Lynch (16 page)

Chapter 19

Clark
ended her phone call, red-faced and self-conscious. Although none of the others could hear Robert Mann on the end of the call, they were all painfully aware of her humility as she spoke to him. Making an unscheduled visit to members of the witness protection programme was not only unethical, but downright stupid. They had regular checks from local officers, plain-clothed CID who stopped by to ensure their lives were going smoothly and uninterrupted. Involving herself in such a way, particularly while on suspension, had to be the dumbest thing she’d ever done. Her one saving thought was that Mann hadn’t thrown the book at her over the phone; he’d said he expected her in his office the moment she arrived in
London
. Most likely, he wanted to see her face as he sacked her and destroyed her career.

Scott and Jesse were still holding hands as they stood near the sofa with Katherine and John. ‘Now what?’ Scott asked.

Clark
spread her hands at the sofa behind them. ‘Now we wait. We’ll be picked up in a few minutes.’

Katherine stepped towards her and
Clark
could see the sympathy on her face. ‘You did everything you—’

‘Don’t,’
Clark
said. ‘I cocked up. It’s my own mistake and I’ll live with it.’ She sat heavily in a chair and busied herself with her cuticles. She could feel their eyes on the top of her head, penetrating and intense. ‘Sit down,’ she said.

They sat in quiet consideration.

She was definitely in for it with Mann. It was just a case of when. She was a rule-breaker now, something she’d always loathed. But damn it, until Mann kicked her skinny arse into a cell, she was still an officer, whether she was on suspension or not. She stood up, needed to reassume some degree of control over the situation. She looked around her at the others in the room, each one staring at her for guidance. She didn’t need to take back control; she still had it. All she had to do was man the fuck up.

‘Kane, Margaret,’ she said, ‘you guys know how this is going to go. For the sake of the others, here’s the deal: For the next few days they’ll have us in temporary accommodation, a safe house. We’ll be under watch at all times, during which they’ll be trying to pick up the scent of Fernandez.’

She paused and John said, ‘What then? When can I go back home?’

Clark
shrugged. ‘Could be weeks, could be months. You’re least involved and I’ll do all I can to keep it that way. But we can’t know what’s what until Fernandez is off the streets. My superiors will take it from there.’ She turned back to Scott and smiled ruefully. ‘You’ll be assigned a new contact.’

‘I don’t want a new contact. Why can’t we keep you?’

‘Because by the time I get back to
London
, I probably won’t have a job.’

Katherine said, ‘This isn’t your fault. We can explain—’

‘The blame is already laid,’
Clark
said. She ran a hand over her sweat-beaded forehead. ‘Margaret, I—’

‘I think I prefer Katherine. I’ve kind of grown to like it.’

Jesse squeezed Scott’s hand and said, ‘What about you? Who do you want to be today?’

Scott pressed his forehead against Jesse’s shoulder. ‘Scott,’ he said. ‘Call me Scott. That’s who I am now.’

Clark
was about to speak again when a pair of headlights arced across the living room. They all turned to the window and listened as a couple of vehicles pulled up outside.

The knock on the door was loud and urgent.

‘Is it them?’ Scott asked. ‘Or him?’

‘It’s them,’
Clark
said with surety. She walked to the door and let four plain-clothed guys in.

‘Ann Clark?’ the first one asked. She nodded and he extended a hand to her. ‘Gary Edwards,’ he said, flashing his badge with his free hand. He looked at the others. ‘Shall we get this show on the road?’

They corralled them out through the door, John asking them when he can go back to Belfast, Clark updating the guys on the situation, and Scott asking if they can swing by Jesse’s place to get some clothes for him.

‘Quiet, everyone, please,’ Gary Edwards said. ‘There’ll be time for talk later. Right now, let’s just get you all someplace safe, eh?’

Clark
asked, ‘Will we be stopping at the local station for the night?’

‘That’s where I’ve been ordered to take you,’ Edwards said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be in a cell, but we’ll make you as comfortable as possible until the morning.’ He opened the rear doors of a mid-sized panel van to reveal a bench seat bolted along each side. ‘Up you get,’ he said.

‘It’s dark in there,’ John complained.

‘There’s a light up front,’ Edwards told him. ‘It’s dim, but it’ll give you enough light to see by. It’s just a short trip.’

Edwards and Scott helped Katherine up into the van and handed her walking cane up to her.

As everyone got in,
Clark
turned back to Edwards before he closed the doors. ‘Take it easy on the roads,’ she said. ‘And make sure they have the kettle on when we get there.’

He saluted her, smiled, and closed the van.

It took Jesse a second to find the flick-switch for the light. A sickly yellow pallor spider-webbed over their hair and he said, ‘He wasn’t kidding about how dim it is.’

John flapped his hands. ‘I feel like I’m in a smoky poetry café, except instead of cigarette smoke, I’m inhaling diesel fumes.’

Scott put one arm around Katherine and the other around Jesse and said, ‘Scott Lynch, this is your life.’

Miguel Fernandez flipped through Jesse Whitaker’s CD collection and marvelled at the complete works of Led Zeppelin shelved between a Mariah Carey Christmas album and a deluxe, signed edition of a Kylie album.

When he’d been smacked on the head with something hard and heavy, he had actually passed out briefly. Coming round, he immediately fled the scene and tended his minor wound. He came back at five in the morning, before first light, to find a cop stationed outside the front door of the building. Fernandez, with a gash on his head and a trickle of dried blood around his right eye, had easily avoided the police officer’s attentions and let himself into the house. The other flats in the building were silent and dark, all residents evidently relocated for the night. Fernandez had considered killing the cop but thought better off it till he’d shaken off his pulsing headache.

And now that he was inside, with the officer oblivious outside the front door, he could rattle around up here for as long as he needed in order to find the information he sought. If anyone approached the building, the cop would alert him to their presence and he’d have a chance to slip out of the window and shimmy down the drainpipe if need be.

He had learned by now that this was not Kane Rider’s flat, but he suspected it belonged to a new boyfriend; apart from Led Zeppelin, the album collection evidently belonged to a queer. Mr Whitaker lived alone, insofar as Fernandez could ascertain from the utility bills and other correspondence that he’d found in a drawer in the living room. There was actually very little to go on and whether or not Whitaker really was Rider’s boyfriend would remain nothing more than an assumption.

He had already been through the neighbour’s flat, the guy he’d shot, and found a collection of straight porn DVDs,
Barely Legal Lolitas 6
,
Diana Jones and the Temple of Poon
, and Fernandez’s favourite title,
When Harry Ate Sally
.

In Jesse’s flat, Fernandez had flicked through the magazines in the living room; there weren’t any copies of
Gay Times
, but there were four issues of
Horse
and one celebrity gossip magazine. If Jesse Whitaker was straight, Fernandez was a piss-drinking nun. He had little doubt that this was the right place.

In the kitchen, he inspected the contents of the fridge and turned the jars so that all the labels faced forward. As he closed the fridge door, there was a sound something like a snuffle, but he couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t just the airtight seal on the fridge sucking itself shut. He paused, poised, and listened. He heard it again—a snuffle-shuffle sound. The fucking cop must have been coming up the stairs.

Fernandez pressed himself up against the wall between the fridge and the open door to the living room and held his breath. He had left the flat’s entrance ajar for a quick escape, so the police officer would immediately know someone was here when he reached the top of the staircase. There was no time to fix that now.

He waited. British cops were a bizarre species; field training was nothing like the Spaniards as far as Fernandez could tell—a few laps of the pool, a couple of turns around the exercise yard, and a map of the local takeaways. Killing this one would be effortless.

When he heard the gentle brush of the front door runner along the carpet, Fernandez drew his blade. He waited to the count of precisely three seconds, allowing the cop enough time to step into the room, and then he pushed himself away from the wall, twisted around the door and—knowing the officer wouldn’t be carrying a gun—announced himself with a shrill battle-cry as he lunged forward.

At the sound of his guttural haka, the police officer crouched and reached for his radio but he had no time to call for backup. Fernandez pounced fast and barrelled into the officer. They both tumbled to the ground and Fernandez sprang back to his feet quickly. He kicked the officer in the face and drove down onto his knees on the man’s chest.

The air was squeezed from the officer’s lungs as he reached up and tried to force Fernandez off him. He got a weak punch in, and Fernandez jabbed down with his knuckles in his throat.

He took the knife and drove the sharp blade deep into his chest. There was no pleasure derived from this killing; he acted on instinct and protocol. When the officer gurgled his last breath, Fernandez stood and looked at the bloodied blade. He had no idea if the police officer had made any recent radio calls or whether he’d be replaced from guard duty any time soon. He looked around the flat. If there were any clues here as to Kane Rider’s whereabouts, he had no time to find them. He had to dispose of the cop and check in with María.

She wouldn’t be happy.

There was a stark contrast between the muted glow in the back of the van and the bright lights of the police station, into which they came through the back to avoid public attentions. Scott blinked several times as his eyes adjusted and wondered why he hadn’t guessed that he’d see the inside of a police building again so soon. Fate and her sense of humour was utterly cruel.

They were met there by Sergeant Joyce who introduced himself and ushered them into a small interview room, beige walls, blue carpet, a lime green panel running around the centre of the wall like a dada rail, boxing in electrical wires and coax. ‘Sorry it’s a bit cramped in here,’ Joyce said. ‘We’ll get you all settled comfortably very soon, there’s just a few things we need to go over first.’

Katherine and Clark sat at the table opposite the sergeant and everyone else crowded in behind them.

‘Now,’ Joyce said, looking at each of their faces in turn before continuing. ‘Who’s going to bring me up to speed?’

Clark
lowered her forehead to the cool tabletop. ‘Me,’ she mumbled. She quickly sat up straight again, banked her shoulders to flex them, and said, ‘Detective Ann Clark, NCIS.’ She spread her hands. ‘Well, that’s my current title.’ Joyce nodded as though he already knew who she was and why she was there. Clark talked him through the back story, as far back as Ryan’s murder and Kane’s kidnap and the
Belgrade
affair and brought him right up to tonight with a little help from John and Jesse as they chipped in their share of events.