The Tunnel Rats (20 page)

'Can I help you?' said a voice behind him.

Wright jumped as if he'd been poked in the ribs. He whirled around to see the man in the flat cap standing behind him, his dog cradled in his arms. The man was in his seventies and there was an aggressive tilt to his chin as if he suspected Wright of being up to no good. The dog yapped twice and the man put a hand on its muzzle to silence it.

'I'm a policeman,' said Wright, recovering his composure.

'Really,' said the man. 'Well, I'm with the Neighbourhood Watch and I've never seen you around here before.' The terrier struggled to escape the man's grip on its muzzle. 'Hush, Katie,' the man whispered.

'I suppose that's your guard dog,' said Wright good naturedly, but the joke fell flat.

The man tilted his chin higher. He was a small man, barely reaching Wright's shoulder, but he wasn't intimidated by Wright's relative youth or height. Wright had the feeling that he was a former boxer, and that if push came to shove he'd be prepared 140 STEPHEN LEATHER to take a swing at Wright, despite his age. Assuming he put the dog down first.

'I'd like to see your identification,' said the man.

'Sure,' said Wright. He reached into his inside pocket, took out his wallet, and opened it to show his warrant card and badge.

The man released his grip on his dog's muzzle and took the wallet. He stared at the warrant card as if committing it to memory. 'This says you're with the British Transport Police,' he said.

'That's right.' �

The man compared the photograph on the card with Wright's face, then handed it back. The dog growled softly. 'So you're not a real policeman, then?' he said.

Wright smiled tightly but said nothing.

'And who is it you're here to see, Sergeant Wright?'

'May Eckhardt,' said Wright. 'Flat four.'

The man smiled smugly. 'She's gone,' he said. 'Good thing too, the photographers were a bloody nuisance. Night and day, standing on the pavement, talking and laughing. Called the police but they said there was nothing they could do, they weren't trespassing.'

'Gone?'

'Moved out.'

'Do you know when?'

'Why? Is she a suspect now?'

'No, she's not a suspect, Mr . . .?'

'Jenkins,' said the man. 'I live in the flat below the Eckhardts.' He fished a key out of his raincoat pocket and Wright stepped aside so that he could unlock the door. 'Two days ago, that was when she left.'

'There's no “for sale” sign up,' said Wright:

'They rented,' said Jenkins.

'From who?'

'The landlord's a Mr Sadiq, I believe. Never met the man, though. He owns several flats in the area.' He pushed open the door and put down his terrier. It ran along the hallway and up a flight of stairs, its stub of a tail wagging furiously.

'I don't suppose you've got a telephone number for him, have you?' asked Wright.

The man shook his head, then pointed to a noticeboard on the wall. Several letters were pinned to it. 'The managing agents should be able to tell you. That's their address.'

Jenkins turned to follow the dog, but Wright asked him if he could spare a few minutes. Jenkins looked at his wristwatch, then nodded.

'What sort of couple were they?' Wright asked.

Jenkins narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 'What do you mean?'

'I meant when they lived above you. Were they quiet? Did they argue?'

'Never heard a peep,' said Jenkins, taking off his hat and unbuttoning his raincoat. 'Hardly saw them. I was a bit worried when they first moved in, her being Chinese and all. I was a bit worried about the smell, you know?'

'The smell?'

'Cooking. Chinese food. The smell lingers, doesn't it? It was never a problem, though. Delightful girl. Spoke perfect English.'

'What about her husband?'

'Oh, he's American. Terrible English.'

'I meant what was he like?'

'A photographer. That's all I know. He liked jazz. I had to complain about the noise one Sunday, but generally they were perfect neighbours.' He looked at his watch again. 'Anyway, if there's nothing else, Sergeant Wright, I have to give my wife her medicine.'

Wright thanked him. Jenkins waited while he copied down the name and telephone number of the managing agent, then closed the door behind him.

Dean Burrow smiled at the office receptionist and wished her a good morning. He pushed through the glass door that led to his outer office and almost bumped into a black UPS deliveryman on his way out. Burrow held the door open for him and the deliveryman nodded his thanks.

'Good morning, Sally,' he said to his office manager. Sally Forster had been on his staff for more than fifteen years and was one of his most devoted staffers.

She looked up from the stack of mail on her desk and put a hand up to push her spectacles higher up her nose. 'Good morning, Senator,' she said brightly. A cigarette smouldered in a small brass ashtray. Sally smoked sixty cigarettes a day and the nonsmoking members of staff had twice tried to declare the senator's office a no-smoking zone. They'd failed both times: Sally was as adept at office politics as she was at running the senator's diary.

'You work too hard, Sally,' said the senator. It was a common refrain. She generally put in a sixteen-hour day, and appeared to have no life outside the office.

She made a dismissive waving motion with her ringless left hand. 'Bullshit,' she said. 'If you want something doing . . .'

'And there's no one does it better than you,' said the senator. 'But you make me look bad by always getting in before me.'

She grinned slyly. 'I could give you an early morning alarm call, Senator.' She picked up her cigarette and inhaled.

Burrow chuckled. Sally was the only member of his staff who could get away with such teasing.

Burrow spotted a UPS document package on her desk and he twisted his neck to get a better look. It was from Bangkok. He reached for it but Sally beat him to it. 'It's not been scanned, Senator.'

'Who's it from?'

Sally read the waybill affixed to the package. 'Eric Horvitz. Bangkok, Thailand.'

Burrow felt a chill run down his spine. 'That's okay, I know Mr Horvitz,' he said. \

She held the package out. 'You're sure that's his signature?'

Burrow didn't even look at the scrawl. 'Yes, don't worry, I've been expecting this.'

Sally let go of the package and Burrow took it. 'Coffee?' she asked.

Burrow shook his head. 'No, thanks. Maybe later.'

'There's a list of calls on your desk. And the Washington Post wants an interview. You've^got a twenty-minute slot at three.'

'Three's fine. Who are they sending?'

'Jane Owen. With a photographer.'

Burrow nodded. 'Okay, go ahead and confirm. Better have Kimberly in to do my hair at two thirty.'

'Already booked,' said Sally.

Burrow acknowledged her mindreading ability with a slight nod and went through to his own office. He ripped open the package as he walked around his desk. There was only one thing inside a Polaroid photograph.

Burrow stopped dead. For a second or two he felt faint and he reached out with his free hand to grip the desk. He stared at the image, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was almost identical to the previous Polaroid he'd received. A man, his flesh turned ghostly white, spreadeagled against a wall, shiny red blood smeared over his mouth and chest. Burrow narrowed his eyes as he looked at the face of the corpse. It had been more than a quarter of a century since he had last seen Eric Horvitz, but Burrow was reasonably sure that it was Horvitz in the photograph.

The senator dialled Jody Meacher's number and put the picture on to his blotter as the telephone rang. Meacher's answering machine cut in and Burrow left a brief message.

There was a discreet tap on his door as he replaced the receiver, and Sally popped her head in. 'Ready to go over your diary?' she asked.

Burrow opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and tossed the photograph into it. 'Sure,' he said, closing the drawer and flashing his 'everything's all right with the world' smile. 'And I'll have that coffee now, too.'

There was an ambulance in the road outside Edmunds's house but the blue light wasn't flashing and the driver stood by the rear doors smoking a cigarette. Two police cars were parked on the opposite side of the road, both empty. Gerry Hunter climbed out of his car and locked the door. A group of housewives huddled together on the pavement, staring over the hedge at the front door.

An old woman in a faded housecoat and slippers saw him coming and Hunter heard her say 'CID'. They all turned to watch him walk towards the gate.

'Isn't there something on television you could be watching?' shouted Hunter bitterly. One of the women had the decency to blush, but the rest were unfazed by his outburst. 'Go on, piss off!' he said.

One old woman tut-tutted and Hunter had a sudden urge to push her over the hedge, or better still to drag her into the house so that she could see for herself what was inside. Maybe if she came face to face with a few corpses she wouldn't be so keen to gawp. Hunter glared at her so aggressively that she took a step backwards.

He pushed his way through the onlookers and walked briskly down the path to the front door. It was ajar and he pushed it open with his foot. A uniformed constable was there, picking his nose. 'Get those people out of here!' Hunter barked. 'This is a crime scene, not a circus.' The constable opened his mouth but before he could speak Hunter cut him short with a warning ringer. 'Just do it,' he said. 'Where's the body?'

'Upstairs, sir,' said the constable.

'Doctor?'

'She's there already, sir.' The constable edged past Hunter and out of the front door. Hunter closed it.

A second uniform came out of the sitting room, this one a sergeant. Hunter recognised him. 'Hiya, Mick,' said Hunter.

'Gerry. Have you been upstairs?'

'Not yet. What's the story?'

'Choked on his own vomit by the look of it.'

'Jesus.' Hunter walked through to the sitting room and looked around. He'd spent many an hour in that room, drinking and watching Sky Sport with his partner, their feet propped up on the coffee table. It was a comfortable room, a man's room, with cigarette burns on most of the furniture, and irregular-shaped stains on the brown carpet. Edmunds had never been married and his house was a female-free sanctuary for his friends and colleagues.

'Nothing suspicious?'

Mick shook his head. 'Made himself a snack and drank the best part of a bottle of whisky.'

Hunter rubbed his jaw. Edmunds was a heavy drinker, though he tended to drink in company rather than on his own. 'No visitors?'

'Doesn't look like it. Just the one glass.'

Hunter sighed. He wasn't sure if he'd have been happier if there had been suspicious circumstances. Dead was dead, when all was said and done. 'Okay, cheers, Mick. I'll go up and see the doc'

Hunter went slowly upstairs, holding on to the banister as if afraid that he'd lose his balance. A third uniformed officer was in the bedroom, standing at the window and staring down at the street. He turned as Hunter walked into the bedroom. It was Sandy Peters, an old friend of Hunter's. They'd joined the force at the same time, and despite the fact that Peters had remained a constable while Hunter had risen relatively quickly through the ranks, they were still firm friends.

'Hiya, Gerry,' said Peters.

'Sandy. Thanks for the call.'

Dr Anna Littman was bending over the bed, examining the body. She nodded a greeting to Hunter.

Peters walked over to Hunter. 'Yeah, they said it was your day off, but I thought . . .' He shrugged, not sure what to say.

'I'm glad you did,' said Hunter.

'I'm sorry,' said Peters. 'He was a good guy.'

'Yeah. I know. Who found the body?'

The. His car was giving him trouble and I was going to pick him up from the garage. He didn't turn up so I came here. The curtains were drawn and I thought maybe he'd overslept. Tried his mobile, no answer.'

'How did you get in?'

'Broke a back window. I'll have it fixed.' He fiddled with his tunic. 'I'd better go downstairs, check that everything's sorted.'

Hunter nodded. He patted Peters on the arm as he went by.

Dr Littman stood up and draped the quilt over Edmunds's body. 'I'm sorry, Gerry.'

'Yeah,' said Hunter.

'You'd worked together for quite a while?'

'Three years. Give or take.' Hunter walked over to the window. Outside, the young constable was shepherding the neighbours away. 'What do they expect to see?' asked Hunter. The doctor didn't answer. 'What happened, Anna?'

'Choked on his own vomit. Youvd be surprised how often it happens, Gerry. A lot of drunks . . .' She walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that Clive was . . . you know what I mean.' She squeezed his shoulder gently. 'Are you okay?'

'It's such a stupid way to die,' said Hunter quietly. 'If he'd been on duty, if he'd been shot . . .'

'Then you'd have a murder to investigate. You'd be able to do something.'

Hunter sighed. 'Yeah, I guess that's it.'

'It's your day off, isn't it? Go home.'

'Yeah, and drink something sweet. A nice hot cup of tea. I know the routine.' He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. 'I'm sorry, Anna. I didn't mean to snap.'

'I could give you something . . .'

Hunter shook his head. 'I'll be okay. I'll have to go and see his mother. She'll have to be told. Jesus, what do I tell her? He choked on cheese on toast?'

'Just say he died suddenly in his sleep. There's no need to go into details.'

'They always want details,' said Hunter.

The doctor took her hand away from Hunter's shoulder. 'Do you want a copy of the post mortem report?'

'Not unless there's anything unusual.'

'There won't be, Gerry. I'm sorry.\She went back to the bed and picked up her medical bag. 'Come on,' she said. 'Come downstairs with me.'

Hunter continued to stare out of the window. 'Just give me a few minutes,' he said.

He waited until she'd left the room before going over to the bed. He stared down at the bump in the quilt and reached out his hand, but then changed his mind. He didn't want to see his partner's corpse, he wanted to remember him as he had been.