Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

I retraced my steps. About fifty yards before I got to the house, a black limousine swept past me and stopped outside it. I slowed down and started rummaging in my toolbox. I looked up when I heard a door slam. A figure in a dark blue coat had got out of the car and was walking to the front door. When he got there, he looked round and nodded to the waiting chauffeur before going inside.

I recognized him immediately. It was Gavin Burdett.

Peter Sebastian glared at his subordinate. “When does the Marine Corps think its database will be operative again?” he demanded.

Special Agent Maltravers tried to smooth talk him. “It shouldn’t be long. Not more than another two hours.”

The blond man looked at his watch. “But that takes us to after three o’clock. What am I supposed to announce to the gathered press? That the victim was in the marines, but we don’t know who he is?”

“You could always put the blame on the marines.”

Sebastian looked at her unbelievingly. “Are you out of your mind, Dana? You don’t fuck with the Marine Corps.”

“Or alternatively, you could say that we’re informing next of kin.”

The anger faded from his features. “That’s more like it. What else have we got?”

The young woman looked at her notes. “Not a great deal. No witnesses to the body being dumped in the river, no reports of anyone being beaten. Then again, the scene’s location is hardly the safest in D.C.”

“Nor are the residents likely to talk to us. Are we getting full cooperation from the MPDC since we took the occult cases from them?”

Dana Maltravers shrugged. “I guess. The dispatch commander gave us access to all reported incidents. Nothing’s squared with our man.”

“No missing-persons reports that match?” Sebastian asked hopefully.

Maltravers shook her head. “I’m having them all checked.”

“Shit. I’m walking into a bullring with no pants on.”

His subordinate swallowed a smile. “Sir,” she said tentatively, “are you quite sure that the man in the river is connected with the occult killings?”

Peter Sebastian looked at her thoughtfully. “Any particular reason why I shouldn’t be?”

“Well, for a start, there was no diagram.”

“Go on.”

“I’m concerned by the lack of a specific locus. The other three victims were all killed in places where they worked.”

“If you count Loki’s van as a workplace.”

“I think we can. The point is, the killer went to great trouble to study his victims and identify a time of attack. The guy in the water looks more like a straightforward homicide. Maybe he was just caught up in a gang scrap.”

Sebastian’s eyes moved off her. “Maybe… But the quickest way I could get control of the cases was by including the latest one in the series. The press doesn’t know about the diagrams, anyway.”

“You’re going to maintain that policy?”

“I think so.” He looked at the file in front of him. “What are the document-analysis people saying?”

“Still nothing. They’re inclined to think that the killer’s playing what they call ‘diversionary games.’”

“They’re just hedging their bets. Hate Crimes?”

“Still waiting.”

Sebastian’s eyes opened wide. “What? I sent the assholes a formal request.” He grabbed his phone. “Christ, if you want anything done around here, you have to do it yourself.”

Dana Maltravers backed out of her boss’s office. When he was in that kind of mood, he was impossible to handle.

I gave Gavin Burdett some time to settle in. A minute seemed long enough. Then I went up to the door and gave the bell a long push. There was a security camera above the top left corner. I made sure the safety helmet covered the upper part of my face. It was possible Burdett knew what I looked like-my photo appeared at the head of my newspaper column every Thursday.

The door was opened on the chain.

“You gotta problem with your icebox,” I said, laying on an American accent.

“What?”

“Your icebox,” I repeated, sounding as irritated as possible to put him on the back foot. “Excuse me, could we move this along? I got five more customers waiting.”

“Oh, very well.”

I heard the chain being removed. As soon as the door opened, I brushed past him. By the time he’d closed it again, I had the muzzle of the Glock against the back of his head.

“If that feels like a semiautomatic pistol,” I said softly, “it’s because it is one.” I glanced around. There seemed to be no one else in the vicinity.

Burdett was swaying slightly, but was otherwise motionless.

“Right, then, Gavin,” I said, dispensing with the accent, “let’s be having you.”

I grabbed him under the arm and threw him across the black-and-white tiled floor of the elegant hallway. He cannoned into the wall, shock on his face.

“You…you know my name,” he said, kicking his legs as he tried to get up.

“Oh, yes. Don’t you recognize me?” I took off my hat and smiled, but kept the gun on him.

“Wells,” he said, clearly puzzled. “Matt Wells. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He sounded like the archetypal Brit abroad, appalled at the way he was being treated-except I was a Brit, too, and he hadn’t seen anything yet.

“Empty your pockets,” I said.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

I went over and kicked him on the knee.

His face twisted in agony. “Bastard! What was that for?”

“Your pockets,” I repeated, glaring at him. It wasn’t just that he was an arrogant piece of shit-I was sure he knew things about Karen.

Keeping one hand on his knee, he started pulling things from his jacket and trousers. I took his BlackBerry to examine later and glanced through the rest-keys, small change, wallet with several platinum cards, a gold fountain pen and so on. Changing hands, he emptied the remaining pockets-cigarettes, an expensive-looking lighter, chewing gum and an open packet of condoms. I remembered from the files that Burdett was married. Unless his wife was hiding upstairs, I had the feeling he was once again planning on sampling what D.C. had to offer in the underage flesh department.

“Up,” I ordered, then pushed him roughly into a sitting room full of antique furniture. Whoever owned the place wasn’t short of money or taste. There was an escritoire in the far corner with a wooden chair in front of it. I glanced at the windows. White net curtains obscured us from prying eyes. The main curtains, of an excessive floral design, were tied back with golden ropes. I wrenched the latter free and used them to tie my captive to the chair, then flipped him onto his back, making sure the telephone was well out of his range.

“Don’t bother shouting. You’ll no doubt have noticed that the windows are double glazed.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed here,” Gavin Burdett said contemptuously.

“Congratulations. I’m going for a look around. If I hear even a squeak out of you, I’ll take my boot to your other knee.”

He stared at me with barely contained anger and then nodded curtly.

I checked the other rooms on the ground floor. There was a superbly appointed kitchen, with a heavy door that I guessed led to the backyard. There was also a dining room that would have done an English stately home proud. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, furnished in degrees of opulence that ranged from regal to imperial, each with its own bathroom. I checked the wardrobes and cupboards: no one.

Back downstairs, Burdett was coming nicely to the boil.

“Look here, Wells. You can’t just assault me and tie me up like this.”

“Is that right?” I asked, stepping closer to his undamaged knee. That shut him up. I looked at the painting above the fireplace. I reckoned it could have been a genuine Corot, but my memory was having a blank about nineteenth-century art. It was doing okay on Burdett, though.