piece of tape across her mouth.
Even as Karen registered a movement at her back, the hard, small circle of a pistol barrel pressed cold against the nape of her neck.
'Don't move.'
The gun slid upwards until it was resting under the base of her skull.
'Now slowly lift your arms. Slowly! Slowly! Slow.'
Sally's eyes, watching, were wide with fear.
'Now step away, into the centre of the room. Stop. That's all. Good. Now turn around.'
Ivan Lazic's pale face contrasted sharply with his dark eyes, the dark brown, almost black, of his short- cropped hair and beard. The scar that zigzagged his cheek stood out like a lightning flash.
'Identification. Show me.'
Carefully, Karen opened her wallet and held it out towards him.
Lazic smiled thinly. 'Detective Chief Inspector, that is good.'
His accent sounded Russian. Russian, Serbian, Karen couldn't tell the difference.
'Now sit.' Lazic gestured with the gun. 'Behind the desk, there. Sit on your hands.'
When she was in position, he dragged a second chair across and sat facing her at the other side of the desk.
'What do you want?' Karen asked. The room was small and windowless, and she could already smell her own sweat.
'I want to give myself up.'
'There's a police station in the centre of town. All you had to do was walk in.'
'And get myself shot.'
'That wouldn't happen.'
'No?'
'If you went in waving that gun, perhaps.'
'And still, if not?'
'Police in England don't shoot unarmed men.'
'No? Like they didn't shoot this Brazilian, on the train in London. How many shots? Five times to the head?'
'That was different.'
Lazic laughed. 'Different, yes.' He caught his breath. 'You know, when I was growing up, in my country, I read about the British police, how they never carry guns, and I think, how stupid, how brave. But now
… this morning, for instance, here.' He looked at her. 'That was different, too.'
He laughed, and when he laughed he gasped, and when he gasped, a small sliver of blood appeared at one corner of his mouth. Between the lapels of his coat, the wool of the sweater he was wearing was stained, Karen could see now, pinkish red.
'You need a doctor,' Karen said. 'Hospital.'
Lazic smiled. 'Sally, she was my nurse.'
There were beads of sweat visible on his forehead now. Karen wondered just how badly hurt he was, how long he could hold on. She looked down at the gun in his hand, and instinctively he tightened his grip.
'I want to make deal,' Lazic said.
'What kind of deal?'
'I tell everything I know, everything.'
'It may be too late for that.'
Lazic winced and bit his lower lip. 'No. Valdemar, Viktor, they have run, I know. I am sure. Leave me… leave me… what is expression? Holding baby. I do not think so. You take me. I go with you. We make deal.'
Karen shook her head. 'Even if I wanted to, it's not as easy as that.'
'Easy, yes. And only with police, not Customs.' A tiny smile lifted the edges of his mouth. 'One of officers, Customs officers, he and Valdemar, they are friends. Valdemar give him money, girls. I know. I have tape. We make deal.'
For a moment, he leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. Long enough for Karen to think about going for the gun, but no more.
'You will arrange doctor for me. Soon.'
The stain on his chest was darkening, spreading.
'The gun,' Karen said. 'First you must give me the gun.'
He looked into her eyes. Then slowly, very slowly, he leaned forward and placed the pistol on the desk.
'I must use my phone.' Karen reached towards her pocket.
But Lazic was no longer really listening.
Forty-four
'Christ!' Butcher's voice reverberated in her ear. 'You did what? What're you after, some medal for valour? The George fucking Cross?'
Karen smiled, enjoying his indignant surprise. 'All in a day's work.'
''Give me the gun,' you said, and instead of letting you have one between the eyes, he just puts it down? 'Here, help yourself.''
'More or less.'
'More or less? This is the guy who's killed two as far as we know.'
'As far as we think.'
'Who's killed two, possibly three in the last month, and God knows how many in the past. The scourge of fucking Serbia, and you get him to surrender, nicely-nicely.'
'He was pretty badly wounded in this morning's raid.'
'Not badly enough.'
'And he wanted to make a deal.'
'The only deal he'll get, parole after twenty years instead of twenty-five.'
'Maybe.'
'When're you shipping him down to London? We're the primaries on this, remember? Agreed.'
'Yes, but look, I don't think he's going anywhere right now. Not for a good few days, at least.'
'While you interrogate him, you mean?'
'Chris, he's not talking. Not to anyone. Too doped up with painkillers to think.'
'No problem getting a sample, though. Have a word with one of the docs. I want to check his DNA against what we found under that girl's fingernails.'
'Will do.'
'And, hotshot-'
'Yes?'
'Keep me up to speed, okay?'
'You got my word.'
There'd been prolonged applause when Karen had walked back into the CID office that afternoon and a note of congratulation had already come down from the Assistant Chief. Mike Ramsden had been busy organising a right royal piss-up for that evening.
'If there's a male stripper, Mike, that's it. I'm leaving,' Karen told him.
'One?' Ramsden said. 'For you we've got a whole bloody chorus line.'
She was filling out a report when the phone interrupted her thoughts.
'Principal Officer Daines,' the switchboard operator said.
Karen looked at her watch. It hadn't taken long. 'Put him through.'
'Chief Inspector, I hear congratulations are in order.' His voice smooth as shit on the sole of a shoe. 'News travels fast.'
