Mark Billingham - Good as Dead

‘Is this man under arrest?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No, I am not,’ Prosser shouted. ‘I have not been arrested, I have not been cautioned. This is kidnapping, plain and simple.’

The rain was heavier suddenly, hissing against the lamps.

From behind the shutters, Javed Akhtar said, ‘The judge? My God, is it the judge?’

‘Give the gun to Helen,’ Thorne said. ‘Give it to Helen and I can bring him in.’

‘Wait,’ Akhtar said.

The blue light was still flashing on top of the Passat and Thorne felt it move across his face every few seconds. He watched it dance across the windows of the cars opposite and the automatic weapons of the men crouched between them.

From further back inside the shop, Thorne heard the voice of Helen Weeks. ‘I’ve got the gun.’ There was a pause and then she shouted it a second time.

Thorne turned to look at Donnelly and Chivers. ‘Did you get that?’

‘Changes nothing,’ Chivers said.

Donnelly said, ‘Hang on.’

‘I want Nadira,’ Akhtar shouted. ‘I want my wife to hear this too.’

‘No chance,’ Chivers said.

Thorne turned back to Donnelly. ‘Helen has the gun, Mike. What’s the problem?’

Donnelly considered it for a few seconds, then brought a radio to his mouth and gave the order. Within a minute, a panda car was screaming down from the school gates and, when it had stopped near the line of emergency vehicles, a WPC helped a shaken-looking Nadira Akhtar from the passenger seat. She wore a headscarf embroidered with something that caught the light, and was all but lost inside a Met Police-issue quilted anorak.

Thorne called out to her.

When she looked over at him, Thorne waved and beckoned her across the road, nodding his encouragement as she took the first tentative steps towards him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Nadira… it’s going to be all right. We’re going to go inside together and bring Javed out.’ The woman smiled nervously as she drew nearer to the shop, then Thorne saw the slow wash of recognition across her face. The confusion that quickly became alarm when she got to within a few feet of the man Thorne still had pinned to the shutters.

‘I don’t understand.’ She pointed. ‘Why is that man here?’

‘He’s going to tell Javed how Amin died,’ Thorne said. He tightened his grip on Prosser’s collar. ‘He’s going to tell both of you.’

Nadira shook her head slowly and continued to stare, and from behind the shutters, Akhtar called his wife’s name.

‘I’m here, Javee,’ she said.

‘OK, Javed… when I say so, you need to unlock the door to the shop and open it. Then you’re going to raise the shutters.’ Thorne became aware of Chivers and Donnelly whispering behind him and he could guess what was being suggested and by whom. If Akhtar no longer had the gun, then there was nothing to stop them rethinking their action plan on the spot. No reason not to… improvise a little. If the shutters were going to be raised, it would be relatively easy for Chivers to get in there and overpower Akhtar single-handed. One CS canister or an 8-Bang chucked in as soon as those shutters started to go up… job done.

‘Just a few feet, all right, Javed?’

Behind him, the hissed exchange was becoming more heated.

‘No need to open them any more than that. Then move back into the shop. Have you got that?’

Thorne turned and was relieved to see Donnelly raising his hands and Chivers shaking his head in frustration. He pulled Prosser away from the shutters, keeping one eye on the officers behind him.

‘All right, Javed, off you go.’ Thorne heard the key in the lock, then the sound of the bell as the door was opened behind the shutters. ‘Right, open them up… ’

The mechanised growl was painfully loud up close, but it took only a few seconds until the gap was big enough. Thorne banged and shouted, ‘That’s enough,’ and the shutters juddered to a halt. He turned and nodded once to Donnelly then carefully helped Nadira to bend underneath. Once she was inside, he pushed Prosser down and followed him. Ducking quickly under the shutters, he heard Donnelly shout, ‘Five minutes, that’s all. If you’re not out of there, we go back to the original plan.’ Chivers shouted something after that, as Thorne stood up and his eyes began to adjust to the semi-darkness of Javed Akhtar’s shop, but it was drowned out by the grind of the shutters coming down again and clanging shut behind him.

It was the smell that hit everybody first.

Thorne moved across to Nadira who was leaning against the wall, moaning gently, a hand clamped tight across her mouth. He rubbed her back, shushed her like a baby. Then he walked across to Prosser. The judge had dropped to his knees the second he was clear of the shutters and stayed that way. He coughed and retched, his arms braced against the shop window and a string of drool running from his chin to his chest.

Thorne leaned back against the door.

‘You’ll never forget that smell,’ he said. ‘Never. And other people will smell it on you, long after you’ve left this shop, long after you think you’ve washed it off even. Because you’ll actually absorb it… particularly through your hair and fingernails apparently. Believe me, for the next few days, you’ll belch it and fart it and breathe it.’ He leaned down. ‘And I think that’s only right and proper, considering. Don’t you?’

He lifted Prosser to his feet, spun him around and pushed him towards the rear of the shop. Ahead, Thorne could see the figure of Javed Akhtar, waiting, in semi-silhouette behind the counter. Nadira was a few steps behind as they walked towards her husband.

The shop had been torn apart.

They moved cautiously, negotiating a mess of scattered magazines, sweets and crisps, the debris of tinned food and broken bottles. They stepped over the fridge which was lying on its side and were careful to avoid slipping on the small puddles of melted ice cream and sodden newspapers underfoot. The body of Stephen Mitchell lay close to the counter. The tattered black bin-bags in which it had been wrapped were submerged in shadow and only the face was clearly visible where the thin plastic had been torn open to reveal it.

‘In here,’ Akhtar said.

He nodded towards the room behind him. He held out an arm as if welcoming them to a drinks party or inviting a select group of friends into a well-appointed sitting room.

Thorne shoved Prosser through the doorway and followed. It took him no more than a few seconds to take in the tiny room. To his left, a desk and chair, assorted boxes, a sink and a small fridge, a kettle, a television. Ahead, the back door with a filing cabinet pushed against it, a small toilet.

He looked to his right, and nodded down to Helen Weeks.

A stupid thought: her hair’s different.

He saw the blood on the floor and guessed that this was where Stephen Mitchell had died, the brown streak on the linoleum where the body had been hauled from the room.

‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ Helen said.

‘This’ll only take a minute,’ Thorne said.

Helen was holding the gun in her right hand. She lifted her left and rattled the cuff against the radiator pipe. ‘The key’s on the desk,’ she said.

Thorne half turned to look for it, but his attention was seized by a loud crack from the doorway just behind him. He wheeled round to see Nadira Akhtar slap her husband again, the noise even louder this time, crying out with the effort of it. There was a fine spray of spittle as Akhtar’s head snapped to the side. He righted it slowly and closed his eyes, then began to mutter something soft in Hindi as his wife stepped weeping into his outstretched arms and he eased her into the room with him.