Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (9 page)

There must have been nine bedsits in all but only one in the attic. It was the penthouse bedsit, so to speak. The cream carpet outside was thick-piled wool and not the threadbare grey synthetic material that graced the rest of the shoddy building. Savannah raced up and banged repeatedly on the metal-skinned door with the side of her fist, a look of grim determination and anger on her face.

“Amy, open up.”

“I’m busy,” came the muffled reply.

Savannah’s lips narrowed and she pounded even harder this time. “If you don’t open the door, I’ll set the fucking place on fire.”

John couldn’t believe the change in Savannah, from the girl who always looked like she was about to cry to ... this! The door battering continued until Savannah’s arm ran out of steam and she stopped to catch her breath.

“Go away,” the voice said from inside.

“Did you sell me out to Christos?” Savannah asked, leaning on the wall, still a little out of breath. John reckoned it was the emotion more than the exertion that was draining her. Her teeth clenched and she drove her fist against the solid surface as she slowly and deliberately spoke with every blow.

“Did you ...” thump, “sell me ...” thump, “out to ...” thump, “Christos?” Double thump.

“You don’t get it do you?” the voice, now most definitely nervous and defensive, came back. “I’m thirty-eight. There’s no thousand quid punters for me no more.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Christos pays me to recruit new talent. Why do you think I got you the bedsit? As long as I bring in new girls, he lets me stay here and throws me extra. Keeps me off me back.”

Savannah took long and deep breaths. John could see she was barely holding it together. John considered the extent of Amy’s betrayal. This woman had lured Savannah into a world where your word meant nothing and human life was no more valuable than an animal’s and sometimes probably less.

Savannah’s voice trembled as she spoke. “How much did he throw you for me?”

John shook his head. There was no point to this conversation and they were taking a risk by just being there. Who was to say that this heartless whore hadn’t already texted Christos and tipped him off that she was here? Savannah looked away from John, avoiding his eyes and banged on the door with renewed vigour. John could see the knuckle of her little finger had begun to swell. He grabbed her hand and pulled her around to face him. “Let me try something,” he whispered.

For a moment she looked like she might vent her anger on John for interrupting her business but the tension leaked from her body like air from a balloon and she nodded, defeated and exhausted.

John put his mouth to the cold steel door and spoke in a deep Jamaican voice.

“Amy, you don’t know me but Savannah works for me now. I’ll be paying your protector for her services but I need her passport. I’ll give you ten seconds before I set light to your walls. Be a good girl and shove the passport underneath the door. Ten, nine, eight...”

A UK passport appeared beneath the door.

“How...?” began Savannah.

John put his forefinger to his lips and shook his head to hush her. “Sensible girl. Now the cash you received for recruiting Savannah. I reckon I’ll use it to pay your protector.”

No reply. John pressed his ear to the door and swore he could hear beeps from the buttons of a mobile phone. He picked up the countdown again. “Three, two... He’s not close enough to save you from burning to death, honey... One.”

Savannah stared at John in disbelief.

“You could help me out here,” he mouthed almost silently.

Her eyes lit up.

“No, Calvin, don’t burn her! Christos made her do it I’m sure. Put the lighter fluid down, please.”

No Oscars anytime soon but it might just work if Amy was already scared enough. There was a shuffling sound from behind the door and the sound of a phone being placed on a table.

“All right!” Amy bellowed. “I’m getting it. Don’t burn me. It’s coming.”

John kept his ear pressed to the door. No more beeps. A stream of crumpled notes began to arrive under the door, mainly tens and twenties. John motioned for Savannah to pick up the money and the passport. When the stream dried up John pointed to the stairs and whispered.

“Get going, I’ll be down in a minute.”

She returned a puzzled look and shrugged.

“Go on,” he insisted.

Savannah complied and set off down the stairs. Once John reckoned she was out of earshot he re-summoned Calvin the pimp.

“Sorry, darling. Not fast enough. And me don’t like leaving talking evidence. Say hello to your maker.” John rubbed the carpet where it met the foot of the door hoping the sound was convincing. “Der she blows!” he shouted, jumping back for effect.

He ran down the stairs, catching up with Savannah on the way out the main front door.

“Let’s get as far away as possible as quickly as possible,” he said, grabbing her by his own coat, dragging her out of the building and circling them around to the back. John pointed up to the window where the top of the fire escape began. A full-figured woman of about forty backed out of the attic window and onto the platform. She was screaming, nothing discernible but as loud as a banshee’s wail. She wore a bright pink dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers with bunny ears attached to the front.

Savannah looked bewildered and turned to John. “What’s she doing? What did you do?”

“She thinks the place is on fire,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I figured after what she did to you, it was the least she deserved.”

Savannah burst out laughing and wrapped her arms around John again. “You might be crazy but I promise I won’t tell the authorities.”

“What?” said John, enjoying the experience, putting his arms around her. This girl was a couple of cogs short of a full mechanism but being around her made him forget about all the bad stuff that had happened. He felt the best he had felt all day, sort of exhilarated, high on adventure perhaps? He pushed back a pang of guilt. Mark had always told him to stop wasting his life, and his friend’s murder showed him how precarious life could be. “How much money have we got?” he asked.

“Three thousand one hundred with the five hundred we got from Amy.”

“Great. Flag down a taxi. We’re off to Knightsbridge and then Piccadilly.”

9: Saturday 24th September, 18:00

Herb Johnson and Maxwell Wilson were watching proceedings from seventy-five thousand pounds worth of sleek black Mercedes saloon.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wilson said, pointing to John Smith and Savannah Jones diving into the back of a London cab. “Those two are laughing and smiling like little children. Smith’s no murderer. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and if we follow him we’ll end up with nothing.”

Just then Savannah’s former friend Amy ran past the car, waving her hands frantically in the air.

“Fire!” she screamed over and over.

Johnson and Wilson gave her less than a second’s attention. Johnson turned back to his partner.

“Smith’s thirty-two and Jones is twenty-one. Not exactly kids. Unless you’ve got a better idea then we stick with them and see what happens.” Johnson pressed his foot gently on the accelerator, allowing six point two litres of V8 engine to pull them away with a throaty growl.

Johnson loved the Mercedes almost as much as he loved his job. Sure, it involved killing, but he prided himself on his ability to only end the lives of those who were a threat to others. Sometimes this meant going against orders but he always got the job done. He had to live with himself, after all. The job didn’t exactly encourage relationships. He could wait until retirement for companionship.

Johnson’s priority was to find Bradshaw’s killer - which may or may not be Smith - and recover Bradshaw’s deadly invention. All this while stuck with a partner who was a shadow of his former self. If Wilson lost him his perfect occupation, he had meant his threat. He would kill him and not lose a moment’s sleep. Johnson had kissed too many asses and put in too many hours to see it all flushed away over the personal problems of Wilson. His job was his life and in that regard he was not a forgiving soul.

“If we want to cover our backs, shouldn’t we take these two out?” Wilson asked, raising two fingers, pointing out of the window and pretend shooting a young woman with brightly dyed blue hair.

“Die,” he said, feigning recoil with his hand.

Outside Johnson was unflappable while inside Wilson was seriously pissing him off. He took deep breaths to calm himself.

“Think man, think. Before we take anyone out we need to find out what their involvement is. Where would you have us go instead?”

“Visit Bradshaw’s gambling circle. We’ve checked out all of his contacts and got nothing. Bradshaw must have sold the weapon to somebody one of his high-flying betting cronies introduced him to.”

“Checked them out myself last night. Nothing.”

“You’re not keeping me in the loop here. How do you expect me to help?”

“In your current state you’re next to useless and I expect you to help by carrying out every command I give you to the letter. Got it?”

Wilson looked away and aimed his fingers at a pink-haired teenager.

“Got it,” he said as he pulled the imaginary trigger.

“Looks like they’re heading upmarket,” Johnson said, eager to keep Wilson from whatever dark thoughts occupied his mind. The man had been solid for five years. What had Johnson done to deserve this?

They followed the cab to Knightsbridge where the taxi pulled up outside the green frontage of Harrods department store. Smith and Jones jumped out and ran inside.

“Follow them and report back on what they do inside,” Johnson said, stopping several cars behind.

“I can tell you now. They are going shopping.”

Johnson took another deep breath. “Still, follow them and see what they get up to. I’ll wait here. No getting trigger happy. Have you got your Taser? You can use that as a last resort.”

“Sorry, lost it.”

Johnson scowled. “Isn’t that the third one you’ve lost since we’ve been together?”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Promise me you won’t shoot anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Johnson was getting tired of babysitting Wilson. Perhaps it would be better to take him to a quiet space and break his thick neck before he did too much damage. It wasn’t possible without losing sight of Smith and Jones. He would reconsider later.

Wilson got out and slammed the door hard. Johnson winced inwardly and opened his window. When Wilson passed, en route to the department store entrance, Johnson called him over. Wilson bent down.

“What is it now? I get it. No shooting.”

Johnson’s hand shot out of the window catching his partner’s Adam’s apple with measured force. Wilson stumbled back, both hands clutching his throat, short rasping gasps filling the cold air with mini clouds of condensation.

“Don’t slam the door,” Johnson barked at his subordinate, whose eyes were still wide with surprise.

Herb Johnson shut the window and took in a deep breath. If he was going to get any use out of Wilson then he was going to have to scare it out of him. One more screw up and he would bury him. It had already been a long day and it still seemed a long way from the end. If he had to take down Smith then the chances were that the girl would have to die too. What was Smith’s agenda? Johnson was convinced that he would lead them to the missing item. If he had to blow his brains out later then so be it. But not before he was sure Smith had killed Bradshaw.

He revved the engine before turning it off. The sound brought calmness to his thoughts.

*

I can’t park anywhere near Harrods without a traffic warden pouncing on me in seconds. I can’t kill a traffic warden on a busy pavement. I pull down a side street and double park. There is just enough room for other cars to pass. It is a risk I must take. I cannot lose the Mercedes. I grab my equipment bag from the back of the van and run back to Brompton Road. Luck is with me. Johnson is sitting in the car alone. The sky is dull and darkening but it is not enough to cover me. I walk along the pavement until I reach the rear of the Mercedes. I resist the need for a cigarette and I wait.

A stretch limousine pulls up several cars down. It has private number plates. All eyes are on the rear door as the chauffeur reaches for the door handle. I couldn’t care less about a pop diva or Sultan but I welcome the distraction and drop to the floor and roll under Johnson’s car. There is plenty of traffic noise but I can’t be too careful. The undercarriage is reinforced. I will need to make adjustments. I get to work.

10: Saturday 24th September, 19:20

With John pulling Savannah from pillar to post in order to speed her along, they soon spent five hundred pounds on new clothes. A sports jacket and smart black trousers plus white shirt for John, and a new black, slightly more conservative mini dress for Savannah. She really was like a kid in a candy store. Every time they came across a new section of clothes or electronics or exotic food or just plain old sweets in a fancy box, she would exclaim, “John, check this out. Can you believe this?”

Having visited the famous store several times in his teens, John could well believe it, and while it had changed somewhat, the general feel of the place remained. Essentially, it was a place where the rich and the wannabees went to waste money. The rich paid there and then, while the wannabees racked up heart attack inducing sums of credit by any means available to them. John and Savannah were cash customers today and by the spring in Savannah’s step and the delight in her expression, impulsive shopping was clearly a first for her.

At a table in the Pizzeria they shared a Quattro Formaggi pizza. It transpired that neither of them had eaten all day and the sizeable dish lasted less than five minutes. Savannah brushed the cloth of the dress material with the palm of her hand.

“It’s so smooth,” she sighed. Then her eyes became distant, fixed somewhere in the air where there was nothing to focus on. “I loved that old dress. My mum bought it for me just before she died.”