Tim Stevens - Ratcatcher

Over the chain stretched taut across the crack of the door the man’s eyes were black and baleful. He was old, a dressing gown open over a grubby vest.

‘Mr Valjas?’

The man’s face clenched. Purkiss thought it was because he’d spoken Russian.

‘Apologies for disturbing you so late.’

The man muttered something.

‘Sorry, I have no Estonian.’

In Russian the old man said, ‘It’s nearly midnight.’

‘Sorry again. I have a question about one of your tenants.’

‘Who are you?’

He held up his open passport. ‘My name’s Hughes. I’m a debt collector.’

‘English?’ The man’s tone softened, though he made no move to lift the chain.

‘Yes. The tenant’s Jaak Seppo. He owes tens of thousands in unpaid rent back in London. I traced him here but he’s not at home. You’re listed online as the landlord.’

The fury was back in the eyes. Purkiss realised it wasn’t directed at him. The door closed, reopened with the chain off. Inside it stank of sweat and onions and fried meat.

The man was shaking his head. ‘I knew he was up to no bloody good.’

‘He’s behind on the rent with you?’

‘No. He’s always been regular. Been there — ’ He screwed up his face. ‘Three years? No trouble at all. Then, one day, I find he’s got someone else living there. A man. Not homosexual stuff, the guy’s got his own room. I tell Seppo I think he’s taken in a lodger. Subletting. He says no, the man’s his friend, staying a few months.’

Purkiss let some of his eagerness show through. His pulse was hammering. ‘Did you meet this other man?’

‘Sure. Pleasant enough fellow. Name of — ’ He broke off, suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because Seppo had an associate in London, who was also involved in fleecing the landlords.’

‘Son of a bitch.’ An elderly woman appeared halfway down the stairs. He barked at her and she fled. He picked his way across the cluttered living room to a sideboard, rummaged in a drawer, found a notepad. ‘Julian Fisher.’

It meant nothing. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Forties. Average in everything. Friendly smile.’

‘Like that?’ Purkiss had downloaded the photo of Fallon to his new phone. The man peered at it.

‘That’s him, yeah.’

‘How long has he been staying in the flat?’

The man turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Three, four months. Haven’t seen either of them for about a fortnight. Lots of properties to keep an eye on.’

‘And you said it was okay for this Fisher to stay?’

‘Wasn’t thrilled about it, but I’m a nice guy, and Seppo’s been a good tenant over the years. You should see some of the arseholes I get. I asked his friend a bit about himself, what he did and so on. He was quite forthcoming. He’s working his way around the Baltics, doing small jobs to pay his way while he travels. Seems a bit old to be doing that sort of thing, but hey, live and let live.’

‘Did he say what work he was doing now?’

‘Bartender at Paradiis . You know it? Shithole of a nightclub out east. Always in the news. Drug raids, stabbings, you name it. He’d stick out like a sore thumb there.’

Purkiss didn’t think so. Fallon’s unremarkable appearance meant he could adapt himself uncannily to any environment. He nodded.

‘Mr Valjas, you’ve been a great help. Thanks.’

‘You catch these guys, you cut their balls off for me, okay?’

Out east meant a couple of kilometres outside the Old Town. He flagged down a taxi, sat in the back and willed himself to relax without letting the fatigue overwhelm him. The driver navigated crowds of young whooping party animals. At one point Purkiss recognised the main road where the pursuit earlier had started and ended.

The entrance to the club was unprepossessing. A small pink neon sign flashed the name, Paradiis , over a blue martini glass. From across the street Purkiss could see a dark archway with steps leading up under an awning and two bouncers in the shadows at the top. People were streaming up there but there was no queue. It was too early for that, just after midnight. He walked up the steps. The door opened in a blast of bass-driven noise.

The bouncers were mirror-eyed walls of meat in tight, shiny black suits. They stared at Purkiss’s rumpled jacket and shirt and chinos, and motioned for him to step aside. They frisked him, one taking the upper body and one the legs. He was a little rough round the edges after the chase earlier, so he supposed he looked as if he might cause trouble. The torso man found his wallet, held it up as if it were a weapon. Purkiss didn’t want to draw attention by making a fuss. He made a show of sighing in resignation, peeled off a couple of notes. The bouncer grinned goldly and clapped him on the shoulder, jarring Purkiss’s own teeth.

Inside it was the worst kind of place, the music so loud that the bass set up a vibration in the outer pinna of the ear rather than just the eardrum. It was industrial electronica and triggered a mild clench of nausea in Purkiss, whose musical tastes ran more to the classical. The air conditioning was fighting a losing battle against the humidity of sweaty flesh. On each of four podia spaced throughout the floor area a woman gyrated, clad in a bikini and what looked like a Second World War gas mask.

Purkiss chiselled his way through the layers of dancers towards the bar counter. He signalled the nearest bartender with a hundred-kroner note held up between two fingers. The man, shaven-headed and burly as the bouncers, his leather vest revealing a phantasmagoria of tattoos on his arms, leaned across, his ear close.

In Russian Purkiss shouted, ‘I’m looking for this man.’ He held up his phone with the picture of Fallon together with the caption he’d added: Julian Fisher .

The man was straightening, shaking his head almost as soon as he had glanced at the picture. Then he frowned at it again. Beckoning Purkiss closer he yelled, ‘Englishman. He didn’t turn up for his shifts last week, so everyone’s assumed he’s moved on.’

‘How long was he working here?’

The man shrugged. ‘Couple of months? Lyuba will know. I’ll get her.’

He plucked the note from Purkiss’s fingers without looking at it and moved down the bar and tapped the shoulder of one of the other bar staff, bending to her ear. She stared at Purkiss, a compact woman with short punky hair and similarly bared and tattooed arms. Lyuba : a Russian name. Only briefly taking her eyes off him, she finished serving her order and made her way down the counter. Purkiss produced another banknote between his knuckles and showed her the photo. She glanced at it, then back into his eyes. Up close her face was hard and angled and seamed. She was perhaps thirty but looked five years older.

‘You know him?’

She put her lips to his ear, but the music changed to something even more frenetic. He shook his head. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ‘This way,’ and jerked her head. He followed her further down the bar, where she lifted a hatch, let him through and took him down a corridor to where the noise was merely intrusive. Arms folded, she faced him.

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend of Julian’s from England. I can’t find him.’

‘He was here since February. Then last week — poof .’ She splayed her hands. There was naked hostility in her glare. In a moment Purkiss got it.

‘You were seeing each other?’

‘The famous English chivalry. One minute he’s all over me, talking about getting a place together. The next he’s saying he needs to move on. He’s not ready to settle down. It’s not me, it’s him .’ She delivered the last in a wincingly accurate parody of a well-spoken Englishman’s Russian. Her mouth twisted in bitterness. Suddenly her eyes were calculating. ‘And you can tell your whoreson friend , if you find him, that I haven’t forgotten the money he owes me, nor have those friends of mine he met.’