The Eyewitness (25 page)

They were laughing as they walked down the ward to his bed. Solomon guessed that the older detective would be an inspector, his sidekick a DC. By the look of the suit he was a university graduate on the fast-track promotion scheme.

“Jack Solomon?” asked the older policeman.

“That's what it says on the chart,” said Solomon.

“Detective Inspector Bob Hitchcock, and this is Detective Constable Paul Owen. How are you feeling?”

Solomon smiled tightly. It was a difficult question to answer.

His leg had metal pins sticking out of it and even the most optimistic prognosis had been that he'd always limp. The two bullet wounds were healing but he'd be scarred for life. He was still in intensive care hooked up to machines measuring his bodily functions, and he was doped up to the eyeballs with painkillers. But he was alive and he was grateful for that.

“Fine,” he said.

Owen pulled up two plastic chairs and they sat down. The younger man carefully straightened his trousers, then took a small black notebook and a silver pen from his jacket pocket.

“Do you know who attacked you?” asked Hitchcock. He was a stocky man with receding hair and intense blue eyes.

“Two men. I think they were Russian.”

“Why do you think that?”

“They spoke to each other in Russian. You know I was in the job?”

“We're aware of your background.”

Solomon had no doubt that Hitchcock had pulled his file. He'd know why he'd left the Met.

“Can you identify them?” asked Hitchcock.

Solomon said he could and gave them a full description of the two men, speaking slowly so that Owen could take it all down.

“Why would anyone want to kill you, Mr. Solomon?” asked Hitchcock, once Owen had finished writing.

Solomon had given a lot of thought to that question, and to what he should tell the police. He'd reached the conclusion that there was no reason not to tell them everything. He told them about the massacre in Kosovo, about Nicole coming to London, about finding her picture on the Internet, and about visiting her flat in St. John's Wood.

Hitchcock listened patiently.

“Did you give her your address?”

Solomon shook his head.

“I gave her my mobile number, that's all. And it's a pay-as-you-go -I couldn't be traced from it.”

“Did she call anyone else while you were there?”

“No. The agency called her but I heard the conversation. She didn't tell them she had a problem.”

Hitchcock looked across at his colleague to check that he was making notes.

“The thing is, if she didn't call them before you left, how were they able to get to you so quickly?”

“That's a good question,” said Solomon.

“Do you have any enemies?”

“Not in London.”

The inspector's eyes narrowed.

“That's an interesting way of answering the question,” he said.

“I had a bust-up with a pimp in Sarajevo,” Solomon hadn't thought about Petrovic since he'd flown out of Bosnia. But if the Serb had friends in London, he might have been exacting his revenge.

“Connected with this girl?”

Solomon nodded.

“She worked for him.”

“Do you think the pimp might have set you up in London?”

“It's possible.”

“Possible or probable?”

Solomon frowned. Would Petrovic have known that Solomon had gone to London? A phone call to the Sarajevo office was all it would have taken to find out where he had gone. And another phone call to Nicole's new pimp in London. Two phone calls and his life was on the line.

“Probable,” said Solomon eventually.

“If it wasn't him, I don't see who else it could have been.”

“I'm going to need the website details,” said Hitchcock.

“And everything you can tell me about the girl and her flat.”

Solomon talked and Owen scribbled in his notebook.

“You didn't think that turning up at the girl's flat was going to cause problems?” asked Owen.

“You mean, did I know they were going to try to kill me? What do you think? There was no reason to think I was causing anyone any grief. All I wanted to do was talk to her.”

“Did she seem nervous when she was with you?” asked Hitchcock.

“Dead right,” said Solomon.

“She threatened to kill herself.”

The inspector's eyebrows shot skyward.

“What?”

“I don't think she was serious, but she said she'd cut her wrist if I didn't leave.”

“Were you aggressive towards her?” said Hitchcock.

“No, I bloody well wasn't,” said Solomon.

“In case you hadn't noticed I'm the victim here.”

“Is it possible she knew you were being set up?”

Solomon frowned again. He remembered how upset she had been when he'd told her who he was and why he was there.

“No.”

“So they must have had the flat staked out,” said Hitchcock.

“Which makes me bloody stupid, right?”

The inspector shrugged.

“Like you said, you had no reason to think that anyone would object to you talking to her.” He leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin.

“Okay, you don't have to be in Mensa to realise that Russians plus guns with silencers equals Russian Mafia. That means we're not going to get someone on the street giving them up. A woman who lives in one of the flats in Inverness Terrace saw one of them shoot you, but she couldn't give us much of a description. Your descriptions are better and we'll get you to look at mug shots but there's precious little chance that they have previous because if they did they wouldn't still be in the country.” He cleared his throat.

“We've checked the bullets they took out of you and we don't have a match with anything on file but, again, that's to be expected. Professionals are going to destroy any gun they fire, and the Russian Mafia are as professional as they come. We've got blood spots on the floor and we've had them typed, but I've spoken to my boss and he's not prepared to fund a DNA analysis until we've got a suspect. I think it's the right call. It's only going to help if we've had them in before and, as I said, that's unlikely.”

“Which leaves us where?” asked Solomon.

“We'll check out the flat, but you don't have to be bloody psychic to know that she'll be long gone.”

“But you can bust the agency, can't you?”

“Put them out of business, you mean?” Hitchcock pulled a face.

“That's Vice and Clubs, your old stamping ground.”

“But whoever runs the agency has to be a suspect, right?”

Hitchcock grimaced again.

“The guys who run the agencies go to a lot of trouble to stay hidden, but we'll do what we can. Problem is, all we'll get then is the owner of the agency. Even if we get a face to face, he's not going to roll over on the killers, not if he sent them.”

“You're not inspiring me with confidence.”

Hitchcock smiled thinly.

“You were in the job, you know what the odds are. Most murders are domestic, and we solve them within minutes. Sex murders we get eventually, because they keep on doing it until they get caught. But the professional jobs, the only way we get them is if they fuck up or they're grassed. The Russian Mafia don't fuck up and they only deal with people they know, so they don't get grassed.”

“They're going to get away with it, then?”

“I'm just letting you know the way the land lies. We'll do what we can, but I don't want to raise your expectations.”

Solomon sighed.

Owen picked up the card with the teddy bear on it and opened it.

“Inga?” he said.

Solomon forced himself to smile. He had been surprised to see the card from Inga. Surprised that she'd known he was in hospital and surprised she'd bothered to send him a card.

“A friend in Sarajevo,” he lied.

“It got here quickly,” said Owen.

“She couriered it.”

Owen put the card back on the bedside table. The two policemen stood up.

“We'll send over any mug shots and if we turn up anything you'll be the first to know.”

“Cheers. And thanks.”

The policemen walked away. Solomon lay looking at the card. Why had Inga sent it? And how had she known where he was?

When Solomon was moved out of the intensive care ward, Danny McLaren was his first visitor. He walked on to the ward along with a dozen others, most of whom were clutching bouquets of flowers and bags of fruit. McLaren held a copy of his paper, which he dropped on Solomon's bed with a paper bag of grapes.

“Seeing as how you were hovering between life and death, you probably didn't get to see the story,” he said, flopping down on a plastic chair and helping himself to a handful of the grapes.

The paper was a week old, from two days after Solomon had been shot. The story was on page seven, half a dozen paragraphs and a head-and-shoulders photograph that had been taken when he was with the Met. The story carried the by-line of the paper's crime correspondent.

“You'd have got a better show if I'd been in town,” said McLaren.

“How are you doing?”

“They keep telling me I was lucky,” said Solomon.

“I was lucky that my leg broke below the knee so it doesn't have to go in traction. I was lucky the bullet in my shoulder didn't go through any nerves so I'll still be able to play the piano.” He flashed McLaren a grin to show that he was joking.

“And I was lucky the bullet in my side didn't go through the gut because then I might have ended up with blood poisoning. Mind you, if I had any sort of luck at all I wouldn't have got shot in the first place.”

“Not bitter, then.” McLaren laughed.

“Who's the card from?”

“One of the girls I met.”

“A hooker sent you a get-well card?”

“She must have read the piece in the paper.”

“Yeah, but even so, you must have made an impression.”

“How's the flat?” asked Solomon, keen to change the subject.

“Window's fixed, and I had the locks changed. I'm not sure what to do about the bullet-holes in the bedroom. They sort of give the place character. I might leave them there.”

“Is it a mess?”

“It's looked better.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It could have been a lot worse, mate. Let's just be grateful for small mercies.”

“Them being what, exactly?”

“At least they didn't steal the family silver,” said McLaren.

“Do you need anything?”

“I'd love a carton of Marlboro, but until I can get about they won't let me smoke. And the only clothes I've got are my jeans -and I haven't even got them, really, because they cut them off me.”

“How bad is it?”

“I should be mobile in a week or two.”

“I gather the cops have been?”

“Have you spoken to them?”

“Yeah. Talked to a DI called Hitchcock. Didn't sound too hopeful.”

“They gave me mug shots to look at but I didn't recognise anyone.”

“They'd have been on the first plane back to Russia, if they had any sense. Lie low until it blows over.”

“They're still looking, though?”

“There's an investigation, but it wasn't murder and you're not high-profile.”

“Worse than that, I'm a cop who left under a cloud and I'd just been in a prostitute's flat.”

McLaren looked sympathetic.

“They're on the case, though. Just don't hold your breath. Did the girl say anything?”

“She clammed right up.”

“What's that about?”

“I don't know. All she had to do was tell me what happened. I could have taken it from there. If she didn't want to give evidence, that would have been okay. But she wouldn't say anything.”

“Do you want me to sniff around?”

“Did Hitchcock say he'd spoken to the girl?”

McLaren shook his head.

“The flat's empty, and she's disappeared from the website. They're trying to talk to the guy who runs the agency, but no joy so far.”

“I got the feeling they weren't going to try too hard on that front.”

“It's a question of resources, it always is these days. The agency uses pay-as-you-go mobiles, so it'd mean a major operation just to find out where their office is. All expenditure has to be justified these days, and, like I said, it's not a murder case.”

“My luck just keeps getting better, doesn't it?”

“I'll make some enquiries,” said McLaren. He took out his notebook. Solomon told him as much as he could remember about Nicole and her apartment, then McLaren left, promising to return with a stack of reading material.

Solomon was exhausted. He had just shut his eyes when a girl's voice said, “Hello.”

He raised his head long enough to see Inga, but fell back.

“Let me help you,” she said. She propped him up with his pillows.

“What are you doing here?” asked Solomon.

“Visiting,” she said brightly. She was wearing a short black-leather skirt and matching high-heeled boots, with a white-leather jacket that glistened like ice under the overhead fluorescent lights. She was wearing her dyed red hair loose and her eyes were hidden behind wraparound sunglasses. She picked up the card.

“I'm glad this got to you. I wasn't sure which name to use. The paper said your name was Jack.”

Solomon smiled.

“No one uses their right names, you know that. I bet you're not even Inga.”

Inga shrugged.

“Names don't matter, but I like Jack better than David.”

“Yeah, me too.” He nodded at the chair.

“Sit down, please. You're only my second visitor, if you don't count the police.”

Inga sat down and put the card back on the bedside table.

“How did you know I was here?” asked Solomon.

The newspaper was still on the bed and she pointed at it.

“You're famous.”

“Famous for being shot,” he said.

“Do you know who did it?”

“I don't think it was Sasha, if that's what you're worried about.”

She frowned.

“Of course it wasn't Sasha. Why would you think it was him?”

“Forgive me, Inga, but why else would you be here?”

Her frown deepened.

“I was worried about you.”

“We met twice. And the second time I was bundled into the back of a van and given the third degree by your boss.”

“Third degree?”

“Interrogated. Sasha wanted to know why I wanted to talk to Nicole.”

“But that was before he knew who you were and what you wanted.”

“Did Sasha tell you to come here?” asked Solomon.

She looked offended.

“No. Of course not.”

Solomon looked at her closely, but his policeman's instincts failed him and he couldn't tell if she was being truthful or not.

“You think I'm here to spy on you?” asked Inga.

“I don't know.” He smiled.

“I'm doped up on painkillers and my leg's joined together with bits of metal so I'm not thinking too clearly.”

“What was it like being shot?”

“Like being punched, very hard. It was numb for a second or two, then it felt like I'd been burned. I passed out.”

“You will have scars?”

Solomon laughed.

“Oh, yes, I'll have two amazing scars.”

“Scars can be sexy on a man,” said Inga.

“We'll see.”

“On women it's different. I have a friend who works, and she has a knife scar on her stomach. Men hate it.”

“You're still working in the same flat?”

Inga nodded.

“Sure. It's good business.”

“Sasha didn't give you any problems?”

Inga pouted and shook her head.

“I'm sorry if I sound suspicious,” he said.

“It's just that you were the last person I expected to take an interest in me.”

“I like you,” she said quietly.

“You don't have to say that.”

“Why not? It's true. I can see that you're a kind man, a man who cares about people, and most of the men I meet aren't like that. I read the story in the paper and saw your photograph.”

“I'm glad you did.”

Inga flicked through the newspaper.

“The story didn't say who shot you.”

“It was Russians, I think.”

“In your flat?”

“In my friend's flat. I was staying with him.”

“Do you know why they shot you?”

“I suppose they wanted to kill me.”

It was meant as a joke, but Inga took it seriously.

“Why would Russians want to kill you, Jack? Was it about that girl you were looking for?”

Solomon looked at her suspiciously.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because of the way Sasha reacted when he knew you were asking questions. I thought maybe you'd asked somebody else.”

Solomon nodded slowly.

“Yeah, you're right. At least, I think you are. I found her. She's working for an escort agency. I went to see her and a few hours later they broke into my flat and did this to me.”

She smiled and helped herself to some grapes.

“So how long will you be in hospital?”

“A month, maybe less. They want to make sure that the leg is healing properly before they let me out.”

Inga reached into her coat pocket and took out a piece of paper.

“I've written my phone number here,” she said. She put it on the bedside table.

“Call me when you go home,” she said.

“I'd like to see you.”

“As a customer?” He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth, but she didn't take offence.

“As a friend,” she said.

“We can go for coffee again.”

She stood up, blew him a kiss and walked away. Patients in several beds turned to watch her go, then looked at Solomon, clearly wondering what he was doing with such a pretty visitor. It was a question that Solomon himself was trying to answer. He doubted that Inga had suddenly been overcome with a desire to seek his friendship. There had to be another reason for her visit, and it was almost certainly Sasha.

Inga walked out of the hospital and down the street, raising the collar of her leather jacket. She walked past a telephone box festooned with prostitutes' cards, all promising the ultimate in sexual experience. Inga knew that the photograph on the card never matched the girl in the flat. Most of them were printed by one of three firms, and they had made tens of millions of pounds from the vice trade. Inga's flat alone put out five hundred cards every day. She had laughed when she'd first seen her card. The words were accurate enough, "Stunning Redhead, All Services', but underneath was a photograph of a girl with short red hair who looked nothing like her. No one had ever complained, and the punters who spoke to her said that she was much prettier than the girl on the card.

Sasha was parked in a side road from where he could see the entrance to the hospital. He'd driven her from Soho in his Audi convertible. It was the first time she'd been in the sports car: whenever she'd gone anywhere with him before it had always been in the back of his Mercedes with Karic and Rikki. Sasha rarely went anywhere alone. It wasn't that he was afraid, Inga doubted that he was scared of anything or anyone, but he was careful.

Inga climbed into the Audi.

“Well?” said Sasha impatiently, before she'd even closed the door.

“He's been shot twice and his leg is broken,” she said.

“I know that,” snapped Sasha.

“Who did it?”

“He said Russians. He found the girl he was looking for.”

“I knew it,” said Sasha, and he slapped the steering-wheel.

“So she was working for Russians, this girl?”

“For an escort agency, he said.”

“Which one?”

“He didn't say.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Sasha, he was suspicious of me anyway. He wanted to know why I'd gone to see him. If I'd asked too many questions, he'd never have trusted me.”

“Bastard Russians. If he carries on like this, they'll kill him.” Sasha exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Did he talk to the girl?”

“Yes, but he didn't say what they talked about.” She could see Sasha was about to get angry again and she patted his arm.

“Sasha, he kept asking why I'd gone to see him. I gave him my number and asked him to call me when he gets out.”

"I want to know where she is nowV hissed Sasha.

“And get your hand off my arm. When I want you to touch me, I'll tell you.”

Inga flinched. She sat with her hands in her lap as Sasha drove her back to Soho. Back to work.

Solomon spent a week on the general ward before he was released. There was no ambulance available so he asked a porter to call him a black cab. Diane and Sean Milne had told him he could stay with them as long as he liked, and McLaren had offered his spare room but with his leg still in plaster Solomon doubted that he could manage the stairs to the flat.

He called Diane from his mobile on the way to Clapham, and she was waiting at the door when the black cab pulled up. He sighed with annoyance when he saw Sean push a wheelchair out of the house.

“Sean, I can walk,” he said, as he took his change from the taxi driver.

“I'm a nurse, I know what I'm doing,” said Milne.

“I've got crutches.”

“Sit,” said Milne.

“I know how to deal with unruly patients.”

“I bet you do. And I bet it involves an ice-cold bed bath.”

Diane kissed Solomon on both cheeks.

“Thanks for this, Diane,” he said.

“Stay as long as you want,” said Diane, picking up his crutches.

“Until the baby arrives at any rate. Then you're out of here.”

“A week or so at most, I promise,” said Solomon.

Sean pushed the wheelchair to the front door of the house, then expertly manoeuvred it over the threshold.

“We've made up a bed in the front room, save you trying to handle the stairs. And Danny dropped off your gear yesterday.”

Sean wheeled Solomon into the kitchen and Diane made coffee. Solomon was glad to be back among friends in a home that smelt of coffee and freshly cut flowers, rather than vomit and disinfectant.

“How's the investigation going?” asked Sean.

“It's pretty much run out of steam,” said Solomon.

“There's no trace of Nicole on the agency's website. The cops spoke to the girl who runs the agency and she says there's no record of anyone called Amy answering to Nicole's description working for them. There is an Amy and the cops have seen her page, but she doesn't look anything like Nicole, apparently. She said that maybe I was confused and got them mixed up with another agency. They asked her if she knew anything about the shooting and of course she had no idea what they were talking about.”

“Well, she would say that, wouldn't she?” said Diane.

“You know what it's like these days,” said Solomon.

“The cops have to follow PACE, they can't put on the pressure like they used to.” Solomon grinned at Sean.

“Police and Criminal Evidence Act,” he explained.

“I know,” said Sean.

“I watch The Bill.”

“But you were attacked after you left the girl's flat,” said Diane, putting mugs of coffee on the table.

“You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together. Even if the woman says it wasn't her agency, you know it was, right?”

“I told the cops that, but they say their hands are tied. And they don't have the resources to mount a major investigation against the agency. They don't even know where its offices are, or who really runs it. Apparently they'd have put more manpower on the case if I'd been killed.” He sipped his coffee. It was rich and aromatic, a far cry from the insipid instant brew they'd given him in hospital.

“What are you planning to do?” asked Diane.

“I'm going to see if I can find out what happened to the girl.”

Sean and Diane exchanged looks of astonishment.

“You are joking,” said Diane.

“I'm not giving up,” said Solomon.

“If I give up, they'll have won.”

“They almost killed you. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

“I wish people would stop telling me how lucky I am,” said Solomon.

“Anyway, I don't mean the men who shot me. The police reckon they'll be long gone. I'm talking about the killers in Kosovo. If I walk away they'll have killed twenty-six people with no consequences.”

“Why are you so set on this case?” asked Sean.

“You must have come across dozens like it.”

“I don't know.”

“That's no answer,” said Diane.