"Sally, boss," Michaelson said. "From the sauna? She's this minute rung. Ivan Lazic, she says she knows where he is."
"Knows?"
"That's what she said."
"Nothing more?"
"She said I have to go in, talk to her in person."
Karen cut off another piece of tender reddish meat. "Where are you now?"
"That's the thing, I'm up at HQ."
"Out at Sherwood?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'm just round the corner. I'll go along."
"Okay."
"And Frank…"
"Yes, boss?"
"Phone Mike, let him know."
Karen popped the piece of steak into her mouth and pushed the plate aside regretfully.
There were stone steps, worn down at the centre, leading up towards the front door, which was still attached by only one hinge and sagged against the frame. A hastily written sign had been fixed inside the sex-shop window, closed until further notice. On the floor above, curtains had been pulled tight across. The sign above the door had been switched off. Karen pressed the bell and waited. Pressed the bell again and identified herself into the small mouthpiece alongside. Glancing up, she thought she saw a small movement at the right-hand window, the fold of a curtain falling back into place. She wasn't sure.
A car went slowly past along the street behind her, looking for somewhere to park.
Karen manoeuvred the door open carefully, closed it behind her, and walked towards the stairs; dust had gathered in the corners of each tread, and the carpet running up the centre was well worn. There was a light ahead.
On the landing, she stopped and called Sally's name.
No response.
Opening another door, she went along a short, narrow corridor and then out into what she imagined was some kind of reception area, a counter to one side, settee and chairs to the other, a few magazines strewn around, posters showing naked girls with unlikely breasts on the walls. At the back of the counter was another door, a small sign reading office between two panes of frosted glass.
"Sally?"
She thought she heard a noise from behind the office door.
"Sally. This is Detective Chief Inspector Karen Shields."
Another sound, muffled and small. Moving quickly around the counter, Karen turned the office-door handle and stepped inside. Sally was sitting pressed back against the side wall, legs folded beneath her, arms tied, a wide piece of tape across her mouth.
Even as Karen registered a movement at her back, the hard, small circle of a pistol barrel pressed cold against the nape of her neck.
"Don't move."
The gun slid upwards until it was resting under the base of her skull.
"Now slowly lift your arms. Slowly! Slowly! Slow."
Sally's eyes, watching, were wide with fear.
"Now step away, into the centre of the room. Stop. That's all. Good. Now turn around."
Ivan Lazic's pale face contrasted sharply with his dark eyes, the dark brown, almost black, of his short-cropped hair and beard. The scar that zigzagged his cheek stood out like a lightning flash.
"Identification. Show me."
Carefully, Karen opened her wallet and held it out towards him.
Lazic smiled thinly. "Detective Chief Inspector, that is good."
His accent sounded Russian. Russian, Serbian, Karen couldn't tell the difference.
"Now sit." Lazic gestured with the gun. "Behind the desk, there. Sit on your hands."
When she was in position, he dragged a second chair across and sat facing her at the other side of the desk.
"What do you want?" Karen asked. The room was small and windowless, and she could already smell her own sweat.
"I want to give myself up."
"There's a police station in the centre of town. All you had to do was walk in."
"And get myself shot."
"That wouldn't happen."
"No?"
"If you went in waving that gun, perhaps."
"And still, if not?"
"Police in England don't shoot unarmed men."
"No? Like they didn't shoot this Brazilian, on the train in London. How many shots? Five times to the head?"
"That was different."
Lazic laughed. "Different, yes." He caught his breath. "You know, when I was growing up, in my country, I read about the British police, how they never carry guns, and I think, how stupid, how brave. But now
… this morning, for instance, here." He looked at her. "That was different, too."
He laughed, and when he laughed he gasped, and when he gasped, a small sliver of blood appeared at one corner of his mouth. Between the lapels of his coat, the wool of the sweater he was wearing was stained, Karen could see now, pinkish red.
"You need a doctor," Karen said. "Hospital."
Lazic smiled. "Sally, she was my nurse."
There were beads of sweat visible on his forehead now. Karen wondered just how badly hurt he was, how long he could hold on. She looked down at the gun in his hand, and instinctively he tightened his grip.
"I want to make deal," Lazic said.
"What kind of deal?"
"I tell everything I know, everything."
"It may be too late for that."
Lazic winced and bit his lower lip. "No. Valdemar, Viktor, they have run, I know. I am sure. Leave me… leave me… what is expression? Holding baby. I do not think so. You take me. I go with you. We make deal."
Karen shook her head. "Even if I wanted to, it's not as easy as that."
"Easy, yes. And only with police, not Customs." A tiny smile lifted the edges of his mouth. "One of officers, Customs officers, he and Valdemar, they are friends. Valdemar give him money, girls. I know. I have tape. We make deal."
For a moment, he leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. Long enough for Karen to think about going for the gun, but no more.
"You will arrange doctor for me. Soon."
The stain on his chest was darkening, spreading.
"The gun," Karen said. "First you must give me the gun."
He looked into her eyes. Then slowly, very slowly, he leaned forward and placed the pistol on the desk.
"I must use my phone." Karen reached towards her pocket.
But Lazic was no longer really listening.
Forty-four
"Christ!" Butcher's voice reverberated in her ear. "You did what? What're you after, some medal for valour? The George fucking Cross?"
Karen smiled, enjoying his indignant surprise. "All in a day's work."
"'Give me the gun,' you said, and instead of letting you have one between the eyes, he just puts it down? 'Here, help yourself.'"
"More or less."
"More or less? This is the guy who's killed two as far as we know."
"As far as we think."
"Who's killed two, possibly three in the last month, and God knows how many in the past. The scourge of fucking Serbia, and you get him to surrender, nicely-nicely."
"He was pretty badly wounded in this morning's raid."
"Not badly enough."
"And he wanted to make a deal."
"The only deal he'll get, parole after twenty years instead of twenty-five."
"Maybe."
"When're you shipping him down to London? We're the primaries on this, remember? Agreed."
"Yes, but look, I don't think he's going anywhere right now. Not for a good few days, at least."
"While you interrogate him, you mean?"
"Chris, he's not talking. Not to anyone. Too doped up with painkillers to think."
"No problem getting a sample, though. Have a word with one of the docs. I want to check his DNA against what we found under that girl's fingernails."
"Will do."
"And, hotshot-"
"Yes?"
"Keep me up to speed, okay?"
"You got my word."
There'd been prolonged applause when Karen had walked back into the CID office that afternoon and a note of congratulation had already come down from the Assistant Chief. Mike Ramsden had been busy organising a right royal piss-up for that evening.