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Walworth Estate
Southwark
Pierce sat in his car, finishing the last puff of his cigarette and tossing it out the window. It wasn’t his first trip to Walworth... He’d questioned suspects, even pursued a few through the narrow stairwells back when he was still in uniform. This was the first time he’d been here alone, though, and the gloom was oppressive. Oh, the buildings weren’t so bad, but the atmosphere was “Gloomsville, Gloom County, Population... Dismal”, as Kate would have said. He smiled, despite the gray haze outside, and hoped this wouldn’t take too long. He wanted enough time to run home and shower before meeting Kate at the Newcastle home to open that file cabinet.
Pierce grabbed his jacket and stepped out of the car, slipping it on as he crossed the street. The quiet was... somewhat unusual for an estate like this. At least some children should have been out playing... Pierce slowed a bit, his eyes searching the façade of the building for any signs of life... or trouble. He couldn’t believe Bosko would have sent anyone to be shot, even him, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
Boskovic’s lead had been unexpected, and under the circumstances, what with keeping one eye on Marshall and the other on Kate, Pierce had nearly missed it. But when he heard a familiar name – Roca – Pierce immediately focused his attention on the tasered man in the ambulance, and more importantly, on the words he was saying. Like Pierce, Boskovic spoke several Balkan languages, and it took Pierce a moment to realize he was using them all as he spoke, blending words from different languages and dialects together into a strange mélange of words... something not easily deciphered by listening ears... unless those ears knew the ‘language’ as well. It had been a long time, but Pierce managed to glean enough from it to get the name, the address, and Boskovic’s urgency that he needed to get here before someone else did. Pierce’s memories of Stefan Roca were limited to glimpses during his time in Serbia, but he remembered his face... the crooked nose and brutal eyes... the man had seen too much, and done even more than that, and that life takes its toll. It was a fact Pierce understood well, and avoided dealing with at all costs.
He glanced at his watch... Quarter past four... plenty of time... Pierce walked forward again.
He heard the scream first... an unearthly sound, the kind that emanates from the throat of a human being when they are hurtling consciously toward their end. The screamer was hurtling, too, and reached said end seconds later, the impact dislocating limbs. Pierce flinched, the echo of that sound running on a loop in his head. It was not unfamiliar, he’d certainly heard, and seen, worse, in his time of service, and while with the Met. The condition of the body, though, was unexpectedly bad, and Pierce found himself fighting the urge to vomit as he pulled out his mobile to phone it in. The urge to vomit was not because of the damage, but because of who the damage had been done to.
The pile of lifeless bones and flesh that had plunged to its death... was Stefan Roca.
*****
PIERCE QUICKLY JOGGED up the stairwell to the sixth floor, nervously massaging the key in his hand... the key to Roca’s flat, he hoped. It had been in the man’s pocket when he had checked him for ID. He knew who he was... even the fall hadn’t destroyed the man’s face enough to make him unrecognizable, but he had to be sure. Pierce looked at the numbers on the flats. There would only be minutes until units arrived, and any chance of getting into Roca’s flat would be lost, at least for him. Residents were emerging from the homes, looking down to the courtyard below and questioning each other about what had happened and who was hurt. Pierce wove his way through the curious residents, stopping in front of Roca’s door. He quickly opened it and scooted inside.
The flat was darker, far darker than it should be at this afternoon hour, and Pierce felt along the wall for a light switch. Finally connecting with one, he flipped it. The light above him came on, as did a lamp ahead in what appeared to be the living room. The place was sparsely decorated, except for the heavy curtains on the windows. They were the reason for the darkness, and Pierce wondered if Roca was a third shift worker needing the tomb-like environment to sleep during the day, or...?
He searched through his pockets, hoping he had a spare latex glove tucked in there, but no such luck. Pierce heaved an exasperated sigh and quickly donned his leather gloves, then began rifling through the papers on the shelf in the hallway. There were several books on the shelf, some grammar school classics, some translations of popular modern volumes...
Pierce’s gaze settled on an edge of paper sticking out of a poetry book. It wasn’t a true bookmark, but it seemed to be purposely stuck there, its top edge running parallel to the gilded top edge of the book. He pulled it out just enough to retrieve the paper, but stopped himself before removing it. The page it was marking may be important. Pierce pulled the entire book off the shelf and flipped to the page.
It was poetry... Robert Frost, in fact... and Pierce found himself reading the poem on the marked page that, while not particularly significant to the case that he knew of, was one he had read often, and understood. He had read it many times, finding comfort in the measured words and seeming comprehension of the poet... the poem was about darkness, about depression, about living with those feelings and being ‘acquainted with the night’, and, as is oddly the case with human beings, we feel comforted by the similar experiences of others. We draw relief from the understanding of others, not because of their empathy for us, but because they can sympathize based on their own burden.
Sirens outside brought Pierce’s mind back to the matter at hand. There was little time to waste, and he quickly pocketed the paper stuck in the book, re-shelved the book, and hurried to exit the flat. He moved along the walkway easily, and took the long way around the building to get back to his car, hoping he would avoid being seen by any officers or crime scene techs who might know him. He slid into the car and slumped down in the seat, pulling the paper out to finally read it.
Pierce stared at the paper, reading the words on the page over, and over again. Antonin Varek... Antonin Varek... He’d had his suspicions from the moment that the shooting took place, even before he knew about the sniper scenario... but seeing this name mentioned in the note confirmed all his suspicions as fact. That name told him that the murders of Newcastle and Corbett were an organized hit, because the name in is hand was one of the most notorious hired killers within the Balkan immigrant community in the UK. Pierce had seen the name many times, had seen what this former military sniper was capable of. This was a true professional, and he didn’t come cheap... If he had been hired to kill them, someone paid a lot of money to make it happen.
Fuck... Pierce heaved a huge sigh and lit a cigarette, enjoying the calming effects of the smoke as he stared at the paper. Varek’s being a part of this complicated things more for Boskovic... They had come from the same town in Croatia, and, according to Bosko, had even been friendly in their teen years. Though they took decidedly different paths, even that small linkage in the past could prove a bad one for Bosko. Pierce’s mind started to work fast, ticking off the things that needed to be followed up on... Tracing the weapon, following the money... He took out his phone quickly and started to dial the squad, then quickly hung up and dialed Owens mobile number instead. He hated to set the young constable on it this late in the day, but if anyone could find the digital trail, it would be Paul Owens. Giving Owens the assignment now would give him several hours advantage before the locals started prying into Roca’s past, because once Bosko’s name came up, it would get bumped to the Met and then... Pierce sighed... They needed the advantage of this lead, but Owens wasn’t answering for some reason.
Pierce tossed his cigarette and started the car. It was still early enough he could get to the Met, and hopefully catch Owens before he left for the night.