Vendetta
Authors: Dreda Say Mitchell
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Crime, #Fiction, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #General
Also by Dreda Say Mitchell
Running Hot
Killer Tune
Geezer Girls
Gangster Girl
Hit Girls
Dreda Say Mitchell, who grew up on a housing estate in east London, is an award-winning novelist, broadcaster, journalist and freelance education consultant. For more information and news, visit Dreda’s website:
Follow Dreda on Twitter: @DredaMitchell
Vendetta
Dreda Say Mitchell
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Dreda Say Mitchell 2014
The right of Dreda Say Mitchell to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1444 78944 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
This one is for Uncle Moses. What an inspiration you are! Thank you for being such a calming and fiery presence, always making everything possible.
‘If you seek revenge, dig two graves.’
Chinese proverb
Contents
one
7 a.m.
Pain.
Darkness.
Mac woke up in a place he couldn’t remember. Black surrounded him, hot pain danced in his body. The pain brutally cut away inside his brain. A nasty taste sat at the back of his throat, metallic mixed with the flavour of death. He was on his back, lying on what he didn’t know. He was still in his clothes. Navy T-shirt, washed-out black jeans, military-style lace-ups. Laid out like a corpse ready to be put six feet under.
Where am I?
His gaze darted around. Abruptly his eyelids snapped down in a protective, reflex motion as something bright hit the room. Cautiously he reopened his eyes. Realised what the brightness was – light coming in from somewhere outside. Just a sliver creeping through a crack in a curtain that was dark with dirt rather than its natural colour.
Curtains meant a window.
A window meant a room.
But a room where?
There was softness under his head. The fingers of his right hand felt what lay beside him. Waves of material.
Softness.
Material.
Lying down.
He figured out what he was laid out on – a bed.
My bed?
Am I back home?
No, his bed was harder. The mattress he was on was soft, as if sagging with the memory of too many bodies. Mac tried to lift his head, but it wouldn’t budge, glued to the pillow beneath it. He raised his hand. Felt the pillow. Something sticky. Something wet. That scared him. Shook him up. Something wasn’t right here, just wasn’t right. Had to get up. He counted in his head, pulling in shots of deep air at the same time.
One. Two. Three.
Tried to move his head again. It wouldn’t budge. His mind went into an automatic three-count again.
One. Two. Three.
Teeth clenched tight, neck muscles straining, he ignored the pain as he finally heaved his head up. Swung his legs over the side. Dizziness blurred his vision. His fingers dug into the bed as he fought to see clearly again. The room came back into focus. He touched his fingers to the left side of his head. Felt the skin. Uneven layer on the outside, mushy crater on the inside. The crater didn’t feel big. He pulled his fingers to his face and sucked in his breath. Reddish-brown, scabby blood.
Did I fall?
Hit my head?
The skin on his forehead screwed up as he fought hard to remember.
Where am I?
WHERE THE HELL AM I?
He eased up, the pain wrapping tight around his throat. He stumbled over to the curtain. Pulled it back. Light flooded the room. Morning light? Afternoon? He checked his watch.
7:02 a.m.
11.
The number flashed abruptly in his mind.
Was something happening at eleven tonight?
He turned back to the room and faced total chaos. Overturned chairs. A sideboard pulled away from the wall. A wardrobe with its doors hanging open, like gaping jaws trying to scream. And blood. Blood everywhere. On the 70s-style wallpaper. The shabby carpet. A scarlet smear, lipstick-style, across the cracked dressing table mirror.
What the hell happened here?
He spotted his rucksack and hooded denim jacket. Started moving, but did it too quickly and toppled straight over. Landed on his knees, the pain slashing every nerve end in his body. He stayed like that, winded, drawing the stale air into his lungs. Then he crawled over to a chair lying on its side. Set it on its legs. Used it to struggle to his feet. Mac took his time as he put one foot ahead of the other. Reached his bag and jacket. Started with the jacket. Checked the pockets.
Wallet with cards.
Mobile.
Passport.
Two e-tickets for a flight to Cambodia.
Cambodia? Why am I going there?
He looked at the name on the first ticket. His own, John MacDonagh.
Checked the other ticket. Woman’s name. Elena Romanov.
Elena.
Like a slap to the face, Mac remembered what he was doing here. Where
here
was.
Hotel room.
Room 19.
He’d told Elena to meet him here at nine. But nine in the evening. So if it was light now, a whole night had come and gone. So where was Elena?
‘Elena?’ he yelled.
Images of what he could remember flashed through his head. Downing the dregs of a whiskey in the hole-in-the-wall bar downstairs; taking the stairs instead of the lift to the third floor; opening the door to the room. And . . . nothing. He couldn’t remember anything after that.
‘Elena,’ he screamed out again, the same time he noticed her bag peeping out of the wardrobe. The contents of the bling, red fake Gucci handbag were scattered over the wardrobe floor. With his mobile in his hand, Mac staggered towards it.
Empty purse.
Make-up.
Keys.
No mobile.
No Elena.
The pain came roaring back, so hard he thought his head was being severed from the rest of his body. He needed to find out what damage had been done to his head, so he swayed towards the bathroom. Thrust back the partially opened door. Flinched as the light beaming from the bare electric bulb caught his bloodshot eyes. It didn’t look like the other room. Tidy, ordered, except for the blue shower curtain that was pulled around the bathtub. He headed for the sink. Stared at the wound in his head in the cabinet mirror. It was crusted with blood that had leaked and matted against his hair and cheek.
He rested his mobile on the shelf above the sink, next to a discarded shower cap. The veins in his forearm bulged as he twisted the tap. Splashed cool water over his face. Pulled the towel from the rail. Tore off a strip. Wrapped it around the wound. Then he eased on the shower cap to keep his makeshift bandage in place. He went back to the main room as he rang Elena’s number.
