The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Read online

  ‘Agreed,’ said Newton. ‘The last thing we want is a stream of people filing past the corpse wondering if it’s their nearest and dearest. What about identifying marks on the body?’ He smiled thinly. ‘And I don’t mean the fact that his dick was cut off.’

  ‘The post mortem mentions some scars on his back but doesn’t go into detail. We weren’t in on the post mortem because the pathologist called in the Met instead. I’m going to talk to her to see if there’s anything else that might give a clue as to who he is.’

  ‘What about a search of the crime area?’

  ‘We had a fingertip search of the tunnel and a general sweep outside, but there wasn’t anything. It was well planned, his clothes had been taken away, there were several knives used. Anyone who went to that amount of trouble isn’t likely to have left anything lying about outside.’

  Newton exhaled deeply. ‘And no witnesses?’

  Wright shook his head. ‘There are no houses or gardens overlooking the area, and anyone using the road can’t see down into the culvert. There was some dog shit around so we’ve got a man there interviewing any dog walkers. We’re going to start a house-to-house once we’ve got the rotas worked out.’

  Newton stood up and went over to the whiteboard. He looked at the words Wright had written, and at the ace of spades he’d drawn. ‘Who, when, how, why?’ Newton read. ‘Well, answer those questions, Nick, and the mystery is solved.’ He turned around. ‘I saw you on TV.’

  ‘Ah.’ Wright looked embarrassed.

  ‘At least you didn’t allow yourself to be drawn on that serial killer question.’ Newton sighed despondently. ‘I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. Go home and change, Nick. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.’

  Kristine Ross rolled over and hugged her pillow, luxuriating in the warmth of her bed. She opened one eye and looked at the clock radio on her bedside table. It was just after two a.m. She closed her eye and tried to get back to sleep. Her alarm was set for six a.m. so that she could be in the office by seven thirty. She listened to her own breathing, then jerked involuntarily as she heard a soft scraping sound from the far side of her bedroom, as if the door had opened and brushed against the carpet. She opened both eyes. The door was closed. She sighed and tried to slip back into sleep.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed and turned and rolled on to her side. Working for Senator Burrow was demanding, both physically and mentally, and normally she was so tired that she dropped off as soon as her head touched the pillow. The skin on her back tingled as if she was sleeping in a draught. She pulled up the quilt and drew her knees up against her stomach, curling up into a fetal ball. It was no use. She was wide awake. She opened her eyes. Immediately she stiffened. There was a dark shadow in the corner of the room in a place where she’d never seen a shadow before. She frowned, wondering what it was, cursing herself for being so stupid, but then the shadow moved and she gasped.

  ‘I’ve got a gun,’ she said. ‘If you don’t leave now I’ll shoot.’

  There was a soft chuckle from the shadow. ‘You didn’t have a gun when I checked this morning, Kristine. I hardly think you bought one on the way back from the office.’

  He knew her name, but Kristine was sure that she didn’t know who the man was. She sat up, holding the quilt up to cover herself. Suddenly she realised what the man had said. He’d been in her apartment before. She began to panic and her hands shook uncontrollably. ‘Take what you want,’ she said.

  ‘I intend to,’ said the man. He walked over to the light switch and flicked it on.

  Kristine blinked and tried to focus on the man. He was wearing a grey suit and a white shirt and a conservative tie in muted reds and greens. He looked more like a stockbroker than a burglar or a rapist, but then she’d seen enough police documentaries to know that burglars, rapists and even serial killers didn’t always conform to type. His light brown hair was greying prematurely and it was cut short in military style. He was trim and fit but not over muscular, and he was, Kristine realised, the type of man she often went out with.

  ‘Just don’t hurt me. Please.’ She felt weak and vulnerable and hated herself for it.

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ he said.

  Kristine was seized by fear. ‘Oh God. Please, take what you want and go!’

  The man pursed his lips and pressed his index finger to them. He was wearing gloves, Kristine realised. Tight-fitting black leather gloves. ‘Try to keep your voice down, Kristine. I know how stressful this is for you, but if you raise your voice I’m going to have to use more force than I want to. Do you understand?’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded and Kristine found herself nodding along with him. ‘I want you to get dressed,’ he said. ‘There’s a blue cotton dress in your wardrobe, the one with the white flowers. Put that on. Are you wearing underwear?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you wearing underwear?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her voice trembling.

  ‘Put a bra and panties on. White.’

  She slid out from underneath the quilt and scampered across the thick-pile carpet to the chest of drawers where she kept her underwear. He watched her, but there was nothing salacious about the way he looked at her. She turned her back on him while she pulled up her panties and put on her bra.

  ‘Do you work out?’ the man asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you work out? Exercise? You’ve got a great body.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The words came out instinctively and she mentally cursed herself for thanking the intruder. She went over to the mirror-fronted wardrobes and pulled open the doors. The blue dress was on a hanger. She took it out and put it on.

  ‘Let’s go to the kitchen,’ said the man.

  Kristine was confused. ‘What?’

  ‘The kitchen. Now come on, Kristine, you’re not being a very good host, are you?’

  He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face. Kristine stared down at the man’s jacket. She had seen enough Secret Service agents around Senator Burrow to know that no matter how well a weapon was concealed, there was always a telltale bulge.

  The man smiled. It was an easy smile, showing perfect teeth. ‘I don’t need one,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You keep saying that, Kristine, and frankly I don’t think it’s especially polite. Didn’t your mother teach you to say, “I beg your pardon” or “Excuse me”?’

  Kristine shook her head, now totally confused and unable to speak.

  ‘Let’s try, shall we?’ said the man. ‘You can say, “I beg your pardon?” can’t you?’

  Kristine felt suddenly light headed and for a moment she feared she was going to pass out. She fought to steady herself. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. This wasn’t a robbery. Did he want to kidnap her? That didn’t make any sense: she wasn’t married and her parents didn’t have money.

  ‘I think you need a drink,’ he said. ‘There’s wine in the kitchen.’ He held the door open for her. ‘After you.’

  He followed her along the hall to the kitchen. ‘You know where most accidents happen?’ he asked as she switched on the overhead fluorescent lights.

  Kristine shrugged. ‘The roads?’ she guessed.

  The man pointed a gloved finger at her. ‘That’s what everyone thinks. But it’s the home. Home sweet home. More people are hurt at home than anywhere else. Homes are dangerous places.’

  ‘Red or white?’ she asked. She was feeling braver. He’d made no move to hurt her and seemed to be going out of his way to put her at ease.

  ‘You choose,’ he said. Kristine pulled a bottle of Chianti from the rack by the door and picked up a silver-plated corkscrew, a housewarming present from her mother. She removed the cork and reached for two glasses. ‘Just the one glass,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t want any?’ she said. It was important to keep him talking, she knew. She’d seen an Oprah Winfrey show once about how to deal with attackers, and a policeman had said t
hat it was important to establish a rapport with the criminal.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ he said.

  Kristine half filled the glass, and raised it. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Do you have a name?’ She stared at his face, trying to imprint it on her memory. It was important to remember details that couldn’t be changed, the detective had said. Not clothing, or jewellery, which is what most witnesses fixated on. Things like the dimple in the centre of his chin. The light brown hair that was starting to grey. The pale hazel eyes.

  ‘Len,’ he said. ‘Short for Leonard. Let’s go into the lounge. Bring the bottle with you.’

  He held the door open for her and she smiled at him as she walked by. ‘Thanks, Len,’ she said. Use his name if you knew it, the policeman had said. Make the process as personal as possible.

  He followed her into the lounge and closed the door, then switched on a table lamp. ‘Have some more wine, Kristine.’

  She turned to face him. ‘I don’t want any more. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Do it for me anyway,’ he said pleasantly.

  Kristine shook her head. ‘Please, really, I’ve had enough.’

  The man’s smile widened but all the warmth vanished. It was a cold, harsh smile, the smile of an attacking shark. Kristine shivered. ‘I’m asking you nicely, Kristine, and I expect you to do as I ask. If you don’t, I’m going to rape you, then I’m going to fuck you up the arse and then I’m going to shove a carving knife so far up your cunt that you’ll get a nosebleed.’ The warmth seeped back into his smile. ‘So drink up. Please.’

  Kristine drained her glass and refilled it with shaking hands. She forced herself to drink but she almost gagged and wine spurted from her mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  The man ignored her apology. ‘Keep drinking,’ he said. He perched on the back of her sofa with his arms folded and watched as she forced down the wine.

  Kristine began to giggle. Her stomach felt as if it were glowing and she could feel the alcohol coursing through her system. The most she usually drank was a couple of glasses of wine and that was while she was eating. She poured the last of the wine into the glass and put the empty bottle on to the coffee table.

  ‘Very good, Kristine,’ said the man. ‘What about some music?’ He nodded at the stereo. ‘Something mellow.’

  Kristine walked unsteadily over to the Panasonic stereo system and looked through the rack of CDs. Her mind was in a whirl as she frantically searched for a way out of her predicament. The wine was making her dizzy and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to run. Besides, even if she was sober she doubted that the man would have any problem catching and restraining her. There was a telephone in the bathroom – if she could convince him that she had to go to the toilet then perhaps she could call the police. She chose a Lloyd Cole CD and slotted it into the player.

  ‘I need to use the bathroom, Len,’ she said. She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face and tried to make herself look as appealing as possible. Make them think you were co-operating, the policeman had said. Then choose your moment.

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘There’s still some wine in your glass.’

  He turned on a table lamp and walked over to the sliding window that led to the balcony. He flipped the lock and slid the window open. Kristine frowned, wondering what he was doing. She picked up her wine glass. Despite the threat he’d made in the kitchen, he clearly wasn’t going to rape her; he’d had every opportunity to do that in the bedroom. And if he was planning to rob her, why make her drink the wine? Maybe he thought the wine would knock her out so that he could make a clean getaway. But that didn’t make sense either because all he had to do was tie her up.

  ‘Beautiful view, isn’t it, Kristine?’ said the man. He had his back to her as he stared out at the lights of the nation’s capital. ‘Come and look.’

  Kristine was totally confused. He was treating her more like a girlfriend than a hostage. She walked slowly across the room, both hands cupped carefully around the wine glass as if it was a sacred chalice.

  The man moved to the side and gestured with his left arm for her to go out on to the balcony. It was a big balcony with room enough for a white-painted cast-iron table and three chairs, and was one of the main reasons she’d chosen the apartment. ‘It’s a beautiful home you have,’ he said. ‘Are you buying or renting?’

  ‘Buying,’ she said.

  ‘You’re a very lucky girl, Kristine,’ said the man.

  Kristine opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak she felt a thump in the small of the back and she stumbled forward. Her arms flailed as she tried to regain her balance, but she was pushed again, this time harder, and she pitched across the waist-high rail, falling towards the car parking area eight floors below. She tried to scream but her throat was full of wine and vomit and all she could manage was a terrified gurgle before she slammed into the tarmac.

  Nick Wright handed a cup of coffee to Tommy Reid, who looked at his wristwatch theatrically. ‘Wet leaves on the line?’ Reid said.

  Wright sipped his coffee and sat down. ‘I didn’t leave until seven o’clock this morning,’ he said. ‘I got back to the flat just after you’d left.’

  Reid snorted. ‘I assumed you’d pulled a bird,’ he said. He pointed at the polythene-wrapped sandwich on Wright’s desk. ‘I suppose that’s still fresh, then?’

  Wright shook his head in disgust. He tossed the sandwich to his partner.

  Reid caught it one handed. ‘Hey, I could have just eaten it before you got here.’

  ‘That would’ve been theft,’ said Wright. He took another sip of coffee. ‘And I would’ve pressed charges.’

  Reid unwrapped the sandwich and took a large bite out of it. ‘You came back here last night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Reid gestured at the whiteboard. ‘That’s your artwork, then?’

  Wright nodded. ‘I was brainstorming.’

  He picked up the list of missing middle-aged men. ‘I’ve managed to eliminate a dozen names so far,’ he said. ‘I want to eliminate a few more before we start bringing people in to look at the body,’ said Wright. ‘We know our man’s fingerprints aren’t on file with New Scotland Yard’s Fingerprint Bureau, so I want to check if any of those missing have had their prints taken. Any that have, we can eliminate.’

  Reid nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘I’ve arranged for a DNA sample to be sent to the DNA database at Priory House in Birmingham but they’re struggling with a backlog and it’ll be at least five days before they get back to me. And I’m going to see the pathologist. See if there’s anything else she can tell me about the body. Stuff that might help us identify him. Or at least rule out some of the names on that list.’

  ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ said Reid. He handed the list of names back to Wright and picked up the second sandwich.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Wright. ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘Ronnie’s asked me to canvas the area again for witnesses and check with the uniforms, the ones checking dog-walkers. But according to Ronnie, the Met boys’ll be in later today and they’ll probably take over that end of it. He says we’ll stick with the crime scene and the forensic, the Met will handle the trace and any witnesses.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ said Wright. ‘We’ve already started trawling missing persons. Hell, between us we’ve already discounted twenty per cent of the names.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, mate, speak to Ronnie.’

  ‘Speak to Ronnie about what?’ boomed the chief inspector from the doorway.

  Wright twisted around in his seat. Dundas was carrying a pale blue file and a carton of milk. He had recently acquired an ulcer, and a pint of milk a day was his one concession to his doctor’s plea for a change in lifestyle.

  ‘I think we should handle the identification of the body,’ Wright said.

  ‘What, you’ve started so you want to finish?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Dundas pretended to consider wh
at Wright had said. He drank from the carton, leaving a smear of milk across his upper lip. ‘Remind me again how you got on with your inspector’s exam, Nick?’ he said eventually.

  Wright scowled but didn’t reply. There was no need to. Dundas knew exactly how badly Wright had done.

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ said Dundas, waving around his carton of milk. ‘Not an inspiring performance, was it?’

  ‘And your point is?’ sighed Wright.

  ‘That when you’re a chief inspector, you can call the shots. Until then . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay, I get the drift,’ said Wright. ‘Do you have any objections to my going to see the pathologist? See if I can get any more physical characteristics?’

  ‘Now you’re sulking,’ said Dundas. He gestured at Reid. ‘What do you think, Inspector Reid?’ he said, stressing Reid’s title. ‘Should we allow Sergeant Wright to go to speak to the nice pathologist?’

  Wright shook his head in disgust.

  Dundas and Reid exchanged grins. ‘Might keep him out of trouble,’ said Reid.

  ‘Thanks, partner,’ said Wright.

  ‘What about you, Tommy? Any thoughts?’

  ‘Thought I’d have a go at following up the playing card. The forensic boys haven’t got any prints off it, but it must have come from somewhere.’

  Dundas nodded approvingly. He looked around the incident room. There were half a dozen detectives sitting at desks and three female uniformed officers working on the computers. ‘Lads and lassies, could I have your attention for a few moments, please,’ he boomed. All heads turned to look at Dundas as he took another drink from the carton. ‘Just to let you know that the Met team will be arriving later this afternoon. Twelve officers in all, the brightest and the best, no doubt.’ He grinned and there were several guffaws from around the room. ‘Most will be coming from the Battersea station and you’ll probably recognise a few familiar faces. I see you’ve spread yourselves out but it might make more sense to stake a claim to one side of the incident room and let them have their desks together. They’re a sensitive bunch and they feel happier in a pack. Phil, make sure they have enough phones and terminals, will you? I don’t want them complaining that they’re getting the short end of the stick.’