Vendetta (9 page)

First thing he did when he got in the apartment was to check the escape routes. In the kitchen was a window that opened onto a lean-to, from which it was possible to jump into the garden. He opened it in case he needed to leave quickly. Then he walked back to the landing and looked around at the place where the woman he’d cared so much for had lived.

A standard operator’s flat. Totally anonymous. Futon bed, chest of drawers with a few clothes, some bric-a-brac furniture, a few kitchen utensils and a half-used jar of expensive coffee. No pictures, no photos, none of the knick-knacks that usually clutter mantelpieces and shelves. It was almost as if Elena had never lived here but resided somewhere else. Then he saw that the two-piece cream sofa had a rumpled blanket on it, one of its cushions obviously used as a makeshift pillow. Had someone else been staying here as well?

He turned his attention back to the rest of the main room, but stopped at the sight of a mug with blackberry tone lipstick around the rim. Elena’s colour of choice to grace her lips. He ran a fingertip around the mark, which ended halfway round the cup. It was like he could feel her. Like she was in the room. The sudden ache in his chest made him close his eyes. Mac still couldn’t believe she was gone. They’d only been laughing together last week as they walked hand-in-hand to a café, her sleek, black bob gleaming in the unexpected sunshine.

He slipped his finger back as he reopened his eyes. Just as he started to move his gaze on he noticed a small card by the mug. As soon as he picked it up, the scent that Elena wore rose up to him. He placed the card near his nose. Everything she touched seemed to carry a whiff of perfume. Inhaled deeply. Liquorice mixed with another fragrance that always reminded him of his grandmother baking cupcakes.

Thinking of yesterdays was going to get him no closer to finding her killer. He pulled the card back. Black writing against a simple white background:

Club Zee

No address, no email, no phone number.

He hadn’t heard her mention the club before and it wasn’t a place that had come up in any of his investigations. He started to toss it back on the table – then his hand froze. The scent made it feel like she was in his arms, and putting the card back was like he was losing her all over again. He shoved it into his pocket.

Scanned the room again. Only the tools of her trade, as the communication expert in the gang, were visible, including a shredder by the cast-iron Victorian fireplace. On a makeshift table was a high-end computer that had been handmade, together with an ‘in and out’ tray. Mac switched the computer on but the screen merely flickered and the machine refused to start. Next, he pulled off the lid of the shredder, but the machine was empty. Why put a shredder next to a fireplace? Unless you were burning something. He crouched down by the fire grate and emptied the remains of the last fire onto the carpet. The trouble with coal fires is that they don’t burn evenly; as Mac knew from previous investigations, it was surprising what could survive them. He began to sift through the debris but, as he did so, he stopped, listened and realised there were the slow, quiet but definite sounds of footsteps on the stairs.

He pulled out his gun and took up position by the door to confront the intruder.

A voice called out, ‘Have you found anything?’

It was Little Miss Blonde Pigtails, halfway up the stairs. He put the Luger away and walked onto the landing. Only when he saw her did he remember his hands were covered in coal dust and soot. He knew he looked more suspicious than ever.

He smiled. ‘No, I’m trying to find anything that might help.’

She stood for a few moments before walking back down, but not before he saw the suspicion taking over her face again.

Mac knew he had to work fast. In the remains of the fire, he found a charred photo. It looked like a family snap, but only two faces were visible, both of them men, wearing what looked like military uniforms. They both wore wide smiles. But he soon forgot the photo when he saw a powder-blue Post-it that was charred at one end. There was writing on it. He flipped it the right way. Read:

‘Get these documents to the big man in Hamburg. Don’t fuck up. Fuck up = death.’

Death
.

The word bounced in his head and his brain started to move quickly. Who would have had the nerve to threaten her? Could it be the person who’d been sleeping on her sofa? No, he dismissed that. It didn’t make sense she’d offer shelter to someone who would kill her . . . unless Elena had done something to piss them off? His wound started pounding because he couldn’t think of one enemy she had. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. Started thinking again, more slowly this time.

Fuck up = death.

Who would have the authority to talk to her like that? Reuben gave the orders. Mac had seen with his own eyes what happened to those who didn’t obey orders. And sometimes to those who did. Mac considered the possibilities. Had Elena got something wrong? Or in her terror had she just abandoned her work? Not taken Reuben’s messages? Or just bolted?

Mac slumped into the sofa. He did what Calum had told him to do. Sat down and considered the evidence. Motive?

If Elena had botched up something important of Reuben’s then maybe he’d killed her and Mac was just meant to be collateral damage.

Or if Reuben had found out that Mac was a cop, he would have killed the pair of them, although Elena would have been the collateral damage in that case. Mac couldn’t see how Reuben could have found out about his real role in the gang, unless he’d been careless somewhere down the line. It happened.

No. It was more likely that Elena had done something to put her brutal boss in a deadly mood.

Fuck up = death.

Fuck up = death.

Fuck up = death.

But what documents had Reuben – if this was Reuben – been referring to? Did they have something to do with what might be happening at eleven tonight? Maybe copies were in the remains of the fire as well. So Mac dived back into his search, but only found the remains of what he concluded was burnt paper. He rushed back to the kitchen to find a knife and used it to take out the screws on the computer so he could retrieve the motherboard and drives. But they were gone.

Next he was back in the kitchen emptying the bin. Peelings, wrappers, a discarded invitation to some event at the Russian embassy two days ago and a crushed box. He pulled it out and examined it. Froze. A home pregnancy testing kit. A chill swept through him. Had Elena been . . . ? He couldn’t even think it. Was that why she was so hysterical when she called him?

‘You’ve got to get me – us – out of here . . .’

Her words from their last conversation rang in his head.
Us.
Did she mean it wasn’t only her life at stake but their unborn child’s?

Please, please, not that.
He couldn’t live with the death of another child of his blood. Couldn’t . . .

Quickly he checked inside the box. No pregnancy testing stick. His head snapped up when he heard footsteps again in the hall below. Heavier than the last time. No way it was the neighbour. He shoved the box in his pocket as he rushed to the bedroom. The footsteps came up the stairs. Like a disturbed lover, he hid in the wardrobe, but didn’t close the door completely, leaving a small gap to spy. Whoever it was was now in the main room. He heard the continual hissing of what sounded like spray paint. Then silence. The footsteps retreated back across the room. Abruptly stopped. Mac slowly pressed open the wardrobe door. The air smelt different, as if tainted with some type of chemical. His gaze snapped towards the dressing table mirror, which reflected a bright burst of light being thrown into the main room. His mind thought quickly. Flame. The smell: accelerant. The fire started moving and licking a path straight towards the bedroom.

seventeen

Mac jumped into the sitting room, narrowly missing the line of the fire. He shot towards the landing but stopped short when confronted by a raging sea of flames; he knew there was no escape there. Palm over his mouth to guard against the rising smoke, he ran back to the bedroom and made straight for the window. He heaved at its edge. Shut tight. Swiftly he turned towards the chest of drawers and managed to manoeuvre it towards the window. Bent down and, with a groan that squeezed his chest muscles, lifted it by its bottom end. Tipped it against the pane. Crash. The chest of drawers did its job breaking the window. Chunks of glass and the chest of drawers toppled down to the back garden below. He kicked out the remaining glass. The opening sucked smoke outwards.

At training college he’d seen a reckoner that estimated how far a man could fall and what injuries he could expect from various heights. But those calculations didn’t include having a fire at your back, singeing your clothes. He climbed backwards out of the window. Held onto the ledge with both hands and lowered himself so he was dangling by his fingertips. As he pushed against the wall to jump off, he remembered the jumping calculations as you often remember things in extreme stress. A man hanging from an upstairs window of a terraced house? About twelve to fifteen feet to fall. Injuries to be expected? It all depended, of course, but if you were lucky it might be bruises and strains. If you were unlucky, broken feet, ankles or legs. He remembered the last piece of theory – keep your legs together and knees slightly bent like a paratrooper. He jumped.

Hit the ground. Rolled over and over until he came to rest. He struggled to his feet. Sucked in his breath sharply as pain spun from one of his ankles. He tested it as he took a step. Nothing major, probably just some bruising. He threaded his way over the back garden. Already a few horrified and shocked onlookers were gathering at windows and in gardens, shouting at him and trying to help. He ignored them.

But he couldn’t ignore the screams that were coming from inside the house. Little Miss Beautiful Pigtails downstairs. He doubled back, kicked and battered the door that led from the back garden to her kitchen with all the pent-up rage he felt inside. When he was in, he headed in the direction of the screams that rose with the hysteria of a siren in the smoke. As the building buckled, bent and blistered in the heat, he found her crouched in shock and stunned terror in her front room. Bending her double over his shoulder, he ran back the way he’d come, her screams muffled as she choked on the black fog that weaved a deadly cloak around them. Finally, he emerged into the daylight again, and dropped her on the grass at a distance. People were rushing towards them, which was his signal to be gone. He pulled his cap down low as he moved in the opposite direction, with the things he’d found in Elena’s home secure in his pocket.

eighteen

Mac took five minutes to clean his face and hands in the Gents of the first McDonald’s he came across. He inspected his ankle, which didn’t hurt as much any more. It had a small purple bruise that would either fade away or start swelling. Either way he wasn’t going to let it slow him down. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror – what was the point when he knew he looked like he’d invented the word crap? But his mind did turn to who had followed him to Elena’s and tried to make him the guy on a non-November bonfire night. Maybe it was the two men in the Merc? Or Reuben? Or the Mr or Ms Nameless who’d been kipping on Elena’s sofa, snug as a bug, last night? Too many maybes: what he had to deal with was the evidence he had at the moment. So he moved to a cubicle, locked the door, lowered the toilet seat and sat. Took each item he’d found at Elena’s and laid them on the floor in front of him.

Post-it
.

Charred photograph of two military men smiling.

Empty pregnancy testing box.

Small card with words
Club Zee
on it.

His gaze kept coming back to the Post-it.
Fuck up = death. Fuck up = death.
Yeah, that sounded like that madman Reuben. It must have been the Russian behind the fire at Elena’s, wanting all evidence about her involvement with him gone. As a naked cop, Mac wasn’t permitted to keep any kind of paperwork on him – too dangerous, it might compromise his position. But he kept a mental file of all the Intel he’d been given about the Russian before going into deep cover.

Name: Reuben Volk. Suspected alias. Birth name unknown.

Nationality:
Russian. Region of birth unknown.

Age:
Unknown.

Criminal activities:
Arms dealer. Criminal activities outside the UK unknown. Russian authorities will not give access to any information about him.

Convictions:
Unknown.

Family:
Younger brother. Also criminal associate. Son.

Purpose of undercover op:
No hard evidence but suspect that he’s about to initiate a gang war to become London’s foremost arms supplier.

Unknown, unknown, unknown. So much about the bastard was unknown, but what Mac needed now was a killer to take revenge on. Once he had his hands round his neck, he’d wring the truth out of him.

It had to be Reuben.

Reuben. Reuben. Reuben.

He couldn’t stop the manic repetition of the Russian’s name bouncing and bruising against the four walls of his mind. Without warning, the muscles in Mac’s chest tightened. His breathing squeezed, felt like it was almost going to shut down. He knew what was coming next, so he fought it. Hard. But he knew he’d lost the battle when the green walls of the cubicle appeared to move, closing in on him. The ceiling started to drop. Blackness hovered over him, to the side of him, in front of him. Mac gasped for more oxygen. Gasped . . . his mind nose-dived.