Coffin Dodgers (13 page)

I follow him through the town centre, past the mall and beyond the business parks. When he reaches the edge of town he drives even faster, and after a minute or two he takes a hard left and drives up a back road. He doesn't signal and I'm going too fast to follow him without attracting attention, so I go past the junction, turn around and wait a moment before following him again. I stay well back, close enough that I can still see his taillights but not so close that he's likely to spot me.

The road is in a terrible state, with more potholes than tarmac. Without the benefit of a headlight I can't see anything, so I hit every rut, bump and hole there is. Controlling the bike takes all of my strength and concentration, but even then I nearly end up going over the handlebars when I hit two particularly vicious holes in the road in quick succession. By the time I regain control and look up, Sleazy Bob's car is gone.

I stop the bike and listen. The sound of tyres on gravel is coming from somewhere behind and to the right of me, so I turn around and ride slowly, peering into the darkness to try and spot an exit I've missed. I spot it after a hundred metres: a dirt track heading up the side of a gentle hill. I can't see Sleazy Bob's car, but I think that's where he's gone.
 

I ride slowly up the track, and after a while I crest the hill and see a house. It's huge and looks new, a traditional style built using modern materials. It must have cost a fortune. Sleazy Bob's car is parked outside, but there aren't any other vehicles. The car is in darkness, but there's light coming from three windows in the house. I sit and watch for a few minutes, but there's no sign of movement.

I wait a little longer but there's still nothing happening, so I turn around and roll the bike back down the hill until I'm out of sight. I pull out my phone and use the mapping program to find out where the hell I am. Then I call Dave.

"Anything?"

"I don't know yet," I tell him. "Are you near a computer?"

"Yeah."

"Can you do me a favour? Can you do a check for successful planning applications in the last few years on -- hang on..." I switch to the mapping program again to get the address. "Quarry Road? I'm looking at what I think is a new house. Fairly recent, anyway."

I can hear Dave's fingers tapping on the keys. He's humming tunelessly.

"Dave?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Can you stop humming please?"

"Sorry." More tapping. "Okay, that was easy."

"What have you got?"

"It's an approved application from about two years ago. It's the only one for Quarry Road in the last ten years."

"Does it say who the application was for?"

"Looks like an architect firm."

"Can you scan through it and see if their client's name is in there anywhere?"

"Sure. Hang on. Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah -- ah, here you go. Robert Hannah."

"Balls."

"Bad news?"

"Worse. No news. Where are you, anyway?"

"Amy's."

"Okay. I'll be there in ten. Get the beer ready."

It looks like Amy was right. After work, Sleazy Bob just goes home.

I follow Sleazy Bob again the following night, but I give up when he turns off the main road and heads home. I can't persuade Amy or Dave that following him is a good idea, so I give it one more go. He just goes home again, so I grudgingly agree that the best idea is to hope the bug comes up with something. After two more days, it does.

"Andrew," Sleazy Bob says. "About time."

We can't hear the caller.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do you have them?"

He's silent for a moment.

"Yeah," he says. Another pause. "Okay. Where do we find them?"

There's a scratching sound. Sleazy Bob is writing.

"Okay," he says, and hangs up.

Sleazy Bob bashes the phone keypad. Another call.

"It's me. Write this down. Clare Brown and Jane Stark. Brown's at thirty-four Mains Road. Stark's at fifty-seven Hardgate."

Another pause.

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

"That's it," Amy says. "We've got them."

"What are you thinking?" I ask. "Should we call Burke?"

"He wouldn't do anything. The police aren't going to watch two addresses all day just because we ask them to. They won't come unless we can convince them a crime's about to be committed."

"It is."

"I know, but we can't prove that."

"You're about to tell me you have a plan, aren't you?"

"Yep. I think we should split up and watch the girls they're going after. Look for anything weird. Anything that doesn't fit."

"And if we spot something?"

"We call Burke and let the experts take over."

We spend the rest of the night working out the details. As plans go, ours isn't particularly complicated -- but then, it doesn't need to be.

"Okay. I'll go to work as normal and keep an eye on Sleazy Bob," Dave says. "If he leaves, I'll follow him. If I think he's heading for either address, I'll call you."

We don't think Sleazy Bob's going to be directly involved, but we can't be sure.

"And we'll call in sick and spend the day sitting on the two addresses," I add. "Amy's going to keep an eye on Stark, and I'll cover Brown. If we see anything or think we see anything, we'll check with each other and then call in the Cavalry."

Amy grunts in agreement.
 

"How are you getting on?"

Amy has been hammering away at the computer for the last twenty minutes while Dave and I slouch on the sofa.
 

"I think I've got as much as I'm going to get," she says. "Should be enough. Come and have a look."

Amy has been digging through directories, online profiles and anywhere else you can find stuff about people. She's grabbed maps showing where the girls live, details from the electoral register showing their dates of birth -- they're both twenty-three -- and bits and pieces from the sites where they socialise.
 

"Okay. Most of the stuff's useless, but I've got a few things," Amy says. "I've found out what they do. Jane Stark has a part-time job at one of the shoe shops in the mall -- the designer one, I've forgotten what it's called -- and Clare Brown was doing some kind of degree at the college. She finished a couple of months ago and hasn't found a job yet. They both say they're single, and there's no mention of boyfriends or girlfriends in their online profiles. They don't own their homes, they don't have lodgers or other tenants living with them, and they don't drive. Don't even have provisional licenses."

Amy clicks a few times. "They do have photos, though. Fairly recent ones."

Most of the photos were taken at parties in various stages of drunkenness. The girls don't look alike -- Brown is a tall, willowy redhead with translucent white skin and a sad expression, while Stark is shorter, darker, with bottle-black hair and, judging by the photos, a tendency to show her underwear whenever she's in company -- but as the saying goes, it's what's inside that matters. Literally, in this case.

"I'll send this to your phone," Amy says. "Anything else we need to talk about?"

"What are you going to do if they go out?" Dave asks.

Shit, that's a good question. We hadn't thought of that. Or at least, I hadn't thought of that.

"I think we should stay put," Amy says. "Everybody they've targeted so far, there's been some kind of tampering. Cars, heating systems, electrical stuff. It's always been done to look like an accident, so I don't think they're going to start using hit-men or anything like that."
 

"Yeah, I agree," Dave says. "When we overheard them at the golf course, all the chat was about making the next job appear less suspicious, not more. I think whatever they're going to do, they're going to wait until the girls go out before making any kind of move."

"And it's going to involve two different people, or two different teams," I add. "They were adamant about that. Nothing to connect the next two, not even the people doing it."

"So they might go after each girl simultaneously."

"I'd put money on it," Dave says.

I nod. "Pretty close together, anyway. If one's the backup for the other, it doesn't make sense to leave a big period of time between them. The longer the delay, the more things can go wrong. Or go off."

Amy makes a face. "What time tomorrow? Seven? Earlier?"

"Nah, you'd be better off in bed," Dave says. "You don't get engineers or workmen or whatever knocking on doors before eight a.m. unless it's an emergency. And emergencies attract attention -- which is the last thing these guys want to do until the girls are dead. They're going to do whatever they're going to do during regular working hours."

Eight it is. Amy and Dave leave, and I go to bed. I dream of spies, and superheroes, and caped crusaders.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I'm beginning to understand why so many policemen get fat. I've been here for three hours and I've had a Danish pastry, two chocolate brownies and a whole bunch of biscuits. Not to mention a lot of sugary coffees.

Three hours is a long time when you've got nothing to do and nowhere to go. If I had a car I could have slunk down in the seat and pretended to have a nap, but you can't really do that when you're on a motorbike. So I've spent most of the morning staring out of the window of a coffee shop, buying things so the staff don't throw me out. If I'd thought about it in advance I'd have brought a computer. That way I'd have looked like one of those people who nurses a coffee for six hours while they hog the wireless Internet access. It would have saved me a fortune.

I'm on the west side of Mains Road, looking across the road at Clare Brown's apartment. The street is segregated: the east side is entirely residential, but every ground floor window on the west belongs to a coffee shop, or a curtain shop, or a boutique, or a phone repair and tat shop. Most, maybe all, of the apartments are rentals. You can tell. The front gardens are like tiny jungles, with the odd flash of litter; the security doors are chipped, scuffed and faded; and most of the windows haven't been cleaned for years.
 

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Amy sent her first text -- "Are you there?" -- at exactly 8 a.m., and she's sent a message every hour since. I pull my phone out and check the screen. "Still nothing," the message says.

"Same here," I reply. I wait for two minutes and send another message. "What are you wearing?"

The reply is instant: "Get bent." I laugh.

By noon, I'm bored. By one p.m. I'm really bored. When Amy sends another no-news message at two, I'm losing the will to live. And then I see Clare Brown leave her apartment.

I watch her walk across the road and go into one of the shops. She's dressed like she's just got out of bed and grabbed whatever's handy: a t-shirt, jogging bottoms and a pair of trainers. She's much better looking in real life than she is in photos.

I watch the street but there's no sign of anything or anyone unusual, let alone suspicious. After a few minutes Brown comes out of the shop, a carton of milk in her hand. She crosses the street and goes back into her apartment.

I'm just writing a message to Amy when my phone buzzes. "Something happening," Amy writes. "Stark gone to work, car pulled up outside her apt."

My phone buzzes again, but this time it's a call, not a message. I hit the answer button.

"I think this is it," Amy says. "There's a guy in a power company uniform at her door, but he didn't turn up in a power company car or van."

"What's he doing?"

There's a long pause. "He's been looking up and down the street for a while, but now he's at the front door," she says. "He's doing something with the lock."

"Call Burke. And keep your head down."

"Okay," Amy says. The line goes dead.

If somebody's going to go after Clare Brown they're going to do it any minute now. I leave the coffee shop, my latest coffee barely touched, and slowly walk up the road towards Brown's apartment. I pretend to look in the shop windows, watching the street reflected in the glass. There are plenty of people, but nothing looks out of place. After ten minutes of absolutely nothing happening I go back to the coffee shop and order another latte, grab the window seat again and watch Brown's front door.

Two things happen in quick succession. My phone buzzes, and Clare Brown leaves her apartment. I run out of the coffee shop, scanning the screen on my phone as I go. Amy. "Burke's here," the message says.
 

Brown is going somewhere. She isn't dressed to the nines, but she's no longer in gym bottoms either. A pair of jeans, a top and a Jacket, the hair tied back. She's walking down the path from her front door to her street.

Then I spot the homeless guy.

When I say homeless, I mean he looks like he's homeless. He's in grey trousers and a beige overcoat, both of them tattered and stained. A mess of grey, wiry hair peeks out from underneath a black woollen cap. He's about fifty yards away from Brown, who doesn't notice him. She's fiddling with something. A phone, maybe, or a music player.

There's no way I can reach her before he does, but I sprint across the road anyway, running as fast as my legs can carry me. Horns blare and Brown looks up, but she's looking in my direction, not at the homeless man. He's still closing. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. He's reaching into his pocket. I'm still too far away. Five yards. He's pulling something out. Three. One.

The homeless man walks past her, still fiddling with his pockets. He keeps on walking.

I'm standing at the kerb, trying to catch my breath. Clare Brown gives me a quizzical look, puts a set of headphones in her ears and walks to the crossing, waiting for the lights to change. As she crosses the road she looks at me again, as if she thinks I might start following her.

That's when the car hits her.

The dirty white Honda comes from nowhere. It shoots past me, electric motors screaming, and ploughs into Brown. My brain seizes on a single detail. No lights. No brake lights. The car didn't brake. It slams into her legs and she bounces onto the bonnet, sliding off the side and onto the tarmac. The car keeps going.