Vendetta
Page 7
He pulled out his gun and took up position by the door to confront the intruder.
A voice called out, ‘Have you found anything?’
It was Little Miss Blonde Pigtails, halfway up the stairs. He put the Luger away and walked onto the landing. Only when he saw her did he remember his hands were covered in coal dust and soot. He knew he looked more suspicious than ever.
He smiled. ‘No, I’m trying to find anything that might help.’
She stood for a few moments before walking back down, but not before he saw the suspicion taking over her face again.
Mac knew he had to work fast. In the remains of the fire, he found a charred photo. It looked like a family snap, but only two faces were visible, both of them men, wearing what looked like military uniforms. They both wore wide smiles. But he soon forgot the photo when he saw a powder-blue Post-it that was charred at one end. There was writing on it. He flipped it the right way. Read:
‘Get these documents to the big man in Hamburg. Don’t fuck up. Fuck up = death.’
Death.
The word bounced in his head and his brain started to move quickly. Who would have had the nerve to threaten her? Could it be the person who’d been sleeping on her sofa? No, he dismissed that. It didn’t make sense she’d offer shelter to someone who would kill her . . . unless Elena had done something to piss them off? His wound started pounding because he couldn’t think of one enemy she had. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. Started thinking again, more slowly this time.
Fuck up = death.
Who would have the authority to talk to her like that? Reuben gave the orders. Mac had seen with his own eyes what happened to those who didn’t obey orders. And sometimes to those who did. Mac considered the possibilities. Had Elena got something wrong? Or in her terror had she just abandoned her work? Not taken Reuben’s messages? Or just bolted?
Mac slumped into the sofa. He did what Calum had told him to do. Sat down and considered the evidence. Motive?
If Elena had botched up something important of Reuben’s then maybe he’d killed her and Mac was just meant to be collateral damage.
Or if Reuben had found out that Mac was a cop, he would have killed the pair of them, although Elena would have been the collateral damage in that case. Mac couldn’t see how Reuben could have found out about his real role in the gang, unless he’d been careless somewhere down the line. It happened.
No. It was more likely that Elena had done something to put her brutal boss in a deadly mood.
Fuck up = death.
Fuck up = death.
Fuck up = death.
But what documents had Reuben – if this was Reuben – been referring to? Did they have something to do with what might be happening at eleven tonight? Maybe copies were in the remains of the fire as well. So Mac dived back into his search, but only found the remains of what he concluded was burnt paper. He rushed back to the kitchen to find a knife and used it to take out the screws on the computer so he could retrieve the motherboard and drives. But they were gone.
Next he was back in the kitchen emptying the bin. Peelings, wrappers, a discarded invitation to some event at the Russian embassy two days ago and a crushed box. He pulled it out and examined it. Froze. A home pregnancy testing kit. A chill swept through him. Had Elena been . . . ? He couldn’t even think it. Was that why she was so hysterical when she called him?
‘You’ve got to get me – us – out of here . . .’
Her words from their last conversation rang in his head. Us. Did she mean it wasn’t only her life at stake but their unborn child’s?
Please, please, not that. He couldn’t live with the death of another child of his blood. Couldn’t . . .
Quickly he checked inside the box. No pregnancy testing stick. His head snapped up when he heard footsteps again in the hall below. Heavier than the last time. No way it was the neighbour. He shoved the box in his pocket as he rushed to the bedroom. The footsteps came up the stairs. Like a disturbed lover, he hid in the wardrobe, but didn’t close the door completely, leaving a small gap to spy. Whoever it was was now in the main room. He heard the continual hissing of what sounded like spray paint. Then silence. The footsteps retreated back across the room. Abruptly stopped. Mac slowly pressed open the wardrobe door. The air smelt different, as if tainted with some type of chemical. His gaze snapped towards the dressing table mirror, which reflected a bright burst of light being thrown into the main room. His mind thought quickly. Flame. The smell: accelerant. The fire started moving and licking a path straight towards the bedroom.
seventeen
Mac jumped into the sitting room, narrowly missing the line of the fire. He shot towards the landing but stopped short when confronted by a raging sea of flames; he knew there was no escape there. Palm over his mouth to guard against the rising smoke, he ran back to the bedroom and made straight for the window. He heaved at its edge. Shut tight. Swiftly he turned towards the chest of drawers and managed to manoeuvre it towards the window. Bent down and, with a groan that squeezed his chest muscles, lifted it by its bottom end. Tipped it against the pane. Crash. The chest of drawers did its job breaking the window. Chunks of glass and the chest of drawers toppled down to the back garden below. He kicked out the remaining glass. The opening sucked smoke outwards.
At training college he’d seen a reckoner that estimated how far a man could fall and what injuries he could expect from various heights. But those calculations didn’t include having a fire at your back, singeing your clothes. He climbed backwards out of the window. Held onto the ledge with both hands and lowered himself so he was dangling by his fingertips. As he pushed against the wall to jump off, he remembered the jumping calculations as you often remember things in extreme stress. A man hanging from an upstairs window of a terraced house? About twelve to fifteen feet to fall. Injuries to be expected? It all depended, of course, but if you were lucky it might be bruises and strains. If you were unlucky, broken feet, ankles or legs. He remembered the last piece of theory – keep your legs together and knees slightly bent like a paratrooper. He jumped.
Hit the ground. Rolled over and over until he came to rest. He struggled to his feet. Sucked in his breath sharply as pain spun from one of his ankles. He tested it as he took a step. Nothing major, probably just some bruising. He threaded his way over the back garden. Already a few horrified and shocked onlookers were gathering at windows and in gardens, shouting at him and trying to help. He ignored them.
But he couldn’t ignore the screams that were coming from inside the house. Little Miss Beautiful Pigtails downstairs. He doubled back, kicked and battered the door that led from the back garden to her kitchen with all the pent-up rage he felt inside. When he was in, he headed in the direction of the screams that rose with the hysteria of a siren in the smoke. As the building buckled, bent and blistered in the heat, he found her crouched in shock and stunned terror in her front room. Bending her double over his shoulder, he ran back the way he’d come, her screams muffled as she choked on the black fog that weaved a deadly cloak around them. Finally, he emerged into the daylight again, and dropped her on the grass at a distance. People were rushing towards them, which was his signal to be gone. He pulled his cap down low as he moved in the opposite direction, with the things he’d found in Elena’s home secure in his pocket.
eighteen
Mac took five minutes to clean his face and hands in the Gents of the first McDonald’s he came across. He inspected his ankle, which didn’t hurt as much any more. It had a small purple bruise that would either fade away or start swelling. Either way he wasn’t going to let it slow him down. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror – what was the point when he knew he looked like he’d invented the word crap? But his mind did turn to who had followed him to Elena’s and tried to make him the guy on a non-November bonfire night. Maybe it was the two men in the Merc? Or Reuben? Or the Mr or Ms Nameless who’d been kipping on Elena’s sofa, snug as a bug, last night? Too many maybes: what
he had to deal with was the evidence he had at the moment. So he moved to a cubicle, locked the door, lowered the toilet seat and sat. Took each item he’d found at Elena’s and laid them on the floor in front of him.
Post-it.
Charred photograph of two military men smiling.
Empty pregnancy testing box.
Small card with words Club Zee on it.
His gaze kept coming back to the Post-it. Fuck up = death. Fuck up = death. Yeah, that sounded like that madman Reuben. It must have been the Russian behind the fire at Elena’s, wanting all evidence about her involvement with him gone. As a naked cop, Mac wasn’t permitted to keep any kind of paperwork on him – too dangerous, it might compromise his position. But he kept a mental file of all the Intel he’d been given about the Russian before going into deep cover.
Name: Reuben Volk. Suspected alias. Birth name unknown.
Nationality: Russian. Region of birth unknown.
Age: Unknown.
Criminal activities: Arms dealer. Criminal activities outside the UK unknown. Russian authorities will not give access to any information about him.
Convictions: Unknown.
Family: Younger brother. Also criminal associate. Son.
Purpose of undercover op: No hard evidence but suspect that he’s about to initiate a gang war to become London’s foremost arms supplier.
Unknown, unknown, unknown. So much about the bastard was unknown, but what Mac needed now was a killer to take revenge on. Once he had his hands round his neck, he’d wring the truth out of him.
It had to be Reuben.
Reuben. Reuben. Reuben.
He couldn’t stop the manic repetition of the Russian’s name bouncing and bruising against the four walls of his mind. Without warning, the muscles in Mac’s chest tightened. His breathing squeezed, felt like it was almost going to shut down. He knew what was coming next, so he fought it. Hard. But he knew he’d lost the battle when the green walls of the cubicle appeared to move, closing in on him. The ceiling started to drop. Blackness hovered over him, to the side of him, in front of him. Mac gasped for more oxygen. Gasped . . . his mind nose-dived.
He was back in the bathroom. This time, his back against the wall. As if he was shackled, couldn’t move. Reuben stepped into the room, a picture of black in motion, from his gelled hair to the Luger in his hand. Mac called out his name, but the other man walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Reuben kept moving. And moving. Until he reached it. The bath with Elena inside it. Mac fought hard against the wall, but he couldn’t get free. Mac shouted out. Elena screamed. But there was no noise, just a horrible, cold expectation of death. Mac jerked and fought. Reuben smiled. Mac banged his fist against the unbreakable wall. Reuben raised the Luger. Mac’s hands were broken and bleeding. Reuben aligned the gun with the back of Elena’s head. Mac and Elena cried out at the same time. Finally sound came as the echo of a bullet shattered in the room . . .
Mac came to, shivering and sweating, slumped against a pipe on the wall. He didn’t know where he was. What was he doing in this small space? Why was he sitting down? His confused gaze flickered around. Tiles, door, kind of walls. Hard seat. Toilet seat. He closed his eyes as he remembered where he was. Placed his head in his hands. He couldn’t go through all this again, this mad ‘one minute he was there and the next he was not’. Just like what happened after Stevie was gone. It terrified him, this lack of control. His hand groped inside his pocket with desperation. Stilled when he found what he was after. Elena’s bracelet. He pulled it out and rubbed it flat against his chest. It was almost like he could feel her. Like she was there with him.
But she wasn’t here. She was dead.
Dead.
There was a cold calmness about the single word that finally helped him ease the air more freely into his body. He took steady breaths in and out. In and out. Mac pulled the bracelet away from his body and shoved it back into his pocket. Got back on with the job he’d vowed to do.
He looked back at the items on the floor. Gathered the pregnancy testing kit box, the photo and card and placed them inside his pocket as well. Which left only the Post-it note on the floor. He didn’t put it away, instead stared hard at it.
Fuck up = death.
Of course he had no proof. But men had gone to the gallows for less evidence than Mac had. Reuben was going to the gallows. Even if it wasn’t him, the killer might be at Reuben’s son’s party. He’d wipe out the entire gang if he had to . . . He’d made a promise to Elena to keep her safe. Now she was dead.
He snatched the Post-it off the floor. Shoved it into his pocket as he stood up. Checked his watch.
11:19.
Made eye contact with no one as he left the burger bar. Walked round the side of the building to the alleyway he’d noticed on the way in that contained three large dumpsters. He flipped back the lid of the first one he came to. Dropped his rucksack, containing Elena’s bag, into it. All he needed was safely tucked away in his pocket. He flicked the lid back down as he made his decision about his next move.
He knew he was about to take a big risk. If it worked he’d have a clearer idea of what the fuck was going on. And if it didn’t . . .
He’d either be behind bars.
Or dead.
nineteen
11:45 a.m.
The Munch Munch café. The one place Mac knew he shouldn’t be found dead near. But he stood across the road from it, knowing that its biggest customers were the cops from the nearby police station, nicknamed The Fort.
He pulled his baseball cap lower. Stepped out into the quiet street. He was sure the light breeze carried fine flecks of rain, but the ground around him was dry, so maybe the rain wasn’t there at all. He reached the café just as the door opened. He dipped his head sharply when he realised that he knew the people coming out. A young WPC he’d grown to like and an older male detective. From the smile glowing on her face, he knew that she didn’t know the guy was married. When this was all over, he’d have a little whisper in her ear.
The couple were too engrossed with each other to pay him any attention, so he stepped back, head still down, to let them by.
He moved inside. A Euro-trash tune banged out from the plasma telly mounted on the wall, showcasing a video with a man jiving in close-ups with fluorescent green beams zip-zapping behind him. The place was almost empty, except for a solitary occupant. The person he was looking for. He walked through the aisle between the tables and the church-like mini-benches. He stopped at the table. Only when he rasped out her name did she look up.
‘Mac, what the hell are you doing here?’ asked Detective Inspector Rio Wray.
twenty
He took the seat across from her in the mottled-skin-coloured booth.
‘Just like old times,’ Mac finally said.
And it did feel like old times. This was their table. His, Rio’s and Calum’s. They’d started out together, three Bobbies on the beat, eager to uphold the law. At this table they’d compare notes on cases, put their heads together to make sure that those living on the wrong side of the street were brought to justice. As the years had passed, they’d still met at this table, but gone their separate ways. He’d gone undercover; Rio had kept her eye on her career, moving on and up. And Calum? Thinking about Calum made him wonder where it had all gone wrong.
She didn’t respond to his comment, instead asked, surprise in her voice, ‘So what brings you down here? I thought you were on a job?’
There were a number of reasons why he was down there and one of them had already been settled. If Rio’s team had already identified Mac’s DNA in the hotel room, she would have arrested him on the spot. So that hadn’t happened yet. But he also wanted to know what Rio’s team had discovered.
As she spoke he could see her dark eyes checking him out – the baseball cap, the light bruises, the pale face. He needed to be very careful because the woman opposite him was no fool.
‘I am. But just needed to come up for some air.’
‘I’m glad you’re here. I was worried about you being on your own today.’
He took a deep breath, knowing exactly what she was talking about. The one thing he didn’t want to think about.
‘Have you been to—’
‘No,’ he swiftly interrupted.
‘I’ll go to the grave later . . .’
‘Just leave it alone, all right.’ He knew his voice was hard but he couldn’t stop it. The truth was if he had to think about that as well, he wasn’t going to make it through the day.
‘I can’t do that,’ she stubbornly went on. ‘He was my godson. Today’s the first anniversary of his death.’
Son. The word hovered over the table between them. Son. His son. His little boy. Stevie. Six years old and full of life. One day laughing his beautiful face off, the next day dead.
Suddenly Rio spun her mobile on the table to face him. He looked down and wished he hadn’t. The screen showed a photo of Stevie taken last year, all honey-brown hair, Mac’s blue eyes, with that grin that would’ve been complete when his two new front teeth came. But, of course, they never had. Sharply he turned his face away. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t. They stayed like that, his face turned to the wall while his dead son smiled up at him from the table.
Finally Rio inched the phone back to her. Once she put the mobile away, she almost put her hand over his, but she didn’t. That type of emotional contact just wasn’t her style.
‘You look terrible.’ Now that was the Rio he knew.
He turned back to her. ‘Talking about terrible, I just wanted a bit of Intel that might be able to help with the job I’m on.’ Rio took a slug from her coffee, so he carried on. ‘I hear there was a body found at some hotel in Bayswater.’