The Tunnel Rats (23 page)

Wright put two cups of coffee down in front of his partner and blew on his ringers. 'That coffee's getting hotter and hotter,' he said. He picked up his own cup again and carried it over to his desk. A large white envelope was propped up on his computer terminal.

'I got your mail for you,' said Reid.

'You're all heart,' said Wright. He sat down, sipped his coffee, and picked up the envelope.

Reid looked across at the envelope in Wright's hands. 'What is it, a birthday card? It's not your birthday, is it?'

'No,' said Wright, ripping it open.

Wright pulled out the contents of the envelope. It was a collection of newspaper cuttings. He spread them out. Most of them were in a strange language, the letters totally different to the English alphabet with hardly any spaces between words. 'What the hell's this?' he muttered.

Reid stood up and peered over at the pieces of newspaper. 'What is it, Indian? Arabic?'

'No idea,' said Wright. Several of the cuttings had grainy photographs on them. Photographs of a corpse. Wright looked carefully at the pictures. 'My God,' he said. 'Look at this, Tommy.'

Reid hauled himself out of his chair and stood behind Wright. He looked down over his shoulder.

Wright pointed at one of the photographs. 'It's a playing card,' said Wright. \

'Is it an ace of spades?' asked Reid.

Wright held the cutting closer to his face. 'I can't tell.' He handed it to his partner. 'What do you think?'

As Reid scrutinised the picture, Wright picked up the only cutting that was in English. It had been cut out to include the name of the newspaper and the date. The Bangkok Post. Twelve days ago.

'Thailand,' said Wright. 'They're Thai newspapers.' He picked up the envelope. The postmark was Plymouth.

'I can't see what card it is,' said Reid. He picked up another of the cuttings.

Wright scanned the Bangkok Post article. 'It's the same,' he said.

'What's the same?'

'A man in his forties, tortured and killed. His dick cut off and shoved in his mouth.' He reached the last paragraph. 'And impaled in his chest ... an ace of spades.'

Reid stepped back theatrically. 'Coincidence? I think not!' he boomed.

Wright glared at his partner. 'Come on, Tommy. This is important.'

Reid went back to his desk. 'It's Thailand, Nick. It's the other side of the world. What do you think's going on? A serial killer who's collecting frequent-flyer miles?'

Wright waved the cutting in the air. 'It's the same man. He's killed twice. And he's going to kill again.'

'You don't know that.'

Wright stood up. 'There are times when you really piss me off,' he said coldly. Reid shrugged and sipped his coffee. Wright wanted to say more but he could see that he'd be wasting his time. He stormed off, the cutting clutched in his right hand.

Newton's secretary looked up from her typing as Wright walked up to the door to the superintendent's office. 'Yes, Nick, is there something I can do for you?' she asked.

Wright stopped dead. 'I have to see him, Nancy.'

'He's in a meeting,' she said.

'When will he be free?'

She looked at him over the top of her gold-framed glasses. 'I don't know,' she said. 'Would you like me to call you when he is?'

Wright looked at the cutting, then at the closed door. 'I'll wait,' he said.

'Nick, I don't know how long he's going to be.'

'I'll wait,' he repeated.

There were three hard-backed chairs against the wall facing Nancy's desk. Wright sat on the middle one. Nancy continued to watch him for several seconds, then she pushed her glasses higher 164 STEPHEN LEATHER up her nose with her forefinger and resumed her typing. Wright reread the cutting as he waited. The victim was an American, Eric Horvitz. He ran an orphanage in Bangkok and he'd been discovered in the basement. There weren't many details of what had been done to the body, but what there were tallied with the corpse that had been found in the-tunnel near Battersea.

The door to Newton's office opened and two men wearing suits and carrying briefcases walked out. Wright stood up but the door closed firmly. He looked across at Nancy expectantly, who gave an impatient wave of her hand.

'Go on, go on,' she said.

'Thanks, Nancy,' said Wright. He knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

The superintendent was dipping a biscuit into his cup of tea and he looked up guiltily. As he did so, half of the biscuit broke off. Newton stared distastefully at the cup. 'Yes, Nick?'

'Sir, I've had a lead on the tunnel murder.' He gave the cutting to Newton.

The superintendent took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. He read the cutting, grimaced, and gave it back to Wright. 'So?'

'So I was right. It's a serial killer.'

'No, Nick. It's two similar murders, five thousand miles apart.'

'Both with an ace of spades left on the corpse? Come on, sir. It's the same killer. It has to be. Sir, this is a break. I want to follow it up.'

'Nick, the simple fact is, we just don't have the resources to pursue this lead. We answer to different masters here, masters who are ultimately responsible to shareholders. It's all about money, Nick. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.'

'So profits come before justice?'

'That's not what I'm saying,' said Newton. 'I'm saying that I have to operate within a strict budget. I can't afford to send you halfway around the world to follow up a lead that might prove to be nothing.'

Wright reached over and took the cuttings back. 'Let me go over there, sir. I just know the murders are related, and I know I THE TUNNEL RATS 165 can crack the case. Just one week, and I promise I'll get a result.

It'll reflect well on the BTP, you know.'

Newton hesitated for a few seconds, then leaned forward. 'Okay,

you can go, but the Met boys will have to know about it, and I want you reporting back anything you find out immediately. You've got exactly one week.'

Wright punched his fist in the air. 'Thanks, sir.'

'Just be careful, Nick. And for God's sake, don't get into trouble out there. Thailand can be a dangerous place.'

There was something about the Oval Office that inspired respect, even when its occupant was less than presidential. Some of the most important decisions facing mankind had been taken in the office: wars had been started and ended, economies had been ruined or revived, men had seized the opportunity for greatness or lied their way into infamy. Dean Burrow could sense the history in the room, so strongly that he could virtually smell it, even above the oversweet aftershave of the man who stepped towards him, arm outstretched.

'Dean, good to see you,' said the President, smiling easily. The word on the cocktail circuit was that the presidential smile had cost somewhere in the region of thirty thousand dollars and that there was now so much metal in his mouth that the Secret Service had had to reduce the sensitivity of the metal detectors at the entrances to the White House. They shook hands. The President's grip was firm, his hand dry. 'How's Patricia?'

'She's fine, Mr President. Thank you.'

'And Bill? I gather he's top of his class at Yale.'

'We're both very proud of him.'

'You should bring him in for lunch some time. I'd like to meet him.'

'He'd be honoured, Mr President.'

The President patted Burrow on the shoulder and guided him to a chair. 'You're looking good, Dean. Real good.' The President gestured to his own ample waistline. 'That's the big drawback in 166 STEPHEN LEATHER this job: there's never enough time for exercise.' He sat down in a chair facing Burrow and crossed his legs. 'Your health is the most important thing, Dean. Nothing else matters. Money, power, none of it means anything if you haven't got your health.'

Burrow nodded. The meeting had been called at short notice, and there could be only one reason for it.

'Glenn's condition is deteriorating, Dean. He wants to throw in the towel now and spend more time with Elaine. She lost her father, you know.'

'Yes, Mr President.'

'Hell of a business, prostate cancer. Not an easy way to die.' The President shivered. 'I've asked him to hang on in there for two more weeks, until the China trade talks are out of the way. Glenn's always gone down well in Beijing, being fluent in Mandarin and all. He's agreed. God bless him for that.'

The President brought his sky-blue eyes to bear on Burrow. The effect was almost hypnotic and while the contact lasted it felt as if Burrow was the centre of the President's universe, that nothing else mattered to him other than the man sitting opposite him. It was something all the best leaders seemed to be able to do at will, a skill that Burrow himself was working to acquire.

'Forty-eight's a good age to be Vice President, Dean. Can you handle it?'

'Absolutely,' said Burrow. He felt a surge of elation which he fought to keep under control. He'd known he was frontrunner, but he'd been counting chickens right up until the moment the President said the words. He wanted to leap up out of his chair and punch the air, but he confined himself to a tight, almost regretful, smile. When all was said and done, it was still a case of dead man's shoes. \

'The timing's perfect from your point of view,' the President continued. 'Economy's on the up and up, the Middle East is as quiet as it's ever going to get, no dark clouds on the horizons, none that I'm aware of anyway. Two years' time, you could have this job.'

Burrow said nothing. He wanted the job more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, but burning ambition was something best kept hidden, especially when the only obstacle to your desire was sitting just a few feet away.

'Two weeks to-day I'm going to be in Washington - I plan to announce it then- Clear your schedule for the day, and the day after. You're going to have the world's media on your tail. I'd appreciate it if you'd hold off from telling Patricia. You know how the girls lov< to talk.' He stood up and extended his hand again. The second handshake was as firm and dry as the first. Burrow could fee-1 that his own palms were damp with sweat.

'Congratulations, Dean.' He put a reassuring hand on Burrow's shoulder. 'It's going to be good to have you on the team.'

'I won't let you down, Mr President.'

The President chuckled. 'I'm relieved to hear that.' He let go of Burrow's shoulder, but continued to shake his hand for a few seconds more. 'It goes without saying that I've had you checked out, Dean. And it also goes without saying that you passed with flying colours. Fixst-class war record, which is more than I can say for myself, huh? Never been caught taking drugs, and other than a handful of parking tickets you're clean as a whistle.' He fixed his eyes on Burrow again. 'There was that business with your secretary, of" course, but you handled that well.'

Burrow felt his chest go suddenly cold and he caught his breath. He forced himself to keep smiling. 'Secretary?' he said. Did he know? Did the President know about Kristine Ross? And if he did, why in God's name wasn't he being taken away in chains instead of being given the second most powerful job in America? The President was known as a vindictive man, but why on earth would he dangle the prize and then snatch it away?

'Mary-Louise Wilson,' said the President. 'She's been as good as gold since the . . . operation. She seems to have settled nicely in Cleveland.'

Burrow suppressed a sigh. The abortion. 'Yes, Jody Meacher paid her off.'

'And you haven't seen her since? She hasn't approached you?'

'She got what she wanted. There are no records, no written proof. In a worst-case scenario it would be her word against mine, and I doubt that the media would use it without some sort of corroboration. I can assure you there is no evidence that would back up her story - Meacher took care of that. Besides, it was a long time ago.'

The President nodded. 'And you can give me your cast-iron guarantee that no other skeletons are going to emerge from some long-forgotten closet?'

'Absolutely, Mr President.' Burrow returned the President's gaze and flashed him a confident smile, despite the images that flitted through his mind, whirling and twisting like bats at dusk. Bodies crucified, with bloody mouths and playing cads impaled on their chests.

'Because if there are, we should clear them out now.'

Burrow shook his head. 'I am as pure as the driven snow, Mr President.'

Gerry Hunter tossed his jacket on to the back of his sofa and knelt down in front of his video recorder. He slotted in the tape. He'd had to visit three video rental stores before finding one that had a copy of Apocalypse Now. The store manager was a bearded man in his late twenties who had refused to allow Hunter to take away the tape until Hunter had filled out an application form and provided him with two pieces of identification. Hunter had shown him his warrant card and told him that he needed to borrow the tape as part of a murder investigation, but the manager had been adamant: no membership, no tape.

Hunter pressed the 'play' button and sat down on the sofa. The telephone rang and he cursed. He leaned over and picked up the phone.

It was Janie Wright. 'Hiya, honey,' she said. 'What are you doing?' \

'I'm watching a video,' said Hunter, his eyes on the screen.

'Come and watch it with me,' she said.

'It's work related,' he said.

'That doesn't matter,' she said. 'Come on, Gerry. I haven't seen you for two days.' Hunter looked at his watch. 'I'll cook,' she said. 'Pasta.'

'It's late, Janie.'

'Please,' she whined. 'Please, please, please.' He could picture THE TUNNEL RATS 169 her pouting and swinging her shoulders from side to side, playing the little girl lost like she always did when she wanted to get her own way. It might have been attractive when she was in her teens, but Hunter was starting to find it irritating in a woman in her early thirties.

Hunter knew that it was pointless to argue with Janie when she was in one of her demanding moods. Besides, she was right, he hadn't seen her for two days, he'd been so tied up with work. 'Okay, I'll be there in twenty minutes,' he said.