MONOLITH (15 page)

LONDON; 1933

They told the old man he didn’t belong.

Told him he didn’t belong in the house he lived in, in the street where that house was and then they told him he didn’t belong in their country.

There were eight of them. All of them looked like big men to the old man who wasn’t more than five feet four in height anyway. They towered over him and surrounded him and they waved their fists angrily and threateningly and they spat furious and angry words at him. He’d heard the words before spoken in different tongues and he told himself he should be used to this kind of prejudice and hatred. But he wasn’t. And when one of them made to grab the lapels of his jacket he tried to back away but another of them blocked his escape.

He felt himself being lifted bodily into the air and he thought about striking out at his aggressor but realised that this would only provoke greater anger and violence.

The bigger man’s face was inches from his and he could smell his rancid breath and the liquor on it as he snapped and shouted.

The others looked on with a mixture of approval and indifference.

The old man was finally pushed away, slammed hard into the door of his shop.

They advanced upon him, one of them swinging a hammer, threatening to shatter the windows and even the old man’s skull if necessary. He backed away from them as best he could, knowing that there was no escape this time but also knowing that he had feared and expected this time and he was at least ready for it. Ready for them.

Another of them was carrying a brick in his hand and, as the old man retreated into his shop, the man with the implement smashed it into one of the display cases nearby. Glass shattered, some of it spraying across the floor of the shop, crunching beneath the advancing feet of the men. The old man protested but his words fell on deaf and unconcerned ears.

Another of the display cases was broken, this time overturned. There were watches inside it and they spilled across the floor where some were also trampled underfoot.

All of the men were shouting now it seemed. The whole shop was filled with the sound of angry voices. They warned him not to go to the police because they would find out and they would make him suffer even more. They told him that no one would help him because no one wanted him here, no one had ever wanted him. They told him how much they hated him and others like him and they told him to get out. Get out of the shop and the country. Just walk away and they would leave him unharmed. If he didn’t do as they told him then there would be real trouble. They would harm him. And of that he had no doubt looking into their furious, hate filled eyes and listening to the anger in their voices.

But in the silence that fell over the shop momentarily the old man said that he would not leave. He told them they would not drive him out.

They said that if he wasn’t gone by midnight that night then they would return and when they did they would make him sorry for his defiance. The old man said that he would be waiting.

One of them spat at him as he turned to leave. Another kicked a hole in a third display case and then they were gone. The old man stood shaking amidst the destruction they had wrought, thinking how much worse it might have been but not doubting for one second their intentions to come back when the darkness fell. What they would do when they returned he could only imagine and those thoughts caused him to shudder again.

He stood alone in the shop for long moments then turned his back on the destruction, his face now set in hard lines. There was a determination about his gait as he walked and he murmured something in his native tongue under his breath as he headed towards the rear of the building.

He retrieved the keys to the cellar and unlocked it, making his way down the stone steps into the subterranean room.

When he reached the bottom he looked around the darkened space, his gaze drawn to what stood at its centre.

They would be back at midnight they’d told him, well, he thought, a slight smile on his wrinkled old lips, let them come.

Let them come.

‘So first no one sees anything and now this.’

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson scanned the statement again then dropped the sheet of paper onto his desk and glanced across at his colleague.

‘This guy wasn’t in when we did the house to house stuff,’ Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell told his superior. ‘He was away on business. He decided to come forward after speaking to other people in the neighbourhood.’

‘Very public spirited of him,’ Johnson grunted.

‘I know it’s not much of a help but…’

‘Well it’s more than we had before isn’t it?’

Johnson got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office, peering out across a windswept London. The breeze was strong and every now and then the glass would rattle in its frame.

‘And this guy is still the only one who says he saw anything?’ the D.I. murmured.

‘Yes,’ Powell confirmed.

‘He saw a man getting in the back of a dark blue or black van, a tall man who looked to him as if he was old because he wasn’t moving very well.’

‘He looked as if he had bad legs,’ Powell quoted from the statement. ‘Bad legs and possibly a bad back. Oh, and he was old too.’

‘So the man who attacked Brian Dunham’s house not only had superhuman strength but he couldn’t walk properly,’ Johnson grinned. ‘So we’re looking for a geriatric body builder or a pensioner with a fucking pneumatic drill.’

Powell afforded himself a smile too.

‘Christ, we get no eye witness reports to start with,’ Johnson went on. ‘Then when we do finally get one it just makes things more complicated.’

‘It was dark when the attack happened, maybe the guy didn’t see too clearly.’

‘And he says that the attacker got in and out of the van unaided, in other words whoever drove him there was already behind the wheel ready to drive away, right?’

Powell nodded.

The D.I. turned and sat down again, reaching for the Styrofoam cup that was half full of coffee. He sipped it then looked across at his colleague once again.

‘He didn’t get the reg number of the van?’ Johnson mused.

Powell shook his head.

‘Just that there was a crippled or old or arthritic geezer climbing into it,’ the D.S. smiled.

‘What make of van?’ Johnson wanted to know.

‘He couldn’t be sure.’

The D.I. shook his head.

‘Send some forensics boys back to the scene,’ he said. ‘Get them to check out the road outside Dunham’s house. There might be tyre marks or something that will help us identify the van at least.’

‘Already done it but I can’t see them finding much after all this time, can you?’

‘No,’ Johnson conceded. ‘But at least it feels as if we’re doing something doesn’t it? Let’s just say I’m padding the job.’

Powell smiled again and got to his feet, preparing to turn in the direction of the office door. Before he did he turned and looked down at the photographs on Johnson’s desk. In particular the one of his wife.

‘Tell me to mind my own business if you want,’ he said, quietly. ‘But have you heard any news about your missis. She’s due to have her operation soon isn’t she?’

‘Two days from now,’ Johnson told him.

‘Like I said, tell me to mind my own business…’

‘I appreciate you asking, Ray.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

‘Cheers, mate, I will.’

Powell hesitated a moment then finally did head towards the office door. As he reached it Johnson called to him again.

‘Let me have that forensics report as soon as they’re finished will you, Ray,’ he asked. ‘Not that it’ll be any good I wouldn’t think.’

‘You never know. We just need a bit of luck. Maybe we’ll get it.’

Johnson raised his eyebrows.

‘I won’t hold my breath,’ he said, flatly.

The phone call he’d received earlier that day had instructed Adrian Murray to be in his office at eleven o’clock that night.

Nothing more. There had been no other instructions other than the need for him to be there at that particular hour. All matters would be resolved then he had been assured.

Murray had considered complaining about the lateness of the hour, telling the caller that it was inconvenient for him to be there so late but he had decided against any show of recalcitrance and agreed somewhat irritably that the meeting would go ahead at the time stated. It was, after all, the result of several phone calls made during the last few days and he was satisfied that matters could be resolved once and for all tonight and most definitely in his favour. The thought brought a thin smile to his face.

Now he paced his office impatiently, glancing every few moments at his watch and then at the wall clock that hung behind his desk, the loud ticking of which seemed to fill the air along with his breathing. On one side of the room there was a small cabinet inside which he kept some bottles of liquor and some fine crystal glasses which were occasionally brought out for more important visitors and it was towards this cabinet that Murray now moved. He reached inside and took out the bottle of Glenfiddich, pouring himself a large measure and sipping it, feeling the amber fluid burn its way to his stomach. Again he looked at his watch, muttering under his breath.

It was almost 11.16.

Punctuality was something he always prided himself on and when others failed to show it with the same diligence it irritated him. He took another sip of his scotch and crossed to the window of his office, gazing out on the deserted street beyond.

There was no sign of movement anywhere, not even approaching cars or taxis and this only served to annoy Murray even more. He glanced at the phone on his desk and wondered if he should call to check on the whereabouts of his visitor but then decided against it.

He was still standing in the middle of the office clutching his glass when his mobile rang.

Murray looked down but the caller i.d. showed nothing but UNKNOWN. He pressed the mobile to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

The voice at the other end asked if he was in his office.

‘Of course I’m in my bloody office,’ Murray said, angrily. ‘This is where you told me to be at eleven o’clock tonight. I’m here waiting for you.’

The voice at the other end told him not to be impatient.

‘I’m not impatient,’ Murray told the caller. ‘I’m angry because you’re late and I’m getting angrier by the minute now where the hell are you?’

The voice told him to stay where he was and not to leave.

Murray was about to reply when the line went dead.

He glared at the phone for a second then slipped it back inside his jacket, glancing out of his office window once again.

For all his scrutinisation of the street outside he never noticed the black transit van that had pulled up a moment earlier.

Murray downed more whisky. He wondered if he should wander downstairs and be waiting in the foyer of the building when his visitor arrived but then decided against that course of action. He didn’t want to seem too eager. The two security guards who normally patrolled the building all night had been told not to come in until after midnight on Murray’s personal instructions. When his visitor arrived he wanted to ensure that no one saw him.

The fewer people who knew about his meeting the better as far as Murray was concerned. Of course he had reasoned it would have been easier to conclude the meeting somewhere else but when his visitor had suggested here in his office it had seemed a natural and more comfortable environment in which to conduct their business.

Murray smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be a long meeting after all he told himself. Not very long but extremely profitable he mused, the thought making him smile even more broadly. He poured himself some more whisky and waited. He even took out another glass from the cabinet and set it on the dark wood table opposite his desk. His guest might wish to partake of a drink while they talked, he told himself. Murray congratulated himself on his own generosity and looked again at his watch.

11.25.

He sighed wearily. How much longer was he going to have to wait? This just wasn’t acceptable.

It was then he heard the first sounds of movement in the corridor outside his office.

Murray strode across to the door and wrenched it open.

‘It’s about bloody time,’ he began. ‘What time do you …’

The words froze on his lips as he looked out into the corridor beyond. He stood motionless for precious seconds, his eyes bulging wide in their sockets, his legs seemingly paralysed. The glass slipped from his hand and hit the thick carpet with a dull thud spilling whisky everywhere. He wanted to run. His only thought was to escape from this place but it seemed his muscles would not obey the orders his brain was so frantically sending. He remained rooted to the spot, his lips fluttering soundlessly, the only part of him that could actually move.

The first blow caught him squarely in the chest and catapulted him backwards a full three feet, his ribs caved in. Splintered to matchwood by the incredible impact. Blood burst from his mouth as the red fluid rushed up from his punctured lungs to fill his throat.

By the time the second blow landed he felt nothing.