Authors: JOHN YORVIK
PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
But what on earth did that mean? It was impossible that there was an entrance to level −3 around the perimeter of the hall. Then the entrance must be in the centre under the table. That was reasonable. I stood up, my legs already cramping with the discomfort of the hard stone floor, and approached the stone table. I checked the floor under the table to see if there had been evidence of movement, any signs of scraping. I took hold of one side of the table and tried to yank it. Then I leant against it and pushed as hard as I could, but it was immovable. There must be something more hi-tech, I thought. I checked under the table to see if there were any buttons, but again found nothing.
I sat down on one of the oak chairs and checked my phone again to see if I could get a message to Dani. There was no signal. I checked calls. The last call was from Mickey Riley. He had called to give me an update on Ransom Amusements. Namely that Tommy Burns had been one of their chief negotiators in the deal to buy what was left of the Jazz Cafe. Ransom was of course a poorly disguised anagram for Mason. The Masons. Undoubtedly something that would get Matthew Rilke’s pseudo-intellectual blood pumping.
When you have eliminated the impossible...
Well, it seemed that nothing was impossible. So nothing could be ruled out. Marty may have been working for Tommy Burns if and when he burnt down the Jazz Cafe. Had he discovered then that Tommy Burns had been ordered to kill his father? Had he been instructed to intercept Natasha Rokitzky? None of those ideas could be proved impossible from where I was standing. Prince Hamlet, the first literary conspiracy theorist, had the same problem, an abundance of evidence, but none of it convincing to a modern mind. But Hamlet was a tragedy because he didn’t make a judgment call until events overtook him and it was too late. One way or another, I had to make the call. I was betting that Marty was on Natasha’s side. And that he had a score to settle with the people behind AmizFire, Ransom and the Chessington Club.
With a new sense of conviction, I walked over to the Isis statue and checked for buttons or levers that I hoped might open up the floor and reveal a staircase. No joy, I approached the owl/bull monster and found to my dismay that there was no way through the bottom of the beast’s mouth to the floor beneath.
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
The improbable. I had a sudden revelation. The improbable would be that you had to go up to go down.
* * *
I stuck the heaviest screwdriver I had into the gap between the stone doorframe and the door. By pushing and pulling, I managed to lever it open, breaking the fastener from the wall. I yanked the door open in one go, hoping to minimise the noise, but it let out a deafening scrape that set my teeth on edge.
Crossing the threshold, I was hit by the pungent smell of black rot. Against all instincts, I pulled the door shut behind me and, switching on my torch, headed down into the depths. Only seconds into my descent, I threw myself against the wall in horror as a large wet rat came bounding up the steps towards me. It paused at my feet and began sniffing my shoes. I kicked out at it and it ran, squealing, to the top of the steps, where it turned right and squeezed through a small hole in the wall.
At the foot of the steps, I came to a room. I flashed my torch around and saw that there was a stack of old oars and nets on sticks leant against one wall. It was some kind of boathouse with a very low ceiling. At the opposite corner was the beginning of another tunnel. I stooped low, entered the room and flashed the torch into the tunnel. It veered off to the right, so it was impossible to see how long it was or where it ended.
Fifty yards into the tunnel, I froze. Had I heard the iron door being opened? If I had, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be asking that question. After a minute more of strained listening, I continued walking.
I was quickly approaching an archway, so I switched off the torch and listened. I could hear the gentle sloshing of water nearby. I passed under the archway with the torch dimmed right down and came to a stone jetty. There was a long canal boat moored to an iron anvil next to my feet.
The Pearly Queen
was painted in white on the boat’s hull.
To my left, there was a thick metal door with a wheel lock of the kind usually seen in bank vaults. I approached the door and saw that it was slightly ajar. To the left of the door was the entrance to another tunnel. It was much higher and wider than the first tunnel and was lit by small ceiling lights.
I heard something move behind me so span round with the torch. I saw nothing. I swore something had moved in the tunnel. I shone the torch through the archway, but saw nothing. The rats, I thought. There must be hundreds of them.
I pulled open the heavy door of the safe room and went inside. I could see five empty shelves on the back wall. I crouched down in the corner and found a little bead of polystyrene packaging. I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers until it crackled but didn’t break.
As far as I could see, there was no security, but no art either. I checked the time on my mobile phone. I had forty minutes to get back to EgoFunk. It looked like I’d be returning empty handed.
Before exploring the lit tunnel, I decided to check the boat. I walked out to the jetty and carefully boarded The Pearly Queen. First, I checked the cabin but found nothing. So then I opened the door to the berths.
On the floor between the bunk beds were several tea chests. I placed the torch on one of the lower bunks so it was angled at the top of the boxes. I took out my screwdriver and jimmied open the lid of the first tea chest. It was full to the brim with polystyrene beads. I plunged my hand in and gently pulled out an object swaddled with tissue paper. I unwrapped it and drew out a small figurine. It was Set, brother of Isis, as pictured in Natasha’s book. My heart was thumping against my ribcage. I would leave the other tea chests for the Commission to open. I had the evidence I came for. Now to get out of there.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small cloth sling bag that Dani had given me and placed the statue inside. Then I took handfuls of beads from the box and packed the areas around the statue. I took off my jacket, slung the cloth sling bag around my neck, then put the jacket back on. My instinct to run was hardwired. But I knew the best way to get out was to bury my anxiety and walk calmly back to EgoFunk.
Just as I was about to disembark the Pearly Queen, a bright light came on illuminating the jetty. Then a bell rang, the sound of a lift reaching its destination.
I darted back into the berth and hid behind the boxes. The first thing I heard, as I crouched down beside the tea boxes clutching the screwdriver in my hand, was the unmistakable voice of Tommy Burns. He was explaining something I couldn’t make out. I could hear another man speaking in Polish. Then another man responding in Polish. They came closer.
“Where is that fucking Anton?” yelled Burns. “This is not a fucking joke.”
“He is watching merchandise,” said the Pole, “don’t worry. He is there.”
I stood up slowly and sure enough on the top bunk was a sleeping giant, clutching a half empty bottle of vodka to his chest with one hand. In the other was some kind of shotgun. He shifted in his sleep. I sunk down and shifted back into a corner.
“You get stopped by the river police, you flash these cards,” said Burns, handing something over to the men outside. “They’ll leave you be. They won’t do noffink
.
Now the plan is simple. Remind me, where’s the rendezvous point?”
There was some discussion between the two Polish men and then one of them said: “Canvey Island.”
“That’s right. Pull up alongside the
Count of Barcelona
at dawn and then wait. They’ll come down to you. Anything goes wrong and we’ll find you. And if we can’t find you, we’ll find your family. Understood?”
“Understood,” said the English-speaking Pole, with some weariness in his voice.
“And this is for you three,” said Burns, “don’t spend it all at once. And tell that fuckin’ Anton to get out on deck and make himself useful.”
The giant stirred in his bunk on hearing his name and shouted, “I’m here Mr Burns. Watching the boxes.”
“You lazy bastard, Anton,” shouted Burns, with a degree of levity. “Are you fuckin’ drinking? Lazy Polish bastard.”
At that, the Polish men all laughed, including Anton in the bunk above me. Tommy Burns’ voice decreased in volume as he walked away, swearing at the Poles. A minute later the lift bell sounded again. The Polish men chatted very near to the boat, but Anton was silent. I didn’t dare move to check he was sleeping.
Then there was a huge thud as Anton’s feet hit the ground just a few yards in front of me. He was swaying with the effects of the vodka. One glance to the right and he would see me. But no, he turned, faced the doors. He was halfway through the doors when he stopped. At some level he knew I was there. I held my breath and got ready to attack. He turned to the bunk and took hold of his shotgun. It was too late. He had me. But then he grabbed his vodka bottle and walked out on deck. There was shouting and laughter from his countrymen as he appeared.
Running was my best and only chance. I crept slowly towards the door. The boat rocked and groaned every time I shifted my weight from one foot to another. As I pushed through the door, I heard gunfire coming from the men on the jetty. I hit the deck. They weren’t going to catch me. They were going to kill me.
But the gunfire was proceeded by laughter, which itself was followed by a loud animal squeal. Rats! The Poles were shooting at rats.
I lay on the deck afraid to look up in case it drew their attention. I could smell cigarette smoke. The men were whispering to each other. Then, after what seemed like a lifetime, shots rang out as a rat made another run, squeaking and squealing. This was my chance. I slunk over the side of the boat and lowered myself into the water. It was freezing cold. But my head and shoulders were clear of the surface.
For ten minutes I stood shivering in the black waters. Then the Poles, who were now aboard the boat preparing to set off, started the engine. I took a deep breath and ducked down underwater as I felt the Pearly Queen begin its journey.
When I was sure they were gone, I resurfaced. I pulled myself up onto the jetty and stood soaked from head to toe in canal water. Returning to EgoFunk was no longer an option. I pulled out my mobile phone. As I’d feared, the screen was blank. I opened the back and took out the battery and sim card to dry them off.
“You left the door open,” said a voice from behind me, “very careless.”
I spun round. It was Suedehead.
“I nearly didn’t spot it,” he continued. “I did spot you earlier on, though, working as a roadie. Thanks to Judas pointing you out. Funny that, that’s what Judas does, right?”
He stood at the archway of the corridor, taking off his jacket and limbering up. I looked past Suedehead. I thought I saw someone else in the tunnel. Just for a second I could have sworn I saw Judas. Had he really sold me out?
“Didn’t you call for help?” I said. “You could have had security down here with you.”
“You may look like him, but you’re no Marty Stewart. You were the runt of the litter. You got lucky the other night. But now your luck has run out. And I want you all to myself.”
“You and whose army? Who you got with you?” I wanted to know how many I would have to deal with. Who was waiting in the wings?
Suedehead turned quickly and shot a glance back up the tunnel. And then smiled as if he thought I’d been trying to trick him and he’d sussed me.
“Security will be down in ten minutes to help me dispose of the body,” he said. “That gives us enough time to finish what we started back in Bethnal. Sim Fratelli already had his. Now, it’s your turn.”
Suedehead was well-built and looked strong, but he wasn’t as tall as me. As he approached, I thought about diving into the canal and trying to take the fight into the water. I knew there was a way out, but I couldn’t see it. It was dark as far as the eye could see. Instead, I slipped the jacket and the sling bag off my back and lay them on the floor. Then I faced up to Suedehead holding the screwdriver in my hand, thoroughly prepared to plunge it into his neck if given half the chance.
“You killed Sim, did you?” I yelled back. “Killed an old man? Well, I won’t be so easy.”
“Not only killed him, but robbed him, too. He had sixty quid on him. Spent that on a whore. A whore like your mother.”
As Suedehead came towards me, I backed slowly towards the metal anvil. He was spitting and cursing at me. Getting himself wound up to the level of temper he needed to kill. I jabbed forward with the screwdriver to keep him at bay. But before I could stab him, he lunged, his hands grasping for my throat. Stepping to the side, I managed to grab his arms and push him down towards the anvil, but he freed himself just in time and in something resembling a break-dancing move, swung his legs around and hit me in the back of the knees. The force was enough to knock me onto the ground. As I hit the hard stone floor, the screwdriver flew out of my hand and Suedehead was on top of me, his hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me. His knees were on my biceps pinning me down. He grinned in victorious Johnny Rotten style as I began to fight for air. But a few seconds later, the weight lifted off me and I was able to breathe again.