A Good Day To Die (23 page)

I pointed the gun at his groin. 'Because if you don't, I'll blow your fucking balls off. That's why.'

He exhaled theatrically, and I think he knew that I had no desire to shoot him. I noticed that a rivulet of blood from his ear had now reached his ribcage. 'You heard of Nicholas Tyndall?' he asked, swivelling round slightly on the hook.

I told him I kept hearing of Nicholas Tyndall.

'Me brother used to do some work for him, dealing gear. A while back. I saw him with one of them geezers before, so I reckon Tyndall's the one who sent them here.'

Which meant that Tyndall hadn't known what Malik's meeting with Jason Khan had been about. So he couldn't have set it up. Not for the first time in the last few days, I felt myself being pushed towards a dead end.

I looked at my watch. I'd been in here about three minutes, and didn't want to hang around much longer. It was no way to conduct an interview. Jamie started trying to free himself again, turning his back on me.

'Who do you think wanted your brother dead?'

'I don't know, man. Like I say, I never saw him much, y'know. He lived with his woman over near Caledonian Road.'

'And now she's dead too.'

'Cut me down, man. Please. Me ear's doing me in.'

'Give me a name.'

'Wassat?'

'A name. Someone who knew your brother and his girlfriend. Someone I can talk to. Then I'll cut you down.'

'I told you, man. I didn't see him much. I dunno who his mates was.'

'A name.'

He jerked his right arm back hard, trying either to break free of his bonds or pull the shower rail from the wall, whichever came first. Except neither did. He cursed with frustration while I waited and watched, counting the seconds, knowing Tyndall's men would be back soon. And knowing too that if he couldn't provide me with at least something, I would have wasted my time here.

'I used to sell a bit of weed to one of Annie's mates. Y'know, Annie who was Jason's woman.
The mate's name was Andrea or something. Last name began with B.'

'I need to know how to find her.'

'How the fuck am I meant to know how to find her? I ain't seen her in months.'

Four minutes, and I was losing patience. I came forward fast, grabbed him by the hair and shoved his head back against the mildew-stained wall, pushing the barrel of the gun into his bloodied cheek. 'If I were you, I'd start racking your brains,' I hissed. 'Real fucking quickly. Else a misshapen ear'll be the least of your problems. Understand?'

He finally got the message. 'All right, all right, cool it, man,' he begged, the words spilling out fast. 'I got an old address book in a drawer in the lounge. Beneath the telly. It'll be in there. That's where I keep all me contacts.'

I released the pressure on the gun and left him hanging there while I strode back through to the lounge, conscious of the ticking clock. I pulled open the drawer beneath the TV and rummaged round until I found a crumpled pocket-sized address book under a pile of DVDs and a huge bag of grass. I flicked through the pages until I got to 'B' and was pleased to find that Islington's schools had at least taught Delly something. There was an Andrea Bloom in there, along with an address in Hackney and a mobile phone number, scrawled in barely legible childlike handwriting. Since she was the only Andrea in the 'B' section, I felt it safe to
assume it was her. I pocketed the address book and went back into the bathroom.

Jamie had given up struggling. He hung there limply, his head bowed, looking a terrible mess. I almost felt sorry for him.

He looked up as I came back in, and I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in the cunning rat eyes. It was time to go.

Trying to avoid his gaze, I used the Swiss Army knife to cut through his bonds, wrinkling my nose at the sour smell coming off him. While I was slicing away at the ropes they'd used, I asked him how well his brother had known Asif Malik.

Not surprisingly, he hadn't known. 'But when Jason was gonna become a Muslim an' that, I know he talked to Malik about it,' he said. 'He wanted some advice.' The last strand of the rope came free, and Jamie collapsed in a heap in the filthy bathtub. He touched his ruined ear tenderly, then looked up at me. 'Who the fuck are you, man?' he asked, and I knew then that he still had no idea of my true identity.

'The person who made sure you stayed in possession of all your fingers and toes,' I told him. 'Remember that.'

I switched on the shower, thinking he needed one, and walked away, ignoring the yelp of shock he let out as the cold water soaked him.

When I was back on the balcony, I looked at my watch. Six minutes since I'd kicked out Tom and Jer,
the irony of their names only now sinking in. I didn't think it'd be long before they were back with numbers, and I didn't want to be here when they were.

I was confident they wouldn't do any more harm to Jamie. It should have been obvious to them that he didn't know much about his brother's death and was therefore going to be of no great use. Most serious criminals only inflict injuries when they need to and I suspected that Tyndall would be no different. However, I was fairly sure that Jamie would tell them what he'd told me and that they too might want to track down Andrea Bloom. It was important that I got to her first. She might only have represented a very slim lead, but there wasn't a lot else vying for my attention right at that moment.

As I turned to go, I spotted a man and a woman, both smartly dressed, emerging from the tunnel into the estate proper. Even from this distance, I could tell that the woman was young and pretty, late twenties tops, with brown hair cut into a neat bob; while the guy was about my age and height but carrying more than a few extra pounds, mainly round the belly. Straightaway I knew they were cops and, as if I needed confirmation, they both looked up towards Block D. It didn't take a genius to know they were coming here.

I started along the balcony towards the far end of the block, walking fast, then breaking into a run as I hit the stairwell. I didn't look back.

I was still running when I came out of the back of the estate, onto a litter-strewn pathway that ran alongside a particularly unattractive stretch of Regent's Canal. Decrepit, long-deserted warehouses with rows of broken windows loomed up on each side of the coal-black water, reminders of a time when there was still some real industry round here. I kept going until I found a bench that hadn't been uprooted and chucked into the canal, and sat down, giving myself two minutes to recover. When my breathing was back to normal, I pulled out the address book and found Andrea Bloom's entry. But when I called the mobile number, it was out of order.

I recognized the road she lived on. It was about a mile from where I was sitting. And once again time didn't feel like it was on my side.

So I got to my feet and started walking.

26

According to the address book, Andrea Bloom lived just off the Kingsland Road in Hackney. It might have only been a few hundred yards as the crow flies from the bistros and restaurants of south Islington, but the Kingsland Road was a world away from them. It's the sort of place you end up in when you've taken a wrong turn - a long, straight, desolate road lined with council estates and heavily fortified shops selling cheap goods - where gangs of kids in hooded tops hang round on their mountain bikes waiting for something to happen, or someone to mug. It hadn't changed much since I'd been away and still didn't feel that safe, even at eleven o'clock in the morning, but I walked most of its length south to north, unchallenged and unscathed, which either meant I looked too hard to take on or, more likely, it was still too early for the local street robbers.

Andrea's street was quieter and a bit more
upmarket, being made up mainly of three-storey townhouses, most of which could have done with a decent exterior paint job. Hers was about thirty yards down on the right-hand side, and was one of the more ramshackle residences.

I had to ring the bell several times before an early-twenties white guy with a dreadlocked mane of naturally blond curly hair answered. He must have been getting on for six foot six, but was as lean as a rake. He had a large ring through his nose, and a smaller one through his right eyebrow. The expression on his face was suspicious, but it didn't sit that easily there. I guessed he was quite a friendly sort to the people he knew, but maybe a little earnest. He was dressed in a light green T-shirt with a photo of Che Guevara on it, and combat trousers of the same colour, while his feet were bare. I'd have put money on the fact that he was a vegetarian, and that he was better educated and from a family higher up the social ladder than either his garb or current location would suggest.

'Yes?'

'I'm here to see Andrea Bloom.'

He looked me up and down carefully, like a man examining a fake designer shirt on a cheap market stall. Even after all this time, I must still have had the demeanour of a copper, and I doubted that any members of the law-enforcement fraternity were very popular round here.

'I don't know any Andrea Bloom.'

I could tell he was lying. It wasn't difficult to spot. 'Yes, you do,' I told him. 'Is she in?'

'Who are you?'

I was beginning to get tired of this question. 'It's personal. Is she in?'

'She's at work.'

'And where's her work?'

'I'm not telling you,' he snapped.

'Fair enough. I'll come in and wait for her, then.'

I pushed past him and stepped into the hallway. The carpet was threadbare, but the general decor a considerable improvement on Delly's place. I turned left and walked into a small sitting room with a cheap-looking TV in the corner and a profusion of different coloured beanbags on the floor. I found a chair and plonked myself down.

He came stomping in after me. 'I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you can't just come walking in like this.'

'Tell me where I can find Andrea and I'll walk right back out again,' I said, making myself comfortable.

'I want to know why you want to see her. She's my girlfriend.'

He added this last with a hint of pride in his voice and I felt a bit sorry for him. 'I want to talk to her about her relationship with Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.'

Something happened then. His body tensed, and
a perceptible flicker of fear crossed his face like a storm front. He knew something.

'Andrea hardly knew them,' he said, talking far too fast. 'I don't think there's much she can tell you. Now if you give me your card, I can--'

'I promise you I don't mean her any harm. I'm a private detective. So, please, why don't you just make it easier by telling me where I can find her?'

'Hold on a moment,' he said, then left the room.

I stood up to follow him, taking my time, keen not to spook him any more than he was already. But very interested, nevertheless, in his reaction to the mention of Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.

I hadn't taken more than two steps when he suddenly reappeared. Only this time he was carrying a gleaming kitchen knife with an eight-inch blade. He waved it at me as menacingly as he could manage, the tension in his features telling me that he liked this situation even less than I did, which, given that I was standing only three feet from the end of the blade, took some doing.

'Put that thing down,' I said, taking a step back, reluctant to go for the gun and ruin any chance of a meaningful discussion with either him or his girlfriend. 'You use it and you'll be going to prison for a long, long time.'

He stepped forward, gaining in confidence. 'I want you out of here now. Andrea's got nothing to say and she doesn't want to see you.'

'I think you should let her decide that.'

He took another step forward, waving the knife for effect. 'Out.'

I shrugged. 'All right, have it your way.' I went to go past him and he moved to the side. As we came level, I lunged forward and grabbed the wrist of his knife arm, twisting it away from him. He didn't immediately let go so I balled my other hand into a fist and slammed it down on the upturned forearm. He cried out in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. I kicked it out into the hallway, then forced the arm behind his back and pushed him down to his knees.

He tried to struggle so I pulled the arm higher up his back, and he quickly stopped. I put my mouth to his ear. 'I repeat: I am a private detective. I mean your girlfriend no harm, but it's important I speak to her. Two people have been murdered and she may have information that could help one of the dead men's families. Please. I need to know where to find her.'

'How do I know you're not going to hurt her?' he demanded.

'Why should I?' I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.

But he didn't tell me why. Instead, he asked me to let him go.

'Are you going to tell me where I can find her?'

'I'll come down with you. If you want to talk to her, you'll have to do it with me present as well.'

'Fair enough.' I released my grip and let him stand up.

'I'll need to phone her,' he said, starting to walk into the hallway, but I pulled him back by the neck of his Che Guevara T-shirt.

'Use mine,' I told him, handing over my mobile and picking up the knife. 'And please don't try and get her to disappear for a bit. I'll just come back.'