Severed (12 page)

'And there was nothing untoward about the company?'

He shakes his head. 'No, didn't seem to be. Nothing that struck me anyway.'

'And the second time?'

'That was a bit weirder. It was about a month ago. He said he wanted me to look into the murder of Maxwell and Spann in Paris.'

'Ferrie mentioned them to me this morning. He reckoned they were murdered by the same person who'd been hired to come after him.'

'That's right. Someone he called the Vampire.' He emphasizes these last two words, pulling a face. 'He wanted me to find out all I could about their deaths. To be honest, I thought he'd been smoking something he shouldn't have. He was really agitated and kept insisting that I was totally discreet in my enquiries, like I was going to shout about it from the rooftops. I didn't really want to get involved, but he was offering money upfront, and I don't turn down ready cash.'

'And what did you find out?'

Lucas tells me pretty much exactly what Ferrie told me this morning. 'The guy Maxwell
and Spann were guarding was a Russian mafia type,' he adds. 'He was supposedly something big in oil, but I spoke to the detective in Paris who led the investigation, and he reckoned that the Russian was also heavily involved in people trafficking - you know, bringing young women from the Eastern Bloc into western Europe, and setting them up as prostitutes. But he'd recently fallen out with his associates, and this is where it gets interesting.'

'Go on.'

'Apparently those associates were Yugoslavs. From Bosnia.'

'And did the detective identify them?'

Lucas shakes his head. 'No, and I didn't find out anything about this Vampire Ferrie was talking about either.'

'I still don't understand what all this has got to do with me,' I say, and it's true, I don't. I don't have the faintest idea.

'Neither do I.' Lucas stubs out his cigarette in the car's overflowing ashtray. 'Let's hope our quarry can provide a few answers.'

At that moment, his mobile rings again. It's Snowy. Our targets are on the move.

For the next ten minutes, Snowy gives us a
running commentary of their progress as they continue down the City Road, then turn on to Vestry Street and the New North Road, heading away from the financial district towards the eastern edge of Islington. Snowy's hanging back a little now because he thinks they may be doubling back on themselves, which would suggest they're worried about a tail.

By this time, though, we're clogged in Friday-afternoon traffic near the Business Design Centre on Upper Street. There's been an accident up ahead between a four-wheel-drive and a Mazda full of Arabs, and the road's blocked.

I look at my watch. It's just turned five to three, and the sun's beating down out of a near-cloudless sky.

Lucas curses and bangs the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. Cars have already backed up behind us, so there's no way back. We've just got to wait while the four-wheel-drive and the Mazda get out of the way, and at the moment there doesn't appear to be much chance of that happening. The 4x4 is like a tank; even if it mounts the pavement it will be difficult to get past it. The woman driver has her head out of
the window and is shouting at the Arabs, who are clustered around the front of their own car, gesticulating wildly. A chorus of horns blasts away, and a guy in a white van jumps out and starts yelling for them all to move. It's a hot day in an overcrowded, smoky city, and tempers are frayed. I wish I was anywhere but here.

'Bravo One's turning right into Mintern Street one hundred metres ahead,' announces Snowy. 'I'm going to keep on going so I don't draw suspicion.'

'Good idea,' says Lucas. 'We're still in west Islington so currently ten minutes behind you.'

Although Lucas has already told me that the tracking device emits a signal that can be tracked remotely via the laptop in Snowy's car, there is a slight problem. If the case goes inside a building, the satellite's view of it will be blocked and the signal lost, which is something I can't afford, because I've got a feeling that once inside, it won't be coming out again, and my best lead'll be lost for ever.

Snowy picks up the Yugoslavs again in a residential back street a few hundred metres further on. 'OK, Bravo One's fifty metres ahead turning right into Orsman Road - now. Traffic's
light so I'm running the risk of being compromised. What's your location?'

'We're still ten minutes away,' answers Lucas as the 4x4 finally pulls up onto the pavement and the Arabs cease their gesticulating and park up behind it, easing the bottleneck.

'Once I'm on Kingsland Road, I'm going to allow them to get ahead of me a little. OK?'

'No problem, Snow. We'll be with you as soon as we can. In the meantime, don't take any risks.'

'I won't.' He pauses for a moment before continuing. 'I'm turning into Orsman Road, got visual. Car's pulling up outside a three-storey warehouse building halfway down. Big IC2 male, black hair, getting out.'

'That's him,' I say.

'He's got the case in his hand,' Snowy continues, 'and he's going to the door and speaking into an intercom. I'm going to have to stop talking while I pass.' There's a longer pause - ten, maybe twelve seconds - and by the time he comes back on the line again we've passed the 4x4 and are pulling onto Upper Street. 'I'm now coming up to the junction with Kingsland Road. IC2 male has entered building
with the case. There's no number or name on it, but it's behind a fence and has blue-framed windows with mesh over them. Bravo One has now pulled away from the building and is driving behind me. What do you want me to do? Keep with him or wait with the case?'

Lucas doesn't hesitate. 'Keep with the case. We've got the registration on the car so we can always track it later. Pull up somewhere out of sight, preferably where you can get visual on the front of the building, then call me with the location, or if the case goes on the move again. See you in ten.'

As it happens, we're there in nearer fifteen.

Orsman Road is a narrow, comparatively quiet street containing a varied mixture of warehouses, workshops and office buildings, most of which look like they were built in the sixties and seventies when aesthetically pleasing designs were a low priority. The building we want is a large, nondescript, three-storey warehouse with grimy concrete columns running up between the darkened windows, and cheap stone cladding filling the gaps.

There's very little traffic about, and only the occasional pedestrian, so it's easy to see why Snowy was concerned about getting spotted by his target. He's moved to a parallel street, so we
turn right on Orsman Road, then immediately left and drive until we get to the surprisingly leafy no through road where his BMW - another from my showroom - is parked up. Lucas finds a space two or three cars down, backing on to a low brick wall beyond which is a tiny tree-lined park with a kids' climbing frame and swings. Through the closed windows of Lucas's car I can just about hear the faint shouts of kids playing. On the other side of the road is a five-storey block of neat, well-kept council flats, all of which have small balconies, and I'm surprised to see that none of them is occupied. Snowy's chosen this place well. It's secluded, and there's pedestrian access through to Orsman Road at the end. Although you can't actually see the target building, by my reckoning it's barely fifty yards away, and if the case starts moving again he can be on to it quick and without drawing attention to himself.

We exit the BMW, and the sound of the kids playing gets louder. Over the top of the wall, I can see a young mother lifting her child onto the top of a slide, and laughing as she watches him disappear down it. There's pure love in her
expression, and I turn away quickly, before I start thinking about Leah.

We walk over to Snowy's car, with me leading the way. I can see him sitting in the driver's seat.

But something's wrong.

He's not moving.

I stop a few feet away, and Lucas stops beside me.

'What is it?' he says, but even before the words are out, they're dying in his throat. 'Oh shit.'

Snowy is staring straight ahead, and for the first time I see the thick drops of blood on the inside of the windscreen.

Lucas sees them too. 'No,' he whispers, his voice laced with real pain.

He steps forward and tugs open the passenger door. Hot, fetid air wafts out as Snowy comes into view properly. Lucas moans. I gasp. Neither of us, I think, can believe what we're seeing.

A long, deep slice runs across Snowy's throat, pretty much from ear to ear, the pale flabby flesh hanging open like a burst seam. The wound's still leaking thick streams of arterial blood onto the shirt, so much so that I know it's a leaf-green colour only by looking at the
material directly above the waistband of his trousers. There's more blood on the dashboard, as well as the drops on the lower end of the windscreen where it must have spurted. On his lap, perched on the protruding zipper of his fly, is the tracking device I saw Lucas insert into the lining of the briefcase. It's a tiny black thing, very close in colour to the leather of the case. Almost impossible to spot, I thought at the time, as I recall did Lucas, but it's clear we were both wrong because someone has not only spotted it, they've spotted the tail as well, and decided to do something about it very quickly, very decisively and, of course, very brutally.

Even so, it's a clean killing. Someone's come up to the car unnoticed, leaned in the window, grabbed him by his mop of snow-white hair with a gloved hand, and used the other to inflict a single cut from a very sharp knife or razor without him having a chance to react or cry out. This place may be quiet, but it's hardly the dead of night, and it takes some serious balls to do what the killer did. And Snowy's no easy target either. He's an ex-para who's now a private detective, so he's the kind of guy who keeps his wits about him.

But he's still dead.

'Look,' says Lucas, 'they've searched his pockets as well.' He points to his former colleague's trousers, to where the threadbare material of the lining is hanging out.

'Jesus.'

I turn away, feeling sick, reminded of Leah's dead body and the way her blood soaked through the bedclothes. I'm also thinking about the Maxwell and Spann murders Lucas and I were talking about barely fifteen minutes ago. The Vampire. Is this his work?

The sound of the kids playing only yards away seems suddenly amplified, a grotesque contrast to the sight that has just confronted me. I move a few paces away from the car, unable to breathe in the smell of death any more.

'Get back in my car,' Lucas tells me, pulling on a pair of clear plastic evidence gloves. 'I need to check something.' He clambers into Snowy's BMW and shuts the door behind him.

I don't need asking twice and, keeping my head down, I walk back and get inside, taking deep breaths to fight down the nausea I'm feeling. I've fucked up, no question, and in the light of this latest grim development, I'm
left wondering what the hell I'm going to do next.

But, of course, I know the answer to that one straight away.

The door opens and Lucas jumps back in the driver's seat.

'I'm sorry,' I tell him, not really sure what else to say.

He doesn't acknowledge the comment. Instead, he tells me that Snowy's pockets are all empty. 'They've taken everything,' he adds, the expression on his face uncharacteristically grim. 'His phone, his wallet. The whole lot.'

'Which means they'll know who he works for.'

He sighs. 'It looks that way. This is a warning. It's telling us to leave well alone.'

'I know, but I can't.'

'Somehow I thought you'd say that,' he says, starting the car and reversing out of the parking space. As he drives out of the road's only exit, with his free hand he plants a cigarette firmly between his lips and lights it.

'I'm going into the warehouse,' I tell him.

'Fuck it, Tyler, don't risk it,' he mumbles through the cigarette.

'Look, Leah's dead, Snowy's dead. That case is my only lead.'

'It probably isn't even in there now,' he points out as we drive aimlessly through the back streets, moving in a rough circle round Orsman Road.

'It might not be, but there are going to be people inside who know something, and I'm still armed.'

'Listen, it'll be a lot easier and a lot safer for me to get the address and do a land registry search.'

'And you'll probably end up finding out that it belongs to some Bahamas-based offshore company, and that's not really going to tell me anything, is it?'

Lucas spits the cigarette out of the window. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, the knuckles red. There's perspiration forming in tiny droplets on the tanned, only faintly lined skin of his forehead, even though the BMW's air conditioning is blasting out on full.

I wish I hadn't involved him now, and I know he feels the same way. He wanted to help an old friend, but in one fell swoop his trusted colleague's dead and the business he's built up
over years of hard work is suddenly in jeopardy, because Snowy's murder's going to get back to him. He may be sitting there dead with no ID on him and in a car I know is registered in his name rather than Martin Lukersson Associates, because I sold it to him; but even if the police are on a go-slow, they're eventually going to link Snowy with Lucas. And when that happens, when what they are working on comes out, my name's going to end up in the frame and the police are going to be looking for me. This is another reason why I feel I've got no choice but to go into the building and take my chances. Because already my time is running out.