Vendetta (17 page)

‘Mac,’ he called out.

Philip shoved the stun gun in his hand against the side of Mac’s torso. Mac shook as the stun gun shot a thousand volts through his body, the force of it spinning him round. As he fell, Phil was finally able to see Mac’s face. Phil swore viciously.

It wasn’t Mac.

thirty-six

Stars, skulls, angels, wings . . . more bloody wings. Rio was sick to the back teeth of seeing tattoos as she and Martin entered the umpteenth local tattoo parlour for the day. Why oh why hadn’t she delegated the job to a couple of the other officers in her team? This tat house was unoriginally called The Needle, but it could’ve been named The Dark House because it was painted all over black. No colourful and fanciful designs. Just black.

‘Been thinking about getting a warrant card tattoo after my performance review comes through – that’s if it’s good,’ Martin suddenly said.

Rio heard the eagerness in his voice and sort of felt proud that she’d helped pull him from a shy rookie detective to the outstanding cop he was today. But she made no reply, just pushed into the shop. The inside was anything but dark. Powder-blue walls offset the many designs mounted on them. The sound of a needle hissed as a man with a sleek ponytail engraved what to Rio looked like a gargoyle on a woman’s arm.

The man didn’t look round as he said, ‘Take a seat; I’ll be with you in five.’

He had an accent – to Rio’s ears it sounded Russian.

‘We need to have a word,’ Rio said as she moved forward, pulling out her badge.

The man finally looked round as she reached him and flashed her ID in his face.

He looked irritated as he cut off the needle, but there was the slight hum of another needle coming from somewhere in the back of the shop, behind the lilac beaded curtain. He briskly nodded at the woman in the chair, who got up and went to sit on one of the seats near the door.

‘What do you want?’ His tone was unfriendly.

Martin held out his mobile, which displayed a photo of the star tattoo on the arm of their victim.

‘Have you done or seen this tattoo before?’ Rio asked.

The man gave it a quick look, but he also flicked his gaze towards the back of the shop. ‘No,’ he uttered curtly.

‘Look a bit harder this time,’ Rio responded, grabbing the phone from Martin and shoving it into the man’s face.

Reluctantly he looked more closely this time. ‘No, no. And no.’

‘I’m investigating the murder of a young woman . . .’

‘And I’ve got a customer waiting.’

The humming in the back of the shop stopped, replaced by giggles. Without any warning, Rio marched towards the back.

‘Hey, you can’t just go in there . . .’ the tattoo artist protested.

But Rio kept on going. Flipped her hand up to move the beaded curtain out of the way. Small corridor with two rooms to the side. The door to the room on the left was open. The sound of voices – excited, girlish voices – spilled out.

Rio reached it and stopped in the doorway. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said as she took in the scene. Two teenage girls, wearing school uniforms, were inside with an older woman. One girl was admiring a tattoo that had just been designed around her friend’s belly button.

Hearing her voice, the people inside looked up. Rio eased into the room. Stopped when she reached the schoolgirl with the tattoo and looked down at the design on her body.

Love heart, with the words, ‘Lisa and Scottie Forever’.

‘Lisa,’ Rio said to the girl. ‘I’m sure you’re meant to be in school or something, so why don’t you and your mate hop on out of here.’

The schoolgirls looked nervously at each other, but recognised the voice of authority when they heard it.

‘No need to pay, this one’s on the house.’

The teens squealed with appreciation, one of them loudly saying the word, ‘fresh’, which Rio took to be the latest word for cool. The girls grabbed their bags and, chatting, left the shop.

Turned slowly to the male tattoo artist. ‘You do know it’s against the law to give a tattoo to someone under the age of eighteen.’

The woman and the man looked grimly at each other.

‘Now I could run this in, but you know what that will mean: this shop will be shut down and you’ll be facing a hefty fine . . .’ She shoved the photo in his face again.

He swallowed. Spoke quickly to the other artist in Russian, who quickly exited the room.

He took the mobile and gazed at the photo intently. ‘I’ve seen it before, but never done one.’

‘Where?’

He swallowed again and Rio noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. ‘It was a long time ago. I don’t remember where.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Some man came into a shop I worked in years back; he had one on his forearm. I’ve never seen it again. It’s certainly not a design that I carry in my shop.’

‘What about the writing?’

He moved the picture closer to his face.

С волка?ми жить

по-во?лчьи выть

‘It’s a Russian love saying. “Love is in the arms of the woman you love”.’

‘Are you sure, because doesn’t the red star mean the Red Army?’ Martin spoke for the first time.

‘Stars are one of the most popular designs, including red ones, which will have nothing to do with any army,’ the man responded sarcastically as he handed the phone back to Rio. ‘Now, can I get back to work?’ he added tartly.

‘If you’re lying to me . . .’ Rio threatened.

‘And why would I do that?’ the man shot back. His tone shifted from hard to weary. ‘I’m just a man, with a business, wanting to get on with his job.’

Back in the car, Rio leaned heavily back in her seat. ‘Maybe our vic was just a prostitute and got turned over by a punter?’

‘Boss, there’s something about this tattoo . . .’ Martin said.

‘What you thinking?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

Rio sighed.

Love is in the arms of the woman you love.

Damn. She just couldn’t figure out how the inscription was going to help with her investigation.

The sound of her mobile distracted her away from the tattoo. God, did her phone ever stop?

‘DI Wray.’

It was the officer on the desk back at The Fort. ‘There’s a man here to see you. Says he has some information on your murder investigation at the hotel.’

thirty-seven

2 p.m.

Getting into Club Zee was a lot easier than Mac figured. He thought it would be all intercoms, heavy-duty doors and bull-neck bouncers. But all he had to do was push open the door. He’d forgotten that during daylight hours most clubs were empty, still clearing up from the night before, so security was usually lax, most times non-nexistent. Club Zee was one of those faded art-deco buildings that were dotted every now and again across London. Some of the walls were curved and twisted, while others were panelled with raised lines that stood out like ceramic prison bars. A car siren lit up the air somewhere behind him as he pushed against the smooth walnut door.

He squinted against the change of light, a soothing red that bathed a short, tight corridor leading to a jet-painted door. The lights put Mac in mind of a brothel, dimmed enough so the punters couldn’t see the crap beneath the false glamour, and so the house girls wouldn’t have to see the men in all their creepy glory. The thought of a brothel bothered him. He could deal with Elena dipping in and out of a place full of ravers high on hippy-crack laughing gas, but a house of pay-as-you-go fucking . . . no, that would be the biggest betrayal of all.

The door at the end opened up under Mac’s firm push and he entered a reception area. Wide, quite tastefully kitted out with a tanned wood reception desk, jungle green couch and accompanying single chair. There were pictures on the wall, framed prints, not of buck-naked chicks or Al Pacino doing Scarface, tooled up with that killer stare, but replicas of well-known paintings. Then he noticed that another framed picture wasn’t a painting but photos, lots of photos mixed up together. But Mac wasn’t paying attention to the walls; the only thing that got his attention was the fact that there was no one around. Good – gave him time to stick his snout where it didn’t belong.

He started up a narrow flight of stairs that took him to the next floor. Black carpet, freshly vacuumed, over a space that was slightly bigger than downstairs. Another door at the end. He lengthened his stride, the sprayed air freshener stinging the insides of his nostrils as he neared the door. Pulled it open. Massive dance floor, its walls gleaming with the brightness of a metallic, silver shell. No one at the bar. No one anywhere. Mac rubbed his lips together in frustration. This was a large club, so how the heck was he going to find out about Elena’s connection here? He didn’t know the layout of the place. Which were the offices, the private rooms, or even those that might be reserved for one-on-one striptease?

‘What are you doing there?’ a voice called, taking Mac’s decision from him.

He turned to find an older woman, maybe a few decades on him, with a green overall, the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner in her hand and skin around her mouth that was as tightly pulled back as her greying hair.

Mac stared back, letting his gaze drop directly into hers. He didn’t blink as he answered. ‘I’m looking for the manager?’

The woman scoffed. Twisted her thin lips. ‘Manager? That’s a laugh. But if you’re looking for Jeff, the ponce who pays me a pittance, he’s in the office in the back near the basement dance floor downstairs.’

And with that she turned her back on him and revved up the vacuum. Mac knew seeing the manager was taking a chance, but sometimes the best way to find out stuff was straight from the horse’s big mouth. The sound of clinking glasses hit Mac as soon as he reached the dance floor downstairs. A man stood behind the slim bar, stocking up for the coming night, and a pole dancer, in an eye-hurting lemon crop top, did her thing upside down, her shock-blonde hair falling over her face. He passed her and approached the man at the bar.

‘Looking for Jeff,’ he threw out.

The man stopped. Gave him the quick once-over and then pointed his thumb at a door buried deep in another corridor past the Ladies and Gents. The door was slightly open, so Mac pushed and stepped inside. It wasn’t big, but had enough space in which to fit the table that a young man sat behind. He was kitted out in a polo shirt and a sharp suit, his thumbs moving wildly as he played a computer game. In front of him were piles of papers, an open bottle of brown liquid that left a sweet odour floating in the air and a mirror with a single line of coke. No, Mac peered closer at the drugs; from the size of the grains, he bet it was Special K.

‘Yesss,’ Jeff let out in a gravelly London accent, and then made a loud whooping sound. ‘Got you, sucker.’

Abruptly he flicked his head up, realising he wasn’t alone. His skin was young but his eyes were red-rimmed and ancient. He threw the console on the table and leaned back. ‘If you’re looking for a job, we ain’t hiring today. The only way we dish out work is on a strictly mouth-to-mouth basis, you get me?’

‘The cleaner told me where to find you.’

Jeff smiled. ‘Oh, you mean my mum.’

‘I’m here on behalf of Reuben – Reuben Volk sent me.’

That got the effect that Mac was after. Jeff straightened up in the chair, running his palms down his polo shirt, as if trying to iron out any wrinkles. ‘Tell Mr Volk that I’m looking after the place real well . . .’

So Reuben owned the place. He let Jeff prattle on as he made a real drama of shutting the door slowly and firmly. ‘Reuben wants to know what’s happened to his brother’s lady friend. Seems she hasn’t been seen for a while.’

Jeff ran his gaze nervously over Mac as he hitched himself onto the edge of the table. ‘Grapevine is saying you were one of the last people to see her.’

Jeff rapidly shook his head, the ends of his sandy hair bouncing in the air. ‘Well, that just ain’t true; lots of other folk saw her at the club a few days back. I heard some of the other girls saying that she was up the duff . . .’

‘Pregnant?’

The pregnancy testing kit Mac had found in Elena’s flat, now tucked up in his pocket, flashed through his mind.

Jeff leaned forward and raised a palm in the air, as if that would add to the importance of his words. ‘Look, I keep my fingernails clean and just get on with my job, that’s all.’

Mac pushed up a semi-smile. ‘There’s no need to be nervous. All Mr Volk wants to know is where she is.’

The other man’s eyes skated to the drugs laid out beside him. Flicked back to Mac. ‘Do you mind?’ His gaze went back to the white line. ‘Haven’t finished my lunch.’

Mac almost went into automatic sneer, he didn’t have time for people who included drug taking in their leisure activities, but he relaxed his face and nodded. Jeff took the line with a noisy wheeze, pinched his nostrils and slumped, crooked, back in the chair.

His eyes blinked with the intent of the shutter of a camera as he looked back at Mac. ‘That Katia was a real raver, although she never name-checked herself using that name here. She always called herself Annalisa or Anna . . .’

‘So what does this real raver look like?’