by Maynard Sims
“Yeah, I remember.”
“DS Bartlett,” Bartlett said.
“Well, that’s the introductions out of the way. Now, how the hell are we going to get inside?” Harry said.
“I’ll check the rear—see if there’s a way in there.” McKinley ducked around the side of the building and disappeared from view.
“Have you got anything with you that you can use to force the door?” Harry said.
“Nothing of much use. I wasn’t expecting to be breaking and entering,” Bartlett said.
“Me neither.”
“Round here!” McKinley shouted from the back of the warehouse. The three of them started to run, following his voice.
They found McKinley at the back of the building, standing in front of another door: wood, not metal. It looked like any domestic outside door.
“Locked?” Harry said.
“Yes, but look.” McKinley grabbed the door handle and shook. The door moved in its frame. “I don’t need to be clever about it.”
“Break it down,” Susan said.
McKinley took a step backwards and kicked out at the door. The lock offered no resistance. With the sound of splintering wood and a squeal of rusted hinges, the door swung inwards. Harry stepped through the opening. “Come on,” he said.
They found themselves in a small kitchen area. There was a stainless steel sink, a fridge, but not much else, not even a kettle. They carried on through to an equally small office space, but all it contained was a plywood desk and an empty filing cabinet.
“Hardly the office of a thriving business,” Susan said.
“It wasn’t here that the work was being done,” Harry said. He’d moved through another door and now stood in the main part of the warehouse.
“What’s with all the cushions?” McKinley said glancing around at the small pads littering the floor.
“They’re hassocks,” Harry said. He saw the blank expression on Bartlett’s face. “Pew cushions, kneelers. This is a place of worship.”
Susan swung her flashlight to illuminate the sidewall.
“There’s the wet patch I saw I saw,” Bartlett said, pointing to a sticky pool of red, surrounding what looked like a large block of stone. “Definitely blood.”
“It’s some kind of altar. What were they worshipping?” Susan swung the light up, gasped and took a step back. The stone altar was covered by a red-streaked white sheet. The sheet was covering something else. A shape lying on the altar.
“Shit!” Harry said and walked across to it.
“We should call forensics and get them down here,” Susan said.
Harry ignored her. All he could think was how he was going to break the news to Violet. He took hold of the edge of the bloodstained sheet.
“You should wait, Harry,” McKinley said.
“Like hell,” Harry said, threw back the sheet and stood staring at the mutilated body lying on the stone block.
“What the -?” Susan said and shone the flashlight at the corpse.
Harry was swaying slightly, all his certainty gone as he tried to come to terms with what he was seeing.
“What is it, Harry?” McKinley said.
As Susan swung the flashlight onto the dead face, Harry said, “John, I’d like to introduce you to Anton Markos, otherwise known as Eric Strasser.”
Susan aimed the flashlight on the wall. In Markos’s blood, someone had drawn a large, red crescent on the cinder blocks.
“Now what?” she said.
Chapter Seventeen
They came down the slope parallel to each other and finished together at the bottom. Karin was laughing. “You’ve improved a great deal in two hours, Jason.”
“The benefit of having an excellent teacher,” he said.
“You flatter me,” she said.
“Let me buy you dinner tonight, by way of a thank-you.”
She shook her head. “You’re very kind, but I’m afraid the hotel does not encourage fraternization between instructors and their guests,” she said.
“Then we won’t tell them.”
“I couldn’t. I could lose my job.”
“I’m only here for three nights. The day after next, I’ll be walking the gloomy London streets and wishing I was back breathing alpine air.”
“Three nights?”
“Yes.”
She looked at her watch. “I must go. I’m late for my next student. Thank you, Jason. It was fun today.” She inclined her head and pushed away on her skis.
“Gallo’s,” he called after her. “I’ve booked a table for eight o’clock.”
She looked back at him and gave a shrug. “I can’t.”
“Well, I’ll be there. I hope you are too,” he shouted to her disappearing silhouette.
And if she wasn’t? Well, he was here for two more nights. Plenty of time.
He’d just entered his hotel room and flopped down on the king-size bed when his cell phone rang.
“Harry. How are things your end?”
“We found Markos today.”
“Really?” he said, feeling his spirits start to sink. “Do you want me to cut this short?”
“No. We found Markos, but he’s dead. We still haven’t found Alice, so the search goes on. Have you made contact with the girl yet?”
“I’ve just got back from a very pleasant two hours with her on the slopes.”
“Did you find out anything? We still need to learn everything we can about Markos: his motivations, what made him tick. Anything that might give us a lead to where Alice is. When are you seeing her again?”
“Hopefully tonight. I booked a table first thing this morning on the off chance.”
“Why do you say hopefully?”
“Because dating guests is against company policy.”
“Do you think she’ll show up?
“I hope so, or else I’ll have to book another lesson, and my legs are aching like a sonofabitch after today.”
“Well, good luck.”
“How did he die?”
“I won’t know until I speak to the pathologist, but it was pretty brutal. His flesh was cut up like hamburger. Enjoy your dinner.” He rang off.
“Thanks for that, Harry.” Jason lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep.
“What killed him, Duncan?” Harry said into the phone.
McBride, the Home Office pathologist, frowned. “Between the two of you, you and Detective Inspector Tyler are making my life very hectic. What’s the story there, Harry? I thought the department didn’t use outside agencies.”
“It’s mutually beneficial, though whether it will continue, now Markos is dead, is open to speculation. Well?”
“The body was a mess—a massive loss of blood from wounds that were inflicted ante mortem. He must have suffered horribly. I’m still trying to find out what was used to cause those kinds of injuries, but as yet my findings are inconclusive.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Harry, you know me better than that. I don’t speculate. I deal in facts. All I can tell you is what actually killed him.”
“Go on.”
“Cause of death was a single stab wound to the aorta. I say to the aorta, but actually what pierced his chest went right through his heart and came out the other side.”
“A knife like the one that killed Kerry Green?”
“No, nothing like that. That knife left a star-shaped entry wound, and you could see tearing of the surrounding tissue as it was removed. No, whatever penetrated Mr. Markos’s heart was something cylindrical and about three-eighths of an inch in diameter: a rod of some kind, metal, wood, maybe fiberglass. Whatever it was left no residue in the wound. It was a very clean hole. Thinking about it, it could be a glass spear. We’re still running tests. I�
��ll let you know as soon as I have something more definite.”
“Time of death?”
“Ah, that I can pin down by his liver temperature,” McBride said. “Between the hours of two and four this morning.”
“Any drugs in his system?”
“The toxicology report has come back negative for drugs, prescription or otherwise. Your boy was clean.”
“Okay, Professor. Call me when you’ve got a better idea about the weapons used.”
“We’ve got the footage you wanted from Traffic,” Gillian said as Susan and Bartlett arrived back at the station.
“Is it something we can use?” she said.
“It’s in the player in the incident room.”
“Get everyone in there. We’ll watch it together.”
Five minutes later the incident room was packed. Bartlett switched on the television and pressed Play on the DVD player. There was a short run of blank white screen, and then they were sitting and standing, watching footage of Waterloo Bridge taken at three fifteen the previous morning.
There was no traffic on the bridge until a car drove along and stopped on the westbound carriageway. A figure dressed in a black hoodie got out of the car, went around to the rear, opened the trunk and pulled out a lifeless body of a girl. Hoisting the corpse onto his shoulder, the figure took two steps and launched the body into space over the side of the bridge. Then, without looking back, the figure slammed the trunk shut, climbed back behind the wheel and drove away. The whole incident had taken less than two minutes.
“Play it again,” Susan said.
Bartlett pressed Play again and the footage repeated.
“And again. And I want you all to watch carefully and tell me if there’s something we can use to help us find Kerry Green’s killer, because I’m fucked if I can see anything useful.”
They watched it again. When it stopped, Susan said, “Well?”
“It’s a light blue Peugeot 207. We’ll have the plate once this goes down to the lab.”
“It’s probably stolen,” Susan said. “He drives onto the bridge, bold as brass, and parks in clear view of the camera, dumps the body and drives off. He was making no effort to hide what he was doing. He doesn’t care, thinks he’s fireproof.”
“You can’t get a look at his face,” Witherspoon said. “It’s hidden by his hood.”
“You can’t even tell if it’s male or female. Could be a girl,” Tom Fox said.
“A bloody strong one if it is. Hauls that body out of the trunk as if it’s a rag doll,” Bartlett said.
“So basically nothing we can use,” Susan said. There was silence in the room. “No, I thought not. It’s been that kind of day. Jake, get down to that club in Soho and show Kerry’s photo around. Take Brian with you. I think it’s about bloody time our luck changed. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in my office.” She stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
She walked into her office and closed the door, sat down at her desk, took out her electronic cigarette and started puffing on it furiously. What a godawful day, she thought and stared down at her hands. They were visibly shaking. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the butchered body of Anton Markos lying on the stone altar. She stood again and rushed to the toilet, barely making it through the door before she threw up.
“Come in and close the door, Harry,” Crozier said.
Harry walked into Crozier’s office and shut the door behind him. He sat down at the desk, feeling every inch the errant schoolboy hauled up in front of the headmaster.
“Are you losing control of this?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t be bloody coy with me. You know exactly what I mean. You have a member of the public living the high life in Austria at our expense; you’re letting Violet Bulmer lead you by the nose—”
“That’s not fair, Simon. Vi has—”
“Shut up, Harry. I haven’t finished. You’re letting Violet Bulmer lead you by the nose through this case. And you’ve involved the Met in one of our investigations. I’ve just had Deputy Commissioner Mackie on the phone, tearing me a new one because you’re involving his force without going through the correct channels.”
“Can’t you get the Home Secretary to have a word in his ear? Quiet him down?”
“I can do that and will probably have to do that. But you’re missing the point. You’re leaving us very exposed here. The press is already sniffing around at Barking, threatening to break the story in the nationals. The wrong people are starting to ask the wrong sort of questions. So I ask again, are you in control of this?”
“Inasmuch as I can be,” Harry said.
“What kind of answer is that? I expect this kind of escalating mess from Robert Carter. I don’t expect it from you.”
Harry crossed and uncrossed his legs. He took a deep breath and measured his words carefully.
“West is a very good investigator. I’ve been watching him develop over the last few years. In fact he’s so good, I’m going to recommend he join us full-time when he gets back from Austria. Vi’s a valuable outside asset. She isn’t leading me by the nose, as you put it. She’s brought some things to our attention, that’s all. I’m following through.”
“Yes, with her leading you by the nose.”
Harry glared at him. “And Detective Inspector Tyler came to me for help, not the other way round, so if Mackie wants to go around chewing people’s ears off, he should start looking in his own backyard first.”
Crozier looked at Harry steadily. “Finished?”
Harry opened his mouth to speak again, but snapped it shut.
“Good. Harry, I’m not being unreasonable here. I know events can unfold in ways you don’t expect. I’m just asking that you be more circumspect in the future. Department 18 works because it operates under the radar. By involving outside people and outside agencies, we leave ourselves open to scrutiny, by the media and by people higher up the governmental food chain than me. Understand?”
Harry nodded.
“So where are you taking the hunt for Alice Logan next?”
“You want me to carry on then?”
“Of course I want you to carry on. We offered Vi Bulmer our help. It would be churlish to withdraw that offer. We agree that she’s been a great asset to us in the past, and I want that to continue, so we’ll do what we can to help her. Just tighten the reins and don’t let her run the operation. This is a Department 18 investigation. Don’t let other people hijack it. And if the press come sniffing around…”
Harry gave him an are you kidding me? look.
“Well, I’ve made you aware of my feelings.”
“Thanks for sharing. Anything else?”
“Just go and do your job, Harry.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” Harry said bleakly. He got up and walked out of Crozier’s office. The most galling thing was, Crozier was right.
The telephone rang on Susan’s desk. What now? She picked it up. “DI Tyler.”
“It’s Harry. Do you fancy going out for a drink tonight? There are a few things I’d like to run by you.”
“Haven’t you had enough for one day?”
“Yes, actually I have, but I’d still like to take you for a drink. Do you know the Wellington in Bridge Street?”
“I know it. It’s five minutes away.”
“Meet you there in about half an hour?”
“Okay,” she said and put down the phone, picked up her electronic cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Chapter Eighteen
Not for the first time in his life, Crozier felt conflicted. He felt he had no choice but to allow Harry to continue his investigation. He trusted Harry’s instincts, but he also knew that Harry’s main weakness was that he often thought with his gut and not his head. Sometimes Croz
ier had to ignore their friendship and pull rank. Increasingly he was finding it a difficult thing to do.
“Trudy,” he said into the intercom on his desk. “Hold my calls. I’ll be out of the office for an hour.”
“You’re late for your appointment with Dr. Merriman.”
“Exactly. That’s where I’ll be if you need me.”
He walked out of his office and took the elevator up to the next floor. Here the layout was softer, less formal than in the rest of the building. He walked along the corridor to an office that looked more like somebody’s lounge than a place of work. The door was open and he could see Dr. Julia Merriman sitting, relaxed in her office chair, legs crossed, leather-bound textbook open and propped up on her knee.
He tapped on the door.
She looked up from the book and beckoned him inside. “Come in, Simon,” she said.
Crozier entered the wood-paneled office. She put the book down on a coffee table, picked up a yellow legal pad and rose from her seat to greet him.
Julia Merriman was in her early forties, tall and effortlessly elegant. Her honey-colored hair was swept back from her face in a timeless chignon. “Take a seat,” she said and indicated a black leather chair opposite her own.
She waited until Crozier sat down, adjusted the knife-edge crease on the trousers of his Savile Row suit and made himself comfortable, and then she sat herself and opened the legal pad and consulted her notes.
“Sorry I’m late. I had a meeting,” Crozier said.
“No problem. Coffee?”
He shook his head “No thanks. So, Julia, am I making progress quickly enough for you?”
“It’s been sixteen months since you were attacked, Simon. It was a life-changing, traumatic event. Do you think you’ve made progress quickly enough?”
“I’m not really sure what benefits these therapy sessions are meant to be.”
Julia adjusted her spectacles on the bridge of her nose and stared at him over the top of them. There was a slight smile playing on her lips. “I’ve heard that you’re a new man,” she said. “More relaxed, less irritable, more patient. Do you think that’s a fair assessment?”
“Well. That would depend who you’ve been speaking to.”
