Питер Ловси - The Finisher

Now Olga spoke some words in English. “He is professional wrestler.”

Diamond needed no convincing of that. At the cost of more pain spreading from neck to shoulders, he managed to roll over as Ingeborg had suggested. She propped a pillow under his head.

“Try that, guv.”

He could see them now, the three women and his tall assailant standing over him like witnesses at an autopsy. The image was so disturbing that he wriggled into a position against the headboard that left no doubt he was a living being.

“Is he Russian?”

“Albanian,” Olga said.

Albanian. A memory stirred in Diamond’s befuddled brain, but he wasn’t ready to make connections. It was easier to listen than speak.

“But I speak to him in English.”

That was English? You could have fooled me, Diamond thought.

Big Murat gave a nod. He didn’t have any difficulty understanding her. The pair were intimate companions.

“We meet in St. John’s,” Olga added.

Diamond was no wiser. Could be anywhere. She might as well be talking about the capital city of Newfoundland.

Maeve filled in some details. “The Eastern Orthodox church, St. John of Kronstadt. They’re so hospitable. They gave him a place to sleep. Before that, he was living rough, poor man.”

The truth was coming together in his head now. Murat had been one of the two Albanians who escaped from Pinto’s basement prison in Duke Street. One had been recaptured and the other was unaccounted for.

Maeve added, “Now that Konstantin is out of it, Olga has invited Murat to move in with her.”

Simple as that. To a smart woman like Olga, there’s no such thing as a setback; there are only opportunities.

“Why did he attack me?”

“He thought you were a Border Force officer, I expect.”

And I should turn him in as an illegal immigrant, Diamond felt like saying. He was getting his head straight. But there was a more urgent matter to be settled than Murat’s status. “Help me up,” he told Ingeborg, offering his good arm and swinging his feet to the floor.

The room started spinning. He took a deep breath and stabilised himself as much by force of will as the blood flow to his brain. He moved to the open window and looked for Keith Halliwell.

Keith wasn’t in the street any longer.

“I’m needed downstairs.”

“You’re not safe to move yet,” Ingeborg said.

“You go first. I’ll steady myself with a hand on your shoulder.”

With reluctance, she allowed herself to be used as a prop. They got to ground level and he stood unaided.

“You can’t take anyone on in this state,” Ingeborg said.

“Watch me.” Brave words, but he knew she was right.

The terrace opposite was a mirror image of the building they were leaving. He crossed the street, taking in as much reviving air as he could. And when he reached the door of the house that faced Maeve’s, it was ajar, so he pushed it fully open and stepped inside.

The first person he saw was Halliwell. With him was a small, smiling man in a pink long-sleeved shirt and tight white jeans.

“This is Mr. Franklin, the landlord and owner of the house, guv.”

Mr. Franklin had spent some holidays in Spain, going by the framed posters of bullfighting all the way along the hall. His bright-eyed, darting look suggested he was eager for some action on his own premises and expected Diamond, the limping matador, to make the moves that would achieve the coup de grâce.

Diamond looked away from him. “And?”

Halliwell pointed at the ceiling.

“Has anyone spoken to him?”

“Like you ordered, we waited for you. I’ve got John Leaman watching the rear of the house and young Gilbert is out front.”

“Are we certain our man is up there?”

“Gilbert saw movement at a window.”

“He will have watched the two of us cross the street. He’ll know it’s showdown time. I’ll go up and speak to him.”

“You look as if you’ve been in a fight already,” Halliwell said.

Ingeborg said, “He has.”

“Yes, and I came off second best.” He was already on the stairs, driven by his strong desire to see this through to its conclusion. His brain had snapped into full consciousness. The throbbing and the soreness in his body were unimportant at this stage. Halliwell and Ingeborg were close behind him.

He’d learned his lesson and wouldn’t charge into the front room of the small flat. Instead, he paused on the landing and spoke with all the consideration he would employ when visiting a sick friend in hospital.

“Trevor?”

After some hesitation came, “I’m in here.” No hint of aggression.

“The house is surrounded. We’re police officers.”

“I guessed you must be.” A door was opened. “You’d better come in.” Broad-shouldered, muscled, but only average in height, Trevor, the PE teacher, stepped back to allow them inside. He was dressed in a black T-shirt that on his torso looked as if it was a boy’s size, black jeans and a red baseball hat with the British Heart Foundation logo.

Diamond knew the face. He’d never met the guy, but the features were familiar. The cavernous, troubled eyes, wide mouth and oversize teeth. A thrilling moment of certainty. Theory confirmed as fact.

For a suspected killer, Trevor was remarkably hospitable. “I don’t have chairs for everyone, but you’re welcome to sit on the bed.” Mr. Nice, it appeared.

And Diamond cooperated, too, and with gratitude, by letting the side of the bed take the strain.

But every cop knows — like every fighter — that you don’t drop your guard just because your antagonist does.

“We’ll check you over first.” He gestured to Halliwell to make a body search.

Trevor didn’t object.

While the pat-down went on, Diamond took stock of the small bedsit and the set-up wasn’t as he’d expected. In fact, there was no obvious set-up at all. No surveillance gear. No camera, telescope, binoculars. No gallery of secretly taken photos of Maeve. The pictures on the wall were entirely of sports teams and action studies of professional athletes. A collection of medals on ribbons. Glass-topped computer desk and rotating chair. A two-shelf bookcase stuffed with paperbacks. No room for anything else.

“You take the chair,” Diamond told Trevor. “These two are happy to stand. They spend their time sitting in front of screens.”

He passed up the offer, opting instead to face the music from an upright position.

“What is it with the BHF cap, Trevor? Here you are wearing it at home and I was told you didn’t think much of it.”

He reddened enough to match the scarlet baseball cap. “Who told you that?”

“Maeve Kelly.”

“That I don’t think much of my cap?”

“That’s what she told me yesterday.”

“She’s wrong. I wear it all day when I’m here.”

“She hasn’t seen you in it.”

“Because I wouldn’t wear it to work. I look after it. You can’t trust anyone.” He put both hands to the peak and made sure the angle was right before pressing his fingertips against the soft fabric behind.

That small gesture was a revelation. He was drawing comfort from the cap, fondling it like a living thing because it came from Maeve, regardless that it was the catalyst for the chain of events that led ultimately to a violent death.

“Maeve gave it to you and you presented her with a gift in return.”

“How do you know about that?” Trevor said, blushing again.

“A valuable Toby jug. She told me.”

“What did she say about the jug?”

“That it was very old, one of the first to be made.”

“She said that?” He was pathetically ignorant about the true reaction of the woman who meant so much to him.