A Rush of Blood

Thirty-four

‘The sign is just the same as the other six we’ve been to so far,’ said

Sauce Haddock, peering at the door of the Softest Touch massage parlour. He put his finger on a brass button on its facing and held it there. The buzz inside was loud enough for the four detectives to hear it clearly, but there was nothing else, no sound of movement, no sign of light through the frosted glass panels.

‘There could be somebody hiding inside, though,’ Alice Cowan suggested.

‘There could,’ Jack McGurk agreed, ‘but since your girl Anna told you that she wasn’t held here, I don’t see us having grounds to force an entry.’

‘On the other hand,’ Griff Montell growled. Next to the massage parlour, there was a heavy green-painted entrance door, with six tenants’ names and doorbells displayed at the side, above a speaker. ‘Flat 1a,’ he read. ‘L. Jankauskas.’ He chose flat 3b and pressed its button. When no reply came after half a minute he went to the next. His third choice, flat 2a, F. Bryan, was the lucky one. ‘Izzat you, Benny?’ a young male voice asked.

‘No,’ said McGurk, heavily, ‘it’s the polis; we need in, but not for you. Open the door then stay in your flat.’

F. Bryan thought for all of two seconds; there was a tone from the speaker, and the door swung open at Montell’s touch. He led the way up to the first floor of the four-storey block, where he saw two doors, facing each other, number 1a on the right.

‘Will we knock?’ asked Cowan.

‘Allow me,’ said McGurk. ‘I’m good at knocking.’ He raised his right foot and slammed the sole of his heavy shoe directly on to the Yale lock. The frame splintered, and the door swung open.

Again Montell headed the charge, silently, with no warning shouts, into a narrow hallway, with four doors off. Each one was open, but nobody emerged to greet them. There were two bedrooms to the right. Both empty, the South African saw as he looked in; the bed in the first was made up, but in the other it was dishevelled, its sheet crumpled and filthy, and a duvet was tossed on the floor.

The house was rank. He sniffed; it stank of sweat, of stale food, and of something else.

‘Griff.’ Sauce Haddock’s voice was quiet, but his tone was laden as he stood in the doorway to the left.

Automatically, Cowan and McGurk stood aside to let him through. He reached the young DC and followed his gaze. In the centre of the main living area, a man lay on his back. He wore a grey thermal vest and jeans, and the ridged soles of his Timberland boots faced them. He had a close-cropped crew cut; his head was shaved at the sides, and his neck lay at an angle that told the whole story of what had happened to him. ‘German hair,’ Montell murmured, remembering Anna’s translated description.

Linas Jankauskas’s eyes were wide open, staring upwards, not at the police officers, as they stood around him, but at the ceiling. Not that he saw it, though; Alice Cowan reckoned that it had been a few hours more than a full day since he had seen anything at all.

‘Who did this?’ Haddock whispered as Montell knelt beside the body.

‘Desperate Dan,’ Cowan replied.

‘Eh?’

‘The so-called van driver, who took Anna into the surgery for medical care. That’s how the receptionist described him.’

‘Then she was spot on,’ McGurk murmured, as he contemplated the victim. ‘This Linas was a powerful-looking guy. There isn’t a mark on his face, but his neck’s broken. Whoever did this to him must be the strongest fucking cowboy in the world.’

‘We’d better call Ray,’ said Montell as he stood.

‘Why Ray?’

‘It’s our division, Jack.’

‘Maybe so,’ the sergeant agreed, ‘but we’ve got an interest in this too. This death links directly into an investigation we have under way. You call Ray Wilding, fine, and I’ll call Becky Stallings. They can put their heads together, and when they do, you can bet they wind up running to Neil McIlhenney. But,’ he concluded, ‘we’ll make those calls from outside. We’ve had eight great big coppers’ feet trampling all over this crime scene, so let’s tiptoe very carefully out of here before we contaminate it any more. I seriously do not want that grumpy old sod Arthur Dorward getting mad at me.’