Severed (10 page)

I watch the place for a couple of seconds. I can't see anyone inside, but then, that's the point. Someone will have slipped in there, quiet and unseen, and he's waiting for me now. If I walk in the door, I know there's little chance of me coming out, and for some reason I feel a sense of betrayal. I've kept my side of the bargain, but the man who in all probability killed Leah doesn't seem to have kept his. Well,
fuck him. I don't have to play by his rules any more. I've got what he wants, and he won't dare give me up to the cops until he's got it. So I turn away and start walking, the briefcase in my hand.

I'm thinking about Leah, and what Lucas told me about her name being an anagram. I keep telling myself it must be a coincidence, but if that's the case, why couldn't he track her down, and why did I ask him to look into her in the first place? It's worrying me. If Leah isn't her real name, then it means she lied to me. And if she lied to me about that, it's possible she lied about other things as well. Again, I push the thought from my mind. I don't want to besmirch her memory.

I think back to Wednesday night, to that takeaway meal of squid in black bean sauce. I watched a documentary about the Brazilian rainforest on National Geographic, followed by the news. Then I went to bed. That was it. Nothing exciting at all; a typical weekday evening on my own. Except I don't remember anything else until this morning.

Lucas told me we spoke yesterday afternoon, and that I sounded like I had something on my
mind. He asked if I was OK and I replied that I was fine, everything was all right, and he hadn't pursued the matter. The only thing I can think of is that I found out something about Leah that caused me some concern.

The frustration of losing such an important day is intense. It makes me want to bang my head against the nearest wall, as if this might help to jog something. I'm also thinking that if this single patch is indeed going to be permanent, then it begs an important question. If I'm never going to get that memory back, why bother killing me? You see, in my current state, I have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the man behind this, so it's going to be extremely difficult for me to find him. So, either the guy wants to kill me because he's got some kind of personal grudge, or because eventually my memory is going to come back, and when it does, it's going to lead me straight to him. Either way it's a none-too-attractive scenario, because the end result is that someone wants me dead, and that person seems to have the ruthlessness and the resources to ensure it happens.

But I have the briefcase. That, for the moment, is my trump card.

I'm on the Caledonian Road, heading in the direction of Pentonville Road, when I pass a cafe called Rudy's. The door's open and the smell from inside is surprisingly pleasant, with a hint of fresh herbs. Times may be difficult for me, but I haven't eaten for a long time. I go inside and order today's special: grilled chicken escalope topped with melted mozzarella on toasted ciabatta, with iceberg lettuce and tomato, washed down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a large mug of black coffee.

The interior of the cafe is empty, and I take a table in the corner as far away from the door as possible. The owner, a smiling Greek guy with very hairy eyebrows and a shiny white apron, brings over the juice and the coffee, and tells me that the chicken will be a few minutes because he likes to cook it fresh. I tell him that's fine, and as I take a long drink of the juice, reeling a little against the sharpness of the taste, the mobile breaks into the sombre strains of the 'Funeral March'. I look at my watch. It's 2.15.

'Where the hell are you?' demands the voice.

The menacing robotic tone no longer unnerves me. 'I didn't like your choice of drop-off point,' I tell him.

'I don't care what you thought of it. Get over there now.'

'No, there's been a change of plan.' He tries to interrupt but I don't give him the opportunity. 'There's a cafe on the Caledonian Road called Rudy's, four hundred metres south of the address you gave me. If you want the case, you meet me there in fifteen minutes, and this time don't even think about trying anything.' I hang up before he has a chance to say anything else, the show of power making me feel better.

Straight away, the phone rings again. This time I switch it off. I'm embarking on a high-risk strategy, but in my experience it's always better to stand tall in the face of intimidation rather than let yourself get pushed around. I take another sip of orange juice and settle down to wait.

The grilled chicken and mozzarella ciabatta tastes as good as it sounds. The meat is so thin and tender that it almost melts in my mouth; the lettuce is crisp and fresh; and the tomatoes actually taste like tomatoes rather than those flavourless pinkish things they grow in greenhouses in Holland. It's good to see someone taking pride in their ingredients, and when the
owner comes over to collect my empty plate I tell him this. He beams from ear to ear, and thanks me. I also tell him that I have a friend coming in to meet me in a moment and request that he not disturb us for a few minutes. Politeness and flattery make an excellent combination, and he answers of course, that'll be no problem.

I finish my coffee and order another one. I'm beginning to feel better.

As the owner brings it over, I see a figure entering the cafe and heading purposefully towards my table. He's carrying a small Adidas holdall.

I tense. The case he's here to collect is by my chair, out of sight.

The owner moves out of the way and steps back behind the counter, giving me a better view of the new arrival. He's a big guy, six two or three, very muscular, with shoulders broad enough to carry dwarves on, and though he makes a conscious effort to move with at least a modicum of grace, he still lumbers a little. He's wearing a tailored navy blue suit and open-necked shirt, and as he pulls back a chair and takes a seat opposite me, I'm almost overcome by the thick, cloying smell of eau de cologne.
With his wavy, perfectly coiffed black hair and deeply suntanned skin stretched as tight as a drum where he's had more than his fair share of plastic surgery, he's not what I was expecting at all. Straight away I know I've never seen him before. Even with memory loss, his is a face you're not going to forget.

He glares at me through cold, tar-black eyes that are devoid of emotion. He's got a job to do, and that's all he cares about. There is no doubt he would put a bullet in my head without batting an eyelid - although I'm not entirely sure he possesses an eyelid.

'So you're the guy who's set me up?' I say, looking him up and down.

'Not me,' he answers. 'I'm just here to collect the case. Where is it?' His accent's foreign. Southern European, I'm guessing. Greek, possibly Albanian.

I sip the coffee, deliberately taking my time.

'Where's the case?' he persists.

'Down here.' I motion with my head towards my right foot, noticing at the same time another man, smaller and older, coming into the cafe. He says something to the owner and I recognize the language he's speaking from my days serving in
Bosnia. It's Serbo-Croat, the language of the former Yugoslavia. I don't know what it is the guy's saying, and I don't much care. I'm far more interested in the fact that he's wearing a long black mac even though there's not a cloud in the sky and the temperature outside must be way over eighty by now.

The owner returns to the coffee machine while the new guy takes a seat two tables down with his back to the wall. He doesn't look at me, but he moves one hand inside the coat. The other hand holds a strong-smelling cigarette which he smokes while staring into space.

I don't like this situation, but I remain calm.

'And have you got what I want?' I ask the rubber-faced man in front of me.

'It's in here,' he answers, tapping the holdall without taking his eyes off me.

'Open it.'

He shakes his head. 'It doesn't work like that. You show me the case first.'

I lean over, pick it up and give him a glimpse, then put it back down again.

'Give it to me,' he demands.

'When I see that you've got what I want, you can have it.'

'You see the man behind me?' he asks, trying without much luck to stretch his face into a sneer. 'He's got a gun trained on you.'

As if to confirm this, the barrel of what looks suspiciously like a MAC-10 submachine pistol appears over the hem of the other guy's raincoat. He's resting it on his lap and still smoking his cigarette, but now he's looking my way, and the blank expression on his face tells me that he too isn't going to waste time worrying about pulling the trigger.

I shrug, keeping my cool. 'Fair enough. At least now we're equal.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, if you'd care to look under the table, you'll see that there's a gun trained on you as well. And I've used it once today, so I know it works. Now, unless you want your balls to leave this place before you do, I suggest you open the bag.'

I rehearsed this last line before Rubberface and his friend turned up, and it sounds good when I say it. It also seems to do the trick. He reluctantly places the holdall on the table and unzips it, pulling the flaps aside.

I can't really see anything and I don't want to
lean forward too much in case I make myself vulnerable, even though I can't see MAC-10 man opening up in here unless he absolutely has to. There are customers sitting at two tables outside on the pavement in front of the window, and the owner is tidying up behind the counter, oblivious to what's going on only ten feet away from him, or maybe he just doesn't want to look. Either way, if these men decide to take me out, they're going to have to walk past a lot of witnesses who could potentially ID them. Or kill everyone, which I'm pretty sure they're not going to want to do.

But still I'm careful. As casually as possible I put one hand into the holdall, keeping the other hidden from view, and move it around until I touch something wrapped in plastic. I slowly lift it until it appears in the gap, still concealed from view by the angle of the holdall. It's a large, thick-bladed knife heavily stained with dried blood, wrapped in clingfilm and sitting in a clear plastic evidence bag. Next to it in the bag is a silver DVD in its plastic sheath.

I swallow hard. It's the same knife from the film of Leah's murder, and the sight of it brings the memories of this morning right back to the
forefront of my mind. For the first time in a while I come close to losing my calm. I let it drop back into the holdall, and Rubberface zips it up again.

'Now, let me see the case properly,' he demands.

I think of Leah alive and laughing with a glass of chilled white wine and experience a desperate urge to pull the trigger and watch this arrogant bastard scream. But I don't. Instead, I pick up the holdall and put it down beside me, then lift up the case and place it carefully on the table, with the handle facing him. He inspects it carefully for several long seconds, checking its authenticity, then stops.

We all stop.

I'm looking at the door, and Rubberface must have seen the flicker of alarm that crossed my face.

Two cops have walked in. They are unarmed, and look like community support officers. One is black and overweight, with a pudgy face and a belly that reaches the counter at least a second before he does. The other is white and small and middle-aged, and reminds me of my old maths teacher at school. If these two are the face of
crime fighting in London, then law-abiding citizens everywhere are in trouble.

I try to gesture as naturally as possible for Rubberface not to look round, but subtlety's clearly not his strong point and his head's already turning. MAC-10 man's calmer, giving them only a cursory glance as they arrive at the counter, but I also see that his trigger arm has tensed.

I pick up my coffee and take a casual sip, a man without a care in the world.

Unfortunately, it's too late. In the periphery of my vision, I can see we've caught the cops' attention. The black officer orders bacon and sausage on white bread and leans a stubby elbow on the counter top, looking our way. He's got that sort of officious expression you often get on petty bureaucrats. He wants to show the world that he's got power, that he's not just some meaningless cog in the big wheel of life. That he's a man to be respected. And at the moment, this makes him very dangerous. The white guy, who's made an excellent culinary choice and gone for what I had on the menu, looks much more nervous, and I can't say I blame him. If we're innocent, then all we're
doing is interrupting his lunch; if we're guilty, then it's going to be no easy collar. Rubberface could probably break him in half if he chose to, and I doubt he'd have too much trouble stomping his tubby colleague either.

Rubberface picks up the briefcase and gets to his feet, apparently satisfied that it's the right one.

'What's in the case?'

It's the black officer speaking, and my heart sinks. His tone's confident, almost playful.

'Business papers,' Rubberface says brusquely.

The officer nods slowly, his expression coolly sceptical. 'What kind of business papers?'

I ask myself why the hell he's doing this. Is it because he genuinely believes he's stumbled on some sort of clandestine deal, or is he just showing off to the owner? It's difficult to tell. On the other table, MAC-10 man is staring hard at both cops. The barrel of the weapon has moved ninety degrees too, and the black officer's ample belly is now directly in the firing line. A single signal from Rubberface and I know he'll pull the trigger without hesitation. I'm no hero, but I can't allow that to happen. The guy's an idiot, but he doesn't deserve to die in a hail of bullets.