22
Tuesday 24 February
‘Where the fuck did you get this, doll?’ Graham Parsons held up the memory stick. They were seated at a corner table in the Hove Deep Sea Anglers’ club on the seafront, with a blurry view through a salt-caked window of upturned fishing boats on the pebble beach. In front of him was a pint of beer. In front of Jodie was a half-pint of lime and soda. A handful of the other tables in the pub-like room were occupied on this wet Tuesday lunchtime. There was a quiet murmur of conversation in the room, and a smell of fried food.
‘Does it matter, Graham?’ she asked.
He sat in his smart suit and tie, a silk handkerchief protruding flamboyantly from his breast pocket. She was dressed in jeans, a roll-neck sweater and a black suede bomber jacket.
‘Yeah, it does. Quite a lot, doll.’
‘Oh?’
He stood up. ‘I need a fag. Be back in a minute.’
‘I’ll come with you. I could do with one, too.’
They stepped outside onto the terrace, with its empty tables and chairs. Head bowed against the icy wind and rain, Graham cupped his hand over his lighter and lit her cigarette, then his. ‘Do you have any fucking idea who you’re messing with?’
She stared out at the grey, roiling sea. ‘No, that’s why I gave it to you.’
He smoked his cigarette, holding it between his forefinger and thumb, as if it were a dart. ‘What do you know about the Russian Mafia?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve just bought yourself a front-row seat. Ever hear about blood eagles?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve met a few members of the American Mafia in my time. They’re all right, in as much as you can say that. They get rid of their enemies by killing them quickly and efficiently — a double-tap — two bullets to the head. But the new generation of Russian and Eastern Bloc Mafia are different. They like to send out signals, yeah?’
‘Signals?’
‘Screw us and you’re not just going to die. You’re going to go through living hell first. Understand?’
‘What kind of living hell?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone pisses them off, they’ll go into their home. Torture and kill a child in front of the family. Just to teach them a lesson. Or they’ll make the kids watch their parents being tortured to death, so they’ll know never to mess with them.’
‘I’m not scared, Graham.’
‘Yeah? Well you should be.’
They finished their cigarettes and hurried back inside. Their plaice and chips was waiting for them.
As they sat down, he picked up the bottle of ketchup and shook it over his chips. ‘I heard from my sources, there was a low-life Romanian found in a posh hotel room in New York a few days ago. He’d been blood-eagled.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Believe me, you don’t want that happening to you. It was what the Vikings used to do to their enemy leaders. Place them on their stomach and flay all the skin from their backs. Then they’d use their axes to chop all the ribs away from their victim’s spine, while he was still alive. Next, they’d pull his ribs and lungs out with their bare hands and leave them sticking out, between his shoulders, so they looked like the folded wings of an eagle. If he suffered in silence, he’d be allowed into Valhalla. But if he screamed, he’d never enter.’
She shivered. ‘That happened to...?’
‘That’s how the police found him in his suite at the Park Royale West. A bloke called Romeo Munteanu. Name ring a bell?’
She felt sick. A deep unease swirled through her. ‘Ro-Romeo Mount-what?’
‘Munteanu.’
She shook her head, vigorously. ‘No. Never heard that name.’
‘Good. Good to hear that.’ He gave her a long, hard stare. Then he held the memory stick up in front of her again. ‘If you don’t want to wake up one morning with your innards all pulled out, you get rid of this pretty smartly. You don’t want to mess about with these people.’
‘What does it contain?’
‘Names and addresses of the Premier League Eastern European and Russian organized-crime members in the US and their associates around the world, together with their phone numbers and email addresses — and their bank account numbers in several countries. There are police forces around the globe that would have all their Christmases come at once if they got hold of this.’
She reached forward and took the memory stick from him, slipping it into her handbag. ‘Thanks for the warning. So you cracked the password?’
‘I cracked the password.’
‘Let me have it.’
‘You want me to hand you your death warrant?’
‘I said I’m not scared. Not of anyone, Graham.’
‘You bleedin’ well should be.’
‘I’d much prefer to think they should be scared of me,’ she said. ‘If they’ve gone to those lengths to torture and kill, it tells me that someone wants this back rather badly. And might be willing to pay serious money for it.’
‘That’s not how these people do business,’ he replied.
‘Well, it’s how I do.’ She tipped some ketchup onto her plate, speared a chip and dunked it in the red sauce, then ate it, hungrily.
‘You’re playing with fire.’
‘So what’s new?’
23
Tuesday 24 February
Roy Grace was seated behind his desk, with a sandwich beside him, scanning the weekly Brighton & Hove Independent newspaper. When he ate alone, he always liked to read — particularly about the city — and to get as balanced a view as possible from different sources. When he had finished the paper, he turned to the ream of paperwork from the Lyon police, via Interpol, on their processing of Dr Edward Crisp. It had come through, frustratingly, in French. A local firm he’d used before, Tongue Tied, did a fast-turnaround translation job for him.
Attached was the DNA and fingerprint confirmation that this was, without doubt, the Brighton serial killer. As Grace began to eat, a prawn fell out of the sandwich onto a sheet of the report, marking it. Cursing, he picked the prawn up and put it in his mouth. His phone rang.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he answered, chewing.
‘Hey, pal, how you doing?’
Instantly he recognized the Brooklyn accent of his NYPD friend, Detective Investigator Pat Lanigan, who was on the New York Mafia-busting team. ‘Doing good, thanks! How are you? How is Francene?’ He dabbed the smear off the printout, as best he could, with a paper napkin.
‘Yeah, she’s good! Listen, hope you don’t mind my calling you direct?’
‘Of course not, always!’
‘I kind of guessed I’d get a quicker answer from you than by going through the Interpol bureaucracy.’
‘Tell me?’
‘I’m dealing with a homicide here in New York. A pretty nasty one involving torture. It’s looking organized-crime related — a courier for a Russian Mafia organization we’ve had under observation for some months. He was found dead in his hotel room, at the Park Royale West. Name’s Romeo Munteanu — a Romanian national. But that’s probably not going to mean anything to you. Word on the street is he lost a bag containing a large wad of cash he was carrying for a drug deal, and no one believed his story.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred thousand dollars. We’re trying to trace an English-woman who was with him in the bar of the hotel, we believe under an assumed name, the last time he was seen alive. Probably a long shot, but I thought you might be the person to help us find her. We’re not sure she’s necessarily connected — the bar staff we’ve interviewed say he appeared to have picked her up in the cocktail bar around seven in the evening on Wednesday last. They left the bar together around half eight. Then she checked out of the hotel just after ten that night. According to the staff she seemed pretty agitated.’