Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) (18 page)

              “Where’s Stephen?”

              “What happened to you?” Carruthers asked, staring at the bloody mouth and blood-stained shirt.

              “I had a little trouble on the way over. Now where’s Stephen? We had a deal.”

              Carruthers dipped his head and pursed his lips. Nick felt sick. Somehow he knew what was coming.

“Nick, I’m sorry. Stephen is dead.”

The silence extended between them. Nick stared at Carruthers, unable to speak for what seemed an age. Carruthers cleared his throat nervously.

“I lied to you. We never picked him up. Well…” The man was blustering. “I never actually said that, did I, that we had him? I intimated it.”

Nick said nothing just continued to stare at the man, face expressionless but his fists were balled on the table, knuckles white with the tension. “Nick, I’m so sorry. We found him last night. That’s why I was late. Someone got to him. We don’t know who yet.” He swallowed. “He was in a bad way; they’d tried to beat some information from him. Nick, it wasn’t pretty.”

              “Who?” Nick said, his voice devoid of emotion.

              “At a guess? Jurgen and co. They may have been onto you and picked him up leaving his house. We don’t know. A police officer found him in alleyway on his beat last night. Nick, I’m sorry I lied to you, but I needed the leverage. I…”

              “If you come near me again, I’ll kill you,” Nick said flatly. “I had a chance to kill Jurgen tonight. If I’d known I would have taken it. But you knew that didn’t you? Didn’t want anything to jeopardise you getting these.” Nick spat the words out in disgust and threw the rolls of film onto the table along with the sheaf of prints. “I hope your black soul burns in hell. Where’s the body?”

              “Nick, I understand how you feel, but it wasn’t my fault…”

              “Save it. Where’s the body?”

              “At the morgue. There’ll be an autopsy. It should be released in a few days. Did he have any family?”

              “Only me.” Nick stood abruptly and turned to go.

              “Where are you going?” demanded Carruthers.

              “Unfinished business,” Growled Nick without turning round. He slowly walked towards the staircase, blind to the people around him, deaf to the music. He’d lost the last link with his dead parents. The only friend and mentor he had. He reached the stairs and slowly started to climb them, feeling empty inside. A hand grabbed at him and he turned his head slowly as if in a dream.

              “Nick! Did you look at these?” Carruthers was angrily shaking the films and prints at Nick. Nick just shook his head. “These, these aren’t the right ones.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Ramona took more than this. But these…” He shook the other negatives and prints. “They aren’t the plans. These are rubbish. Nick, where are the real plans?”

              Nick looked at him dully and shrugged.

              “Nick, they must still have them. These are duds. We’ve been tricked. We have to get those plans. Nick.”

              Nick shook off his hand, ignored his pleas and carried on up the stairs. At the top he stopped and turned slowly to look down. Carruthers stood looking up at him expectantly, documents in either hand.

“Call your men off me and Clara. I’ll get your plans,” Nick said simply. Then he opened the door and was gone.

CHAPTER 19

Nick didn’t get far. He stumbled along the darkened street as if drunk, barely aware of the guarded looks of the people giving him a wide berth on the pavement. He was worse than drunk. His mind reeled, a jumble of thoughts that all kept returning to one dark dominant kernel: Stephen was dead. The man who’d saved his life, gone through the hell of the front with him and been left behind there when Nick was seconded to his new career by the War Office. Stephen was the only person he could call a friend that knew what Nick had gone through, because he’d been there with him for most of it, and after the war, ridden with guilt at having left Stephen in the shell-strewn maw of the Western Front, Nick had apologised repeatedly, before unburdening himself with dark confessions of his own. The man had been a rock, a protector, a father in the place of the one Nick had lost. Now he was gone.

              Nick stopped suddenly and leaned heavily on the brick wall of a building next to him. He screwed his eyes tight shut, as if trying to block out a blinding light, his knees sagged and he raised his other arm to his temples and let out a groan alarming enough to cause a passing lady to stifle a shriek and scurry across the road to avoid him.

              Nick’s breath came in short gulps. How long did he stand there? He didn’t know. The world and time blurred and spun until at some point, like a drowning man coming up for air, he surfaced with a gasp. Despite the terrible shock, he’d been unfortunate enough to experience death too many times, so frequently that he sometimes wondered whether death was playing some cruel trick, perching on his shoulder and testing his reaction to each twist, whether delivered by Nick or to someone close to him. Killing others didn’t make you mourn less, Nick had learnt that, but losing people you cared about, seeing your comrades mown down time and time again, that could inure you to some degree from the loss. Stephen was gone. It was that simple. Just like so many men Nick had known. Nothing could bring Stephen or any of the others back. Grieving was a penance for the living and Nick would grieve for Stephen for the rest of his life, carrying the loss like a small stone in a boot, constant, but bearable. That was the only way he knew how, the only way he could do it without going mad.

              He looked around with clear eyes and stood upright. He’d lost his friend, but he still had Clara and a shot at a happy future, and that was what mattered now, and what Stephen would have counselled if he’d been there. It was imperative to wrap this up and move on before more people got hurt, or worse.

Nick didn’t bother with a drink at The Blue Rose. The crowd had thinned out a little but the place was a lot livelier now, the band was in full swing and the small dance floor was packed. Nick shouldered his way through and spotted Lucia sat at a table with a group of men. Nick gave a curt nod to the men and bent to whisper in Lucia’s ear.

              “You’re coming with me now.”

She whirled her head and smiled at him, batting her eyelids.

              “Twice in one night? I’m afraid I’m busy right now…”

              “My friend is dead, I nearly died and killed a man myself tonight. Believe me, I will have no qualms about killing you here and now in this place.”

              Lucia’s smile stayed fixed in place. “I see.” She turned back to the table. “Excuse me,” she said, gracefully rising.

Nick had her arm in his and he guided her forcefully towards the entrance of the club.

“Nick, do you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

              “You and I are going to my place then you are going to tell me where I can find Jurgen.”

Lucia suddenly stopped, jerking Nick back in unexpected surprise.

              “Jurgen is gone. I told you that.”

              “Yes, you did. And someone told me where he’d gone and luckily I was able to get to him.”

Lucia’s narrowed eyes drifted towards the little Italian dancing comically near his table. She looked back at Nick and noticed the blood on his shirt for the first time.

              “My God! What happened to you?”

              “Your concern is touching, but misplaced.” He jerked her arm. “We’re leaving.”

              She twisted free and put her hands on her hips. “What if I don’t want to go?”

              “Too bad for you,” snarled Nick, scooping her up again, this time pressing the point of the blade he’d palmed into her ribs with a pressure that made her gasp.

              “Okay! Your place sounds like fun,” she snarled.

Nick pulled her on but at the bottom of the stairs she stopped again. “I need my coat. It’s out back.”

              “You can take mine,” Nick growled, tugging her up the stairs. He picked up the greatcoat and hat he’d checked earlier and draped the coat around Lucia, throwing an arm around her shoulders as he did so. “No funny business,” he whispered.

The doorman looked at the pair of them in mild surprise as they left, but Lucia avoided his gaze.

“I’m impressed. I thought you might try something," conceded Nick.

              “Why? You’re not going to hurt me. You need me.”

              “That’s a big presumption. What about after you tell me what I need to know.”

              Lucia was silent as he marched her through the streets, seemingly lost for words. A fog had begun to form, pale and wisp-like, it was thickening even as they walked, muffling their footsteps along with the sounds of the city.

“So what, you’re going to torture me?”

              “If I have to, but maybe you’ll just tell me what I want to know.”

              “Maybe I will. What is it you want to know?”

              “Where I can find Jurgen. The boat turned around, they fished Gunther out the river and Jurgen lost the plans. I’m betting he’ll come back to get them. They’re the only lead he’s got, so he’s got to follow it. That means he’s got a place he can go and that he’ll be looking for me. I want to save him the trouble.”

              “Do you have the plans?” Lucia asked innocently.

              “Nice try. Where’s Jurgen?”

              They were quite alone in their curtain of fog. Lucia stopped suddenly, catching Nick off-guard again. She turned to face him. “I can take you to him, or where I think he would be anyway.”

              Nick searched her face. “Why would you do that?”

              She shrugged. “This game we’re in, it’s a game, Nick, you should know that. Things change. I’m offering to take you to him; why are you questioning my motives?”

              “Because not questioning anyone’s motives so far seems to have got me in a lot of trouble, and someone I care very dearly for killed.”

              “I’m so sorry for that, Nick, really, but why do you think it would be Jurgen?”

              “Who else?” he spat.

              Lucia bit her lip but didn’t say anything. She took his hand. “I can take you to one of the safe houses. It’s close by. He’d go there I think. He has a wireless set. He’d want to make a report back then start looking for you. He has to get those plans.”

              “Why?”

              She laughed. “It’s his job, his duty, and if he goes home without them he’s failed. The Abweher don’t like failure.”

              It was the first time anyone had mentioned the word. Nick searched her face. “So, you’re Abweher? I’ve heard a lot about you lot.”

              Lucia smiled. “I’m not, but Jurgen is.”

              “You work with him, though?” Nick said, confused.

              “Like I said, this game is complicated. Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Twenty-three Berners Street. Flat three.”

              “What?”

              “Nick, be careful. He’s well trained. He may have others there. Don’t go. You might not like what you find.” She looked deep into his eyes.

              “We can be careful together. You’re coming with me.”

              She smiled and leaned in with a kiss that took Nick completely by surprise. Her lips were soft against his. He winced at the pain in his mouth but her hot tongue was darting against his, swirling. He felt the pressure of her body against him. She slowly pulled her mouth away.

“No, no I’m not.”

              Nick frowned then looked down. As she’d kissed him she’d fished in her clutch and now had a small revolver in her hand pointing straight at his gut. Nick mentally kicked himself. He looked at her with contempt.

“So now you’re going to take me in? It won’t do you any good. I don’t have the plans.”

              She was still smiling. “I learnt a lesson from you last time; you thought I had a gun and didn’t, isn’t that ironic. I’m not taking you anywhere. Nick, you can walk away from this. Maybe you should.” She looked at him longingly.

              “What?” Nick was confused now.

              “You’ve got the address, go if you have to. I know revenge is a powerful motive. Just be sure who’s pulling the strings. Not everything is always as it seems and we don’t always like the truth. I’m sorry, I can’t say more. I have to go.” Her eyes looked sad, she bit at her lip and gave a slight shake of her head then leaned in and kissed him again on the cheek. She backed slowly away until she was almost obscured by the fog. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she dissolved into the mist.

Nick stood dumbfounded for a minute then turned with renewed determination. He’d finish this tonight, once and for all. Then he was leaving and he wouldn’t ever be back. He was sick of Soho, sick of London and the stink and decay of it all. His mind raced as he walked. Why had Lucia let him go after giving him the address? Was it a trap? She’d said she wasn’t Abweher but that Jurgen was; Jurgen too had hinted at someone playing Nick. And why had Jurgen had duff plans? They’d been switched, but when and by whom? More to the point, where were the real ones that Carruthers wanted back?

              By the time he’d reached Berners Street he wasn’t any clearer on the answers to any of this but the cold rage bubbling inside him over Stephen’s death was clouding his judgment. He knew that, but to some extent he didn’t care. He wanted Jurgen dead. He didn’t really care about the plans anymore; avenging Stephen was the overwhelming thought running through his mind.

              Nick scoped the street. He couldn’t see anything in the fog but it looked clear, not that he particularly cared. He studied the bells on the block of flats. It looked like flat three was on the second floor. Nick wasted no time springing the front door to the block and silently mounting the stairs. Not wanting to alert anyone to his presence, Nick didn’t turn on the hall light and eased his way up the stairs feeling his way against the wall in the pitch black darkness. Coming to a small landing, he paused. The flat on his left was dark, the one on his right had chinks of light shining under the door. Straining, Nick thought that he could make out voices, more than one. He felt the door and traced the number three with his fingers. Stepping back, Nick gave the door an almighty kick then shoulder-charged it. The lock gave with a crack and he was in through the splintered door in a flash, Mauser in hand. He had no idea of the layout and he spun to his left first at a disadvantage, blinking in the light.

              There was a large front room where a man was rising in fright from a sofa, fishing inside his jacket. Before Nick could even get out a warning shot, he was cannoned into from behind. He fell forward onto the living room with the other man on top of him. Nick struggled to turn around but he was flat on his front. He saw the man from the sofa step forward. Making a superhuman effort, Nick managed to turn just in time to get a glimpse of Jurgen’s face. The other man was on him now as well, a foot stamped on his outstretched arm and the gun fell free as he yelped in pain. A boot connected with his ribs and after a brief struggle, he was pulled upright by both men, held securely by the arms. This hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted.

              Nick continued to struggle, but to no avail. They had him tight. Jurgen rabbit-punched him in the ribs a couple of times and Nick quietened down. He felt his hands being bound then he was pushed roughly into the room and down onto the sofa so that he sprawled almost on his back. Nick levered himself upright as the two men stood over him.

              “This is him?” the dark-haired man asked, glaring at Nick. He had a thick Italian accent.

              “Yes. This is him,” Jurgen answered, flexing his knuckles in a way that suggested to Nick that further violence was about to follow.

              “Pig!” spat the Italian.

              “What’s puzzling me, though, Nick, is how you found this place, and more to the point, why you should be coming for us when it is you that has what we want.”

              “I’m here because of Stephen,” Nick answered, glaring at Jurgen coldly.

              “Ah, the old man. Yes, unfortunate. We must have just missed you at his house then we found him close by. If it is any comfort to you, he was brave. He did not tell us anything.”

              “He had nothing to tell you, you murderers!”