The dim, low-wattage bulbs added to the gloominess of this room. He had drawn the drab curtains over his view across the alleyway to the wall of the next-door house. At this moment the whole world beyond his little room seemed solemn and gloomy.
However, despite the raging headache from all the vodka he had drunk, he did not feel gloomy. Shocked at all that he had seen today, at all that had happened to his plans, yes. But here in this room he felt safe. Cocooned in his thoughts. The realization that the opportunity of a lifetime had presented itself to him.
He realized, also, that he had left more stuff behind in his room at the W. His plane tickets, as well as his passport, and some of his underwear. But instead of being concerned, he was rather pleased.
He looked down at his mobile phone, checking for the thousandth time that it was switched off. Getting paranoid that it might, somehow, of its own volition, have switched itself back on. That suddenly Lorraine’s voice would be on the other end, screaming with joy or, more likely, cursing him for not having called her.
He saw something scurrying across the carpet. It was a dark brown roach, about half an inch long. He knew that cockroaches were among the few creatures that could survive a nuclear war. They had reached perfection through evolution. Survival of the fittest.
Yep, well, he was pretty fit too. And now that his plan was taking shape, he knew exactly what his first step was going to be.
He walked over to the waste bin and removed the plastic bag that lined it. Then he took the red folder from his briefcase and dropped it in, figuring he was unlikely to be mugged for the contents of a plastic bag. He was well aware of the risk he had run towing his briefcase and suitcase all this way. He stopped and listened. The item of news he was most interested in was now coming up on the television. The repeated information that all non-military flights in and out of America were grounded. Indefinitely.
Perfect.
He pulled on his jacket and left the room.
It was 6.45. Dusk was beginning to fall, but it was still broad daylight as the walked along, swinging the carrier bag at his side, retracing his steps to the busy main street with the L-Train overpass.
He still hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry. He had a job to do first.
To his relief, Mail Box City was still open. He crossed the street and went in. To his right was the floor-to-ceiling wall of metal safe-deposit boxes. At the far end, the same long-haired man he had seen earlier was busy on one of several internet terminals. Two empty phone booths were beyond him. To Ronnie’s left, three people were queuing at the counter. The first, a man in a white hard hat and dungarees, held out a strange-looking passbook and was receiving a wad of banknotes. Behind him stood a grim-faced old woman in a denim skirt, and behind her was a strung-out girl with long orange hair who kept looking around with blank, glazed eyes, rotating her hands every few moments.
Ronnie joined the queue behind her. Five minutes later the grizzled man behind the counter handed him a key as thin as a razor blade, and a slip of paper, in exchange for fifty dollars. ‘Thirty-one,’ he said in guttural English, and jerked a finger. ‘One week. You come back, otherwise open box. Take. Understand?’
Ronnie nodded and looked at the slip of paper. The date and time, down to the minute, were printed on it. Along with the expiry date.
‘No drugs.’
‘Understood.’
The man gave him a long, sad stare, his demeanour softening suddenly. ‘You OK?’
‘Yep, I’m OK.’
The man nodded. ‘Crazy. Crazy today. Why they do this to us? It’s crazy, yes?’
‘Crazy.’
Ronnie turned away, found his deposit box and unlocked it. It was deeper than he had imagined. He slid his package in, then glanced around to make sure no one was observing him, closed the door and locked it. He had a sudden thought and went back to the counter. Having paid for thirty minutes’ internet connection time, he sat down at a terminal and logged on to Hotmail.
Five minutes later he was all set up. He had a new name, a new email address. This was the start of his new life.
And now, he realized, he was ravenous. He left the store and went in search of a burger and fries. And a gherkin. For some reason, he suddenly could have killed for a gherkin. And fried onions. Ketchup. The works. And a Coke.
Champagne would come later.
56
‘Come in,’ Alison Vosper said, in response to the knock on her door.
Cassian Pewe had selected his clothes carefully for this meeting. His sharpest blue suit, his best white shirt, his favourite tie, pale blue and white geometrics. And he had sprayed on so much Calvin Klein Eternity cologne he smelled like he had been marinated in the stuff.
You could always tell when you really connected with someone, and Pewe knew that he had with this particular lady Assistant Chief Constable from the very first time they met. It was at a Metropolitan Police conference on counter-terrorism and the Islamic threat in Britain’s cities back in January. He had sensed more than a frisson of sexuality between them. He was quite sure that the reason she had so enthusiastically and proactively encouraged his move to the Sussex CID – and championed his promotion to Detective Superintendent – was because she had extracurricular activities in mind.
Quite understandably, of course. He knew just how attractive to women he was. And throughout his career to date, he had always focused on the women in power in the police force. Not all were malleable; in fact some were as steely as their male counterparts, if not more so. But a fair percentage were normal women, intelligent and strong, but with emotional vulnerabilities. You just had to press the right buttons.
Which made the coldness of the ACC’s reaction as he entered her office all the more surprising.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, without looking up from the array of morning papers fanned out on her desk like a poker hand. ‘Or perhaps I should say, “Take a pew.”’
‘Oh, that’s very witty,’ Pewe cooed.
But no smile cracked her icy expression. Seated behind her huge rosewood desk, she continued reading an article in the Guardian, holding him at bay with her elegantly manicured hand.
He eased himself down into the black leather armchair. Although it was four months since the taxi he had been travelling in had been T-boned by a stolen van, fracturing his left leg in four places, it was still painful to stand for prolonged periods of time. But he kept that to himself, not wanting to risk his future career chances by being marked as a semi-invalid.
Alison Vosper continued reading. Pewe looked at the framed photographs of her husband, a burly, shaven-headed police officer several years older than her, and her two children, boys in school uniform wearing rather goofy spectacles.
Several framed certificates bearing her name hung on the walls, along with a couple of old Brighton prints, one of the racecourse, the other of the long-gone chain pier.
Her phone rang. She leaned forward and stared at the display, then hoisted it from its cradle, barked, ‘I’m in a meeting, call you back,’ replaced it and continued reading. ‘So, how are you getting on?’ she asked suddenly, still reading.
‘So far, great.’
She glanced up and he tried to hold and maintain eye contact, but, almost immediately, she looked down at something else on another part of her desk. She reached over, picked up and then shuffled through some sheets of typewritten papers, a report of some kind, as if she was trying to find something. ‘I understand you’ve been allocated cold cases?’