The man smiled, a gold tooth gleaming. ‘Wait one second.’ He walked across to his portacabin and returned with a length of wire, which had been fashioned with a hook on one end. ‘This usually works handsome,’ he told them. ‘You’d be surprised how many owners leave their keys at the office. Don’t know how they do business, some of them.’
Seconds later, he stepped back from the car and clicked the door open with a flourish.
They searched the inside in detail, unearthing just a single piece of paper — a garage receipt from the car’s customer service folder, where it had been wedged behind the User Manual. The work had been for a damaged exhaust, and the customer address was in Harefield, Middlesex. The customer’s name was Parsons.
The date was a month old.
‘This has been sanitized and dumped,’ Rik said quietly, while the attendant was out of earshot on the other side of the car. ‘You ever had a car this clean?’
Harry shook his head. It was clear the vehicle wasn’t going anywhere. Whoever had owned it before had finished with it, and he was willing to bet that if it really was registered to someone named Parsons, it would turn out to be a cover name.
‘Harefield’s not far from here,’ the attendant offered helpfully, and insisted on giving them directions. ‘Shouldn’t take you long this time of night. I hope he’s OK, your bloke.’
Harry slipped him a note and thanked him for his help, and told him they would arrange collection of the car.
‘No problem.’ The man was happy, his evening made by the small interlude of intrigue. ‘I’ll secure it and leave a note for my mate. If you want to. . you know, look into another vehicle any time, and need someone to hold the torch, drop by.’
FIFTY-TWO
The address on the garage bill led to an anonymous terraced cottage on the edge of a small development. Open fields spread out into the darkness in front, and a few houses showed lights to the rear. The properties either side were dark and silent, and in the glow from the street lights the area looked neat and well maintained.
Harry parked a few doors along and walked up the front path. He pressed a button to one side and heard a bell ringing inside. There was no answer. He tried the handle but it was locked. Leaving Rik to keep watch, he went to check the rear.
The back gardens were small and laid mostly to patios or decking, with gravelled beds sprouting ceramic flower pots and exotic grasses. Harry pushed through the gate and negotiated the gloom to the back door. When he touched the handle, the door swung open.
He stepped back, eyeing the windows. He couldn’t hear anything, as there was just enough ambient night noise to block any sounds from inside. He turned and walked back to the front and led Rik to the car.
‘Back door’s open,’ he said quietly, and opened the rear of the Renault. He leaned inside, then swore softly.
‘Problem?’ Rik joined him and immediately spotted the metal box with the combination lock. ‘What’s that?’
‘What does it look like?’ Harry muttered, and tried again to open it. But the mechanism was jammed solid. He ran his fingers round the combination dial and felt a sliver of metal wedged firmly into one side. This was no accident.
Rik looked at him. ‘It’s a hot box!’ He sounded shocked. ‘I was meaning to ask you about that-’
‘Ask me some other time. We’ll open it later.’ He looked back towards the house. There was still no sign of life. In spite of his reservations about carrying weapons, having the backup of a gun right now would be an enormous psychological advantage. ‘Come on.’
Leaving Rik to cover the front door again, he made his way to the back and stepped inside. The only sound was the ticking of a heater. The air smelled musty and dead. He brushed his hand across the wall by the door and flicked on the light. He was in a small kitchen, tidy except for a plate and wine glass standing in the sink. The base of the glass was crusted with dried red wine.
He walked through the cottage and opened the front door.
‘Anything?’ Rik was scowling, but looked fully alert.
‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ Harry whispered. He gestured towards the stairs. ‘I’ll do up there.’
He went up the carpeted stairs before Rick could ask more questions. He reached the landing and stepped into a bathroom. Empty. He crossed the hallway and found a small bedroom containing a single bed, a cheap pine desk with a PC on the top, and a chest of drawers.
He stepped into the last room and switched on the light.
Jennings was lying across the bed, dressed in a shirt and pants. His legs were white stalks, hairless and devoid of colour or muscle tone. He looked as if he might have been dressing to go out. A pair of shiny black brogues stood by the bedside cabinet, and a tie lay across the pillow. A suit was hanging on the front of a single wardrobe.
Harry called down. ‘Up here.’
Rik joined him and moved across to the bed. A small hole was visible in Jennings’ throat, just below the chin, and a heavy trickle of congealed blood had wormed its way down one side of his neck. Another had run from the corner of his mouth and puddled on the coverlet. Harry checked the skin around the wound. There were no signs of scorch marks.
‘He was shot from the door,’ he concluded. ‘Small calibre. Doesn’t look as if he had time to react.’
They checked the house from top to bottom, but other than the PC, there was nothing to help them in their search. The PC would have to go to Ballatyne for his experts to go over and analyse in depth.
‘You want me to take a look?’ Rik offered.
It was tempting, if only to get a jump ahead of Ballatyne. But Harry shook his head. ‘Jennings will have used codes or password protection. We don’t have time.’
They gave the house another once-over, each taking the rooms previously done by the other. This second search revealed a small paper carrier bag by the side of the pine desk in the spare bedroom. It was empty, but when Harry peered inside, he saw a tiny triangle of paper under the edge of the cardboard stiffener at the bottom. He pulled it out. It was a single, new fifty-Euro note.
He studied the bag. It had crease lines down the sides, as if it had once contained something heavy and roughly oblong. . like packs of banknotes. Was this what Jennings had been killed for — a pay-off that had turned nasty?
Harry dialled Ballatyne’s number and reported their findings. The duty officer coolly noted the details, including the number off the fifty-Euro note, and said he would pass it on. ‘We’ll notify the police, but we’ll have our people check the place first.’ He added that it might be unwise for them to be found in the vicinity.
‘This bloke doesn’t waste time thinking on moral dilemmas, does he?’ said Rik. ‘It was just like the others: in, do the job and out again.’
‘Similar. But there are two differences. He got here before us and he took something away with him.’ The same signature was here just as surely as if he’d spray-painted his name across the walls.
Dog.
The hostel near Victoria was in darkness by the time Dog returned. A digital clock in a shop window read 02.30. He’d been unable to sleep, his mind full of what he had to do tomorrow. He hadn’t intended being out this late, but time had slipped by unnoticed, his thoughts piling in on each other as he considered his future after he’d taken care of Rafa’i.
He pushed at the front door, half expecting to have to hammer on the glass to rouse someone, but it swung open without resistance. The cubicle where the night-porter-cum-security-guard watched a tiny television was deserted. Grateful for small mercies, he moved past the desk and walked quietly up the stairs, feeling the pull of stiffness settling in his leg muscles. He was tempted to do some warm-down stretches but it would have to wait. He needed sleep more.