Tracers

pavements were reasonably busy, but with only one way in, they stood a good chance of spotting Archer entering or leaving. If they missed her, with daylight dropping fast, any lights going on inside would make their task easier.

After two more circuits and with no evidence of Archer being at home, Harry rang Jennings and gave him the address. He did this with reluctance; their job wasn’t finished yet and he hated the idea of being cut out too early. Neither did he enjoy giving a blow-by-blow commentary of their activities.

‘There’s no sign of Archer,’ he informed the lawyer. ‘You want us to go in and check she’s there?’

‘No,’ said Jennings. ‘That’s not necessary. What’s the location like?’

‘Could be quieter.’ Harry described the layout. ‘It’s not going to improve until the shops shut. There are pedestrians all over.’

‘Leave it,’ Jennings told him. ‘Your part is over. Payment will be made as usual.’

It wasn’t the response Harry had expected. Your part is over? What was that supposed to mean? ‘Is there a problem?’ he queried. ‘We’re right here, we might as well stay on it until we eyeball her.’

‘It’s not necessary.’ Jennings sounded calm but firm. ‘Others will take over from you.’

Others?

‘Fine,’ said Harry. ‘You’re paying the bill.’ He switched off the phone. ‘Orders are to bug out. We’re done.’

Rik scowled. ‘We haven’t confirmed her presence yet.’

‘No need. He wants us out of here. We get paid anyway.’

Rik shrugged and started the car, heading north towards Battersea Bridge. Traffic was slow, and there was little to do but concentrate on the bumper in front of them and the occasional set of traffic lights; neither man spoke, both feeling a sense of anti-climax after the long trail they had followed.

As they reached Chelsea on the northern side of the river, Harry swore at length.

‘Turn round.’

‘What?’ Rik stared at him.

‘Go back. This is a mistake. It’s not finished.’

Rik smiled, sensing some action. ‘Now you’re talking.’ He made a fast U-turn, earning a volley of horns and flashing lights from other drivers, and stepped on the gas.

‘I don’t like leaving it like this,’ said Harry. ‘I want to see what this Joanne Archer looks like. You OK with this?’

‘Of course.’ Rik frowned. ‘We’re at a disadvantage, though, aren’t we, with all this shooting?’

Harry gave it some thought. He had placed a briefcase in the back of the car earlier, but without mentioning what it contained. And so far Rik hadn’t asked. ‘We don’t know if she’s armed, and there’s no sign she had anything to do with killing the two men at South Acres. Of course, if I’m wrong,’ he added with dark humour, ‘and she shoots you, I apologize in advance.’

‘Cheers. And Jennings? He’s going to be really fussed when he finds out we came back.’

‘We’ll let him complain to our union.’

It took half an hour to fight their way back through growing traffic to Archer’s flat. By the time they arrived, most of the surrounding shops were closing and pedestrian traffic had reduced dramatically. Harry paused long enough to delve in the briefcase, then followed Rik up the metal stairs. Once at the top they were in full view of a narrow window alongside the door. There was still no sign of a light.

Harry moved ahead and reached for the door. Before he could knock, however, it swung open of its own accord.

TWENTY-FIVE

The Yale lock looked new, Harry noted. Shiny with no scratches or tarnish. But the wood where the latch should have fitted into the frame had been torn away, revealing a strip of yellow wood beneath the paint.

He used his knuckles to push the door further back. It revealed more damage to the inside of the frame and a scattering of wood slivers on the floor of the hallway.

There was no sound from inside.

They stepped over the debris into a short, carpeted hallway. The atmosphere had a dead, sad feel, as if the soul of the place had fled the scene, leaving just the empty shell. No memories, no presence, no trace of past warmth. . and no future.

Harry used his elbow to switch on the hall light. It didn’t help much, merely highlighting the worn drabness of the decor. Bedsit land in the flesh, he thought dourly, temporary accommodation for the disconnected.

The first door to the left was a bathroom with bath, sink and toilet. It was empty save for a few items of washing drying on a line and a faint smell of soap and perfume. The sink was half full of soapy water with a pale scum on the surface. Harry dipped his finger in; it was faintly warm. In the bath, a pair of tights lay coiled like a snake’s skin, and one of the taps was dripping into a brown stain on the enamel with a hollow, plunking sound. A crust of dried soap sat amid a dusting of talcum powder around the rim. The cabinet above the sink was empty save for a plastic razor.

The kitchen was small and smelled of a spicy takeaway and grease. Other than a layer of dust, it looked little used. Two drawers revealed some basic cutlery and plastic bin liners, and a waste-bin contained a jumble of plain polystyrene cartons and foil lids stained with dark sauce. Whoever lived here didn’t seem to be much of a cook.

‘Harry.’ Rik was standing just inside a doorway along the hall, looking down at the floor.

Harry joined him and peered past his shoulder.

It was a bedroom. A young woman was lying on the carpet, one hand pressed to her stomach. She was face down, as if she’d been trying to hide among the worn, dusty pile. She wore a plain jumper and black jeans, and had short, cropped hair and simple stud earrings. A pair of spectacles and one shoe were lying nearby. The heel of the shoe was broken, the nails protruding like a rat’s teeth. She was clutching a hand towel in her other hand.

Harry bent to check her pulse while Rik moved away to check the rest of the flat.

The flesh was warm and damp, but there was no flicker of life. A worm of blood lay on the back of the woman’s neck, just beneath the hairline, which was damp. Closer inspection revealed an area of scorched skin just below her ear, and a dark, puckered hole. Up close, he smelled the aroma of burned flesh and gunshot residue. By the way the fingers of her hand were twisted into the clothing of her stomach, she’d probably been hit in the middle first, doubling her over, placing her in line for the killer shot from above.

Harry felt a deep sense of outrage. Whoever had done this had acted with cold deliberation.

‘Not long happened.’ He wasn’t sure if Rik had heard, and realized he’d spoken without intending to. The killer couldn’t be far away, he reflected. They might even have passed him in the street. Another near miss, like the others. It was becoming a nasty habit.

He stood back, automatically trying to read what had happened. Without a full forensic examination it was all guesswork, but he had to try. Archer looked as if she had been surprised in the bathroom and had tried to get away. But the killer had caught her, her shoe heel breaking in the process. She clearly hadn’t had time to put up a fight. The end had been brutal and quick.

He walked through to the living room. Decorated in faded yellows and sparsely furnished with a brown leatherette settee, two hard-backed chairs and a table, it was more functional than homely.

Rik was emptying a travel bag sitting on top of a neatly folded blanket on the settee. He took out a jumble of casual clothing: jeans, tights, underwear, trainers and T-shirts, a couple of cheap paperbacks and some cash in a purse. No documents, however; nothing to confirm the dead woman’s identity.

The rest of the flat proved just as featureless. Nothing stood out. But then, Archer had hardly been here five minutes; there was no paperwork, no receipts or bills, none of the detritus of anything resembling an established life.

It was only when Harry returned to check the top of the wardrobe in the bedroom that he turned up anything