The Borgia Ring (2 page)

Stepney, Saturday 4 June, 2.16 a.m.

It was still very humid. Almost hot enough for a Bombay night, Amal Karim thought as he made his way across the construction site. The ground was hard. It hadn’t rained for weeks. Most of England had sweltered for a straight run of thirteen days and that afternoon the thermometer had nudged 38 degrees, almost hot enough for the union to shut down the site.

After leaving his jacket in the works hut, he was in a short-sleeved shirt but still sweating profusely. It was very dark, though by now his eyes had adjusted and he could just make out the shapes of heavy plant and mounds of earth all around the site. He took a deep breath of hot, still air and gazed around him. He was standing beside a pit perhaps thirty metres wide and ten deep, its mud walls shored up with steel beams. Wooden planks criss-crossed the hole, supported on scaffolding and liberally coated with dried mud and concrete. On each side of the excavated footings stood construction machinery: a powerful digger, a pile-driver, and two massive trucks with two-metre-high tyres caked in mud. He could just see a truck bearing the black and silver logo of Bridgeport Construction. Lighting a cigarette, he discarded the match.

There was a sound behind him. He spun round and waved his torch towards the dark pit. He was just feeling jumpy, he
told himself. Taking a few steps along a plank to his right, he drew hard on his cigarette. Standing still for a moment, he probed the darkness below with the beam of his torch, watching the cigarette smoke dance in its light. At the base of a small depression in the bottom of the pit a grey tarpaulin was stretched. Underneath it, he knew, lay an ancient skeleton.

He had been on the other side of the site when his fellow construction workers had uncovered the bones the previous afternoon. But, like the rest of the crew, he was soon aware of the find. He had run over in time to see the site manager, Tony Ketteridge, and one of the architects, Tim Middleton, leaning over the remains. Middleton had been taking pictures with his mobile while Ketteridge had seemed to be deeply disturbed by what had just been revealed. The man had been under severe pressure for weeks, the build already way behind schedule. The last thing they needed was bureaucratic delay caused by the finding of human remains.

Karim left the plank and dropped the stub of his cigarette on to the hard mud beside the pit, stamping it out. Then, with his torch slicing through the darkness, he walked slowly down the slope integrated into one side of the excavation, to where the skeleton lay. He carefully removed the tarpaulin and shone the beam towards the ground. The skeleton lay on its back, just as it had earlier. By the look of them, the remains were those of a tall, slightly built man. The front of the skull was shattered above one eye and a fissure ran along one side above where the ear would have been. The bones were almost black and looked to be extremely old. There was nothing to be seen around the skeleton apart from a few fragments of broken clay and some large pieces of granite.

Karim thought back to the previous afternoon. There had been a row then about what should be done with the bones.
Ketteridge wanted them removed instantly and for the workforce to pretend nothing had been found. But some of the construction workers had objected. Then two of them had turned over the skeleton, and they had all seen the ring. It was gold with a flat, round top made from a green stone, perhaps an emerald.

After that there had been no more arguments. The area was already covered by security cameras, but Ketteridge had asked for a volunteer to patrol the site throughout the night. Karim remembered how he had jumped at the chance of double time, feeling no qualms about the job in the daylight hours.

Now, he crouched down to look more closely at the skeleton and his eye was drawn to the ring. It was on the smallest finger of the skeleton’s right hand. It looked to be extremely valuable, he mused, and for a fleeting moment imagined stealing it and simply vanishing. He would leave his family behind, start a new life somewhere no one could find him.

There was that noise again.

It was closer this time, a scraping sound, a scattering of pebbles. He made to stand up, but as he rose he felt an arm slide around his neck, pulling back his head. He reacted quickly, bunching his fist and slamming his elbow backwards, winding the man behind him. Karim fell forward as his assailant loosened his grip. He felt a sharp pain in his right knee as he landed awkwardly on the hard clay. His attacker let fly with a kick aimed at his abdomen. Karim dodged it, but then, as he scrambled backwards, tripped over the edge of the tarpaulin and tumbled into a pile of dried mud. Turning his head, he saw there were two men with him in the pit. His attacker was the shorter of the two. They were both wearing balaclavas, dark T-shirts, black trousers and
gloves. The taller man was standing back a few paces, looking around nervously. The other, the man who had attacked Karim, was now no more than a couple of feet away. Through the holes in the balaclava, Karim could see the man’s dark eyes ringed with sweat.

He backed away from his assailant, just managing to gain some purchase on the dry mud. On the other side of the mound, a line of planks led towards the sloping path up to ground level. The man who had grabbed him moved quickly around the mound where the ground was harder, cutting off Karim’s escape route. The workman lashed out, landing a glancing blow on his attacker’s shoulder. The man gasped and made a grab for Karim, catching the lapel of his shirt. His fist landed squarely on the workman’s nose and a stream of blood poured from his nostrils into his mouth. Karim kicked him, a move that did little except anger his assailant. But although the Indian was much smaller, he was no pushover. He feinted with one hand. Bringing up the other, he went for the man’s eyes but succeeded only in grasping the balaclava. The other man recoiled and the mask slid up his face as far as his forehead.

It was very dark, but Karim had seen his assailant’s face. Startled, he almost lost his footing on the uneven compacted earth. But as the other man scrabbled to pull down his balaclava, Karim quickly recovered. He swerved to one side and ran up the slope as fast as he could.

By the time he reached the top he was out of breath. The pain in his face was agonising. As he ran, he touched his nose and felt the wetness of blood. The front of his shirt was flecked with red. He glanced back and could see the two masked men charging up the incline behind him. He ran on, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. It was lighter up here, though shadowed where the streetlights encountered piles of
earth and hulking machinery. To his right stood the site hut; beyond that the perimeter fence topped with a concertina of barbed wire.

Karim reached the metal fence at the point where it cut across a corner of land immediately in front of a row of shops with flats on the upper floors that fronted the Mile End Road. There was a gate in the mesh secured with a large padlocked chain. As he ran he rifled his pockets for the key. Karim stabbed at the padlock, repeatedly missing the keyhole. Blood dripped from his nose on to the lock. His face hurt terribly. The two men were fast approaching him. They rounded a pile of earth no more than ten metres away. He saw one of them bend down. When he straightened up again, he was holding a length of metal pipe in his right hand.

Karim found the keyhole and twisted the key. The padlock snapped open and he yanked the chain away, slipped out of the gate and slammed it shut behind him. He tried desperately to lock it again but they were there. One of them grabbed the chain. Karim let it go and ran.

He charged down a narrow passageway behind the row of shops. Ahead of him loomed a blank brick wall. He could see an open wooden gate to one side and sped towards it, tripping on a step and landing spread-eagled in a small courtyard. He cursed loudly and picked himself up. Two paces ahead stood a short stairway leading up to a flat roof. He hesitated for a moment. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped up there with no way out. But it was too late. The men were already in the passageway, he could hear their footsteps. They would be on him in a second.

He dashed up the stairs. It was a large roof with two metal flues reaching to about waist-height and pointing at the sky. And, immediately, his worst fear was confirmed. There was only one way off this roof – the way he had come. Turning,
he saw the two men burst into the courtyard. The one in front was slapping the metal pipe against his open palm.

Karim backed towards the nearest flue. He peered down into it – blackness. Then, before he could make another move, the two men rushed him. He managed to duck away from the first swing and the pipe hit the flue, producing a low, hollow thud. He ran round the other side, but the second man was waiting for him there. He grabbed Karim’s arms and held them behind his back. Twisting away, he managed to land a kick in the taller man’s groin and make a run for it, but the short man with the pipe was ready for him. He brought the length of metal up hard under Karim’s chin, smashing his windpipe. He hit the floor face first with an audible crunch as bones broke and cartilage shattered. The shorter man brought the pipe down full force on the back of Karim’s skull. The sound of the impact was like a coconut being shattered with a hammer. Karim sighed once and was dead.

Blood had run down the side of the victim’s face and pooled on the concrete. The taller man was panting and his hands were shaking. He stood staring at the body on the ground. With his hands pressed to his head, he kept repeating the same words: ‘Oh, fuck!’

The other man kicked Karim’s body to ensure the job was done. ‘Grab his feet,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Are you deaf? His feet!’

Moving like an automaton, his accomplice did as he was told. Together they turned the dead man over. He stared up at them through sightless eyes filmed with blood, his hair a matted red flecked with grey. The taller man let out a groan.

‘Don’t you dare fucking gag!’ the other man growled, resting the length of pipe across Karim’s chest.

They half-dragged, half-carried the body the few feet back to the flue. Then the murderer snatched up the pipe again. They lifted Karim’s body almost upright and leaned him against the flue. His head lolled forward. Spots of blood splattered the taller man’s shirt.

‘Okay … on three,’ the murderer hissed. ‘One … two … three!’

They lifted Karim off the ground, using the flue for support, and levered him over the edge. With a final effort they rammed his body inside the narrow opening and it tumbled down into blackness.

Stepney, Saturday 4 June, 2.21 a.m.

‘
ROCK DA HOUSE! … I SAID … EVERYBODY … ROCK DA HOUSE
!’

MC Jumbo, a one-hundred-and-fifty-kilo sweaty man mountain in an orange boiler suit, was screaming into the microphone as he flipped a turquoise twelve-inch and slotted it with expert precision on to one of the turntables. With his other hand he fingered a second piece of vinyl on his deck. His real name was Nigel Turnbull and he was a second-year student at Queen Mary College just down the road.

MC Jumbo went into an indecipherable rant about the greatness of the next track, but Kath and Deb Wilson, twins and fellow students at Queen Mary, took no notice. They were happy simply to dance, trance-like, and to let the tab of E they had taken fifteen minutes earlier do its stuff.

The room was a heaving mass of over-heated bodies, all pulsating to the incredibly loud bass-driven music pounding from an over-sized PA system. Little more than a concrete cube fitted out with some very expensive lights and a powerful sound system, The Love Shack was an acquired taste. With bare breeze-block walls and rough cement floor, it was a completely windowless semi-basement ventilated via ducted air-con. So, even though the music was played at a ridiculous volume, very little noise leaked out. In spite of
its bland appearance, for many of the students at Queen Mary, situated a hundred yards away along Mile End Road, The Love Shack was the coolest venue in the world on a Friday night. As an unlicensed club, attendance there came with a frisson of danger, and for those in the know, it was
the
place to score any pharmaceutical under the sun.

Kath and Deb had been coming here for most of the past academic year. This afternoon they had sat their final exam. It was time to de-stress. Letting the sound flow through them, it was easy to let go. As the track segued smoothly into the next, Kath gestured to Deb that she was going to get another bottle of water. Her twin nodded a ‘Me too, please’. Pointless to try to speak when Jumbo was on a roll. Everything had to be communicated via sign language and facial gestures.

A few minutes later Kath was back. She handed her twin an ice-cold bottle of Evian and together they moved towards the centre of the dance-floor. Neither of them heard the rumbling sound that came from the ceiling just a few feet overhead, it was completely drowned out by the music. Unheeded by anyone, it grew louder. There was a flurry of scraping and rattling sounds, the grinding of metal against stone.

Kath barely felt the liquid splatter her face, but Deb was staring straight at her and saw a red circle appear on her forehead. It ran down the side of her nose and Kath flicked a finger at it, mistaking it for sweat. Suddenly Deb stopped dancing and watched in horror as three more red marks appeared on her sister’s cheek. Kath froze and stood dabbing at her face.

They both looked up at the same moment.

Three metres above the dance-floor, a large air-vent cover started to come away from its fixings. First, one screw
moved a millimetre. The metal slot into which it fitted yielded a fraction. Another screw began to loosen. The cover yawed open, sheared away from the support bracket and spiralled towards the dance-floor.

One edge hit a dancer, knocking him to the ground with a fractured shoulder. He collided with a couple close by. They too were sent sprawling. Then a large, soft object slid through the hole in the ceiling and plunged into the fetid air of the club. It landed on the floor with a dull thud that no one heard.

A dozen people screamed simultaneously, but over the thumping beat and the sizzling computer-generated melody no one could hear the sound. Everyone stopped moving. Hands went to faces, features froze … a dozen Edvard Munchs.

Kath and Deb were just a few feet away from where the object landed. They saw a blurred shape falling through the air and hitting the ground. More liquid splashed across their faces. Deb touched her cheek and stared uncomprehendingly at her red fingertips. Then, as though a power switch had been tripped, the music stopped. MC Jumbo lurched away from his deck and wobbled down on to the eerily silent dance-floor.

Deb had started to shake, her fingers held up in front of her terror-stricken face.

With remarkable calm, Jumbo crouched down and rolled over the huddled object. They could all see its smashed face, the hair matted with dried blood, the white of one eye. Then, as the DJ pulled himself quickly to his feet, another object tumbled from the air-vent and landed next to the body. Jumbo jumped back instinctively, as though nudged by a cattle-prod. Kath screamed. A muddied workman’s boot lay on the floor beside the dead man.