'In which case, bits of him will already be setting in concrete.'
She nodded. 'What about Dave Cummings? The last time I looked, you were heading up that case.'
The inspector's cheeks reddened. 'I still am, guv. We found an old woman who thought she heard a motorbike making a racket. A powerful machine, she reckoned.'
'What time?'
'She isn't sure. Mid to late morning, so within the pathologist's parameters for the time of death.'
'Sara might have a bike. Though I remember Matt telling me not long ago that his friend Andrew Jackson has got a new one.'
Turner frowned as he took that in, then made a note. 'I've got Morry Simmons and a team of uniforms checking CCTV and traffic-camera footage in the area. Maybe we can get an identification.'
'What, through her helmet? She'll probably have dumped the bike by now.' Karen Oaten shook her head and looked away.
After a long silence, the inspector tried to bring her back. 'What is it, guv?' he asked gently.
The words made his superior glance back. 'Oh, not a lot,' she said ironically. 'Matt's keeping things from me. And I've just decided to bring him in.'
The Welshman nodded. 'Good idea. If we have him, maybe Sara will do something stupid.'
'Or maybe she'll just kill people at random till we let him go again.' The chief inspector got up. 'I'm going to talk to the AC, then find Matt.' As she walked past the counter, she raised her hand at Dino. He responded with a bitter smile.
John Turner stirred another spoonful of sugar into his tea. He was trying to make up his mind about who he'd rather not be-the AC or Matt Wells. Not that he cared. In his opinion, both needed a long and loud reading of the riot act.
'Hello, Safet,' I said from a public phone in Piccadilly. I'd checked that no one had followed me from the sex club.
'Who's this?'
The Albanian had an American accent. I remembered he'd spent five years running his clan's operation in Baltimore.
'Matt Wells,' I said, deepening my voice for effect. I needn't have bothered. He hung up.
I called the number again. 'Don't do that, Safet. This is the Matt Wells who writes a crime column in the Daily Independent.'
There was silence, and then the gang boss spoke again. 'What do you want?' I made out the sound of a keyboard in rapid use. 'You have an eleven-year-old daughter named Lucy, living at 32 Oxborne Gardens, Wimbledon. And a mother, Frances Wells, address-'
'All right,' I said, my palms damp. 'You've made your point.'
'Would you care to make yours?'
There was a hard edge beneath the veneer of politeness. Although I hadn't met the Albanian, I'd heard stories about his urbanity-he collected seventeenth-century Dutch art and owned a chain of hypertrendy restaurants. He was also said to attend the executions of rival villains and to participate in the torture that preceded them.
The only way to get anywhere with professionals like Safet Shkrelli was to go on the offensive. They respected that, though they'd still happily slit your throat at the first opportunity. 'I just came from your place in Lexington Street,' I said.
'Ah, that was you,' he said. 'Mustafa wants to kill you.'
'Mustafa being the slob who took a dive?'
'Correct. Holding a gun on a woman isn't very brave, Matt Wells. Is there any reason why I shouldn't tell Mustafa where your daughter lives?'
Even though Lucy and Fran were hidden away with Caroline, the threat still made my hands shake. Then I thought of Dave as I'd last seen him. That stiffened my spine.
'Try this one, Safet. Your girlfriend Katya could be the target of a seriously dangerous killer.'
The Albanian gave a dry laugh. 'My girlfriend? I am happily married, Matt Wells. And who is this killer?'
I laughed back. 'You remember the White Devil?'
There was a pause. 'He is dead.'
'But his sister isn't.'
'Why would this woman want to kill my…want to kill a girl called Katya who maybe works for me? I noticed that you used the words 'could be.''
I had to take a calculated risk. 'I haven't the faintest idea why Katya could be the target. Perhaps because I spoke to her when I was writing those columns about the Albanian crime wave.'
'You spoke to her? And she answered your questions?'
'I paid her for her time and, as you well know, she gave me nothing more than background information. I made sure that I didn't connect your clan to any known crimes.' That was true, though only because Katya had been too terrified to say much and I'd found a braver, or more headstrong, girl who gave me the names and descriptions of men working for a rival clan.
'Very kind of you, I'm sure,' Shkrelli said.
'I wouldn't hesitate to mention your name if anything happened to Katya.'
'And how would you know?' The question was barked out, all traces of politeness gone. Then he laughed softly. 'Don't worry. Katya will not be treated badly. But tell me this, Matt Wells. How will your killer get past the security system I have installed in my house, never mind the men who are much better than Mustafa?'
'No security system is a hundred percent reliable, and guards can be bribed.'
'True, but my men are family. They are willing to die for me.'
'Men can be bribed,' I repeated.
'And men can be killed, Matt Wells. You are at a public telephone in the underpass beneath Piccadilly Circus.'
Christ. I looked around, but saw no one watching me.
He laughed again. 'Don't worry. I have more important things to worry about than a newspaper columnist.'
'Even one who has close connections with the police?'
'If you have close connections with them, why aren't they calling me? You haven't told them. How is it you come to have information about this killer?'
I'd had enough of the smooth-talking gangster. 'Make sure Katya isn't harmed,' I said. 'This isn't a joke. I can damage your operation, Safet.'
'And I can dispose of you and everyone you care for in a matter of hours. Do not threaten me.'
I cut the connection. The Albanian sounded worry- ingly like the person who'd sent me the message. Or maybe he was the target. I wondered if there were any Albanians called Alexander. Then I got moving as quickly as I could. The last thing I needed right now was a Shkrelli clan hit man on my tail.
Faik Jabar woke up in agony, his eyes jerking open. He looked around the seedy room, then tried to sit up, forgetting that he was tied down. That brought another wave of pain, this time from his thighs. The memory of the Wolfman working on the flesh with a screwdriver made him retch. The Turk was still trying to get him to identify the shooter whose false beard had slipped. He wouldn't accept that Faik didn't know the man. At first Faik had been glad of that, because he was sure that as soon as he gave a name, he would be killed. But now, with the torture seemingly endless, he wished he could be done with his life.
He must have cried out, because the door opened and the middle-aged Shadow who was on guard duty came across.
'Shut up, scum.' The man picked up a length of stained cloth from the floor. 'Or would you like me to put the gag back on?'
Faik looked away as his entire body started to shake uncontrollably.
'What's the matter?' the Shadow said. 'Does the little boy want his mummy?'
Faik felt the man's rancid breath on his face as he leaned closer.
'Fuck,' the Turk said, in a low voice. 'You aren't faking, are you?' He walked to the door and pulled out his cell phone.
