PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) (19 page)

“Lish-
mon!
Lish-
mon!”
I heard a familiar voice say, as canal water was splashed over my face. I felt the horrible mangled state of my throat with my hands and opened my eyes to see Judas, kneeling by my side. One hand in the canal, the other, holding a joint.

“Judas?” I rasped.

“Lish-
mon
, you live dangerously!”

“How did you get here?”

“I followed blondie
here
down
here
. He was in the studio for a while. Then he swore, punched the wall and left. I knew he’d realised who you were.
He
went looking for you,” he pointed to Suedehead prone on the ground, his chest heaving slowly as he began to come to.

“Felt bad about mentioning your name outside,” continued Judas. “He was killing you,
mon!
So I smashed him on the back of the neck with my elbow.”

“Did he see you, Judas?”

“No way,
mon!
”

“Good. You better get out of here. There’s more of them coming.”

“First, get on yer feet, Lish-
mon!
” He helped me up.

I picked up the cloth bag with the statue in it and gave it to him. “Look after this. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, contact Dani Yorath, my photographer at Free Press. Kari has her number. Tell her it’s the Pearly Queen. At Canvey Island. She’ll know what to do.”

Judas took the bag and nodded. Then he stepped towards Suedehead, who was in the process of getting up, and neatly elbowed him on the back of the neck, causing him to crash down on the floor unconscious.

“I think he saw me that time.”

“Go back, Judas. Don’t let anyone else see you. I’ll deal with him.”

“Deal with him?” said Judas. He put up both his hands as if to say
I’m out of here
and disappeared into the tunnel.

I inspected the semi-conscious Suedehead. I knew what I had to do. Taking hold of him by the ankles, I dragged him towards the side of the canal. He stirred slightly as I moved him. I slid down into the water and then taking Suedehead by the feet dragged him into the water. Without a second’s hesitation, I quickly flipped him over, and put him in a half nelson, forcing his head under. He began thrashing and kicking with his arms and legs, but I held on, counting down from three hundred. At one hundred, he stopped moving. At fifty, I let him go.

Holding the dead Suedehead by the hand, I pulled him along the canal with me. But when the water began to get deeper, about 100 yards from the jetty, I let him go, sure that no-one would find him there for quite a while.

Standing up to my chin in black water, I took off my shoes, one by one, and somehow managed to tie them together. I hung my shoes around my neck. Then I took in a lung full of air, lifted my legs up and started to swim. I journeyed further into the darkness, my brain
squirming like a toad.

* * *

After twenty minutes of swimming through the icy waters I reached a grate, which stretched across the width of the underground canal and led to the main Camden Canal. My heart sank when I saw that the sliding handle that fastened it shut was padlocked from the outside.

With my feet, I was able to locate a gap of about two-feet between the bottom of the grate and the canal bed. I took a deep breath and dove down. It was pitch black, so I took hold of the grate with my hands and worked my way down to the bottom. Squeezing through underneath was much harder than I thought. Weeds and debris blocked my way forward and at one point I was pinned half way under the grate, sure that I’d already given up all my breath. Finally, I rose to the surface with a gasp.

Back in the open air, I managed to crawl out of the canal and drag myself up onto a bench. Dripping wet, covered in slime and shivering, I looked at my trembling hands. The hands of a murderer. Then I thought about old Sim Fratelli being set upon by young bloods like Suedehead, taken down forever. I thought about Dani back at Shakespeare Street waiting for news, and Judas wandering the tunnels of AmizFire. I had to finish this.

I was sitting opposite the aviary of London Zoo. Further down the canal bank on the other side, I could see a large red Chinese restaurant. I’d come a long way through the tunnel. I took my sodden shoes from around my neck, untied the laces and put them back on. Then, I stood up and squelched to the nearest bridge.

I climbed up the metal steps that ran down the side of the bridge and found myself on a busy road. To the left, I spotted a phone kiosk and ran towards it. Holding the receiver in the crook of my neck, I found a fifty pence piece in my pocket and slotted it into the machine. But then I remembered, all my numbers were on my mobile phone. I didn’t even know Dani’s number.

I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and felt the soggy paper of a card I’d returned to my back pocket after reading Dani the numbers earlier that day. On one side was the address and number of Agent Greenfield. On the other was the number of the mystery caller scrawled in biro, still legible despite starting to fall apart in my hand.

Fickle fate, I thought. The mystery caller said Agent Greenfield couldn’t be trusted. But then why trust the mystery caller? Holding the card between my fingers, I let it drop to the ground. Then I bent down to pick it up and quickly called the number on the face-up side.

The phone rang for a second and then went to answerphone. I left a message stating who I was and that the location of the stolen art was a small canal boat called the Pearly Queen heading towards Canvey Island, where it was to meet
The Count of Barcelona
.

The beeps sounded. I checked my pockets for more money, heard a screech of tyres, a rumble of boots, felt a lightning bolt in my head. My hand dropped the receiver. I fell back into someone’s arms like a tired executive taking part in a trust exercise. A sack was thrust over my head and I was manhandled into the back of a car, which accelerated away at breakneck speed. One man worked at tying my hands roughly behind my back while another held my head down between my legs.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I heard voices but it was hard to make out what they were saying through the heavy sacking. Some time later, we came to a stop in what I supposed was the gateway to AmizFire. I was pushed out of the car and landed hard on a concrete surface. As I wriggled, trying to right myself, the two men took me by the arms and dragged me backwards across the asphalt. Metal doors were opened and I was cast violently into the depths.

* * *

“
The salmon always returns to its breeding ground,” whispered a disembodied voice into my ear. “It’s almost over now. What’s left is only pain. Not only your pain. There’s my pain too. You see, the world requires a lot of suffering. A lot of suffering to make it work.”

I was tied to a chair and blindfolded. My agitated movements on waking caused the chair legs to scrape on the stone floor. The noise reverberating around the room told me where I was, in AmizFire, on level −2. I supposed the voice belonged to Jim Scott. Unlike Tommy Burns’, it no longer bore traces of the East End. He had evolved, if that was the right word to use.

“What’s almost over now?” I managed to say, experiencing the denial that every human has facing their own demise.

“You know very well. This is happening to you. No use pretending it isn’t,” the voice said. “You were born unfit for purpose. You must be removed from society before you poison the bloodline.”

“Mr James Scott...” I started to say, but felt my desire wane. I needed to keep my mind functioning. It was the only weapon I had. If I could find his Achilles’ heel, I might be able to open this up.

“Mr Scott? It’s good to know that Mr Scott is still very much alive and well in the collective consciousness, isn’t it?” He started to laugh. “You’re worse than I thought. The first was a diamond cutter compared to you.”

“I have evidence you’ve been trafficking stolen art,” I said. “That evidence is being delivered to the relevant authorities as we speak. People know where I am and are under instructions to inform said authorities if I don’t report in by 8 am.”

My speech was met with more laughter. “If you’re not James Scott than who are you? Show yourself, coward!” I goaded.

“Oh, you’ve always known who I am,” he said. I heard him pacing round the chair. I tried to turn my head to follow his steps.

“By the way,” he said, suddenly speaking quietly into my right ear, “if you think your musician friend is going to save you...”

There was a pause of ten seconds or so. Enough time for my mind to create an image of Judas standing on the jetty, smoking a joint.

“…I’m afraid he met with a little accident, or is about to. Just like the fatal accident you inflicted on the fourth.”

In my mind’s eye I saw two guards strong-arming Judas into the canal. I wished it away. I had to attack.

“The fourth? The fourth what? Do you mean the man that murdered Sim Fratelli and Natasha Rokitzky?” I yelled, hoping that my speculation was correct. “I have files on him, which...”

“Which you will hand over to the relevant authorities. I really thought this might be more challenging. Yes, yes... the very same man, but you see, the stratum of common thuggery is just one part of our operation. The first line. The cannon fodder. It cannot be traced back to the upper stratum no matter how hard you try. And as you discovered at the phone box, when it’s time to take care of things properly, we have a stratum of special operations that leave no trace. Two styles, confuses the police no end. That is, the police that don’t already belong to us.”

“You also employ writers,” I said changing my tack. “Matthew Rilke does your publicity.” My strength was returning as my anger rose. “All this stuff about different strata and special forces it’s all hype. It’s a house of cards. And you, Mr Scott, are just the man behind the curtain. Marty got it wrong. The Master Player is not a chess player, not a strategist, but a director of theatre. Your empire was built on illusion and it can be destroyed by revealing the truth of that illusion. And that’s what I’m going to do, destroy you. The truth’s in the post, Mr Whoever-you-are.”

“
The Master Player
?” he asked. I heard a change of tone. Even a slight tremor in his voice. It was a direct hit.

“Marty Stewart wanted to avenge his father’s death,” I continued, encouraged by his sudden reticence. “He tried to become the master player. To avenge Jack Lewis. But you had him killed, didn’t you? Sent one of your thugs.”

“And of course, there is the inhabitant of a certain house on Shakespeare Street,” said the man, changing the subject. “I’ve sent over one of our thugs to take care of her.”

I struggled, trying to free my arms, but it was no good. How would I get out of this? What could I do?

“There is no answer,” said the man, somehow reading my mind. “This
is
going to happen to you. It happens to us all.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“This,” said the man.

And I heard a hissing noise, like air being let out of a balloon. Then the sound of a gas fire being lit.

“You’re forgetting the phone call,” I said. “They’re on their way. They’re coming for me.”

“Did you really manage to make a phone call?” he said, revealing his hand. Maybe I’d chosen the right number after all.

“Your special forces got there too late. Didn’t they tell you? It’s all over,” I said and started laughing. It was a desperately relieved laughter.

“We’ll see. You’re about to tell me all about the phone call. In fact, you’re about to tell me everything about everything. Even things I have no use for. Whatever you think might stop the pain.”

“What is it exactly that you want to hear?” I said, trying to prolong the dialogue.

“Your submission! Take off his shoes and socks and strap him to the table,” ordered the voice.

I was untied from the chair then lifted up by two sets of hands and laid upon the table. I felt leather straps being tied around my wrists and legs. My shoes and socks were stripped off.

Then a hand pulled off the mask. Dazzled by the light, I saw nothing but the blue flames of a blow torch nearing my face. And then the man revealed his face. One I’d only ever imagined before, with piercing blue eyes and an aquiline nose.

He hovered above the table, inspecting my expression. Searching my eyes as I searched his, looking for a scintilla of compassion, but saw none.

“Wait!” someone yelled. It was Tommy Burns. I heard the flame of the blowtorch being extinguished and footsteps as the two men walked to a far corner of the room and started talking. I couldn’t make out what was being said. Had my message got through? Even if it had, I thought, I’d already seen too much for them to let me go. My fate was sealed.

The next thing I knew the straps around my wrists and legs were being loosened. Two men in suits, pulled me up a little so that I was sitting on the edge of the table. Thinking that making it back to the canal was my best option, I kicked the nearest man in the balls and turned on the other with a head butt, but he stepped back leaving me to fall to my knees. The first man got me in a choke hold while the other re-tied my arms behind my back.