The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [71]
10
LONDON
Colin Hackett pauses on the landing, slightly out of breath. He should lose weight. Cut down on the carbs. In his army days he could tab eight clicks with a sixty-pound Bergan on his back, barely breaking a sweat.
He’s sweating now. Jangling.
Standing outside his office door, he listens for a noise that shouldn’t be there. Who has he upset this time? What cheating husband or insurance fraudster or child support defaulter?
Reaching for the handle, he pushes it open.
The outer office is empty. Nothing has been disturbed. Moving to the next room, he checks the office safe and the drawers of his desk. All as it should be. For the next twenty minutes he searches, running his fingers beneath the desk and windowsills, checking the electric sockets, light fittings, looking for bugs or hidden cameras.
The place is clean.
At the top of the stationery cupboard is a sports bag with his camera equipment, including a tripod and telephoto lenses. He lifts it down to his desk. Holding the smooth black camera body, he checks the battery and settings. The memory card slot is empty. Someone wanted his photographs.
Sitting in his chair, he leafs through his diary, working out which case might have triggered the robbery. Most of them were background checks, missing persons and debt recovery. He printed out photographs for Elizabeth North showing her husband with the woman he brought home. She looked more like a shopgirl than a callgirl. Pretty. Young. Dirty looking. That’s often the way with men and affairs. They can have prime beef fillet at home but they go for the cheaper cuts. When you’ve been eating steak for a long long time, brisket tastes fine.
Hackett had spent the morning searching for Richard North—tracking the transmitter he planted behind the bumper of the banker’s car. He was lucky the battery had lasted this long. He had traced North’s car to an industrial estate in Bury Park, Luton, full of factories, marshalling yards, warehouses, workshops, and surrounded by run-down housing estates, second-hand clothes shops and Asian clothing emporiums.
The BMW was parked in the forecourt of a derelict motel. Most of the rooms were padlocked but one or two were being used for storage. Charity collections. Donated clothes and blankets.
Hackett waited five hours for North to show up. Figured he was with a girl. Maybe hookers were using the rooms. Just when he was contemplating a wasted morning, a Pakistani youth dressed in baggy jeans and a hooded sweatshirt emerged from one of the rooms. He walked to the BMW. Unlocked the doors. Checked the glove box, opened the boot, lay down a plastic sheet and then went back inside.
That’s when Janice had phoned to say he had a visitor in the office—someone who gave her the creeps.
The mystery man has gone now. Hackett’s bladder has been clenched for too long. He needs a leak. The toilet is along the corridor. Unzipping his trousers, he rocks on his heels and relaxes, closing his eyes.
The door opens behind him. Hackett looks over his shoulder. The bathroom is small and the man is standing by the sink, arms by his sides. He’s wearing a leather jacket. Dark jeans.
“Are you Colin Hackett?”
“Who’s asking?”
“People call me the Courier.”
“Is that because you deliver messages?”
“I also collect things from people.”
The detective estimates the threat posed. Height. Weight. Speed.
“You finished?” asks the Courier.
“Unless you’re here to help me shake this thing, you can wait outside.”
“I’m good here.”
Hackett is trying to think. What’s he not seeing or remembering? The banker can’t have sent this guy.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about some photographs you took.”
Hackett glances at his shoes. A drop of urine has settled on the polished leather. He pumps soap on to his hands, turns on the tap, washes them carefully and then triggers the dryer, rubbing his hands beneath the warm stream of air.
“They don’t provide paper towels anymore,” he says. “Got to save the trees. Instead we burn fossil fuels to run these things.”
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