Down into Darkness (33 page)

The next part was tricky: he had to clear the first level and the infra-red. He held the rope in his teeth and climbed on to the railings that bordered the basement area, his feet placed carefully between the spikes, then wound the rope round his right hand and launched himself, pulling hard and lifting his body in order to rise feet first, like a pole-vaulter. His heels smacked the scaffolding, then his back, leaving him breathless for a moment. He crooked his knees and got first his lower legs, then his thighs, on to a scaffolding plank and hauled himself upright.

He climbed the poles to the top of the house, pulled aside the flap of a tarpaulin and stepped into the roof-space. From there he went down to the basement kitchen and from there into the walled garden. When he hoisted himself up, he could see Neil Morgan's garden.

Bowman was beginning to form the opinion that Morgan was a smart operator: smarter, anyway, than he'd seemed. What this guy wanted was more money. What made Bowman suspect that? Well, the fact that Morgan kept insisting that money had nothing to do with it, money didn't come into it, money wasn't the issue. He thought it might be time to make a call to the Americans to find out what they could offer to sweeten the pot.

The bathroom was his excuse for getting time alone: no point in making a phone call with Morgan in the background trying to keep up the pretence that he'd done all he could no matter what the kick-back. You had to have the promise of cash on the table; you had to be able to say, ‘So how does a hundred-k sound?'

But before the call, a little something, a lift, a treat. He used a shaving mirror to cut three lines and rolled a twenty-pound note. It was a good hit. He gave the first line time to
soak in, then dipped his head for the next. He could hear that, downstairs, Morgan had switched the TV back on.

Woolf had crossed the gardens that separated him from Morgan's house and tried the basement door. If he was unlucky he could tap out a pane of glass and reach through to the key, or pop a window, or remove a door panel, but he hadn't really expected to meet a problem. In the game, Silent Wolf moved swiftly and easily from place to place, frame to frame, moment to moment; it was how things worked.

He'd tried the door and it was unlocked, of course. People like Morgan just didn't feel that vulnerable.

As he climbed the stairs from the basement, he could hear Morgan and Bowman talking. One of the men laughed. A door opened. Woolf saw Bowman going upstairs. It was a complication, and he knew he probably ought to regroup and rethink, but he also knew that Morgan's wife would return, that the security would continue, that this might be his only chance.

He moved quickly and quietly down the hallway to the room, taking out the gun, glancing towards the stairs in case the other man returned. The door was partly open, and Woolf could see Neil Morgan standing by the fireplace on the far side of the room and drinking whisky. When Woolf walked in holding the gun, Morgan was motionless for a moment, then he picked up a fire-iron and backed off.

Woolf said, ‘You filthy coward.'

He walked towards the man, the gun high and pointing at his face, though he had no intention of firing it. A shot would be heard and, in any case, he wanted to use the knife.

Woolf said, ‘You! You filthy fucking coward.'

Morgan gave a yell. His gaze was fixed on Woolf, but, at
the same time, he was reaching blindly with his left hand, two fingers extended. Woolf looked for the panic alarm, its double red buttons, and spotted it mounted on the wall close to the door. He moved to herd his man away from it. Morgan yelled again, calling for help. Woolf rushed him, anticipating the swing of the fire-iron, left to right, and blocking it with his arm. He kicked on the turn, straight-legged, taking Morgan just below the sternum, and the man went down, dropping the fire-iron, retching air.

Woolf yelled at him, ‘You coward! You! Filthy coward!'

He picked up the iron and clipped Morgan on the side of the head: enough to pacify him. Morgan's eyes clouded, but maybe he saw Woolf draw the knife, maybe he suddenly knew who this man was, because he found enough strength to get on to all fours and go hands-and-knees for the panic alarm. Woolf lifted the iron and hit him again, the blow sending the man forward. He found the buttons, fingers forked, and Woolf hit him a third time.

That third blow wrecked something in Morgan: it broke a link somewhere deep in the man. He convulsed, gagging, his limbs flipping wildly. Woolf got behind him with the knife, wanting to steady his man for the cut, but it was impossible. Morgan was on the move, bucking and rolling. The blade cut his head, his arm, his shoulder.

In his mind's eye, Woolf saw one man walking downstairs, two more running across the road to the front door. He lashed out once more with the knife, cutting Morgan across the face, then ran.

It wasn't the TV Bowman heard, it was Morgan's cries, Woolf's shouts. The coke had sharpened him up, but also made him slightly detached. He'd snorted the third line, then made his call, getting the answer he'd hoped for, though not at first and not without difficulty.

The American had said, ‘This guy already owes us. Tell him that.'

‘He needs a sweetener.'

‘He's got expensive habits or what?'

‘It's the way forward,' Bowman had said. ‘I'm sure of it.' He added, ‘You have to realize too that I'm putting in a lot of work here.'

The American sighed. ‘Morgan's not the only one in need of a sweetener.'

‘Time's money,' Bowman said. ‘I can only do so much on a limited budget.'

‘What are we talking here?'

Bowman settled into a negotiation. It was what he did best. To some people, negotiating was a tiresome necessity: claims and counter-claims, white lies, chopped logic, ground gained and ground lost. Bowman knew it to be his true language, the language of his country, the language of his tribe.

They'd agreed two sums, one for Morgan, one for Bowman. They had come with a threat on the side.

Woolf was at the end of the hall and starting down to the basement when Bowman walked downstairs to make his offer, smiling a cool coke smile and not noticing the sudden silence. He'd had just enough time to get into the room and be standing over Morgan's body when the Honda men came through the door.

Morgan's convulsions had dwindled to a series of shudders and tremors. He lay splashing in his own blood like a landed fish. Then he lay still.

It was late by the time Stella and Harriman sat down with Bowman. He said, ‘It was a business meeting. I went upstairs. When I came down –' He spread his hands expressively.

Stella said, ‘You didn't see anyone? Hear anyone?'

‘No, but there must have been someone…'

‘There was no sign of forced entry,' Stella observed, ‘though forensics are still at the house.'

‘Why would I kill him?' Bowman asked. ‘Why?'

‘I'm asking questions,' Stella told him, ‘that's all. You were at the scene when his security officers came in. You're all we've got. You can wait until your solicitor arrives – do you want to do that?'

‘Yes,' Bowman said. Then, ‘No, no, it doesn't matter.'

‘What kind of business?' Harriman asked.

‘Business advice.' Bowman was busking.

‘What kind of business advice?'

‘Money matters.'

‘Keep going,' Stella said.

‘Where best to invest it.' Speaking softly, slowly, the mild Scottish accent soothing the vowel sounds.

Stella raised her eyebrows. ‘You're not a broker, are you?'

‘I can be if the occasion demands.' Bowman passed a hand over his face; he might have been distressed, Stella thought, or irritated. He said, ‘There are people who know me. People who will vouch for me.'

‘Will they vouch for your cocaine habit?' Harriman asked.

‘You want to talk about that?' Bowman laughed. ‘A man's been murdered.'

‘No,' Stella said, ‘he's not dead.'

‘Oh…' Bowman almost shrugged. ‘Oh, well, that's good.'

‘He's unconscious. He might die yet.'

‘Ah…' As if he'd forgotten he'd mentioned it, Bowman said, ‘People who know who I am. Who know I wouldn't –'

Harriman said, ‘We know who you are.'

Bowman nodded. He said, ‘Good. Okay, then…' No one spoke for a moment, so he said it again: ‘That's good.'

They were using an interview room at Notting Dene. Stella and Harriman stood in the corridor, each holding a carton of vending-machine coffee, thin and bitter. They could hear the noise from the front desk: drunks, victims, people with nowhere to go.

Harriman said, ‘He's a face. Big-shit businessman.'

‘You think that makes a difference?' Stella sipped and grimaced. ‘Really?'

‘No, but he didn't do it.'

‘No, he didn't. Not unless he changed his suit and swallowed the knife in the time it took the security people to get there.'

‘It's our guy,' Harriman said, ‘isn't that what you're thinking? This time he gets the right man, gets Morgan, but his timing's off. The knife cuts – he meant to decapitate him, but Morgan fought back.'

‘Yes,' Stella said, ‘I think it's our guy.'

‘Bowman?'

‘Let him go.'

‘His solicitor's on his way.'

‘And so?'

‘I was thinking of the cocaine.'

Stella laughed. ‘Flash business dude snorts coke. There's one for the record books.'

‘We'd hand him over if he was panhandling the subways, Boss.'

‘He's our only witness.'

‘Near-witness.'

‘Yes, near-witness. He was there.'

‘And saw nothing.'

‘Maybe he'll remember something. At the very least we need him for purposes of elimination: fingerprints, DNA… Let's keep him on side.'

‘Maybe he'll be good for some investment tips.'

‘Investment?' Stella laughed.

‘Bit of inside information,' Harriman said, ‘a nod and a wink. Impoverished copper one day, rich bastard the next.'

‘Tell him he can go,' Stella said. ‘Thank him for his time and cooperation, tell him we'll need to speak to him again, give him the leaflet on counselling services.'

‘Why do you think he was there?' Harriman asked. ‘Him and Morgan… what's the connection?'

‘God knows,' Stella said. ‘Wheelers and dealers, movers and shakers; they're all up to it.'

The sky was growing light when Harriman got back to his flat. He undressed in the hall and went into the bedroom, which was empty and shouldn't have been. He walked through to the kitchen and found Gloria making coffee. She looked him up and down as he stood butt-naked in the doorway.

‘You cut right to the chase, don't you?'

He grimaced. ‘I have to be up in a couple of hours.'

‘Why wait till then?'

He put on a robe, and they sat at the breakfast bar with their coffee. Gloria made some eggs. Birds started up: London birds, they never sleep either. Harriman kissed her. He said, ‘No point in going back to sleep now.'

‘But going back to bed?'

‘Different thing.'

Gloria was tall and full-breasted and slender-hipped and had flawless skin to go with her Latin looks, but that wasn't the reason why Harriman was starting to think he'd like her to be around all the time.

Wasn't the only reason.

Stella made some notes, sent some emails, drank a couple of vodkas. She found the paper with Delaney's piece on Bowman and was momentarily confused, as if the man were somehow out of context. She read it and found out just what a hotshot Stanley Bowman was. The piece was accompanied by a portrait of the man that made him seem younger and better-looking than Stella remembered, his goatee, his gunslinger's moustache.

She took a pair of kitchen scissors and cut the photo out, then pinned it to the white-board along with the SOC photos, the living face to face with the dead.

Acting DI Brian Collier stood in the doorway listening as Stella briefed the team. He looked like a man with a dismal two-day hangover that just won't lift. In the doorway was where Mike Sorley had usually stood: not in deference, simply allowing his officers to do what they did best. Collier's retreat from centre to periphery had been noticed by everyone, though some thought it had come a little late.

Stella said, ‘Traces of blood in the hallway, on the stairs to the basement, disturbance to plants in the next-door garden… It's as much as this man has left of himself. Forensics tests are being made, but we're pretty certain he gained access to the empty house and crossed gardens to get to Neil Morgan's.'

‘He's athletic,' Frank Silano observed. ‘Upper-body strength.'

‘We're getting CCTV from the area, as many tapes as we can for the square and the surrounding streets. That includes the street where we think he must have gained entry to the empty house.'

‘If he bypassed the alarm,' Andy Greegan said, ‘he must have known where to look.'

‘Okay,' Stella said, ‘who do we talk to?'

‘The builders and the scaffolders,' Greegan said.

‘Scaffolders,' reflected Harriman, ‘the pit-bulls of the construction industry.'

‘What about MO?' Maxine was scanning the SOC report. ‘Did he write anything on Morgan or leave that triple-vee sign?'

Stella shook her head. ‘No.'

‘In too much of a hurry,' Harriman suggested.

‘But we're sure it's him?'

‘Let's hope DNA will tell us. Until we know differently – it's him.' Stella paused. ‘Here's our problem. We don't know how long his list is or who else might be on it. If it wasn't for the writing – the notion of some purpose or another – the victims would look completely random. We can't secondguess what's coming next.'

As the briefing broke up, Collier walked away. Stella found him in his office, the desk he had so meticulously cleared now piled high. He said, ‘It could have been a nice black-on-black or some bag-bride getting done for her stash, but no, I walk straight into a fucking serial, I draw some mental bastard who runs round my patch topping people like the wrath of fucking God.'