Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘If I can, I will. It’ll only cost you a bottle of tequila gold.’

‘Bloody hell, your tastes are turning expensive.’

‘What’s the favour?’

‘I need to borrow the big key. And a set of heavy-duty dikes.’

Declan whistled. ‘You don’t ask much, do you? I take it this isn’t official?’

‘Definitely off the books.’

Nick counted eleven seconds of silence, a long time in phone years. Then Declan sighed. ‘Where? And when?’

‘Ideally, tomorrow morning around ten. In Kentish Town. But I don’t want to meet you there. If it all goes pear-shaped, the last thing I want is any of the neighbours identifying a TSG officer on the scene.’

In the end, they agreed Declan would bring the steel battering ram and the diagonal cutters he’d asked for round to Nick’s flat after dark that night. Provided they weren’t needed in the interim – ‘Not likely, we’re like the Olympic torch these days. Never go out.’ – Nick would return them to Declan the following evening.

The next morning at ten, Pete Matthews’ street was as close as Kentish Town got to tumbleweed. Nick had been parked fifty feet away from Matthews’ flat and had hidden behind his Indy when the sound engineer had emerged at a trot half an hour before. Nick watched Matthews hurry in the direction of the tube, but waited to make sure he hadn’t just nipped out for milk and a paper.

Nick pulled on a pair of leather gloves then got out of the car and grabbed a holdall from the back seat. He walked confidently to Pete Matthews’ gate and put the holdall down. Out with the heavy-duty bolt cutters, a matter of seconds and he managed to catch the chain before it clattered to the ground. He hustled down the stairs and readied the Enforcer, sixteen kilos of tubular steel designed to generate maximum impact with minimum expenditure of energy. Declan had warned him to be careful with it. ‘We don’t call it the Big Key for nothing. It can deliver three tonnes of kinetic energy,’ he’d said, as if he understood what that meant.

‘You mean it’s a bloody big bang?’

‘I mean it’s a helluva wallop. Do it wrong and it’ll knock you off your feet.’

Nick braced and balanced himself, each hand gripping a handle. The door looked solid, but it was only wood. Even an amateur like him should be able to crack it open in a oner. He drew the ram back then let its own momentum carry it forward.

There was a dull crack and thud as the steel plate hit the door just above the lock. The door swung lazily open as if it had never been latched, never mind locked. ‘Fuck me,’ Nick said, admiring his handiwork. He packed the ram, the cutters and the broken chain in the holdall and took it back to the car. Still there was nobody on the street, not so much as a twitching net curtain to suggest there were any witnesses.

He walked back to the flat and this time he went in. The smell of coffee hung in the stuffy air. Nice place, Nick thought as he did the tour. Gig posters on the walls, vinyl and CDs shelved everywhere. High-end hi-fi system with slave speakers in every room. The furniture looked functional but comfortable. A dirty mug sat in the sink, an Italian Moka Express pot beside it. It seemed a shame, but it was time to give Pete Matthews a taste of his own medicine.

Nick began with the kitchen. He did what Stephanie had described to him. Emptied the cupboards and the drawers. Dragged his feet through the mess, trailing it through the house. He didn’t deliberately break stuff, simply let it fall where it would. He moved into the living room, sweeping CDs and albums from their shelves, walking over the resulting piles and relishing the bullet-crack sounds from the shattering CD cases. In the bedroom, he strewed Matthews’ clothes all over the floor, and in the bathroom he tossed the few toiletries into the toilet bowl.

Finally, he called Declan and said, ‘All systems go.’ It was the cue for Declan to call Matthews on his mobile and impersonate a bored copper telling a citizen that his neighbours had reported a break-in.

Matthews hurtled in twenty-five minutes later to find Nick sitting in his armchair reading the paper. He skidded to a stop like a character in a cartoon, all big eyes and open mouth and freeze-frame body. ‘What the fuck?’ was all he could manage when he recovered the power of speech.

‘In my business, we call it restorative justice,’ Nick said calmly, getting to his feet. ‘This is a taster. You go anywhere near Stephanie Harker in the future and this will feel like spring-cleaning by comparison.’

Matthews looked around wildly, spinning from side to side, struggling to take it in. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘It’s no more or less than you did. But if there has to be a next time, I won’t hold back.’

‘I’m going to report you,’ he shouted. ‘You broke into my house, you trashed it. You bastard.’

There was no kindness in Nick’s smile. ‘Try it and see how far you get. There’s a small matter of evidence. And you’ve got none. Anybody asks, I was in the area and saw someone running away. Looked suspicious so I investigated.’ He shrugged and picked his way through the detritus to the door.

He heard footsteps coming for him and quickly sidestepped, throwing out his arm in a back-handed swipe that caught the sound engineer in the throat. Matthews gave a choking gasp as he staggered backwards. He crashed into an empty set of shelves, his temple catching the corner of the unit. A starburst of blood blossomed on his cheekbone. ‘I warned you,’ Nick said. ‘Stay away from her or I swear to God, I will hurt you. And you won’t see it coming.’

It had been harsh and contrary to his nature, but it had done the trick. When he called Stephanie a couple of weeks later, she reported that she’d heard nothing from Matthews. And in due course, they had their lunch in Brighton. Stephanie was struggling with the advent of Jimmy Higgins in her life and clearly felt protective of the kid, but it was also obvious that she was enjoying him too. Nick thought the pair of them were going to be OK, and he didn’t mind the notion of having a relationship with a woman that also included a child. He liked Jimmy well enough, though he thought the kid had been spoiled. Stephanie, however, seemed intent on gently changing that.

In spite of his excitement, they’d taken it nice and easy. Now, Nick thought they were almost at the point where they could call themselves an item. He was pretty clear that he loved Stephanie. He just wasn’t sure if he was ready to share his space. How much room would there be for the music if he had a live-in partner and a kid?

Nevertheless, he was totally committed to recovering Jimmy. And right now, he thought he had a better chance of blagging Pete Matthews’ whereabouts out of a Detroit recording studio than Vivian McKuras.

Nick fired the engine into life and pointed the car towards his office. He wanted the quiet and security of a landline for this call, and work was closer than home. If it was up to him, this whole case would be tied up by breakfast. And Stephanie would be correspondingly grateful.

48

Stephanie looked down at her hands, her shoulders slumped. The colour had drained from her face. No more English rose now. It looked to Vivian as if the events of the day had finally caught up with her witness. There was only so much adrenalin the body could pump out. Realistically, she was going to have to decide what to do with Stephanie pretty soon. There was no reason to keep her in custody. There was no question that she was a material witness, but there was also no reason to suppose she would flee the country and refuse to give her testimony at any future proceedings. Vivian did not have Stephanie pegged as someone who would go on the run the minute she was a free agent.