Severed

12

It's just turned two o'clock and I'm standing alone with the briefcase in my hand. I'm on the other side of the road from the address I've been given in King's Cross, looking at an empty, three-storey redbrick building dotted with broken windows and graffiti. It's at the end of a street consisting of tired-looking council blocks, many of which also look empty, about half a mile behind the station. A low mesh fence adorned with banners advertising the brand-new two- and three-bedroom apartments that will soon be here surrounds the building, and there's a condemned notice on the unlocked gate.

The area is quiet; only the sounds of construction work from the huge building site that runs north towards Camden Town puncture the silence. It's strange to think that I'm in the middle of a bustling city, yet this street reminds me somehow of the burnt-out, war-ravaged villages we used to pass through during our tour of Bosnia in the 1990s. It's far more intact than they ever were, of course, and without the smell of death and decay, but there is still that dull air of neglect and abandonment, and I'm thinking that, like them, this place would be a perfect location for an ambush. No witnesses, no potential for interruption, and a ready-made resting place for the corpse among the rubble the bulldozers are going to create any day now. It's unlikely that my body'll be found for days, or even weeks.

I watch the place for a couple of seconds. I can't see anyone inside, but then, that's the point. Someone will have slipped in there, quiet and unseen, and he's waiting for me now. If I walk in the door, I know there's little chance of me coming out, and for some reason I feel a sense of betrayal. I've kept my side of the bargain, but the man who in all probability killed Leah doesn't seem to have kept his. Well, fuck him. I don't have to play by his rules any more. I've got what he wants, and he won't dare give me up to the cops until he's got it. So I turn away and start walking, the briefcase in my hand.

I'm thinking about Leah, and what Lucas told me about her name being an anagram. I keep telling myself it must be a coincidence, but if that's the case, why couldn't he track her down, and why did I ask him to look into her in the first place? It's worrying me. If Leah isn't her real name, then it means she lied to me. And if she lied to me about that, it's possible she lied about other things as well. Again, I push the thought from my mind. I don't want to besmirch her memory.

I think back to Wednesday night, to that takeaway meal of squid in black bean sauce. I watched a documentary about the Brazilian rainforest on National Geographic, followed by the news. Then I went to bed. That was it. Nothing exciting at all; a typical weekday evening on my own. Except I don't remember anything else until this morning.

Lucas told me we spoke yesterday afternoon, and that I sounded like I had something on my mind. He asked if I was OK and I replied that I was fine, everything was all right, and he hadn't pursued the matter. The only thing I can think of is that I found out something about Leah that caused me some concern.

The frustration of losing such an important day is intense. It makes me want to bang my head against the nearest wall, as if this might help to jog something. I'm also thinking that if this single patch is indeed going to be permanent, then it begs an important question. If I'm never going to get that memory back, why bother killing me? You see, in my current state, I have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the man behind this, so it's going to be extremely difficult for me to find him. So, either the guy wants to kill me because he's got some kind of personal grudge, or because eventually my memory is going to come back, and when it does, it's going to lead me straight to him. Either way it's a none-too-attractive scenario, because the end result is that someone wants me dead, and that person seems to have the ruthlessness and the resources to ensure it happens.

But I have the briefcase. That, for the moment, is my trump card.

I'm on the Caledonian Road, heading in the direction of Pentonville Road, when I pass a cafe called Rudy's. The door's open and the smell from inside is surprisingly pleasant, with a hint of fresh herbs. Times may be difficult for me, but I haven't eaten for a long time. I go inside and order today's special: grilled chicken escalope topped with melted mozzarella on toasted ciabatta, with iceberg lettuce and tomato, washed down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a large mug of black coffee.

The interior of the cafe is empty, and I take a table in the corner as far away from the door as possible. The owner, a smiling Greek guy with very hairy eyebrows and a shiny white apron, brings over the juice and the coffee, and tells me that the chicken will be a few minutes because he likes to cook it fresh. I tell him that's fine, and as I take a long drink of the juice, reeling a little against the sharpness of the taste, the mobile breaks into the sombre strains of the 'Funeral March'. I look at my watch. It's 2.15.

'Where the hell are you?' demands the voice.

The menacing robotic tone no longer unnerves me. 'I didn't like your choice of drop-off point,' I tell him.

'I don't care what you thought of it. Get over there now.'

'No, there's been a change of plan.' He tries to interrupt but I don't give him the opportunity. 'There's a cafe on the Caledonian Road called Rudy's, four hundred metres south of the address you gave me. If you want the case, you meet me there in fifteen minutes, and this time don't even think about trying anything.' I hang up before he has a chance to say anything else, the show of power making me feel better.

Straight away, the phone rings again. This time I switch it off. I'm embarking on a high-risk strategy, but in my experience it's always better to stand tall in the face of intimidation rather than let yourself get pushed around. I take another sip of orange juice and settle down to wait.

The grilled chicken and mozzarella ciabatta tastes as good as it sounds. The meat is so thin and tender that it almost melts in my mouth; the lettuce is crisp and fresh; and the tomatoes actually taste like tomatoes rather than those flavourless pinkish things they grow in greenhouses in Holland. It's good to see someone taking pride in their ingredients, and when the owner comes over to collect my empty plate I tell him this. He beams from ear to ear, and thanks me. I also tell him that I have a friend coming in to meet me in a moment and request that he not disturb us for a few minutes. Politeness and flattery make an excellent combination, and he answers of course, that'll be no problem.

I finish my coffee and order another one. I'm beginning to feel better.

As the owner brings it over, I see a figure entering the cafe and heading purposefully towards my table. He's carrying a small Adidas holdall.

I tense. The case he's here to collect is by my chair, out of sight.

The owner moves out of the way and steps back behind the counter, giving me a better view of the new arrival. He's a big guy, six two or three, very muscular, with shoulders broad enough to carry dwarves on, and though he makes a conscious effort to move with at least a modicum of grace, he still lumbers a little. He's wearing a tailored navy blue suit and open-necked shirt, and as he pulls back a chair and takes a seat opposite me, I'm almost overcome by the thick, cloying smell of eau de cologne. With his wavy, perfectly coiffed black hair and deeply suntanned skin stretched as tight as a drum where he's had more than his fair share of plastic surgery, he's not what I was expecting at all. Straight away I know I've never seen him before. Even with memory loss, his is a face you're not going to forget.

He glares at me through cold, tar-black eyes that are devoid of emotion. He's got a job to do, and that's all he cares about. There is no doubt he would put a bullet in my head without batting an eyelid – although I'm not entirely sure he possesses an eyelid.

'So you're the guy who's set me up?' I say, looking him up and down.

'Not me,' he answers. 'I'm just here to collect the case. Where is it?' His accent's foreign. Southern European, I'm guessing. Greek, possibly Albanian.

I sip the coffee, deliberately taking my time.

'Where's the case?' he persists.

'Down here.' I motion with my head towards my right foot, noticing at the same time another man, smaller and older, coming into the cafe. He says something to the owner and I recognize the language he's speaking from my days serving in Bosnia. It's Serbo-Croat, the language of the former Yugoslavia. I don't know what it is the guy's saying, and I don't much care. I'm far more interested in the fact that he's wearing a long black mac even though there's not a cloud in the sky and the temperature outside must be way over eighty by now.

The owner returns to the coffee machine while the new guy takes a seat two tables down with his back to the wall. He doesn't look at me, but he moves one hand inside the coat. The other hand holds a strong-smelling cigarette which he smokes while staring into space.

I don't like this situation, but I remain calm.

'And have you got what I want?' I ask the rubber-faced man in front of me.

'It's in here,' he answers, tapping the holdall without taking his eyes off me.

'Open it.'

He shakes his head. 'It doesn't work like that. You show me the case first.'

I lean over, pick it up and give him a glimpse, then put it back down again.

'Give it to me,' he demands.

'When I see that you've got what I want, you can have it.'

'You see the man behind me?' he asks, trying without much luck to stretch his face into a sneer. 'He's got a gun trained on you.'

As if to confirm this, the barrel of what looks suspiciously like a MAC-10 submachine pistol appears over the hem of the other guy's raincoat. He's resting it on his lap and still smoking his cigarette, but now he's looking my way, and the blank expression on his face tells me that he too isn't going to waste time worrying about pulling the trigger.

I shrug, keeping my cool. 'Fair enough. At least now we're equal.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, if you'd care to look under the table, you'll see that there's a gun trained on you as well. And I've used it once today, so I know it works. Now, unless you want your balls to leave this place before you do, I suggest you open the bag.'

I rehearsed this last line before Rubberface and his friend turned up, and it sounds good when I say it. It also seems to do the trick. He reluctantly places the holdall on the table and unzips it, pulling the flaps aside.

I can't really see anything and I don't want to lean forward too much in case I make myself vulnerable, even though I can't see MAC-10 man opening up in here unless he absolutely has to. There are customers sitting at two tables outside on the pavement in front of the window, and the owner is tidying up behind the counter, oblivious to what's going on only ten feet away from him, or maybe he just doesn't want to look. Either way, if these men decide to take me out, they're going to have to walk past a lot of witnesses who could potentially ID them. Or kill everyone, which I'm pretty sure they're not going to want to do.

But still I'm careful. As casually as possible I put one hand into the holdall, keeping the other hidden from view, and move it around until I touch something wrapped in plastic. I slowly lift it until it appears in the gap, still concealed from view by the angle of the holdall. It's a large, thick-bladed knife heavily stained with dried blood, wrapped in clingfilm and sitting in a clear plastic evidence bag. Next to it in the bag is a silver DVD in its plastic sheath.

I swallow hard. It's the same knife from the film of Leah's murder, and the sight of it brings the memories of this morning right back to the forefront of my mind. For the first time in a while I come close to losing my calm. I let it drop back into the holdall, and Rubberface zips it up again.

'Now, let me see the case properly,' he demands.

I think of Leah alive and laughing with a glass of chilled white wine and experience a desperate urge to pull the trigger and watch this arrogant bastard scream. But I don't. Instead, I pick up the holdall and put it down beside me, then lift up the case and place it carefully on the table, with the handle facing him. He inspects it carefully for several long seconds, checking its authenticity, then stops.

We all stop.

I'm looking at the door, and Rubberface must have seen the flicker of alarm that crossed my face.

Two cops have walked in. They are unarmed, and look like community support officers. One is black and overweight, with a pudgy face and a belly that reaches the counter at least a second before he does. The other is white and small and middle-aged, and reminds me of my old maths teacher at school. If these two are the face of crime fighting in London, then law-abiding citizens everywhere are in trouble.

I try to gesture as naturally as possible for Rubberface not to look round, but subtlety's clearly not his strong point and his head's already turning. MAC-10 man's calmer, giving them only a cursory glance as they arrive at the counter, but I also see that his trigger arm has tensed.

I pick up my coffee and take a casual sip, a man without a care in the world.

Unfortunately, it's too late. In the periphery of my vision, I can see we've caught the cops' attention. The black officer orders bacon and sausage on white bread and leans a stubby elbow on the counter top, looking our way. He's got that sort of officious expression you often get on petty bureaucrats. He wants to show the world that he's got power, that he's not just some meaningless cog in the big wheel of life. That he's a man to be respected. And at the moment, this makes him very dangerous. The white guy, who's made an excellent culinary choice and gone for what I had on the menu, looks much more nervous, and I can't say I blame him. If we're innocent, then all we're doing is interrupting his lunch; if we're guilty, then it's going to be no easy collar. Rubberface could probably break him in half if he chose to, and I doubt he'd have too much trouble stomping his tubby colleague either.

Rubberface picks up the briefcase and gets to his feet, apparently satisfied that it's the right one.

'What's in the case?'

It's the black officer speaking, and my heart sinks. His tone's confident, almost playful.

'Business papers,' Rubberface says brusquely.

The officer nods slowly, his expression coolly sceptical. 'What kind of business papers?'

I ask myself why the hell he's doing this. Is it because he genuinely believes he's stumbled on some sort of clandestine deal, or is he just showing off to the owner? It's difficult to tell. On the other table, MAC-10 man is staring hard at both cops. The barrel of the weapon has moved ninety degrees too, and the black officer's ample belly is now directly in the firing line. A single signal from Rubberface and I know he'll pull the trigger without hesitation. I'm no hero, but I can't allow that to happen. The guy's an idiot, but he doesn't deserve to die in a hail of bullets.

'Just papers,' reiterates Rubberface, his accent becoming more obvious as he starts to walk towards the door.

The officer moves away from the counter, blocking his path, and I see that his hand has moved down towards the can of CS gas in his belt. Five feet separates the two men. Probably the same distance separates the officer from the end of the MAC-10. I wonder if he can smell the tension. But no, it seems he can't.

'Do you mind if I have a look?' he asks.

'Yeah, I do mind,' snaps Rubberface. 'I'm in a hurry.'

He goes to walk past, but the cop doesn't move.

'I'm afraid I'm going to have to make this official,' says the cop. 'I'm searching you under the terms of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 on suspicion of possession of drugs.'

'This is fucking ridiculous.'

'Don't swear, sir. Please put the briefcase down and put your hands in the air.'

Rubberface does neither of these two things. Instead, he and MAC-10 man exchange a brief glance. A silent message passes between them, and MAC-10's trigger arm becomes as taut as a drum.

Both cops turn in MAC-10's direction, as if seeing him for the first time. He stares back at them, his left hand out of sight under the table, the right still holding the foul-smelling cigarette. He puts the cigarette to his lips and takes a slow, contemptuous drag, before flicking ash directly onto the table top. The contours of his face are cold, dead stone. It's the gaze of a natural killer.

The whole room becomes still, as if the pause button's been pushed. No-one moves. Even the cafe's owner has stopped what he's doing. He looks petrified. The coffee percolator fizzes and froths in the background, and there is a certain inevitability about what's going to happen next.

The MAC-10 is a so-called 'spray and pray' weapon, designed for close-quarter combat rather than accuracy. With a rate of fire of twelve hundred bullets per minute, its thirty-two-round magazine will empty in under two seconds if the trigger is pulled while the weapon's set to automatic, the nine-millimetre bullets tearing apart anything in their path as they leave the barrel at more than six hundred miles per hour. In a confined space like this one, and with the pistol bucking in the shooter's hand, the effects will be devastating.

I need to move, and fast. Before the shooting starts.

The black cop turns back to Rubberface. For the first time, I see the tension in his features. He's unarmed and outnumbered, and he knows it.

But he won't back down. Even now, he won't back down.

'Please put the case down, sir,' he repeats, unclipping the strap on the CS gas holder, 'and place your hands in the air.'

The white cop's sweating, and I can see that his hands are shaking.

MAC-10 sits with Zen-like calm, as if he is above the petty fears of the others in the room. He is at peace with himself, if not with the rest of humanity, and I know that he's making the final preparations to commit an absolute minimum of two murders, and that I may well be number three.

'I'm going to ask you one last time,' says the black cop, his voice faltering, 'then I'm going to place you under arrest for obstruction.' Slowly, he removes the spray from its holder.

'This is stupid,' complains Rubberface.

He has his back to me, and I'm wondering if I can use him as cover.

MAC-10 is looking at his boss expectantly, waiting for the final nod. He's sitting back in his seat, giving himself support for when he opens fire.

Every second seems to crawl by. The air in here is like glue.

My legs tense and stiffen, and I begin, very slowly, to get up from my seat.

And then it happens.

The door crashes open.

A man has rushed into the cafe. 'Officers!' he shouts, clearly panic-stricken. 'There's been a stabbing in the shop round the corner. The assistant's been knifed. She's bleeding all over the place. You've got to come quick.'

The cops don't need asking twice. The white cop is already running for the door and tugging his radio free. 'Has someone called nine-nine-nine?' he shouts, the relief evident in his voice as he kicks up a real cloud of dust in his desire to get out of here. You have to give the black cop credit, though. As he follows his colleague out the door, he shouts at the three of us to stay where we are because he hasn't finished with us yet. He even manages to chuck an instruction to the cafe owner to keep his bacon and sausage sandwich warm.

And then they're gone.

For a moment, no-one seems to know quite what to do. Then, without looking back at me, Rubberface says something to MAC-10 in Serbo-Croat, and he gets up, his machine pistol hidden from view once again. They hurry out together in single file, taking the briefcase with them, while I slip the Glock back into the waistband of my jeans, pick up the holdall and get to my feet.

The cafe owner looks at me vaguely aghast. He knows something bad's gone on here but, like the coppers, he's not quite sure what. I take a ten-pound note from my pocket, walk over to the counter and put it in his hand. 'That was an excellent lunch,' I tell him with a smile, and before he has a chance to answer I'm walking out of there, knowing that Lucas won't be able to distract the cops with his story of an armed robbery gone wrong for very long.