Something different.
A file, the elastic bands around it setting it apart from everything else. A typed label on the front cover: THE HISTORIAN.
Curious, she looked at it. Was it a plan for a novel? Case notes? She drew the file out, undid the band wrapping, settled back and began to read. A shiver ran down her spine as she did so. This was something important. This could even be the smoking gun.
The first page detailed the first victim. Lisa Hill. A photo snipped from the paper was clipped to a detailed description of the girl, her background, her life, her disappearance and her death. There were even psychological notes as to her state of mind. The whole thing read like a report combining analysis and forensics. Peta took a while to think who this girl was. She remembered. There had been speculation after Jill’s abduction that this girl had been the killer’s first victim but no official confirmation. This was more than speculation, Peta thought. This looked to her like evidence.
Her heart was beating fast, her breathing becoming laboured. She turned the page.
Just as Peta had suspected, Ashley Malcolm was next. The familiar, cheerful face from so many newspaper reports. She flipped it over, read what was underneath. Another detailed description of another life and death.
Peta was beginning to feel light-headed. This was a kind of sensory overload. Almost too much to take in.
She turned the page.
Jill Tennant. The same thing again. The only difference: the piece about her death more hastily written, unfinished. As if he had been disturbed.
Very disturbed, she thought.
She turned the next page, almost too scared to read what she would find there.
She never got to look at it.
‘Enjoying yourself? Found something worth reading?’
Peta looked up, startled. There stood the Prof, in coat, hat and scarf, silhouetted in the doorway, like a shadow detached from the darkness. His eyes glittering with cold, hard anger.
He closed the door behind him.
Her heart was pounding, her chest hammering. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
He made his way towards her.
36
Katya rounded the corner. And there it was. Perfect. Just as the map had said it would be.
The street names were unfamiliar and difficult to pronounce; saying them aloud made them sound like stones or lumps of clay in her mouth. Likewise the symbols and descriptions. But she had persevered, committing them to memory, ignoring the looks from the staff in the bookshop, and then begun what she had hoped would be the last part of her trek.
As instructed, she had taken the Metro. It was a risk, as she had no money left after the coffee for a ticket, and potentially ruinous if she had been caught, but there was no other option. She had watched from the window as the train had emerged from the tunnel into the electrically illuminated evening darkness, going first over a huge bridge, past some high-rise housing that seemed to be constructed from one long brick wall. Cranes had appeared next, towering over streets of poor old houses, etched against the night sky like the skeletal remains of huge lumbering beasts from an earlier era.
The doors opened and closed, people got on and off. The areas stayed poor-looking. They seemed hard-faced, these northern people, she thought, short-haired and not given to smiling much. Wearing leisurewear to accentuate their lack of employment. Overweight yet still looking malnourished. They looked like any peasant stock anywhere in Europe. They looked like her own people at home.
She shook her head, looked out of the window, waited for her stop. It arrived.
North Shields.
She stepped off, exited the station and looked around. Shops and businesses had closed up for the night. Papers, fast-food wrappers and other detritus blew down the streets. It was low-level; it was poor. People hurried home as if not wanting to risk some invisible curfew. In doorways and on corners youths were beginning to congregate, watching from beneath their hoods, their eyes reflecting the streetlights in razor glints, looking like apprentice wizards casting spells of dark magic.
Katya knew that their sharp eyes were on her, could almost feel their ugly thoughts being transmitted. She turned away from them, got her bearings from the street names, walked off. She hoped they weren’t following, but she didn’t look back to check. She didn’t want to show weakness, be marked out as a victim. There had been enough of that in her life.
She followed the street names, comparing them with the memorized grid in her head. Her walk led her to a row of old terraced houses down an unspectacular street. Flat-fronted, some of them had been pebbledashed and painted in an effort to distinguish them from each other. Two storeys tall but the dark, flat expanse of sky above still seemed to bear down on them oppressively.
She checked for the number she wanted, thought of going around the back, finding a way to break in, but thought better of it. The time for stealth, for creeping around in shadows, was over. The time for confrontation was on her. She dragged her weary body to the front door, rang the bell.
Anita lay there on the bed. It hurt to move her body. But hurt, she was beginning to feel, in a good way.
They had had to move, Michael had told her, and the hotel was old, run down. The greasy old couple who ran it had stared at them when they had booked in, the fat man running his eyes up and down her body. He obviously found her to his liking because when he gave her his rotten-toothed smile the corners of his mouth were gummed with white, oily spittle.
He had given them their room key, followed them up there and stood in the room not in any hurry to leave. She had expected Michael to say something, do something, but he hadn’t. Eventually the man had left, but she could still feel his fetid breath, see his bloodshot eyes looking at her from every corner of the room.
Michael hadn’t seemed to notice. They had sat on the bed.
And had sex.
And now she hurt. Again.
Her bruises, wounds, were still raw. Michael wouldn’t allow them to heal. He poked them, prodded them, played with them until they changed colour or the blood trickled once again from them. His hands were all over her, in her, his body pressed against her, her own forcibly restrained, bound up. Until she was no longer the person she used to be, until she had given her will up to him. Until she had no option but to take whatever he flung at her and love him for it.
Then she came.
Later, lying side by side in bed, they had talked.
‘So why are we running?’ she had asked.
Michael Nell had smiled. Anita felt something sharp and hot stir within her when he did that.
‘I’m a wanted man,’ he said, relishing the words. ‘Haven’t you seen the papers?’ He laughed. ‘No, of course you haven’t.’
She frowned. ‘Wanted for what?’
‘Murder.’ The smile widened, his eyes glistened.
‘They want you for murder?’ she had asked, inching away from him across the bed.
He stayed where he was, shrugged.
‘Did you … did you do it?’
He looked at her, eye to eye. ‘Do you think I did? D’you think I could kill someone?’
She moved her body, felt her bruises ache, saw fresh blood as she rubbed against the sheets. ‘I … don’t know …’
He laughed.
‘Did you?’
‘Well, they think I did. That’s why they’re chasing me. That’s why I’m on the run. And you’re with me. My moll. Like Bonnie and Clyde. Outlaws. Cool, isn’t it?’
‘What if … if they catch you?’
He leaned over towards her. ‘We’ll have to make sure they don’t, won’t we?’
He saw she had retreated into her own thoughts. ‘Don’t run out on me, Anita. I’ve waited a long time to find you. You’re perfect. I won’t let you go.’
‘No, no, I am not … But what do we do for money? How do we live?’
Michael Nell laughed. ‘Well, I can’t go out to work, can I? It’ll have to be you.’
/> She frowned again. ‘What can I do?’
He moved up close to her. She felt his stale breath, his sweat. His need of her. He was turning her on despite the situation. ‘What you were doing when I met you.’
Her heart sank. She closed her eyes. ‘No. No.’
His hands were on her, holding her down. He straddled her, becoming unmistakably erect.
‘Yes. We’ve all got to contribute. Bring something in. And you can do that. Be a whore. My whore.’
He was fully erect now. She said nothing.
‘You can start with the old bloke downstairs. Bet his wife hasn’t serviced him in years. Bet he’d let us stay here for free if you did that.’
‘No.’
‘It’s just a start. Just to help out. You can go back out on the quayside. Service all those high-flying, well-paying businessmen again.’
She shook her head.
She felt him holding her down harder, his body pressed tight against hers. ‘We’ve both got to contribute, Anita. Now, I’ve been waiting for you all my life but if you’re not prepared to contribute to the family finances, you’re not one of the family. And then where would you be?’
Anita saw herself back on the plane to Lithuania, stepping off, her family hurt and disappointed. The end of a fairy tale.
Michael Nell smiled. ‘What’s your answer?’
She nodded, eyes averted from his.
‘Good.’ He smiled. Put his hands behind his neck. Undid the chain that was hanging there, placed it around her neck, fastened it. Sat back and smiled at her. ‘There. We’re engaged. My princess.’
And as his body moved over hers, she thought she could forgive him anything.
Because he had just said the right word.
Decca checked the house in front of him against the one on the list and the one in the A to Z, made sure they all matched. They did. He sighed. This wasn’t what he had signed up for. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t what Clint would do. He was a man of action, a gangsta. Not some creep who ticked off names on a piece of paper. Christ, anyone could do that.
But still, he wanted to prove himself. Show he had the smarts to be a major player. And if this was what it took, then this was what it took. He could play the game Kovacs’ way if he had to.
He looked over at the front door in a row of boring, nondescript old houses. The kind he had grown up in. The kind he had run away from. The kind he had vowed never to go back to.
He looked again at the list, saw all the crossed-off addresses. The safe houses he had checked out looking for Dario Tokic. As he looked down the list he thought of the ways he had tried to get information out of the people who had answered the doors to him. He had been cunning, he had used guile, as they said in Match of the Day. He smiled at the thought, remembered the clipboard, the fake marketing questions. Gas supply, electricity supply. He had bought a daily paper, read the headlines, clued himself up. Asked what they thought of the government’s approach to whatever. There had been some who wouldn’t say anything no matter what he said to them, but in general he had been surprised at how much people had wanted to talk. A question here, a question there, a bit of flattery, a twinkly smile and he had them eating out of his hands. He was good, even if he said so himself. But they were mostly women. And he knew how to talk to women. Get what he wanted out of them.
A few questions about how many people lived in the house, were there any lodgers. If not, then they were off the list and he was out the door. A few weren’t in, and he noted them down for a callback, and a couple of lonely housewives had even given him their number. Maybe he would call. He liked older women. They always seemed more grateful.
But that was for later. This was about work. The place in front of him was unremarkable in every way. Even its pebbledashing to distinguish it from the other houses in the street was mundane. He stifled a yawn, got out of the car, crossed the street.
Rang the doorbell. And waited.
He heard noise from within. Someone was there, but they were in no hurry to answer the door. Voices were raised as if in argument. Perhaps the TV was on too loud. Perhaps they were eating.
He rang again.
Footsteps came down the hall. A light was put on. The door was opened. A timid face looked out. A woman, late twenties, Decca reckoned, with mousy-brown hair, stared at him. He looked back. It wasn’t timidity he saw in her face, he thought. It was fear.
‘Ye-yes?’ she said in a voice that matched her features.
Decca, smile in place, began to talk. ‘Hi, we’re doing a survey on …’
The door was yanked open wide, almost knocking the woman off her feet. She gave a yelp and jumped out of the way, losing her footing and falling backwards into the hallway. Decca moved forward to help her up. Stopped in his tracks when he felt a knife at his throat.
‘In.’
He moved inside. The door was slammed shut behind him. He heard it being locked.
He looked at the man who had spoken. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. Wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He looked familiar. Then it clicked into place.
Dario Tokic.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Tokic said, keeping the knife pressed at Decca’s throat. He gestured with his head towards the kitchen. ‘Hands on your head. Move.’
Decca did as he was told, walked down the hall. He was aware of the automatic in his jacket pocket, equally aware that there was no move he could make to get it out.
‘No tricks.’
‘How did you know I’d be coming here?’ asked Decca.
‘You’ve been looking for me. For us. Even broke into their offices looking for us. It was only a matter of time.’
Decca said nothing, kept walking. Into the kitchen. The table had been laid, and a smell of spoiled food was in the air. Katya Tokic was holding another sharp-looking kitchen knife to a man’s throat. Two young children cowered in the corner.
Tokic kept the knife pressed hard on Decca’s throat, addressed the family.
‘I am truly sorry to have to do this, believe me. Truly sorry. We mean you no harm. This is the man we wanted. We knew he would come. As soon as they moved me here I knew he would come.’ The knife was pushed harder. Decca wanted to swallow, felt he would break the skin if he did, so refrained. ‘Please accept my deepest apologies. We will be going soon. Gun.’
Katya moved over towards Decca, began searching his pockets.
This was the moment, he thought. When Clint would make a move, when Bond would distract her, get the gun out and shoot them both. The moment. He tensed, ready to move.
‘Don’t.’
The knife was pushed harder. A small pain, then Decca’s neck felt wet. His breathing became heavier, his legs too. He stayed where he was. She found the gun, stood back, pointed it at him.
‘We will leave now,’ Tokic said. He stood back beside his sister, looked at Decca. ‘Your car. You will drive. We will be behind you. No funny business or we shoot you.’
‘Then …’ He tried to find a brave voice. ‘Then you’ll die too.’
Tokic shrugged. ‘What’s death when you’ve been through what we have been through?’
Decca said nothing. Knew he meant it.
Tokic turned to the family. ‘Please accept my apologies once again. We are not bad people. Just good people driven to do bad things. We will bother you no more. Please, I implore you, do not phone the police. Please. And I know you may not believe me, but I thank you for your hospitality.’
He turned to Decca, indicated that he walk down the hall. Decca did so. Katya handed her brother the gun, opened the front door.
They crossed the street, got into the BMW, Decca in the driving seat, Katya and her brother behind him.
‘Whuh – where’re we going?’
Decca felt more than saw Tokic smile.
‘To see Kovacs. And make him pay.’
37
Amar was tired. His limbs ached, his stomach groaned and his head hurt. His body was filmed in dried sweat, the smell mingl
ing with that all-too-familiar post-drug comedown odour. His skin felt like it belonged to someone else. And, he thought with a kind of twisted pride, he was still working.
He let out a groan. Jamal, in the passenger seat, looked at him, concern in his eyes.
‘You OK, man?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Just tired. You know how it is.’
‘Don’t I? This stakeout shit. Ain’t like on TV. Never see those cops from The Shield pissin’ in no bottle.’
Amar gave a weary smile. They had spent the day looking for Decca Ainsley. Without any success. They had tried Decca’s café, sitting there in turn nursing cappuccino after cappuccino, eating croissants until Amar thought his skin would turn into flaky pastry and Jamal got sugar rush after sugar rush, Amar reading every page of every newspaper they had in there, Jamal with his head stuck in gaming magazines. No sign of Decca Ainsley, just a host of office workers being served by a bevy of pretty girls for whom English clearly wasn’t a first language.
After that they had driven around what they had been assured were Decca’s haunts. The bars he frequented, the places he was known to eat lunch at. All the time observing only. Amar did most of that as Jamal was underage for the bars. The boy sat in the car, sullenly playing games on his mobile. Amar spotted Decca’s friends, or known associates as he was required to call them, but couldn’t speak to any of them, ask any of them where his target was. He couldn’t come up with some story, invent an official reason for his visit. That would arouse too much suspicion. Neither could he pass himself off as a friend of Decca’s. He doubted Decca was the kind of person who had any Asian friends. So he had to content himself with just watching, straining to pick up any snatches of dialogue that would give him a clue to Decca’s whereabouts. He heard plenty of other stuff, but nothing to do with Decca.
So now they sat in Amar’s battered Volvo outside Marco Kovacs’ house in Ponteland. It was a last resort, but they didn’t know where else to go. Amar certainly didn’t want to go home. And he certainly didn’t want to go out. He had made a promise to Jamal. And he had to stick to it.
Bone Machine Page 31
