Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘No,’ Mac said. If the doctor talked to anyone in the gang then questions would start being asked. Plus, he didn’t have time to rest up.

  Mac gestured to the window. ‘Can you think of any reason why two heavies in a Merc would be parked down the road from this clinic?’

  The face of Mo Masri looked like he was seeing a fist coming straight at him. For more than half a minute he carefully watched the street. When he turned, Mac noticed how pale his skin looked, like he was now the one in shock. ‘Can you excuse me a moment? I have to make some phone calls.’

  Mac dropped one of his feet on the ground as he leaned forward. ‘Is there a problem?’

  From Mo’s face it certainly appeared as if there was. ‘No, I’m sure there isn’t . . . I just have to make a call.’

  Then he was gone. So the doc had his own problems to deal with, and so did Mac, one of which was dealing with this slipping in and out of reality – or shock, as the doctor called it. He refused to believe it was the same blackouts he’d suffered with a year back when Stevie had died, like Calum said. Mac jumped up and started searching for the pills that he needed to stay sane in the following hours. At first, he looked for the brand his therapist had prescribed him a year ago, but when he had no joy with that, he looked for anything that seemed right. He went through drawer after drawer, medicine cabinets and chests before rifling through the medical waste bin.

  At the top of the bin was the strip of towelling that had once covered his wound, and below it piles of pill bottles – some empty, others not. He rummaged through, like a kid on a treasure hunt, until he came across three distinct purple bottles that contained what were known on the drugs circuit as ‘steady pills’. Popular with soldiers, criminals and others facing battle stress or extreme pressure, steady pills made you calm but alert and ready for business. Illegal in most Western countries because of their unpredictable side effects, they were still produced in the Far East and South America, but you had to know where to go and who to ask in order to get some. And Dr Mo Masri was obviously one of those people. Only when Mac tried to read the writing on the label did he realise that they were in Chinese, which meant he couldn’t be sure if they were ‘steady pills’ at all.

  The door opened. Mac dropped two bottles and shoved one into his pocket. Casually he went back to the examination table as the doctor walked further into the room.

  ‘The gentlemen in the Mercedes are here on official business. No need for concern,’ the other man reassured him.

  Instead of approaching Mac, the doctor moved to one of the filing cabinets. A slight creak sounded as he pulled open the second drawer. ‘You might want to take this so your scalp doesn’t attract any attention.’

  He showed Mac a black baseball cap. Being a dedicated follower of Arsenal, Mac almost declined because it had ‘Man U’ scrawled on the front. But he took it. Settled it on his head. Pulled the peak low.

  Then asked, ‘Do you remember a girl in my outfit called Elena?’

  ‘Do you mean Miss Romanov? I treated her for an injury she sustained at her gym once.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have her address in your records?’

  The skin around the doctor’s mouth tightened. ‘Even if I did, which I don’t, I would not be able to give it to you, patient–doctor privilege . . .’

  ‘Playing the good citizen all of a sudden doesn’t become you, doc,’ Mac sneered.

  If the doctor didn’t have her address, he was going to have to find it another way. But how?

  Mac walked to the door. He turned to see the doctor studying the road from a window. He looked nervous. ‘Expecting trouble?’

  The doctor turned away hurriedly and pretended to inspect some files. ‘No, why should there be any trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know – you tell me.’

  The doctor whispered. ‘There’s no trouble.’

  His words sounded like a prayer over a dead body.

  ‘We’ve waited too long.’

  One of the two men in the Merc was getting impatient. The driver lit a cigarette.

  ‘It takes as long as it takes, you know that. We wait until the man in the hoodie comes outside.’

  They waited five minutes more, but when Mac didn’t reappear, the driver decided he couldn’t wait any longer.

  ‘It’s time.’

  They got out of the car, heads covered. Picked up speed as they approached the Sihaa Centre. Took the steps two at a time. Barged into the reception area, pulling snub-nosed .38 revolvers from their jackets.

  Mac didn’t leave by the front. He walked down a corridor. Pushed down the emergency bar on the back door and ran through the small, but ornate, back garden and scaled the wall. Dropped to the other side. That dodgy doc might be relaxed about the guys in the Merc, but Mac wasn’t. As he hurried down the street he thought about ways of finding Elena’s address. But nothing came to him.

  His brain kept moving in pace with his feet. Then he slowly smiled as he realised that the good doctor had given him the clue he needed to find where Elena had lived. It might put him smack-bang in the firing line but he didn’t care. All that mattered was avenging her death.

  fifteen

  10:34 a.m.

  Mac walked into Work Dat Body Health Spa. He’d never have figured out to check out Elena’s gym to find her address if doctor Mo hadn’t inadvertently mentioned he’d treated an injury she’d sustained while working out. That’s when Mac had recalled that she’d used it once a week and sometimes on Sundays. He’d even given her a lift there, a couple of weeks after they’d started sleeping together. She’d been running late so he’d offered to take her. Elena had made a bit of a fuss about not wanting him to go out of his way for her, but he’d subdued her reluctance with soft kisses and teased her about not telling anyone about her secret passion to become Miss Body Builder. Elena had playfully smacked him on the arm and they’d fallen about laughing. That was only five months ago, one month after he’d met her. Now she was dead.

  Mac cruelly swiped the good times from his mind as he took in the reception area. He spotted the security camera pretty much straight away, perched just above a large framed shot of some guy with buff pecs. His gaze did another quick scan. No more lenses trailed him – well, not any he could see. Still he flipped his hood over the cap and kept his head low. The place was all chrome and spotless white. Chrome reception desk and light fittings and white walls and ceiling. Only the white tiled floor spoiled the look with a veined pattern that looked like it was leaking blue blood. The reception was empty, no one behind the desk. Good, that meant if the computer was on he could get on with his work without any interruptions. But he’d have to be quick.

  He kept his stride easy, but long. As he got closer, quick, soft, techno-synth adrenalin music pumped from another room. He reached the half-moon desk. On top sat a flatscreen computer near a cash register. As he reached to spin the computer round, he heard a woman’s giggle coming from somewhere in the back. He snapped his hand back as a young woman appeared from a door behind the reception desk.

  Spotting him, she stopped. ‘Can I help you?’ she offered as she started towards him. She had that sprayed look – tan, the gleaming white teeth and fluffed-up hair.

  He caught the name on her name badge as she took the chair on the other side of the desk. Trish.

  Mac was all smiles. ‘Yeah. I desperately need to contact a friend of mine, but I don’t have her address. I know that she uses this gym and I wondered if you could just give me her address from your files.’

  Trish raised a finely plucked eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry sir, but that’s against the gym’s policy. All members’ information is strictly confidential.’

  Mac leaned forward, dropped his voice. ‘It’s urgent that I contact her. Something to do with her family.’

  Trish shook her head. ‘Sorry, sir. Maybe you can find a phone number? An email?’

  Her email or phone number weren’t going to help him locate her address. Mac felt the heat risin
g in his face. His next words were delivered with a snap and a bite. ‘Can you help me or not?’

  ‘Now there’s no need for you to take that tone . . .’

  Mac pulled his Luger and pushed it into her face, his anger darkening his skin. He needed that address; whatever he had to do to get it from this woman, he was going to do. Bang a gun in someone’s face and one of two things can happen – the person freezes or screams. If Trish screamed, the game was up. She froze.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut and nothing will happen to you,’ he ground out. ‘Get under the desk.’

  But she didn’t move, just gazed back at him, eyes wide with terror and shock.

  ‘Now.’

  She scrambled up and down, the harsh beat of her breathing filling the air. Mac vaulted the desk. Made sure that the receptionist couldn’t see him put his piece away.

  ‘Where do I find the members’ details?’ he growled down at her.

  All he got back was a whimper.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, just tell me what I want to know. But don’t make a sound, not even a tear, or I’ll really give you something to wail about.’

  Her voice came back muffled, high and shaking. ‘On the desktop there’s a directory marked “Members”. Go into it and click on a folder called “Details”.’

  Quickly Mac followed the instructions. Soon the list of members and their details came up on the screen. It was set out alphabetically, surnames first and personal details below. Rapidly he scrolled down the screen.

  A. B. C. He kept going until he found R.

  Raab.

  Rabinovitch.

  Rahman.

  Romanov. He’d found her. But when he checked the first name it was someone called Katia.

  He pushed the file up so he could read the name in the next entry.

  Surname: Romanov.

  First name: Elena

  Address: 17 Fountain Road London SE15

  No phone number. No email.

  Suddenly voices hit the reception as two women carrying towels and talking came into view. Still chatting away, they walked towards the desk. Mac straightened up, but kept his hand on the computer.

  ‘Hi,’ one of the women said. ‘We’re looking for Trish.’ Her gaze darted around.

  He gave her a professional look when she caught his eye again. ‘She’s gone off somewhere while I sort this computer out.’

  ‘But she said to renew my membership when I finished my session.’

  He smiled. ‘Best come back after you’ve had a shower and got dressed.’

  For a second she hesitated. Then, ‘OK, will do.’

  As she turned away with her partner, Mac whispered, ‘Take it easy, Trish, and everything’s gonna be all right.’

  No sound greeted his command, so he got back on with the job. Calmly closed the file. Head low, he vaulted the desk and headed for the door. Abruptly he stopped and swung back around. Headed back towards the desk. Jumped it again. This time he hit some buttons on the cash register. Ping. It opened. He grabbed all of the notes, mainly twenties and tens. Shoved them into his pocket. Then he was back on the other side of the desk. Hood swaying, head down, moving with speed to the door. As he opened it, Trish the freezer became Trish the screamer. The shrill noise she made followed him as he calmly walked down the street on his way to find out if Elena’s home would yield any clues about her death.

  sixteen

  11 a.m.

  Elena’s home was in a bog-standard Victorian terrace divided into one-up, one-down apartments. On the doorframe were two buzzers. The one for the lower flat had the initials ‘JB’ on a card in a slot, while the other had no indication who the current occupant might be. Mac figured the apartment with no name must be Elena’s. He stood back and looked up at the windows above. Curtains shut tight, no sign of life. No easy way of getting in either. The front door was solid and getting round the back would involve climbing through a whole series of back gardens, which would expose him to being clocked by some of the neighbours. And nosey neighbours usually called the cops.

  So he went with the last alternative left to him, he rang JB’s buzzer. A face appeared behind a bamboo blind on the downstairs bay window. Young woman who didn’t look especially welcoming. Mac put on his best smile. She looked at him, hesitated for a few moments and then let the blind go. Seconds later, the door opened a fraction, guarded by a secure chain. The woman was pretty, with two blonde pigtails, which should’ve looked silly on someone her age but suited her small face.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked in a nervous, foreign accent.

  ‘Hi. You don’t know me but I’m Elena’s boyfriend and I haven’t been able to get in touch with her for the past few days. She hasn’t been to work either. I’m desperately worried something’s happened to her. She’s not answering her phone or her mobile.’ Mac looked upwards. ‘And I’m afraid something’s happened to her upstairs in her flat, that’s she’s had an accident or she’s ill. I’ve called the police but they say they can’t come for a couple of hours and I can’t wait that long.’

  Mac sounded desperate, panicky and strained. He didn’t need to fake it; he was all those things anyway. But the girl looked unconvinced.

  Mac pressed on. ‘So I was wondering if you could let me in? Just to make sure she’s not unconscious upstairs.’

  The woman arched her eyebrow, so Mac pleaded, ‘Please . . . I can’t wait for the cops and I don’t have a key.’

  His hand drifted downwards and backwards towards his gun. He didn’t want to have to wave his gun in front of anyone else, but he’d decided he was going into the flat by any means necessary. But as he did so the door was closed in his face before he had a chance to get his foot into the gap. He rested his forehead on the door in despair. Then he heard the clang of the chain being pulled on the other side. He lifted his head at the same time the door opened up. Ordinarily, he would have noticed the woman’s beauty, but instead he looked down the hall to where another door blocked the entrance up to Elena’s flat.

  He looked back at the woman, ‘Do you know Elena?’

  ‘Only to say hello to. I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.’ She sounded deeply uncomfortable.

  He walked past her to the door to Elena’s home and tried to tug it, but it was locked. ‘I’ll have to force my way in.’

  ‘There’s no need – she keeps a spare on the ledge over the door.’

  Mac reached up and felt along the ledge and found the key. Turned the lock and opened the door. Wooden stairs led upwards in front of him. When he looked back at the neighbour, she was staring intently at him, suspicion back on her face. He gave it less than ten minutes before she called the cops, so he needed to work fast. He took the stairs two at a time, leaving the door open behind him so he could hear anyone coming through the front door.

  First thing he did when he got in the apartment was to check the escape routes. In the kitchen was a window that opened onto a lean-to, from which it was possible to jump into the garden. He opened it in case he needed to leave quickly. Then he walked back to the landing and looked around at the place where the woman he’d cared so much for had lived.

  A standard operator’s flat. Totally anonymous. Futon bed, chest of drawers with a few clothes, some bric-a-brac furniture, a few kitchen utensils and a half-used jar of expensive coffee. No pictures, no photos, none of the knick-knacks that usually clutter mantelpieces and shelves. It was almost as if Elena had never lived here but resided somewhere else. Then he saw that the two-piece cream sofa had a rumpled blanket on it, one of its cushions obviously used as a makeshift pillow. Had someone else been staying here as well?

  He turned his attention back to the rest of the main room, but stopped at the sight of a mug with blackberry tone lipstick around the rim. Elena’s colour of choice to grace her lips. He ran a fingertip around the mark, which ended halfway round the cup. It was like he could feel her. Like she was in the room. The sudden ache in his chest made him close his eyes. Mac still couldn’t believe s
he was gone. They’d only been laughing together last week as they walked hand-in-hand to a café, her sleek, black bob gleaming in the unexpected sunshine.

  He slipped his finger back as he reopened his eyes. Just as he started to move his gaze on he noticed a small card by the mug. As soon as he picked it up, the scent that Elena wore rose up to him. He placed the card near his nose. Everything she touched seemed to carry a whiff of perfume. Inhaled deeply. Liquorice mixed with another fragrance that always reminded him of his grandmother baking cupcakes.

  Thinking of yesterdays was going to get him no closer to finding her killer. He pulled the card back. Black writing against a simple white background:

  Club Zee

  No address, no email, no phone number.

  He hadn’t heard her mention the club before and it wasn’t a place that had come up in any of his investigations. He started to toss it back on the table – then his hand froze. The scent made it feel like she was in his arms, and putting the card back was like he was losing her all over again. He shoved it into his pocket.

  Scanned the room again. Only the tools of her trade, as the communication expert in the gang, were visible, including a shredder by the cast-iron Victorian fireplace. On a makeshift table was a high-end computer that had been handmade, together with an ‘in and out’ tray. Mac switched the computer on but the screen merely flickered and the machine refused to start. Next, he pulled off the lid of the shredder, but the machine was empty. Why put a shredder next to a fireplace? Unless you were burning something. He crouched down by the fire grate and emptied the remains of the last fire onto the carpet. The trouble with coal fires is that they don’t burn evenly; as Mac knew from previous investigations, it was surprising what could survive them. He began to sift through the debris but, as he did so, he stopped, listened and realised there were the slow, quiet but definite sounds of footsteps on the stairs.