by Shaun Hutson
‘We work together,’ Hadley said as he and Jess drew nearer to Johnson.
‘Don’t think I’m going to tell you anything,’ the D.I. said. ‘Either of you.’
Hadley extended his right hand and Johnson, after a moment’s hesitation, shook it.
‘This is Jessica Anderson,’ Hadley announced and Johnson nodded amiably enough in her direction. ‘She’s a journalist.’
‘I didn’t agree to talk to you because I want to give you details of the case you know,’ Johnson said. ‘I just wondered how you were.’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘That’s what I thought. You look as if you’ve lost weight.’
‘I have. I’ve lost a lot more too.’
‘That was probably your fault, Alex. Just like losing my sister was your fault. It took her a long time to get over you, you know. Fuck knows why.’
‘It was good while it lasted, Bob, even she’d tell you that.’
‘But your career came first didn’t it?’
‘And she always knew that.’
‘Yeah, well it didn’t help her knowing that when she had the miscarriage and you weren’t around. You should have been there, Alex.’
‘How long are you going to hold that against me, Bob?’
‘I’ve got a very long memory.’
‘She was the one who divorced me, you know.’
‘Fucking good job too.’
Hadley smiled and shrugged.
‘Shit happens, Bob,’ he said, quietly. ‘A bit like tonight. What happened here?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Johnson told him.
‘Where’s Dunham?’ Jess asked.
‘A police statement will be issued in due course, miss,’ Johnson said, flatly.
‘Any idea who attacked him?’ Hadley added.
‘Not a clue as yet.’
‘Our source said he was badly hurt,’ Jess interjected.
‘Your source was right,’ Johnson admitted. ‘He’s dead.’
‘How?’
‘We don’t know,’ Johnson told her.
‘You mean you won’t say?’ Jess pressed.
‘No, I mean we don’t know.’
‘Did he die in the accident?’ Jess went on.
‘I told you, a statement will be issued once we’ve accumulated the necessary evidence,’ Johnson told her.
‘Do you think the perpetrator is the same as the one who made the attack on his house?’ Jess persisted. ‘And the same person who attacked and killed Adrian Murray?’
‘It’s possible.’
Johnson looked at Jess then at Hadley.
‘Is this your new … companion then?’ he asked.
‘We’ve known each other for a while,’ Hadley explained. ‘We used to work together.’
‘Do you think that Andrei Voronov or his organisation are in any way involved with this incident or the attack at Dunham’s house?’ Jess interjected.
Johnson looked puzzled.
‘Why would Voronov be involved in something like this?’ he wanted to know.
‘He wants planning permission for a new hotel,’ Jess went on. ‘Dunham refused it.’
‘So Voronov had him beaten to death? Doesn’t sound likely does it?’
‘He’s been known to use force in the past to get what he wants,’ Jess reminded the D.I.
Johnson regarded her warily for a moment.
‘There were rumours that people had been threatened in order for him to get permission to build the Crystal Tower,’ Jess went on. ‘This hotel complex he’s planning is even bigger, there’s more riding on it.’
‘So you think that means he’s upped his game from threats and bribes to murder?’ Johnson said dismissively.
‘You can accept that possibility surely?’ Jess said.
‘And what purpose would killing Brian Dunham serve?’ Johnson demanded.
‘He was head of the committee that reports directly to the Westminster Council and who recommends whether or not to give planning permission. With him out of the way Voronov might get what he wants more easily. Whoever takes over from Dunham might not be so willing to oppose him.’
‘He’s a millionaire businessman, not fucking Don Corleone,’ Johnson snapped.
‘‘Behind every fortune is a crime,’’ Hadley offered.
‘Yeah, very fucking philosophical,’ Johnson grunted. ‘Now both of you piss off. I’ve already said more than I should have and I’ve got things to do like trying to solve a murder. Standing around talking to a reporter with an over-active imagination and a fucking has-been isn’t at the top of my list.’
‘What if we could help you find the killer?’ Hadley said, flatly.
Both Jess and Johnson looked at him.
‘If you’ve got information you’re not divulging, Alex you’re going to be in deep shit,’ Johnson told him.
‘Let me talk to you tomorrow,’ Hadley went on. ‘In your office.’
‘You’d better not be messing, Alex,’ Johnson told him, jabbing one index finger threateningly in his direction.
Hadley merely held the policeman’s gaze.
‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Johnson said. ‘And you’d better have something for me that’s worth hearing.’
Hadley nodded as the DI walked away.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jess asked Hadley. ‘Alex, what are you going to tell him? About the Golem? That Voronov is using some kind of living statue to wipe out his enemies? He’ll lock you up.’
‘We’ll have to see won’t we?’ Hadley murmured.
Jess held his gaze, one hand closing over his forearm, digging into the flesh there.
‘Are you really going to tell him?’ she said.
Hadley didn’t speak.
An ambulance passed them, its blue lights turning silently.
SIXTY-THREE
The smell of fried onions was strong in the night air, drifting from the burger van like some invisible cloud.
Jess leaned against the side of the van next to the painted letters that proclaimed BOB’S BURGERS and sipped tea from a Styrofoam cup. She waited for Hadley to join her then the two of them made their way across to one of several small metal tables that had been set up beside the van. It was hardly a pavement café, Jess thought, but it would do for now. Hadley sat down opposite her in one of the rickety chairs that had been placed around each small table. He took a bite of his hamburger and chewed hungrily while Jess looked on, sipping her tea and dragging on her cigarette.
‘What do you think that detective is going to say when you tell him your theory about the Golem?’ Jess asked.
‘He’ll probably throw me out of his office,’ Hadley admitted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Do you blame him?’
Hadley smiled.
Jess took another drag on her cigarette then slowly stubbed it out on the table top, smoke drifting mournfully into the air.
‘You were serious weren’t you, Alex?’ she said, finally. ‘About the Golem? About Voronov using it to intimidate and kill?’
‘It probably carries as much weight as your idea that people were dying for some reason inside the Crystal Tower,’ Hadley said taking another mouthful of hamburger.
‘Why a Golem though? Why not a dragon or a troll, or a werewolf or a fucking magic carpet?’
Hadley grinned.
‘Your scepticism and your irritation are showing, Miss Anderson,’ he murmured. ‘Do you think I haven’t considered how fucking crazy it sounds? I’m just telling you what I think. Like the man said, when you’ve considered all possibilities and even the most insane seems likely then that must be the answer.’
‘I don’t think those were the exact words,’ Jess smiled.
‘Fuck it,’ Hadley grunted. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘So Voronov’s grandfather built one of these things back in the 1930s to protect him then ran away when it killed someone?’
‘It looks like one possible explanation
.’
‘The one that your dad saw during the war, what happened to that?’
Hadley shrugged.
‘The prisoner of war camp was liberated by the Russians,’ he said. ‘The prisoners were released. My Dad never said.’
‘Would he remember anything about it?’ she wanted to know.
‘He can’t remember his own name these days,’ Hadley breathed. ‘He’s not going to remember what happened during the fucking war is he?’
Jess ran a hand through her hair, a thoughtful expression on her face.
‘The idea of giving inanimate objects life, like a Golem or a statue,’ she said, finally. ‘Do you think that could extend to something bigger?’
‘Like what?’
‘Something else made from clay or brick or stone.’
‘Like a building?’
Hadley spoke the words slowly but without a trace of irony or sarcasm.
‘When those workmen were killed inside the Crystal Tower, when we saw Jonathan Tyler die, the blood disappeared as if it’d been absorbed into the stonework. As if the building itself was feeding on them.’ She looked at Hadley, expecting some change of expression, perhaps some hint of incredulity on his features but she saw nothing like that.
‘You think the Crystal Tower itself is some kind of living entity?’ he said, flatly.
‘Is it any worse than your idea of a walking statue?’
Hadley shook his head.
‘It was built by a man who apparently has knowledge of some kind of … craft,’ Jess went on. ‘A man whose grandfather had that same knowledge. So he constructs that building on the site of the house where his grandfather lived, the site of the place where a Golem was built and activated more than seventy years earlier.’
Hadley looked evenly at her.
‘We don’t know that Voronov built the statue in the Crystal Tower himself,’ he said.
‘So maybe someone working for him has that kind of knowledge. Voronov’s just using their expertise. He buys everything else, why not that kind of expertise?’
‘Even if we’re right, how the hell does this thing move around without being seen? It’s more than seven feet tall, it must weigh a fucking ton. And no one’s seen it.’
‘Yet,’ Jess murmured. ‘Maybe we have to do something to see it in action.’
‘Like what?’
‘Provoke Voronov. If he thinks we’re dangerous enough he might just send it after us.’
‘So what do you propose?’
‘Tell him we know what he’s doing. Tell him we know about the Golem.’
SIXTY -FOUR
There couldn’t have been more expectation in the room if the assembled media had been waiting for a first glimpse of the Second Coming.
Jess glanced around her, noting that there were camera crews from all the major networks and journalists so numerous it seemed as if the room on the third floor of the Crystal Tower had been filled from front to back with them, each one squeezed in to ensure the maximum number of press could be present. Shoehorned into every available space. Some she recognised and nodded to every now and then. A cameraman from SKY kept winking at her everytime she caught his eye and Jess, despite the smile on her face, did her best to avoid his gaze as she continued to look around the crowded room.
Beside her, Hadley kept his gaze fixed firmly on the long table that was set up. Behind it there were three chairs and on the table itself a single crystal glass and a jug filled with iced water. Cameras were clicking already as if even the table itself was worthy of note. When the door to one side of the room opened to admit the anticipated guest Hadley could imagine the reaction. Two huge vases of flowers, filled with every imaginable colour and type of bloom towered over each end of the table and even sitting three or four rows back, the aroma of the flowers was strong but, Hadley thought, such an overwhelming display of blooms made the air a little sickly. It was like sitting inside a florist’s. Behind the table there were large standees depicting various views of the Crystal Tower including one of several smiling people standing outside the door of their new apartment, holding the key as if it were some kind of trophy. Hadley shook his head as if repulsed by the sight.
Jess checked her own cameras a couple of times as if fearing they might fail her at the crucial moment but then, satisfied they were in good order, she settled down once again to wait.
‘What if he doesn’t show up?’ she said, quietly.
‘Then we’re all going to look like mugs aren’t we?’ Hadley said, his eyes still fixed on the long table at one end of the room.
He looked at his watch, checked it against the clock on the wall of the room and glanced towards the mahogany double doors at the other end of the room. Dark-suited security men stood on either side their gaze fixed on the throng of media before them who they regarded dispassionately, even contemptuously.
It was exactly eleven-thirty a.m. when the rear doors of the room opened. Many heads in the room craned and turned to see the newcomer and a number of cameras went off prematurely.
Two huge men clad in suits that must have been handmade for them such was their height and girth, entered the room and walked to the table where they took up position at either end.
Three more followed, taking up their appointed positions at various places in the room, each facing the assembled reporters who they eyed appraisingly and, in one case, with barely concealed hostility. Each had an earpiece and they had small two-way radios pinned to their suit lapels. Occasionally one of the men would duck his head and murmur something unintelligible into the set, sometimes nodding when he got a reply, sometimes content to remain impassive.
‘Did we come to the wrong press conference?’ Jess said, smiling. ‘I keep thinking the President of America is going to walk in.’
‘He hasn’t got as much money as this guy,’ Hadley murmured. ‘And I don’t think he’s quite as powerful.’
Jess nodded and looked around the room once again. Some of the other journalists were already turning towards the double doors through which the security men had entered. She wondered if they could see anything through the newly open partition.
There was movement in the corridor beyond and most of the people in the room heard the sound of voices, some speaking with heavy Eastern European accents. Then two more figures swept into the room, the first of them a brown-haired woman in her late twenties, dressed elegantly in a charcoal grey jacket, white blouse and knee length grey skirt. She walked with almost balletic grace on a pair of precipitous high heels, moving into position behind the table, nodding and smiling efficiently at the assembled throng as she was joined by a man in his thirties who was wearing a navy suit and striped shirt. In addition to the thin moustache and goatee beard he sported, he had dark hair to his collar.
Hadley glanced at Jess questioningly but neither of them knew the man.
Their unspoken question was answered a moment later when the woman cleared her throat and, with that professional smile fixed to her immaculately made up features, began speaking.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in her Eastern European accent. ‘Thank you for coming here today. This gentleman,’ she motioned to the man with the goatee, ‘will act as interpreter if necessary. Mr Voronov’s English is good but I know that sometimes there are words you people use that we strangers struggle to understand so this gentleman is here to help if that happens.’
A small murmur of laughter rippled around the room.
‘When did Mr Voronov arrive?’ someone from the middle of the room called.
‘He landed safely at Heathrow last night,’ the woman said. ‘He has been here in his penthouse since then.’
‘Has he said anything about the continued refusal of planning permission for his hotel complex?’ another voice enquired.
‘Mr Voronov is not here to talk about other projects today,’ the woman said, her practised smile still intact. ‘Only about the Crystal Tower. Please do not ask him about other matters because he will not a
nswer. A press release will be issued in due course that should answer any questions you may have about his other interests here in London.’
She looked up at the wall clock then at her own expensive watch and nodded towards the two security guards who flanked the doorway.
‘Here we go,’ Hadley murmured.
Jess glanced in the direction of the open doors.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ the woman in the charcoal suit announced. ‘Mr Andrei Voronov.’
SIXTY-FIVE
More security men swept into the room and as they did, Jess realised that they were actually flanking another figure who was walking in their midst like a man who had accidentally wandered into a rugby scrum.
He was shorter than his guards, not immediately visible to the assembled throng despite the fact that many cameras clicked as the gaggle of people entered the room and three or four TV cameras tracked the procession of newcomers as they made their way from the doors to the table at the front of the room.
Only as they reached that table did Andrei Voronov emerge from within the cocoon of security men and take up a position behind the table between the suit clad woman and the interpreter.
Jess took some pictures of him then looked more closely at the mysterious man.
He was a lean, tall individual dressed as she would have expected in an immaculate navy blue suit and a white shirt that was almost dazzling in its purity. He had thin features and his hair was greying slightly at the temples but that only added to his appearance. He was, Jess decided, an attractive man and as he looked around the room at the horde of media who had awaited his arrival she thought she even saw the hint of a smile on his lips. He settled easily into his seat looking very comfortable before the assembled throng and certainly not looking like the cold, aloof and distant individual she’d been expecting. It was, she decided, like ripping the mask from the Phantom of the Opera only to discover that the features beneath more closely resembled Brad Pitt than a disfigured monster. She smiled at her own clumsy analogy and took some more pictures as the murmur of voices which had greeted Voronov’s arrival in the room gradually died to nothing.
