Cold in Hand (39 page)

"Sally, boss," Michaelson said. "From the sauna? She's this minute rung. Ivan Lazic, she says she knows where he is."

"Knows?"

"That's what she said."

"Nothing more?"

"She said I have to go in, talk to her in person."

Karen cut off another piece of tender reddish meat. "Where are you now?"

"That's the thing, I'm up at HQ."

"Out at Sherwood?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'm just round the corner. I'll go along."

"Okay."

"And Frank..."

"Yes, boss?"

"Phone Mike, let him know."

Karen popped the piece of steak into her mouth and pushed the plate aside regretfully.

There were stone steps, worn down at the centre, leading up towards the front door, which was still attached by only one hinge and sagged against the frame. A hastily written sign had been fixed inside the sex-shop window, closed until further notice. On the floor above, curtains had been pulled tight across. The sign above the door had been switched off. Karen pressed the bell and waited. Pressed the bell again and identified herself
into the small mouthpiece alongside. Glancing up, she thought she saw a small movement at the right-hand window, the fold of a curtain falling back into place. She wasn't sure.

A car went slowly past along the street behind her, looking for somewhere to park.

Karen manoeuvred the door open carefully, closed it behind her, and walked towards the stairs; dust had gathered in the corners of each tread, and the carpet running up the centre was well worn. There was a light ahead.

On the landing, she stopped and called Sally's name.

No response.

Opening another door, she went along a short, narrow corridor and then out into what she imagined was some kind of reception area, a counter to one side, settee and chairs to the other, a few magazines strewn around, posters showing naked girls with unlikely breasts on the walls. At the back of the counter was another door, a small sign reading office between two panes of frosted glass.

"Sally?"

She thought she heard a noise from behind the office door.

"Sally. This is Detective Chief Inspector Karen Shields."

Another sound, muffled and small. Moving quickly around the counter, Karen turned the office-door handle and stepped inside. Sally was sitting pressed back against the side wall, legs folded beneath her, arms tied, a wide piece of tape across her mouth.

Even as Karen registered a movement at her back, the hard, small circle of a pistol barrel pressed cold against the nape of her neck.

"Don't move."

The gun slid upwards until it was resting under the base of her skull.

"Now slowly lift your arms. Slowly! Slowly! Slow."

Sally's eyes, watching, were wide with fear.

"Now step away, into the centre of the room. Stop. That's all. Good. Now turn around."

Ivan Lazic's pale face contrasted sharply with his dark eyes, the dark brown, almost black, of his short-cropped hair and beard. The scar that zigzagged his cheek stood out like a lightning flash.

"Identification. Show me."

Carefully, Karen opened her wallet and held it out towards him.

Lazic smiled thinly. "Detective Chief Inspector, that is good."

His accent sounded Russian. Russian, Serbian, Karen couldn't tell the difference.

"Now sit." Lazic gestured with the gun. "Behind the desk, there. Sit on your hands."

When she was in position, he dragged a second chair across and sat facing her at the other side of the desk.

"What do you want?" Karen asked. The room was small and windowless, and she could already smell her own sweat.

"I want to give myself up."

"There's a police station in the centre of town. All you had to do was walk in."

"And get myself shot."

"That wouldn't happen."

"No?"

"If you went in waving that gun, perhaps."

"And still, if not?"

"Police in England don't shoot unarmed men."

"No? Like they didn't shoot this Brazilian, on the train in London. How many shots? Five times to the head?"

"That was different."

Lazic laughed. "Different, yes." He caught his breath. "You know, when I was growing up, in my country, I read about the British police, how they never carry guns, and I think, how stupid, how brave. But now ... this morning, for instance, here." He looked at her. "That was different, too."

He laughed, and when he laughed he gasped, and when he gasped, a small sliver of blood appeared at one corner of his mouth. Between the lapels of his coat, the wool of the sweater he was wearing was stained, Karen could see now, pinkish red.

"You need a doctor," Karen said. "Hospital."

Lazic smiled. "Sally, she was my nurse."

There were beads of sweat visible on his forehead now. Karen wondered just how badly hurt he was, how long he could hold on. She looked down at the gun in his hand, and instinctively he tightened his grip.

"I want to make deal," Lazic said.

"What kind of deal?"

"I tell everything I know, everything."

"It may be too late for that."

Lazic winced and bit his lower lip. "No. Valdemar, Viktor, they have run, I know. I am sure. Leave me ... leave me ... what is expression? Holding baby. I do not think so. You take me. I go with you. We make deal."

Karen shook her head. "Even if I wanted to, it's not as easy as that."

"Easy, yes. And only with police, not Customs." A tiny smile lifted the edges of his mouth. "One of officers, Customs officers, he and Valdemar, they are friends. Valdemar give him money, girls. I know. I have tape. We make deal."

For a moment, he leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. Long enough for Karen to think about going for the gun, but no more.

"You will arrange doctor for me. Soon."

The stain on his chest was darkening, spreading.

"The gun," Karen said. "First you must give me the gun."

He looked into her eyes. Then slowly, very slowly, he leaned forward and placed the pistol on the desk.

"I must use my phone." Karen reached towards her pocket.

But Lazic was no longer really listening.

"Christ!" Butcher's voice reverberated in her ear. "You did what? What're you after, some medal for valour? The George fucking Cross?"

Karen smiled, enjoying his indignant surprise. "All in a day's work."

"'Give me the gun,' you said, and instead of letting you have one between the eyes, he just puts it down? 'Here, help yourself.'"

"More or less."

"More or less? This is the guy who's killed two as far as we know."

"As far as we think."

"Who's killed two, possibly three in the last month, and God knows how many in the past. The scourge of fucking Serbia, and you get him to surrender, nicely-nicely."

"He was pretty badly wounded in this morning's raid."

"Not badly enough."

"And he wanted to make a deal."

"The only deal he'll get, parole after twenty years instead of twenty-five."

"Maybe."

"When're you shipping him down to London? We're the primaries on this, remember? Agreed."

"Yes, but look, I don't think he's going anywhere right now. Not for a good few days, at least."

"While you interrogate him, you mean?"

"Chris, he's not talking. Not to anyone. Too doped up with painkillers to think."

"No problem getting a sample, though. Have a word with one of the docs. I want to check his DNA against what we found under that girl's fingernails."

"Will do."

"And, hotshot—"

"Yes?"

"Keep me up to speed, okay?"

"You got my word."

There'd been prolonged applause when Karen had walked back into the CID office that afternoon and a note of congratulation had already come down from the Assistant Chief. Mike Ramsden had been busy organising a right royal piss-up for that evening.

"If there's a male stripper, Mike, that's it. I'm leaving," Karen told him.

"One?" Ramsden said. "For you we've got a whole bloody chorus line."

She was filling out a report when the phone interrupted her thoughts.

"Principal Officer Daines," the switchboard operator said.

Karen looked at her watch. It hadn't taken long. "Put him through."

"Chief Inspector, I hear congratulations are in order." His voice smooth as shit on the sole of a shoe. "News travels fast."

"Lazic—I thought we had him this morning, but somehow he slipped away."

Karen didn't reply.

"Of course, we've had our eye on him for some time, just waiting for the right moment to haul him in. A file on him that stretches all the way back to Kosovo and beyond. But most recently he was near the heart of this gun-trafficking deal, more or less Zoukas's right-hand man." He paused. "I guess, with his injuries, we'll have to wait a day or so before you can hand him over."

"I think," Karen said, "if any handing over's to be done, it'll be to the Met. SCD1, Homicide and Serious Crime Command."

Daines's voice tightened. "I don't think so."

"I'm not sure what exactly you were considering charging him with," Karen said, "but whatever it is, I think you'll find murder takes precedence."

"Murder? What murder?"

"Take your pick." Karen was still smiling when she broke the connection and immediately dialled Ramsden's number. "Mike, the guard on Lazic's room at the hospital, I want it doubled. And clear instructions: Nobody gets to talk to Lazic, wish him well, grapes, flowers, anything. Understood? And that
does
mean anyone. SOCA especially. Got it?"

"Got it," Ramsden said. "I'm on my way."

It was Catherine Njoroge who phoned Resnick eventually. "'Unfit for duty' doesn't mean you can't socialise. Join us in a drink."

Still he hesitated, and it was mid-evening by the time he showed his face, no one yet seriously the wrong side of sober, but a lot of beer and whisky under the bridge and the decibel level around twice as high as normal.

So far, much to Karen's relief, no strippers had arrived, a bunch of local bodybuilders, all greased up and G-stringed and anxious to give it the full monty, though there were signs of karaoke breaking out later. Karen was already wondering whether she would have drunk enough by then to give them her best Aretha: "R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me."

When she saw Resnick hovering just inside the door, she beckoned him over, and they found a little space close to one of the windows looking down into the street.

"You must be getting fed up with people saying 'well done,'" Resnick said.

"Makes a change from 'stupid cow.' Thinking it, even if they don't come right out and say it."

"Not too often, I shouldn't think."

"I don't know," Karen said and smiled.

"Anyway," Resnick said, raising his glass, "well done."

"Luck, Charlie. Fell right into my lap."

"Maybe."

A roar of laughter went up from a group in the centre of the room, ribald and raucous.

"What's the state of play?" Resnick asked.

"They've operated on Lazic to take out the bullet. Should make a good enough recovery, apparently, though by the time they got him to the hospital, he'd lost quite a lot of blood. I doubt if the doctors will agree to him being moved for a few days and until then, my best guess, we'll keep him under wraps. Soon as we get the sign he's fit to travel, drive him down to London, somewhere high-security like Paddington Green, let the Met have first crack at him."

"Hardly seems fair, after what you've done."

Karen shrugged bare shoulders. The dress she was wearing had been chosen with care: attractive, yes, but for an evening celebrating with a bunch of fellow officers, mostly male, she didn't want to be sending out any signals that suggested she might be available. Though by the end of the evening, she didn't doubt one or two of them would try.

"The Florescu murder," she said, "that's looking the strongest by far. But I know the lead officer pretty well. He'll play it straight. Let me have a crack when the time's right."

Michaelson and Pike came over to talk to Resnick and guide him back in the direction of the bar. The ACC, who'd just
dropped in for a moment, pressed a large Scotch into Karen's hand, along with the Chief Constable's congratulations and apologies for not being there in person. At this rate, Karen thought, they'll be offering me the freedom of the city. On a small stage off to the side of the room, Mike Ramsden was preparing to get things going with a quick burst of Carl Perkins's "Blue Suede Shoes" delivered à la Elvis.

Daines was sitting on the stairs outside Karen's apartment. Though it was far from a cold night and certainly not cold inside the building, the collar of his suit jacket was turned up against his neck. His tie was loose, the top button of his shirt unfastened.

"Good night?" he asked.

"Lively," Karen said.

"I'll bet. Somehow my invitation got lost in transit."

"From what you said earlier, I didn't think you were exactly cheering."

"About Lazic getting arrested? We did our best earlier. Bastard tried to shoot his way out. That's how he stopped one himself."

"A good result for you, though. All those weapons seized. Arrests aplenty. Though I hear both Zoukas brothers somehow slipped the net."

Daines gave a small shrug. "It happens."

"Doesn't it though?" She was looking at him hard.

Daines smiled. "You wouldn't want to invite me in?" he asked, with a nod towards her apartment door. "Nightcap. One for the road."

"That's right," Karen said, "I wouldn't."

"Too bad." He got to his feet and, when he did, because of the stairs, he was a good head taller. "I tried to see Lazic at the hospital. Couple of guys sitting there with submachine guns in their laps wouldn't let me in. Acting on instructions, they said."

"We wouldn't want to risk losing him now. Not any of us, I'm sure."

"Did he say anything about me?"

"About you? No, why? Should he?"

He moved in closer and Karen readied herself; if he tried anything, he was just at the right height for a quick elbow in the balls.