Dragging his other arm behind his back, I snap on the handcuffs and roll away. Stumbling to my feet I look down at him for a moment. Dark hair spikes from his head and pieces of crushed glass are stuck to his cheekbone. A thin line of blood trickles past his ear as the burning flares begin to die out.
There are police sirens in the distance. “Come on, let's get him out of here.”
“Are we going to get in trouble?” asks Moley, falling into step beside Weatherman Pete.
“You'll be fine. Get to the van and let me do the talking.”
We're almost at the end of the tunnel. The gate gives off a hollow clang as it opens. Two armed response vehicles have pulled onto the ramp beside the van. The officers are armed with MP5 carbines. An unmarked police car pulls up alongside them. “New Boy” Dave gets out, along with Campbell who walks like he's got bowling balls down his Y-fronts.
“Arrest him,” he yells, pointing at me instead of my prisoner.
Gerry Brandt raises his head. “I didn't mean to do it. I let her go.”
“Where is she?”
He shakes his head. “I let her go.”
“What did you do with Mickey?”
“You got to tell Mr. Kuznet, I let her go.”
A red dot appears on his cheek, just above where he's bleeding. For a moment it catches in his eye, making him blink, and then rises to his forehead. Recognition jars inside me but it's too late. In a fleeting puff of blood and vapor, he spins and falls.
The bullet, fired from somewhere above, has passed through his cheek, down his neck and exited below his collarbone. I can't hold him. He's six one and more than two hundred pounds. He carries me down. I roll away, letting gravity take over, bouncing my head against the cobblestones until I strike the wall.
The ramp is empty. People have scattered like cockroaches. Only Gerry Brandt is unmoved by it all, lying with his jacket half covering his head, slowly soaking up the blood.
There are no more shots. One was enough.
33
According to the experts the world is going to end in five thousand million years when the sun swells up and engulfs the innermost planets and turns the rest of them into charcoal. I've always imagined it more like a dual second coming, where Jesus and Charlton Heston compete to see who gets the final word. I don't suppose I'll be around.
This is what I think about as I sit in the backseat of a police car, watching them photograph Gerry Brandt's body. Teams of armed officers are going door to door, searching shops, offices and flats. They won't find anything. The sniper is long gone.
Campbell has also slipped away, escaping from me. I followed him all the way to his car, yelling, “Who did you tell? Who knew?”
The moment I phoned for backup, somebody put in a separate call, tipping off Aleksei. How else did the sniper know where to find Brandt? It's the only logical explanation.
A dozen police officers walk in single file down the ramp, peering between their polished boots at the cobblestones and sodden leaves. A handful of Camden Council workers watch the proceedings as though they're going to be tested on it later.
This whole business reeks of a setup. The guilty are gunned down and innocent people get caught in the crossfire. Howard might be one of them. I still can't figure out where he fits into all this, but I can picture him, lying on his prison bunk, planning his first days of freedom.
Child molesters sleep the sleep of the damned in prison. They listen to their names being whispered from cell to cell, turning to a chant as the noise rises and becomes a frightening symphony that must open and close their sphincters like the wings of a butterfly.
The SOCO team, dressed in white overalls, has set up arc lights on mobile gantries, casting grotesque shadows against the walls. Noonan is in charge, shouting into a tape recorder: “I'm looking at a well-developed, well-nourished white male. A light purple contusion is visible on the left forehead and another over the bridge of the nose. He may have fallen after the shooting or someone hit him in the face prior to the shooting . . .”
“New Boy” Dave hands me a coffee. It tastes like tar and brings back memories of surveillance operations and endless predawn shifts.
Noonan rolls the body over and checks the pockets and lining. His hand emerges with a small foil packet wedged between his fingertips.
Dave screws up his face. “Well if you ask me, I'm glad he's dead.”
I guess that's understandable given what happened to Ali. He doesn't understand why I needed Gerry alive. Dave loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.
“They say you're trying to destroy the Howard Wavell conviction.”
“No.”
“They also say you stole diamonds from Aleksei Kuznet. They say you're bent.”
“What do you think?”
“Ali doesn't think so.”
A double-decker bus rumbles by, glowing red and yellow. Bored faces peer out from the bright interior, heads resting against the glass. London doesn't seem so exciting from this angle. The landmarks are rendered featureless by the gloom and there is no magic in the Monopoly board names.
I am under arrest. Campbell insisted on it. At least Dave hasn't bothered with handcuffs so my past must count for something. I could even handle the police officers staring at me, if one of them was Ali and she'd never been involved in this.
After SOCO has finished at the crime scene, I'm driven to the Harrow Road Police Station and taken through a back door into the charge room. I know the drill. Strands of hair are sealed in plastic. Saliva and skin cells dampen a cotton swab. My fingers are pressed in ink. Afterward I am taken to an interview room rather than a police cell.
They make me wait. I lean forward, with my elbows braced on my knees, counting the pop rivets on the side of the table. This is all part of any interrogation. Silence can be more important than the questions.
When Keebal finally arrives, he carries a large bundle of files and proceeds to shuffle through the papers. Most of them probably have nothing to do with me but he wants me to think evidence is stacking up against me. Everybody is having fun today.
Keebal likes to pretend he's a patient man but it's bullshit. Maybe it's the Rom blood in me but I can sit opposite someone all day and not say a thing. Gypsies are like Sicilians. We can share a drink and be smiling our heads off while out of sight a knife or a shotgun is pointed directly at the other guy's stomach.
Finally he turns on the tape recorder, giving the time, date and names of everybody present.
He pats his coiffed hair. “I hear you got your memory back.”
“Can we do this later? You obviously have an appointment at a beauty parlor.”
He stops touching himself and glares at me.
“At approximately 1600 hours on September 25, you were given a briefcase containing 965 one carat and above, superior-quality diamonds. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see these diamonds?”
I feel my stomach lurch as if an internal gear has suddenly engaged. I can still picture the packages spilling from the sports bag beneath my linen cupboard. A dry thunder is pounding in my head—the beginnings of a migraine. “I don't know.”
“Did you give them to someone?”
“No.”
“What were these diamonds for?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
