The Deepest Cut Page 9
“Did you notice him looking at you, watching you?”
“No, but I wasn’t really paying attention. And he was the sort of person you don’t really notice, anyway.”
I got it. He was the kind of guy who went out of his way not to be noticed. I screwed up my napkin and dropped it on the plate. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll take you down to Russell.”
I went to stand, but she didn’t move.
She said, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to see if I can find out who this kid is. It may be nothing, but we won’t know till I check it out. Let’s go.”
I went to stand again, but she was shaking her head.
“No, Liam. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? About what?”
“I’m not going to Russell’s. I’m staying here, in London.”
“Maria, this is not the time. This is not about your independence. It’s about—”
“I know what it’s about. I’m not leaving you. We have to do this. Okay, fine. We have no choice. So, I’m going to stick by your side. We’re a team, a couple, a pair. Maybe you’d forgotten that, or maybe you hadn’t realized it till now, but I’m with you, and I’m going to help you. No argument.”
I didn’t like it, but I knew she meant it. I called Russell and asked him for the loan of a small apartment he had on Mulberry Crescent in St. John’s Wood. I had a set of keys and it was understood I could use it if I ever needed to keep a low profile. Right now, I needed to keep a low profile.
Chapter Eight
Five minutes on the phone to the admin department had got Maria the address of ‘that nice young man who was helping out at the presentation.’ That’s because she’s a girl—and charming. If it had been me, they would have sent me packing. His name was Anthony Cavra, which made me smile. He lived in a small basement apartment in a 1930s-purpose-built block of flats in Knightsbridge, five minutes from Harrods and just ten from the Albert Hall. The deal was that he changed the light bulbs and unblocked the sinks, and he got to live there rent-free.
The lobby was juniper green with plenty of art deco stucco and mahogany. There were a couple of heavy coffee tables with chairs and two-seater sofas and some lamps that might have been Clarice Cliff or good imitations. The elevator looked original.
But access to Anthony’s apartment was not via the elevator. It was through a mahogany door and down a flight of unlighted steps. There was a bare bulb, but the sooty smudge on it told me this was one bulb he had not changed. At the bottom of the stairs, there was another door with a dirty brass plaque that read Boiler, Janitor, in that order. I guess the boiler was more expensive to replace. I knocked.
I could hear somebody moving about inside, but I had to knock three times before he opened the door. He was how Maria had described him, only she hadn’t mentioned the cold, secret arrogance in his eyes. The apartment was dark behind him and he watched me from that darkness, holding on to the door with both hands.
He didn’t say anything, so I asked him, “Are you Anthony Cavra?”
He watched me a little longer then said, “Why?”
“Because, if you are, I have a message for you.”
“Who from?”
I smiled sweetly. “Well, if you’re not Anthony Cavra, that’s none of your business, is it?”
His eyes shifted away from my face and seemed to scan the floor, like there might be the answer to some existential conundrum down there. Then he said simply, “I am.”
“Good.”
We stood watching each other a while.
Finally, I said, “Can I come in?”
Now he turned his attention to the door frame, examining it in depth. He said, “Who is the message from?”
I said, “Maria Vazques.”
His eyes slowed right down and shifted slightly, so he could probably see me in his peripheral vision. “She sent you with a message for me?”
“Can I come in?”
He thought about it a long time. He didn’t like it, but the lure of the message from Maria was too strong. He stepped back and let me in.
There were no windows, and what light there was came from a dull, overhead bulb in a plastic shade. There was a TV and a threadbare sofa in what might once have been beige. There was a steel and Formica table in mottled green, with four chairs. I wondered who sat on the other three. He walked quickly to the table and sat, holding his hands in front of him, like he was protecting his crotch. He stared at the floor to the right of his feet. I pulled out a chair and sat facing him.
I said, “So, you like Maria Vazques, huh?”
He glanced at the tabletop just in front of me. “She’s pretty.”
I smiled. Two guys shootin’ the breeze. “When did you meet her?”
Now he looked up at my face and his eyes were hard as steel pellets. “What’s her message? Why did she send you with it?”
I shrugged. “It’s just the way it played out, Anthony. She wanted me to come and talk to you.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s the message?”
I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. “She wants to know if you and Eva were good friends. You did know Eva, right?”
Now his eyes went wild. It was like all hell was breaking loose around him, but only he could see it because it was happening in his brain. His body went rigid and his eyes looked crazy. He turned and stared at the wall, like he was expecting something to happen over there. Then he stared at the other wall, then down at his hands. His breathing was rapid and shallow and he was chewing his lip.
I said, “Hey, take it easy, Anthony. We’re just two guys talking. She was cute. I knew her, too. You did know her, right?”
He swallowed three times, then said, “Yes.”
“When did you last see her?”
Now he stared into my face. “Are you a policeman?”
I smiled. “Why would you ask that, Anthony?”
A secret smile flickered for a moment on his face. “You’re not a policeman.”
“When did you see her? Was it on the bus? The conductor said he saw you with her.”
The smile came back, stronger. It wasn’t a nice sight. “That greasy Italian.”
“He talked to her, right?”
“He wouldn’t shut up.”
“He told me he liked her.”
“He wouldn’t leave us alone, but she thought he was disgusting.”
“Is that why she got off the bus with you?”
He still had his hands in his lap. Now he bent his head like he was going to curl up like a woodlouse and watched his fingers playing with each other. He was going inside, where he was safe.
I said again, “Is that why you got off together?”
“She liked me. She liked talking.”
“You miss her.”
He was talking to his hands, like I wasn’t there. “I don’t need to talk to you.”
“Who do you talk to, Anthony?”
Now he raised his eyes to meet mine, and there was that same cold, hard arrogance and a smile that was a sneer to give it life. “I have friends. Morons like you haven’t the first idea of friendship. I have real friends.”
It flashed into my head. His own arrogance made him mad, and, when he was mad, he talked.
I chuckled and said, “Yeah, right…friends.” I held up my hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. Each to his own. But me? I never pay for it. Was that where you were that night? With one of your”—I made an inverted commas sign with my fingers—“‘friends’?”
He froze and by degrees he looked back down at his hands in his lap.
I scanned the room and gave another laugh. “I mean no offense, Anthony, but Eva was a classy chick, and you’re not exactly a Rockefeller, are you? So how come you got off the bus together that night?”
He finally answered, “She is one of my special friends. I have special friends…” His voice sounded strangled.
I felt sorry for the poor bastard, and I was trying not to think
of what Pete would do to him, but I said, “Tell me you didn’t bring her here. Where would you take a classy chick like Eva? You got somewhere else?”
This time all hell did break loose. He didn’t so much scream as roar. He rammed the table into my chest with such force that it winded me and threw me on my back. I was gasping and trying to sit up. He was moving with incredible speed. His chair had gone careening across the room, but he had another one over his head and he was rushing at me. His face twisted with rage. I rolled as the chair smashed against the floor. It must have jarred him, but he didn’t show it. I scrambled to my feet and, in one movement, he had hurled the chair at me. It struck my shoulder and I must have shouted with pain.
Then he was rushing at me again. I had no time to catch my balance. I struck out with my foot and caught his thigh with a glancing kick. He didn’t even seem to notice. I lost my balance and went sprawling. He was kicking and stamping at me and all I could do was try to fend off the blows and kick back at him. I scrambled away on my back. He was still screaming, chasing me, kicking with his heel. Then I was up against the chair he’d thrown. We both reached for it at the same time. We fumbled and struggled, and he was making a strange, keening sound. I let him have it and, as he went for it, I got on one knee, steadied myself and rammed my fist into his crotch in an upper cut that would have felled a gorilla. Again, he didn’t even seem to notice.
He bellowed, lifted the chair over his head then brought it crashing down on me. I just had time to cover my head with my arms, but pain seared through my back and shoulders. I hollered some profanity with the pain as he raised the chair for a second blow. I knew I wouldn’t survive it so I put every ounce of energy I had into a savage punch to the side of his kneecap. It didn’t knock him down, but it made him pause for a crucial second. Then I was on my feet. I grabbed the chair with both hands and landed a massive kick into his belly. He let go of it and fell back over the sofa.
Too late, I realized I’d knocked him into the kitchenette. He scrambled to his feet, wrenched open the kitchen drawer and pulled out a large knife. I still had the chair. I held it out in front of me to ward him off. But with an agility I’d not expected, he vaulted the sofa, yanked open the door and was gone up the stairs. I made after him, but every muscle in my body was bruised and knotted with pain, and by the time I’d made it to the stairs, he was gone.
I staggered back into the apartment and sank onto the only chair that was left standing. I needed to think, but my body was doing all my thinking for me. It was thinking that it hurt—everywhere. The kid’s strength was unbelievable, as Juliet had suggested.
I surveyed the apartment. It was one room with a kitchenette and a bathroom. The sofa was a sofa-bed. The floor was wall-to-wall threadbare carpet. I got on my knees and looked at the tacks that kept it down. They were old. I pushed the sofa back and found the indentations from the feet. That sofa had been there a long time. Wherever Eva and Sally had been killed, it hadn’t been here. The sofa and the carpet would have been saturated with blood. He’d have had to replace both and scrubbed the walls and probably even the ceiling.
And it was when I’d asked him where he’d taken her that he’d gone crazy. I’d touched a nerve. But what nerve?
I searched the apartment from top to bottom on the off chance I might find some clue, but there was nothing. So I closed up, climbed the stairs and made my way, aching, back to the Daemon. I got behind the wheel, slammed the door and dialed Juliet Loss. When she answered, I said, “Tell me about Anthony Cavra, Dr. Loss.”
There was a long silence. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Is that patient confidentiality, Doc?”
“I shouldn’t even tell you that, but, as it’s obvious, yes.”
“Two women are dead and a third one is at risk. That third one happens to be my girlfriend. If he goes after her—”
“Liam, stop. You can’t bully me on this, so don’t even try. Tell me what’s happened.”
I filled her in and when I’d finished, I said, “I need to know where he would go and where he would have taken Eva and Sally.”
“You think he has a lair somewhere, Liam?”
Her voice had surprised me. She sounded sarcastic. I frowned, even though she couldn’t see me. “Well, what do you think?”
“I think you’re making a lot of assumptions.”
I felt a sudden twist of anger in my belly. “So, set me straight, Doc. Where’d he go? Where can I find him so we can straighten out this whole misunderstanding?”
“Sarcasm won’t help, Liam.”
I could hear my voice rising. “Why are you being obstructive, Doc? People’s lives are at risk.”
“You are allowing anger and fear to cloud your vision, Liam. I am not going to tell you where to find Anthony when you are like this. Do you understand?”
I took a deep breath.
After a moment, she continued. “If he is distressed, he is bound to contact me. When he does, I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll see what you can do? Are you serious?”
“He’ll listen to me. If I tell him to hand himself over to the police, he will.”
“He is dangerous, Juliet! I was lucky he didn’t kill me.”
“You need to calm down, Liam, and get some perspective. I won’t talk to you while you are in this state. I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t hang—” I didn’t finish because she had. I stared at my phone for a while then dropped it on the seat next to me. I looked at the street ahead of me. The rain had stopped and clouds were drifting across the sun, fading shadows in and out over the red-brick buildings. ‘Calm down and get some perspective.’ I could see the sky and the clouds reflected upside down in the windshield of the car in front of me. Perspective. Everything was perspective.
I fired up the big V12 and headed slowly up to Notting Hill Gate. I parked on a back street, bought a broadsheet and made my way on foot to Juliet Loss’ place. There was a bus stop a hundred yards from her house and I sat there, reading the paper and waiting. As I expected, about twenty minutes later, a taxi pulled up and she climbed out. She paid the driver, trotted up the stairs and let herself in.
I waited another ten minutes and saw him approaching from the Gate. He walked with mincing steps, with his head tucked into his shoulders, like he was expecting to get slapped across the back of his head. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and he kept his eyes firmly on his feet. He turned in to Dr. Loss’ gate and ran up the stairs to her door. It opened before he had time to ring the bell. He slipped in and it closed behind him. It made sense she’d see him here and not at her office, but something else made less sense. I filed it in my brain for consideration later and crossed the road, to where they couldn’t see me from the window.
I waited half an hour. I figured that was two hundred bucks worth of Dr. Loss’ time and wondered who was paying. Then the door opened again and Anthony Cavra hurried down the stairs and back toward Notting Hill Gate, only now he was wearing a small knapsack on his back. I let him get fifty yards ahead of me and set off after him.
He turned left at Pembridge Road and stopped at the zebra crossing. I did the same but turned away, like I was searching for something on the other side of the road. A black cab passed. I watched it. It slowed and a young woman got out. My skin turned cold and prickled. I watched her look both ways then run across the road. She went through Dr. Loss’ gate and ran up the stairs two at a time. I didn’t think. I took a step so I could see the door. Loss opened it and they smiled at each other.
They hugged and I heard Loss say, “Maria, darling, come in. I’ve got the kettle on.”
And the door closed.
Chapter Nine
My instinct was to go right back and dangle Juliet Loss out of her fourth-floor window until she told me what the hell was going on. But the blare of a horn brought me to my senses and I saw Anthony running across the road with a driver leaning out of his window shouting abuse at him.
The crowds got thicker at the mouth of the Underground and I stayed with him down the steps to the ticket barriers. He went through and headed for the escalators to the Central line. He was either headed west or east. I hung back a bit and observed. At the bottom of the escalator, he went to the eastbound platform.
Five minutes later the train came in. I waited till he’d boarded then got on one carriage back from him. I stayed near the door that connected the carriages where I could keep an eye on him. He sat, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. I knew he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing whatever crazy stuff went on inside his head. I felt sick because I knew whatever that was, it now involved Maria.
Maria…who was at Dr. Loss’ place. I heard Loss’ voice, ‘Maria, darling, come in. I’ve got the kettle on.’ She knew her. They were old friends.
We stayed like that for twenty minutes—me watching him and him watching his own crazy thoughts. At Liverpool Street, he got off and I got off behind him. He didn’t leave the station. He made his way with his weird, mincing walk to the Hammersmith and City line. There he got on a train one stop to Aldgate East.
I followed him out, keeping my distance because there were less people here. He walked quickly, head down. He turned up Tyne Street, then left into Old Castle. He clearly didn’t know he was being tailed, but it was like the lack of crowds around him made him nervous—like he felt more visible—and he walked fast.
At Toynbe, he turned left again into a busy street market. I shouldered my way through the crowds, trying to keep him in sight. The smell of curry was powerful on the warm, muggy air, and the shouts and cries in every language but English made me feel like I was in a kasbah. Halfway down the street he moved into a narrow, dark mews. It was a dead end and I couldn’t follow him in, but, from across the street I saw him go to a shabby, dilapidated door, pull out a key ring and try two keys before it opened and he let himself in. When it closed, I entered the mews. The number was three Toynbe Mews.