If I had the time, I'd almost feel touched. But I don't. The clock's ticking, and I need to come up with some answers, and soon. So all I reply is, 'Of course I know what I'm doing,' even though it must be obvious to all but the most deranged of observers that I don't. I lean over and put a hand on his arm. 'Thanks for everything, OK? I appreciate it. And I'm sorry for what happened to Snowy. But now you can go home.'
'Shit,' he snorts contemptuously as he stops at the junction, making no move to pull out, 'do you really think I'd leave you here alone?'
'I don't want you coming in with me. You've done enough.'
'I'm not going to come in with you, but I'm not going to desert you either. You've still got our phone, haven't you?'
'Course I have. I respect other people's property.'
'If I haven't heard from you in fifteen minutes, I'll raise the alarm somehow.'
'How?'
'I'll think of something.'
'I appreciate this,' I tell him, thankful that amid all the savagery of this day I've got someone I can rely on.
We watch each other for a long moment.
'Be careful, Tyler,' Lucas says eventually.
I tell him I will. We shake hands and I pull my hand away quickly, not wanting to drag things out, because if I do I know the fear will kick in and I'll lose the momentum that's been driving me forward all day.
I jump out of the car and he pulls away, turning left on to the main road. I start walking, watching the BMW as it disappears over the hump of a nearby bridge, and with each step I take I think about Leah and wonder why she, like Snowy, had to die for the mysterious contents of a briefcase.
It's time to find out.
16
When I get to the bridge, I see that it crosses a canal and that the buildings on Orsman Road back on to the canal path, which gives me something of an advantage. I pick out the target building. It's bordered at the rear by a brick wall about eight feet high, with a set of double gates in the middle topped with two lines of rusty-looking barbed wire. It all looks fairly imposing, but looks can be deceptive, and I know I'll be able to get through security like that easily enough.
Taking a deep breath, I descend the steps that lead down from the bridge to the canal path and walk as casually as I can towards my destination. On the other side of the canal a couple of joggers run past, looking exhausted in the heat.
And then, finally, fate intervenes on my behalf. As I approach the gate, I hear someone talking behind the wall. Once again, the language is Serbo-Croat. I slow down and stop, and a second later I hear the gate being unlocked on the other side. There's nowhere to hide, so as it opens outwards, I step behind it and stand there, out of view.
A young guy in a cheap black suit emerges, letting the gate swing back on its hinges behind him. He's talking into a mobile phone, and he's got his back to me as he walks slowly down the path. Taking my opportunity, I curl my fingers round the end of the gate and stop it shutting automatically, then slip inside, leaving it on the latch.
I'm in a car park about twenty yards square which leads to the back of the building. There are banks of windows lining each floor. Most have the blinds down and the others appear empty, which seems strange given that there are about a dozen vehicles of all shapes and sizes in the car park, including a Jag and a brand-new Merc CLK-Class Cabriolet.
As I step forward, I hear the gate reopening as the guy in the suit comes back in. He's off the phone now and has clicked the gate shut. I slip behind a metallic blue Land Rover Discovery and crouch down while he passes. He pauses to light a cigarette, then continues towards the back of the building. He's the only person I can see, and I walk behind him, my footsteps barely making a sound on the dusty concrete.
By the time he hears me, he's five yards from the back door and I've already retrieved the Glock from my waistband. He turns round, and I see that he's in his late twenties with bad teeth and ferret-like eyes which widen dramatically at just the moment when I smack him in the middle of the forehead with the gun's handle. He grunts in pain and goes down on one knee, so I smack him again, this time on the temple; the blow is easily enough to knock him unconscious. He'll be out for a good few minutes, which is the best I can hope for at the moment.
There's a wheelie bin a few yards away, next to a locked-up loading bay, with a pungent smell of old fish oozing out of it in the still heat. Shoving the Glock back in my jeans, I pull him roughly to his feet and drag him over to it. I remove the lid and the smell suddenly gets a lot stronger. I dread to think what the people here have been eating. You wouldn't want to dump your worst enemy in here – unless, of course, your worst enemies are like mine are turning out to be. I hoist him over my shoulder, toss him inside, replace the lid and take a deep breath of fresh air.
The back door's a fire exit and it's been propped open with a stop. I open it slowly and find myself in a darkened corridor with cement flooring. There's an empty kitchen area to my right, and another door directly ahead of me, which looks more promising. I try the handle. It's unlocked.
This time I find myself in a carpeted hallway with lighted chandeliers on the ceiling. The air conditioning's on in here, and I can hear the steady buzz of casual conversation coming through some open glass doors ahead of me. There's a peal of female laughter, and I wonder what kind of place I'm in. I pass a carpeted staircase on my left, and then I'm through the glass doors and into a narrow, windowless bar, lit up by the soft glow of half a dozen Chinese lamps. The decor's not what you'd describe as expensive, but it's definitely making the effort, and I'm surprised at how much better this place looks on the inside.
The tables lining one side of the room are teak in colour, and the low-slung armchairs around them are worn leather. Most of them are occupied by two types of people: thin young women who look barely out of their teens, wearing respectful, slightly vacant expressions, and skirts so short they're in danger of hanging themselves with them; and expensively, occasionally gaudily, dressed men with too little hair who, to put it politely, are a long way past their peak. None of them glances my way. The men are too preoccupied, and I'm guessing the girls wouldn't dare. This is, I realize suddenly, the public area of a brothel, and the people who run things will be somewhere else.
The barman – who's wearing a burgundy waistcoat the colour of the wallpaper and a minute bow-tie, and is the only man in here younger than me – looks my way with interest. I smile at him and turn away, heading back out and over to the staircase.
As I take the first of the steps, a door opens to my right and through it comes a short, squat guy with a razor-sharp widow's peak and a more than passing resemblance to Bela Lugosi in his glory days as Count Dracula. We're only three feet apart. He scowls and opens his mouth to say something, but the gun's out of my waistband in one movement. I shove it hard against his belly before he can react, and move in close to him, putting a hand behind his neck so that we're almost in an embrace. He smells of stale and very cheap cigarette smoke. He looks extremely angry too, his features wrinkling into an expression of almost unhinged aggression. But he's not stupid. He can feel the Glock's barrel and doesn't resist as I give him a cursory pat-down, retrieving a four-inch flick knife from his trouser pocket.
I press my thumb into the pressure point just below his ear. 'I've killed two men today,' I tell him calmly. 'Unless you tell me what I want to know, you're going to be number three.'
He grunts something unintelligible and meets my eye to show he's not intimidated.