by Arlene Hunt
‘Food delivery,’ Fletcher said. ‘A lot of these places order lunch in daily. Nobody takes much notice of the delivery guys, and they could be in and out of every building every single day.’
‘Unusual hours,’ Roxy muttered under her breath.
‘We also turned up a weapon, a bloodstained sword found in a garden three houses down from the Mullins residence. Forensics have it now; as soon as we know anything, you will too.’
Quinn leaned his hands on the podium. ‘This man, whoever he is, has killed six, possibly seven people. Do not underestimate him. If you speak to anyone who gives you pause or sets off any alarm bells, call for backup immediately.’
He looked around.
‘Are we clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the squad replied as one.
Quinn nodded. ‘Make sure you are properly attired; stab vests are mandatory, so wear them. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about them being uncomfortable.’ He took a breath, drew himself up to his full height. ‘I will assign your partners within the hour. I want everyone ready, no exception. We leave as one.’
He nodded to the group and walked out.
Cora grabbed Roxy’s arm and squeezed so tight it hurt.
‘This is it, we’re going to be part of history.’ She made a strange little squeaking sound. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got to call Joe.’
‘You ready, Malloy?’ Miranda was watching her.
‘You mean the big chief thinks I’m up to asking questions?’
‘You rather stay here, type up more reports?’
‘Hell, no!’
‘Then take a note from Simmons’ playbook. Put your big-girl pants on, and don’t forget your stab vest.’
‘You really think we’ll catch him?’
‘We’re going to shake the nest and see what falls out.’
Lynn pulled her own stab vest over her shoulders and fastened the Velcro straps as tight as they could possibly go.
When the teams were announced half an hour later, Roxy was astounded to see that she was partnered with Quinn.
Chapter Fifty-Three
‘Ready? Quinn asked Roxy as they pulled into a parking spot. They were in Park West Business Park, a vast purpose-built community of over a hundred businesses, all operating out of identical blank two-storey flat-roofed buildings. Soulless, Roxy thought as she unbuckled her belt and got out, stretching her back and shoulders. She’d absolutely hate to have to come here every day.
This was the third food delivery service they had visited that morning, and so far, nothing. Quinn had said he wasn’t interested in anyone complaining about the stab vests, so she didn’t, but damn, they were uncomfortable.
Quinn checked his EN.
‘This is the place. Come on.’
Roxy followed him inside.
‘Hi,’ he said to the bored-looking girl behind the counter. ‘We’ve an appointment with Mr Dwami.’
‘Take a seat.’ She leaned her lips to a thin microphone and bellowed, ‘Mr Dwami, reception!’
Shortly afterwards, a squat, sweaty man wearing an olive-green suit that needed a good dry-cleaning burst through a door and bore down on them at a frightening pace. He was dark-skinned, badly shaven and had the air of a man who thought having only twenty-four hours in a single day was a bloody rip-off.
Quinn introduced them and showed his identification. Dwami barely looked at it.
‘You’re the owner of Nom-Noms?’ Quinn asked. ‘Food delivery?’
‘Yes, yes, but I told you everything on the phone. I don’t have anything more to add to what I already said!’
‘Still, we have questions.’
‘You have to do this now?’ Dwami said, wringing his hands. ‘I have a full docket.’
‘We can do it here or back at the station,’ Quinn said, smiling.
Dwami’s face fell. ‘All right all right, you come with me.’
He barked something at the receptionist and led them back through the door he’d come through, along a short corridor and into an open-plan kitchen.
It was a long, thin room, devoid of any natural light. Rows of stainless-steel tables lined the walls between shelves containing endless containers of food and condiments. At the centre of the room were four stoves, back to back, the rings occupied by bubbling pots and sizzling pans. The heat and smell of cooking was so overpowering Roxy broke into a sweat almost immediately.
‘Come!’ Dwami said over his shoulder, and they followed him up a set of metal steps into a cluttered office that overlooked the floor below.
Dwami flopped into a desk chair, pulled a red hanky from his pocket and dabbed at his face.
‘Sit, sit.’
Quinn and Roxy sat on plastic garden chairs. Roxy looked around. The office reminded her a little of Jerome Falstaff’s apartment: stacks of paper, boxes and cartons everywhere.
‘Now.’ Dwami leaned forward, straining the buttons on his jacket to breaking point. ‘What you want?’
It took a while and a lot of backtracking to explain. Roxy watched Dwami carefully as he listened to Quinn outline the case using broad strokes, offering a slightly tempered profile of the man they were looking for.
‘It’s a long shot,’ Quinn said.
‘Uh,’ Dwami said, and made a scornful face. ‘Sounds like Harry Potter.’
‘I assure you this person is very real,’ Roxy said, a little annoyed.
‘No, no, is real, it’s Harry Potter.’
Quinn and Roxy exchanged a puzzled glance.
‘Ach.’ Dwami struggled to his feet, opened the door and bellowed, ‘Jasmine!’
After a minute, a rather pretty girl entered the office, nodded to Quinn and Roxy and looked at her boss, who was back behind his desk. She wore white overalls, and a hairnet covered her blonde hair.
‘Is everything all right, Mr Dwami?’
‘Tell, tell about Harry Potter.’
She looked at Quinn and Roxy again and in an irked but resigned voice said, ‘What’s he done now?’
‘Who?’ Quinn wanted to know.
‘Quentin, Quentin Williams. That’s who you’re looking for, right?’
‘That depends. What’s he like?’
‘Creepy,’ Jasmine said, and there was no mistaking the conviction with which she spoke.
‘Creepy how?’
‘He’s always staring, you know? Doesn’t talk much, complete weirdo.’
‘Does he do the food deliveries?’
‘Yeah, him and Anto.’
‘Anto?’
‘Anthony Collins; he’d be the guy you should speak to.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘Downstairs.’ She glanced at her boss. ‘Will I get him?’
She got him. Anto was a skinny kid with a quiff.
‘Harry?’ Anto asked. ‘What’s he done?’
‘We’d just like to talk to him.’
Anto shrugged. ‘He’s not in today.’
‘He called in sick,’ Mr Dwami said.
‘You could have told us that at the start,’ Quinn said. ‘Go on, Anto, what kind of guy is Mr Williams?’
‘Dunno. Quiet, big gamer, plays in all them crazy online tournaments. Won a shitload of them … oh, sorry, Mr Dwami.’
‘You ever hear him talk about women?’
‘Are you serious?’ Anto grinned. ‘Harry’s afraid of his own shadow; no way he’d go near a woman in real life.’
‘I didn’t ask if he went near them, I asked if he talked about them.’
‘Not to me. He doesn’t talk much to anyone. I don’t think he likes people much.’
‘Why?’
‘He gets twitchy around groups. Sometimes the lads slag him off a bit, nothing to it, bit of banter, but he goes real red in the face, you know?’
Roxy, who had endured plenty of people gossiping about her behind her back, and to her face at times, could imagine exactly how it made Williams feel.
‘You bully him,’ she said.
‘Nah.’ Anto shook his head. �
�Like I said, banter.’
‘Does he ever ask you to stop?’
That rattled him.
‘Here, don’t be making this into a big thing. Everyone here gets a slagging, it’s part of the bleeding job.’
‘What kind of slagging did you subject him to?’
‘What is this?’ Anto looked at his boss. ‘What’s the deal here? I didn’t do nuthin’ wrong.’
‘Please, answer question so we can get back to work.’
‘Jesus, I don’t know. ’Bout how he was always wearing black and shit. One of the lads found a comic he was reading, mad porn with monsters and shit like that, so he got a bit of ribbing about that, you know, the usual.’
Quinn raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he ever laugh along?’
Anto shrugged. ‘He never said stop, okay. He never said nuthin’.’
No, Roxy thought, he wouldn’t, because to a pack of wolves like you lot it wouldn’t have made any damn difference.
Back at the car, Roxy sat in and put her belt on.
‘Do you think he’s our guy?’ she asked Quinn.
He shrugged and started the engine. ‘Probably not. He’s probably just some lonely kid. I’ll give his name to Sergeant Lynn and get her to pay him a visit, rule him out.’ He sighed. ‘Right, where to next?’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Miranda parked the car under a horse-chestnut tree and got out, savouring the brief respite from chatter. And brief it was, for the very second Cora climbed out, she was off again. Miranda was finding new admiration for Roxy Malloy. If she herself had been partnered with Cora, she would have throttled the junior officer long ago.
‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Cora said, hitching up her trousers. ‘I’ve never been over in this part of town before. Do you reckon these are all one-family homes?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘How much do you think one of these would go for?’ Cora asked.
‘I think if you had to ask you couldn’t afford one.’
‘Size of the gardens! Mad how the city is always looking for land to build on and there’s all this space just sitting here going to waste.’
Miranda put on her hat and checked the name on the land registry. Williams, Richard.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘Can we go for lunch after this one? I’m starving.’
‘We’ve still got another four names to check.’
‘I’m a quick eater.’
‘We’ll see.’ Miranda pushed open one of the tall iron gates and began to walk towards the house. Cora fell into step beside her.
‘Don’t look after their gardens very well, do they? If this was my house I’d cobble-lock the drive for a start; my Joe reckons cobble-lock’s more hardwearing than concrete.’
Up close, Miranda could see the imposing house was badly neglected: gutters were hanging off, the paint was peeling, and many of the windows were boarded up.
‘My nan had her drive done with tarmac.’ Cora was still rambling on. ‘Cracked the second year it was down, and it doesn’t drain properly. Went to get the crowd that did it and the phone numbers were all deactivated.’
They climbed the stone steps to the huge front door. The wood was warped and one of the lower panels was missing. The doorbell was rusted and didn’t work, so Miranda lifted the knocker and gave it a few hard smacks.
As soon as the young man opened the door, she knew something wasn’t right; she could feel it, sense it. Instinctively she turned her body to the side and rested her hand on her gun.
‘Good afternoon, I’m looking for Quentin Williams.’
The man looked at her. He was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Pale-skinned and considerably overweight. He wore glasses that were several years out of date and his clothes were grubby and ill-fitting.
‘Sir?’
‘That’s me,’ he said, his voice creaky as though from lack of use.
‘Sir, my name is Sergeant Lynn, this is my colleague Officer Simmons. We were hoping to ask you a few questions.’
‘You should come inside.’
Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, Miranda removed her hat and stepped through the door. Cora followed.
‘This is a great house,’ Cora said, trying to be friendly, but the man barely acknowledged her. Miranda stared at the huge mound of mail behind the door. There had to be at least eight months’ worth spread out across the black-and-white floor tiles.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘Maybe it would be better if we talked down at the station.’
‘Sure, I’ll go get my coat.’ He began to limp away.
‘You hurt, Mr Williams?’ Miranda asked.
He didn’t answer and disappeared around a bend at the end of the hallway.
Cora looked around, wrinkling her nose.
‘It smells weird in here, like … mouldy or something.’
She entered the room on the left. Miranda, feeling more and more uneasy, followed. It was, she guessed after her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, a living room of some kind, rather formal: a chaise longue, bookcases, a large piano in one corner. It smelled of dust and mouse droppings, and there were cobwebs everywhere.
‘Hate seeing these old places fall to rack and ruin, don’t you?’ Cora was saying. But Miranda said nothing. She was thinking. Quentin Williams hadn’t asked what they wanted to talk about; in fact, it seemed as though he had been expecting them. Now why was that?
‘Cora,’ she said softly, reaching for her arm.
‘Must take an absolute fortune to heat, though—’
‘Cora, shut up.’
Cora looked at her. Miranda put her finger to her lips.
‘Mr Williams?’
No answer.
Keeping her eyes on where she had last seen him, Miranda took her radio from her belt and spoke quietly into it.
‘Dispatch, this is Sergeant Lynn. Officer Simmons are I are at 48 Temple Road, repeat, 48 Temple Road, we request backup.’
She glanced at Cora. She looked scared stiff.
‘Simmons, listen to me. Go outside and wait for the backup.’ Miranda put her radio back into its holder and undid her gun clip.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to see where Mr Williams has gone.’
‘I’m not leaving you, Sergeant.’
‘I’m giving you a direct order, Simmons. Go outside and wait.’
Cora was as white as a sheet and looked like she was going to burst into tears any second, but still she shook her head. ‘No.’
Goddammit, Miranda thought, chatty and brave, what were the odds?
‘All right, then draw your weapon and stick close to me, okay? And for God’s sake, Simmons, don’t shoot me by mistake.’ She gave the younger woman’s arm a squeeze. ‘Let’s go.’
They crept down the hall, rubber-soled shoes soft on the tiles, their ear pricked for any sign of movement. They passed three doors, two on the right, one on the left. Miranda tried the handles; they were all locked.
At the end of the hall, she walked down two steps and paused, gun raised. There were stairs going down to her right, and what looked like a kitchen ahead. She pushed open the door, found a greasy light switch and flipped it on. The room was filthy and, like the rest of the house, didn’t look like it had been used in a very long time. Plates were piled in the sink and there were takeaway cartons everywhere.
‘Sergeant,’ Cora whispered, and pointed.
Miranda saw what she was looking at: a large stain on the floor by the kitchen table, very old, very dark.
Blood.
‘Stay close.’
That just left the basement. Every fibre in Miranda’s body told her not to go down there.
‘I’m going down there,’ she said, pointing with her gun.
Down they went, slowly, step by step, until they reached the basement floor. Five doors led off the little hall, and it was so gloomy Miranda could barely see two feet in front of her.
Wh
ich one?
She inched forward, Cora right on her heels, breathing so loudly the neighbours could probably hear her.
The room to the front looked like an old surgery or something. It was large, tiled, with a sink at one end and a metal surgical table at the other. Miranda swept the room and pulled open one of the window shutters. Ancient charts of dogs and cats hung from the walls.
‘What is this place?’ She lowered her weapon and looked around.
Cora wrinkled her nose again.
‘Lynn, I think I can smell—’
The door behind them slammed shut. Cora spun round as Quentin Williams leaped from his hiding place with a blood-curdling scream and plunged a knife into her chest.
‘Cora!’
Cora staggered backwards. Miranda could see the blade was buried so deep only the handle was visible.
‘Sergeant?’ Cora said, her voice small, like a child’s. Blood bubbled over her lip and she collapsed sideways onto the floor.
Miranda had a clear shot on Williams. Without thinking, she raised her weapon, closed one eye and squeezed the trigger.
The shot caught Williams right in the chest, slamming him against the door. He smiled as he slid to the floor. Miranda had never before seen such a look of triumph and hate. She had a split second to wonder what the hell he was smiling about when the basement exploded.
Chapter Fifty-Five
The blast had blown out the basement window and damaged some of the ground floor, but the house was old and sturdy and the upper floors were relatively unscathed.
The fire crew found Miranda under a pile of rubble, injured but alive. The heavy ceramic sink had saved her life.
She drifted in and out of consciousness as she was carried outside, her ears ringing, half deaf, coughing up blood and dirt.
‘Cora?’ she asked every blurred face she saw. ‘Cora?’
Nobody answered. She wasn’t sure if she was speaking properly; shook her head to clear it and could not.
Someone wiped blood and dust from her face and put a mask over her mouth. It helped, made it easier to breathe. Good: she had to get up and find Cora.
