The Wolves of London (41 page)

‘What was taken was a small artefact about so big.’ He held up his hand, indicating the size by spreading his thumb and index finger. ‘It was a carving of a human heart, made of obsidian. Do you know what obsidian is, Mr Locke?’

This time I had to lick my lips in order to answer. ‘It’s a black rock,’ I said.

‘Correct. More to the point it’s a
volcanic
rock. It resembles black glass. I’m told obsidian is formed when lava solidifies very quickly. An artefact like that would be very distinctive, don’t you think?’

Aware that the trap had been sprung, I said, ‘Yes.’

Jensen gave me a thin smile. ‘Would you mind turning out your pockets, Mr Locke? Purely as a courtesy, of course.’

I felt suddenly enervated. My limbs were aching, my ankle hurting so much that it felt as though the dog was still gnawing on it. Delaying the moment, hoping that the heart would transform or even disappear, I half-rose from my seat and placed the contents of my jeans pockets on the table. Cash, receipts, keys (including the key to McCallum’s French windows, which I hadn’t needed on this occasion), my wallet, other bits and pieces. Then I patted my back pockets and the side pockets of my leather jacket, all of which were empty, before finally, reluctantly, slipping my hand into the jacket’s inside pocket.

I knew, even before I touched it, that the heart had let me down. I could feel its weight, its solidity, resting against my ribcage. I closed my fingers around it, willing it to change. When it didn’t I felt a spike of anger, a sense of
well, fuck you then
– and then I withdrew it from my pocket.

Even now I expected the heart to respond, to save me somehow. I wondered how this dour policeman would react if I were to disappear in a flash of light before his eyes. I put the heart on the table, but rested my fingers on it for a moment, giving it one final chance. Then with a sigh I let it go.

The air in the room felt heavy. Jensen looked at the heart, then at me. Pointedly he said, ‘Mr Locke has produced a human heart carved out of obsidian from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table.’ He took a long, slow breath, in and out, and then he said, ‘Could you explain how this object came to be in your possession, Mr Locke?’

Before I could even think about it, I said, ‘It was sent to me.’

‘Sent to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’ Another pause, his eyes burning into mine. ‘And
how
was it sent?’

‘Through the post. In a padded envelope.’

‘Through the post?’

‘Yes.’

Though Jensen’s voice was low and, like his face, bereft of emotion, he managed to convey the impression that he didn’t believe a word of what I was saying. ‘And was there a return address with this package?’

‘No.’

‘Was there a message of any kind?’

Though I paused for no more than a split second before answering, I felt certain that my hesitation would not have gone unnoticed. ‘Yes.’

‘And what form did this message take?’

‘It was a note.’

‘Hand-written or printed?’

‘Er… printed. In block capitals.’

‘On?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What was the message written
on
?’

‘A word processor, I suppose.’

He gave a brief, exasperated hiss. ‘What kind of paper?’

‘I don’t know… normal. Typing paper. White.’

‘Lined or unlined?’

‘Er… unlined.’

‘And what did the message say?’

‘It said…’ I paused, pretending to rack my brains, though in truth I was simply trying to avoid saying something that would trip me up. ‘I can’t remember the exact words, but it said that if I wanted to see Kate alive again, I had to look after what was in the envelope and keep it safe.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘And it didn’t occur to you to inform us that you had received this package?’

‘I was told not to.’

‘By whom?’

‘By the man who sent me the heart.’

‘Oh, I see. He called you, did he?’

‘No, he… in the note he said not to tell the police. That he’d kill Kate if I did.’

‘But I thought you said that the note simply instructed you to keep the heart safe?’

‘Yes. I mean, I forgot about the other bit.’

Jensen looked incredulous. ‘You
forgot
that the sender threatened to kill your daughter if you told the police? Are you in the habit of
forgetting
when the lives of your loved ones are threatened, Mr Locke?’

‘No, it’s just…’ I paused, took several deep breaths. His eyes were still drilling into me. I rubbed at my forehead to block out his gaze and said, ‘I’m stressed, that’s all. My head’s all over the place. Wouldn’t yours be if your daughter had been kidnapped?’

He didn’t answer my question. Instead he asked, ‘Where is this note now?’

‘I threw it away.’

‘
You threw it away?
’

‘Yes. I didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands.’

‘You do realise that that note could have provided us with important forensic information? That it might have led us to your daughter’s kidnapper?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’

‘Where have you been staying these past few days, Mr Locke?’

‘What?’

He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if I was hard of hearing. ‘Where have you been staying?’

‘I told you. With a friend.’

‘And does this friend have a name? An address?’

‘Yes, but… I’d rather not say what it is.’

‘Really? And why’s that?’

‘Because he wants to remain anonymous.’

‘My last question applies. Why’s that?’

‘He’s got a certain… reputation. A criminal record. He doesn’t want his name bandied about. He doesn’t want the police to jump to the wrong conclusions.’

‘And what conclusions might they be, Mr Locke?’

I wafted a hand, as if to brush away his question like a troublesome fly. And then almost immediately I felt a welcome surge of anger, of irritation. Glaring at him, I said, ‘Why are you treating me like a criminal? My daughter’s been missing for bloody days. Why are you wasting time with me instead of trying to track down the real perpetrator?’

Jensen’s eyes were like flint. ‘Do you really want me to answer that question, Mr Locke?’

‘Yes I do, actually.’

‘Very well.’ His voice remained calm, even. ‘As I’m sure you will agree, it would be remiss of me not to thoroughly explore every avenue of enquiry in this investigation. And frankly, Mr Locke, your behaviour has become suspicious enough to more than warrant this interview. The fact that you have deliberately put yourself out of contact over the past few days, and that you now refuse to reveal your recent whereabouts, is suspicious enough in itself—’

I raised a hand to interrupt him. ‘All right, point taken. But hasn’t it occurred to you that someone might have set me up to make me
look
suspicious?’

‘Of course it has. Which is precisely why I feel it would be in your best interests to be entirely honest with us.’

Touché
, I thought, and slumped back in my seat. My collar and underarms were wet with sweat. I knew I’d have to give Jensen
something
, that he wouldn’t let me alone until I did. But I couldn’t tell him I’d been in London the past few days, not after letting him think I’d been somewhere more remote, where I couldn’t get any signal – besides which, Clover had advised me not to reveal the address of the ‘safe house’ to anyone.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you. But I’m going to be in so much trouble with my friend for dragging his name into this.’

‘Given the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll forgive you,’ Jensen said evenly.

I hesitated a moment longer, then gave him Benny’s name and address. It was a huge risk – I didn’t even know if Benny had survived the confrontation at the cemetery – but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

‘There,’ Jensen said, ‘that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

I shrugged. ‘Whether he’ll confirm I was there or not, I don’t know.’

‘Let us worry about that,’ Jensen said. For the first time he reached across the table for the heart. I tensed. He picked it up carefully, as if it was so delicate it might crack at the slightest pressure of his fingers – or as if he knew what it was capable of.

‘Do you mind if we photograph this?’

It was a request I could hardly refuse. ‘Will I get it back?’

He pursed his lips. ‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On what we decide to do with it. The heart is evidence and needs to be examined. It may also be stolen property.’

I felt like a parent arguing with a social worker who was threatening to take their child into care. ‘But I was told to look after it. Whoever’s got Kate will kill her if I don’t.’

‘Do you really believe that, Mr Locke?’

‘I daren’t
not
believe it.’

Jensen raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘If what you’re telling me is true, then the way it looks is that the only reason you were ordered to keep the heart safe is so that you’d be found with it on your person leaving Bellwater Drive. Though why your daughter’s abductor should want to set you up I have no idea. Maybe in an effort to discredit you? Or just to inflict even more hell on you than you’re no doubt already going through – there are some sick and sadistic people about. But the good news is that if this
is
the case, then the threat from Kate’s abductor is more than likely an empty one. You were told your daughter would be killed simply in order to ensure you were found with the heart in your possession.
Ipso facto
, Kate’s abductor
wanted
that to happen.’

I stared at him. His logic was irrefutable. All the same, trying not to sound desperate, I said, ‘What if you’re wrong?’

He shrugged. ‘Then who would know, besides the people in this room?’

I didn’t know what to say to that. Partly because I was itching to snatch the heart from his hand and stuff it back into my pocket, I folded my arms and leaned back. I watched helplessly as Jensen stood, walked across the room and handed the heart to the PC by the door, murmuring instructions.

The PC nodded and slipped out of the room. I felt fresh sweat spring out on my scalp and run down my face. I palmed it away with a shaking hand as Jensen strolled back to his seat. Now I felt not like a parent losing a child, but like a junkie denied a fix.

‘Are you all right, Mr Locke?’ asked Jensen, sitting down again. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘I’ve had a bug this week,’ I muttered, hardly aware of what I was saying. ‘Flu or something. Just run down, I suppose.’

Jensen arranged his features into an expression of concern. ‘I expect it’s the stress. Would you like me to get you anything? A glass of water? Cup of tea?’

‘Yes, water would be—’ Then I felt a sudden itch in my throat and barked a cough so violent it jerked my head forward. Pressing a clenched fist to my mouth, I was horrified to see that behind Jensen the air was shimmering, boiling, turning hazy. Jensen, unaware of the phenomenon, was frowning, his nose twitching at the acrid stench now creeping into the room. Abruptly the patch of hazy air thickened, erupting outwards like an underwater explosion, filling the room with yellow smog. Coughing now, also pressing a fist to his mouth, he began to rise from his chair, a look of bafflement on his face. I croaked a warning as a dark shape loomed from the yellow smog behind him, but I was too late. Jensen had barely begun to turn before Hulse stepped up behind him and, in one swift motion, slashed his throat.

The cut was so deep, so savage, that Jensen was almost beheaded by it. The wound gaped like a second mouth as his head tilted back, and instinctively I threw myself sideways as blood jetted across the table towards me. My chair toppled and I crashed to the floor, the jet of blood, followed by several others, shooting over my head and zigzagging across the wall. I felt pinpricks of it speckle my face as I slithered across the floor on my backside, kicking the chair away from me and propelling myself with my feet. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between Hulse and myself, but when I finally scrambled upright and looked across the table there was no sign of the cut-throat, and the yellow smog was already dispersing, rushing towards a central point as though being sucked into a hole. Within seconds I was alone with Jensen’s body, which was now spreadeagled, face down, across the table. There was so much blood – on the table beneath him, drooling on to the floor and spattered across the far wall – that it looked as though someone had gone crazy with a tin of red paint.

Although deeply shocked by what had happened, my immediate concern, I’m ashamed to say, was for my own welfare. If someone had walked into the room at that moment they would have had no option but to assume I had murdered the DI. Later it would occur to me that there was very little blood on my hands and clothes and no sign of a murder weapon, but at that moment I was panicking. I glanced up at the walls, this time
hoping
to see a surveillance camera, but there was nothing to suggest that what had taken place had been either recorded or witnessed. I walked around the edge of the room, keeping away from the body, and taking care not to step in the blood which was already creeping across the floor. I reached the door and tried the handle and whispered a silent prayer of thanks when it opened. Clearly it hadn’t been deemed necessary to lock it when Jensen was in the room.

I stepped into a corridor lined with doors. On the opposite wall a pair of fire doors led to a staircase, which I knew would take me down to the reception area, across from which was the main entrance that led to the outside world and freedom. From behind a closed door further down on my left came bustling office sounds – the buzz of chatter, the creak of chairs, the clatter of fingers on keyboards, the whine of a printer or photocopier. My over-riding instinct was to flee the building, but I couldn’t leave without the heart. But where
was
it? How could I find it? I didn’t have the first clue where to look.

I froze as the door to the large office opened, the sounds of activity swelling momentarily like a swarm of bees released from a box. A woman stepped into the corridor and pushed the door closed behind her. She turned to me and smiled. My mouth dropped open.