Price to Pay, A (7 page)

The DCI strode out into the main office. ‘Details, please.’

The officer studied the print-out in his hand. ‘Four laptops and the contents of the petty cash box – seven hundred and forty-three quid.’

‘A break-in?’ Roebuck demanded.

He shook his head. ‘No. Keys were used. It says the assistant office manager hasn’t turned up for work since the thefts. Unauthorized leave.’

‘The theft was reported when?’

‘First thing Monday morning.’

‘Day after Jade Cummings exploded at the checkpoint on the Israeli border.’

Roebuck paced closer to the officer. ‘This assistant manager: he took them, then?’

‘That’s the current focus.’

‘City centre uniforms dealing with it?’

‘So far. Sergeant Ritter, Bootle Street nick.’

Bill, thought Iona. The guy I worked briefly with on the investigation last year. The one who told me about Jim turning up for work vacant and lethargic.

‘Got a name for this missing assistant manager?’

‘Khaldoon Khan.’

Iona blinked. Same surname as me. Which could well mean he’s from Pakistan. A few glances flashed in her direction.

P
hilip Young had just begun to open his front door when a voice spoke behind him.

‘Not the ground-floor flat, are you?’

He turned to see a shaven-headed man standing at the bottom of the steps. Thirty or thereabouts. Angular face, slightly beady eyes. Over the top of his navy fleece was an orange tabard with the words Npower emblazoned across the left breast. He looked like he was having a really bad day.

‘No, sorry. I live up the stairs. First-floor flat.’

The man rubbed the top of his head with the palm of one hand before glaring at the windows to his right. ‘I’m booked in. Saturday morning, eleven fifteen. She knew I were coming.’

‘The lady who lives there?’ Philip struggled to recall her name even though he often saw letters and catalogues addressed to her in the shared hallway. Debra, was it? Maybe Diane. Something with a D in it. He assumed she was a nurse or something to do with a hospital, coming and going at all sorts of unusual times. ‘Have you tried her bell?’

‘Yeah,’ he sighed, detaching a pen from the clipboard in his hand. ‘I’ll leave a card. She’ll have to book again.’ He started up the steps, almost barging Philip aside to enter the building. ‘Waste of my fucking time.’

Philip was shocked. Courier drivers, gas meter people: did the companies they work for deliberately pick types who, if you saw them in a pub, would tempt you to find somewhere else to drink? Now he was in a quandary. Did he delay going up to his own flat or did he just ask the guy to shut the front door behind him when he was done? He hesitated. Derek, his flatmate, would be back from playing squash in around an hour. There was no time to lose. Not if he was going to watch the new film he’d bought on the widescreen TV in the front room. Anouska. That was the name of the babe on the download’s Jpeg. Her eyes slanted ever so slightly. He guessed she was from somewhere east of Russia. Mongolia or one of those other obscure countries going out towards China. Late teens at most. As he’d purchased the film, he’d vaguely wondered what circumstances led to a girl like that doing the films she did. Not that he was complaining: her body was flawless. He thought of her going at it hammer and tongs with some bloke. The scenarios in the films were always so ridiculous. A TV repairman knocking on her door. Maybe a pizza delivery boy. He looked to his side. Perhaps a boiler technician, or whatever the man next to him writing a note was meant to be. ‘Can you pull the front door behind you on the way out?’

‘No worries.’

‘Cheers.’

He selected the key for his flat door and was just about to go up the stairs when bright lights blossomed in his head. Their appearance coincided with a piercingly loud ringing noise. He wondered if the two things were somehow connected as he felt his shoulder jar against the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man was now beside him, one arm lifting up. He was holding something. Did he …? He did! He just hit me.

Philip raised both arms, wanting to shout.

The man’s empty hand lashed out, sweeping Philip’s forearms aside. The one holding the hammer swung down once more. Philip shied away and the metal ball of the hammer glanced off his temple and smashed on to the bony part of his shoulder. A horrible stabbing pain surged down his left arm.

His voice returned. ‘No!’ He sank down and spread the fingers of his good hand over his head, unable to see where the next blow was coming from.

The man took more care this time, swinging the hammer at a slight angle so, when it connected, it was with the part of the skull just above Philip’s ear. The young man pitched face-first on to the hallway floor, arms loose at his sides. One leg started jumping about as if he was trying to kick his shoe off.

The man pushed the front door shut and slid the bolt across at the bottom. A swift search of the flat upstairs, find the laptop and its carry case then leave by the back way.

A lock rattled as the door on his right began to open. A woman started to speak, her voice groggy with sleep. ‘Will you bloody pack it in? Do you know how much noise you’re making?’

The crack in her door was a good eight inches wide. He could see a bare foot, a section of fluffy pink dressing gown. Above it were puffy eyes and tousled hair. Her glance had gone to the student’s prostrate form. ‘What on earth is …’

He ran shoulder-first at the door, causing it to crash against her. She flew back and then fell on her arse, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. A line of blood opened above her eyebrow. He continued forward, hammer-arm arcing down like that of a fast bowler.

She stared up at him, disbelief keeping her mouth open even as the hammer caved in the top of her skull.

‘O
h, I’m not sure, Andrew. I’m really not. You bought me the mobile telephone and I think that’s quite enough, I really do.’

‘Mum, will you stop fretting? Wait until you see what this can do. Honestly, you’ll love it.’

‘But what if I break it? Look at all those fiddly keys. The last time I used a typewriter was your father’s. That was … I don’t know when. Really, Andrew, I’m not convinced this is a good idea.’

‘You can’t break it. These things are sturdier than they look.’

‘And expensive, I don’t doubt.’

‘Not really.’

‘Andrew Williams!’

‘It wasn’t! It’s not new, Mum. I bought it from this little place along from the Aquatics Centre. He gets in computer equipment big organisations don’t want any more – banks, the university, probably. Those kinds of places. He cleans them up and sells them on.’

‘If it’s from a bank, won’t it be full of bank information?’

‘I don’t know if this particular one came from a bank. Even if it did, he formats – I mean, wipes them clean. Like a blackboard.’

‘He must be very clever. They frighten me, these things. Don’t laugh, Andrew, they do.’

‘Sorry. Now, where shall I put the carry case? You won’t be taking it out of your flat, so this could go in a cupboard. Or to the charity shop, if you want. It’s only a cheap one.’

‘It looks too good to give away.’

‘No, it’s just nylon. Binto? I’ve never even heard of that make. The seams are already coming loose.’

‘Leave it on the sofa. I’ll find somewhere for it.’

‘You’re not just saying that so we still have the case if you decide not to keep the computer?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Andrew.’

‘All right. Now, think of this as a tool waiting for your orders. They do what you tell them to do, nothing more.’

‘Tools don’t wait for orders, Andrew. Spoons, forks, knitting needles: they don’t take in what you want, then act accordingly.’

‘OK, good point. I know what you’re thinking, though. You’re thinking of Hal, aren’t you?’

‘Hal? Who’s Hal?’

‘The computer in
2001: A Space Odyssey
. The one who takes over the ship.’

‘Yes! The film your father loved watching?’

‘Well, it’s not like that. You can send emails on this.’

‘Email. There you go again. Email, shme-mail. I don’t understand.’

‘You know how you write to your friend in Cape Town? You can write to her on this.’

‘What’s wrong with paper and pen?’

‘Nothing. But rather than stamps, envelopes and visits to the post office, you just press send. It will appear on her computer a few seconds later.’

‘Judith? Did she get you to buy this? Was it her?’

‘She might have mentioned it would be good for you to have one.’

‘That sneaky so-and-so, I should have guessed.’

‘See? You’re smiling. You know it makes sense. Come on, I’ll show you how it works.’

‘What’s that bit there?’

‘A lens.’

‘A lens?’

‘It has a built-in camera, Mum. I’ve already set it up. The concierge has given me the code for the wireless network here. We can chat to each other – just like on the telephone – but see each other, too.’

‘It will film me? Why would I want to be filmed, for goodness’ sake?’

‘It won’t film … well, it won’t record you. There won’t be anything stored. The image is live – you’ll just see my face on the screen and I’ll see your face on my screen. Think of it as a video phone. When we press the button to hang up, the picture cuts, too.’

‘And how much will these calls cost?’

‘They’re free.’

‘Free? How can they be free?’

‘It’s the internet, Mum. A whole new world. You’ll be one of those silver surfers before you know it.’

‘Silly.’

‘You wait. OK – here’s something else I set up for you. This icon, here? If I click on that it takes us to this web site.’

‘Spotify? Is that an actual name?’

‘Of a service, yes. Right, you and Dad liked records. Who was a favourite? Who did you like listening to?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you and Dad were courting, before I was even born, who would you listen to with him?’

‘Oh, gosh. That’s such a long time ago.’

‘Jazz. You listened to that together, didn’t you? Name me a jazz singer you liked.’

‘Billie Holiday. He listened to her a lot. When we lived near Grasscroft.’

‘That cottage with the damson tree in the front garden?’

‘That damson tree – the fruit I took off that little thing! How its branches didn’t break under the weight of it all.’

‘What was a favourite song of hers?’

‘Of Billie Holiday’s? Your father played one a lot. It had the word fine in the title, I think.’

‘There’s one listed here called “Fine and Mellow”.’

‘That could be right. Look at all those songs! Is this a kind of library?’

‘Sort of.’ Andrew pressed play and the clear tones of Holiday filled his mum’s small flat.

She started, as if pricked by a pin. Then her mouth opened slightly. She stared at the machine with the word Dell embossed on its silver case. The singing continued, misting her eyes with a rush of memories. Memories of such sudden and unexpected power they caused tears to roll down her finely wrinkled cheeks.

‘T
his is it,’ Roebuck announced, coming to a stop outside a dark, sombre-looking box of a building. Iona counted the rows of windows. Five. Five floors – each one once packed with piles of cloth, people hurrying to fulfil orders from across the globe.

Another unmarked car from the CTU pool was pulling up behind them, a pair of blue lights taking it in turns to wink from behind its radiator grill.

‘Got some more intel,’ an officer announced from the back seat, a laptop across his knees. ‘Proprieter is Shazan Quereni, business first registered at Companies House three years ago. Mainly deals with residential lettings within the city centre. Five staff – four now with Khaldoon Khan disappearing.’

Roebuck’s eyes were on the rear-view mirror. ‘Anything more on him?’

‘No. Border Agency said they’d have full details within the hour.’

There was a click as Roebuck’s seat belt was released. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see what this Shazan character has to say.’

The lobby was unmanned; a noticeboard named the companies on each floor.

‘Spyro-gyra web-site design. Kelly and Lee photography. Spotlight Market Research. Zig-zag, whatever the hell that is,’ the officer who’d been sitting in the back of the car muttered. ‘How times change.’

They clumped up the stairs to the second floor, six sets of feet. The wide stone steps, with their cast-iron railings, looked like they’d been built for a race of giants.

Shazan Quereni was waiting to meet them at the door of CityPads’ office. Thirties, big belly, shock of wavy black hair. Iranian, Iona guessed. He looked taken aback at the number of officers who filed in. ‘Coffee? If we have enough cups …’

Apart from a side room with a door that was slightly ajar, the office was open plan. Screwed to the wall above each desk was a whiteboard listing various properties and their statuses. Empty. Viewing 11 a.m., Tuesday. Under offer. Awaiting contracts. Sold.

Three women were doing their best not to stare. A call came in and they all reached for their phones to answer first.

‘We’re fine, thanks,’ Roebuck replied. ‘Could we speak in your office?’

Shazan nodded. ‘Of course. There are two chairs. If we need more—’

‘Two is fine,’ Roebuck responded. ‘Alastair? With me.’ He turned to Shazan. ‘Is it OK if Damian, Paul and Martin ask a few questions of your colleagues, here?’

‘No, that’s quite all right.’

‘Is someone missing?’

The owner pointed at an empty desk in the far corner. ‘Nirpal is out on a viewing. He’s due back shortly. The desk next to his is Khaldoon’s.’

‘Iona? Could you check over there?’

She made her way across, catching a look from one of the women. Tied back blonde hair and pencilled eyebrows gave her a sharp, inquisitive appearance. ‘Sorry to barge in like this,’ Iona said. ‘Not your normal Saturday morning, I bet.’

The woman’s smile was uncertain. ‘Are you all detectives, then?’

‘You mean our uniforms?’

The response had come from Martin Everington, a detective drafted in from DCI Palmer’s team. Iona knew that, after her, he was the youngest member of the CTU. He was also the rank above, having joined the unit straight after graduating.