MONOLITH (23 page)

Brian Dunham rubbed his eyes, surprised at how tired he was feeling and conscious of his increasing drowsiness as he drove.

It hadn’t been a particularly taxing day, he thought, trying to justify this sudden attack of tiredness but the weather wasn’t helping. It had been scorching hot all day and even now, with evening well and truly in command of the sky, the temperature was still uncomfortably high. Dunham pushed the air conditioning up another level hoping that would help. It didn’t.

He thought about rolling down the window but decided it would be a self defeating exercise. If the air conditioning inside the car wasn’t helping how uncomfortable he felt then allowing the warm air from outside into the Mercedes wasn’t going to help was it? Coupled with the fact he’d have exhaust fumes to contend with as well. Dunham shook his head, rubbed his eyes and drove on.

The drive from the centre of the city to his home normally took less than ninety minutes but the traffic seemed unusually heavy this particular evening, even though he had missed the worst of the rush hour traffic, or so he’d thought. Sitting at traffic lights that seemed stuck interminably on red he glanced at other drivers in the cars ahead, behind and beside him. They all wore the same expressions of anger, exasperation or resignation. Driving through London’s traffic, Dunham told himself, tended to etch those expressions indelibly on the faces of those who did it regularly. There didn’t seem to come a point when it all became a routine. No matter how many times one drove down the clogged thoroughfares of the capital the action never became commonplace or without stress. Dunham glanced up at the red light waiting for it to change, drumming agitatedly on the steering wheel.

His mobile phone rang but he merely glanced at it, checked the caller i.d. and decided there was no need to answer the call just yet.

The lights finally changed and he pulled away, the car next to him stalling. Even through his windows that were firmly shut he heard the shouted exhortation of fury from the other driver. Dunham managed a thin smile.

A despatch rider shot past him, the sound of the motorbike engine echoing in the night despite the sound of traffic around it.

Dunham drove on. Normally he wouldn’t have been returning to his house at this time of night. Repairs were still being made to the building (he and his wife had rented a place in Kensington until the renovations were complete) and if he was honest with himself he didn’t really relish the prospect of returning to a place that still held such bad and vivid memories but he had some files there that he had to collect and it wouldn’t take him long anyway once he arrived.

As he drove he thought about the attack that had driven him and his wife out of their home. The police had not been in touch about who the perpetrator might be. It would appear that they had no further leads and despite his dissatisfaction with this state of affairs Dunham had not bombarded them with phone calls demanding action. He understood the difficulties they faced. After all, neither he nor his wife had been much help providing descriptions of the attacker he reasoned.

The thought of that night sent a shiver down his spine and he gripped the wheel more tightly in an almost involuntary action.

He turned the air conditioning higher and jabbed the buttons of the radio, trying to find some music to take his mind off that terrifying night. There wasn’t much to choose from. The usual pop garbage, some talk radio stations and a little classical. He settled on that. The soothing strains of Bach’s suite number 3 in D Major filtered into the car and Dunham smiled appreciatively.

The smile was wiped from his face seconds later when the black transit van pulled in front of him.

It seemed to have come from nowhere, Dunham didn’t remember seeing it in the rear view or wing mirrors but it swung across his path, its back bumper only a yard or so from his. He muttered something under his breath but restrained himself from hitting the hooter. He was pleased however when the transit swung away to the right at the next set of lights, disappearing at speed around a corner and out of his view.

Dunham drove on, making a mental note of the street name he was now in. The street lamps were all out. Not one of them was working it appeared. The entire street was in darkness. He switched his headlights to full beam, the twin shafts of light cutting through the gloom. As he did that he dropped his speed too.

There was another road up ahead on his right and he wondered if that was also without lights. If it was then he had better be more cautious. His own driving was fine but, he reminded himself, it was everyone else he had to watch out for. When he had watched his eldest daughter take her first driving lesson they had been his only words of wisdom to her. To remember that everyone else on the road was an idiot. If she remembered that he’d told her, she should be ok.

Dunham slowed down a little more as he prepared to negotiate the junction ahead.

He was across it when the black transit van shot out of the road to his right and swung in behind him.

Dunham blinked and shielded his eyes with one hand, momentarily dazzled by the headlights of the transit as it dropped in behind him no more than a couple of yards from his rear bumper.

‘What the hell …’ he muttered, irritably.

He flapped one hand in the air, making a gesture designed for the driver of the transit to drop back but his attempts were either futile or just ignored because the transit remained where it was, following at the same distance, its headlights still blazing in his rear view mirror.

‘Back off,’ he shouted, his words only audible inside his own car unfortunately for him.

Up ahead the road widened and Dunham stuck his right arm out of the open driver’s side window and motioned for the transit to pass him, relieved when it did with a squeal of tyres. However, when it settled about two yards ahead of him he grunted in anger. What was this driver playing at? Were his antics deliberate or was he just a truly appalling driver, Dunham wondered?

He flashed his own headlights and thought about hitting his hooter in the hope that the transit would drive away.

It remained belligerently close to his front bumper and Dunham cursed as he saw its brake lights flare. He hit his own brake in the nick of time, slowing his car to a crawl behind the transit, his anger now reaching fresh levels.

Then he saw the rear doors of the transit open and for one fleeting second he caught sight of the figure standing in the back of the vehicle. A figure which, seconds later, jumped from the transit and landed on the bonnet of Dunham’s car.

The impact on the bonnet of the Mercedes was incredible and Dunham gripped the wheel as tightly as he could.

Before he could react there was another thunderous blow that shattered the windscreen and sent glass spraying into the car. Instinctively Dunham raised his hands to protect his face, feeling small pieces of glass cutting his flesh but he had little time to contemplate his injuries before there was another devastating blow that shook the whole chassis of the car. The blow had been against the radiator grille but had also obliterated one of the front headlamps.

Dunham was gripped by fear, frozen in his seat as he felt his muscles tighten.

Even another blow that dented the bonnet of the Mercedes couldn’t force him from his paralysed stance. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to burst. He wondered if he could just step on the accelerator and slam into his attacker but realised that the transit was blocking his escape route.

Still strapped inside his car, Dunham now faced an appalling dilemma. Did he remain where he was, possibly even try to manoeuvre the car away from this assault or did he get out and run for his life because he had no doubt at all that his life was in danger. Whoever was landing these blows on his car seemed intent on destroying the vehicle and, he feared, him too.

You’re going to die. Right here. Right now.

That thought had barely filled his mind when another impact smashed the other front headlight and plunged the road into darkness. With the street lamps out and only the dull glow of the transit’s brake and rear lights to illuminate the scene, Dunham could barely make out the position of his attacker. However, that position became clearer when he felt a crashing blow against the roof of the car.

The metal buckled and Dunham wondered how strong his attacker must be and also what kind of implement he must be using to cause such damage so easily.

A side window was staved in, more glass exploding into the car and now Dunham finally tugged at his seat belt, slipping free of it and pushing open the driver’s side door.

All he could think about was getting away. Escaping this scene of destruction if he could. He fell from the car, stumbled back to his feet and then fell again, sprawling on the tarmac, grazing his palms as he attempted to break his fall.

Behind him there was another strident shriek of buckling metal as what remained of the windscreen was pulverised and one of the supporting struts was smashed as easily as if it had been matchwood.

Dunham tripped again and fell, looking back to see that his car was being tipped onto its side, lifted by some incredible feat of strength until it was teetering on one side then, with a deafening crash, it slammed down on its roof, upside down in the street.

He heard heavy footsteps coming towards him and dragged himself to his feet.

The incredible impact against the base of his skull stopped him in his tracks and Brian Dunham dropped like a stone.

Jess reached for her mobile phone and glanced to see who was ringing her. When the caller i.d. showed up as Spike she decided to take the call.

‘Hey, Spike,’ she said as Hadley watched her.

He saw the expression on her face darken, lines deepening across her forehead.

‘How long ago?’ she asked.

Hadley watched as she nodded, finally turning off her phone. She looked directly at him.

‘Brian Dunham’s been attacked again,’ she announced. ‘Spike just heard it over the emergency frequencies. It sounds serious.’

‘Where?’

‘Not far from his home.’

Hadley was already on his feet. Jess followed him, waiting while he locked the flat door before bounding down the stairs just ahead of her.

Out in the street Hadley looked back and forth, scanning the oncoming traffic for a taxi. When he spotted one he whistled at it loudly and waved his hand, watching as the vehicle pulled across to the kerb. Jess clambered into the back of the cab and Hadley joined her, telling the driver where they wanted to go.

‘As quick as you can, please,’ Hadley added.

The driver glanced at him in the rear view mirror and thought about telling him how heavy the traffic was that night but then decided against it. No point, he thought and guided the cab back out into traffic.

‘How much did Spike tell you?’ Hadley wanted to know.

‘Only what he heard on the emergency frequencies,’ Jess explained. ‘Dunham’s car was attacked. From what Spike could tell Dunham might have been hurt.’

‘Same person who wrecked his house?’ Hadley mused.

‘More than likely. But who?’

Hadley could only shake his head.

‘What about your theory?’ Jess went on.

‘The Golem?’ Hadley murmured. He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘Men as powerful as Dunham have enemies everywhere,’ Jess observed. ‘Maybe the police have got some idea by now.’

‘They didn’t have much idea about who attacked his house.’

‘But this is different, Alex. Going for him in the middle of the street, risking witnesses. I wonder if his wife was with him.’

Again Hadley shook his head. He glanced down at his watch then out of the taxi window, watching the people outside as they passed.

It was another forty-five minutes before they reached their destination.

Detective Inspector Robert Johnson sucked gently on his cigarette and looked down again at the body on the ground before him.

He walked slowly around the corpse of Brian Dunham, his gaze travelling over every inch of the immobile form.

Dunham was lying in a large puddle of blood that had radiated outwards from around his body. He was lying on his stomach, his body grotesquely twisted at the waist and neck, his eyes still open and staring wildly as if he were still seeing his attacker. Johnson wondered what the dead man must have witnessed before death so mercifully took him because looking at the injuries inflicted upon the body then that final oblivion must truly have been a blessing.

Most of Dunham’s lower jaw was missing, torn away close to the right ear. The remains of it were lying a few feet away, teeth scattered across the tarmac and stuck in the congealing blood like little white signposts between the lower mandible and the head of the victim. His neck had been broken so effectively and so thoroughly that the vertebrae directly below the skull, according to forensics’ initial examination, were practically powder. More damage had been done to the ribcage which had resulted not just in the destruction of the sternum and at least eight ribs but had also punctured both lungs and pulverised the spleen, gall bladder and one kidney.

Johnson knelt close to the body looking again at the face or at least what was left of it.

On the cheek, forehead and neck there was a thin coating of what looked like dust.

The same material was also on Dunham’s clothes and on the shattered chassis of his car. It appeared that the same weapon had been used to destroy the man as surely as it had the machine he’d been driving when the attack had been launched. Johnson took another drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream.

‘It looks like someone dropped him and his car in a crusher.’

The voice came from behind Johnson and he recognised it immediately but didn’t turn around. He remained where he was, crouched on his haunches, nodding slowly.

Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell stood next to his superior also gazing down at the body.

‘No witnesses?’ Johnson said, quietly. ‘Just like before when his house was attacked.’

‘The uniforms are still doing house to house enquiries but nothing so far,’ Powell confirmed.

‘So the attack must have happened fast like the one on his house. That’s why no one saw anything.’

‘And the street lights were out, that didn’t help.’

‘But the fucking noise must have been deafening. To do that much damage to a car like that, even if no one saw anything they must have heard.’

Powell glanced back at the wrecked Mercedes then down at Dunham’s body again.

‘No one saw anything when his house was attacked and now nothing when he’s killed,’ the D.S. muttered.

‘A conspiracy of silence,’ Johnson murmured.

‘A what?’

Johnson smiled and shook his head.

‘Just talking shit, Ray,’ the D.I. said. ‘Because I’ve got nothing else worth saying. Any ideas on a murder weapon?’

‘Looking at the state of the car and assuming the same thing was used to kill Dunham I’d say a sledgehammer.’

‘Sound familiar?’

Powell looked puzzled for a second.

‘Same as was used against his house?’ he offered.

‘And used by someone of incredible strength and speed,’ the D.I. went on. ‘Who the fuck uses a weapon that big with that much speed and ease?’

‘Someone twenty-five feet tall and weighing fifty stone,’ Powell said raising his eyebrows. ‘Just like before. And just like Adrian Murray too.’

‘This wasn’t done with a sledgehammer,’ Johnson said, flatly. ‘And you know that. From the look of all this brick dust or whatever the fuck it is on the body and the car it looks like someone used a concrete slab on him.’

‘So we’re back to looking for a homicidal builder then?’ Powell quipped without smiling.

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Ray,’ the D.I. said, wearily. ‘Let’s wait and see if any witnesses come forward or if the uniforms get us any decent statements then we’ll have another look.’ He straightened up, shaking his head again. ‘Just make sure you keep the fucking press away from the scene. I don’t want this all over the front pages in the morning.’

‘We set up a cordon,’ Powell told him. ‘No one’s getting through but there was someone here who wanted to talk to you. And he’s press.’

‘Who is it?’

‘He says his name’s Alex Hadley.’

A slight smile touched Johnson’s lips.

‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured. ‘I thought he was dead.’

‘Well apparently he isn’t. Shall I tell him to piss off?’

‘No, I’ll have a word with him. Where is he?’

Powell beckoned the DI to follow.

‘How do you know him?’ Powell wanted to know.

‘It’s a long story,’ Johnson said, the smile fading.