The Murder Exchange Page 19

  ‘What about McBride?’ I asked. ‘Where does he fit into it? And what about the Holtzes?’

  ‘I don’t know is the short answer,’ he said, which at least was honest. ‘McBride may well be something completely different. And, as for the Holtzes, I just can’t believe that they’d use an obviously traceable and extremely rare poison to get rid of a business rival.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, because he had a point. I still didn’t go with it particularly, but it was hard to argue with the logic. A poisoning did seem a very odd way for a gangster to operate.

  ‘Anyway, the most important thing is we find Max Iversson and see what he’s got to say for himself. His details are going to have to be distributed to other forces, along with that photo of him we’ve got.’ He looked at Hunsdon. ‘Paul, you get that sorted out, OK?’ Hunsdon nodded. ‘Crimewatch is going out next Wednesday and I want a photo of Iversson on it for the rogues gallery. That ought to get some response. Plus, I’m organizing a search warrant for Fowler’s place.’ He looked at Capper. ‘Phil, you and Paul turn it over and see what you can find. At the same time, start really digging up on Fowler’s background, generate some clues. I know he’s the key to it.’

  Next, Knox turned to Berrin and me. ‘John, something’s going on down at this Tiger Solutions company, or whatever they’re called. It may be coincidence but that missing person, Eric Horne, worked for them and he still hasn’t turned up, has he?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, sir, no. I spoke to his exmissus briefly yesterday and he hadn’t then. She seems pretty worried.’

  ‘I don’t know how we missed the fact that he and Iversson worked for the same outfit. Anyway, you and Dave go back, grill the people there, particularly Iversson’s partner, and get some answers. Something very dodgy’s been going on, and I want to find out what it is.’

  Which were my sentiments exactly. I hoped Knox’s theory was right, because if it wasn’t we were left with dozens of pieces to a jigsaw that seemed to be getting more complicated with each passing day.

  Introducing Krys Holtz

  Krys Holtz was a man who knew that a show of weakness, any show of weakness, inevitably destroyed a man’s authority. You had to be strong. You had to break the bastard in front of you and shut out every last fucking scream for mercy he made, however loud it was. After all, if a bloke didn’t do Krys any wrong, then the bloke had nothing to fear. It was only cunts who took major fucking liberties who found themselves paying the price, and the price was always justified. They could yell and squeal and beg as much as they fucking wanted. They could piss their pants, even shit in them (and some of the bastards did, too), but it was never going to make a blind bit of fucking difference, because if he let the geezer go, gave him a pat on the head and told him not to be naughty again, then they’d be lining up to put one over on him, and that was never going to happen. No fucking way.

  ‘First things first. Admit to me you took that fucking money. Because I know you fucking did so there ain’t no fucking point in pretending that you didn’t. Is there?’

  The ‘you’ in this instance was Mr Warren Case, proprietor of Elite A Security and supplier of door staff to the Arcadia nightclub, who was, at that moment in time, tied to a filthy old bed in Krys’s cavernous workshop. He was naked and spread-eagled, his hands and feet tightly bound, and very very frightened, which was hardly surprising given the fact that he’d been part of the Holtz organization for getting close to ten years and therefore knew exactly what Krys was like.

  ‘Please, Krys,’ he whimpered, ‘I didn’t do nothing, honest.’

  Krys laughed. So did the three other men gathered round the bed: Big Mick, Fitz and Slim Robbie. ‘I tell you, boys,’ said Krys, shaking his head, ‘this cunt’s taking me for a fucking fool. Have I got “gullible cunt” written on my fucking forehead or something?’

  ‘No, boss,’ said Fitz somewhat unnecessarily.

  ‘Oh God, God … Please, please …’ Case might have been a big man with a reputation to match but his words were spewing out so fast that no one could really understand what he was saying. Not that anyone was listening. It had gone way too far for that.

  ‘Why don’t you torture him, Krys?’ suggested Slim Robbie helpfully, looking down at Case’s sweating, panic-stricken features.

  ‘Good idea, Rob, I think I might just do that. It’ll save us all a lot of time and will, in this case, be particularly fucking enjoyable.’

  Case tried to struggle with his bonds but he was too well secured for anything more than the smallest of movements. ‘Krys, please, I swear I didn’t fucking do anything. Honest. On my kids’ lives …’

  Krys looked mildly put out by this. ‘On your kids’ lives? That’s a mean fucking thing to say, Warren, especially as I know you’re as guilty as sin. I can’t understand why you don’t just come fucking clean and admit it. I mean, we’re going to get it out of you sooner or later. Why don’t you save us all the trouble?’

  But Case continued to protest his innocence in forced, desperate tones, which really peeved Krys. It reminded him of that time with Jon Kalinski. Right up until the bitter end, that bastard had sworn he’d never nicked a penny off Krys, when in reality he’d had him over for close to two hundred grand in cash and diamonds. And for a long time Krys had believed him, too – the smooth-talking cunt – but in the end he’d had the last laugh, making him watch while he’d gone to work on his girlfriend, telling him to be patient, because it would be his turn next. Come to think of it, Kalinski had shat himself as well. Terrible smell it had been. Runny, too. Some people have got no self-respect.

  It was time, Krys decided, to drop the Mr Nice Guy act with Case and take more radical measures. He picked up a dirty apron from the chair beside him and made a great show of putting it on, ignoring Case’s whines. When that was done, he walked up to his tool rack where a vast array of implements covered almost the entire length of one dank, grimy wall. He stopped, inspected what was on offer for a few moments, then selected his Bosch 3960K battery-operated drill, a fine piece of German workmanship if ever there was one, and vastly superior to the equivalent Black & Decker. It had been a birthday present from his dear old mum and was something he only liked to use on special occasions. Removing it from its handy carry-case, he spent some time selecting a suitable drill bit, opting eventually for a nice thin three mill. After all, he didn’t want any accidental fatalities. Not before he’d found out what he wanted to know. After that, he’d have to see.

  He fitted the bit and turned the drill on, enjoying the revved-up shriek it made as it shifted between the two gears. He turned it on and off several times in rapid succession, and once again the naked prisoner struggled on the bed, tears of frustration and bowel-churning fear streaming down his face.

  ‘It ain’t looking good, is it, Warren? This is Teutonic toolmaking at its finest. Vorsprung durch technik, and all that. This cunt goes through concrete like it ain’t even there, and with hardly an ounce of pressure. Not like its cheaper, more substandard rivals. So, think how easily it’ll go through human flesh. Your flesh.’ As he spoke, he approached the bed until he was standing right above it, looking down at Case’s fear-engraved face.

  ‘Please, Krys, I swear. I have never, never, never fucked you over. I’ve never skimmed you, I’ve never taken nothing that wasn’t my due. Honest. Please, for my kids’ sakes. Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Admit you did it, Warren. That’s all you’ve got to do. Just fucking admit to me that you took my fucking money, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go.’ He switched the drill on again.

  ‘But Krys, I didn’t, I didn’t. I promise—’

  Krys shoved the drill into his face, ripping a vicious hole right through the cheek. Blood splattered angrily across his features and the dirtencrusted mattress, and flecks of it splashed onto Krys’s apron. He held the drill in there for a few moments while it made a nice mess, careful not to push too hard and damage the tongue, then pulled it out, taking a lump of meat with
it. He switched it off, removed the lump, and chucked it back at Case. ‘That’s yours,’ he said evenly.

  Case coughed and choked as his mouth filled with blood. He managed to turn his head and spit most of it onto the pillow. Then he sicked up some pinkish fluid.

  ‘Ooh, that’s horrible,’ said Fitz, attempting to wrinkle his flattened nose.

  Krys grinned. ‘Fuck that, I’m only just warming up.’ He turned to Big Mick and told him to turn the radio up a few notches. ‘I think we’ve got a screamer here.’ A couple of seconds later, the sound of ‘Take on Me’ by veteran eighties rockers a-ha jingled catchily over the airwaves.

  Case stopped vomiting and looked towards Krys with wide, pleading eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to make a confession, but Krys would not be denied his prize. The cunt had held out, he’d had his chance and refused to take it, and now he was going to pay the price, there was no getting away from that. No fucking way.

  He pounced on the bed, half-screaming, half-laughing, and shoved the drill into his prone victim’s left knee. There was a moment’s stubborn resistance, as he worked to create a decent opening, but then he was into his stride and the bit was coursing through bone like the Nazis through Poland, triumphant in its efficiency. Krys was forced to look away as the debris flew off in every direction, the screams of Case so loud that they all but drowned out the vocals of one-time Norwegian heart-throb Morton Harket, but then old Morton had never had the most forceful of voices.

  Finally, the bit was through and cutting into the mattress beneath. Krys pulled it out, a crackle of almost sexual excitement surging from his groin to his neck. He paused for a moment to relish the feeling, then fell upon the other kneecap like a wolf upon freshly killed prey, lost in the noise and the blood.

  By the time he’d finished this one, Case had passed out and a-ha had been replaced by trendy American rockers Mercury Rev. Krys thought that he preferred the Norwegians, mainly because the song reminded him of his youth. He was sure he’d once fucked a girl to the sound of ‘Take on Me’. Take her on, he fucking had. And won.

  ‘Wake him up,’ said Krys, looking down at the blood as it dripped onto the bed. Fitz put some smelling salts under Case’s nose. At first they didn’t seem to do too much, but then Case started coughing and dribbling, and his eyes opened. ‘Oh God,’ he managed to say, then shut them again. Krys wiped the drill bit with a handkerchief and noticed that some blood had got onto his jeans, which annoyed him still more. This cunt, Case, hadn’t yet paid enough. It was hardly Krys’s fault if he was such a fucking nancy boy that he fainted rather than took his punishment.

  He walked back round the other side of the bed, switched the drill on again, then shoved it into Case’s other cheek, this time pushing hard and twisting it around a bit before retrieval. Case didn’t scream at all this time, he just turned his head from side to side, alternately coughing and moaning.

  ‘So, did you nick my money then, Warren?’ Nothing. Case didn’t even open his eyes. Instead, he vomited again. Krys’s face darkened. ‘I said, did you nick my drugs?’ Then, louder: ‘Did you nick my fucking money, you fucking cheap dirty lying cunt? Well, did you? I’m fucking talking to you, you piece of shit, fucking answer me!’

  And then the rage came surging up like a wave in a storm and, with his face carved into a terminally unforgiving sneer, Krys Holtz pushed the drill into Case’s left eye, at just the moment when the weather girl came on to say that heavy rain was on the way.

  Some time afterwards, while they were standing drinking beers and wondering whether to call a doctor for Case or patch what was left of him up themselves, Slim Robbie made an interesting point. ‘What if he was telling the truth all along, and he hadn’t ripped you off?’

  Krys shrugged. ‘Fuck it. I never liked the bald cunt anyway.’

  Thursday, ten days ago

  Gallan

  ‘This is beginning to become worryingly regular,’ said Joe Riggs with a slight smile as he led us into Tiger’s cramped offices and took us into a back room where the window above the street was wide open and a desk fan tried in vain to disperse the intense heat. Quarter to eleven and it was already excruciatingly hot, the last hurrah of the heatwave before the expected storms came in.

  Riggs went out and brought in another chair for Berrin, then sat behind the small, untidy desk facing us. Unlike the other day, he didn’t ask if we wanted anything to drink. ‘Before last week, I’d never had a visit from the police in my life and, as you’re no doubt aware, I’ve got no criminal record. Now three times in five days.’ He didn’t sound particularly worried, just mildly curious as to why we’d come again.

  ‘The name of your company and individuals who work for it just keep coming up in our inquiries,’ I told him, a smile of my own playing round my lips. It was all very civilized.

  Riggs was a powerfully built individual with very muscular, tattooed arms. He had a thick moustache and a vaguely rural Home Counties accent, and there was no mistaking the fact that he looked like a soldier. Not necessarily an officer, which I knew he’d been, because there were no obvious airs and graces, but definitely a soldier. I suppose women would have found him quite attractive in a rugged sort of way. He looked the outdoor type. He also looked a fairly upfront bloke although, as a copper, I knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  ‘So, how can I help you this time?’

  ‘It’s about your partner, Mr Iversson.’

  ‘Have you found him yet?’

  ‘I presume that means you haven’t heard from him?’ put in Berrin.

  ‘You presume right. And I’ve got no idea where he is either, before you ask. I haven’t seen him since last Thursday. He was meant to come in on Friday and he didn’t. He called in to say he was feeling under the weather and that was the last I heard from him.’

  ‘You supply security, don’t you?’ I said. ‘Bodyguards for celebrities and business people.’

  ‘That’s right, as I mentioned to you when we met on Monday.’

  ‘Do you ever supply doormen?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? I’d have thought it was quite a lucrative trade. There are plenty of bars and nightclubs out there, and plenty of trouble.’

  ‘There are specialist companies who do that sort of thing.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘Look, no offence, Mr Gallan, but I’m a busy man. Particularly now that Max has gone AWOL. So, if you could let me know what all this is about, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Do you know a Shaun Matthews?’ asked Berrin.

  He shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘How about a Roy Fowler?’ I asked, and I thought I caught a tiny glimmer of recognition in his eyes, though I couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure.

  ‘No, no one of that name either.’ He sat back and folded his arms. ‘I think I’m entitled to know what this is all about, don’t you?’

  ‘We found a bloodstain belonging to Mr Fowler in the back of Mr Iversson’s car. That’s why.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’ I gave him a look that said of course I’m sure, I’m not sitting here making it up as I go along. ‘It’s just I’ve never heard of this bloke, and it doesn’t sound at all like Max. I mean, he’s a tough guy, I won’t deny that, but he’s no murderer.’

  ‘How do you know Mr Fowler’s been murdered?’

  He fixed me with a moderately annoyed expression, the first time in both my meetings with him that he hadn’t looked like he was trying to help. ‘I don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m guessing. But a substantial bloodstain in the back of a car … It doesn’t sound promising, does it?’

  ‘But you still don’t think Mr Iversson’s capable of murder?’ said Berrin, looking up from his notebook.

  ‘It’s certainly not in character,’ he said wearily. ‘But then again, it’s not in character for him to lash out at police officers either.’

  ‘Has he been acting at all strangely recent
ly?’ I asked.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In a way that suggested that something might have been bothering him.’

  ‘We’re business partners but we don’t tend to socialize much outside work these days, and we certainly don’t talk like we used to. I’d say that at one time we were good friends, but ironically enough, since we’ve been in business, we’ve drifted apart. I haven’t noticed him acting particularly out of the ordinary lately but I’m not sure I’d have noticed if there had been something bothering him. He’s always been quite a cool customer. Someone who’s good at keeping his emotions to himself.’

  We talked for another ten minutes, Berrin and I trying to squeeze out of him any possible motives Iversson might have had for killing Fowler, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, provide us with any further information. According to Riggs, Iversson was as normal as normal could be, totally above board, not one to get involved in anything dodgy. Or, even worse, to talk about it.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Eric Horne?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not a dickie bird.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s connected with all this, then?’ asked Berrin.

  ‘With all what?’ said Riggs. ‘I haven’t seen Eric in two weeks, maybe even longer. Long before Max went missing. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you any more than that.’

  I got to my feet and Berrin followed suit. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Riggs. If Max Iversson does make contact with you then I’d strongly suggest you advise him to give himself up. Because we’re after him, and we’re going to get him. And the longer he stays out there on the run, the more we’re going to assume he’s responsible for Roy Fowler’s disappearance, and possibly worse.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, leading us to the door. ‘I don’t want him getting in any more trouble than he’s already in.’

  When we were back out on the street and walking along the Holloway Road in the direction of Highbury Corner, Berrin said that he wasn’t sure about Riggs. ‘He reminded me of what Fowler was like the first time we interviewed him,’ he said. ‘Very keen to help, but never actually said one thing that we could use.’