JM05 - Deadly Ritual

by DS Butler

  Germaine Okoro knew what was coming next. He felt a warm rush of blood as the blade slashed its way across his neck.

  The spirits have mercy, he thought, as he began to choke on his own blood.

  34

  “FOR GOD’S SAKE,” MACKINNON said as he heard the dial tone. “What was that all about? Why couldn’t the Oracle have just said what he wanted to over the phone?”

  He hung up the phone.

  The entire incident room was manic. Everyone was focused on tracking down the woman on Erika Darago’s list, Lisa Stratton.

  “We’ve got an address.” DC Webb held up a piece of paper and waggled it above his head.

  DI Tyler strode over to Webb’s desk, grabbing the piece of paper and quickly scanning it.

  He nodded at the telephone on DC Webb’s desk “Get an available unit there straight away. Whoever is closest.”

  Tyler turned and looked around the room until his eyes focused on Charlotte.

  “DC Brown.” He handed her the sheet of paper. “You go there, too. Try to explain the situation without scaring her half to death and bring her back here,” he said.

  Then he turned to Mackinnon.

  “Mackinnon I want you to— ”

  But Mackinnon interrupted him. “I’ve just taken a call, sir, from the Oracle, Germaine Okoro. He told me he thinks he knows the identity of Mr. X.”

  Tyler stopped mid-stride. “And?”

  “He didn’t quite get round to telling me who he thought it was before he hung up.”

  Tyler’s cheeks flushed, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Is he playing games?”

  Mackinnon shrugged. “I don’t know. He was acting quite strangely, but I don’t think we should ignore it. I could go round there now?”

  Tyler sighed and looked around the busy incident room. Mackinnon knew he wanted all bodies focused on tracking down Lisa Stratton.

  Tyler hesitated for a moment then nodded and said, “All right go and speak to him. But be as quick as you can.”

  Mackinnon grabbed his jacket and mobile phone and set off for Germaine Okoro’s house in Poplar.

  ***

  Mackinnon reached Germaine Okoro’s address in record time.

  He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

  He waited at least two minutes, and then he leaned over the railings so he could peer into the front room.

  Mackinnon swore under his breath. It didn’t look like Germaine Okoro was home. There was no sign of anyone. The TV was off, although the lights were still on.

  Surely Germaine hadn’t decided to go out straight after dropping the bombshell that he knew the identity of Mr. X.

  Mackinnon pulled out his mobile and dialled the number for Germaine Okoro. He could hear the phone ringing inside. On and on, it rang. No one picked up.

  He leaned down and stuck his fingers inside the letterbox, pushing it open, and looked inside.

  Nothing. No movement. No evidence anyone was at home.

  Mackinnon let the letterbox close and straightened up. He could really do without this. He should be working with the team, tracking down Lisa Stratton.

  He was considering leaving a note when he remembered Germaine Okoro’s garden. Could he be out there and just not hear Mackinnon knocking on the door?

  It was a bit late for gardening, but it was worth a try.

  Germaine Okoro’s house was part of a terraced row. Behind the houses, there was a square communal area with a small green. Mackinnon thought he might be able to access the back garden from there.

  Mackinnon jogged around the back of the buildings, counting the number of houses so he knew that he had the right number. He knocked on the wooden fence separating the Oracle’s garden from the green.

  Still nothing.

  It wasn’t in Mackinnon’s nature to give up easily. He needed to know what the Oracle knew about Mr. X.

  He pushed the gate, but it stubbornly remained shut.

  It gave a little at the bottom and not at the top, so Mackinnon guessed that’s where the lock was. Standing close to the fence, he reached over, grasping at the other side, trying to locate the lock.

  His fingers closed around a metal latch.

  Pushing it down, he heard a click. Mackinnon smiled. Bingo.

  He pushed open the gate. There was no sign in the small terraced garden of Germaine Okoro. The plants were still lush and green, some still flowering, like the brilliant scarlet fuchsias.

  The Oracle wasn’t here. Mackinnon couldn’t believe it. After what he had said on the phone, surely Germaine Okoro would have been expecting a visit.

  Mackinnon walked briskly down the garden path, which ran along the centre of the garden towards the house. He decided to knock on the back door just in case.

  The back door was made from white uPVC and a glass panel, which covered the top third of the door. It led straight into the kitchen.

  There was a set of French doors to his right, which led into the open plan lounge-diner. That was where he and Charlotte had entered the garden on their first visit to Germaine Okoro.

  The light was on in the lounge and Mackinnon could see it was empty.

  Mackinnon knocked, then put his face close to the window. His breath steamed the glass.

  The lights were off in the kitchen, making it much harder to see inside.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw something near the refrigerator.

  On the white and black chequered floor, was the body of a man. Had Germaine Okoro fallen or collapsed? He wasn’t a young man.

  Mackinnon reached for the mobile with one hand, his other hand grabbed the door handle.

  Someone must have heard his prayers because the kitchen door was unlocked.

  He rushed into the kitchen and knelt down beside the Oracle.

  An ugly red welt ran the length of the man’s throat.

  Surely no one could have survived that.

  Mackinnon felt Okoro’s blood seep into his trousers as he knelt on the floor.

  He wasn’t going to be able to stem the bleeding. He pulled out his mobile phone to call it in when he heard a movement behind him.

  He turned sharply.

  But he wasn’t quick enough.

  He didn’t see anyone before the blow to his head had him reeling towards the floor.

  The first blow made him see black and white spots.

  He lay, dazed, over the body of Germaine Okoro. He had to move. Had to get help.

  Mackinnon was trying to push himself upwards when the second blow caught him on the other side of the head.

  This time he went down and didn’t get up.

  35

  MACKINNON WOKE UP WITH a blinding headache. The pain was so strong that, for a moment, he couldn’t focus on anything else.

  The pain seemed to reverberate around his head, in waves, clawing its way upwards from the base of his spine.

  It was only when he tried to move his arms, he realised he’d been tied up.

  He jerked and pulled, but the ties held fast. They were made of some kind of plastic. Maybe cable ties? The more he pulled, the more they cut into his wrists.

  He was sitting on a chair. When he leaned forward, he could see that thick, blue plastic cable ties had been looped around his ankles and around the chair legs.

  Mackinnon looked around the room. He was still in the Oracle’s house.

  Everything came flooding back. Whoever had hit him over the head had tied him up and left him here.

  How long ago had he been knocked unconscious? How long had he been tied up?

  He could still feel the wetness from the blood that had soaked into his trousers as he’d kneeled beside Germaine Okoro. The blood hadn’t yet dried so he couldn’t have been tied up for long.

  He felt his mobile phone vibrating in his trouser pocket. Shit. There was no way in hell he could reach it.

  As far as he could see, he had two options: try to free himself of the restraints or make enough noise that the neighbou
rs realise there is something wrong and call the police.

  But whoever hit him over the head could still be here.

  Mackinnon might not have long before whoever it was came back. He needed to get free of these restraints.

  Mackinnon jerked his arm upwards as hard as he could and tried to pull one arm out of the restraints, but it was no good. They weren’t loosening.

  He turned his attention to the ties around his ankles.

  It was dark in the room and difficult to see, but he thought each tie had only been wrapped around the chair leg. All he had to do was try and lift the chair upwards slightly, and he should be able to slide his legs down, and at least free his ankles.

  It wasn’t as easy as he thought. The plastic ties were tight, and he managed to only ease them down a centimetre at a time.

  Mackinnon was sweating.

  He could hear the faint rumble of traffic from outside, but he couldn’t hear anyone in the house.

  He hadn’t even managed to call for backup, before he’d been hit.

  He wondered if Germaine Okoro’s body was still lying on the kitchen floor. If the man hadn’t been dead when Mackinnon found him, he would have bled out by now.

  Mackinnon’s mobile phone began to vibrate with an incoming call again.

  Surely someone would realise there was a problem if they couldn’t reach him.

  Frustrated with how little progress he was making, Mackinnon tried to lift the chair and stagger over to the wall.

  If the chair had been made of wood, he could have bashed it into the wall until it shattered but making so much noise would bring attention. If whoever had hit him was still here that was the last thing he needed.

  As far as he could tell from the feel of the legs, and the way they glinted in the light coming in through the window from the street lights outside, they were metal.

  Mackinnon looked around the room for anything else that could help him get free.

  In the centre of the room, there was a large glass-topped table. It was probably shatterproof glass, but with enough force he could break it, and then use a sharp edge to try and wear down the plastic tying up his wrists.

  But again, that would make too much noise, and it would take even longer than trying to shatter the chair.

  It was no good. Mackinnon couldn’t just sit there. He would have to try and break the chair and hope whoever had hit him was not still in the house.

  Mackinnon leaned the chair forward on two legs. Leaning on the balls of his feet, he tried to straighten up as far as he could.

  His wrists burned as the plastic bit into them.

  Mackinnon turned the chair around and moved back towards the wall. He wanted to use an external wall. If he tried to use an internal one, chances were the legs would just go through the plasterboard.

  He braced himself, and then tried to run backwards, pointing the chair outwards, so it took the full impact as he crashed into the wall.

  The impact sent reverberations all along his spine. Mackinnon saw stars. He staggered a little, and then his ankle twisted, and he fell down to his knees.

  It hadn’t worked. The bloody chair legs were bent but not broken.

  It was hard getting to his feet. He was really sweating now, and the chair had shifted behind him, making it impossible to straighten up or to move one leg without the other. So he had to try and jump to his feet, which took four attempts.

  He lined up the run again, and this time, there was a sickening crash as he knocked into the wall. Two of the chair legs fell to the ground.

  Mackinnon stood there, still bent over at the waist, waiting and listening. If there was someone else in the house they would definitely have heard that.

  He tried to lean down and grab one of the chair legs. He couldn’t move his arms much, so it wasn’t a very effective weapon, but it was better than nothing.

  Long moments passed in silence. There couldn’t be anyone else here. They would have come to investigate.

  He set himself up and rammed again. This time he felt the back of the chair start to give way. He was almost there.

  Mackinnon pulled his arms back, feeling the burn between his shoulder blades, and managed to loop his arms over the top of the chair.

  The rest of the chair clattered to the floor.

  His hands were still tied behind his back, but his legs were now free. He kept a tight hold of the shattered metallic chair leg, which was just a hollow tube.

  He stumbled towards the door, praying it wouldn’t be locked.

  Mackinnon depressed the handle and pushed, but the door didn’t budge.

  Mackinnon swore under his breath. He took a quick look at the door hinges.

  Would it be easier to get them off somehow than to break it down?

  He tapped it with a knuckle. It sounded pretty solid for an internal door.

  He could kick the handle off, then hope that he could find something to manipulate the lock.

  As he stood there sweating, considering his options, he heard a noise.

  He took a step back from the door. The element of surprise would give him his best shot.

  Mackinnon flattened his back against the wall. When they came in the room, he would be hidden for a split-second, giving him the advantage.

  He could hear voices. More than one.

  Mackinnon’s chest tightened. He might have a chance if it was one man alone… But two? And with his hands tied behind his back?

  He had no chance.

  He felt a trickle of sweat crawl down his spine.

  Then he heard something he really wasn’t expecting.

  “Mackinnon?”

  He recognised that voice. Collins.

  “In here.” Mackinnon’s voice sounded hoarse. He kicked the door.

  He saw the door handle depress.

  “It’s locked,” Collins said.

  “I know,” Mackinnon said. “Can you break it down?”

  “You break it down,” Collins said. “You’re bigger than I am.”

  “It’ll break easier from your side,” Mackinnon said. “Come on put your back into it.”

  Mackinnon could hear Collins’s muttered complaints from behind the door, then Collins said, “All right, stand back.”

  There was a dull thud against the door, but it stood firm.

  “That’s not going to work,” Mackinnon said. “You need to do it harder.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Two seconds later, the door exploded open, and Collins launched himself into the room, landing spreadeagled on the floor.

  The door was hanging off its hinges. “Nice work,” Mackinnon said.

  Collins swore, cradling his shoulder. “Christ, that hurt. I think I’ve dislocated it,” he said. “Help us up, would you?”

  Mackinnon turned around so Collins could see that his hands were otherwise occupied.

  “Germaine Okoro,” Mackinnon said. “I found him in the kitchen. Is he—?”

  “He’s dead,” Collins said. “You weren’t answering your mobile, so Tyler asked me to check on you. I saw the back gate open. I’ve got a uniform unit with me. They are checking upstairs.”

  Mackinnon nodded, making a mental note to thank DI Tyler.

  “Who did it? Who tied you up?” Collins asked.

  Mackinnon shook his head. “No idea, I came to talk to the Oracle. There was no answer so I came around the back and saw him lying there with his throat cut. The door was open so I went to check on him. I reached for my phone to call for backup, but the next thing I knew, someone had hit me over the head, and then I woke up in here. Tied up to that.” Mackinnon nodded at the broken chair on the floor.

  Collins shook his head. “It’s always you, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Always going off and getting into trouble.”

  “I wasn’t looking for trouble. The Oracle said he had information about who Mr. X was.”

  Collins nodded. “I guess he didn’t have time to tell you
anything with his dying breath?”

  Mackinnon shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he was dead when I got here. Any news on the girl, Lisa Stratton?”

  “They’re still trying to track her down. They’ve got her address, but, unfortunately, she’s not home. We contacted the financial company she works for, but she’d left for the day. Charlotte’s at Lisa Stratton’s flat now, talking to her flatmate.”

  “Well, I hope she’s had more luck than me,” Mackinnon said.

  36

  CHARLOTTE SHOVED HER HANDS in her pockets and stared at the girl in front of her.

  Kristen Deaver was Lisa Stratton’s flatmate and right now, Charlotte believed she was the most annoying girl she had ever met.

  When Charlotte had arrived at Lisa Stratton’s flat, a uniformed unit was already there. They introduced themselves as PC Davies and PC Bell.

  “She’s not here,” PC Bell, a tall, balding officer with a hooked nose, had said as soon as Charlotte had arrived.

  “Well, where the hell is she?” Charlotte had said.

  So far, she hadn’t managed to get an answer.

  Twenty-three year old Kristen Deaver was sitting on the beige sofa. She’d curled her legs under her, and she wore a pair of oversized, fluffy bunny rabbit slippers.

  Kristen had given the uniformed officers Lisa Stratton’s mobile number, but they hadn’t been able to get through. It kept going straight through to her voicemail. According to Kristen, Lisa often let the battery go flat.

  “Kristen,” Charlotte said, “you must have some idea where Lisa is. This is really important. You’re her flatmate. You must know what sort of places she goes to. Where does she usually go after work? The gym? For a drink?”

  Kristen shrugged. “We’re not really friends. We just share the flat. London is really expensive. I can’t afford it on my own.”

  Just answer the bloody question, Charlotte thought. I don’t care about your finances.

  “Okay,” Charlotte said slowly, trying to control her temper. “But she must mention some of the places she hangs out? You must know something about her life that could help.”

  Kristen scratched the corner of her nose. “Um, well she does go for a drink after work sometimes.”