh. He felt so bone tired—why was that?

  He lay still for another moment and then forced his eyes open.

  He was looking up into the light from two halogen strips that had been fastened to a bare concrete ceiling. The light was bright, and it sent sharp stabs of pain into his brain. He blinked and tried to turn away. He couldn’t. He could move his neck, at least a little, but, when he tried to sit, he found that he could not move. Something was restraining him. He tried to raise his hands to cover his face and felt the bonds that were looped around his wrists. He tried to move his legs and felt the same restrictions around his ankles.

  He felt the touch of cool air on his body and knew that he was naked.

  He started to panic.

  He remembered: Milton’s flat, Sarah, the man who had been waiting for him behind the door.

  He remembered the pain in the side of his neck.

  He had been drugged.

  His eyes were heavy, but he forced them to stay open. He was in a room. It was a large space, around ten metres square, with bare concrete walls. There were no windows, and the illumination came from the two halogen strips. He saw a metal table on the other side of the room. There was a large item on the table, the length of the table, hidden within a dark plastic bag. There was a metal rack with plastic bottles lined up on the shelves. Wooden coffins were stacked next to the rack, one atop the other.

  “Hello, Mr. Hicks.”