Death Angels (31 page)

“It’s wasted.”

“Not a good situation, I agree.”

“Who’s on duty this week?”

“Yours truly.”

“And still nothing new has turned up.”

The trains came and went outside the Hilliers’ house. Nothing had changed. Winston sat on the couch and the room reeked of booze. Karen appeared with a tray. Winston took three glasses and filled them to the rim with whisky. Macdonald nodded in Winter’s direction and they sat down.

Winston placed their glasses in front of them. “I have nothing more to say,” he announced.

“We’re doing all we can, and it’s going to pay off eventually,” Winter said.

“That’s what he told me too.” Winston pointed at Macdonald.

“He was right.”

“Were you the one who called from Sweden?”

“No, it was another investigator.”

“His English was good. Studies have shown that encounters with police personnel are critical for both victims and survivors.”

Winter nodded.

“A supportive attitude on the part of the police has been shown to be a protective factor against depression, whereas negative reactions by the police at an acute stage appear to contribute to deeper despair.” Winston said this in a monotone, gazing to Winter’s right as if he were reading from a teleprompter mounted on a camera.

“Do you think we’ve been slighting you in some way, Mr. Hillier?” Winter asked.

“Police can exacerbate the difficulties of victims by making them feel guilty or afraid,” Winston droned.

Macdonald turned to Karen. “You haven’t found anything else that belonged to Geoff, have you? Like a letter, for example?”

“The victim’s emotional needs may conflict with the search by the police for detailed information about the crime.” Winston took another drink.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Winter said.

Macdonald shook his head discreetly and glanced over at the door.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Karen said.

“See what you’ve done,” Winston said. “You’ve gotten my wife to apologize again.”

“We really wanted to help,” Karen said.

“Help? What are you talking about?” Winston asked.

Macdonald and Winter stood up.

“We’d like to come back again if that’s possible,” Macdonald said.

“I’d rather spread my wings and fly to Coventry,” Winston said.

Macdonald swung the car out on the street. “Pub time?”

“Sure.”

“Skilled waitresses trained in dealing with people who have suffered as the result of crime or its consequences can help the police,” Macdonald said.

Christian plugged his Discman into the TV speakers. The owner’s son would hear Beenie Man when he passed by. Christian felt sorry for him. He had given him a friendly nod, but the poor soul looked straight ahead like he was walking a tightrope.

It was getting late. The CDs the distributor had given him were good, but he already knew that, and he grew tired of them after a while. The guy wasn’t going to show up, and that was just as well.

He could go out tonight, down to Brixton Academy or the Fridge, where he’d already been twice. He would take the distributor along if he ever came, but he must have been there before.

He heard the owner’s son shuffle by again. He’s gotten as far as the banister, Christian thought. After that he always scrapes against the door. I’ve seen the marks. I bet it’s been going on for years.

The door rattled. So he’s come after all, Christian thought. Wonder if he brought the chick along. Good thing I bought some beer.

When he opened the door, a strange man stood on the other side with a smile on his face. Christian thought he must have come to the wrong room. Then he saw that the man was wearing a Rasta wig, or a long black wig that he had twisted some Rasta curls into.

What a weird prank.

The distributor was inside now. He closed the door behind him and started to rummage around in his duffel bag.

lT WAS MlDNlGHT WHEN WlNTER GOT OUT OF THE CAB lN FRONT
of his hotel. He paid, walked up the half flight of stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door. Standing in the hallway, he heard voices from the suite above him. A TV set was keeping someone company.

His mind was empty, cleansed by the jazz at the Bull’s Head down in Barnes. He had jumped into the taxi right after the Alan Skidmore Quartet finished their last encore.

Skidmore played the tenor sax, occasionally the soprano sax, his music heavily influenced by Coltrane. British music didn’t get any better. Winter had sat right in the draft, which had helped clear his head.

Music is like sex, Winter thought as he walked into his suite. When it’s good, it’s terrific and when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.

He had gone out wanting to find someone to sleep with, but the music had satisfied him. He hadn’t even looked at the women all night long, the package of condoms in his wallet forgotten.

He opened the window and pulled back the drapes. He smelled of smoke and sweat against the breeze, and when he washed his face, his head still had that pure, empty feeling. He undressed and stood under the shower. The water restored his body, and he reveled in the strength and purpose it gave him.

He pulled on a pair of clean boxer shorts and sat on the couch. The taste of smoke lingered in his mouth. He got up and brushed his teeth again. Sitting back down, he listened to the last strains of the music fade away inside him. Finally there was nothing left but silence. He tried to remember further and further back. Memories, fragments of conversations, continued to swirl around him when he went to bed.

Sound asleep, he heard a tenor sax wail to him in a maniacal Coltrane meditation, trying to split his subconscious in two.

The wail turned into a jangling sound that woke him up. His cell phone rattled on the floor where he had plugged it in. The room was as dark as the night outside.

He rolled out of bed and onto the floor, picked up the phone and pressed the green button. “Winter.”

“Steve here. We’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

Winter stretched as far as he could and snatched his watch off the nightstand. Three o’clock.

“It happened again,” Macdonald said.

“No.”

“Throw something on and wait outside for the squad car.”

“Where was it?”

“Camberwell, between Peckham and Brixton.”

“At a hotel?”

“Yes.”

“A Swede?”

“Yes.”

“My God.”

“Get dressed now.”

“When did it happen?”

“Tonight, but get a move on, dammit.”

The room at the New Dome Hotel was full of people when Winter arrived. Everything was hideously familiar.

“I had to come right away,” Macdonald said.

The police were hard at work. Blood clung to every surface in the room. The forensic team’s plastic bags glistened under the bright lights.

“Of course, it’s not necessarily Hitchcock,” Macdonald said.

“No.”

“It happened late last evening.” Macdonald handed Winter a piece of paper. “I have the kid’s name here.”

Winter read it: Christian Jaegerberg.

The victim had already been removed. Winter saw stains on the floor, footprints tracing a pattern from the door to the chair in the middle of the room.

The bed hadn’t been slept in. A little stack of CDs lay on top of it. The shades shut out the night. Voices droned on in low-key professionalism. Cameras flashed.

The plastic bags were everywhere, coded on the outside, filled with hair, teeth, bloody skin, flesh and bodily fluids.

We’re in hell, Winter thought. Hell on earth is right here, in this room.

He moved his head from side to side. Blood—swelling behind his forehead, roaring in his ears—had replaced the pleasant vacuum.

Macdonald told him what he had found out so far.

It was a critical moment for everybody.

“He was interrupted,” Macdonald said.

“What?”

“The owner’s son walked by and heard something. He pounded on the door and wouldn’t let up.”

“And then what?”

“He’s sitting in a room by the lobby. He’s mentally disabled, not to mention shocked as hell. We tried to talk to him but didn’t get anywhere. I’m just about to give it another shot.”

They went out into the hallway, which reeked of vomit that Winter hadn’t noticed before.

“One of our men,” Macdonald said. “It happens all the time.”

“They’re only human.”

“We’ve got dozens of officers knocking on doors in the neighborhood.”

They were sitting as though someone had screwed them into their chairs. The owner held the hand of his son, who was around thirty but could pass for twenty-five. His disability exaggerated his features. His eyeballs moved back and forth but lacked focus. He wanted to get up, but the owner held him firmly in place.