The Mark of Halam (20 page)

“What do you think?” Moana asked.

“I think we get in there and sort it out.”

In the foyer he saw the elevator lights flashing. It was moving again, but a fireman blocked them from entering.

“Can’t go in there, mate. It’s out of use until we give the all clear,” he said firmly.

“Get out of my fucking way, you idiot. We set off the alarm because there is a killer in this fucking building and now we are trying to catch him. Now get outside or I’ll have you arrested. Do you understand me?” snapped Brian.

The fireman stepped back, his face contorted with anger. He gestured with his head to tell his men to back off.

Cunningham entered the lift, Moana right behind him. He did not bother to look back at the firemen and offer a conciliatory smile. Right now he couldn’t care less about their sensibilities.

Red was waiting inside the apartment. “Mary Sumner is still alive,” he said.

“Lucky for you,” Cunningham said.

“He left these behind.” Red held up a pair of overalls.

“Clever bastard,” Brian said. “Trying to make himself look like he just climbed out of bed. He could still be in the stairwell. If he is in the building he is not getting out.”

The heavy rain had returned. The residents were not happy. More than a hundred were now crammed into the lobby and those allowed to pass had been forced away from the building and the protective cover of the green awning that sheltered the entrance. ‘The Towers’ in gold lettering was printed along the front overhang.

They became abusive as they became sodden. They pushed through the police cordon and sought shelter across the street. Bystanders from surrounding buildings gathered on the street, curiosity dragging them from cosy apartments.

As Zahar watched from his vantage point he could see that even in the confusion the police were still managing to check anyone leaving the building. The fire engine blocked his van. It was hopeless. A pity.

He took the trigger mechanism from his trouser pocket. His van had been ignored by the police, more interested in catching him. A bad decision. The small street was circled by high rise apartment buildings, forming the perfect canyon. The perfect confined space, and now it had filled with people. The explosives in the backpack would turn the van into a giant grenade, sending shrapnel in all directions cutting through flesh like a scythe through wheat. He stepped back up the stair until he was clear of the window.

He squeezed.

A flash of white. Splinters of glass ricocheted off the cement walls of the stairwell and then the thundering sound of the blast followed. He had held his ears but they still rang when he took his hands away. Now haste was needed. He made his way down the stairs. Glass scrunched under the leather soles of his shoes. An old woman looked up at him, her face bloodied. He ignored the outstretched arm. The sound of wailing heightened as the injured felt pain. Outside, smoke rose from the blast centre and from the cars now on fire. The road and small park were strewn with debris and bodies. The injured lay unmoving and others staggered directionless, blinded by the explosive flash. The fire engine lay on its side; underneath the machine Zahar sighted the sleeve of a firearms jacket and from it an arm protruded, the hand twitching, closing and unclosing.

On the outer rim he saw movement. Police and uninjured onlookers were moving forward.

Opposite was a driveway that ran down between buildings. At the bottom lay a gate that Zahar already knew led to a back alley. He picked his way across the street. No one stopped him, asked him where he was going. He knelt beside the nearest body and rubbed his hand across the neck wound then smeared the blood over his face. He now limped and managed a bewildered look. The police and helpers would pay him no attention. He was one of the lucky ones. No one cared. Then he froze. He recognised him immediately. Jeff Bradley ran past, brushing against him. Then he reacted. Searched for his pistol. Before he had it pulled from his pocket Bradley had disappeared into the building.

Halfway down the driveway he straightened his clothing and made his way through the back alleys until the screams were lost in the distance and the sounds of sirens engulfing the city. He stepped into the shadows of a doorway, pulled out his mobile and dialled Sami Hadani’s number.

34.

C
unningham used the coffee table to lever himself from the floor. Moana had rolled onto her back. Blood ran down her forehead from a cut above her left eye.

Cunningham looked down at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. He took her outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet. “In case you were wondering, that was a bomb.”

“Really? Now I know why you can be such an asshole sometimes. Spending half your life in the military putting up with that crap would stuff anyone’s brain.”

Cunningham smiled. “Good girl. You really are okay.”

The explosion shattered the window panes from their frames launching a thousand barbed-glass missiles. They embedded themselves in the plaster board walls and flesh. Red appeared in the doorway, a constable peering over his shoulder.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, banging the side of his head. “I think I’ve gone deaf.”

“You’ll live.” Cunningham stepped to the window and looked out. “Fucking hell.” He turned back to Red. “A bomb has exploded and there are casualties. Take care of things up here and you,” Cunningham said, pointing to the constable, “start on this floor
and check all the apartments. If there is no response kick the door
in and check. I’ll send help if and when available. Weapons drawn. Our killer might still be in the building but I’m guessing he just opened himself a doorway and has scarpered.”

Mary emerged from the bathroom.

“Mary, are you okay?” Cunningham asked.

She nodded, a little shakily.

“And where the bloody hell is Jeff?”

“Right here.” Jeff stood in the doorway. He walked across to Mary and put his arm round her. “I’m taking her to my place. If you need to talk that’s where we’ll be.”

Cunningham nodded. “All right, Jeff, for now it’s best you’re both out of the way. And Jeff, Mary has a gun. Know anything about that?”

“No, she hasn’t, Brian,” Jeff said, taking the weapon from Mary and pushing between his belt and shirt. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah, get out of here.”

“Moana, we need to get on the street and coordinate emergency services.”

“What about Zahar Akbar?” Moana asked.

Cunningham didn’t answer. He was already in the corridor. At the bottom of the stairwell Moana paused in front of a body, a hand to her mouth. She shut her eyes. Cunningham touched her shoulder. She shrugged it off. Looked at him then straightened. Cunningham understood. Now was not a time for weakness – they had a job to do.

The walls and door of the bottom floor were now rubble. Looking through the gap Cunningham saw into the kitchen of a ground floor apartment. A woman lay, unmoving, on the breakfast bar top, a man bent over her weeping. He stepped outside. In the small piazza surrounded by apartments the dead and dying were entangled and amongst the debris lay severed limbs from those closest to the blast. The fire chief knelt, beating down on the chest of one of his men. A few metres away a woman sat, hair darkened and matted, moving her head side to side muttering incomprehensibly. Her pyjamas were shredded and her legs bleeding. The bloodied bundle in her arms was a baby.

The acrid smell of the explosives hung heavy in the air, now mixed with smoke from the smouldering buildings and burning cars.

Ambulances, police cars and fire trucks were descending and in the distance were more sirens.

“All right, Moana, you take the top of the street, I’ll take the other. We’re not equipped to help the injured but we can coordinate the emergency services. Get a flow through going. Reinforcements are on their way.”

As Cunningham stepped over bodies his gut wrenched when he recognised a police uniform, but he didn’t stop. Jeff was right, he was nothing but a callous asshole. Did he have no feelings? He gnashed his teeth and kept walking.

At least the rain had stopped.

When Cunningham was finally relieved he stepped away and sat on a small wall where the media crews had gathered. He saw Barbara Heywood standing in front of a camera, a mic in her hand. She was giving a report. Then the cameraman swung away to film the carnage. Barbara saw Cunningham. She passed her mic to an assistant and made her way to him.

Cunningham waited, readied himself for the onslaught. Barbara
leaned forward. Her face barely inches from Cunningham’s.

“You get those fucking assholes, Brian. I don’t care what you have to do but you hunt them down. Get them. Kill them. I don’t give a shit.”

Before he could respond Barbara spun on her heel and strode back to her team.

Sami Hadani eased his car along the lane. He accelerated when he saw Zahar step out of the shadows. When he stopped he reached across and pushed down on the passenger door handle.

Zahar climbed in and slammed the door behind him.

“Get me the hell out of here.”

“You’re soaked. There’s a blanket on the back seat.”

Zahar reached back and took hold of the blanket. He wrapped it round himself. It would stave off the chill until they made it back to Sami’s house.

Red lights flashed past as they turned onto the main road.

“What happened?” Sami asked.

“Somehow the police knew I was there.”

“How could they. No one knew where you were, only me.”

Sami felt the killer’s eyes narrow on him. He quickly spun on him.

“Don’t even think that, Zahar. And don’t even think of threatening me. I’m not one of your minions.”

Zahar smiled.

“The New Zealand police are clever,” Sami said. “Not like the shit we have to deal with in our countries. Somehow they found out. Found the van.”

More sirens.

“Something’s happening. What have you done?” Sami said, worried.

“I was trapped. No way out so I detonated a bomb I’d placed in the van. It worked. Nobody tried to stop me. I just walked away.”

Sami pulled over. Turned to face Zahar. Confused.

“Were there any casualties?”

Zahar nodded.

Jeff and Quentin sat in the reception area of Quentin Douglas and Associates. The door was locked. An unopened bottle of whisky sat on the small coffee table. They were surrounded by Mary’s bits and pieces. Her pot plants, a print, some small ornaments. Her desk was laden with paraphernalia that neither Quentin nor Jeff had noticed before, but now everywhere they looked they saw Mary. In the short time she had been with Quentin she had made this her domain. She now lay on the settee. Jeff’s hand rested on her leg. Reassurance that allowed her to sleep.

“We’re going to stay here tonight, Quentin. He won’t think of coming here.”

Quentin poured two whiskies. He was shaking. Jeff reached across and held his friend’s hand and extracted the glass of whisky, half of which had splashed onto the table.

“I’d better get home to Jeannie and the kids,” Quentin said quietly. “It’s not fair to leave them alone.”

“Quentin, you are to go home and pack whatever you need and take your family away from here tonight. Stay away until this is over,” Jeff said firmly. “Go to Wellington or wherever. The further away the better. But get the hell out of here.” Quentin made to open his mouth, but Jeff held up his hand. “No arguments. This is pure vindictiveness. Aimed at me. No one I know will be safe until these guys are caught. I do not want anything to happen to you, Jeannie or the kids. I could never live with that. I’m having enough trouble coping with the fact there are bodies in an Auckland gutter because of me.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Jeff. I had already been thinking along those lines. What about you?”

“I’m going to hunt the bastards down.”

Quentin said, “Jeff, you do know you’re not to blame for what these people have done, don’t you?” But he knew his words had fallen on deaf ears. “I’m leaving. I’ll let you know where we are.”

“No, Quentin. No contact until this is over.”

Quentin nodded.

He threw Jeff a key. “Lock up when you leave. And for God’s sake be careful.”