Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Mac ignored the advice and went into the room. A room that had one wall completely composed of a light, bright painting of floating astronauts in space. The wires coming out of the two astronauts were dead ringers for the tubes attached to a sleeping Milos on the bed. His small body was tucked under a blanket that resembled the pattern and design of one of those precious family quilts that were handed down from grandma to mum to daughter.

  Mac approached the bed with a hesitation he didn’t realise he felt. He stopped by the foot of the bed and pulled off the patient medical chart. The notes said there was nothing physically wrong with Milos, but that he was in aftershock from the trauma of the explosion. He’d been prescribed sedatives of some sort. He put the notes back and moved towards Reuben’s son. Stared down at him. His baby skin was pale and worn, his lips just a touch dry. But at least he was alive. Without realising what he was doing, Mac’s hand began to move. He let it settle, with the gentleness of a goodnight kiss, in the boy’s hair. The strands were damp and clinging tightly to skull and skin. Mac’s slim fingers stroked with a calm, slow ease. The hypnotic movement of his hand started to pull his mind back. Back to a time he didn’t want to remember. But he couldn’t stop the caress of his fingers, just like he couldn’t stop the storm of memories that assaulted him . . .

  They told him that he could touch him. But Mac’s hands lay as lifeless at his sides as the body of his son on the makeshift bed he looked down on. The emergency room had been a hive of activity and manic noise only a few minutes ago; now it was still. Quiet. Just him and Stevie. He couldn’t cry, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. All he could do was stare at the child he’d called son for the last six years.

  ‘Imagine he’s sleeping.’

  That’s the advice he’d given to a young mum, when he was still a bog-standard detective, before she had to identify her four-year-old daughter who’d been killed by a speeding car. But he knew that Stevie wasn’t sleeping. Stevie never, ever slept on his back. Always on his side, facing the window, knees tucked deep in his tummy. And his breathing. It was hard to hear unless Mac almost touched his ear to his son’s partially opened mouth. Tiny puffs, grabbing oxygen . . . flowing out. Grabbing . . . Flowing.

  He leaned forward, arms still rooted down, towards Stevie’s motionless face. Kept going until his ear grazed the top of Stevie’s frozen mouth. Listening. Waiting. For that sweet sound of air being drawn in and out. In and out. In and out.

  Silence.

  But he still couldn’t touch him . . .

  ‘Uncle Mac.’

  The sound of Milos’s weak voice snapped Mac back into the room. Mac’s hand dropped from the child’s head. The boy tried to speak again but no words came out. His throat convulsed as if he was fighting to catch his breath. So Mac poured some water from the jug on the mobile table into the pink plastic mug covered in polka dots that resembled Smarties.

  Milos drank greedily, but Mac eased the cup back slightly and gently instructed, ‘Easy, easy. Small sips.’

  The child stared up at him with his big eyes and nodded as he sucked moisture into his body. Finally he slumped exhausted back against the pillow.

  Mac placed the cup back and said, ‘How you doing, kid?’

  Milos rapidly blinked. ‘I’m not well.’

  Mac sat on the side of the bed. ‘You’re doing good, kid. You’ll be buzzing about like a Spitfire before you know it.’

  ‘I’ll be all right when my dad comes.’

  Mac felt the words oozing in his stomach. He took the boy’s small hand and squeezed it.

  Milos swallowed. ‘Is it the day?’

  ‘What day?’

  ‘The day Daddy doesn’t come back? He said that there might be a day when he has to go away, just like his dad did with him. He told me to be brave, to hold my head tall . . . No, up high, my head up high and no crying.’ But there were already tears gathered in the bottom of his eyes. ‘Uncle Mac, could you ring him up to find out if it’s the day?’

  What a shitty world it was when parents had to prepare their children for their death. Mac thought through the past day. Of course, it made sense that he’d been thinking only of himself, and that he’d forgotten there were other victims in the fallout from the day’s events. He stared deep into the boy’s eyes, which stared back up at him, tears sucked back. He was an adult, which meant he must have the answers, because that’s what adults were for.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Mac finally said. ‘I’ve got to go and see someone else. What about if I do that and then come back and talk to you a bit later?’

  ‘Is someone else not well?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘OK then.’

  Mac hesitated. Then leaned down and planted a light kiss on the boy’s cheek. Whispered, ‘Don’t worry, son; everything’s going to be all right. I’ll make sure. I promise.’

  Easy breath in, easy breath out. In . . . Out. Mac realised that Milos had fallen asleep. He pushed his head back as he gazed down at the child and knew that he owed it to him to tell him that it was that day; his daddy wasn’t coming back. Mac eased to his feet and made his way to the door. Gently closed it behind him.

  His fellow cop was back on his feet.

  Mac asked him, ‘Do you know which ward DI Rio Wray is on?’

  eighty-eight

  Another ward, another room. Mac found an impatient Rio sitting in a wheelchair.

  ‘I might have guessed you’d turn up,’ Rio threw at him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  He didn’t realise she was holding anything until she slung her mobile on the bed in disgust, the bandages on her lower arm pulling tight.

  ‘Tough,’ Mac answered. Moving towards her. ‘I need your help.’

  She stared back at him, eyes blazing. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jamie Martin’s father so, whatever you want, I’m not in the mood.’ Her voice hit a dead, weary note at the end. She wheeled the chair away from Mac, presenting him with her back.

  He didn’t need to see her face to witness what she was feeling. Loss, frustration, helpless grief. But he didn’t leave her alone, he couldn’t. She was the only one who might have the answers he needed about Katia. So he pulled up the spare chair in the room and plonked it in front of her. As soon as he sat down she tried to wheel away again, but he clamped his hands round the arms of the wheelchair.

  He spoke evenly and quietly. ‘I know this isn’t the best time in the world but I need answers.’

  Rio punched out a tiny, fun-free laugh. ‘That’s just what Mr Martin said – he wants answers. Why wasn’t his son being protected—?’

  ‘Look,’ he cut in sternly. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Danger, and yeah sometimes death, comes with the job. It’s not written in our job descriptions, but we all know it’s there, big and bold, right at the top of page one.’ He pulled his hands from the chair. ‘I know the last thing you want to do is go back over it in your head, but I’ve got to ask some questions about what went down in that house.’

  She tilted her head to the side, her knowing brown eyes roaming over his face with the heat of a laser. ‘I thought Phil would’ve tucked you up for the night in your bedroom and locked the door.’

  ‘Phil?’ His gaze dug into her. She didn’t look away. ‘Are you and Delaney involved—’

  ‘In a Serious Crime Unit tango?’ she interrupted boldly. ‘Yeah. He’s a big boy and I’m a big girl.’

  Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s old enough—’

  ‘To know where to put it.’

  Mac matched her eye-for-eye as he switched the conversation back on track. ‘The one thing I know about you, Rio, is you hate unsolved cases. And this case is still wide open. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Tell me what I need to know and maybe I can close the file on this one for you.’

  Rio slammed her head straight. ‘Help me? After all the muck you’ve sprayed around town today, I should arrest you . . .’

  ‘You don’t still believe that I killed Elena?’

  ‘All
I know is that every time I turned a corner in this case, there’s only one face that keeps staring back at me – yours.’

  Mac leaned in closer to her. ‘You just said that Detective Martin’s dad wanted to know why his son was murdered? So what are you going to tell him: that you couldn’t be bothered to go that extra mile to find out?’

  Rio half hitched herself out of the chair. ‘You’re bang out of order . . .’

  ‘No, what’s out of order is that two people we both swore to keep safe are dead.’

  Rio wobbled on unsteady legs. Their stares fought with each other. Then she fell back, making the chair swing slightly to the side. Loud voices came from somewhere outside, but neither of them took any notice, only interested in what sat between them in the room.

  Rio twisted her lips and then pulled in a few tight breaths. ‘It was Martin who found out that Elena Romanov had a kid sister.’

  ‘How did he find the information?’

  ‘A bit of digging at Europol, and he also had a contact – someone he was sweet on, at the Russian Embassy.’

  Russian Embassy. Mac’s mind ticked away at that. Someone else had mentioned the embassy today. Who? His thoughts clicked into place – Reuben. At his son’s party, he’d said that the last time he’d seen Elena had been at some bash for Russian vets who’d served in the Afghan–Russian conflict. But what did that have to do with anything?

  ‘Did his friend tell him anything else?’

  Rio shook her head. ‘Can you believe I didn’t even know he was gay? I’m meant to be looking out for him, and when did I really take the time to get to know him?’

  Mac knew she was hurting bad, but he also needed whatever information she had right now.

  Rio must have realised what he was thinking and said, ‘Her sister’s name is Katia. Martin tracked down her address through the gym she used.’ She gave him a funny look. ‘I suppose that was you playing cops and robbers, minus the cops, at that gym earlier today?’

  Mac had the grace to blush.

  But Rio let it pass as she continued, ‘When we arrived at the house there was a red Mini parked outside . . .’

  ‘The only car outside when I got there was yours . . .’

  ‘I’ve got a number plate, but don’t get your hopes up – it was fake through and through. The motor will be a burned-out wreck by now . . . But if you still need the plate number . . .’

  Rio’s hand shook slightly as she fiddled in her pocket and pulled out her notebook and read out the digits and letters on the false number plate.

  ‘And when we got inside . . .’ Suddenly Rio squeezed her eyes tight and Mac knew she was back seeing the scene in her head. ‘There was nothing unusual about downstairs, but upstairs, in one of the rooms, there was a packed rucksack. And passports with false names. I think Katia must’ve been getting ready to leave the country. I also found a map of the St Katharine Docks area, and that’s how I knew where the action was going to be happening later on.’

  The shouting from outside intensified.

  ‘And whoever attacked you had a tattoo, the same one as Elena.’

  Rio nodded. ‘Yeah, the woman who attacked me—’

  Mac sat bolt up straight. ‘Hold up. I thought it was a man. How do you know it was a woman?’

  ‘Believe me, a bloke wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the perfume I smelt just before I was whacked on the head. It must’ve been the sister.’

  Mac swore low and harsh. Shit, he should’ve figured out much sooner that the only other logical person to have the tattoo would be Katia. For fuck’s sake, it was staring him in the face; it was a family thing – dad, his two daughters and bosom-buddy friend.

  ‘What did you find out about Elena’s family . . . ?’

  But Mac never finished the sentence because the yelling and hysterically raised voices were now coming from outside the door.

  ‘What the heck . . . ?’ Rio said as she swivelled the chair to stare at the door.

  Mac got up and opened it; what he found outside was a hospital running on chaos. Medical staff were shouting and waving their arms around. Mac caught the arm of a nurse who rushed by, pulling her back.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s an emergency situation down on the children’s ward.’

  An alarmed Rio asked what the emergency was. But Mac didn’t wait for an answer. He merely whispered:

  ‘Milos.’

  eighty-nine

  Milos, Stevie.

  Milos, Stevie.

  The names twisted and burned in Mac’s brain as he flung open the door to the stairwell. Jumped the steps two . . . now three at a time. Bashed the door to the children’s ward. And hurtled into chaos. People, some in medical uniforms, some not, rushed this way and that along the corridor. A woman and man clutched a child in their arms as they hunched low against a wall. A large glass vase of deep red roses lay broken and leaking water on the floor. The place radiated fear and confusion. His heart punched high against his chest when he saw a crowd of people further along the corridor. That’s when he realised where they were gathered – outside Milos’s room.

  The police guard was nowhere in sight. Mac started running. Almost there, something slammed into his side, shoving him hard against the wall. Quickly he flicked his head to see a nurse tottering towards him. She must have collided with him as she came round the corner. He snapped his arm out to grab her before she fell. When she gazed up at him, dazed, he realised it was the nurse he’d spoken to earlier about Milos.

  He yanked her to him. ‘Where’s Milos?’

  Her light brown eyes widened. Then she took a deep breath. ‘It was a woman . . . Oh God . . . She shot him. The—’

  Mac didn’t wait for her to finish as he thrust her to the side and belted back down the corridor. He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead. Not like Stevie.

  He reached the crowd of people. Urgently pushed his way through. Eyes frantically scanning the room. The bed was empty, with the blanket thrust back. His gaze swung to the side . . . his breathing hitched deep in his throat. Three people were on their knees around something he couldn’t see. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that they were looking down at Milos’s body.

  Sensing his presence, one of the people on the floor twisted and looked up at him. A man and, judging from the stethoscope in his hand, a doctor. The two other people also turned their attention to Mac, leaving enough space for him to see who they were attending to on the floor. Not a little boy’s body, but that of a man. The cop who had been guarding Milos’s room. So where the hell was the boy?

  ‘Detective MacDonagh,’ Mac threw out as he quickly joined them on his knees near the fallen policeman.

  The cop’s eyes were open, brimming with pain. Blood seeped from holes in his chest and shoulder. Mac realised that the nurse must have been referring to the cop when she’d uttered, ‘He’s been shot.’

  ‘What happened?’ Mac asked the policeman.

  But before he could answer, the doctor broke in, ‘For Christ’s sake, man, he’s seriously injured and needs immediate medical attention. He can’t answer your questions.’

  But Mac ignored him and asked, ‘Where’s the boy?’

  The injured man swallowed hard. Then spoke in a pain-filled whisper. ‘It was a woman . . .’ He swallowed again. ‘Said she was the boy’s relative. I told her that no one was allowed to see him . . .’ Swallow. His breathing became harsh. ‘That’s when she pulled the gun . . . She took him . . .’ His voice twisted into a groan.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ the doctor ordered. ‘No more questions.’

  But Mac ploughed on. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re a detective,’ the doctor ground out. ‘I’ll call security to have you escorted from the hospital.’

  Mac only got to his feet when the policeman’s eyes closed. He stepped back. A woman? There was only one woman left in this murderous tale.

  A woman running with a kid was going to be easy to spot. He rushed
for the door again, but was stopped by the sound of the cop’s voice behind him.

  ‘She had a tattoo . . . Star . . . Red.’

  Katia.

  ninety

  1:17 p.m.

  Forty-seven seconds.

  Forty-eight seconds.

  Forty-nine seconds.

  Time’s running out. Mac chanted furiously in his head as he plunged down the stairs towards the hospital exit. No way was Katia still in the building. Her first priority would be to get Milos away from the hospital. And now Mac’s first priority was to get to her before she escaped from the hospital grounds.

  Fifty-two seconds.

  Fifty-three seconds.

  He made it to the exit door at the bottom of the stairwell. Punched it open. Hiked up his speed as he stormed down the corridor. The longer he remained in the building, the less chance he’d have of finding Katia and Milos.

  Fifty-six seconds.

  Fifty-seven seconds.

  The automatic exit doors were in sight. The sharp, fluorescent lighting sliced into his eyes as he moved forwards. The sweat popped out of the pores on his back. He reached the doors. They hissed sideways.

  One minute.

  The unkind, cold air struck Mac as he hit outside. He scanned the car park. Dead night. Nothing unusual. Then he spotted three figures on the edge of the car park talking together. Quickly he made his way across. Three men. Two were security guards, the other was wearing a high-vis jacket. He caught the end of their urgent conversation – the man in the jacket was explaining to the guards that he’d seen a car.

  Mac butted in. ‘The car, was it a Mini?’

  The man shivered as he gave his attention to Mac. ‘Dunno. As I’ve already told the guys.’ He lifted his chin towards the other men. ‘It all happened so fast. It came bombing down the slipway . . .’

  One of the security men punched in, his expression filled with suspicion as he stared at Mac. ‘Who the heck are . . . ?’

  Mac impatiently pulled out his badge. Carried on. ‘Was it a red Mini?’