by Shaun Hutson
One more blow and that would be it, Dunham thought. The wall would be breached as if it were some medieval castle keep finally stormed by attackers and then there would be nowhere to hide.
He was vaguely aware of a voice on the other end of the phone as he stood staring raptly at the cracked wall. A voice asking him which Emergency service he required.
‘Police,’ he shouted into the mouthpiece. ‘Get me the police. Hurry.’
His wife screamed again, weeping hysterically now.
He waited for the final impact as he gripped the phone so tightly it seemed it would splinter in his grip.
‘Police,’ he yelled again. ‘Help us.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘I know he’s a wanker but that doesn’t explain why someone used a battering ram on his house.’
Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell lit another cigarette and looked at the damage before him.
Standing next to him Detective Inspector Robert Johnson stood impassively gazing at the house of Brian Dunham, his gaze drawn to the shattered windows and cracks in the walls but also distracted by the uniformed and plain clothes officers who were wandering around the garden each with a specific task. Forensics men and women moved among them taking samples and making notes both in notebooks but also on iPads and laptops. Johnson was a tall man with a thin face and perpetually unshaven cheeks and the bags beneath his alert blue eyes made it look as if he’d just got out of bed. He swept some stray hair from his forehead and glanced first at his companion, Powell then at the house once more.
‘If everyone who was a wanker had their house attacked we’d be busier than we are already,’ he remarked quietly.
Powell smiled and took another drag on his cigarette.
‘It’s not regular vandalism is it, Ray?’ Johnson went on. ‘I mean the smashed windows maybe but what the fuck is this?’ He touched one of the deep indentations in the wall close to him. ‘Or more to the point, what made it?’
‘Could have been bricks or something like that?’ Powell offered.
‘No way,’ Johnson said, dismissively. ‘How fucking hard would you have to throw a brick to make a dent like that? Besides there’s no brick dust in or around the marks. Same with the windows, if someone chucked a brick or some kind of rock through the windows then where is it? There was nothing found inside the house.’
‘Initial forensic reports say there was dust of some kind found but they say it looks like dried clay,’ Powell explained.
Johnson shrugged.
‘Neither of the occupants reported any objects whatsoever being thrown,’ Powell added. ‘And there’s no evidence of any projectiles or foreign bodies being found in or within the vicinity of the damage.’
Johnson looked at his companion and raised his eyebrows.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ he grinned.
‘I was quoting from the Forensics report,’ Powell told him, also smiling. He took another drag on his cigarette.
‘So,’ Johnson mused. ‘Windows broken, well, not just broken but smashed to smithereens and nothing found that could have done that kind of damage and also significant damage to the outer brickwork of the house but also nothing found that could have inflicted such significant damage.’
‘Sledgehammer?’ Powell offered. ‘That would have done the trick.’
‘Who vandalises houses with a sledgehammer?’
‘Somebody very strong.’
Johnson nodded. Then he looked down at the ground around them where a number of places had been covered with clear plastic and marked with yellow tags.
‘And very heavy,’ the D.I. went on.
He pointed at the marks. There were dozens of deep indentations all around the area where they were standing, some of them up to six inches deep.
‘So, we’re looking for a fat bastard with a sledgehammer that’s got a grudge against the Head of a Development Committee that advises Westminster Council,’ Johnson said.
‘Shall we start questioning the Members of the House of Lords?’ Powell said, chuckling and drawing again on his cigarette. ‘This committee that Dunham works on has got political ties as well hasn’t it?’
‘Unofficially,’ Johnson conceded.
‘So, do we check the house of Lords for hammers?’ Powell smiled.
‘They wouldn’t know a sledgehammer if they tripped over one,’ Johnson remarked. He paused a moment, again looking at one of the impact marks on the wall before them. ‘Seriously, Ray, someone would have to have used something like that or a pneumatic drill to make this kind of mark and they’re not the kind of things you just slip in your fucking jacket pocket are they?’
‘And we’ve had no witnesses come forward so far,’ Powell offered. ‘With that amount of banging and crashing about you’d have thought someone would have heard something.’
‘Nobody heard anything?’
‘Uniforms are still doing house to house enquiries but so far nothing.’
Johnson sucked in a laboured breath.
‘So the attack was carried out pretty quick too,’ he said. ‘We know that from the calls that were logged when Dunham was ringing up for help. But that seems impossible in itself. The kind of tools used to cause this kind of damage to a building couldn’t be used quickly, not even swung by an incredibly strong man.’
The two detectives gazed once again at the damaged wall and shattered windows before them as if prolonged staring at the destruction might furnish them with a clue they’d previously missed. They were still looking hopefully when a third man joined them. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit and dark blue shirt. Just visible above the collar of his shirt was the tail of a scorpion, a tattoo that he’d acquired on holiday in Thailand the previous year. As he approached the two detectives he pulled at his collar as if to hide the tattoo, aware that Johnson was now looking at it, a wry smile on his face.
The newcomer nodded and managed a smile himself.
‘You could get that fucking thing removed you know, James,’ the D.I. told him, pointing one index finger at the tattoo.
James Farmer nodded again.
‘I know, I know,’ the Forensics man said.
‘That’s what you get for getting pissed in a Bangkok bar,’ Powell added.
‘Do you two want this information I’ve got or do you just want to take the piss?’ Farmer exclaimed.
‘Give us the info now,’ Johnson chuckled. ‘We’ll take the piss later.’
All three of them laughed. When the sound had died down Farmer cleared his throat.
‘We’ve looked at the prints in the garden and they’re not footprints.’
Johnson frowned.
‘What the fuck are they then?’ he wanted to know.
‘We’re not sure yet,’ Farmer confessed. ‘There’s a kind of residue at the bottom of each one. It looks like clay or some kind of building material.’
‘So we’re looking for a workman?’ Powell offered.
‘I’m not sure what you’re looking for,’ Farmer said, flatly. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘A couple of my guys did some calculations on the height and weight of the suspect based on the depth of the indentations and the damage done to the house.’
Johnson held out his hand for the paper. He looked at it, frowning when he saw the indecipherable lines of mathematical formulae.
‘Have you got an English version?’ he said, smiling.
‘At the bottom of the page,’ Farmer told him, almost apologetically.
As Johnson read was what written there the colour drained from his face.
‘It’s what they calculated based on what they found,’ Farmer offered. ‘I know it’s hard to believe.’
Johnson shook his head and when he spoke his voice was low, almost a whisper as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.
‘They have got to be fucking kidding,’ he said.
TWENTY-NINE
Jess spotted the man she sought as he clambered from
the back of the chauffeur driven Bentley.
She dropped her cigarette to the ground and scurried across the street towards her target, ignoring the blaring of car hooters as she dashed across the path of oncoming traffic.
‘Mr Dunham,’ she called as she drew closer to him, able now to see the small dressing on his cheek that had been used to cover the wound he’d sustained the previous night.
Brian Dunham turned when he heard his name and saw Jess advancing towards him.
‘Have you got a minute, Mr Dunham?’ she said. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about the attack on your home last night.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say about that,’ Dunham told her and prepared to walk away.
‘It looks like you were hurt,’ Jess persisted. ‘Was it serious?’
Dunham turned again and looked at her this time.
‘Who are you?’ he wanted to know.
Jess identified herself and told him which paper she was from. She even dug in her handbag to look for i.d. but Dunham waved it away.
‘I thought you looked familiar,’ he said, wearily.
‘Who do you think might have been responsible for the attack, Mr Dunham?’ Jess asked, now walking along beside him as he headed for the revolving door that led into the building he was approaching.
‘The police are investigating the matter; you’d probably be better off talking to them.’
‘But you and your wife were unhurt?’ she said. ‘Apart from …’ She pointed at his cheek.
‘Oh this is nothing,’ Dunham said, touching the dressing. ‘No, fortunately neither of us was hurt.’
‘And you have no idea who might have wanted to cause you harm?’
‘It was some kind of sick vandalism, that’s all.’
‘From what I’ve heard it was a lot more than just vandalism, Mr Dunham.’
‘Well perhaps you’d better check your sources more thoroughly next time, Miss Anderson.’ He smiled and prepared to enter the building. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’m a busy man.’
‘You don’t think the attack had anything to do with Andrei Voronov then?’
Dunham stopped in his tracks and looked at her.
‘You don’t think he might have been behind it?’ Jess went on, seeing the reaction she’d elicited.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Dunham said indignantly.
‘You do know who he is then?’
‘Of course I know.’
‘Is it true that you as head of a consortium appointed by the Government advised Westminster Council to refuse the planning permission he applied for recently for another building project in London?’
‘That’s a matter of public record.’
‘Why did you refuse it, Mr Dunham, you didn’t have any problem giving him permission to build the Crystal Tower did you?’
Dunham looked fixedly at her.
‘Why was his latest project refused permission?’ Jess went on. ‘He obviously wasn’t very pleased with the rejection.’
‘You’d have to ask Mr Voronov about that.’
‘There were rumours that he only got permission to build the Crystal Tower because of threats made against you and some of your colleagues, do you think he’s trying the same tactics again?’
Dunham took a step towards her, his expression darkening.
‘Now look,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I have no idea where you heard these rumours but they’re incorrect do you understand? I and my colleagues would never give in to threats.’
‘What about bribery? He’s a very rich man.’
‘All planning proposals are judged on the merit and viability of their individual worth. Who submits them is immaterial.’
‘Have you met Mr Voronov?’ Jess went on.
‘No I have not. Mr Voronov is a very busy man,’ Dunham snapped. ‘As am I, so you’ll have to excuse me now. I have much more pressing matters to attend to.’
‘Was there ever an investigation into the allegations of bribery, Mr Dunham?’ Jess went on. ‘Voronov wasn’t the first person who supposedly paid for planning permission.’
Dunham turned and prepared to walk away.
‘I’ve heard enough of this,’ he snapped, reaching for the door.
Two security guards from inside the building advanced towards him as he entered and Jess saw him gesturing in her direction. She turned and walked away as one of the men stepped out of the building.
‘Don’t worry I’m going,’ she smiled.
As she headed across the pavement she dug in her handbag for her mobile and scrolled through the list of contacts in the phone book. She found the one she wanted and called it.
At the other end it began to ring.
THIRTY
Adrian Murray opened the black leather attaché case and slipped several files inside it before closing the lid once again and snapping it shut. It was work that he would look at when he got home, he felt he had done enough for the day and now all he wanted was to be out of his office. He had found over the years that there came a certain time in every day when it was just impossible to think straight any longer in the same surroundings and that changing those surroundings at least stimulated the brain a little more. That time for him had now come. He glanced at his watch as if to emphasise that belief.
He was usually the last to leave. Not only as an example to his staff but also because he usually found he had enough tasks to keep him occupied well beyond the hours of those he employed as befitted his status as head of the company.
Outside his office he could hear the low drone of the vacuum cleaner as it was moved slowly back and forth by one of the team of cleaners that came into the building in the evening as the other workers were leaving. He glanced at his computer, checking his e-mails one last time that day before finally switching the console off. He sat looking at the blank screen for a moment then glanced at the phone on the right hand side of his desk.
He had been looking questioningly at it for the last half an hour or more as he finished the last pieces of work for the day and considered making the journey home. Now, virtually the last person left in the building in Hill Street apart from the cleaners, he prepared for the walk that would take him down towards Berkeley Square and along to Green Park tube where he would ride the underground to his final destination in Holland Park. He often took the tube when he wanted to clear his head or when he had something on his mind. It would have been just as easy to summon a car to transport him to his home but for some reason the close proximity to so many other people crammed onto the tube somehow enabled him to think more clearly. He looked at others who rode the subterranean railway and wondered what their problems and concerns might be and it somehow made his own seem less pressing and less bothersome. He decided that he would journey home that way tonight in an effort to try and focus his own mind on the things that were bothering him.
And there was one thing in particular that kept drifting in and out of his mind.
He prepared to get to his feet again, his gaze once more flicking towards the phone.
Outside, the sound of the hoover was growing louder and occasionally it was bumped against his office door but he ignored it, his gaze now fixed on the phone as if it were a bomb about to explode.
Murray waited until the sound of the vacuum had faded from outside his office then he reached for the receiver and picked it up.
No one else would know about this call except him and that was the way he wanted it.
Murray held the cordless phone, got to his feet and walked to the door of his office, noticing that the sound of the vacuum cleaner had all but disappeared, swallowed now by the growing stillness and solitude that was filling the building. He opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor outside, seeing that the cleaner had moved on. Murray nodded to himself. He wanted absolute privacy when he made this call, he didn’t want a cleaner interrupting him.
He had wondered about making the call on his mobile but then decid
ed against it. He wanted as little evidence of the call as possible and although he could delete it from his list of Dialled Calls he was just as happy not to have it there in the first place. Murray moved the phone back and forth in one hand for a moment longer then finally decided that he could delay no longer.
Murray still hesitated, wondering why he was so reticent to make this call. He was doing nothing wrong, he told himself. Why shouldn’t he make it?
He dialled the number and waited.
THIRTY-ONE
Only when the screaming stopped did Jess raise her head.
‘What the hell was happening?’ she murmured.
She sat forward in her seat and looked across at Mark Paxton.
‘What time did you pick that call up?’ she wanted to know.
‘About half eleven,’ Paxton told her.
‘Let’s hear it again, Spike,’ Jess insisted.
Paxton pressed the required button on the console before him and the room filled once again with the sound of Brian Dunham’s voice. Jess looked evenly at the floor as she listened to him. Only when she heard the first of his wife’s screams in the background did she register anything like emotion. When the call came to an end she sat back in her seat and reached for the can of Coke she’d been sipping from since minutes after arriving at Paxton’s place. It was a one bedroom flat above a dry cleaners and most of that one bedroom was filled with the equipment from which the sound of Dunham’s emergency call of the previous night had come from.
There was a small bed pushed up against one wall which seemed to have been chosen for its small size so that none of the surveillance equipment had to be compromised. A huge bookshelf, empty of all but half a dozen books, occupied another wall, crammed with speakers, receivers and Christ alone knew what else. Jess certainly had no idea what most of the equipment was for or what it did. But then again, she told herself, her business here wasn’t to work out what Paxton’s equipment was for. She was only interested in what it gave her by way of information.
