Dead Pretty (24 page)

Julie looked at the cheap wooden door of the bedroom, and felt very vulnerable. She took off her shoes, but nothing else, and got into the bed, pulling the sheets over her head, like she had as a little girl. Perhaps it would all go away in the morning.

*

A truck reversing woke Mark up. It was delivering booze to Anton's, backing up along the narrow street, wheels close to the canal. Amsterdam was not built for traffic. He didn't feel too bad, and had slept. His head and body were prepared for anything, there was nothing left to do other than start the ball rolling. He showered, found clean underwear and a shirt, then checked as much as he could from the window and went downstairs. There was a young French couple having breakfast, but no other guests. So much for Anton being full, the lying bastard. He just wanted him to have the crappest room.

A Filipino maid greeted him. She had a genuine white-toothed smile, and probably thought the peanuts Anton paid her was heaven. Anton's head and shoulders appeared through a serving hatch.

‘Ah, good morning, my friend. And it is, eh? Fog gone, rain gone, sun out. Just how we like it in Amsterdam.'

He still had the vest on, or, if it was a replacement, it had replacement stains, brown sauce spots like tracer bullets across his stomach.

‘I can see you're rushed off your feet,' Mark murmured.

‘People are up early here. So much to see.'

‘Huh huh.'

‘Is the room all right?'

‘Perfect.'

Mark ate ham, cheese and eggs. If he came through this, he might go back to what Lena had wanted him to eat. A kind of food remembrance of her.

The couple left and Anton joined him halfway through breakfast, sitting down without being asked. He had a certain odour, like cooked meat. His face looked like cooked meat. He probably knew everything that crawled in Sexland, Mark thought. Anton was the type that might spend a lot of time there.

‘So, my friend, you are well? You look well. How do they say it in English? A body to die for.'

Mark half expected Anton's hand to sneak across the table. The thought of stabbing his sausage fingers with a fork was quite pleasurable.

‘You are here on business? Pleasure? I always find it best to mix both.'

‘Yes, business. Mine.'

Mark held a cup under Anton's nose.

‘Get me some more coffee.'

Anton looked around for the maid, but got it himself. When he brought it back he didn't sit down again.

‘You are not a morning person, my friend,' Anton murmured.

‘That's right. Same with afternoon and night.'

Anton tittered, but he'd got the message. The front door bell rang. Anton always kept the door locked, which was another reason Mark had come here.

‘I must attend to
my
business,' Anton said.

Mark's hands tightened around his breakfast knife, which would be practically useless, but he saw Anton usher an old woman into the lobby. She wore an ancient mink coat and a poodle trailed behind her on a silver lead. She looked like a retired Madame, and could have been Anton's mother. She had the same complexion, though her cooked meat was creased with a map of bruised veins. The old woman smiled at Mark.

Mark went back up to his room. It had a boarded floor with a few worn rugs on it. He prodded around, sure that something this old would have a loose fitting somewhere. He found one near the window, a piece of board he was able to prise up a few inches, enough to expose a joist. There was room here to place Angelo's notebook, the copy would stay with him. He got a coat, his map, and let himself out before Anton knew he was gone. The Dutchman was wrong about the fog. Sun was trying to cut through it but it still lay on the surface of the canals, dissecting the city like lines of smoke. The morning was crisp, and people were dressed more for the winter. The heat of London seemed a long time ago. Mark had to think what day it was. Wednesday. Day six, PL.

Wherever he went in this place Mark would be a target, moving or sitting. If his luck was holding they wouldn't know he was here. He had just the ghost of a plan, and less than the ghost of a chance – to knock out Stellachi, then bargain for his life with the notebook. Mark had never believed in ghosts. Not that it mattered; if it didn't work with Stellachi he wouldn't be around anyway.

There were a few Lena look-alikes on the street, leggy, high-heeled women who walked cautiously over the cobblestones. The alleys near the canals must be lethal places for drunks, Mark thought, or hunted men. He kept away from people as much as possible, heading across town for Stellachi territory, trying to get his bearings and use the map only when he had to. He was aiming straight for the address Angelo had underlined.
Stellachi – Sexland
.
Maybe it was the man's own club, that would figure.

Mark stood in an alley way and looked out on Dam Square. There were still a lot of tourists around, kids mostly, and a few lines of Japanese, clicking or camcording everything. The Royal Palace reminded him of one of Julie's Christmas decorations, one of the few that survived his rages and the moves of many uncles. She'd get it out year after year, and put it on the mantelpiece. The place looked like it belonged on a chocolate box, lots of fancy brickwork, maybe a hundred windows, set off by a spiked tower. Julie would love it here. She thought a beach on the Gower was exotic.

Mark took the Damstraat off the square and was soon amongst the crap. A shop was opening up, much like that camping place in Cardiff. The knives in the window caught Mark's eyes. All sorts, for all purposes. He went in and bought one. A fold-up job with a bone handle that fitted into an inside pocket. Maybe its blade couldn't deflect bullets, but at least he didn't feel so naked now. It was early, this place did not really come alive until nightfall. In daylight it was stripped of its cover, and looked bored with itself, as if sex was out of fashion, no longer exciting, just necessary. There was probably more weird stuff now, Mark thought, jaded wankers looking for ever more extreme action. Even at this time of day a few guys came onto him, asking for or offering crack or charlie. Charlie, such a friendly name, for an entrance to hell.

Mark located
Sexland.
Its neon sign was worn and tarnished but it was still on, flickering defiantly as the sun tried to oust it. Above was the backlit image of a girl fingering a breast with one hand. She was tall and deep red, the colour of blood, made to catch the eye, and she caught his. There were apartments above the club, de-luxe crud, by the look of them. An old man was sweeping up outside, attacking last night's waste, as he had a thousand times before. It looked like the brush was fighting back. He could have been Anton's father. Same grubby look, but the lechery on this one's face had turned into a memory, his face was leather rather than cooked meat, his eyes glazed, and the hair at the sides of his head was dyed jet black, like two wings. He noticed Mark watching him, stopped brushing and came over.

‘Help you, mister?' the old man said.

He still smelt of last night. Mark was reminded of Kelly, another reason to be here.

Mark tried to check out every area, but it was hopeless. Too much stuff was going down here. If he wanted anonymity he should have left it until dark, when the place would be jumping with bug-eyed punters. He was standing out in the street, for Godsake, Stellachi might be watching him, laughing his evil head off. Something inside was pushing Mark on to a rapid conclusion. He wanted out, one way or another. He was not nervous, nerves had been left in the Welsh churchyard.

‘Don't you speak English?' the old man asked. ‘Everyone who comes here speaks English. The whole world speaks English.'

The old man repeated his question in Dutch, then German, leaning on his brush, enjoying going through his repertoire.

‘English,' Mark muttered.

‘Sure. Knew it straight off. The club doesn't open yet, come back tonight. Hey, you want girls? Boys? Both?'

He fumbled in his overalls and produced some cards.

‘She's good. The best. Not too much money, and this one   you'll never forget it. This one's a pretty boy. Very nice.'

Mark took the cards. The door to the club was open, but he doubted that there was a way up to the apartment. He noticed a separate entrance. There was a number on the door, the same one as in the notebook. He thanked the old creep, having acted like a young one.

‘Might come round tonight,' Mark said.

‘Sure. You have good time. Very good.'

Someone was watching him from the apartment window. It wasn't Stellachi, it was just a kid, someone not much more than fifteen or sixteen, Mark thought. He didn't hang around, he didn't want to make it
that
easy for them. He walked quickly down the first alleyway he saw and wished he hadn't. It needed its own sweeper, because it was encrusted with dog crap, maybe some human, and a supporting cast of junk food remnants, vomit and what he thought might be blood, but possibly could have been ketchup, trod into the stones. Discarded syringes littered the ground, like the spears of minute people, and he had to walk carefully. The place could have been the crazy design of some modern artist, out of his head on the ultimate trip. A thought came to Mark that Lena might have been part of this secret world but he crushed it out. He didn't want to go there. Ever.

Maybe that kid was on the phone right now, maybe he didn't know anything. Mark didn't think Stellachi would be the type to spread news around, but he would be careful, after the events in Wales and London. Mark saw that all the clubs had rooms above, perhaps the moneyrakers didn't want to be too far from their honey pots. All the fancy stuff was in the front, nothing much had been done with the bits out of public sight. There was a service entrance to Stellachi's place, locked up, but also a fire escape. A metal stairway tacked onto the back of the building, the type that would stretch down if you reached up for the end. Mark did so.

The kid in the window could be anyone, a cleaner, Stellachi's rent boy, a baby assassin for all he knew, but unless they were drawing him into a trap, Mark doubted if anyone knew he was here yet. Moving his large frame as lithely as he always had, he reached the second floor, where there was small balcony filled with plants. He stood here for a while, and could hear music playing inside. Foreign stuff, African maybe, too sharp for this time in the morning, but it helped with his cover because the window he tried did not want to move at first.

The knife was proving useful already. Mark unfolded it and looked for any weakness in the window frame. It was old and wooden, the type that always had a weakness and the knife found it near the latch. Wood splintered under his probing and access was his. He looked in on a small bedroom that didn't look as if it was used, and was inside before the face in the window appeared in an open doorway. Mark hit it once, hard, and it fell down on the floor without making a sound.

He stepped past the boy into the main room of the flat. It was a large, and full of everything except Stellachi. He checked through the other rooms, two bedrooms, and a bathroom the size of a small house but he knew no one else was here. If Stellachi had been at home Mark would have copped a bullet as soon as he was on the fire escape. This place was similar to Agani's penthouse, not so in-your-face but the same
I've got money
statement in everything that was here. There were hand-drawn sketches of studs on the wall, all black and white in silver frames. Stellachi's pin-ups, some naked, some in white underwear. All bronzed, with health-club bodies. In the master bedroom was a large picture of the man himself showing off his own frame. Stellachi was a bit smaller than him, but only because he was in great shape, perfect muscle tone, and not an ounce of excess weight. The shape Mark used to be in, before Lena taught him other things. This man was obsessed with himself.

Mark checked outside through wooden blinds. The old man was still sweeping, the street filling up with the curious, and the shops were coming to life, but he saw nothing to worry him. He quickly searched through drawers and cupboards, looking for anything, but mainly a gun. No such luck – the knife and his fists would have to do.

The kid was coming round as Mark knelt over him. He'd split his lip and bloodied his nose. He was older than Mark had thought, but not by much. As he moaned and opened his eyes Mark lifted him up like he used to do with Daniels, this one was about the same weight, which was no weight at all. Half dragging, half carrying him, Mark took him to the main room and threw him onto the sofa. He was fully conscious now and started a panicky jabber in an unknown language.

Mark let him rave on for a minute, checking the window again, and, making sure the main door was locked, he turned back and showed the kid the knife. The boy tried to shrink away, drawing his knees up against his chest and trying to wipe the blood from his face. Most of it was dripping onto Stellachi's cream leather furnishing. It would be a kind of calling card, Mark thought.

Mark caught hold of the boy by the throat with his left hand and pressed the knife against his cheek with his right. He shut up straight away and if anyone could be stiff and tremble at the same time, this one could.

‘Stellachi,' Mark said, ‘where?'

The kid's eyes rolled whiter and more strange language rushed out of him, which Mark slapped to a halt.

‘English. Come on, you can speak it.'

‘English? No, not so good.'

‘Oh, I think you can, sonny. I don't have a lot of time, so you'd better learn it fast. Where's your friend?
Mr
Stellachi?'

The boy closed his eyes. He seemed to be praying. ‘You're him.'

‘What?'

‘The man. The one who killed Agani, and the others.'

‘That's right,' Mark said, ‘I'll ask you one last time. Where's Stellachi?'

‘I don't know. I never know things like that.'

‘Who are you?'