MONOLITH (28 page)

‘So you’re telling me that Andrei Voronov, one of the richest and most reclusive men in the world invited you to his private penthouse apartment just for a quiet chat?’

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson raised his eyebrows questioningly and looked at Alex Hadley who was seated on the opposite side of the desk from him.

Hadley nodded.

‘And why the fuck would he do that?’ Johnson wanted to know.

‘I think he’s worried about what we know?’ Jessica Anderson interjected.

Johnson looked wearily at her.

‘He’s worried you know he’s got a statue in his penthouse,’ the D.I. said, shrugging. ‘Well, yeah, I can see why he’d be worried about that. I mean if that news got out Christ knows what people would say. God forbid they ever find out what kind of aftershave he uses or what paintings he’s got on his wall too, the entire financial world might go into meltdown.’

‘We told you what that thing was?’ Hadley insisted.

‘A golem?’ Johnson sighed. ‘An inanimate object that can be brought to life and can do the bidding of the man who built it.’ The scorn in his voice was heavy and he made no attempt to hide it. He shook his head and looked at Hadley again. ‘Don’t you think I’m taking this all very well considering it’s complete and utter bollocks.’

‘Brian Dunham was the main opposition to Voronov’s plans and now he’s dead,’ Jess offered. ‘All the people who opposed the building of the Crystal Tower changed their minds totally about Voronov and his projects because they were either threatened or bribed.’

‘No one knows that for sure,’ Johnson reminded her.

‘It’s a fair assumption,’ Jess persisted.

‘And you think they were threatened? By some walking statue?’ Johnson said.

‘At least consider the possibility,’ Hadley interjected. ‘As crazy as that possibility sounds.’

‘Even if I did,’ Johnson went on. ‘Don’t you think that someone somewhere might have spotted this fucking thing lurching about? How tall is it, seven feet or more? And it weighs a ton. It can’t be very light on its feet, can it?’

‘It must have been transported to and from Dunham’s house and also to the scene of his murder,’ Jess said. ‘By Voronov’s men.’

‘No details of the attack on his house or of his murder have been released to the press have they?’ Hadley offered, watching as Johnson shook his head. ‘Fair enough. So if I tell you something that could only be known by the pathologist or you then will you believe me?’

‘Like what?’ Johnson sneered.

‘You found something resembling brick dust at both scenes,’ Hadley said. ‘Dried clay or something that looked like building material. Probably in the wounds when Dunham himself was killed.’

Johnson looked evenly at the other man and his surprise did not register in his expression.

‘You probably found it on the remains of Dunham’s car too,’ Hadley went on.

‘That’s quite a supposition,’ Johnson said. ‘Even for you. How did you get to that conclusion so quickly?’

‘The dust came from the Golem,’ Jess added. ‘When it attacked Dunham it left traces of itself just like a person leaves fingerprints.’

‘It’s true isn’t it?’ Hadley said, softly.

‘Forensics did find some kind of residue at both scenes,’ Johnson admitted. ‘How the fuck did you know that? Have you got a source here that I don’t know about?’

‘It stands to reason that when the Golem attacked his house and attacked him, it left traces of itself,’ Jess said. ‘Check what you found on Dunham’s body against the statue in Voronov’s apartment. See if they match.’

‘And if they do?’ Johnson challenged.

‘Then you’ll know Voronov was responsible,’ Jess told him. ‘What else could have left that kind of residue?’

‘It’s unlikely that a killer is going to use a piece of masonry to kill someone with is it?’ Hadley added. ‘A lump of concrete isn’t exactly the perfect weapon.’

‘It is if you want to smash someone to a pulp,’ Johnson said.

‘And Dunham was smashed to a pulp wasn’t he?’ Jess said. ‘Beaten far worse than any man could have beaten him.’

‘You’d be surprised what a man’s capable of,’ Johnson said, quietly.

‘But who could use a weapon like that so easily?’ Hadley wanted to know. ‘Imagine the strength needed. If men had attacked Dunham, the heaviest weapons they could have used would have been iron bars or hammers. You said yourself that it looked as if his house had been attacked with sledgehammers.’

Johnson rubbed his eyes then looked at Hadley once more.

‘So you want me to go waltzing into Voronov’s apartment and ask to take scrapings from his fucking statue to see if it’s responsible for the murder of at least one man?’ the D.I. said.

Hadley nodded.

‘I always thought you’d lost it, Alex,’ Johnson said. ‘Now I know you have.’

‘Then you explain that dust, that residue, whatever the hell it is?’ Hadley challenged.

‘And you explain how a supposedly intelligent man like yourself can believe that the Leader of Westminster Council was beaten to death by a walking statue?’ Johnson countered. ‘And if it’s true why the fuck would Voronov show the bloody thing to you?’

‘To try and put us off the scent,’ Jess added.

‘The only scent around here is from the bullshit that you two are leaving behind,’ Johnson muttered.

‘He knows we can’t do anything about it,’ Jess said.

‘If this thing is dangerous like you say it is then shouldn’t you be worried in case he sends it after you?’ Johnson wanted to know.

Neither of them spoke.

Johnson got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office, gazing out over London, thoughts tumbling through his mind.

‘At least consider it, Bob,’ Hadley said, finally. ‘That’s all we’re asking.’

Johnson nodded without turning to face them.

‘You can see yourselves out,’ the detective said, his back still to them.

‘And you’ll call me if anything happens?’ Hadley asked.

‘Just go, Alex,’ Johnson sighed. ‘Just go.’

Jess looked at Hadley then they both got to their feet and headed for the office door. Johnson didn’t turn when he heard it close behind them. He waited a moment then turned and reached for the phone on his desk. Picking it up he hit one of the buttons, waiting for an answer.

When he heard Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell’s voice at the other end he exhaled.

‘Ray, have you got a minute?’ Johnson asked. ‘And when you come, bring the forensic report on Brian Dunham with you.’

Johnson dropped the phone back on the cradle and waited.

‘Bollocks.’

Spike hissed angrily as he spilled the can of Red Bull. The liquid fortunately for him missed his keyboard and spread out across the desk top like a puddle as he snatched at the can to avoid more spillage. He hurried into his kitchen and returned with a handful of kitchen roll which he used to mop up the Red Bull, muttering irritably to himself as he performed the task, one eye and certainly both ears still more concerned with what had made him spill the drink in the first place.

The room was alive with sounds coming from the computer and the banks of speakers and receivers that Mark Paxton had set up there. Each one was tuned to a different frequency, the details of which were known to him alone. To anyone walking into the room the array of gadgetry would have been baffling but not to Paxton. He loved this panoply of technology and he was sure that if he had a pound for every hour he spent cocooned inside this room he would now be a very rich man indeed. He tossed the Red Bull soaked pieces of cloth into a waste bin which was already overflowing and badly in need of emptying. Then he sat down again, adjusting some of the dials and knobs on the nearest receiver, pausing occasionally to listen to moments of conversation through earphones when the sounds became too distorted.

As well as the emergency frequencies, Paxton’s sophisticated equipment was capable of monitoring everything from taxi transmissions to baby monitors and two-way radios if they were within a certain range. Admittedly nothing important ever came across the airwaves from baby monitors he reminded himself (the odd argument between parents was occasionally amusing but that was about it) but occasionally something would turn up from a taxi transmission that would prove interesting, if not to him then to one of the people who paid him for information. Paxton had worked with a number of private detective agencies and some of the messages he’d picked up from one particular taxi firm’s radio messages had been enough to confirm that they were acting not only as a drug delivery firm on the side but also that they were ferrying prostitutes back and forth to clients some of who were best described as ‘minor celebrities’.

Now Paxton reached for the headphones once more and pressed one earpiece to his head, squinting as he tried to pick out words amidst the crackle of static or the buzz of interference. The words he’d heard to begin with, the ones that had caused him to react with such surprise he’d heard three more times in the last ten minutes and he was sure that their source must be a two-way radio somewhere close. Within ten miles he guessed, taking into account the range of the equipment he had.

When he’d first heard the words he’d thought he’d misheard. Within the room and surrounded by so much electronic verbiage, he had doubted his own ears but then the same words had been repeated again. And again. Two names.

And they were names he knew.

Paxton had swiftly reduced the volume of the other transmitters and receivers so that he could concentrate on the sounds he was trying to home in on. As he had done that the words had come again. Spoken in clipped tones they had been unmistakeable when heard for the third time.

‘Anderson.’

The name was followed seconds later by another.

‘Hadley.’

If the two names had been spoken any other way than together then Paxton told himself he would probably have missed them, probably have lost the references among the other hissing, crackling and garbled speech flowing into the room but the two names spoken so close together and also more than once in such a short space of time had alerted him. Who the hell was talking about Jessica Anderson and Alex Hadley on two-way radios, he asked himself. And why?

He twisted dials and turned knobs until the interference was at a minimum, checking once more the frequency being used and now satisfied beyond any doubt that the source of the transmission had been a two-way radio. Was it a police radio he wondered? Then he contemplated, with a slight smile on his face, what kind of crime the two of them could have committed that would have the police using their names in such a way. He shook his head. The source of the transmission remained unknown.

Paxton reached for his mobile and hit the button that brought up his list of contacts. He scrolled down to Jess’s name, his thumb poised over the call option. She ought to know about this he told himself. But should he call her now or wait until he possibly heard something else on the frequency? There was nothing overly sinister in two names being spoken three or four times was there? Perhaps, he told himself he should wait.

He was still considering his options, his thumb still poised over Jess’s number.

Then he heard the sound. Something heavy had connected with the wood of his back door.

Paxton dropped the headphones and looked in the direction of the noise, rising from his seat and moving towards the sound slowly.

It came again. Louder this time as if the initial impact had intensified.

Paxton moved into the kitchen, the mobile still gripped in his hand. With the other he snatched a knife from the worktop nearest to him and gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white. He glanced at the back door and saw that there were several small pieces of wood lying on the linoleum at its base, presumably knocked free by the impacts from the other side. Paxton swallowed hard and stood motionless gazing at the partition. He glanced at the handle as if expecting it to turn or possibly even be smashed from its position on the wood but it remained where it was. Paxton began to tell himself his imagination was working overtime. And yet he had heard those sounds. He hadn’t imagined them.

The silence that filled the room seemed oppressive and Paxton was sure he could hear the beating of his own heart as it thumped against his ribs. He took a faltering step towards the door.

Then the impact came again.

Jessica Anderson glanced at the caller i.d. as she picked up her mobile, rubbing her eyes just to check on the time too.

She was a little surprised to see that the name SPIKE was being displayed and also slightly perplexed that the time was showing 1.46 a.m. Jess sat up in bed, shaken from the dream she’d been having, the last vestiges of it still clouding her mind as she pressed the phone to her ear.

‘Spike,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘What’s going on?’

She heard a sound in the background that reminded her of someone dropping something heavy from a great height.

‘Spike,’ she said, holding the phone away from her ear slightly. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘Jess,’ he gasped into the mouthpiece. ‘Someone’s trying to break in.’

She heard the fear and desperation in his voice immediately.

‘Have you called the police?’ she demanded, swinging herself out of bed, brushing strands of hair from her face.

There was no answer, only another thunderous sound from the other end of the line then a gasp from Paxton.

‘Get out of there, Spike,’ she shouted into the phone.

‘They’re trying to break in,’ he said, his voice cracking.

‘Who is?’ she gasped.

‘I don’t know,’ he told her breathlessly.

‘Get out of there,’ she shouted once more.

‘I heard your name on one of my receivers,’ Paxton blurted. ‘Yours and Hadley’s.’

Jess felt the colour drain from her face and it was as if she’d been enveloped by an invisible cold hand that was now squeezing tighter.

‘What do you mean?’ she wanted to know.

‘Your name and Alex Hadley’s name were mentioned in a conversation I picked up on some short wave radios about twenty minutes ago,’ he told her.

There was another loud crash from Paxton’s end of the line.

‘Never mind that now,’ Jess gasped. ‘Just get out of there, Spike.’

‘No, it’s important, I think the radios were being used by Voronov’s men. The accents were foreign and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, only your names.’

‘Call the police for Christ’s sake,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way now.’

She jumped off the bed grabbing for the jeans that she’d tossed haphazardly onto a chair nearby. She pulled them on and pushed her bare feet into a pair of trainers, almost stumbling as she did so. She snatched up her phone again.

‘Tell Hadley, you’re in danger, both of you,’ Paxton shouted and at his end of the phone there was a deafening crash followed by a shout of fear that made Jess’s blood freeze.

‘Spike,’ she yelled, glaring at the mobile.

There was no answer this time.

‘Spike,’ she called again feeling completely and utterly helpless. She couldn’t have felt more useless if she’d been standing there watching behind a plexiglass partition but not knowing what was happening made the situation even more unbearable. She screamed his name once again but still there was no answer, just the sounds of destruction from the other end of the line. She heard muffled words and sounds but it was impossible to identify them until she heard a sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

It was a despairing scream of terror and pain that she was only too sure came from Paxton.

It was followed by a silence punctuated by some minor scuffling and scraping sounds then nothing.

‘Spike,’ she shouted, gripping the mobile so tightly it threatened to snap in her grip. ‘Spike.’

Still nothing.

Then, as Jess held the phone close to her ear she heard low breathing.

‘Who’s that?’ she rasped. ‘I can hear you, whoever you are. The police are on the way. You won’t get away.’

There was more guttural breathing from the other end of the line and then a crunching sound, as if the phone was being crushed or stepped on.

The line went dead.