I turned back to Susie. "Katya," I said. "Now."
"She isn't here," she said, stepping back as I advanced on her. "I swear it."
"Where is she, then?" I asked, hearing a rattle at the door to my right. I pulled out my Glock and pointed it at the woman's face. "Stay in there unless you want her brains on the wallpaper!" The rattling stopped.
"I dunno," the madam said, her voice quivering.
I moved closer, the muzzle of my pistol almost touching her forehead. "You know, all right," I said, smiling. "I'm counting to three. Not out loud. And I've started."
The woman glared at me, her eyes damp. "Put it away, mister," she said desperately.
"Talk first."
"I. Oh, for fuck's sake. Katya's with one of the bosses. Jesus, you don't know what you've walked into. They'll cut your pathetic cock off and stuff it in your mouth."
"What's his name?" I said, holding the Glock steady. "Shkrelli," she replied. She was trembling now. "Which one?" "Safet." The Shkrelli clan kept a low profile, but it was one of the Albanian mob's most powerful operators. "Have you got a number for him?" I asked. "You're out of your fucking mind," the woman said, shaking her head. "I know," I said, smiling again. There was nothing like a smile to convince criminals you were serious-it was an unwritten rule for major hard men. I wasn't one of those, but I could play the part for a while. She took a pencil with a chewed end from the pocket of her overtight jeans and wrote on the back of a betting slip. "You'd better not use that," she said as she handed it to me. I nodded. "Thanks for the advice. Do you want me to hit you?" She understood what I meant. "Nah, they heard it all anyway. They'll be the ones doing the hitting." "You can walk out of here with me," I said, lowering the Glock. She thought about that, then shook her head. "No point," she said. "You're going to be dead soon." I laughed, which surprised her. I was thinking how disappointed Sara would be if I was taken out by the Albanian mob before she got to me. "Go, you idiot," she said, a smile flickering on her lips. "And don't come back." The rattling on the door started up again. I shrugged. "Thanks," I said, then turned on my heel and ran down the stairs. The gorilla was just coming around as I reached the street door. He made a half-hearted attempt to grab my legs, but stopped when I knocked his head against the wall.
"Don't," I said, pointing the pistol at his face.
He cowered, even when I'd put the Glock back in my jacket. Then I put my cowboy hat back on and stepped confidently on to the street like a well-satisfied customer.
As I turned the corner, I realized that my heart was in overdrive and my throat was as dry as a Balkan mountain in high summer. Twelve Karen Oaten went out of New Scotland Yard and headed for the cafe where she often bought lunch-although she wasn't often there on a Sunday. She was served by Dino, one of the owner's swarthy sons. They all had a good line in risque patter, but Dino was the master.
"It is good in the beautiful signora's life, everything?" he asked as he put together Oaten's tuna sandwich. The brothers had been to school in West London, but Dino liked to play the cute Italian boy only recently arrived from the old country.
"Wonderful," she said, surprised by the bitterness in her voice. Even though her desk was piled high with murder files, Karen wasn't usually daunted by her job. She'd been through worse times-the White Devil's reign of terror, for example.
"I can help the signora in many ways," Dino said, raising an eyebrow at her. "Especially in bedroom." He handed over a plate with her sandwich and an Americano.
"I'm sure," Karen said, ignoring the innuendo. She paid and headed for a table in the corner. As she ate, she thought about why she was bitter. It didn't take much effort to pinpoint the reason. Dino, by chance rather than design, had identified the problem. She needed help, but it wasn't the kind you could get from anyone else-she needed self-help. It was hardly the first time in her life that she'd been troubled by affairs of the heart. Where did that old-fashioned phrase come from? She didn't read Regency romances or the like. But in the past, such problems had been easily sorted. A sweet-tongued, two-timing barrister had been sent reeling back to his chambers by a well-directed kick to his groin; a chief inspector from Vice whose demands got ever more disturbing was reined in after Karen called his wife; and a VCCT sergeant with ideas substantially above his station was back in uniform, policing football matches. None of those techniques would work with Matt, though.
Karen looked at the people at the counter. A few of them would be police officers in plain clothes or civilian support staff, but most were ordinary members of the public. She wondered what it would be like to work in a nine-to-five job, with nothing more to worry about each day than which TV channel to watch and what to cook for dinner. She never had time to watch television, except occasionally the late news, and Matt always cooked when they were together, even at her place. She was a disaster in the kitchen and survived on frozen meals and tins when she was alone. So what was her problem? She had a man who cared for her, and a job that she treasured, even if it sometimes got to her.
"Is okay?" Dino was standing over the small table, arms akimbo.
Karen knew he wasn't only asking about the food. "Leave me alone." She got no pleasure seeing the young man's head jerk back as if he had been slapped, but she really did need to think things through. Matt loved her, she knew that. And she loved him. That would be enough for most people, but they were different. Weird, in fact. She knew what her problem was-the job made her cold and dispassionate, or rather she had always been that way and working murder cases had made her more so. But Matt, he was a collection of different people in a single body-admittedly a very attractive one, especially since he'd been hitting the gym. He was a father, though she hadn't had kids so she couldn't fully fathom that side of him. He was a lover, true to his word and tender as any man she'd known. But he was also a writer, following in his adoptive mother's foot- steps-and writers, particularly those in the crime genre, were skilled liars, experts at concealing motive and ruthless at achieving their ends. That was the problem with Matt. It had been that way during the White Devil investigation, when he hadn't been able to trust her. Something similar was happening now. He had found one of his best friends dead and suddenly he was putting into operation a carefully organized plan that she was sure she knew only a small part of. Where were the other guys? Andy Jackson, Roger van Zandt and Peter Satterthwaite were up to something-some of them probably trying to pick up Sara Robbins's trail via her financial transactions, as they had done with the White Devil. She had sent officers to the three homes, but none of them had been there. Matt was keeping things from her, she knew that. If she wanted, she could take him into protective custody-forcibly if necessary. That would put a terrible strain on their relationship, but would it be worse than Matt carrying out a private war against the woman who'd betrayed him? What if that war led to innocent victims? "Guv?" Karen looked up. "Oh, hi, Taff." "Can I join you?" "May I join you," she said. "I had a pedantic old English teacher. Obviously you're physically capable of joining me. You want to know if I'll give you permission to join me, which requires 'may.'" "I'll take that as a 'yes,' shall I?" the Welshman asked, pulling up a chair. He was carrying one plate piled high with toast and another with three fried eggs. "Going for the premature heart attack?" the chief inspector said, finishing her wholemeal sandwich. "I haven't eaten since six this morning." "I think you owe me an explanation. Where have you been? I've left you several messages." John Turner avoided her eyes as he bit into a double layer of toast. "The AC," he mumbled. "What?" Karen said loudly, making heads turn. "Has he had you doing things behind my back?" The inspector wiped egg yolk from his mouth. "He thinks you're overwhelmed." "Fuck that!" she said, provoking stares. "He should have come to me first." She glared at her subordinate. "And you should have told me what was going on as soon as you left him." Turner held her gaze. "He told me not to. He knows how loyal I am to you." He raised his shoulders. "So I thought about it and came to find you. But he is the senior officer and-" Oaten leaned over the table. "Don't worry, I'll be speaking to the senior officer shortly. In the meantime, you'd better tell me what's been going on. I'm still in charge of the team, remember?"