He’d slept like a rock, washed his face in the brown-stained sink with the sliver of green, cracked soap a rich guest had obviously discarded and – after searching relentlessly for a non-existent towel – dried himself on the bedspread. He walked down to reception to hand in his key.
‘We don’t do food,’ the fat woman with a cigarette hanging from her mouth announced when he asked about breakfast.
He grunted. They didn’t do much of anything. If he didn’t already have Lorna Boyce to kill today, he would have killed her and enjoyed every second of it.
He drove around until he found a greasy spoon where he ordered a full English. The plate they brought him was piled high with food. None of it looked edible, but he cleared the plate anyway, and mopped up the grease with bread that had a thin layer of margarine on it. Two cups of tea to wash it all down set him up for the day.
It was coming up to eight-thirty when he arrived outside the block of flats in Russell Road. He parked along the street and switched the radio on to listen to the news. He wasn’t really a news-listening type of person, but he liked to hear about his own exploits. Sure enough – there was another knifing attributed to gang retribution. Of course, the opposing gangs would deny it, but that’s what they’d do anyway. They certainly weren’t looking for a random killer – for him.
Today would be the day – he felt sure. He’d wasted enough time on Lorna Boyce. If he’d been paid by the hour, he probably would have earned in the region of £5,000 or more by now. Although, the time wasted was probably down to him not doing the job properly in the first place. The problem was though, there were no apprentice schemes or training courses for assassins – he’d had to learn on the job. Maybe he should write to the government and recommend a scheme be set up.
Now that he had some experience, had successfully completed a number of hits and expanded his CV, had worked out his modus operandi – so to speak – maybe he needed to review his charges, and up his price to £1,500. Although, he didn’t want to put people off, or price himself out of the market. If people wanted someone killed desperately enough he was sure they’d find the money.
Negotiating a fee probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Some people could haggle as if they had an extra haggling gene. He’d end up paying them to do the job because he wasn’t much good at haggling. His mum could haggle, but she lost her temper when things didn’t go her way.
Maybe he could have a scale of charges for different types of jobs. The £1,500 would be for murder – that wouldn’t change, but he could do other things as well – such as break/sever fingers, toes, limbs, a nose, an ear, or a tongue. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that the possibilities were endless. When people rang him up he could make it known that he was available for other types of work as well, and could they spread the word, please. When he got home he’d have to make a list of the type of work he was willing to do and add a price to each.
If he thought about it, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do. He probably drew the line at babies, pregnant women and the really old. He didn’t have a conscience as such, but he could imagine that people would think he was a monster if he accepted those types of jobs. He wasn’t a monster, he was in training to become a skilled technician. The fact that he was employed in the underbelly of society was neither here nor there, people had to earn a living. As far as he was concerned, it was a lot better than sponging off the state.
He was motivated, he still had his self-respect and he was saving for his retirement. If he’d been doing any other work he’d be a model citizen.
Smiling, he turned the noise from the radio off. He didn’t need news, music, discussions or anything else – he had plans to make. Maybe he needed to do a course on running a business.
***
‘What did the Chief want you for?’
They were on their way up the stairs to see Toadstone in forensics.
‘He kept me back because he wanted a private conversation.’
‘Yes?’
‘The key word there was “private”.’
‘I’m quite sure he didn’t mean from me.’
‘If that was the case, why did he ask you to leave?’
‘So you’re not going to tell me?’
‘All right, I’ll tell you. He was a bit disappointed with the PowerPoint presentation – thought there should have been more bells, whistles, whizzes and bangs.’
‘You’re a liar. You know I’ll find out.’
‘Sooner than you think.’
‘Oh?’
‘We’re going there after we’ve seen Toadstone.’
‘You could have just said that.’
‘I could have, but then I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to mention your PowerPoint presentation.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘I thought you were very thorough.’
‘You didn’t answer the question.’
‘I think I did.’
‘What does “thorough” mean exactly?’
‘Would you like me to give you a synonym for thorough?’
‘I know what “thorough” means.’
‘I thought you did. Right, we’re here.’
‘Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet.’
They walked along the corridor to Toadstone’s laboratory.
Richards opened the door. ‘Good morning, Paul,’
‘Hello, Mary. You look very beautiful this morning.’
‘Thank you for saying so.’
Holding a hand up to his mouth, Parish made a gagging noise.
‘Take no notice of him, Paul.’
‘Friendship is the only cement that will ever hold the world together, Toadstone.’
‘Not love?’
‘No, not love.’ Parish grinned and slapped Richards on the back. ‘See, I knew I’d beat him one day.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘I did.’
‘Paul, tell me he didn’t just beat you.’
‘It looks like he did, Mary.’
Richards stared at Toadstone and then at Parish. ‘You’re both lying. Tell me the truth, Paul.’
Toadstone looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. ‘He made me do it.’
‘Toadstone!’ Parish said. ‘All you had to do was keep your big mouth shut.’
‘I can’t lie to Mary, Sir. Woodrow T Wilson – the twenty-eighth president of America – said that.’
Richards put her hands on her hips. ‘I knew it, but why lie?’
‘He said he’d help me.’
‘Which I won’t be doing now that you’ve spilled the beans, Toadstone.’
‘Help you to do what?’
‘Get another date with you.’
She touched his hand. ‘You don’t need his help. Let’s go out on Friday night.’
The sun exploded in his face. ‘You really mean it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this forensics or a dating agency? Never mind all this lovey-dovey jiggery-pokery, what have you got for us, Toadstone?’
‘Ah yes!’ He walked over to his bench.
Richards said to Parish, ‘Don’t think we’ve finished this conversation yet. We’re not even close to finished.’
‘Come on, Toadstone. We’ve wasted enough time up here already.’
‘And don’t take it out on Paul just because your grubby little plan didn’t work.’
Toadstone cleared his throat. ‘We had to cross-check and eliminate everything that was found in the waste bin before we identified anything that was vaguely interesting, which took some considerable time I might add.’
Parish rolled his eyes. ‘We have got other things to do today, Toadstone.’
‘Stop heckling him, Sir.’
‘Heckling! Me?’
‘Chlorine and bromine,’ Toadstone said.
‘Isn’t chlorine used in swimming pools, Paul?’
‘Yes it is. It’s part of the halogen group of chemicals together with fluorine, bromine, iodine and astatine. Unfortunately . . .’
‘Come on, Richards, let’s go.’
‘But he hasn’t finished yet.’
‘He used the word “unfortunately”. That’s like a “but” only worse.’
‘Carry on, Paul. Take no notice of Inspector Parish. He’s just miserable because I discovered his dirty little plan.’
‘Unfortunately, chlorine is used in making plastics, solvents for dry cleaning and metal degreasing, textiles, agrochemicals and pharmaceuticals, insecticides, dyestuffs and household cleaning products . . .’
‘How does all that help us, Toadstone?’
‘If you let him finish, Sir.’
Parish checked his watch, sighed audibly, grabbed a stool and sat down.
‘However, when we find chlorine with bromine then the possibilities are considerably reduced. And with a bit of common sense we can eliminate most of the other applications it might be used for until what we’re left with is the most likely answer. Chlorine and bromine are used together in the maintenance of swimming pools, especially spas and hot tubs.’
‘So she had a swim before she died?’ Parish said. ‘Still not much use to us.’
Toadstone continued as if Parish hadn’t spoken. ‘Let me show you something.’ He nudged his laptop out of hibernation and used the mouse to navigate to a three-dimensional picture of Fannie Binetti. ‘The blue areas are chlorine and bromine.’
‘Which are mostly on her back,’ Richards added.
‘The back of her clothes, her head, on her hands and the back of her legs.’
‘She was lying on top of the chemicals?’ Richards said.
‘Yes, that’s my conclusion.’
‘See,’ Richards directed at Parish. ‘What do you think it means, Paul?’
‘I think it means that the killer is connected to swimming pools or spas in some way. He could work at a swimming pool, or be a pool and spa cleaner, or . . .’
Parish grunted. ‘Or any number of other occupations that put him into contact with those chemicals. He could also be totally unconnected to swimming pools and spas, but simply have used an abandoned warehouse where those chemicals were stored to kill her. Is that all you’ve got, Toadstone?’
‘That’s all I’ve got for the moment.’
‘It’s a good lead, Sir. Isn’t it? Thanks very much, Paul.’
‘You’re welcome, Mary.’
‘I’ll be expecting a lot more from you tomorrow, Toadstone.’
‘You always expect more of me, Sir.’
‘But I very rarely get it. Come on Richards, we have people to see and places to go.’
As they walked back along the corridor Richards said, ‘You’re really mean to Paul.’
‘We’re running a murder investigation, Richards. Being nice doesn’t cut it. You’ve got to man up if you’re leading a team of people. Now, I’m going to make a pit stop, you go down and get the car ready.’
‘Huh!’
Once she’d gone he returned to forensics.
‘See, I told you it would work, Toadstone.’
‘I feel really guilty misleading Mary like this.’
‘All’s fair in love and war.’
‘Love and warre are all one . . .It is lawfull to use sleights and stratagems to . . . attaine the wished end. Don Qioxote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1620.’
‘You’ve got a foot in the door, Toadstone. If you mess it up this time I won’t be able to help you. And telling her what went on here would be classified as messing it up.’
‘I understand.’
‘Make sure you do. I can survive the truth coming out . . . In fact, I’d be the good guy in all this, but you’d be history.’
***
Mushrooms – that’s what she could smell. She was lying in the cool undergrowth looking up at the thick green canopy covering the forest. Maybe it was the aroma of half-buried truffles. Maybe she could hear pigs snuffling in search of them. Maybe . . .
‘Wake up.’
Her face snapped sideways.
She forced her eyes open. A man was standing over her.
‘Hey!’ she said.
His hand slapped the other side of her face.
‘What the fuck!’
‘Wake up.’
‘I am awake. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? There are laws, you know.’
His laugh echoed inside her head. ‘You should have thought about those laws when you decided to break into a secret government facility. Down here there are no laws.’
She was in an old brick arched tunnel. There were bare lights strung together by electrical wire. Black mould clung to the ceiling and crept down the walls. She was tied to a railway track by her hands and feet. When she wriggled to free herself she realised she had a headache the size of Mount Everest. They’d stripped her naked, and she was bloody freezing.
‘I wouldn’t wriggle about too much if I were you,’ the man said. ‘You’re lying on a board. Underneath that board is a central fourth rail that carries a direct current of 240 volts.’
She had a long list of questions she wanted to ask, but one question floated to the top of its own accord and exited her mouth. ‘What have you done to me?’
The man laughed again.
She could see his rotting teeth. He was unshaven, had piggy eyes, a broken nose and short cropped hair. ‘You don’t want me to answer that, do you?’
No, she didn’t. She knew what he’d done to her.
‘You were very good though. You moaned a lot, which is just the way we like it.’ He turned his head. ‘Isn’t that right guys?’
She heard mocking laughter from at least another two men somewhere off to her left, but she couldn’t see them. She wanted to cry. She should have listened to Annie and gone back to bed. It had happened to her before. Her father had raped and tortured her. She knew how to deal with it physically and psychologically, and how to deal with them. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ she said quietly.
His laughter stabbed at her heart. ‘I look forward to seeing you try. If you hadn’t noticed, you’re tied to a railway track, which forms part of the District Line. The nine fifty-three from Upminster to Ealing Broadway is due in about . . .’ he checked his watch. ‘. . . seven minutes.’
‘Where’s Romeo?’
‘You mean the skinny guy who was with you?’
‘Yes.’
He pointed to his right. ‘Further up the track. He’ll get it first. Oh, and if you were expecting help, your friend Romeo – after a bit of encouragement – was only too pleased to tell us everything. The ugly bitch in the yellow car is up there as well, so don’t be surprised if no help arrives.’
She was on her own – as usual, but this was the worst shit she’d ever been in.
‘We’ve got your laptop, and that’ll tell the powers that be everything they need to know about how much you knew. From what I can gather, that wasn’t much. Anyway, me and the lads are going now, but you haven’t got long to wait for the train to hell.’
He moved away. ‘Come on lads, let’s go. We don’t really want to watch live humans being transformed into mincemeat, do we?’
The laughter gradually died away.
The lights went out.
She was alone.
‘Romeo?’ she shouted. ‘Harley?’
There was no answer.
As well as the sound of water, she could hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet, shuffling and squeaking – rats. God, she hated rats.
‘Ow!’ One had bitten her on the hand. They couldn’t even wait until she was turned into mincemeat.
The little bastards. She felt them crawling up her legs, on her stomach and breasts. They were trying to get to her eyes. She wriggled what she could to shake them off.
How the hell was she going to get out of this mess? She estimated that she had about ten minutes until the train chopped her head, hands and feet off. That wasn’t really the way she planned to check out.
‘Ow!’ They had really sharp teeth.
She held out her hand, and didn’t have long to wait. Tiny feet and fur scraped across her palm. Her hand closed around the rat and she squeezed.
It squealed, but not for long.
She manipulated her fingers up the rat’s body to find its teeth and used them to saw at the rope. Without being able to see, she didn’t know whether it was working or not.
How long did she have left?
She kept feeling for the rat’s teeth to make sure they were still there, and then one time they weren’t. But it wasn’t long before another rat came along to fill the vacancy. She continued gnawing at the rope until she felt the tightness around her wrist loosen and she could pull her hand free.
But as she did so, everything began vibrating. A shallow rumbling ricocheted along the tunnel and was building into a crescendo.
The nine fifty-three to Ealing Broadway was on its way, and – for a change – on time.
The rumbling was getting louder and louder by the second.
She pulled at the ropes around her other wrist, and then at her ankles, overjoyed that the knots weren’t up to much.
Her teeth were chattering, but she had no idea whether it was from fear, the cold, or the crazily vibrating metal track.
A dull glow lit up the tunnel to her left.
God, the train was coming.
The light became brighter.
She ripped the last rope from her ankle.
The train had arrived.
There was no time to get off the track.
She turned her body sideways, so that she was lying on the board between the rails.
The train whooshed over her.
The noise made her head throb. The air turbulence turned her skin blue, her blood to ice and sucked the breath from her lungs.
She had done a lot of stupid things in her short life, but lying naked under a speeding train took the biscuit.
And then the train was gone.
She was plunged into darkness again.
Oh God! She was alive. How had she survived?
She lay there for what seemed like ages. She wasn’t thinking, wasn’t planning her next move, wasn’t doing anything in particular. She was just being alive.
Until she heard a rumbling.
Shit – another fucking train!
She climbed off the track and moved in the direction the men had gone. What she needed to do was find the light switch, and then find Harley and Romeo. Were they alive or dead?
As the train sped past she found the side of the tunnel and pressed her naked body against it. Her heart was beating a hundred miles an hour – probably as fast as the train was travelling. She closed her eyes and tried to bring her breathing under control.
The darkness and silence returned.
She waited for the next train.
As the metal monster flew past, she used its light to examine the tunnel around her, and spotted a doorway and a light switch.
Once the train had gone, she felt her way along the wall, found the switch and pushed it down – the lights came on.
Shivering, she picked her way along the track. The bastards had left her with nothing – no clothes, no shoes – nothing. They’d even removed her piercings.
It wasn’t long before she found Romeo and Harley, or at least – what was left of them. She cried. They’d been the closest she’d had to a family for a long time.
‘I’ll get the bastards for you,’ she said out loud.
Another train rumbled past.
She pressed herself against the wall again, and wondered if the train passengers could see the crazy naked woman clinging to the tunnel wall.
When the train had gone she had an idea. Harley and Romeo had been left with their clothes on. It wasn’t pleasant, but she managed to find Romeo’s torso with his shirt and waistcoat still on, Harley’s lower half with her jeans intact, and three feet encased in shoes. Two of the feet belonged to Romeo and he’d had big feet. She would have preferred Harley’s slip-ons, but she couldn’t find her left foot, so she had to make do with Romeo’s basketball trainers. Pretty soon, she was fully dressed. It wasn’t pretty. She was covered in blood and filth, and she had no panties on. Harley had still been wearing her knickers, but they were bigger than a four-man tent – she still had some self-respect.
Before she left, she wanted to say something over the bodies. She wasn’t a believer, but she knew Harley had been. She didn’t know any prayers, so she recited her favourite poem: Footprints in the Sand by Mary Stevenson.
Afterwards, she wiped her eyes and runny nose with the sleeve of Romeo’s shirt and made her way back along the railway track to the doorway she’d seen.