Bone Machine (27 page)

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Breath beginning to come quicker and heavier, he slowed the car down so the engine sound wouldn’t carry and turned his lights
off. He knew the road well, let the Mondeo coast down the last few metres with the motor off.

He pulled up outside his house as quietly as he could, leaving the car door open as he slowly got out, pocketing the keys
so no one could steal it for a quick getaway. Kneeling down, he felt under the seat. He stashed an American police torch there
in case of emergencies. As heavy and hard as a truncheon, and just as effective. And if he got caught with it, he could quite
rightly claim it wasn’t a concealed weapon. He took it out, felt reassured by the heavy heft of it in his hand, looked around.
No other cars in sight.

He walked towards the house, staying on grass so his feet made no sound on gravel or pavement. Almost tiptoeing, he reached
the front door, listened. The TV was playing quietly.
He checked the front door. It had been opened but with minimum force. A professional job. Then closed again. Donovan frowned.
That didn’t feel right somehow.

He took his house key out, hands wrapped tightly around the rest of the keys in the bundle to stop them jangling, carefully
inserted it into the lock, turned it.

The door opened. Silently. He was glad Jamal had insisted on oiling it when they were renovating the house together. Donovan
held his breath, braced himself for the worst, looked inside.

A figure sprawled on the sofa, snoring lightly, empty bottle and glass of whisky on the floor at his side. The TV, unwatched,
was showing Argentinian football.

Donovan sighed, slammed the door loudly. With an incoherent shout of either disorientation, distress or both, the figure jumped,
sat bolt upright, eyes fluttering, seeking focus.

‘Jesus fuck …’ The figure focused on Donovan. ‘Oh, it’s you. Wondered what time you’d turn up.’

Donovan put the torch down and stared at the sight of DS Paul Turnbull. Drunk on the last of Donovan’s whisky.

Donovan wasn’t happy.

‘So this is it? We’re in?’

‘We’re in.’

Kovacs looked at the computer screen. It was scrolling up through an address book. He pointed at it. ‘What is this?’

His computer expert, Goodge, looked up. Small and overweight, he seemed to be on a quest to turn his body into the perfect
sphere. Hunched and wheezing, with greasy hair and greasily smudged glasses, his skin was the colour of tobacco and had a
translucent appearance, like his recreation consisted of sitting in front of a screen and smoking. Which it did. His working
life too. He stank of sweat, stale roll-up smoke and several bodily secretions, none of them too fresh. He looked like one
of the most unhealthy specimens of humanity Decca had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few.

But he was good. That was a given. Probably the best freelancer in the area, if not the country. Kovacs wouldn’t use him if
he wasn’t.

‘Address book,’ Goodge said, returning his gaze to the screen. His voice sounded just like he looked. ‘Got some kind of encryption
on it. Nothin’ I can’t break.’

‘Will it take you long?’ The merest tic in Kovacs’ cheek displaying impatience.

‘Shouldn’t think so. Though I’m more of a PC than a Mac man. Wanky posers’ machines.’

Decca, standing behind Kovacs, looked around. They
were in a converted warehouse on Lime Street just beside the Ouse Burn, part of a development that was being reclaimed and
turned into shells for small businesses in what was once one of the most derelict and neglected areas of Newcastle. Kovacs
had similar bolt-holes throughout the city, all hidden behind an untraceable papertrail.

The windows were boarded over, completely blocking the morning light. Computer equipment surrounded them. Looping and trailing
wires led to stripped-down base units, which in turn fed screens of various shapes and sizes, which in turn excreted yet more
wires. The walls looked like a solidly dark, living, malevolent thing, with half-hidden eyes of blinking red and green. It
was like a cluttered version of the Batcave with two crucial differences: no sense of aesthetics and no big car.

Or like a huge web with Goodge the spider at the centre.

Christopher stood next to Decca, watching proceedings, giving small nods of his head at every verbal exchange Kovacs made.
Decca still couldn’t read him. Kovacs had appeared almost deferential to him when they had returned with the computers and
files. Perhaps he was scared of him, thought Decca. That wouldn’t surprise him.

Goodge was still talking. ‘I just connect this here … run this …’ He looked at the screen of the stolen iMac on the workbench
before him and pressed a button. ‘There you go.’ The screen started scrolling a list of figures, stopping occasionally, the
cursor flashing like a body pants to get breath, then off again.

‘How long?’ asked Kovacs again.

‘Depends. Could be a minute, could be days. Depends if we hit the right combination at the right time.’

‘I don’t have days.’

Goodge shrugged. It looked like the most exercise his body had taken for days.

‘I have other business to attend to. A new shipment coming in.’

He looked towards Christopher, who slowly shook his head. Kovacs fell silent.

Decca frowned. A shadow of something had passed across Kovacs’ eyes at that moment. It looked to Decca, who fancied himself
an expert in finger-breaking and intimidation, like fear. That unnerved Decca. If Kovacs was scared of Christopher, he thought,
then everyone should be.

‘Just do it,’ Kovacs said. He pulled at his lapels, straightening his already straight, immaculately tailored jacket, turned
away.

The screen stopped scrolling. Goodge gave what passed for a smile. ‘You’re in luck.’

Kovacs turned back to the screen.

‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Now take it away and do with it what you like. Just remember to pay me.’

‘Bank transfer this afternoon,’ Kovacs said, staring at the screen. ‘Can you give me a printout?’

Goodge nodded, pressed a button, sat back. Paper began flowing out of a printer at the opposite end of the room. He made no
move to get it. Decca, realizing that would be his job, did so. He collated it in his hands, looked through it. A list of
names and addresses.

Goodge turned away from them, waiting for them to leave. He wasn’t the kind of man for small talk.

‘What now?’ asked Decca, thumbing through the pages.

‘You go back to work,’ Kovacs said. ‘I am not a gambling man, but I am betting she will no longer be at this Donovan’s place.
You have the list of where she might be. Her and her brother both. Go and look. Find them.’ He handed the list to Decca, who
pocketed it. Smiled at him. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

He led Decca, with Christopher bringing up the rear,
through a locked door and down into the building’s basement. The room was freezing. Decca pulled his jacket around him. Then
looked ahead. And felt even more chilled.

In the centre of the room was a chair. Sitting on the chair was a man, stripped to the waist. Covered in blood and bruises.
Before him stood one of Kovacs’ imported hard men, wearing a sweat- and blood-stained T-shirt, jeans and boots. And a huge,
darkly glittering mass of hard, sharp metal on his right hand. As Decca watched, he swung his fist into the seated man’s face.
His head went back but he didn’t fall. He screamed, blood, snot and spit arcing from his face.

‘Soundproofed,’ said Kovacs to Decca, smiling. ‘Just as well. Our friend here is a policeman. He has been telling his superiors
about my business. And I don’t like that.’

Another fist, this time to the chest. Another scream. Decca flinched as if they were happening to him.

‘He has been telling the police when my next shipment is coming in. So we have to do something about that, do we not?’

Decca, thinking it was his turn to speak but finding no voice to use, nodded.

‘Good. We move the shipment forward. Tonight.’

‘I will be there,’ said Christopher. ‘Take charge personally.’

Kovacs frowned at him. When he spoke, the composure of a few seconds ago seemed dented. ‘Do you think that wise? What if they
are waiting—’

Christopher looked at the man in the chair. ‘We would have heard.’ He looked directly at Kovacs. Something passed between
the two of them, a kind of understanding Decca was not privy to. Kovacs cast his eyes down, nodded. Again there was that look,
again it seemed to be fear.

‘Good.’ Kovacs seemed relieved. ‘Good.’ He reached
underneath his jacket, handed Decca a gun. ‘Take this. You may need it. If you do, use it.’

Decca took the gun, weighed it in his hand. Felt a thrill course through his body. This was it. No matter what was going on
behind him, or around him, this was it. The real deal. He pocketed it, happy to feel it pull down one side of his jacket.

Decca looked between the two men, waiting for further instructions, but neither spoke. He took this as his dismissal cue and
walked out, patting both the gun and the folded piece of paper. No one called him back.

Outside, the tarmac-grey clouds overhead were threatening biblical weather conditions. The air was cold and carried on it
the fetid, post-industrial stink of the Tyne. Decca looked around, breathed deeply. Fresh air had never tasted so good.

He was a real-life gangsta.

Clint would be proud.

Nell watched her sleep, the weak sunlight pushing its way around the thin, ancient curtains.

He had never seen a more beautiful woman than Anita. He knew in the bar that there was some connection between them, had felt
it across the room. And then afterwards in her room. It had been sublime. He had never experienced anything like it.

Her body was perfect. He had watched her undress, tentatively at first, nervous about revealing herself to him, then with
growing confidence as she saw how appreciative he was of her.

And then he had seen the bruises. And that did it for him.

‘You like it rough?’ he had asked her.

She had stared at him, her eyes wide and doe-like, as if trying to imagine what answer he would want to hear.

‘Like a bit of pain, do you?’ He pressed his thumb on one
of her bruised ribs. She gasped, squirmed under his hand. ‘Like that? Yeah?’ He pressed harder. She went down on the bed.

‘I like … whatever you want to do to me …’

And that was it. In that moment he knew he had her.

And he wasn’t about to let her go.

He looked at her again, sat on the bed next to her. Her chest rising and falling with her sleeping breaths, showing off the
extra bruises and hurt he had given her. He felt his erection rise.

She was the best. She was perfect.

He had been looking for a woman like this all his adult life. And now he had found her he wasn’t going to let her go. He still
had a stolen credit card that hadn’t yet been traced, so he was good for a little while yet. And when that ran out he would
get another one. He knew how to do that, who to go to. Had done it before.

But that was in the future. Right now he had things that needed doing. Something taken care of. He placed his hand on her
ribs, moved them slowly up over her breasts, stopping to touch her nipples. His movement wakened her. She opened her eyes,
smiled. Said something he couldn’t identify that sounded like ‘Dec,’ then stopped, realizing where she was and who she was
with.

He smiled at her, continued to caress her body.

‘Good morning, Anita,’ he said, pointing to his erection. ‘Look what I’ve got for you.’

She looked, summoned up a smile.

He continued to caress her.

The smile turned to a grimace as his fingers found the sore, broken parts of her body and pressed down hard on them. She gasped,
writhed.

That was all the encouragement he needed. He took her then, as hard as he wanted to.

‘You’re mine now,’ he said, grunting the words out. ‘You know that? Mine. I love you.’

And Anita let out a cry that could have been pain or pleasure.

Nattrass walked briskly through the corridor towards the incident room at Market Street police station, a file of papers clutched
tightly in her hand. She tried very hard not to run. She reached Bob Fenton as he was taking off his overcoat, placing it
on a hanger, putting it on his coat stand. His actions were mechanical, no life to them.

‘Sir.’

He looked at her, a weariness in his face and body that was impossible to hide. He looked nearer the end of the day than the
start of it.

‘Diane.’ He tried not to sigh as he said her name. She knew it wasn’t anything personal. ‘You’re very bright and breezy this
morning.’ He looked at her again. ‘I take that back. You look like you haven’t been to bed.’

‘Got a couple of hours’ kip in the office, sir.’ The word ‘overtime’ began to form on Fenton’s lips so Nattrass hurriedly
continued. ‘I think we may have a breakthrough.’ She was breathing so hard she could barely get the words out.

A light went on in his eyes, a small kindling. He uncurled his tired shoulders, stood upright. ‘Tell me.’ He perched on the
edge of his desk.

‘The last girl who disappeared, Jill Tennant. We’ve been focusing on trying to trace the youths who were seen walking along
the road beside her.’

Fenton said nothing, waited.

‘I think we’ve been looking at the wrong people.’

‘Explain.’

Nattrass took a big breath, went on. ‘I checked some of the eyewitness statements from Jill Tennant’s disappearance.
Yes, there were two youths carrying on. But a lot of them also mentioned an old couple. Or what they took to be an old couple.’

She paused, tried to get her breath back. She felt dizzy, light-headed.

‘This is how we didn’t get it first. How it slipped past. Witness statements this time say an old couple and then leave it
at that. They don’t seem to have been pressed on it. Except one. This witness—’ she checked the name on one of the papers
in her file ‘—Hazel Blaine, says it wasn’t an old couple walking down the street, but a man pushing an old woman in a wheelchair.
So I checked the statements for Ashley Malcolm’s disappearance. Same thing. Man pushing a woman in a wheelchair. And then
I contacted forensics about the Ashley Malcolm crime scene. The snow was melting that night, so they couldn’t get a definite
print, but they found tracks on the pavement—’ she consulted another piece of paper in her file ‘—“consistent with a pram
or a wheelchair”.’ She closed the file, looked at Fenton. ‘I’m willing to bet there’ll be something similar in the Lisa Hill
files. I think that’s our man.’

Fenton stood up, tiredness gone from his body, eyes alight once more.

‘And you’ve been up all night?’

She shrugged. ‘More or less.’

He shook his head. Smiled. ‘Jesus, the overtime. Right,’ he said. ‘We need to trace this eyewitness, re-interview her. See
if she can put together an e-fit. Then re-interview all the witnesses, see if we can get a better description of this man.
Right. Meeting in the incident room, five minutes. The whole team, detectives and uniforms. No one starts anything until they’ve
heard it.’

‘Right, sir.’ Nattrass turned to leave.

‘Oh, Diane,’ he said as she was nearly through the door.

‘Sir?’

‘Heard anything from DS Turnbull?’

At his words, the elation she felt began to leak out of her like air from a punctured balloon. ‘Not yet, sir.’

Fenton nodded. ‘I see. Well, we’ll deal with him later. In the meantime, well done.’ Fenton smiled. ‘Good police work. Very
good.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

She left the office, went to make arrangements for the meeting. She smiled to herself, a quick speed grin. Not all of the
air had leaked out yet.