Deception

FORTY-THREE

The door of Jean’s flat swung open with a faint puff of sound on the carpet.

Harry breathed in the familiar smells of her perfume and felt his stomach turn to ice.

This door shouldn’t be open.

He’d come in through the back entrance to the block, avoiding the street where the two watchers were sitting in a red VW Kombi. Rik had stayed in a side street nearby, keeping an eye on them while Harry came in to check on Jean.

He stepped across the threshold, nerves humming with anticipation. If anyone was waiting for him, they would not be able to conceal their presence completely. A scrape of fabric, an unguarded intake of breath, something would always give them away.

There was nothing.

He moved along the hallway. No furniture out of place, no signs of a struggle, no debris. . or worse.

He checked each room, leading with the gun. Each space was empty save for a lingering trace of Jean’s presence, tantalizing and almost painful. Where the hell had she got to?

He made his way back to the front door of the flat, beginning to feel a desperate sense of panic. Surely they couldn’t have-?

‘Harry?’ Rik’s voice was a soft murmur coming from the mobile in Harry’s top pocket. He tapped the mobile twice in response. Go ahead.

‘The two guys are still in the VW van. You OK?’

Harry breathed out and lowered the gun. ‘She’s not here,’ he said. ‘Her door was open. Can you see inside the van?’

‘Shit. Give me two. . I’ll do a walk by.’

He heard the sound of breathing and the rub of cloth as Rik moved out into the main street, then an increase in traffic noise. Ten seconds, twenty seconds; he was beginning to get impatient and on the point of going down when Rik spoke.

‘Two young guys trying to look hard. They look half asleep to me. Definitely a surveillance job. Can’t see inside the back, though. What do you want me to do?’

‘Stay on them. I’ll join you.’

Harry pocketed the gun and walked back downstairs, gut churning with fear at what might have happened to Jean. Had the watchers called in help and had her lifted? Had she panicked and fled? No and no. If they had taken her, they wouldn’t need to hang around. And Jean didn’t do panic. She must still be around here somewhere. So, there must be another explanation. She had to have slipped out for some reason.

That still left the watchers to deal with.

Harry left the block of flats by the rear entrance and made his way round to the street where the two men were stationed. Instead of heading straight towards them, he took a narrow street at right angles to the one where they were parked, passing Rik on the way. Rik was wearing his sling and clutching a clipboard, playing street canvasser and stopping the occasional pedestrian, able to act out in full view of the watchers while keeping an eye on them.

Harry reached an intersection and turned left then left again, eventually completing the circumference of the block until he came back to the main street. On the way, he picked up a black garbage bag bulging with old telephone directories, a throw-out from a renovation job in a nearby house.

Nobody expects a tail to carry a garbage bag.

He was now in front of the Kombi, which was parked thirty yards away. A crushed Coke can lay in the gutter by the driver’s door. The two men inside watched him appear, then saw the rubbish bag in his hand and lost interest.

Sloppy tradecraft, thought Harry. They had parked facing against the traffic, which was a big no-no and made them stand out. It meant they weren’t professionals, but that was a good thing. Professionals would already have detected something not quite kosher about him and would be driving away fast. Or shooting.

Rik had broken off talking to a young woman further along the street and was walking towards him, the clipboard in evidence and his other hand parked inside his sling. He was limping noticeably, too.

Harry smiled in spite of the circumstances. It was a neat touch, if a bit dramatic. Who would expect any kind of threat from a man with a gimpy leg and his arm in a sling?

He approached the Kombi, timing his pace to coincide with Rik’s arrival at the rear of the van. Five paces short of the vehicle, he moved to the kerb and dropped the garbage bag alongside a bin, shaking his head in a disgruntled resident look, then moved off to continue on by. As he did so, he checked the pavement both ways. No pedestrians close by, nobody watching. No collateral risk if anything should kick off. Otherwise, a few passing cars, a FedEx delivery truck just pulling in along the street, but most of the drivers too intent on their progress to take any notice.

As he drew level with the Kombi’s front wing, Harry turned and stepped in fast against the driver’s door, preventing it from opening. In the same instant, Rik moved out into the street and walked up to the passenger door, tapping on the window.

The men inside scrambled to sit up, the passenger upsetting a plastic bottle of mocha milk drink over his lap with a shout of protest while the driver turned to stare at Harry with a look of alarm. He began to reach for the ignition.

Then he saw the gun in Harry’s hand, resting against the glass. Harry made a circular motion with his hand, and the driver hesitated, then lowered the window. A loud tap from Rik and the passenger saw the gun’s twin not two inches from his shoulder, hidden inside Rik’s sling. He also lowered his window, but with reluctance.

Both men were in their twenties, dressed casually in jeans and jackets, and would have passed unnoticed in the street. Neither had shaved for a couple of days, and had short, scrubby hair. The driver was suffering an outbreak of acne. The passenger stared across at Harry, deliberately ignoring the gun right next to him. Harry identified him as the leader of the two, all attitude and bravado.

‘Police,’ he said, and reached in and removed the keys from the ignition. He nodded at Rik to check the back. Rik disappeared for a moment, and there was the sound of a door opening, then closing. He reappeared at the passenger window and shook his head. No sign of Jean.

‘Can I see your driver’s licence?’

The driver looked surprised and shook his head. ‘We are waiting for job,’ he said, his accent thick. ‘Sorry, officer. We are painters. What is this? Are we doing wrong?’ His look of wide-eyed innocence would have been convincing had the passenger not fisted him in the leg with a muttered warning.

Harry didn’t understand what he’d said, but murmured, ‘Ah, Bosnians, I see. Now we’re getting somewhere.’ He decided to rattle them, to keep them off-balance. ‘Did Zubac and Ganic send you? Get you to keep an eye on a flat across the street?’

The driver’s mouth dropped open in recognition, but the passenger said something else and he snapped it shut again.

Rik said, ‘You’ve got a lot to say for yourself, sunshine.’ He pushed his gun forward until the barrel was resting against the passenger’s shoulder, which got his full attention. At such close range, there would be no dodging a bullet. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Painters,’ the passenger answered dully. ‘Like he said. You not police, so what you want?’ He stared at Harry with knowing contempt, but there was no hiding the doubt in his eyes. British police he understood; they had rules and regulations in situations such as this. But anyone else carrying guns in London was an unknown quantity, and therefore to be treated with caution.

Harry pushed the tip of his gun barrel up against the driver’s nose, forcing his head back so that his companion could see what would happen if he pulled the trigger. He didn’t care right now whether anyone saw them, he was growing angrier at the threat to Jean. ‘Wallets. Now!’ It was sharp and brutal, and the driver grunted with pain, his eyes streaming, but it achieved the desired effect. Both men handed over their wallets, which were of cheap leather and slim.

There wasn’t much to help. The driver’s name was Antun Goranuvic and his colleague was Davud. Brothers or cousins. There was no way of telling if they were their genuine names, and Harry doubted it mattered anyway. The wallets held a few notes in sterling and euros, some credit cards and one or two photos, but nothing to say who they worked for or where they came from.

He looked at Rik and nodded at his gun. ‘How many shells have you got in that since the last job?’

Rik didn’t miss a beat. He gave a lazy smile and said, ‘Enough. Why?’

‘Shoot them both. Now.’ Harry turned and walked away.