Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (11 page)

“Savannah, pass me that Harrods bag!” he shouted, holding his head in both hands. “How could I have forgotten?”

“What’s the matter, John?”

“Hurry up. Not that one, the one with my jeans in it.”

Savannah could see John visibly shaking as he frantically dumped the contents of the bag onto the huge bed. He grabbed his jeans, like his life depended on it, and pulled one of the pockets inside out, sending a folded piece of paper onto the pale cream duvet. John gently picked it up and sat down on the side of the bed, staring at it like he expected it to burst into flames at any moment.

“What is it, John?” Savannah ran over to the bed and sat beside him. “Are you having a meltdown?”

John said nothing and continued to stare at the paper he held in both trembling hands.

Savannah put her arm around his shoulders. “Is that an emergency number you need to call if you feel strange?”

John turned to Savannah. “It was Mark’s,” he said, ashen faced.

“Is it his phone number? Do you need to call him? Is he your carer?”

John’s pained expression turned to confusion. “What are you talking about?” he waved the note an inch in front of Savannah’s face. “Mark had this in his hand when I found him. He’s dead and I haven’t even looked at the note. What sort of friend am I...? I mean was I? I can’t bring myself to open it, even now.”

“Calm down, John. It’s not real. You’re having an episode.” Savannah began to stroke his back. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered softly, over and over.

John jumped up from the bed. “It
won’t
be okay!” he shouted, stomping his foot repeatedly on the floor like a child in a tantrum. “My best friend’s dead. Don’t you get it? While we’ve been gallivanting around, he’s still dead and nothing will ever change that.”

Savannah’s wonderful dream had come to an abrupt halt.
Lost cause,
she reminded herself. How could she have repeated the formula so soon after the last disaster? Yet, this one had helped her. He wasn’t like the others. He might need help but he was not just a taker and abuser. Her gut instinct was to make an excuse, go outside the room, find a phone and call emergency services. She had the money to pay Christos. He would abide by their deal and set her free to start over. Savannah stood up feeling like a fraud and a bitch rolled into one.

“I need to get some air,” she said, marching towards the door.

“Please don’t go,” John said, his head and shoulders drooped as he turned and sat back down on the bed. “No more hysterics, I promise.”

Go, Savannah,
she told herself. But she couldn’t do it. Just like she couldn’t say no to her father or leave Graham once she knew he was no good. Savannah was just as much a lost cause as John Smith.

“Turn on the TV please,” John said.

Savannah did as she was asked, picking up the remote from the ornate table and sending the signal to wake up the television from standby mode. The angle wasn’t the best so Savannah twisted the flat screen to allow them to see the picture face on, from the side of the bed.

Without looking up from the floor John said, “Turn it to BBC1 and press the red button, please.” He sounded like a beaten man, like someone who had gone fourteen rounds in a boxing ring with a far superior fighter and realised that there was still another round to go and he might not make it to the end.

“There you go,” Savannah said, trying to sound upbeat but failing miserably. “What are we looking for?”

“Navigate to the news headlines and see what the choices are.”

Savannah entered the news headlines section. “Now what?”

“Read them out please.”

“Middle Eastern peace talks fail, Government says it will get worse before it gets better, Arms dealer commits suicide, the Pope denies that the Roman Catholic church encourages homosexuality ... do you want me to carry on?”

“Yes, keep going. Is there something about Mark’s murder?”

Savannah sighed deeply and handed the remote to John. “Look for yourself. It’s all in your head. I’m going for a bath.”

She wouldn’t leave him and she wouldn’t inform the authorities but she’d be damned if she’d encourage his depressing fantasies.

The bathroom was the loveliest and the biggest she’d ever seen. The twin sinks sat under a swirly brown marble top, hardly contemporary but magnificently impressive nevertheless. A single red rose sat in a narrow-stemmed vase between the two sinks. To the left was a bath big enough for two with gleaming gold-plated taps which delivered cascading waterfalls when she turned them. It was a far cry from her bedsit shower which required one fifty pence coin a minute to stay warm, even if you could put up with the leftover dirt, smells and body hair from previous users.

She slipped out of the new dress and waited for the bath to fill, in just her newly purchased soft yellow bra and panties. She couldn’t wait to jump in the bath and enjoy the free scented crystals provided by the hotel. As she turned the taps off and tested the water, a loud banging started on the bathroom door, startling her. Luckily, she had thought to lock it.

“Savannah, come quickly, you have to see this!” John’s voice was muffled by the thick door, but the urgency carried through regardless.

“I’m in the bath,” Savannah lied.

“Then get out. It’s important. Please just look at this and then I promise I won’t bother you ever again.”

Savannah groaned inwardly, slipped her dress back on and opened the door. John was standing in front of the television, remote in hand.

“Look at this. It wasn’t the story I expected but it’s him all right.”

She moved next to him. The headline on the screen was one Savannah had already read aloud. “Arms dealer commits suicide,” she said. “I saw that one already.”

“You didn’t see the detail.” John highlighted the headline and pressed enter on the remote. The screen flashed up a paragraph with a photograph beneath it. It was the man who had introduced Savannah to John in the sports bar last night.

“Jesus Christ,” she mumbled through her hand as her mind was jolted like a whip cracking inside her brain. “You’re not mad at all... It’s all real.” She fought to catch her breath. “You’re not mad,” she repeated. Who and what had she got herself involved with? Taking deep breaths, she tried to get control of her breathing. “You never said he was an arms dealer.”

“He’s not, or rather he wasn’t.” John handed Savannah the piece of paper that had fallen from his pocket earlier. “Now look what I found in his hand.”

Savannah looked at what she had assumed was a note, to see that it was a left luggage ticket for Waterloo Station.

“It’s just a piece of left luggage. So what?”

“We need to get there before it closes at eleven tonight.”

“It all sounds a bit Alfred Hitchcock, don’t you think? Left luggage tickets and all that.”

“So?” urged John, not the least bit deterred. He regarded her with a newfound intensity. He had never looked so determined, his eyes boring into hers, waiting, demanding agreement to his irrational request.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong,” Savannah said, turning her back on John.

“What? About Mark?”

“No about you,” she said, walking away. “You are crazy.”

12: Saturday 24th September, 22:15

John and Savannah debated their next move in the soft-cushioned, mahogany-legged chairs in the sitting area of their suite at the Ritz hotel.

John was amazed that Savannah hadn’t headed straight for the hills. In fact, she seemed almost pleased that his best friend was dead, as it proved that John wasn’t in need of professional help. Her reaction to the reality of John’s predicament had given him a much needed dose of testosterone and convinced him to take the trip to Waterloo alone. What sort of man would drag an already troubled girl into even greater danger?

“Look it’s just three stops on the Bakerloo line. You stay here and enjoy your bath and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Or dead more likely.” Savannah threw her arms up. “You’ve got no idea who could be waiting there.”

“Nobody knows that I have this ticket. Knowledge of its existence probably died with Mark. Mark wanted me to have whatever is at Waterloo Station.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Of course not, he was dead, but his arm was outstretched like he wanted to give me something.”

“Maybe he wanted to give it to someone else. Besides, they said he killed himself so why didn’t he just leave you a note?”

John leaned back on two legs of the chair, which emitted an unhappy groan in complaint. He sat forward again before anything snapped. She must understand. She didn’t have to come with him, but he still needed her support.

“Mark had a letter opener in his head and a dagger in his back. How can that have been suicide? Somebody has either messed with the evidence or the police have issued a lie to keep the lid on this thing.”

“What thing?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you have any idea what Mark was mixed up in?”

“He was a financial wizard of some sort, trading in risky stocks and so forth.”

“Have you ever been to his office?”

“No, he worked mainly from home.”

“Did he talk about his work?”

“No, never.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Listen, I know what you’re driving at but we’ve been best friends since school and if he was selling weapons I’m sure I’d have suspected something. Christ we told each other everything. He would have told me.”

“Even if it put your life at risk?”

“Shit, shit, shit. I don’t bloody well know any more. All I do know is that he knew I was outside when he was being murdered and he wanted me to find the note.”

“All right,” Savannah said.

“All right what?”

Savannah stood up and slid out of her new dress a few feet away from John.

John’s eyes opened wide and his mouth opened wider. She looked soft and smooth and clean and beautiful, despite everything she had been through. John struggled to speak.

“I’m not ... sure ... we’ve got time for that,” he said.

“It’s got to beat being raped up the bum by filthy Arabs,” she said walking over to the bed with great purpose in her stride.

“Well ... I don’t know what to say.” John stood up and made tentative steps towards the bed. “I’d certainly hope so.”

“Well come on then slowcoach.” John looked to the tall ceiling and mouthed ‘thank you’ when out of nowhere his jeans hit him full in the face. Savannah was retrieving her old clothes from the other Harrods bag. She slid a lithe leg into her jeans. “I’m not letting you get killed alone. Hurry up and get changed.”

*

On the Bakerloo Line tube John and Savannah faced each other, hanging on tightly to the ceiling rail by the doors as they debated John’s sanity. It was 10:25 on a Saturday night and most of London was apparently using this train. John felt a bead of sweat trickle from his temple, letting it reach his neck before wiping it away. Savannah fanned her face with her free hand and John welcomed the secondary draught he received from her efforts. It was like a greenhouse inside the cramped tube.

Typically, everyone kept themselves to themselves, avoiding eye contact when John scoured his view for suspicious-looking types who might be following them. The problem was that over half of the people he laid eyes on looked suspicious. The rest just swayed along with the rhythmic clackety-clack of the train, like puppets waiting for their master to pull their strings.

“So what you’re saying is that if I hadn’t been called John Smith then you’d have believed everything else?” John asked.

“Yes, I suppose. When you think about it, it does seem rather stupid. I’ve never met a John Smith although I know there are more of you than probably anyone else. I think that with the crying at your flat and the not having your passport, I sort of added two and two and got five or maybe even six.”

“I’m no expert but I think it’s okay to cry if your best friend is murdered.”

“I know that.” Savannah lurched forward and bumped into John as the tube screeched to a halt at Charing Cross. For every person who left the train, two more got on. John and Savannah fought hard to avoid being pushed back into the aisle. Once the train was moving again, Savannah continued her defence, “Don’t make out that I’m heartless. I just haven’t had much luck with men and you started off as strange and got weirder by the minute.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

For the rest of the short trip John was unable to concentrate on making small talk with Savannah. Instead, he found himself constantly moving his head to view movements caught in the corner of his vision. While he did this, his mind attempted to picture the two men who had escorted him to the underground at High Street Kensington. Unless they had changed out of their big navy blue coats, he should have no difficulty in spotting them.

*

I follow Johnson into Waterloo station. Wilson is not with him. He parks across two other cars, blocking them both in. An official walks over to the car, chest out, radio in hand. He is in for a surprise. Johnson exits the car and talks to the man who is six feet tall but dwarfed by the agent. The official walks away down mouthed and chastised. Unfortunately I don’t have Johnson’s clout. Several cars rush to a space where a blue Jeep Grand Cherokee begins to reverse. I follow suit, jump out and walk calmly to the driver.

I must not cause a scene. I must not cause a scene. Think of the prize. The man is thirty something with a beard and silver-framed glasses. I offer him ten, fifty pound notes for his space and he happily accepts. Three other drivers complain from the safety of their cars. They don’t realise this would be their only chance to confront me directly and live. I saunter to each car in turn and hand the drivers one hundred pounds each. Everybody is happy.

I park and return my attention to the Mercedes. I have followed the black saloon from Knightsbridge to Piccadilly and now to here. Each time the car has stopped, Wilson either gets in or out and does his own thing. I have stuck with Johnson. I am agitated and tense at the lack of progress.