5
OIL OF CLOVES, JONJO CASE reflected: who would ever have guessed, who figured that one out? Picking up the small bottle, he dripped a few beads of oil on to his forefinger and massaged it on and around his damaged tooth — he felt the sharp pain dull, almost instantly. The big filling had fallen out when that cunt, Kindred, had hit him in the side of the head with the briefcase. The other tooth had shot out clean, as if a dentist had pulled it. When he came round fully he saw it there on the cobbles and picked it up and put it in his pocket — evidence.
Jonjo looked at his face in the mirror. He’d never liked his looks, as such, but Kindred’s briefcase had given them a turn for the worse. His nose wasn’t broken, at least, but it was swollen and he was going to have ear-to-jaw contusions. But what most upset him was the weal caused by some hinge or strengthening bracket of the briefcase that had stamped itself, in the course of the blow, on his right temple. He turned to find a better angle in the mirror. There it was, in the clear shape of an ‘L’, an angry blood-red weal. “L for Loser,” Jonjo thought. It was bound to scab and he would probably be left with a white L-shaped scar there. No. No, that was not on, well out of order: he’d muck it up with a knifepoint, later — disguise it. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life walking around with an L-shaped scar on his forehead — no fucking way, mate.
He strode to his drinks table, pushing The Dog gently out of his way with his foot. The Dog looked at him, plaintively, as Jonjo searched the crowded bottles for his favourite malt whisky. What had possessed him to take a basset hound puppy off of his sister, he asked himself — taking a slug of whisky straight from the bottle — those big brown eyes, full of accusations? That face in a permanent anxious frown, the preposterously long velvet ears…It wasn’t an animal, it was a toy, something to put on your bedspread, or block draughts coming in under the door. He grimaced as the malt mingled unpleasantly with the powerful taste of cloves in his mouth. Nasty.
He sighed and looked round his small house — the pain was definitely easing. He had to clear this place up — a week’s dishwashing in the sink and four years’-worth of Yachting Monthly stacked behind the telly. He wondered what Sergeant-Major Snell would say if he could see the Jonjo Case abode. Air turned blue — air turned black, more like. I used to be the smartest soldier in the regiment, Jonjo reminded himself — what went wrong?
He scooped some clothes off the armchair and sat down. The Dog wandered over and stood there looking at him. He’s hungry, of course, Jonjo realised: what with last night’s shenanigans he hadn’t fed the poor bastard in twenty-four hours. He searched and found, under a sofa cushion, half a pack of digestive biscuits which he scattered on the carpet. The Dog began to munch them up, his big pink tongue slapping them into his mouth.
Jonjo thought about last night, going backwards and forwards randomly in his mind. Thank Christ he’d found the tooth and the gun quickly, the police were everywhere. Then he thought about Wang, how he’d knocked him about a bit, then got him on the bed, choking him purple with the left hand, breadknife going in deep with the right. Must have missed the heart, somehow — Snell would have tortured him to near-death for that error. Then someone fucking coming in. Out on to the balcony in a jiff, but, all the same, knowing Wang wasn’t dead…Bad, bad, bad. What had gone on while he was out there? he wondered, sadly. Sadly, because he knew he was losing it — two years ago he’d have simply taken out the other guy. Brutal but easy — way more efficient.
Now this Kindred was alive, not arrested and somewhere out there, in London, according to the newspaper. He gave The Dog a Mars Bar. Jonjo helped himself to a slug of whisky and a few more drops of oil of cloves.
Kill Wang, make it messy and bring us every file in the place, they had said. He had done that, messed up Wang and his flat and he had all the files in a bin liner in the back of his taxi. They would know by now that things had gone wrong — well wrong — all he had to do was wait for the call.
Jonjo thought on, diligently: Kindred had gone out the emergency stairs at the back. Jonjo had followed, as soon as he’d stuffed all the files he could find into his bin liner, and the two smoking chefs had confirmed that a young guy in a raincoat, carrying a briefcase, had just left, couple of minutes ago. Long gone then, Jonjo thought, going to his taxi and dumping the bin liner in the back. Then he had pondered for a minute before strolling round to the front of Anne Boleyn House. He took a book of matches out of his pocket — he always carried half a dozen on him, from different venues — and then folded out one match that he lit with his lighter and then dropped the whole matchbook in the half-full litter bin by the entryway. He heard the small hissing whoomph as the matches ignited and when the first waftings of smoke appeared he wandered casually into the lobby. The porter looked up with a false smile.
“Sorry to bother you, mate,” Jonjo said, “but some kids just set fire to your litter bin.”
“Bastards!”
After the porter ran outside, Jonjo swivelled the guest-ledger round. There it was: G 14, visited by Adam Kindred, Grafton Lodge, SW1.
Outside, the porter had tipped the burning rubbish on to the roadway and was trying to stamp it out.
“Cheers,”Jonjo said, leaving. “Little rascals, eh?”
“I’d castrate ‘em.”
“Gas ‘em.”
“Thanks, mate.”
Jonjo then drove his taxi to the Grafton Lodge Hotel in Pimlico and parked across the street, directly opposite. A young man in a raincoat with a briefcase…It was a fine evening and there were few raincoat-clad men out and about. However, he had to wait longer than he thought — a couple of hours — before the person he assumed was Kindred appeared. Young, dark-haired, tall, wearing a tie, raincoat, briefcase — but he didn’t go into the hotel, that’s what threw him. The real, authentic Kindred would have gone straight into the hotel, surely? But this man turned down the narrow street that led to the mews behind. Jonjo eased himself out of his cab and followed him discreetly, turning the corner into the mews to see the man staring up at the back windows of the hotel. Was he lost? Was he an estate agent? Was it in fact Kindred at all? There was one easy way to find out so he asked the obvious question.
His tooth was throbbing again. With the palp of his forefinger he traced the L-shaped weal on his forehead. He hoped they’d ask him to kill Kindred. My pleasure, squire. The phone rang — three times. Then it stopped and rang again. Jonjo picked it up — it was them.
6
INGRAM SPREAD THE NEWSPAPER flat as Maria-Rosa hovered with the coffee pot.
“Just a drop,” Ingram said, his eyes not leaving the page. He was reading about the man who had killed Philip Wang and was both highly intrigued and somewhat astonished. Ingram read on.
Adam Kindred, 31 (pictured right), was educated at Bristol Cathedral School where he was deputy head boy. He won a scholarship to Bristol University where he studied engineering. Mother died when he was fourteen, one older sister, Emma-Jane, father — Francis Kindred — a long-serving senior aeronautical engineer on the Concorde project…
Ingram looked again at the picture of the smiling young man. A wedding photo. How did someone like this become a killer? This Kindred then won another scholarship to America — the Clifton-Garth scholarship — to Cal-Tech where he studied for a PhD in applied engineering. Was this a clue? Ingram wondered, suddenly suspicious — the US of A…At Cal-Tech Kindred became part of a team developing minute gyroscopes for NASA. Nothing there about drugs or pharmaceuticals, no apparent involvement in the world of medicine, Ingram reasoned, nothing to suggest an interest in Calenture-Deutz and its business. He read on.