Judgment Clay, page 23
“Yeah.” The youth held them up. “A set of Ford keys.”
“Let me see them.” Holding out a hand, the detective nodded thoughtfully as Watson passed them up to him. “One of the party vehicles we passed in the parking area was a Ford and, from the registration tag attached to this ring, these are the keys. Right, remove one of those packages from the desk and come on back.”
Watson did as instructed and, ensuring everything in the office was as he’d found it, he jumped up to grab Quist’s outstretched hands. The teenager scrambled back through the open aperture and waited as Quist closed the fanlight behind him and returned the chair to the reception room.
“Very good,” said the detective, patting Watson’s back. “Time to go.”
The pair swiftly retraced their steps back down to the basement and out into the rear yard. Sure enough, the keys opened the Ford saloon and Quist left the drugs in full view on the passenger seat.
“There,” he muttered, dropping the keys down a drainage grating in the tarmac. “Now all that’s needed is for me to make an anonymous call to Inspector Bradstreet at first light and this undertaking should hopefully prove to be far more productive than my initial idea of flushing the narcotics down the toilet.”
“You can say that again” agreed Watson.
They left the yard and walked back along the dark alley.
“This clandestine visit will hopefully hammer several nails into the White Rose coffin,” said Quist. “It’s now time to turn our attention to something far more important.”
The teenager swallowed nervously. “Tonga?”
“Exactly. It’s time to find that creature and stop it before it kills again.”
Chapter 37
Sara awoke with a raging thirst and checked the digital clock by her bed. It was three o’clock in the morning and, still fully clothed, she sat up in the darkness, rubbing her eyes and attempting to swallow. Her desiccated mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage; this was a phrase she’d heard many times, but this birdcage tasted as if it had also been used as an ashtray. Water wasn’t going to quench this drug-induced thirst. She needed something ice cold and crisp and there was a carton of apple juice downstairs in the fridge.
Standing up and feeling the floor tilt, she wobbled and gripped her bedside cabinet, still slightly disorientated by the veterinary sedative.
Jesus, just how much tranquiliser did that lunatic Roylott give her?
Sara shook her head to clear the dizziness, bristling with fury and outrage at the thought of being tied up and injected. She still couldn’t believe it. She’d been abducted by those scumbags in broad daylight, tied to a chair in a cellar and stuck with a needle.
“Bastards,” she muttered.
The girl had awoken earlier to find her grandfather sitting beside her bed. He’d given her a condensed account of the afternoon’s events - the Brisson brothers in Leeds, the heroin hidden in the fire service car, and Bernard Quist’s rescue. The heroin must have been worth a fortune and she could understand their urgency to get it back, but what would have happened to her when they realised they had the wrong person? It was hard to imagine the Brissons apologising with a bunch of flowers and driving her home. No, if it hadn’t been for this Quist guy, she might never have been seen again.
Sara headed downstairs and found her grandfather reading a book in the lounge.
“You’re fully dressed,” she said. “Haven’t you been to bed?”
“Of course I haven’t.” He jumped to his feet and held her tightly. “How could I possibly sleep after what happened? Besides, after we’d spoken and you went back to sleep, I’ve been coming up every five minutes to check on you. Thank the Lord you’re back safe. How are you feeling?”
“Hey, don’t worry. I’m okay.” She walked to the kitchen. “Well, apart from a thick head and a mouth that feels like someone shovelled hot sand into it. If it puts your mind at ease, I felt worse after partying all night in Ibiza.”
“Believe me, that doesn’t help,” said Hoffman, smiling nervously. He followed the girl to the fridge and watched as she drank half the apple juice in three thirsty gulps. “My God, Sara, I was so worried about you.”
“Not as worried as I was.” Sara kissed his cheek. “But it’s over now and I can’t wait to meet Watson’s boss tomorrow. I want the full story of how this Bernard Quist found me and how he got me out of that shitty place. He probably saved my life.”
Hoffman nodded uneasily, not relishing the thought of his next meeting with Quist. It was obvious this private detective knew he was lying and he’d want to know why, but he couldn’t possibly tell him about his project with Geller and what they’d done together. He couldn’t tell anyone that he was responsible for all these deaths.
“Heroin?” she gasped, swigging more juice. “Can you believe those lunatics actually believed I’d taken their hidden stash because I was suddenly buying cars and jetting off to Ibiza? They were going to give me some weird truth drug. When it didn’t work and they realised they had the wrong person, I suppose they’d have gone through the fire station staff until they found the right one.” She gave a puzzled frown. “So where are the police? I thought they’d be here waiting for me to wake up. Surely they’ll be wanting my statement?”
“Er, I haven’t rung them yet,” said Hoffman. He couldn’t contact the authorities, but he’d wait until the morning before trying to explain why. “I didn’t want the police here bothering you with questions when you were drugged and...”
“You haven’t told them?” said Sara, astounded. “Well, I’m fine now and those bastards in Leeds need locking up as soon as possible.”
Hoffman nodded. The bastards in question had been torn apart, but how could he explain that to her? “I was devastated when I heard you’d been taken,” he said, attempting to change the subject. “I still can’t believe you were kidnapped. Oh, my God, you must have been so scared.”
Scared was putting it mildly, but Sara decided it was best not to worry him. “Hey, I’ve been inside burning warehouses with gas cylinders exploding. I’ve been to fires on the Grimpen estate with yobs throwing bottles at me.” She grinned reassuringly. “It takes more than a bunch of scumbag drug dealers like that to frighten me.”
“Well, you’re okay now and that’s all that matters,” said Hoffman, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re completely safe now.”
They both stiffened to hear the sound of the front door bursting open and Hoffman reconsidered his reassuring words. The pair looked through the open kitchen door and saw Tonga in his raincoat standing silently at the far end of the lounge.
“Who on earth...” gasped Sara.
“Adam Hoffman?” said Tonga. “Sara Hoffman?”
“Yes.” Sara stared anxiously at the brown-skinned stranger. Did he work for the Brisson brothers? “What the hell do you think you’re doing smashing your way into our...”
Tonga’s coat fell to the floor revealing the muscular naked body beneath. Sara’s jaw dropped at his complete lack of genitalia, then dropped further still as the intruder impossibly changed, swiftly growing in mass and height before her wide eyes. The muscle tone disappeared as the dark body seemed to inflate and become just solid bulk, the neck swelling so the head almost appeared to be part of the torso.
“What...” croaked Sara, feeling a draught of icy air. “No, this can’t be...”
Tonga’s face flattened and the nose vanished, leaving an open slit of a mouth and tiny piggy eyes which smouldered with a dull red light. The same gleaming light emphasised several mystical symbols on the wide torso. The bizarre red markings resembled fiery cracks on the skin, a skin that now appeared to be reddish brown stone. Almost six feet tall now, the creature strode to the cabinet containing the safe.
“No.” Sara stepped backwards shaking her head. “This can’t happen. This is imposs...”
“Move.” Snatching his granddaughter’s arm, Hoffman dragged her across the kitchen. “We need to get out of here right now.”
Sara didn’t need any persuasion and quickly unlocked the French doors with shaking hands. Hoffman pushed the girl through as a metallic clang came from the lounge. The safe had been wrenched open.
“Come on,” gasped Hoffman, running into the garden. A security light sensed their movement and clicked on. “It can’t move any faster than a walking pace.”
“How can you possibly know that?” yelled Sara, petrified. “What the hell is it?”
Her grandfather didn’t answer. He turned as they reached the garden gate to see the huge figure lumbering out of the kitchen after them, the book from the safe tucked under its left arm. Throwing open the gate, he ran with Sara up the dark alleyway by the side of the house and out onto Madeley Street. A grey Ford car stood a short way along the cul-de-sac and Hoffman saw who sat inside.
“You bastard,” he snapped, glaring at Geller and hammering on the window. “You sent it in there for us? You thought we’d be in bed. How dare you try to...”
“Gramps,” whimpered Sara, tugging frantically at his arm.
Hoffman glanced over his shoulder to see the bulky shape of the creature following along the pavement, its eyes smouldering red in the darkness.
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
They left the car and raced up the silent street as Geller quickly opened the rear door, gesturing for Tonga to climb in. The terrified pair arrived at the deserted Bishopthorpe Road and Hoffman pulled his granddaughter out of sight into an art gallery doorway as Geller’s car turned out of Madeley Street and drove away.
The old man closed his eyes, shaking with fury. He hadn’t been able to tell Quist what he’d done, or the truth about the murders. He hadn’t been able to tell anyone. Until this moment the guilt and fear had forced him into complicit silence, but now Sara was in danger. Tonga had come for the book, but he’d also asked for them both by name. That maniac Geller had sent it in there, not just to get rid of him, but his granddaughter too. This had gone on long enough and the time for silence was most definitely over.
Sara’s frightened panting slowed enough to enable her to speak. “What was it, Gramps?” she stammered, her words tripping over one another in a babble. “What the hell was it? It changed. It’s impossible, but I saw it change. I saw it, Gramps. Did you see its eyes and those glowing tattoos?”
“I saw them,” said Hoffman, quietly. “Those were the Kabbalistic symbols of Kada estra. The ancient Hebrew runes of life.”
The girl stared at him with wide eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I know because I carved them on its body.” Hoffman held her tightly. “Because I created that terrible thing down in our cellar.”
Chapter 38
Watson sat in rear of Quist’s parked car chomping on a double cheeseburger and fries and slurping a chocolate shake. Needing to make a phone call, the detective had parked outside the York McDonald’s on Blake Street, giving his assistant the chance to rush inside and alleviate his hunger pangs. The teenager was ravenous. It was now almost noon and, save for a pack of cheese sandwiches, three bags of crisps and two chocolate bars, he hadn’t eaten anything since his breakfast at eight.
Rex Grant turned in the passenger seat, inhaling the scent of hot meat and peering enviously at the burger over his designer sunglasses. He knew he could never eat animal products again, not if he was to keep the ferocious lupine urges in check, but maybe the shake would be okay. Sniffing again, Rex picked up the faint cocoa aroma and wondered whether McDonald’s used actual milk chocolate in their milkshakes. Or even actual milk. Deciding not to chance it, he tugged up the collar on his black leather jacket and winked at a passing girl, thrilled that he was once again involved in one of Quist’s investigations.
Rex grinned eagerly. A fantastic investigation too, from what he’d been told, with a supernatural monster going around Yorkshire killing people. Not too fantastic for the murder victims perhaps, but exciting fun for anyone tracking this thing down.
Quist finished his telephone conversation with Gareth Lestrade and started the engine.
“So are we cooking on charcoal or what?” asked Watson, noisily sucking out the last dregs of milkshake. The sound was reminiscent of a pig being violently throttled. “Did Gazza get you Geller’s address?”
“He tracked him down this morning,” said the detective, pulling away into the traffic. “Lestrade found the immigration data from when Geller entered the country at Leeds airport and cross referenced that with rental records. Geller hired a car at the airport, interestingly a grey Ford car like the one I saw at the nightclub yesterday, and he’s renting an apartment in one of those large houses on Mount Vale near the racecourse.”
“Okay,” said Rex. “And you’re pretty sure this guy is involved in these murders and the supernatural monster stuff?”
“Absolutely.” Quist nodded. “He’s definitely involved in some way.”
“Great.” Rex cracked his knuckles. “Let’s go get him.”
“We’re going to speak to him, not rough him up,” said Quist, glancing incredulously at Rex and wishing he’d curb his excitement. “If Adam Hoffman won’t answer my questions, then perhaps this man will. Geller approached Hoffman right before the murders began. Apparently they were friendly to begin with, but there was a falling out of some sort and now Hoffman dislikes him.”
“And there’s some old book,” said Watson. “The Guv wants to know what it is.”
“That’s right,” said Quist. “Geller gave Hoffman a book which I’m certain has something to do with this. Hoffman described it as an obscure medieval work, but he was somewhat unforthcoming with the title. I want to see what Geller has to say about this.”
“Hey, I wish I’d been with you last night,” said Rex, enthusiastically. “I can’t believe you broke into the White Rose headquarters and planted those drugs.”
“Yeah,” laughed Watson. “That was a pretty cool idea, Guv. Mind you, you couldn’t have done it without your underpaid assistant, the human ferret who can squeeze through tiny holes.”
“Cool isn’t the descriptive term I would choose,” admitted Quist, with an awkward smile. “I derived little pleasure and satisfaction from such a criminal undertaking, but these people are truly repellent and this might be a speedy, if rather unethical, way to end their political campaign. I rang Inspector Bradstreet anonymously this morning and disguised my voice to inform her of Churchill’s drug dealing side-line. It was a very early call; I couldn’t risk White Rose finding the narcotics first and disposing of them.”
“No, cool is definitely the right word,” said Watson, recalling Sara’s bruised face. “Screw them.”
Quist drove through the city centre and turned off Mount Vale into the wide driveway of Pelham House. Parking on the gravel behind the white-painted Georgian building, he climbed out of the car and walked to the communal door with its panel of four call buzzers.
“Geller has one the ground-floor apartments,” he said, pressing the button. “Number Two.”
“What if he won’t talk to us?” asked Watson. “Or, if the past couple of day are anything to go by, what if he’s dead?”
The detective shot him a cynical look, then realising the man wasn’t answering, he pressed the other three buttons. Like Geller, two were obviously out, but the light beside apartment four lit up.
“Hello?” A woman’s tinny voice came from the speaker. “Who is it?”
“Maintenance,” said Quist, stooping to the microphone “Good morning, my dear. I’m here to fix the faulty hall light reported by Mister Geller in apartment two.”
A buzzer sounded and the door unlocked electronically allowing the three men into the hallway.
“Great security,” mumbled Rex.
The detective knocked on Geller’s apartment door and waited for over a minute before giving his companions a guilty look, turning the knob and quietly shouldering it inwards.
“What do you think you’re doing?” hissed Watson. “How the hell will you explain this if he comes home?”
“It was like that when we arrived,” said Quist, pulling on his leather gloves and walking into the lounge. “Keep your voices low and touch nothing.”
“So if he’s out, what are we doing here?” asked Rex, excitedly. “Searching for clues?”
“Something like that.” Quist gestured to the brown clay dust on one of the armchairs. “I didn’t know what we’d find here, but this tells me we haven’t wasted our time.”
“Yeah,” whispered Watson, looking around nervously. “It definitely looks as if our bald friend Tonga has been here. Like I said outside, Geller is probably dead.”
“The room smells strongly of bleach,” murmured Quist. Moving into the centre of the lounge and jerking back the huge rug, he dropped onto all fours to sniff the marble-tiled floor. “Ah, this whole area has been cleaned very recently. Really cleaned.”
“He’s obviously into hygiene,” said Rex.
A passage led off the lounge and, walking along it, Quist paused at the open bathroom door. “Not too hygienic,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I’d say this bath could certainly use a good clean.”
“Fuck!” whispered Watson, looking in.
“Fuck!” echoed Rex, slowly sliding off his sunglasses.
Two large men lay in the blood-splattered tub. Both were fully clothed, which told Watson they weren’t enjoying a hot soak - this and the fact that one of the heads and a leg were detached from their broken bodies. The horrified teenager glanced at the two closed passage doors beyond the bathroom and wondered whether or not the killer could still be in the apartment. From here back to the entrance looked to be around ten paces, but if Tonga suddenly appeared, he’d cover that distance in four.
