Vendetta (33 page)

‘This is our patch. You can’t walk around here, bruv, without paying a toll.’

‘I help sick people.’

The youth looked at his comrades, who seemed doubtful. But finally one of them said, ‘OK, let him go.’

Outside a shuttered entrance to the warehouse, two men in official-looking uniforms were watching the confrontation carefully. The youth slowly wheeled his bike backwards and Mac walked on while one of the youths sneered, ‘Support the NHS.’ Mac heard their immature giggles fading as he moved on.

He avoided walking directly past the men in uniform at the shutter, but instead did a circuit of the building. The broken windows and hoist points were all covered by corrugated iron and were too high to get access to anyway. Again, at strategic points, cars and vans were parked as indicated on Reuben’s map. He had everything covered. Mac walked on and found another bench out of reach of the watching squads and sat down. He checked his watch. The delivery should have been well under way, but nothing was happening. Not in the harbour, not around the warehouse, not among the various boats that were tied up. Something had gone wrong.

seventy-five

10:35 p.m.

Rio’s eyes snapped open, pain still with her. And the fear. She remembered the room, the bed, the knife, a tattoo . . .

Beep. Beep. Her head turned slightly to find she was hooked up to a machine; its light, pulsating strong and bright, had the intensity of a lifeline. Lifeline. Hospital. She was in hospital. The rest came back to her – some bastard had tried to kill her. And Martin . . . ?

She squeezed her eyes with emotional agony.
How could I have let that happen to him? I was meant to be looking out for him! Should’ve insisted he keep his arse in the car!

She tried to lift herself up, at the same time noticing the bandages on her lower arms, but a voice somewhere in the room stopped her.

‘Don’t move.’

She slumped back as footsteps padded across the floor. A nurse looked down at her and smiled.

‘How are you feeling?’

Rio opened her mouth to speak, but coughed instead.

‘Drink this.’ A hand cupped the back of her hair and raised her head. Eagerly Rio tipped her chin to touch her lips to the side of a blue plastic cup that the nurse held. The liquid tasted like a chemical wash, leaving a nasty aftertaste on her blistered tongue, but she sucked and swallowed. Sucked and swallowed.

‘Easy.’ The cup was pulled back. Rio’s head hit the pillow again.

Only then did she realise that her superior officer was in the room too, sitting in the armchair by the bed.

DCI Newman stood up. ‘So how are you feeling?’

She gulped in air, which scraped against her dry throat. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Someone called it in.’

‘Who?’

He shook his head. ‘We don’t know . . . A man. But don’t worry about any of that, you need to rest up.’

Her features became stark. ‘Detective Martin . . .’ She couldn’t manage the rest of the words, but that had nothing to do with the state of her throat.

DCI Newman gave her a grave look. ‘I know. There was nothing anyone could do for him.’ He shifted his shoulders back. ‘You don’t need to worry about informing his family, I’ve done it . . .’

‘But I should’ve been the person doing that . . .’

‘They understand. I’ll come back and see you tomorrow, so get a good night’s sleep.’

Rio shuffled, trying to sit up. She slumped back down, but that didn’t stop her from speaking. ‘Sir, we found a map of St Katharine Docks in Katia Romanov’s house. Something is going down . . .’

‘Rio. I told you earlier that this investigation is over for you.’ His hand fell against her shoulder, but strangely it didn’t feel comforting. He squeezed ever so slightly.

‘Time for your medication,’ the nurse gently interrupted. ‘This will ease the pain and help you sleep.’

She passed Rio a white paper cup with two blue pills in it. Rio placed them in her mouth and then her throat worked with the water she took.

Newman smiled at her. She closed her eyes, but her eyeballs twitched under the orange-black haze of her eyelid. Less than a minute later, the door closed.

Rio sprang into action. Spat out the tabs hidden under her tongue. Pulled herself up. Ignored the dizziness as she tugged the tubes from her body. Shoved off the bed and, with painful arms, picked up her neatly stacked clothes on the nearby chair. Awkwardly dressed. She checked the corridor. No one around. Head down, she briskly walked and vowed that she was still going to solve this case. And now DC Martin’s murder.

seventy-six

Mac stared hard at a yacht as his brain ticked away. It wasn’t one of those flash, racy vessels, but of a much more modest style. Behind its wheelhouse a man’s head occasionally bobbed up and down, surveying the area. From time to time he would appear and take a longer look before disappearing below. Mac looked at his watch.

10:40.

Then back over at the warehouse, where nothing was happening. When he looked back again, Mac saw the man on the yacht had emerged and was standing on the prow, from where he had a commanding view of the scene. He was dressed in a smart suit, a cravat, and wearing a peaked cap like a Sunday afternoon sailor. Mac started to look away, but something about the man drew his attention. That something was the way the man carried himself: the ramrod straightness of a soldier.

The man turned slightly, giving Mac a better, but still half-shadowed view of his face. Mac squinted his eyes. There was something familiar about that face . . . but he couldn’t place it. Where had he seen it before? Where . . . ? Mac quickly dug into his inside pocket. Pulled out the charred remains of the photo he’d recovered from the fireplace in Elena’s home. Studied the photo. Studied the man. He couldn’t be sure, but the man looked like a dead ringer for one of the military men in the photograph. The one on the left with the crooked front tooth in his smile. Sure, the man on the boat was older, but the line of his nose, jaw, even forehead all looked the same. The man flicked up his wrist and checked his watch. Then, before Mac could investigate him further, pulled out his mobile as he disappeared into a cabin below. Mac still couldn’t be sure, but hey, what did he have to lose?

He walked out of the shadow and approached the yacht. Took light steps along the gangplank. The boat swayed ever so slightly as Mac took two easy steps onto the deck. He remained still for a few seconds. Listened as the night breeze kicked up around him. Moved towards the opening leading to the cabin below. Mac peered down. Short, single flight of wooden stairs. Once again listened as he pulled out the Megastar. He could hear a voice, but couldn’t make out the words. Either the man was talking on his phone or had company. The slight motion of the vessel rippled through his body as he took the stairs. Carefully. Slowly. One at a time. When he reached the bottom, the view of the cabin was laid bare to him. The yacht might not have looked expensive up top, but this cabin was a mariner’s dream. Smooth cream ceiling with spotlights, all-round windows instead of walls, and walnut furniture, including the impressive bed where the man sat, with his body half turned away from Mac.

‘Can I help you?’ the man said, obviously sensing he was no longer alone. No panic in his voice, no worry.

Slowly he turned round, punching off the phone as Mac entered the room, gun raised. He looked surprised, but unworried, that he had a visitor pointing a double action at his chest.

‘Can I help you . . . Mister . . . ?’ he repeated, showing his crooked front tooth.

seventy-seven

Definitely a dead ringer for one of the men in Elena’s photo. The soft spotlight on the man’s face smoothed out the wrinkles around his eyes and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth. But it sharpened the silver hair that had once been completely nut brown.

Mac spread his legs, keeping his stance evenly grounded. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘Of course,’ the man said calmly, as if he were beginning a presentation in front of an audience. One of his hands leaned into the black and red luxury blanket as he crossed his legs. ‘My name is Andreas Schmidt and I’m a businessman from Germany. I’ve been in London securing a contract and now I’m enjoying a sailing trip around your beautiful English coastline. I’ve travelled up from Ramsgate today and I’m planning to sail around Essex tomorrow.’

Mac reached into his pocket and put the charred photo on the foldaway table by Schmidt’s bed. ‘I’ve had a long day and it’s not over yet. And if you think I’m going to put up with you screwing me in the rear, think again, Herr Schmidt. I’m guessing that one of the two men in this photo is you, and the other the father of a friend of mine. But I don’t have to guess, because you’re going to tell me which one you are.’

Schmidt picked the photo up. He didn’t falter but lingered over it a little too long before putting it back down. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you don’t mind, you must leave my yacht or I’ll be forced to call your famous English Bobbies . . .’

Mac’s boiling rage took him across the room. Without hesitation he pressed the gun against the man’s forehead. ‘There’ve been a lot of men – and women – already killed today, so if you don’t want to be the next, you need to get your memory back – fast.’

The man uncrossed his legs and laid his palms flat on the blanket. ‘OK, I’m the man in the photo. And you’re right: the other man is Elena and Katia’s father. My name is Andrei Popov. Satisfied?’

‘Satisfied?’ Mac increased the pressure of the gun. ‘I haven’t even started yet. Like your name, sounds like you’ve got a whole string of them to tap into and I’m betting I know one of them – Mister Bolshoi.’

Popov laughed – a strange, muffled sound that seemed half caught in his nose. ‘The very real Mister Bolshoi would take strong exception to his name being used by someone else.’ His laughter stopped dead. ‘And I can assure you that Mister Bolshoi doesn’t take kindly to impersonations of himself.’

‘You know him, then?’

‘I’ve never met him. What’s your interest in him?’

Mac’s finger tensed around the trigger. ‘I’m asking the fucking question—’

‘I’m here on a job for Mister Bolshoi,’ the other man abruptly cut in. ‘He asked me to bring over a delivery for a business associate of his, a Mr Volk. But there seems to be some sort of problem.’

Mac looked up and down the cramped space inside the yacht. ‘Did you leave the delivery behind? Only there doesn’t seem to be one.’

A shout sounded from outside, sharply drawing Popov’s attention away from Mac. There was another shout. Startling him, Popov pushed Mac’s gun away and said, ‘I need to deal with this, Mac.’

But Mac pushed the gun back in place. ‘How do you know what my name is?’

The older man got up, as if the gun wasn’t there. ‘Mister Bolshoi takes a keen interest in all of the people in his organisations.’ Popov started walking towards the stairs. ‘I can’t stop you from shooting me in the back, but remember that I’m merely here to do a job.’

Tension flooding his whole body, Mac kept the weapon on the other man, but he didn’t pull the trigger. He’d never shot anyone in the back before. And the man was unarmed. Instead Mac lowered the gun as he followed Popov up the stairs. More shouting greeted Popov’s emergence onto the deck. Mac couldn’t make out the words, but he raised his gun and levelled it with the older man’s head. Mac’s gaze adjusted to the darkness. Further down the harbour wall, some of Reuben’s men were walking along examining vessels. It would only be a matter of time before they reached the boat.

Popov twisted to Mac and barked, ‘There are assault rifles and magazines under the bed in the cabin. Bring back two—’

‘Guns? Is that what this delivery is?’

Popov savagely hissed, ‘We don’t have time to talk about what I might and might not be delivering. If you don’t get those guns, we’re dead men.’

Reuben’s men were getting closer.

‘Reuben changed the time of the delivery,’ Popov threw out quickly.

That made the heat in Mac’s gun hand intensify. ‘But Reuben said that Bolshoi changed the meet time . . .’

Mac felt like he was being sucked into a rat hole. Why would Reuben lie about Bolshoi?

‘Mister Bolshoi doesn’t work with people who suddenly think they are the boss,’ the other man said, supplying the answer for Mac.

But was it the right answer? Is that what this was all about? Reuben trying to take over Bolshoi’s operation?

Mac hitched the gun up a quarter of an inch. ‘I’d better get on with killing you then . . .’

Popov’s gaze drilled into him. ‘Are you sure you’re going to have time to shoot me and get off this boat before Reuben’s men reach us, Detective John MacDonagh?’

The chill of being totally engulfed in the rat hole spread through every nerve ending Mac had; he felt stunned that Popov knew who he was. But before he could deny it, the other man rapidly continued.

‘Mister Bolshoi knows everything and, from what he hears, Reuben thinks you’re dead. If Reuben comes on board, you’re a dead man; I’m a dead man. So get the guns now.’

seventy-eight

10:53 p.m.

The sound of the men on the dock was getting closer, their voices getting louder.