Freefall Page 24

  “You all right?” Danny asked.

  “Yeah,” Bailey replied, but his face was clenched tighter than a fist, making a liar of him.

  “Well, that’s OK then,” Danny said, but he gave Sal a worried look: the cop should be laid up.

  Sal nodded but said nothing.

  They pulled into an empty driveway in front of one of the three-story terraced houses on the eastern side of Porter Street. Danny popped the door open, but the cop reached out and grabbed him. Danny could feel weakness in the man’s grip, and when he turned to give him some words for inappropriate touching, he saw a face twisted with pain. Only a complete asshole would kick a wounded dog, Danny thought, so he stayed silent and waited to hear what the crazy cop had to say.

  “You sure you know what to do?” Bailey asked.

  “You don’t have to worry, man,” Danny assured him. “I ain’t thick.”

  “He’s got it,” Sal added.

  “He is fucking thick,” Frank needled.

  “Fuck off, you greaseball,” Danny snapped back, as the old geezer reached for him.

  He skipped out of the car and slammed the door, knowing how much Frank hated people doing anything that might damage his motor.

  Frank raised a fist and Danny replied with his middle finger before turning north and heading toward the river. He made a left and hurried along Park Street toward the London Record building, a short, fat, dirty brown brick pile that squatted right by the Thames. He pulled a pair of shades from his inside pocket and slipped them over his eyes as he entered.

  The reception was like the entrance to every other sheeple factory. Lots of glass and marble, a few plants, some paint splats framed as art, a lazy fatso play-pretend cop posing as a security guard, and a couple of honey dolls sat behind a long desk: a brunette and a redhead. He went for the brunette.

  “Detective Sergeant Deckard,” Danny announced, producing a forged warrant card, which he flashed at the receptionist. Harrison Ford had been one of his matinee role models. “I’m working with Detective Murrall on the Sylvia Greene case.”

  The smile fell from the brunette’s face and she nodded seriously.

  “He’s asked me to take a look at the paper’s archives,” Danny continued.

  “The Archive Department is in the basement,” the brunette replied. She toyed with a strand of hair that had worked free of her loose ponytail. “Would you like me to show you the way?”

  Danny got a definite flirty vibe, but she did nothing for him. He’d swung for guys ever since primary school. He kept his love life low-key and private, but he was pretty sure Sal had guessed which way the dice rolled.

  “I’m all right, thanks,” he said. “Just down in the lifts, right?”

  The brunette nodded. “I’ll give them a call, let them know you’re coming.”

  “Thanks.” Danny spun on his heels and sauntered past the security guard toward the heart of the building.

  A tall blonde in brown sandals, sandy trousers, and a white shirt was waiting when the elevator spat him into a small lobby. The air was dead still and stale as though it had been through a billion lungs. It reminded him of the Natural History Museum, which had been saved from being written off as the dullest place in London by two things: the animatronic dinosaurs and his first furtive kiss with a boy called Hugh, a posho from another school, who’d got talking to Danny in the basement lunch room.

  “Detective?” the blonde asked, her voice suggesting she’d sooner believe Danny was the Pope.

  “That’s right,” Danny said, flashing the warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Deckard.”

  “My name’s Mary Stephenson,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m the assistant manager of the archive.”

  Danny shook her hand, which was the softest and warmest he could ever remember touching.

  “How can I help?”

  “I need to look at some of your back issues,” he said.

  “A lot of them are online,” Mary countered. She clearly didn’t like people coming down to her dungeon.

  “I know. I need to see some from the nineteen-twenties and thirties,” Danny said coolly. “They’re not online, are they?”

  “No, they’re not. You’d better come with me.” Mary moved toward a set of double doors, her sandals squeaking against the polished floor. She brushed a key card in front of a reader and pulled one of the doors open to reveal a vast vault that ran the entire length of the building.

  “Wow,” Danny remarked, looking at the rows of archive shelves that stretched into the distance.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Mary told him. “We’ve digitized almost all of it.”

  A middle-aged woman and a nerdy young guy eyed them from inside a glass-paneled office as Mary led him into the archive. They turned right into a narrow gulley that ran between two long shelves, and emerged into a small cubbyhole. Three computer terminals stood on a counter set against the far wall.

  “The system’s simple enough,” Mary said, approaching the nearest machine.

  She toggled the mouse and the screen sprang to life to reveal an old-fashioned browser which was badged as “Arcfile.”

  “You can search by subject, date, keyword, anything really. And if you need a bespoke search, Simon, our resident expert, can write you one.”

  “Date will be fine.” Danny slid into the adjacent chair and rolled it toward the computer. “Thanks,” he added. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  He was glad to see Mary was smart enough to sense that he was politely telling her to get lost.

  “OK,” she said, backing away. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

  Danny waited until she was gone before pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He laid it flat on the counter to reveal Sylvia Greene’s code. Lines now divided the block into its component parts. Fucking ball-ache, Danny thought as he typed in the first date. It was fun posing as a cop, but doing real police work was nothing but a drag.

  Danny had been at it for over forty minutes and was down to the final two words when he heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Mary approaching.

  “How are you getting on?” she asked.

  He carefully covered the deciphered message he’d scrawled on the back of the piece of paper.

  “All good,” he replied. “Nearly done.”

  “Were you expecting any colleagues?” Mary continued. “Only reception just phoned to say there’s another couple of detectives on their way down.”

  Danny felt the familiar bang of adrenaline as his heart tick-tocked up a notch. According to Bailey, the men who tortured him were the only other people who knew about the code. They’d been trying to decipher it when he’d escaped. Maybe they’d cracked it?

  “They aren’t police,” he said, getting to his feet and pocketing the message. “They’re villains posing as the law.”

  He registered Mary’s dismay as his brain whirred through his options. “Is there another way out of here?”

  Mary hesitated.

  “If they know the real police are on to them, we’ll all be in danger,” Danny added.

  “The fire stairs,” Mary told him. “They’re by the lifts.”

  She hurried toward the exit and Danny followed.

  “Tell your mates to call nine-nine-nine,” he said as they passed the glass-paneled office.

  “Call the police!” Mary shouted at the nerdy man Danny assumed was Simon.

  He looked perplexed.

  “Do it!” Danny yelled.

  When they entered the lobby, Danny saw a door marked “Emergency Stairs.” Mary hurried forward, but Danny froze when he heard a chime announce the arrival of one of the elevators.

  “Get out of the way,” he said, pushing Mary clear as he drew one of his VBR machine-pistols and strode toward the elevator. The doors slid open and two heavy guys in badly fitting suits stepped out. They were both wearing the cuts and shiners of a recent fight. Cops, my fucking arse, Danny thought as he surge
d forward. He cracked the shorter of the two with the butt of the pistol, knocking him cold. The guy dropped like a deadweight punk, and Danny leveled the pistol at his buddy’s head.

  “Don’t you move,” Danny snarled. “Or I’ll fuckin’ drill you.”

  “Detective?” Mary asked doubtfully.

  “I’m no detective,” Danny admitted. “And neither’s this guy,” he added, frisking the barrel-chested guy and finding a Sig in a concealed underarm holster. “Unless the Met’s lettin’ its troops out with heavy artillery. Who you working for?” he demanded.

  The goon glared, but said nothing. Danny raised the VBR and was about to strike, when the security door opened and the nerdy guy burst in.

  “The police are on—” He stopped short when he realized what was happening.

  The goon smiled like a meth-head who’d had his first hit of the day.

  “So you like the police,” Danny observed. “I don’t,” he added, slamming the pistol into the man’s face and feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as he fell.

  “If I were you, I’d get his gun,” Danny suggested. “It’s unlikely, but they might wake up.”

  Mary was frozen like a child who’d just caught her parents having sex. She wouldn’t be any use to anyone.

  “You,” Danny said to Simon. “Take his gun, and if either of them move, just shoot. Thanks for your help,” he added with a twinkling smile, before racing into the emergency stairwell and bouncing up the steps three at a time.

  A red squad car drew up outside the main doors as Danny entered the lobby. Armed police, he thought as he sucked in a deep breath of air and made an effort to calm himself. Sure enough, two bullet boys emerged from the vehicle, side arms showing, vests puffing out their chests. They jogged past Danny on their way to the reception desk. He spun on his heels and gave the brunette receptionist a cheeky salute, but she didn’t notice; she was too busy trying to understand why the building was now the epicenter of a cop convention.

  Bailey was out cold when he returned to the Range Rover.

  “Is he . . .” Danny let the question hang as he climbed on to the back seat.

  “No, I am not dead,” Bailey said, opening his eyes. “I was just resting. Did you get it?”

  “We heard some blues,” Sal added. “Everythin’ all right?”

  “I had to call the cops. Couple of heavies showed up. Short one had a couple of scars, one on his eye, the other on his chin, and a big fuck-off hammer-shaped bruise on his cheek. Big guy had a shaved head and a broken nose. Sound familiar?”

  Bailey nodded.

  “We should pick ’em up,” Frank suggested.

  Danny shook his head. “Cops’ll have ’em now. We need to bounce before they start looking for me, too.”

  Frank looked at Sal, who nodded, and the Range Rover started moving. The old villain threw it into reverse, swung out of the drive, and headed south along Porter Street.

  “Did you crack the code?” Bailey asked.

  “I like that. Makes me sound like Bond,” Danny observed.

  He produced the piece of paper and handed it to the cop.

  Bailey squinted at it for a moment. “I can’t read this,” he protested. “It’s like a spider crawled through a pot of ink.”

  Danny snatched back the paper and was about to say a few words when he caught sight of Sal, who signaled calm.

  “I’ll read it for you,” Danny said, telling himself he was being the bigger man. “You’re reading this because I believe you’re a good man and I trust you. I’ve been the victim of blackmail and I don’t think I’m the only one. My investigation leads me to believe there are other victims. I’ve been working with one of our reporters who knows as much as me. If you’re good at your job, you’ll figure out who. What I know ended my life, so don’t go down this path unless you’re prepared. Be . . .” Danny trailed off.

  “Be what?” Bailey asked.

  “I don’t know. Your friends showed up before I got the last two words,” Danny replied.

  The cop muttered something indecipherable.

  “I’ll take that as a thank you,” Danny said.

  “Thanks,” Bailey offered grudgingly.

  “D’ya know who she’s talking about?” Sal asked Bailey.

  “I think so,” the cop replied thoughtfully. “I need to get to Geneva.”

  41

  It was a little after ten and they were an hour away from their destination. The air conditioning was faulty, so they had the windows down, and cool air was gusting into the car. It carried the fresh scent of the lush green trees that covered the surrounding hills. Pavel had taken them to Five Star Auto Sales, the used car lot near JFK where Wallace had purchased the ancient Explorer the January before last. He and Ash had ignored Pavel’s advice to buy Japanese, and had selected a sixteen-year-old navy blue Chevy Blazer with cracked gray leather seats. Pavel had decried it as ugly and unreliable, but Ash had countered that it was a common model that was unlikely to draw any attention. They had paid cash, using some of the money Wallace had taken out of his safety deposit box. Pavel had given them a private number to contact if they needed anything else from him and told them to be careful.

  Ash had driven the Blazer into Manhattan, to the Fresh City Hotel, where Wallace had gone to the room and grabbed the holdall Salamander had given him while she checked out. They’d left the city and headed west. When they’d reached a place called Montgomeryville, they’d stopped at the mall and Ash had bought some new clothes, cosmetics, and toiletries. They’d found a payphone and Ash had called the two numbers Pavel had given them. The first belonged to the address in Louisville, Kentucky, but the man who’d answered had never heard of Mike Rosen and said he’d been renting the house alone for the past three years. The second number, which went to an address in Summersville, West Virginia, had been far more promising. When the call was over, Ash had told Wallace that the man who’d answered had said, “Six-four-five-two, Rosen.” But the moment she’d asked about Mike, the guy had clammed up and denied any knowledge of him.

  They’d taken turns driving west, and had finally stopped in Clarksburg, a small town in the north of the state. They’d found a place called the Greenbrier Motel, and, posing as a couple, had taken a king room in the three-story, shoebox-shaped structure. They’d had dinner in a Chinese restaurant near the motel, but Wallace hadn’t been much interested in food or Ash’s dissection of the investigation. He’d been puzzling over the nature of their relationship. They’d been thrown together by circumstance, but Ash was now closer to him than anyone. He’d watched her throughout the meal, studying her delicate features. Maybe he was projecting, but it seemed to Wallace that her eyes spoke of a life haunted by personal tragedy and the horrors presented by her profession, and he wanted to make it better.

  Partway through the meal, he had caught himself staring at her, watching her tease a loose strand of hair, studying her beautiful sad eyes, longing to catch her smile. He’d looked away, not wanting her to have any hint of his feelings until he could be sure of them himself.

  “How are we supposed to eat these?” he asked, drawing attention to a platter of Chinese greens.

  “I have no idea,” Ash replied, flashing him a smile that seemed to light up her face.

  It had taken Wallace three attempts to pick up the slimy green bulb with his chopsticks, and each effort had made Ash chuckle. Finally, he’d managed to hold the vegetable, which was about the size of a baby’s fist.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “I think you just have to pop it in,” Ash suggested.

  “There’s no delicate way to do this. You might want to look away. Things could get ugly.” Pleased to be rewarded with another smile, he popped the oversized vegetable in his mouth. His cheeks had puffed up like a chipmunk’s and he chewed as fast as he could to minimize embarrassment. After what seemed like an age, he’d been able to swallow.

  “Pretty good,” he said, and the two of them giggled like innocent children.
/>
  The Chinese greens had set the tone for the rest of the meal, and they’d laughed and joked, as though there’d been an unspoken agreement that they take a break from their unhappy lives.

  After Wallace had paid the bill, they’d walked across the small parking lot, neither saying anything, but the sense of carefree fun had died away as they’d approached their room. Ash had switched on the television, which helped make the silence less awkward. Wallace had been surprised when she had accepted his offer to sleep on the floor. He’d obviously read too much into their evolving relationship. Part of him had been grateful that Ash had kept it professional, but he hadn’t quite been able to shake the desire to hold her, to pull her close and feel her warmth against him.

  They’d created a makeshift bed using a quilt and some pillows. It had been reasonably comfortable, but Wallace had found it difficult to sleep, and he’d lain in the darkness listening to the soft sounds of Ash’s breathing, until, sometime in the gray hours before dawn, he’d finally dozed off.

  An early breakfast had put them on the road before nine, and now they were making good time, racing south along Highway 19 toward Summersville.

  “You can’t come with me,” Ash said, finally breaking a prolonged silence. “You’re wanted for Rosen’s murder. They probably know what you look like.”

  Wallace nodded. He’d been thinking as much.

  “It’s too risky staying out in the open for any length of time,” Ash continued. “We need to find a motel.”

  The Summers Inn was a long, low building located on the northern edge of Summersville. It wasn’t much to look at, but the manager, a short, wizened guy called Jeb Harlan, was friendly, and the room was clean.

  Ash felt a pang of regret leaving Wallace, but there was no way she could risk taking him. If, as she suspected, Rosen’s parents lived at the address, there was no way they’d talk to the man accused of murdering their son.