by Scott Hunter
Don’t give up, James. Don’t. They’ll find you ... just hold on. Hold on.
Chapter 10
“Damn,” Moran said aloud, pacing up and down the length of his kitchen, watched with interest by Archie; every time Moran moved Archie was there at his feet, cocking his head expectantly with eyes like saucers, pleading for his outing. Moran’s head ached, whether in anticipation of the CT scan Dr Purewal had recommended (‘to be on the safe side’) or as a result of the relentless humidity Moran didn’t know. However, neither Archie nor the impending hospital appointment was responsible for his frustrated expletive; as usual, it was a combination of problems.
Phelps had been held up dealing with the RTA; some old boy had been knocked over in the town centre, but was apparently stable in the RBH. Phelps had promised to come straight over. He had something on James Hill. It had better be good...
The other niggle was Shona. He had resolved not to call her; as far as he was concerned he’d done nothing wrong. She had been overwrought, so it was best to let her calm down and get in touch. However, Moran had grudgingly acknowledged to himself that he was anticipating her call with something more than a desire to set things straight. He needed her to call.
He shook his head wearily and tossed a mental coin to choose a drink. Heads, tea; tails, a small Sangiovese. The Sangiovese won, as it usually did. Moran poured a quarter glass and stood at the back door, looking out over his neglected garden. Six pm and it was still brutally warm.
The gentle buzz of a bee and the murmur of subdued conversation from a neighbouring garden brought its usual stab of guilt. Alison Miller apart, Moran hardly knew his neighbours; he supposed they would say that he kept himself to himself. And so he had. He had never felt the need for too many people in his life. Not since Janice. What had happened to her had changed him irrevocably. He had been to grief counselling, given it time, but the wound was still raw. How many years now? Thirty-four, but if he closed his eyes he could still see the opening car door, the gust of flame and smoke. Then, in slow motion, like a movie, a flat, eerie silence as particles of debris drifted to earth.
Since then his relationships had been cautious, unsettled. Kay had been the closest he had come to a long-term relationship, but he had stalled somewhere between love and commitment. It was a wall he had never managed to scale. Now Kay was dead and her sister was a puzzle, albeit a very attractive one. Why hadn’t she phoned? Moran drained his glass. Good God, Brendan, you’re acting like a teenager...
He deliberately shifted his thoughts back to work. Reed-Purvis and Hill. Two coppers, one dead, one missing. He toyed with the idea of calling in to see if they’d made any progress tracing the Audi. He had two DCs on it, poring over fuel station CCTV images. So far nothing had shown up.
He limped into the kitchen and considered a refill. Better not; Phelps was on his way and he needed a clear head. Archie placed a saliva-coated tennis ball hopefully at his feet and Moran bent to stroke the curly head.
“Later, boy. Later.” The doorbell rang. Phelps.
Moran opened the door. It wasn’t Phelps; it was Shona. He was completely taken aback.
“Oh, hello. Come in,” he managed.
“Is it a bad time, Brendan? I can come back later...”
“It’s fine. I’m expecting my sergeant so I may have to dash off, but–”
“No probs.” She smiled. “I’ll call back another time. I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed the meal the other night.”
“Enjoyed–?” Moran was nonplussed. Had she forgotten how the meal had ended?
“Look, I know I overreacted. I’m so sorry, Brendan. But yes, I did enjoy it,” Shona said brightly. “Is that OK?”
“Of course, but–”
A car drew up and Phelps got out. He waved a greeting and made an ‘OK if I interrupt?’ gesture. Moran waved him an affirmative.
Shona squeezed Moran’s arm. “I’ll leave you to it. Call me later.”
“I will,” Moran said. “For sure.”
She turned and walked briskly to her car, nodding a greeting to Phelps on her way past.
Phelps grinned as he approached. “Such pulchritude as befits a man of your standing, guv. I’m impressed.”
“I’m not in the mood, Phelps. Come on in.”
“Right you are, guv.” Phelps wiped his feet unnecessarily on the doormat; the evening was as dry as dust.
Moran led Phelps into the lounge. “So – Hill?” he prompted.
“Guv, it’s Neads. He’s been haunting me today. Reckons he knows where Hill is, but I don’t know if he’s winding me up.”
“Didn’t you apply pressure?”
“That was going to be my next move, guv, but then the RTA happened. By the time I handed over to the paramedics Neads had cleared off.”
“Been to his place?”
“Moved out. Recently.”
Moran groaned. “Great. Is that it? Did he say anything else?”
“Told me he’d followed Hill. Dunno whether I believe him or not.”
Moran scratched his cheek. The hot weather made his beard itch. “D’you think Neads has him banged up somewhere?”
Phelps sank into Moran’s sofa with a weary sigh. “Doubt it. He’s pissed off, all right, but not that pissed off.”
“OK. We’ll bring him in. Put the word out.”
“Already have, guv.”
Moran sighed. “Of course you have.”
“We’ll get him, guv, don’t worry.” Phelps was eyeing him with ill-concealed anxiety.
Moran kicked the tennis ball and watched Archie scurry after it. His head was throbbing. “I have a bad feeling about this, Phelps. Come on. Let’s make ourselves useful.”
The Kafir rose from his cross-legged position, sweating lightly after his meditation. Although the apartment was at the top of the building the room was cool, the air conditioning purring efficiently, keeping the sultry heat at bay. He liked his new home. A lounge, a small designer kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom. That was all. No bed. He had toyed with the idea of a futon, but the vivid dream of the previous night had changed his mind. Jaseena had come to him, caught him unawares. Although he knew he was dreaming he had been powerless to escape her flirtatious company, and he had been all too aware that he wanted her. Still wanted her. For the rest of the night he had sat up thinking, firming his resolve, concluding that if sleep was a weakness then he would not sleep at all; there was plenty to occupy his mind in the wee small hours.
He went to the sink and drew himself a glass of water. He would never use the state-of-the-art oven or microwave. He would eat at the various cafés and diners along the Caversham Road.
The Kafir stretched and rested his arms on the half-open Velux window. The view was pleasant. He could see the restless movement of the river and the spread of the town beyond. Lowry-like figures hurried to and fro along the busy pavements. From his god-like eyrie they all looked pitiful, scurrying around as if there were a purpose to it all.
What gave their lives meaning? Religion. It was all about religion. They all worshipped some god or other, the Kafir reflected; for most Brits it was materialism. For others it was a false God. Allah, the God of the Bible, whoever...
He recollected some vague Catholic connection from his past. Ritualistic mumbo-jumbo, that was all it added up to. Had he had been made to serve at Mass? Perhaps, although it was now a distant memory. In his mind’s eye he saw a little boy in a white surplice following the priest along the altar rail as he dispensed communion – no, a dab of ash to the forehead. He frowned, trying to remember its significance. Ah, yes, Ash Wednesday. Ashes symbolised mourning, mortality and penance. The Kafir smiled. That was fitting. It summarised his new mission very concisely.
‘Remember, O man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.’
With these words the priest had made the sign of the cross on each expectant forehead. The memory was stronger now; he could almost smell the incense. Yes, the Kafir whispered to himself. Creatur
es of dust, that’s what you are. Small, insignificant creatures of dust...
The Zodiac was buzzing. Moran’s ears twitched at the low frequency assault on his faculties. The bass was so loud it was vibrating his rib cage. “How can they stand this noise?” he mouthed to Phelps.
Phelps shrugged and pushed through the press of bodies to the bar. It was manned by three harassed-looking girls, each dressed identically in hippy headbands and matching astrological T-shirts.
“Manager in?” Phelps yelled.
One of the girls shook her head. “Night off.”
Moran signalled a thumbs down. No point in talking to the barmaids in this chaos. They were on their way to the exit when Phelps was approached by a slim woman in a leopardskin waistcoat and tight leather trousers. She winked at Phelps and pointed to the door. Moran frowned. Her profession wasn’t hard to guess. They followed her outside.
“Well, well. Hello again.” She drew out her cigarettes and offered the packet.
Phelps waved it away. “No thanks, Zoë.”
“You remembered. I’m impressed. Who’s your friend?” Zoë puffed smoke and looked Moran up and down. “Not bad. Nice eyes.”
“This is DCI Brendan Moran.”
“Ooh. A real Chief Inspector. How exciting.”
“We’re busy, Zoë. What do you want?” Phelps moved aside as the door opened with a burst of music and two youths joined them in the street to light up.
“It was what you wanted, love, remember?”
“Spit it out, Zoë.” Moran was losing patience. There were other bars to cover, other contacts to chase up.
“First name terms already?” Zoë purred. “I like an assertive man.”
“You won’t like it in a minute when I bang you up. Is that assertive enough for you?” Moran growled. “Now stop wasting our time and tell us what’s on your mind.”
Zoë gave Moran a hard look. “Fair enough. So, what’s the deal?”
Moran put his nose an inch from Zoë’s. “The deal is, you tell us something useful and I don’t lock you up.”
“Like that, is it? Funny how you can go off people.”
Moran saw Phelps shoot Zoë a silent warning. She registered it, pursed her lips and folded her arms.
“OK. I was in here the other day and I saw a young copper asking Dave about one of the regulars.”
“How did you know he was a copper?”
She shrugged. “Bleedin’ obvious, innit? You can always tell.”
Moran conceded the point. “Go on.”
“You was askin’ me about the kid who got killed? Well, this geezer your mate was on about might tell you something. I know where you can find him.”
“Name?” Phelps had his notebook out.
“He’s known as Jag. Not sure about the surname. It’s foreign, you know. Might be Ramadan, or Rana, or something like that.”
“OK. Was Jag here that night? Did the young copper talk to him?”
She shook her head. “Jag was there earlier, but he left.”
“And the policeman?” Moran asked.
She shrugged. “Dunno. I was busy after that. He left too, I suppose.”
“So the barman definitely gave DC Hill this name?” Moran prompted. “Jag?”
“Yep.” Zoë fished for another cigarette. “I don’t know him that well – just, you know...”
Phelps nodded. “Yeah, we know.”
Zoë drew her skimpy leather jacket around her thin body and shivered. “Nasty piece of work, I reckon. Creepy.”
“And would you have an address?”
Zoë’s eyes darted to right and left. “There’s a place in Slough. I dunno if it’s Jag’s, but you might find him there. You know Chalvey?”
Moran and Phelps exchanged looks.
“Yeah, right. So, you go into Chalvey from the M4, take the first left before the railway bridge, then first left again. There’s two rows of terraces. Second row, second house on the left. It’s run down big time. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“No number?” Phelps’ pencil was poised over the notebook.
“Like I said,” Zoë stubbed her cigarette out and turned to go back into the Zodiac. “You’ll know it. Hey–” she called to their retreating figures, “you owe me one now, right?”
Chapter 11
Hill spat blood and retched. When his vision cleared he saw that Chinaman had produced a knife. Fear shot through his veins. He was going to die; he knew it, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
The Chinaman sighed. “I don’t like nosy people. Especially nosy policemen. Where I come from, the police do what we say. No trouble. You should learn the same lesson.” The Chinaman rotated the point of the knife in front of Hill’s face, an inch or so away from his left eye. “Hear no evil, see no evil, right?”
Hill watched the knife, ready to move his head at the strike. Just a little closer, China, and I’ll have you... Hill knew it was his only chance. He had to use his head, literally. His arms and legs were no use, even if he could have freed them. They would take precious minutes to recover. No, his forehead was his only weapon, but the Chinaman’s face was just out of reach, as if he knew what Hill was thinking.
The knife hovered to the left, then the right. His torturer was enjoying himself. Hill wondered briefly if there were others upstairs, ready to take over, to help in case of any trouble. Can’t think about that, James. Deal with this guy first...
Hill cursed himself again for his stupidity. No one had a clue where he was. There would be no cavalry, no eleventh-hour rescue. It was down to him. He bit his lip. Keep your concentration...
Without warning, the knife flicked forward. Hill twisted his head at the last moment and the blade scored down his cheek. Chinaman’s face loomed closer, following the knife’s trajectory as Hill had hoped. Now. Hill brought his head forward in a single whipping motion and felt his forehead connect jarringly with Chinaman’s nose. There was a satisfying crack of bone and cartilage. His tormentor howled and dropped the knife. Blood sprayed in Hill’s face, his own or the Chinaman’s – he couldn’t tell. Hill ripped an arm free and flung himself forward, scrabbling for the weapon as the Chinaman pressed his hands to his face.
Hill’s hand closed around the knife handle but the Chinaman lashed out with his leg, once, twice. Still attached to the chair, Hill twisted and turned to avoid the blows but a third one caught him hard in the ribcage. The pain was excruciating. He felt a foot crunch down on his hand, shattering bone. The knife skittered away.
Another impact, this time to the side of his face, and Hill was violently sick. The room receded as if it was being siphoned away through a huge, fibre-optic tube. The pain was sucked away with it until all that remained was a dizzying spread of darkness.
“Won’t this thing go any faster, Phelps?”
“Foot’s on the floor, guv,” Phelps replied, his tone edgy. “I’d say we need back up.”
“I know you would, but I don’t want to go in like the proverbial bull. Nine times out of ten it ends in tears.”
“You know best, guv,” Phelps muttered.
“Observation, decision, action, right?”
“Right,” Phelps said, overtaking a middle-lane crawler.
“In any case, Hill may not be there.”
“True.”
Moran watched the junctions flash past. Chalvey had a reputation. It was the kind of place where you wound your windows up before you drove through; where you tried not to tarry at traffic lights. He hoped Hill was indeed somewhere else, because if he was in Chalvey the chances of a happy ending were not as good as Moran would have liked them to be.
His mobile rang. “Moran.”
“Banner here, guv.”
“Tell me all.”
“Not a lot to tell, guv. Or see. Nice couple, respectable. Proud of their son. He was a hard worker, nothing dodgy. They’ve taken it hard.”
“No girlfriend, iffy associates?”
“There was one thing. The mother
mentioned something about a black sheep, some cousin as far as I could tell. Husband cut her off. She’d have said more, but I reckon she was too scared.”
“Of the husband?”
“Maybe. Not in a frightened way, more like a respect thing.”
“Asian families are pretty hot on integrity and the respectability of the family,” Moran said. “Might be worth exploring. Give them a day or so, then pop back. I might come with you.”
“I can cope.”
“I know you can, Banner. I just want to keep on top of this, OK?”
“Sure.”
“Sure, guv.”
“Sorry. Guv.”
Phelps grinned and Moran allowed himself a brief smile. “Where are you now?”
“Just leaving the station, guv. Why?”
Moran hesitated. It wouldn’t do any harm to have Banner on standby.
“I’d like you to stay put for an hour or so, Banner. Is DC McKellar still there?”
“Hang on.”
Moran grabbed the dashboard as Phelps swung the car off the motorway.
“Yes, guv. She is.” Banner sounded slightly irritated.
“Good. Tell her to sit tight for an hour as well.”
“What’s up?”
“Not sure yet. Might be a storm in a teacup, but then again...”
“Where are you headed? Guv.”
“Chalvey. Left turn before the bridge. Left again. Second row of terraces.”
“Fine. Keep us posted,” Banner said peevishly, and rang off.
The high street was quiet. Phelps eased the car into second and indicated left. A few cars were parked along the street. None of them belonged to DC Hill. All was quiet.
“That’s the one.” Moran pointed. Zoë was right. It was tatty to the point of decrepitude.
