The Camelot Code (14 page)

Mitzi and Irish listen to the news on the car radio as they drive to her hotel in Kensington.

She notices he’s pale and sweating. He’s gripping the wheel and seems pained by a migraine or more likely the mother of all hangovers. ‘You got any help on this case? Maybe you do need to lie up for a day or two.’

‘Some borrowed hands from other investigations, that’s all.’

‘A double homicide doesn’t get you your own team?’

‘
Team?
Child murder will get you a
team
. That’s about all that does these days.’

‘Times get tough, criminals get tougher. It’s the way of the world.’

‘Sure is. There’s a bright kid called Kirstin Collins doing some leg work for me. She’ll be a good cop one day. If the system lets her.’

‘Or she doesn’t get pushed upstairs to drive a desk.’

He thinks about asking her some personal stuff. About her career. Her colleagues. Her life. Men. Relationships. Only a wave of sickness washes over him.

‘You okay?’

Irish coughs. Blood spatters the wheel.

He splutters red all over his hands and collapses.

‘Christ.’ Mitzi grabs the wheel.

His foot is jammed on the gas.

The Ford surges forward.

Sixty.

Mitzi swings the Ford wide of an SUV. Horns honk all around her.

Sixty-five.

Her heart hammers as she struggles to push Irish off the wheel.

Seventy.

A monumental shove sends his unconscious body crashing into the drivers’ door but his foot stays heavy on the accelerator.

Mitzi can’t move him any more.

Seventy-five.

Traffic brakes hard in front. She jerks the wheel. It twitches and skids from the outside lane to the middle one.

Eighty.

There’s a truck ahead. Red brake-lights flare. Mitzi squeals the Ford through to the inside lane. Crashing is now inevitable. It’s only a question of where.

The Taurus mounts a grass verge. A wing mirror clips a tree. The back of the car fishtails. Mitzi sees a clump of oaks rushing up fast. She spins the steering wheel.

The car flips. Slides on its side. Rolls on its roof. Metal crunches. Glass shatters.

There’s a deafening thump. She feels a vicious stab of pain in the middle of her face.

Then there’s blackness.

Angelo Marchetti feels like someone clubbed him with a baseball bat. He puts a hand to the pain in his forehead. Opening his eyes is like winding up rusty metal shutters and squinting into the blaze of a scorching summer’s day.

He’s in bed. That much he can work out. The lights are on, the curtains open. But it’s black outside. The digital clock next to him says 0447. No time to be awake.

But this is not his own room. It’s a hotel. Not in America. Abroad.

There’s a noise. The stirring of a body. He pulls the duvet back.

A naked woman is asleep alongside him. No one he recognizes. Which isn’t so strange. Women he had
relationships
with bailed on him a long time ago.

Angelo pulls himself upright and looks at her. She’s olive-skinned, Latin, maybe Hispanic. Hair even longer and blacker than his. Small-breasted and full-hipped. A tattoo of a serpent hugs her waist like a belt. Its diamond-shaped head rests upon her shaved pubic area and its long, thin tongue disappears between her legs.

Insects are buzzing. Not in the room but in his head. Swarms of crickets, wasps and bees are angry at being woken and are stinging the soft grey honeycomb of his brain.

Marchetti gets up and wanders around. There is white powder on a low table. Needles. Mirrors. Antiseptic wipes and empty plastic bags. Speedballs.

Now he remembers. He’d sat in here with the hooker. Gisela – her name had been Gisela. Spanish and wild. They’d done enough coke to kill a rock band.

The floor ahead of him is covered with torn-off clothes. Empty bottles of water. Money.

Stacks and stacks of pound notes.

It all comes back to him. He’s in London. And last night he got lucky. Very lucky.

Sharp morning light bursts through a beat-up shade in Fulo’s office and makes Mitzi squint painfully.

An airbag in Irish’s car broke her nose and left her with multiple bruises, including two black eyes and lips that look like she’s just done Botox.

Mitzi shifts her chair into a patch of shade while the captain reads a note on his computer.

‘The latest from Memorial Hospital is that he’s stable but still critical.’

‘He’s lucky to be alive.’ Mitzi tentatively puts fingers to the painful throb in the middle of her nose.

‘Not
so
lucky.’ Fulo reads the rest of the note. ‘He has broken ribs, left collarbone, and right wrist. He’s dislocated his right kneecap, sprained his left ankle and’ – he dries up.

‘And what, Captain?’

Fulo continues in an even more sombre tone. ‘His liver’s failing. It’s totally screwed. That’s what caused the blood you say he coughed up just before the blackout.’

‘Liquor?’

‘Years of it.’ His face contorts with anger. ‘Fuck, he was a good cop. Once. Before the freezer case.’

‘The what?’

‘Domestic over in Brookland. Young woman staggered into the precinct looking like she hadn’t eaten in a year.’ He points at Mitzi, ‘She had panda eyes – like yours. Kid was black and blue. Scars all over her flesh and she couldn’t speak.’

‘Shock?’

‘Doctors said some years back her tongue had been stapled to her lip with a carpet-fitter’s gun. When it turned gangrenous, her captor sliced off the end. Kid was left with a stump. But she could write. Wrote down stuff you’d never want to read. Fitzgerald was lead on the case. He went back to the shack she picked out as the one she’d been kept in and abused. Unsub had long gone. Searched the place and he found a freezer in the garage.’

‘I think I can guess what was in it.’

‘I don’t think you can. Fitzgerald found corpses of newborns.’

Mitzi hangs her head.

‘Four of them. Laid out in a line. The psychopathic son-of-a-bitch had abducted the woman when she was thirteen, and got her pregnant four times.’

She grasps at a straw of hope. ‘The kids were stillbirths?’

‘No. He’d delivered them, cut the umbilical cords and put them in the freezer to die.’

‘Why? Why did he keep them? Why not bury them?’

‘Trophies. He told the woman they were proof of his virility.’

‘Jesus. Please tell me this psychopath is on Death Row so I can go cheer when the big day comes.’

‘Better than that. He turned up dead in a motel in New York. Someone tied him to a chair, stuffed part of a bed sheet in his mouth and shot him in the testicles. According to the ME, the killer waited at least an hour before he pulled the sheet out of his mouth and put the gun between his teeth and fired the second bullet.’

‘Nice job.’

‘You’re not alone in thinking that. No one dug too deep to find the triggerman. Least of all, Fitzgerald. He barely seemed surprised. If you follow my drift.’

She nods. ‘I hope the hospital manage to fix him up. Get him a liver transplant, or whatever it takes.’

‘We’ll pull some strings. See what we can do to hike him up a donor list.’ He searches the layer of papers on his desk and pulls up a sheet. ‘This is for you.’

She takes it and stares at a list of names.

‘They’re private numbers for all the main British Embassy staff here and in London.’

‘Thanks. I’ll trawl them when I get back to California.’ She notices a half-smile. It’s the kind bosses always have when they know something you don’t. ‘What’d I miss?’

‘I spoke to your supervisor, Miss Donovan. She’s happy for you to be seconded to run this case from Washington, least ’til we see whether it’s got road to run or is just a dead end.’

‘She never mentioned this when I updated her last night.’

‘I spoke to her an hour ago. She expects you to call her after this meeting.’

‘Captain, I’d really like to see my daughters. I’m sure you can understand that.’

‘Then clear this up quickly, Lieutenant. And let’s not kid ourselves, both you and I know that someone’s going to have to go to England, and that sure as hell isn’t going to be me or Lieutenant Fitzgerald.’

Angelo Marchetti wakes Gisela the hooker.

He pays her off and bundles her out. Now he needs to shower, dress and get ready for his breakfast meeting.

The upcoming face-to-face is, after all, why he flew here some thirty hours ago.

He’s acutely aware that the man he’s meeting also owns the room he’s staying in and the illegal casino downstairs where last night he won several thousand pounds. No big deal, considering the business he’s about to conclude will net him millions. Millions and a new start. One far away from Owain Gwyn and his army of do-gooders.

Marchetti fastens the slim-cut white shirt that hangs loose over blue jeans. In the mirror, the thirty-four-year-old studies flecks of grey in his jet black locks and designer beard. His youth has gone and the signs of ageing make him nostalgic. As a teenager he played soccer for Napoli. Three short years during which he earned millions and spent much of it helping the poor in Campania.

Then came his blackest day.

A leg-breaking tackle that robbed him of his first international cap. The type of injury that would lead to years of rehab, painkillers and failed comebacks. At first, he fell back on his investments and continued to be a dedicated young philanthropist, building projects and hope for street kids in Scampia and Secondigliano. It was these acts that attracted the Arthurians to him and for a time gave him a reason to live. He worked hard at keeping young Italians out of the grasp of the Camorra and the Mafia.

Then had come the second blow.

Both he and his wife were having secret affairs. She with a former teammate. He with drink and drugs.

At first, the addiction was purely painkillers. They tamped the physical and mental hurt. Then as loneliness bit he befriended cocaine and heroin.

He moved to America to be out of the reach of the mob-owned dealers he owed money to, but as his debts grew so too did his addictions. He added gambling to his opiates in a bid to raise enough cash to pay everyone off and start again. Only he lost ten times more than he won.

The rap on the door shakes him from his thoughts.

He peeps through the spyhole.

Three figures fill his view – two large men, both armed.

And
him
.

The man Gwyn had spoken so much of.

The one the SSOA fear and hate the most.

Mitzi all but slams the phone down on Donovan.

The last thing she wanted was to stay in DC.

Ruthy, Jade and Amber are going to give her hell when she tells them that the couple of days she promised to be away is going to be more like a couple of weeks.

Now she needs more clothes. Unless she wants to end up smelling worse than Irish or his car. What’s left of it. What’s left of him, for that matter. She makes a mental note to call the hospital – right after she’s worked her way through the list of names Fulo gave her.

A vending machine coughs out something close to coffee and she takes it to Irish’s desk in the Homicide Squad Room. The whole square yard of space smells of him. Booze, fast food and dust have seeped into the cloth and wood where he’s done all his hours. Or not done it, judging by the piles of stuff stacked up.

She clears junk and gets down to the job of calling around. Systematically, she works her way through the private office and cell phone numbers of Britain’s entire senior diplomatic staff in the USA, both present and past.

No one picks up.

Unperturbed, she leaves messages for them to get back to her but doubts that they will.

Mitzi’s about to call her sister when a woman with spiky black hair and a pale, androgynous face appears at the edge of the desk and catches her by surprise. ‘Hey! Don’t go creeping up on people like that.’ She puts her hand to her chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry. Are you the lieutenant sent from the FBI?’

Mitzi looks over the dyed locks, black top and matching skinny jeans and boots. ‘Not if you’re the Grim Reaper. What’s with the look?’

‘I’m Kirstin Collins.’ She gestures to her clothes. ‘I’m working drugs, undercover at a club, but I was helping Irish out as well. Do you know how he is?’

‘Lieutenant Fallon.’ She stretches out a hand. ‘From what I heard, he’s in a bad way.’

‘Looks like you took a whack yourself.’

‘Yeah, that’s just because I can’t put make-up on. I always look this bad, even without the bruises.’

Kirstin laughs.

‘I’m going to call the hospital in a minute and check on him. Take a seat.’ Mitzi points at a chair. ‘Irish spoke highly of you. Said you’d make a good cop one day.’

‘
One day
?’ She laughs. ‘He’s got a cheek. Fulo says you’re running his case, that right?’

‘I guess so. Why? Have you got something?’

She tries not to stare too much at the black eyes and plastered nose. ‘You know Irish got a lead on the SUV and the Lincoln from Traffic?’

‘Yeah, I’m up to speed.’

‘Well, I looked on the map for all-night food joints near the exit where the vehicles came off. There were only a few. None had surveillance on their parking lots.’

‘That’s the way the cookie
usually
crumbles, Kirstin.’

‘I know. But I did talk to the overnight managers about whether they saw anything suspicious.’

‘I’m guessing one of them did, or else you wouldn’t be recounting this tale.’

‘Right. Guy called Ludo working ANAR, the All Night All Right franchise out near Stead Park, noticed a Lincoln leaving his lot. Minutes later a tow-truck appeared, hooked up the SUV and hauled it away.’

‘This Ludo get the name of the garage?’

‘No. But that wasn’t what stuck in his mind.’

‘What did?’

The SUV driver had eaten in the diner, but the Lincoln owner hadn’t. Soon after the paying customer left, Mr Lincoln owner came in and used the washroom. Then he reappeared and went straight back out again. This got the supervisor pissed, because they hate people just using the john and not ordering anything, so he went outside to shout at him. Only he didn’t holler because he saw the guy was at his car and looked like he was in pain. Ludo said he was struggling to get into the seat, holding a stack of paper towels to his arm. Then, as the Lincoln drove past him he saw the plates. He asked himself why a diplomat wanted to use his bathroom so urgently and why he needed a stack of towels for his arm.’

‘And?’

‘He went back to the restroom and found spots of blood on the floor.’

‘I’m going to ask a stupid question. By any chance did he mop up and keep the rags or sponge?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not, but deep inside me lives a young pixie called Hope and sometimes she just won’t shut the fuck up.’

Kirstin laughs. ‘Well, your pixie might be in luck because Ludo did notice something strange. Despite the spatter on the floor, there were no stained towels in the bin. No mess. Just the drips.’

‘So he came over all Dexter and did some blood analysis?’

‘Kind of. He thought maybe Mr SUV had been caught banging Mr Lincoln’s wife and been chased down to the diner where it all kicked off. He went outside to check everything was okay and saw the SUV being trucked away.’

Mitzi curses a lost opportunity. ‘Shame about the blood.’

‘Not really. My boyfriend’s a CSI. He went round and swabbed the floor for me. Even though it had been cleaned, he got traces from the mortar between the tiles. They’ve been processed in the labs and we have two good DNA profiles.’

‘Two? As in killer and victim?’

‘I guess that’s your pixie mouthing off again, Lieutenant. I really don’t know what he got. I’m just about to run the profiles through Records. You want to join me?’