He squatted down and checked the area beyond the pool. There were no other prints beyond it, which meant that whoever had been here had been cautious enough to wipe their shoes before moving on.
He was concerned about Szulu’s diversion out in the street. The fallout wouldn’t last much longer; beyond the initial excitement of a vehicle fire and the arrival of the emergency services, there was little to hold people’s attention for more than a few minutes. He could already hear the distant wail of a siren, but any attention drawn to the outside of the building would soon diminish, and all eyes and ears would turn back on the interior.
He stood up and was about to step forward when something else caught his eye. A couple of empty cement bags had been moved or had fallen, revealing an object which looked startlingly out of place. He leaned down to study it.
Lying half covered by the empty bags was a strip of leather with a buckle at one end. The metal glinted freshly in the light, sharply at odds with the dusty surroundings. The other end of the leather was torn, where the stitching had been ripped open as if by great force.
He held the strip up to the light… and felt something inside him go still. The leather was burgundy in colour, and the buckle was gold.
The strap from Helen’s briefcase.
A pipe gurgled nearby, then died. A door slammed, distant and muffled. The high-pitched hum of the lift mechanism sang for a moment, then stopped. The living, breathing sounds of a building going on as usual.
Palmer took a deep breath to steady himself, and wrapped the strap absent-mindedly, yet with almost tender care, around his left hand.
Ten yards ahead, a bulky structure stood in the passageway. It was the aluminium ducting, part of the building’s heating mechanism. Palmer checked the tunnel behind him. Nothing back there. Ahead, some way beyond the ducting, he could see the solid outline of the door to the service stairs leading to the ground floor.
As he drew level with the heating duct, he heard a faint rasp, followed by a whisper of moving cloth.
And something cold touched the side of his head.
42
A man was standing alongside him. His presence had been swallowed by the pool of shadow cast by the square ducting, the sound of his breathing hidden by the noise of the heating system. He had simply waited for Palmer to draw level, then reached out and placed the tip of the gun barrel against his head.
‘Not to move.’ The man spoke softly. His breath was hot and sweet against Palmer’s cheek. With his other hand, he reached out and patted Palmer down, flicking at Palmer’s jacket and trousers to test for weapons. Satisfied there were none, he used the pressure of the gun against Palmer’s head to force him across the other side of the tunnel, then spun him roughly until his back was to the wall.
Palmer allowed himself to be steered, conscious of the gun and knowing that down here, it was unlikely the sound of a shot would carry far. The man was also strong, and clearly capable of handling any resistance. As he was forced back against the wall, Palmer felt the network of pipes and cabling digging into him.
In the light of the tunnel, the man was revealed as short and squat, with massive shoulders and a bull neck. His suit seemed to be losing the battle to contain his torso, and a tie knotted carelessly round his neck looked like a piece of string. His face was bare of emotion, like a wood-carving. He wore a Bluetooth headset in his left ear, the mouthpiece flat against his jaw like a character from a science-fiction movie.
Pechov.
He stared at Palmer and gestured with the gun barrel. ‘Put hands behind pipe.’ He pointed downwards.
Palmer turned his head. A four-inch pipe ran the length of the wall just below waist level. It was held in place by metal brackets every six feet or so, leaving a small gap between the pipe and the tunnel wall.
He did as he was instructed. It was a tight fit. The pipe was uncomfortably hot against the inside of his wrists, and he guessed it carried oil or water. He worked his hands further down so his jacket sleeve acted as a barrier. This wasn’t good. With his hands trapped like this, he was too vulnerable.
Even as the thought occurred to him, Pechov suddenly dipped one shoulder and delivered a short, brutal punch to Palmer’s mid-section with his free hand. Palmer felt as if he’d been hit by a runaway truck. He gasped and sagged against the wall, all the air driven from his lungs, his back rubbing painfully against the pipes and cables.
‘What you want here, huh?’ the Russian demanded. He prodded Palmer in the chest with the gun barrel. Hard. ‘What you do here?’ Without warning, he threw another vicious punch and more pain blossomed in Palmer’s belly. The man laughed. He obviously enjoyed inflicting pain.
As Palmer fought for breath, he saw Pechov reach up to touch his earpiece. He was going to call someone.
‘Wait.’ Palmer could barely get the word out. If he didn’t do something quickly, this moron was either going to summon help or beat him to death. Probably both. At the very least he was here to stop anyone intruding, and he clearly didn’t care how he went about it, or how permanent his actions might be. Right now, Palmer didn’t think his internal organs could take another punch.
Pechov leaned in close, breathing sweet air into Palmer’s face. He followed it with a vicious prod of the gun. ‘Yes?’
Palmer nodded and coughed, then cleared his throat and spat wetly to one side. He allowed an agonised groan to escape from his chest and shook his head as a dribble of saliva ran down his chin. The man pulled a face and stepped back. Too far, thought Palmer. He had to draw him back in.
‘I’ve got… got something for Fedorov,’ he croaked in between breaths. ‘You have to… to see it.’
At the mention of his boss’s name, Pechov leaned close. ‘What is?’
Palmer wriggled his left hand, and felt the briefcase strap uncoil and swing free. The buckle glinted as it moved.
Pechov saw it at once. ‘What?’ He reached down and grasped the strap, lifting up the free end and staring at it, turning over the buckle to better study it in the poor light. Then he smiled in recognition. ‘Of course. Pretty lady. Very pretty. But not any more.’ He sniggered obscenely, his tongue pink and worm-like between thick lips. He peered at Palmer from piggy eyes and dropped his end of the strap with a gesture of contempt. ‘Your friend, perhaps?’ he said softly, taunting, and made an obscene gesture with a stubby finger. ‘She good. Like lady upstairs.’
Palmer felt a cold rage begin to eat into him like acid. The pain, the discomfort, even the presence of the gun, all slid away into the background as his focus centred on the man before him. Anger, he had always been taught, was a weakness. Anger can make you lose control. Anger can make you reckless. It can even get you killed.
But what Palmer was feeling went far beyond the brief red mist of mindless violence in a pub fight on a Saturday night, or the impulsive desire to hit back at a thoughtless insult. This was more like running towards an enemy when all good sense told you to stay back.
‘It’s a bogoff,’ he grunted, and braced himself. Pechov was closer, but he had to get him to come in just a little more.
Pechov frowned, his mouth opening a fraction. ‘Not understand.’
‘A bogoff,’ Palmer repeated. It was no good, he was still out of range. He sagged weakly against the wall and dropped his head, coughing, the reaction not entirely feigned. He began to think something might be broken and wondered if he had sufficient strength left to do this.
Pechov muttered impatiently and moved a step closer, his gun hand dropping to one side.
Thank you, God, Palmer prayed, and gripped the pipe in his right hand, ignoring the heat. Pulling his left hand out from behind the pipe, he flicked the strap away into the gloom. Pechov’s eyes followed instinctively, drawn by the movement. It was all the opportunity Palmer was going to get.
Jamming his hand back behind the pipe for maximum purchase, he surged upright and swung his right leg out and up, using the full torque of his upper body to gain momentum. The pain was int
ense, but he drove through it, gritting his teeth.
He would not get another chance.
In the dim light of the tunnel, and with his head turned away, Pechov missed the movement. By the time he actually sensed something was happening, it was too late. Palmer’s leg, straight as a board, whipped round in a vicious crescent kick, bringing with it all the desperation, anger and hatred he could muster, all the desire for answers and the shock of finally knowing where Helen had spent her last few minutes.
And most importantly, who had been here with her.
The edge of his foot slammed into the side of the Russian’s head, mashing the brittle plastic of the headset deep into his ear cavity. The pain must have been immense, for Pechov squealed like a pig and fell sideways. Fragments of the earpiece went flying through the air, and his gun hit the bare concrete and skittered away. He planted a meaty hand on the ground, trying desperately to remain upright and scrabbling to retrieve the weapon at the same time. His other hand went to his ear and came away covered in blood.
‘Bogoff,’ explained Palmer with chilling calm, ‘means you buy one…’ He swung his foot again, this time high in the air, and brought it down as hard as he could in an axe kick, the sharp back edge of his heel aimed at a point a couple of inches below the man’s unprotected neck. ‘… you get one free.’
There was a sickening crunch as tissue and bone gave way, the vicious downward force on such a concentrated point too great even for Pechov’s bunched muscles.
The killer grunted and lay still.
43
Ray Szulu huddled down in a doorway across from Pantile House. This time he was positioned near the rear of the building, where he could get a better view of the entrance and the car park. He was wondering what to do next.
After running down the street in the wake of the van blowing up, he’d found himself in the rare position of actually slowing down and then returning to a scene of a wrongdoing. This was entirely new to Szulu from another perspective: he was actually feeling the instinct to not run away, but to stay and help Riley and Palmer.
He hugged himself in indecision, eyes darting backwards and forwards, waiting to see if he was being watched or if the police had arrived. So far he hadn’t seen any blue lights, but he could hear a siren getting closer and knew that if it was a fire appliance, a patrol car wouldn’t be far behind.
He ignored the burning van, still spewing its cargo of black smoke, and concentrated on the building. Palmer was in there somewhere. And Riley Gavin, if she was still alive. He knew a thing or two about people being lifted; he’d seen the way men like Ragga Pearl, a south London gang leader and general nutcase psychopath dealt with those who displeased them. Taking a hostage was usually only a preliminary to something far worse, and served as a terrifying warning to anyone else not to fall out of line.
Instinct told him these Russians were no different. If they’d taken Riley, it certainly wasn’t just so they could have a nice chat over a glass of vodka and send her home again.
Palmer scooped up Pechov’s gun and took a moment to regain his breath. His heart was pounding and the pain from his ribs was intense. There was no time to stop now, but emerging from the basement panting like a marathon runner would be sure to draw attention, and he needed all the edge he could get. Before moving on, he felt Pechov’s neck for a pulse. There was nothing.
He checked the weapon in his hand. It was compact and light, with a four-inch barrel, but no discernible markings. It was small calibre, probably. 22, he guessed from somewhere in Eastern Europe. A close-proximity weapon; a killer’s gun. He wondered if it was the one used to shoot the cat. If so, it nailed Pechov as the shooter. He remembered how Mr Grobowski had described him to Riley, as a buhaj — a bull.
The door and the lift shaft at the end of the tunnel beckoned. The lift would be a quick way up and out, but risky because it opened on to the ground floor close by the front desk. It would also be noisy, instantly alerting everyone in the building to the presence of an intruder. But it was either that or the stairs — and either one could be a trap waiting to be sprung.
As he passed another pile of maintenance junk, he spotted a short length of steel piping. He picked it up. It was heavy and felt good in his hand. He might have a gun, but something blunt was quieter. He tucked the gun in his jacket pocket and headed towards the steps to the ground floor. After that, it was the main stairway or nothing.
He eased open the access door and edged out. He was at the rear of the lobby, opposite the emergency stairs. He stepped over and listened. The stairway was narrow and dark. Inviting. Maybe too inviting.
He backed up and risked a look towards the reception area. From here, he could just see the edge of the desk and a couple of chairs, and beyond that, a stretch of glass overlooking the rear car park. There was nobody in sight, but he thought he heard footsteps out by the door. At that moment, a figure strolled along the walkway outside. He ducked back. One of the security guards.
He waited for the man to disappear. It was tempting to wait for him to come back inside and use the threat of the gun to find out where Riley was being held. At the very least it would take another obstacle out of his way. But there was always the risk that the guard might be missed if he was supposed to report in regularly.
He decided to leave the man down here and do the one thing they probably weren’t counting on: make a frontal approach up the main stairs. It was risky, but well lit and open, which gave him a better than even chance of sensing a threat before he walked into it.
He made it to the first landing and paused. His ears were pounding so loudly, he doubted he would hear anything. But he knew this was nerves. The moment anything moved, his training and instincts would take over.
Up to the first floor. No lights. All doors closed. Silence apart from the faint ticking of something in the heating system.
Voices were coming from somewhere overhead, probably a couple of floors up. He continued, taking the second and third floor flights at a run, ready to duck into the first available corner. Just ahead was the fourth floor landing. He stopped short of the top and waited, breathing heavily. There was a dull pain in his chest, but he ignored it. Time for medical treatment later.
The voices were louder now, and a faint glow of light came from along the corridor in the direction of the main office. He could also hear a hum from somewhere to the rear of the building. He doubted the men would use any of the other floors; that would be too risky if they were using this place illegally. So where was Riley?
As he turned his head to check the layout, he saw a woman’s shoe lying in one corner.
He stepped over and picked it up. He couldn’t recall what shoes Riley had been wearing, but he knew it must be hers. He felt a drumming in his chest and bit down on the impulse to charge right ahead and confront whoever was up here. But getting his head blown off wasn’t going to do Riley one bit of good. Don’t think the worst, he told himself.
He looked around and considered the logic of the situation. If her shoe was here, then so was she. Simple. But where had she been taken beyond this point? There weren’t that many options, simply because most of the layout here was open plan. So start with the smaller rooms.
He cocked his head to one side. The humming noise was louder here, insistent and familiar. An extractor fan. Over in the corner was the door to a women’s washroom.
Taking a firm grip on the length of pipe, he padded across and nudged the door inwards. A slight resistance, then the gap widened, and he was hit by a rush of hot, clammy air and a powerful smell of cleaning fluid.
The first thing he saw was an empty bleach bottle on the floor, minus the cap, and fragments of porcelain. A line of sinks — one smashed — stood against one wall, and above them a row of mirrors. The glass was misted by steam rising into the air. He pushed the door right back and stopped, the pain in his ribs instantly forgotten.
Riley was slumped in a chair by the sinks, bound by strips of what looked like electrician’
s tape. Her face and upper body were soaking wet, as was the floor around her, and the side of her throat and neck was a mass of blotchy, vivid red skin.
She was shivering uncontrollably, but struggling to fight her way out of her bonds and cursing fluently beneath her breath.
44
Ray Szulu watched as the firemen attending the ruined van packed up their equipment and got ready to leave. Their leader was hustling them along, shouting about a warehouse fire three miles away. They had expertly put out the small blaze in the engine compartment and had shunted the vehicle into the kerb for someone else to tow away, leaving just a smell of burnt rubber and metal hanging in the air. A police car called to attend had also screeched off as soon as it was clear that no traffic problems existed.
As silence resumed, a squeal of tyres from his right made Szulu duck further into his doorway. A vehicle was approaching at speed. Szulu didn’t know a whole lot about engines, but he’d been around Steadman enough times to know when he heard something race-tuned.
The bulky shape barrelled out of the dark, no lights showing, and skidded to a stop right across the entrance to the car park. It was a black van with sliding side doors. Even before it came to a complete halt, three shapes hit the ground running. The driver stayed where he was, the engine ticking over smoothly.
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