The Mark of Halam (A Jeff Bradley Thriller)

by Thomas Ryan

  “No. I am meeting with you because I want to know what you have done with Jamil Khallid.”

  Cunningham raised his eyebrows.

  “That façade in Wellsford might fool Joe Public but not us, Inspector. Please don’t mistake us for idiots.”

  Cunningham nodded. Mulled over what to say. There was no point playing games. The SIS would find out sooner or later. He was surprised the Americans had not already informed the New Zealand Secret Service.

  “Khallid is with the people he needs to be with to get the information I need,” Cunningham replied.

  “It is admirable that you’re not wasting my time, Inspector. You have overstepped your authority,” Croydon continued. “You realise this will ruin your career if it is ever made public. Probably even if it’s not.”

  Cunningham nodded.

  “May I ask why you’re prepared to jeopardise your future and possible imprisonment?”

  That shook Cunningham. He had never really thought through the consequences. His reaction did not go unnoticed by Percy Montgomery.

  “The bottom line is I have a city full of killers and my investigations have led me to believe that their mission is going to cost many New Zealand citizens their lives. It is my duty to stop that from happening. I only had the one source for information – Khallid. Normal procedures needed to be put to one side. I had already decided that once all this is over my resignation will be on the table. I might add that this was my decision alone and no one else in my team knows anything about it.”

  Percy Croydon studied Cunningham for a moment and then smiled.

  “It seems I have underestimated you, Inspector.” He reached into his pocket and took out a card and passed it to Cunningham.

  “This is my private phone number. Please keep me informed. After all, we are the SIS. We do have a right to know. In fact I’m sure the prime minister would expect us to know.”

  “I’ll give a daily update,” Cunningham replied.

  “Excellent.” Croydon stood and Cunningham did likewise. “Catch the bastards, Inspector.”

  “We will, Mr Croydon.”

  “One last thing, Inspector. Do we know what they’re up to?”

  “They’re going to try to torpedo the Ulysses.”

  “Have you any food? I’m starving,” Jeff asked.

  Mary Sumner was lounging on the settee, half watching television half reading a magazine.

  “Sorry. I haven’t had a chance to do any shopping. There are some crackers somewhere.”

  Jeff glared. “I’m in the mood for a hamburger and fries. There’s a fast food takeout only a block away.”

  “Jeff, it’s raining. Why not order pizza?” Mary asked.

  “I always eat pizza. I need a change of diet. I’ve got an umbrella and I need some exercise.”

  Jeff had been against her moving back into her apartment but Mary was adamant she needed her own space. Jeff insisted he stay with her for the first few nights and Mary had readily agreed. Jeff had arranged for a twenty-four-hour security guard to be parked outside. He wanted to be forewarned if Zahar decided to have another try at Mary. The guard was in a position to see her apartment and Mary only had to put her head out of the window and help would be on its way.

  “Can you get me a burger? I need food as well. No fries, I’ll have some of yours.”

  “Not a chance. You can have your own bag of fries and I’ll eat what you can’t.”

  Mary stretched. “Want me to come with you?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. It’s only a block away.”

  “Good, the couch is my favourite spot at the moment. And I don’t want to get drenched.”

  Jeff stood in front of her, “Will you be okay on your own?” he asked.

  Mary nodded, “I think so. I have to get used to it, don’t I.”

  “I tell you what,” Jeff said. “I’ll call you when I get out on to the street and we can talk to each other all the time I’m away.”

  Mary smiled, “Thanks Jeff. I’d like that.”

  33.

  The rain fell, heavy and unceasing.

  All afternoon Zahar prayed for it to cease but his plea to Allah had gone unheeded. Sami had stolen him a Mitsubishi L300 van that belonged to a carpet-cleaning company. He would wear overalls when he entered the building. He’d even had Sami buy an industrial vacuum cleaner to complete the disguise. He would be going in late at night, but it shouldn’t raise any alarm bells. Workmen always went unnoticed.

  He parked across the street from the apartment entrance.

  He already knew where to go. This would be his third visit to the blonde’s apartment. Almost old friends. It astonished him that she had returned. Fortunately he had kept her apartment under surveillance. Now he would stab his knife through Bradley’s heart by killing his lover.

  He moved to the back seat and pulled on the overalls, then studied his environment. From his vantage point he could easily see the apartment window. The lights were still on. No matter; this time he was not waiting for her to go to bed. The uniformed security guard sitting in a marked vehicle had been easy enough to spot. He guessed the reasoning was that a show of his presence would be enough to deter an intruder. Bad luck for the guard. His man watching the building and had said no one had entered who looked like a police officer. Zahar had ordered him to take care of the security guard. Zahar looked out through the van windows. As far as he could see the cars close to hand were unoccupied. He placed his jacket into his backpack and carefully pushed the pack under the front seat.

  Cunningham and Moana Te Kanawa lolled on their chairs in the crime room, exhausted. Weakened eyelids collapsed causing Moana’s shoes to stomp the floor as she tried to stop her slide from the chair.

  “You could go home for a few hours. See your kids,” Cunningham said.

  “They’re not kids any more. They’ll be out on the town. Hopefully not in the back of one of our patrol cars.”

  Moana yawned.

  “What about George? You haven’t seen him for a few nights.”

  “We separated six months ago.”

  “Really? I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  Cunningham fell silent.

  Moana settled back in her chair. Cunningham hadn’t needed to ask the reason for the breakup. His own marriage had only lasted six months. He had no answers so he was not about to give advice.

  Moana said, “Last time I looked my eyes had become blackened circles. I’ve given up trying to hide the rings behind foundation; in fact as you’ve probably noticed I don’t wear much make up at all these days. No wonder George left.”

  Cunningham cast an eye over his sergeant. There was nothing wrong with the look of her that a few days’ sleep wouldn’t fix. She’d opened up to him. Interesting. Moana had always kept her private life private. Tiredness and stress. Maybe they were the same reasons for his opening up to Barbara about Wellsford.

  The rest of the team rested in emptied cells in the basement. Cunningham had commandeered the lockup as temporary accommodation. Anyone to be held in custody was transferred to the Mount Eden Detention Centre. New arrests were transported to stations in the outlying suburbs.

  His mobile rang.

  “Cunningham.”

  He nodded as he listened.

  “Okay we’re on our way. Less than ten minutes.” To Moana, he said, “The security guard parked outside Mary Sumner’s has not reported in. He’s not answering his emergency beeper. They’re sending someone to check on him but that might take twenty minutes. They have instructions to phone here if anything is out of the ordinary. Just before he went off air he reported a van parked opposite. Belongs to a carpet-cleaning company. The security company checked the registration number. It was stolen this afternoon.”

  Moana was on her feet. “It’s him.”

 
“That’s what I think,” Brian answered. “Rouse the team and let’s go.”

  Zahar pulled on the surgical gloves, opened the side door and climbed out, then reached back and picked up the vacuum cleaner. Doors pulled shut and the van locked, he dashed across the street. The rain was easing but still heavy enough that water dribbled off the end of his nose as he stood in the foyer. He pressed the button for the elevator doors. As they closed behind him he heard the main door open. Whoever had entered missed the chance to ride with him by seconds. He pushed the button for the sixth floor.

  As he ascended he opened the top of the cleaner and pulled out the small pack of plastic explosive. Just enough to blow the door. He held it in one hand, the detonator and length of wire in the other. When the door opened he placed the vacuum cleaner between the sliding doors to stop the elevator from closing. No one would be coming up behind him. He checked his watch. From now, two minutes. Zahar set a small knob of the plastic explosive on the door.

  It took Cunningham and his team less than seven minutes to arrive at the building. Cunningham and Moana ran to the security vehicle.

  “Jesus,” said Cunningham, pulling open the door. The guard rolled out onto the road, lifeless eyes looking up at the two police officers. The bloodied opening across his throat reached almost to his spine. The front of his grey security shirt was stained crimson.

  Police cars now blocked both ends of the street with others closing in to establish a wider perimeter. Cunningham wanted to make certain his man was not going to escape.

  “That must be the van,” Cunningham said pointing across the street.

  Moana dashed across the street and tried the door. “It’s locked,” she yelled.

  Cunningham said, “Okay. I doubt it will be of much help to us for the moment so we’ll worry about it later. Come on back. Now, where’s Red?”

  “Right here.”

  Cunningham turned. “Have you got through to Mary or Jeff?”

  Red shook his head, “Both lines are engaged.”

  “Moana, I want two men behind the building and two in the doorway right now. Anyone trying to leave I want held until cleared.”

  Cunningham led the remainder of his team in. The light above the elevator door showed it was on the sixth floor. He pushed the button. The floor light didn’t move. “The door has been jammed open. That means he is still here. He might be killing Mary right now.”

  Without speaking Red smashed his gloved hand through the fire safety glass and onto the protruding fire alarm button. The building immediately resonated with the sound of sirens and bells. It was deafening. Red looked at Brian.

  “My decision. I accept full responsibility,” Red said.

  “Absolutely you do.” He pointed to Red and Ross. “You two take the stairs.”

  Zahar pushed in the detonator and took a few paces along the corridor, then flattened himself against the wall. He flicked the switch. The sound of the blast echoed off the walls and the hall filled with the smell of explosives, burning and wisps of smoke. He pulled his pistol from his pocket and stepped through the space where the door had been. He saw the blonde disappear into the bathroom. The door slammed shut.

  “Silly girl. That’s not going to help,” he muttered.

  He rushed to the door and smashed his shoulder into it. It gave a little. He tried again. Wood splintered around the lock. She had something against it. A cabinet of some sort he guessed. He reached into his pocket for more explosive then there was a sharp bang and a hole appeared in the door. He jumped to the side. A bullet hole. She had a gun.

  “You bitch. That won’t help.” He fired at the door, from an angle. Then another hole appeared in the door. Smart girl, he thought. She is not going to empty the magazine. He placed a knob of the plastic explosive on the door.

  Zahar’s head snapped round as he heard a loud clanging sound from the corridor. He ran to the blasted doorway and peered into the hall. An alarm. From within the building, not her apartment. It had to be a fire alarm. The fire brigade would not be far away. Police behind them. He ran to the window and looked down into the street. He stiffened. Stepped back. The police were everywhere. His van surrounded. They knew he was here. How? Had they set off the alarm? They must have.

  He paced. Thinking. He went back to the hole that was once the apartment door. People were moving through the corridor in various stages of undress; dressing gowns, unlaced track shoes or slippers. What to do? Instincts kicked in. He took off the carpet-cleaning overalls and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. He grabbed an umbrella from the stand. It was a woman’s. Even better. He tousled his hair and stepped out into the corridor.

  He followed the residents in to the stairwell and down another level and then slipped through the safety door. Police would be climbing the stairs. He would hide until he heard the footsteps climbing the stairs had run past him. He waited two minutes then re-entered the stairwell.

  At the third floor he peered through the stairwell window. The police were everywhere, checking residents as they left the building. There was no escape. He was trapped.

  The fire engine forced its way through the police blockade and parked, two wheels on the pavement. The incoming firemen added to the confusion. The fire brigade wanted control.

  Cunningham and Moana stood under umbrellas, watching the residents stream outside. The two constables standing either side of the door, shining torches into confused faces, were suddenly overwhelmed, pushed aside by angry residents fleeing an imaginary emergency.

  “What do you think?” Moana asked.

  “I think we get in there and sort it out.”

  In the foyer he saw the elevator lights flashing. It was moving again, but a fireman blocked them from entering.

  “Can’t go in there, mate. It’s out of use until we give the all clear,” he said firmly.

  “Get out of my fucking way, you idiot. We set off the alarm because there is a killer in this fucking building and now we are trying to catch him. Now get outside or I’ll have you arrested. Do you understand me?” snapped Brian.

  The fireman stepped back, his face contorted with anger. He gestured with his head to tell his men to back off.

  Cunningham entered the lift, Moana right behind him. He did not bother to look back at the firemen and offer a conciliatory smile. Right now he couldn’t care less about their sensibilities.

  Red was waiting inside the apartment. “Mary Sumner is still alive,” he said.

  “Lucky for you,” Cunningham said.

  “He left these behind.” Red held up a pair of overalls.

  “Clever bastard,” Brian said. “Trying to make himself look like he just climbed out of bed. He could still be in the stairwell. If he is in the building he is not getting out.”

  The heavy rain had returned. The residents were not happy. More than a hundred were now crammed into the lobby and those allowed to pass had been forced away from the building and the protective cover of the green awning that sheltered the entrance. ‘The Towers’ in gold lettering was printed along the front overhang.

  They became abusive as they became sodden. They pushed through the police cordon and sought shelter across the street. Bystanders from surrounding buildings gathered on the street, curiosity dragging them from cosy apartments.

  As Zahar watched from his vantage point he could see that even in the confusion the police were still managing to check anyone leaving the building. The fire engine blocked his van. It was hopeless. A pity.

  He took the trigger mechanism from his trouser pocket. His van had been ignored by the police, more interested in catching him. A bad decision. The small street was circled by high rise apartment buildings, forming the perfect canyon. The perfect confined space, and now it had filled with people. The explosives in the backpack would turn the van into a giant grenade, sending shrapnel in all directions cutting through flesh like a scyt
he through wheat. He stepped back up the stair until he was clear of the window.

  He squeezed.

  A flash of white. Splinters of glass ricocheted off the cement walls of the stairwell and then the thundering sound of the blast followed. He had held his ears but they still rang when he took his hands away. Now haste was needed. He made his way down the stairs. Glass scrunched under the leather soles of his shoes. An old woman looked up at him, her face bloodied. He ignored the outstretched arm. The sound of wailing heightened as the injured felt pain. Outside, smoke rose from the blast centre and from the cars now on fire. The road and small park were strewn with debris and bodies. The injured lay unmoving and others staggered directionless, blinded by the explosive flash. The fire engine lay on its side; underneath the machine Zahar sighted the sleeve of a firearms jacket and from it an arm protruded, the hand twitching, closing and unclosing.

  On the outer rim he saw movement. Police and uninjured onlookers were moving forward.

  Opposite was a driveway that ran down between buildings. At the bottom lay a gate that Zahar already knew led to a back alley. He picked his way across the street. No one stopped him, asked him where he was going. He knelt beside the nearest body and rubbed his hand across the neck wound then smeared the blood over his face. He now limped and managed a bewildered look. The police and helpers would pay him no attention. He was one of the lucky ones. No one cared. Then he froze. He recognised him immediately. Jeff Bradley ran past, brushing against him. Then he reacted. Searched for his pistol. Before he had it pulled from his pocket Bradley had disappeared into the building.

  Halfway down the driveway he straightened his clothing and made his way through the back alleys until the screams were lost in the distance and the sounds of sirens engulfing the city. He stepped into the shadows of a doorway, pulled out his mobile and dialled Sami Hadani’s number.

  34.