FORTY-ONE

Harry left Stanbridge where he was, with a sandwich and water to keep him quiet. He promised to release him before morning when he’d checked something out. Then he made his way back to Clare Jardine’s flat.

He was too wired up to contemplate sleep, but didn’t fancy the idea of staying with Stanbridge. Neither could he turn him loose without knowing what the other Clones were doing. Stanbridge might be lying and bring the others here in force and armed. This way, at least one of them was neutralized and the others were getting over the shock of being under attack. It might keep them unsettled enough not to take offensive action.

There was no sign of the burned car. He toured the block twice, checking the side streets, gradually widening the search until he was satisfied. He glanced up at Clare’s flat. It was in darkness. He considered going up to see if she was OK, then thought better of it.

Instead, he made his way to Rik’s place, a few blocks over. Novroni was a wide street close to the outskirts, a mix of family homes and one or two blocks which could have housed workers. There were very few cars in evidence, none of them new.

Number 24 was a single building squashed between two empty warehouses. The brickwork was crumbling, the front garden scrubby and abandoned to a litter of rusting metal and decaying packing crates. Originally part of the warehouses, he suspected, now leased by Red Station.

A light was on in one of the downstairs rooms, and he could see movement behind the net curtains. He made a tour of the area, checking cars and the dark spaces between buildings, until he was sure there were no watchers.

Stanbridge had been telling the truth.

He returned to his flat, stopping at an all-night working-men’s cafe for a mug of stewed coffee and a cold meat sandwich. He had to force the food down, but it could be a while before he got another opportunity. A few tired-looking men in dusty overalls and heavy boots were hunched over hot drinks or glasses of spirits, smoking and talking in low voices. They barely gave Harry a glance. Late shift or early? It was gone five and he wondered where the hell the time had gone.

He sensed something was wrong the moment he stepped off the street into the apartment building. It might have been in the quality of the grey light washing down the stairwell, or a shift in the atmosphere, as if the air inside had become charged with energy. He stopped and tilted his head to one side, listening. Something in the building had changed.

He waited for the telltale whisper of someone moving, the creak of shoe leather or the rustle of clothing. With no background noise, such sounds travelled easily at night.

Nothing.

He could have done with a weapon, but that was crying for the moon. Instead, he began the slow shift up the stairs, stepping carefully on to each tread.

He paused twice after hearing noises; one a scuffing sound, the other no more than a sigh. He decided it must be the building and continued on up. He stopped near the top to ease the aching muscles in his thighs. Jesus, he was getting far too old for this. If he made it out of here in one piece without getting shot, stabbed or having a bloody heart attack, he promised himself he’d start buying lottery tickets.

He arrived at his front door and stopped.

It was open.

Bugger. He breathed out in mild frustration. Stanbridge had managed to free himself and leg it. He pushed through the front door. Saw the bathroom light on. The door partly open.

Then came the smell.

Harry gagged. Oh, Christ…

He pushed the bathroom door back until it stopped with a bump. Stanbridge was lying in a foetal position against the wall. He had somehow managed to stretch the clothesline in his struggles to get free, but not enough to protect himself.

He’d been shot in the side of the head.

Harry didn’t bother checking the body. There was a lot of blood and grey matter against the wall and across the floor, and signs of burn marks around the wound. Whoever had done this had stood very close to him before pulling the trigger.

Harry walked out of the bathroom and rang Clare Jardine.

‘I don’t have time to explain,’ he said when she answered. ‘Can you get over here right away?’

‘What?’ She sounded breathless and irritable, as if dragged from a deep sleep. ‘Tate? Is this a joke?’

‘Get over yourself,’ he said brutally. ‘This is a code red. I need help. Now.’

He switched off the phone, tired of her snarky attitude. Code red should get her moving. It meant the shit had hit the fan and there was no time to lose. He thought about calling Rik. No, he’d freak out; he wasn’t trained for this. Fitzgerald, then. If Mace was right about him, he was used to making people disappear off the street. A third-floor bathroom should be right up his alley. Too late now — he’d wait for Clare.

He untied the body from the sink and disposed of the clothes line in a rubbish bag in the kitchen. Then he rolled the body flat, rearranging the clothes. He’d deal with the clean-up operation later.

Jardine was quick. Less than ten minutes later, Harry heard a footfall on the stair. He went to the window to check the street. No cars, no watchers. The early morning light filtering across the rooftops made the flat seem squalid and depressing, and he suddenly wanted to get away from here. He waited until he heard a soft knock before opening the door.

She gave him a cold look, a vein standing out on the side of her face.

Harry was unimpressed. ‘What did you do, take a bus?’

She ignored him and went on the offensive. ‘What’s your problem, Tate? You didn’t have to be so bloody insufferable on the phone.’ She pushed inside without waiting to be asked, and he closed the door and led her to the bathroom. Stood aside to let her see.

She froze when she saw the body, but that was all. No histrionics, no panic.

Tough indeed, he decided, and a stomach to match. Most people would have puked on sight.

‘His name was Stanbridge,’ he said.

She stared at him, eyes wide. ‘Did you-?’

‘Of course not. I caught him searching the place. He told me he and his mates have been called off the job as of this morning. I went out to see if the others were still around, and when I got back he was like this.’

Clare bent to inspect the body. ‘Who would have done it?’

Harry decided to lie. They could worry later about what Stanbridge had told him. ‘I don’t know. But we need to get rid of the body. If whoever killed him makes a phone call, we’ll have the authorities all over us like a rash.’

‘Or his mates.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ He began looking round for something to wrap the body in. There were no plastic bags, which would have made the task easier, so he took a blanket from the bedroom.

He had already decided what to do with the body. The further they moved it, the greater the risk of running into a security patrol. It made sense, therefore, to move it somewhere close.

He placed the blanket on the floor, then grasped the dead man’s shoulders and looked up at Clare.

‘You ready or not?’

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