‘You fucked up. You had the operation. Your first independent and you fucking embarrassed us.’
‘The cops knew.’
‘So that’s what they told you?’
‘How else did they get there so quick?’
‘They got there so quick, Leo, for two fucking reasons. The first is that you didn’t wear gloves transporting the barbed wire. The second is that you fucking emailed your squad and left the black card in your apartment.’
‘I needed the team quick. I couldn’t get hold of them on the forum.’
‘What’s the problem with email?’
‘It’s traceable.’
‘Right, the forum is anonymous.’
‘Sorry, man, sorry.’
‘You going to be sorry to me or you going to tell me?’
‘What?’
‘You tell them about Sturbe?’
‘No. You think I’m stupid?’
‘He’s in the fucking bedroom, waiting. He thinks you told them. He’s going to be coming in here and pulling your teeth out one by fucking one.’
Lukanov went pale. ‘Fuck you.’
‘You want me to call him out?’
‘No.’
‘Sturbe’s angry.’
‘I took a hit for you.’
‘You’re out, no one else is. Not Paddy, Ray or Ocks. Just you. You know what that tells me?’
‘I didn’t get caught hitting someone.’
‘You hit Harper. No, Leo, it means that you gave them some information.’
‘No, sir, not me.’
‘You know what that’s called, Leo?’
‘No.’
‘High fucking treason.’
‘I did nothing. No treason, nothing.’
‘You’re not safe, Leo. You’re like a weak point in a wall and the thing is, the weak point is the point where the wall breaks.’
‘I’m not a weak point, I swear.’
‘I’m going to go in the bedroom, talk to Sturbe; we’re going to decide what to do with you.’
Leo watched. ‘Fuck you, Martin. There
‘Really? You think that, do you? You think that this has no one behind it? Really? You think this is just me?’
‘Fuck you, Martin. We’ve all been up to the compound this Sturbe wants us to build and none of us have seen him.’
‘You’ve got to watch yourself, Leo.’
‘Do I?’
‘Sure you do, kiddo.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You know what happens when you stop believing in the bogeyman.’
‘What?’ said Lukanov, his head twisting to look over his shoulder.
‘The bogeyman comes to pay you a visit.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
The autopsy on Marisa Cohen found a third bullet. Harper had it in his hand. He needed an answer soon. Even if they caught Martin Heming, they’d need some evidence to link him to the murders.
Each bullet was too mangled and, without a cartridge, there was no way of matching it to a gun. But Harper wanted to know more.
Eddie was working with Hate Crime, conducting interviews with friends and relations of Marisa Cohen. So Harper brought Denise with him.
Denise sat in the car. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I need someone to look over the three bullets. Ballistics have nothing much, but I gave them to someone who used to work with us. He’s retired, works the odd case with the FBI. He’s one of the best. Hans Formet.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘These bullets look different to me — so do the entrance wounds they leave. They’re tight, no expansion. Look, Hans is a genius. If anyone can find something, he will.’
‘Anything on the tail?’
‘No, he’s still in his apartment. Sleeping. He didn’t get back until after five a.m. What about Abby?’
‘We’re working on the note. Nothing yet. What am I here for, Tom?’
‘You’re here to certify I’m of sound mind and let me know if I’m not.’
‘But if you’re not, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Then get me to a psychiatrist as soon as you can.’
They both smiled.
‘I want to hear more about what Aaron said. You can talk on the drive over.’
Harper pulled out. Denise filled him in on the Nazi symbols used in the three murders and Harper listened intently. ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to understand him.’
‘With Aaron’s help, I am.’
Harper and Levene arrived at the home of ballistics expert Hans Formet and walked up the steps.
‘What did the CSU find on the Capske bullet?’ asked Denise.
‘The initial ballistics report was inconclusive. They carried out some ballistic imaging on the bullet, but nothing came up on the National Network. There was too much damage.’
‘No way to tell if it was the same gun that fired both bullets?’
‘If the gun that shot this bullet had been used before, we wouldn’t be able to tell from the mangled slug we’ve got. We didn’t find the cartridges. They’d tell us more.’
‘So what the hell can Hans Formet tell us?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re going to find out soon.’
Harper rang the bell and waited. After a long while, Hans Formet appeared.
Hans was of Austrian origin. A short, balding man with small intense eyes, he was in a white coat, the picture of the anti-social scientist. Harper said hello. Hans smiled and stared at Denise.
‘How you getting on?’ said Harper.
‘Who’s this? Some inspector?’
‘Dr Levene. Psychologist. Working on the case.’
‘Don’t try to read me, Dr Levene, okay?’
‘We’re interested in bullets, not therapy,’ said Denise.
Hans eyed her for another second, then seemed to let it go. He turned to Harper. ‘I found something interesting,’ he said. ‘Something very interesting. You should come in.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harper, and the door opened.
Hans stared at Harper for a moment longer than was comfortable. ‘If you want something done properly, you come to me. Those new recruits at CSU are full of techniques, but they have no depth of knowledge. Everything is
