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  Schaefer had tried Noel’s buzzer, but there was no answer. He would let himself in and have a poke around while he waited for the policeman to return. Schaefer waited near the front door until a young woman in sports kit and headphones left for a jog. He timed his move perfectly, and caught the door just before it closed behind her. He slipped inside the building without the jogger even noticing. Hundreds of wooden mailboxes stacked in rows like cheap little coffins, worn carpet, and stained walls; this was exactly the type of place Schaefer would expect police to live. Typical. Anonymous. Normal. Schaefer checked the signs for apartment 618, and headed for the west wing of the building.

  The lift smelled of bygone years; a subtle perfumer’s blend of stale beer, urine, disinfectant, and damp. The control panel was covered in graffiti. Among the modern day satyrs parading their enormous members and notices of who would suck who for a pound was a message scrawled in black marker: Life may suck, but it’s better than the alternative.

  Schaefer was surprised to step out of the lift into a bright and airy corridor. The sixth floor was higher than any of the surrounding buildings, and the reinforced windows that ran down one side of the corridor offered genuinely impressive views of east London. The carpet was clean and the walls were a freshly painted pure white. Schaefer wondered whether the building’s owner knew there was a policeman living on this floor. There were four apartments off the corridor, all in a row down the western side of the corridor. Noel’s, flat 618, was the second one along. Schaefer knocked and waited. He knocked again, but there was no response. Schaefer hadn’t replaced his Leatherman or lock picking tools, so he checked the corridor was clear, and forced the door open with his shoulder.

  The smell hit Schaefer the moment he stepped into the flat. That familiar mix of putrid sweetness and acrid decay. Death was here. Schaefer checked the master bathroom, which was by the front door: empty. He crept along the hallway and pushed open the next door to what turned out to be a second bedroom. Noel had converted into a home gym where he sweated to prolong his lonely life. The door along was ajar and Schaefer put his head round to see the master bedroom; curtains drawn, bed unmade. The en suite light was on and the extractor fan was whirring furiously. Schaefer backed out and carried on down the hallway, which dog-legged round into an expansive living room and diner. A large leather sofa faced the panoramic windows that offered an enviable view of central London. Seated with its back to Schaefer, was Noel’s still and lifeless body, the man’s head listing to one side. Schaefer crossed the room and took in the murderous scene. A curved, long-handled knife was embedded in Noel’s chest. Blood had caked over his sweatshirt and pooled and dried in his lap, on his grey joggers. His staring, gelatinous eyes accused Schaefer with their unflinching gaze. More troubling than the dead policeman was the symbol daubed in blood on the wall behind him; the mandala that linked Amber’s abduction with Katie Blake’s kidnapping and Leon Yates’s gang. The Collective’s insignia. Schaefer turned back to Noel and noticed something in the dead man’s hands. He leaned forward and prized it from fingers that yielded more easily than Schaefer had expected. The absence of rigor mortis suggested that Noel had been dead for over twenty-four hours. Schaefer studied the small, bloodstained card and immediately recognised it.

  Thomas Schaefer, Private Investigator.

  Planted in an attempt to put him in the frame. Schaefer wasn’t moving in ever decreasing circles. He felt he was caught in a rip tide, flailing desperately in a wild effort to stave off drowning. These people were trying to push him under. This Collective. Schaefer pocketed the card, and closed Noel’s eyes. For a moment he envied the freedom of the dead man’s peaceful oblivion. But as his eyes looked at the curved blade with self-destructive fascination, Schaefer reminded himself that he had work to do. He scanned the room and saw Noel’s coat hanging on the back of one of the dining chairs. Schaefer ferreted around and found what he was after, Noel’s wallet, his identification, and his warrant card. Schaefer pocketed them and slipped out of the flat. Taking great care to avoid being seen, Schaefer took the fire stairs, and emerged onto the narrow side street beside Cityview House. He leaned against the rough, redbrick wall, his legs wavering, his mind spinning, his body shaking. Another innocent life lost because of him. One more ally gone. One less friend. Schaefer vomited violently. Passers-by would only see a degenerate drunk hurling his life away. Only Schaefer knew that he was sick with fear. If these people would do that to police, what would they do to a child?

  TWENTY SIX

  The frozen on-screen image was crystal clear. The days of fuzzy blurs indistinguishable from a vaguely green background were long gone. Schaefer could clearly make out Shark Eyes as he stood by the open passenger door. Smoker, Scarface, No Neck and the Mercedes’ licence plate had been visible in other frames.

  “Can you print that one, too?” Schaefer asked.

  “No problem, Detective Noel,” the station manager said eagerly.

  Schaefer had used Noel’s warrant card to get into the control room and talk the bored station manager into letting him review footage from the station’s security cameras. Images from the night of his visit to Chesham filled the half-dozen screens that dominated one wall of the tiny, stuff control room.

  “Were you undercover?” the station manager asked, indicating Schaefer’s presence in one of the pictures.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d they do?” the station manager probed. This was probably the most exciting thing to have happened to him all year. A thin veneer of nonchalant professionalism struggled to suppress his curious excitement.

  “I’m not a liberty to discuss it, sir,” Schaefer replied solemnly, doing his best cop impression.

  “They look pretty bad,” the station manager concluded. “It’s got to be something pretty bad.”

  Schaefer collected the photo of Shark Eyes from the printer, and added it to the others that were already in his hand.

  “Thanks,” Schaefer said. “You’ve been a real help. I’ll be sure to mention you in my report.”

  The station manager beamed with pride as Schaefer exited. He knew that within a few minutes, the eager man would be on the phone to his friends and family sensationalising Schaefer’s visit. But Schaefer didn’t care; he had what he needed. He leafed through the glossy images of the four men, and settled on a shot of the Mercedes as it drove away from the station. There, clearly visible at the bottom of the image, was the car’s licence plate.

  *

  Noel’s security pass still worked. Schaefer used it to get into Kennington Police Station through the staff entrance at the rear of the building. He moved with confidence, nodding at the police officers he passed. They would be used to seeing dishevelled, unfamiliar faces – undercover cops often looked rougher than real criminals. Schaefer found his way to the central information office, which gave officers access to a variety of local and national law enforcement databases. Schaefer had chosen a lunchtime incursion in an effort to minimise traffic in the room, but he had misjudged. A group of young officers clustered around one of the terminals, and were arguing loudly over who could find the ugliest mugshot of any woman booked for soliciting in the area. Schaefer stopped in his tracks – this was too risky, but his window to escape closed suddenly, when the data manager, a young woman with a sharply cut bob, caught sight of him.

  “Try and ignore them,” she said. “You new here?”

  “I’m on assignment,” Schaefer said. “I need to run a plate.”

  “I’m Cassandra, but everyone calls me Cassie.”

  “Tom,” Schaefer said.

  “You got the digits?” Cassie asked.

  Schaefer produced the photo set from his jacket pocket and handed her the image of the Mercedes.

  “Nice car,” Cassie observed.

  Schaefer nodded, and followed her to a computer terminal on the far side of the room. He was careful to position himself with his back to the group of rowdy young officers and leaned over Cassie as she fired up the
machine.

  “Here we go,” she said a few moments later. She indicated the vehicle ownership details on screen. Schaefer’s heart sank; the Mercedes was registered at an address he recognised; 34 Chapel Street – Leon Yates’ house. The owner was a limited company – Area Boy Limited.

  “Do you want a print out?” Cassie asked.

  Schaefer shook his head.

  “It’s okay. I know the place,” he replied honestly. “Thanks for being so quick.”

  Schaefer turned for the door, as Plainclothes entered.

  “What have you freaks got for me today?” he yelled at his colleagues in the corner. Schaefer hurried forward, hoping that the rowdy jeers would distract Plainclothes, but the young policeman spotted Schaefer and did a double take. Schaefer didn’t wait for a third. He pushed past Plainclothes and sprinted into the corridor. Plainclothes gave chase.

  “Stop that man!” he yelled.

  A klaxon alarm sounded.

  A uniformed officer came out of nowhere and tried to club Schaefer down, but Schaefer dodged the blow and kept running.

  He burst out of the staff entrance into the path of two startled motorbike cops. One dropped his helmet, which Schaefer grabbed. He wheeled round and used the helmet to smash both officers in the face, knocking them out cold.

  Schaefer jumped the car park barrier and raced onto Mead Row. Four or five officers were coming down the street, and Plainclothes was leading a charge of half-a-dozen through the car park. Schaefer banked left and sprinted across the street towards the low rise council flats opposite. He could hear heavy footsteps closing, and the yelled threats of violence as he scrambled up a six foot wall. He pulled himself clear of danger just as Taser contacts spat into the wall below. Schaefer leaped into the communal rubbish enclosure, and pushed past the huge bins. He emerged into a small grassed courtyard that was encircled by the low rise flats. A nervous young mother with two small children hurried into her ground floor home, as Schaefer raced across the yard. Schaefer knew he had another two or three minutes at most before the chopper arrived. The air felt like acid as his chest heaved with the effort. More footsteps and shouts from behind. Schaefer looked over his shoulder to see the first officers spill out from behind the bins. He crossed a concrete path and ran up a narrow gap between two buildings.

  Schaefer burst onto St. George’s Road and was relieved to see the police hadn’t arrived yet. He sprinted into the middle of the road and forced the oncoming driver to make a choice; either kill him or stop. The driver chose the latter, and Schaefer rewarded the shaken young woman by yanking her from her car, and stealing it. He pulled a U-turn and forked left along Westminster Bridge Road. Distant sirens. And the dreaded thrumming above him. Schaefer craned his head to look up through the windshield. He saw the underbelly markings of a police helicopter tracking the car. Ground support still hadn’t arrived, so he still had a chance – albeit a slim one.

  Schaefer pushed the tiny Fiat to its limits as he sped through traffic. He pulled in front of oncoming traffic in order to pass a ponderous lorry, but there was no space for him to get back onto his side of the road. Amid the screech of tyres and a cacophony of horns, Schaefer mounted the pavement on the wrong side of the street, and headed for the London Road roundabout with minimal concern for the pedestrians who were diving out of his way. He checked the rear-view; still no cars, just the chopper to worry about.

  The Fiat bounced as it flew off the high kerb onto the roundabout. Schaefer didn’t even pretend to take it the right way. He wove through oncoming traffic and turned violently onto Borough Road, and sanctuary. Borough Road was one of the few streets in London that had extensive tree cover. He pulled the car to a sudden halt, jumped out, ran across the street, and hailed a black cab as it came round the corner.

  “Croydon,” Schaefer said breathlessly, as he clambered into the back of the taxi.

  The driver nodded and hit the meter. Schaefer was pumping with adrenalin and had to fight the urge to scream at him to get moving. After what seemed like an age, the cab started moving. A couple of passers-by, who had seen Schaefer ditch the Fiat, looked on with suspicion. But this was London; nobody was going to do anything to endanger themselves.

  As the cab reached the roundabout, Schaefer looked up Westminster Bridge Road, to see four police cars approaching. The driver waited until they had sped past, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Schaefer looked at the passing cars; their drivers and passengers so focused on their target that they didn’t even give the cab the slightest glance. Once the flashing noise had passed, the taxi driver moved on at a steady pace.

  “I’m not going back that way,” the driver observed to Schaefer. “Looks like something’s gone on. We’ll cut east if that’s alright with you.”

  That was more than alright with Schaefer.

  “You’re the expert,” he said.

  Schaefer knew he’d have to ditch the cab before Croydon, just in case one of the passers-by had taken down its number. But he’d let the driver enjoy the prospect of a big fare for a little longer, while he figured out his next move. The police would soon find out he’d used Noel’s card to get into the station. That would lead them to the horror in Bethnal Green. Schaefer knew it was only a matter of time before he became a suspect in a murder inquiry. Whatever he was going to do would need to be done fast – he would soon run out of space to manoeuvre.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Her soft shoes were soundless. Schaefer watched her feet move in graceful silence as he followed her down the corridor. Young, full of promise, surrounded by madness. Charlie Simmons was too beautiful to be working in a place like this, with warped minds and twisted imaginations all around her. She was obviously filled with do-gooder spirit; one didn’t become a nurse in a place like this for the money. Charlie led Schaefer through a security door, down another corridor and came to a stop outside a door that was marked, “Group Therapy Room.”

  “Doctor Gilmore is normally quite strict about his therapy sessions,” Charlie said.

  “This is urgent,” Schaefer insisted.

  Charlie nodded and opened the door. Gilmore sat in a circle with eight patients, their chairs drawn into the centre of an otherwise bare room. All eight men were staring at a large clock held by Gilmore. Schaefer saw the man he was looking for: Derek Liddle.

  “With each passing tick, we become aware of our own mortality,” Gilmore spoken in a modulated, soothing tone. “Another tock, and, if we do not have answers, we can seek to fill the void with false prophets and empty promises.”

  Gilmore looked up and caught sight of Schaefer and Charlie.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Gilmore, he said it was urgent,” Charlie explained.

  “That’s quite alright, nurse,” Gilmore said calmly. “Thomas knows better than to interrupt my therapy without good cause.”

  Charlie backed out of the room, relieved.

  “What do you want, Thomas?” Gilmore asked.

  “I need to show him a photograph,” Schaefer pointed at Derek, who hadn’t registered his presence. There was something strangely distant about all the patients.

  “This is wholly inappropriate,” Gilmore protested.

  “Don’t get in my way,” Schaefer replied, almost automatically.

  He saw hurt register in Gilmore’s eyes and felt a pang of shame.

  “Would you turn on an old friend?” Gilmore asked.

  Schaefer didn’t answer, but stepped forward to confront Derek with the photograph he produced from his pocket.

  “Do you know him?” Schaefer asked, thrusting the image of Shark Eyes into Derek’s face.

  Derek looked past the photo, directly into Schaefer’s eyes.

  “What can come of evil, but evil?” Derek asked.

  “Thomas, please don’t this,” Gilmore pleaded as he stepped forward to intervene. “These men are at a delicate stage of their treatment.”

  Schaefer placed a hand on Gilmore’s chest. The old man was not about to prevent him following up his onl
y lead on Shark Eyes.

  “His car was registered to Leon Yates’ home address,” Schaefer told Gilmore. “He and Leon Yates knew each other. That means there’s a good chance Derek here knows him.”

  Schaefer turned to Derek.

  “Do you know him?”

  “He is the background of all our lives,” Derek replied.

  “Who is he?” Schaefer demanded.

  “Who are you?” Derek responded with a lazy smile.

  Schaefer felt rage start to build, but noticed that there was something wrong with the eyes. They were staring at him, but the pupils were wide and unfocused. Spittle bubbled at one end of the smile and ran down Derek’s chin.

  “Is he drugged?” Schaefer asked, turning to Gilmore.

  “They all are. Another couple of weeks of therapy and medication and we should be there.”

  Schaefer turned to look at Derek, whose eyes had wondered to study some fascinating section of the blank wall.

  “I need to talk to him when he’s sober. How long before you can get the drugs out of his system?”

  “Two or three days,” Gilmore replied. “This isn’t aspirin. If we stop his medication cold, he’d go into shock.”

  Schaefer could not mask his frustration.

  “I need to find this man!” he exclaimed.