Tracers (21 page)

‘South Acres is being renovated and is no longer on the market. The previous tenants checked out two days ago.’

Rik’s mouth curled. ‘I’ll say – and no forwarding address.’

‘The keys were dropped off and everything’s above board.’

‘No way. What about the bodies?’

Harry looked sombre. ‘I’m guessing there weren’t any. They’re probably buried in the woods somewhere. I smell men in suits.’

‘What do you mean?’ Joanne looked at him.

‘A professional is involved and the murders have been suppressed or downplayed – even Param’s, although I’d guess it was too public to cover up locally.’

‘We should check South Acres,’ Rik suggested. ‘Somebody’s telling porkies.’

‘It’s too late for that. The workmen are already in; any evidence will have been destroyed by now. It might be worth checking Blakeney and Battersea, though.’ Privately he didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything. If Matuq’s murder in Blakeney had been concealed, and Param’s hadn’t been allowed to hit the headlines, there was every likelihood that the Battersea flat was already empty.

‘But who could suppress that kind of thing?’ Joanne asked. ‘Who has that sort of influence?’

Rik said, ‘The kind of people we used to work for.’

Harry nodded. ‘OK. Joanne and I will see if we can track down Humphries’ sister. If we find her, she might be able to tell us something useful. It’s possible he let slip something about who he worked for.’

Rik nodded. ‘I’ll do Blakeney. The locals won’t have seen me before. Then I’ll check Joanne’s place in Battersea.’

Joanne looked from one man to the other. ‘Why are you two doing this?’ she asked quietly. ‘You’re not getting paid for it. You don’t owe me anything.’

‘Because,’ Rik replied, ‘if we’re right, whoever took Rafa’i also killed your friend. When they realize they screwed up, they’ll come looking for you.’

For a second Joanne looked bewildered. Harry added, ‘What Boy Wonder forgot to mention is that they’ll probably come after us, too. So we’re not so much noble as a bit short on options.’ He smiled to soften the words. ‘Never mind, if they come too close, we’ll let you use your gun.’

‘Thanks,’ she said faintly. ‘I’ll remember that.’

Now, after a fast drive from London, Rik was in Blakeney. He’d used the journey to ease the tension of the past couple of days out of his system, concentrating on driving the car as hard as conditions would allow. It was his means of relaxation, but one he could only truly accomplish without Harry in the car. Not that Harry was bothered by speed; he simply saw little point in using the full power of the car’s highly tuned engine when you didn’t need to.

He surveyed the ground as he walked up the lane towards the cottage, and was dismayed to see several sets of tyre tracks in the mud. Harry had mentioned only one, and clearly described the track ending among the trees, with no other houses. He had a feeling he was too late.

He rounded the bend at the top of the track and stopped. The cottage looked just as Harry had described: isolated, a little sad, even neglected. Except that the faded green door in the photo on Harry’s mobile was now painted a glossy, duck-egg blue.

He checked the trees and bushes on his left, and the reeds to his right. His nerves were jangling at this latest development. Who the hell would allow someone to decorate the front door of a murder scene?

He stepped forward and pressed the doorbell, heard it echo inside. The place sounded empty. He stepped over to the front window and peered in, and felt his nerves crank up even further.

The room, far from being the drab place Harry had mentioned, was now bright with freshly minted walls and a new carpet. None of the sad decor, no half-finished meal, no oddments of thrown-together furniture.

And no Matuq lying against the rear wall.

Somebody had been busy. And definitely not the police. He checked the side of the cottage. The lean-to was still there, but there was no sign of a Renault with slashed tyres.

He was about to take a look at the back garden when a voice spoke behind him.

‘Can I help you?’

He turned to see a youngish woman standing by the corner of the cottage. She wore green Wellingtons and a fleece, and had large, brown eyes. She was pretty, with glossy black hair and perfect teeth, and looked very country.

‘Uh . . . yes – sorry.’ He smiled and felt wrong-footed.
Where the hell had she appeared from?
‘I was miles away. I was wondering if this place was to let.’ What he really wanted was to ask if she’d heard about a brutal murder committed here in the last few days, but decided that might be too direct.

The woman shook her head and smiled patiently, as if accustomed to dealing with lunatics wandering around the countryside looking for places to rent. ‘It’s not available.’

‘That’s a pity. It’s in a nice location. Are you the owner?’

‘No.’ The woman waved a vague hand towards the village. ‘I live along the road and sometimes take in the key. I was out walking my dog and noticed you here.’ She frowned slightly. ‘This isn’t really the best place to be looking at.’ She stood to one side, a clear indication that he should leave.

‘Why?’ Rik stood his ground. ‘You make it sound like somebody just died.’

The woman’s eyes flickered. It was a momentary thing and most people would have overlooked it. But Rik had spent long enough watching faces to spot it.

‘There’s been nothing like that,’ she replied eventually. ‘What a strange idea, Mr—?’

Rik ignored the opening and studied her. For a woman on her own she seemed very self-possessed, in spite of standing in an isolated spot with a stranger asking strange questions and making comments about death. Maybe they were bred tough around here.

He noticed she was carrying a mobile phone but no dog lead.

So where was the dog?

‘I’ve got a lively imagination,’ he replied, and stepped past her. It was time to go, and fast, before she summoned help. ‘Thanks for your time.’ As he walked back down the lane, he felt her eyes on him all the way. When he turned to look back, she had disappeared.

He drove into the village and stopped at a small supermarket. The woman on the till smiled, but shook her head when he asked about the cottage.

‘Stokes Cottage? No, dear, there’s been nobody there for a while. The last tenant skipped without paying the rent, they say.’ She rolled her eyes at the dishonesty of some people. ‘The owners must have decided to sell it. They’ve had workmen in, doing it up. It’ll go for a good price, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Does the owner live here?’

‘No, dear. London, I think. They’re all from London, aren’t they, these days? Why – you looking for a place to buy, are you?’

In Islington, north London, Harry was standing by the Saab, parked behind his flat, and beginning to wonder how stupid he’d been.

He had left Joanne sitting in the passenger seat less than three minutes ago, after returning from a wasted morning outside Jennings’ office. They had been waiting for the lawyer to show up, but by the time noon had come and gone, it seemed pointless wasting any more time. Discreet enquiries at adjacent businesses had been met with politely blank looks, and the two men they had spotted earlier had not returned, nor had the office opened. Checking out where Humphries’ sister lived might at least offer the feeling of progress of a sort, if only Joanne could recall the name of the village. He had tried not to pressure her to remember it, because these memory fragments usually returned in their own time.

He shouldn’t have left her alone down here while he went upstairs. She evidently didn’t trust anyone fully, and who could blame her after what she had been through? The temptation to cut and run once she was on her own must have been too great.

He went to the front of the building and checked the street in both directions. It was a waste of time; if Joanne had decided to run, she would have done just that. And with her skills, there was no guessing how far away she was by now.

He was about to go back for the car to make a tour of the area, when he saw a brief flicker of movement. It came from inside a vehicle halfway down on the other side of the street. He continued turning away, careful not to betray the fact that he had seen something. When he looked at the spot again, there was no sign of anyone.

He knew he hadn’t been mistaken. There was a person in the car.
But was it significant?

Then he spotted Joanne.

She was walking along the pavement towards him, fifty yards beyond the car where he’d seen the movement and on the same side of the street. There was something odd in her stance, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. The rucksack, maybe, which never left her side? Her attention seemed to be focussed on a spot on or near the same vehicle where he had seen the movement.

In the same instant, he realized what was unusual about her stance:
she was holding her gun down by her leg.

He felt the back of his neck go cold. It was a classic approach to a suspect vehicle, remaining carefully in the driver’s blind spot while keeping him in sight and holding your weapon ready. The next move would be to tap on the window right behind his ear and—

Harry turned and ran back to his car at the rear of the building. It was pointless shouting a warning; Joanne had obviously spotted the watcher on her way out and had reacted in the way she’d been trained. If the person in the car, innocent or not, showed the slightest sign of resistance in the next couple of minutes, it would probably be the last thing they ever did.

He tore out of the car park, hoping nobody chose that moment to drive by. By the time he was out in the street, Joanne was already within ten paces of the suspect vehicle and bending forward slightly, beginning to bring her weapon up. He hit the accelerator, hoping he could make it in time.

The gap narrowed fast. As he began to draw level with the stationary car, he stamped hard on the brakes. The tyres squealed in protest as they tried to grip the tarmac, causing Joanne to glance up. At the same moment, a shadow moved inside the vehicle. But the watcher wasn’t in the driver’s seat where he should have been – he was in the back and facing the pavement, waiting for Joanne to draw close.

‘
Gun!
’ Harry roared as he saw the outline of a weapon in the man’s hands.

But Joanne had seen it, too. With no change of expression, she skipped sideways and ran out into the road. Caught out by the speed of her reaction, the man inside the car couldn’t spin round on his seat fast enough.

Joanne’s move had brought her level with the offside rear wing of the man’s car. In a single movement she swivelled her body, brought the gun up two-handed and fired twice through the side window. The noise of the two shots rolled into one and was almost lost against the residue of the engine noise of Harry’s car and the squealing of his tyres, followed by the tinkling of glass falling to the road.

Then Joanne ran round to the front of the Saab and dived into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind her.

‘Go!’
she yelled, and threw her rucksack in the back.

THIRTY-FOUR

‘
T
hey’ve split up.’ Dog reported succinctly. He was carefully picking broken window fragments out of his hair and trying to ignore a painful ringing in his right ear. Luckily, he could hear well enough with his left to make the call. While he waited for a response, he clambered into the front seat and started the engine. It caught with a cough and settled into a smooth hum.

Further along the street somebody was shouting. He ignored them. He felt humiliated but relieved to be alive.
Christ, nearly being bested by a woman!
He pounded the steering wheel. She was good, though, and should have been; she’d been trained by the best. It was the shout from Tate that had unnerved him. Then that move she’d pulled before opening fire was a beauty. The only thing he couldn’t figure out was why she’d aimed to miss. At that distance, she should have splattered his brains all over the interior of the car. Given the same circumstances, he’d have aimed to kill.

‘All three?’ The drawl on the end of the line was heavy with criticism because Dog had managed to lose both Tate and Ferris. And now Archer. After the screw-up at South Acres, he could have done without it.

‘I could hardly follow them all,’ he replied tersely. ‘I decided to stick with Tate and the girl.’ He hesitated then added, ‘She blew my window out in the middle of the street with a semi-automatic. You never said she was a fucking lunatic.’ It was rare for Dog to swear, especially in the presence of an employer, but he felt it more than suited the occasion.

‘I didn’t think I had to. You know her background. Where are they now?’

‘Gone. Do you want me to come in?’

‘No. Stay in the open. The office is closed until further notice.’

‘Closed?’ Dog didn’t like the sound of that. So far this assignment had not been going spectacularly well, and he had a bad feeling about this latest development. In his experience, poor planning was as much to blame as bad execution. Perhaps Jennings had overreached himself. Maybe it was time he considered getting out while he still could. Except that it went against the grain to have a failure on his record. He couldn’t have that, not after all this time. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t worry about it. A minor operational glitch, that’s all. I’ll call you with a new location when I’m sure it’s safe. In the meantime, I suggest you keep looking. This matter has now gone critical.’

The phone clicked and Dog threw his mobile down on the passenger seat.
Critical
. So critical he was out in the open and would have to stay on the move to avoid being compromised. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time; some things you just got used to in this business.

As he turned a corner into a quiet square, thinking about where he could find a safe base, he smelled burning plastic. It grew steadily stronger until, seconds later, the engine coughed and juddered, then died.