another half a dozen waiting in the wings. He knew that if the latter was the case, it would be a very short fight indeed. Footsteps approached the car boot as he waited ready and tensed.
The boot popped open and Manuel squinted his eyes against the light and quickly took in his kidnappers. One man was very tall, six foot four plus, dressed in a brown leather jacket and slacks. His grey hair and lined face was proof of a man in his early fifties. The other man was shorter, younger and bald. Manuel noted his strong build, and his small blue eyes which were flat and devoid of any emotion.
“Come on sunshine,” said the bald man. “We’ve got some questions for you.”
Manuel decided to strike at him first. He lay on his side with his hands holding his knife behind his back to give the impression that he was still bound.
“What do you want with me? I haven’t done nuthin!” he responded, trying to show fear on his face in an effort to put his kidnappers momentarily off guard.
As those same rough hands grabbed him to pull him out of the boot he lashed out savagely with his knife, slashing the bald man deeply across his neck. He kicked out viciously at the tall man, striking him in the chest and knocking him on his backside. Manuel leapt out of the boot, ignored the bald man who was busy trying to hold his neck together with his hands and concentrated on the tall grey haired man who was quickly regaining his senses. As the man reached inside his coat pocket Manuel instinctively dived full length on top of him and used his momentum to try and drive his knife into his chest. The tall man half blocked the blow and the short blade got caught up in the folds of his thick leather jacket. The narrow handle twisted in Manuel’s hand and broke free.
Manuel quickly realised his kidnapper outweighed him by more than twenty kilograms. He wrestled the man’s hands away from his pocket but was rolled over onto his back by the bigger man who then butted his forehead down violently, connecting with the bridge of Manuel’s nose. Manuel felt excruciating pain burst through his head and his sight blackened for a few seconds. He fought the darkness off and as his vision cleared he brought his knee up with all his strength and caught the man’s unprotected groin in a sickening blow. The man grunted loudly and although he tried to keep fighting, Manuel felt the strength ebbing out of his arms. He managed to roll the big man off him and hit him with a flurry of wild punches to his head. The big man rolled away and gamely got to his feet, but by that time Manuel had recovered his knife and plunged it savagely and repeatedly into his chest. The man groaned and slowly slumped to the floor with a groan and deep wheezing exhalation of breath.
Manuel removed a gun from the tall man’s inside coat pocket. He walked up to the short bald man he had slashed in the neck with his knife who was on his knees, still trying to staunch the blood that was flowing profusely from his neck wound and creating a pool on the ground around him.
“Why did you do this?” Manuel growled as he stood over the man, but the only response he received sounded like a wet cough. “Who told you to do this?”
The bald man tried to reach out weakly for Manuel’s leg as Manuel put the gun to his head and fired once.
Manuel surveyed his surroundings for the first time. It appeared to be a small warehouse of about twenty metres by thirty metres in size and was half full with crates of furniture, piles of packing materials, food stuffs and also three large shipping containers. There were two offices partitioned off from the rest of warehouse and Manuel was relieved that there wasn’t anyone else around. Although the fight had been short and he was ultimately victorious, he felt exhausted from the primal exertion. He looked at the bodies lying on the ground and tried to regather his breath. Blood dripped freely from his nose and he pinched the bridge in an effort to stop the flow.
When he had caught his breath and the worst of the bleeding had stopped, he searched the bodies and removed their keys and wallets. As he was searching the big man he removed something from his pants pocket that astonished him. It was a photograph of Manuel and worst of all, judging by its background appeared to have been taken shortly after he shot Emilio Fogliani.
He stared dumbly at it for almost two minutes, wondering how such an impossible thing could exist and yet there was no mistaking the likeness. He wondered who could have taken the photograph and from where. He held the photograph up at eye level and tried to position himself back at the warehouse that night. He judged that the photographer must have been hidden in the garden bed at the rear of the warehouse, concealed by the dense bushes. It seemed unlikely that someone passing by had chanced upon the meeting carrying a high quality camera or video camera and managed to capture images of the actual murder taking place. There were too many maybes for that to be a realistic possibility.
“But who then?” he wondered aloud, and was answered by a slight echo from the empty warehouse. Although he didn’t want to accept it, he already knew what the most likely answer was. As far as he knew, there were only three people, including himself, who knew when and where Emilio Fogliani was going to be punished for his sins.
He put the thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being and forced himself to concentrate on the problems that immediately confronted him. He looked down at his clothes and noted the blood on them, probably from him and his assailants. And he knew that his blood, his DNA, had been dripped all over the concrete floor of the warehouse, his assailants and possibly the car as well.
Manuel knew the cops had a sample of his DNA on their databases and the thought of it worried him. If they found his DNA it would only be a matter of time before they caught up with him and the thought of returning to prison after just a few months of pure naked freedom sickened him to his core. He quickly considered his next move, knowing that it would be crucial. He thought about moving the bodies and cleaning up the mess but thought it would be too time consuming and risky, and besides, he hated cleaning, so he decided to leave them where they were. He walked outside the warehouse in an attempt to get his bearings and noticed for the first time he had strained his left calf muscle during the fight. Fortunately the area where the warehouse was located, which was comprised mostly of decrepit corrugated iron clad warehouses, appeared to be deserted.
He went back inside and briefly massaged his calf as it rapidly tightened. He looked longingly at the car, but decided it would have to stay in the warehouse. Using every ounce of his remaining strength, Manuel dragged the bodies inside the car. He tore a sleeve off the big man’s shirt, removed the petrol tank cap and fed it down into the petrol tank, leaving a bit hanging out. He lit the end of it with matches he had found on bald hood and limped as fast as he could out the door and away from the warehouse. Within twenty seconds a large explosion cracked the night air, percussioning violently on his ear drums. Manuel took a quick look back and saw that the explosion had set fire to most of the contents of the warehouse. Orange flames were already leaping up towards the windows high up on the walls. He smiled grimly and moved away into the night secure in the knowledge that whatever DNA that wasn’t destroyed by the fire would be destroyed by the Firefighters who would no doubt drench the place with their hoses.
As he left one problem behind him, he turned his mind to the next. A mixture of emotions churned inside him as he looked again at the photo he clasped tightly in his hand.
Chapter 43
Nelson morosely worked his way through the seemingly bottomless pile of witness statements - or
He tried to work through his flat spot and forced himself to concentrate on the work in front of him. He noted that the LAC Detectives seemed to have done a reasonably thorough job of collecting evidence and interviewing witnesses, although Nelson made notes on some inconsistencies that would need to be chased up. The case appeared to be a matter of finding out which of his relatives or business associates had knocked the old man off so they could benefit from his death. There was plenty of motive because Crenshaw had amassed a property portfolio that was estimated to be worth in the vicinity of $50 million. Nelson mused that murder for profit was a re- occurring theme in history. Already the LAC Detectives’ attention had been drawn to the youngest son and his wife who had been the last people to have seen Crenshaw alive. They were in debt up to their eyeballs as a result of losing big on the stockmarket and there were witnesses to heated arguments over money in the past between them and the deceased.
