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  However, he was the runt of the Bakowski litter. His elder brothers, Nicodemus and Pavel, both topped six foot six and had mockingly christened him 'Tiny'.

  The only thing that was little about Tiny were his eyes, which were small, black and beady like a raven's. They perused the warning the brothers had just received from their London contact, and the vein on Tiny's neck began to throb a dangerous purple.

  The diamonds wouldn't give them away, but that Linden scum just might. He had never been their first choice of fence. He wasn't part of the family, and that meant no warnings and no second chances.

  Tiny tapped out a reply, pudgy fingers clicking against keys, 'Take care of it.'

  ***

  With a whoosh, flames burst into life atop the gas cooker, and the frying pan began to sizzle with melting butter as Morton sleepily depleted Tina's store of bacon and eggs. Saturday night Vodkopoly had resulted in the inside of Morton's head pounding like a rock concert. Even the sound of the egg cracking into the pan seemed to shoot through his very soul.

  He grimaced. Being old sucked. Back in his twenties, he never had a hangover. By thirty, he needed a paracetamol in the morning after a night out. At forty, the mornings disappeared in a haze of pain. Now, in his fifties, the light seemed to sear his retina with the brightness of a supernova, and Tina's footsteps coming from the bedroom were the drumbeat of war.

  'Mm. Smells good.' Tina looked aggravatingly upbeat; her brunette locks were tousled above her head in a neatly tied towel.

  'Ugh,' Morton said, unable to form a complete sentence.

  'Have a shower; it'll do you the world of good.'

  'You're too cheerful in the mornings. You want fried bread?'

  'Eww. No way. I've worked very hard on this,' Tina engulfed her wasp-like waist with two dainty hands, 'to ruin it over some grease. Just the bacon for me please, and do be a darling and cut off the fat, won't you?'

  Morton bit his tongue. He wanted to argue, but he was her guest, and he was eating her food.

  'Fine. You doing much today? I'm not fit for anything more than sofa duty.'

  'Again? That sofa will have an imprint of your bottom on it soon.'

  Morton glared, and then turned back to the cupboard that he had been searching.

  Tina continued, 'Anyway, I'm going back to chase down some loose ends for Kiaran. I know what you're going to say. 'It's the weekend, I'm off duty blah blah blah.' I can't do this on the clock, so it's now or never. And you're in no fit state to do anything for yourself.'

  'No arguments there,' Morton replied on autopilot, barely listening to Tina, and continued to pull things out of a cupboard at random. He pumped his fist in the air as he found what he was looking for. 'Aha! Ibuprofen!'

  'That won't do much for a hangover, it's an anti-inflammatory.'

  'Don't care. Need something.'

  'Fine. I'll be back for dinner. You mind cooking? I might be back quite late.'

  'Yeah, no problem.'

  Morton flipped the bacon twice, inspecting both sides for crispiness. 'Hungry?'

  ***

  Church bells rang out from St Mary’s Church at the top of the hill as Hank left his flat. Hank chastised himself for his non-attendance at morning Mass. He would have to make it to the evening communion instead. It had taken him considerable effort to force himself out of bed.

  Eliminating Craig Linden had never been in the plan, but what Tiny wanted, Tiny got. He cursed his bad luck that his sister had married into 'The Family', as Tiny called it. Tiny ran The Family with an iron fist: it was blood in, blood out.

  Hank checked his watch: eleven o'clock. So much for Sunday being a day of rest.

  Hank wasn't carrying a weapon, but he didn't need one. His gloves, which were conveniently normal in January, would be ample to strangle the life out of Craig Linden.

  Hank bowed his head, drew his forefinger across his chest to make the sign of the Cross and muttered to himself, 'God forgive me.'

  ***

  Thoughts the task ahead occupied Hank on his tube journey. He knew Craig would be on his stall from ten until twelve, and then break for lunch, as always. Hank aimed to arrive at the flat well before midday, in order to dispose of Shelley Linden. She would otherwise raise the alarm too soon, and the window of opportunity to dispose of Craig would be too narrow. Craig's wife would be an unfortunate, but necessary, by-product of his death.

  Hank deliberately travelled one stop too far on the tube, opting to disembark at Mornington Crescent. The police would be sure to check the Camden Town station footage first, and this might buy him extra time. From the station, he walked south to Crowndale Road, then doubled back north via Bayham Street. He kept his head bowed as if struggling against the wind, and made his way to the Linden apartment.

  Gaining entry to the flat proved remarkably straightforward. Hank simply rang the bell, and announced he had a parcel for Craig. Shelley's buzzed him in straight away.

  Adrenaline pumped through Hank as he raced up the stairs three steps at a time.

  As he made it to the landing, Hank could hear the click of locks being undone, then the door swung open to reveal Shelley Linden wearing only a woollen dressing gown. She was barefoot, and beckoned him in immediately. As soon as Hank was inside, Shelley pushed the door shut and the locks clicked back into place automatically.

  Inside the flat, steam rising from a mug of tea on the counter caught Hank's eye.

  Shelley saw him looking. 'You want a cuppa?'

  Hank smiled, 'Sure.' Anything that would distract her would make it quick and easy.

  'All right. Give me a mo, love.'

  Shelley walked into the kitchenette, flicked a switch then rummaged in the small cupboard above the kettle. It was now or never. Hank slipped off his bulky overcoat, tiptoed up behind her and raised his arms.

  Just as she turned to put milk in the mug, Hank struck.

  In one fluid motion, he placed one hand either side of the small woman's head, then twisted sharply. She was dead before she hit the floor. No screams, no mess.

  Hank tossed her limp body over his shoulder, walked into the solitary bedroom, then threw her on the floor on the other side of the bed from the door, out of sight. Now all he had to do was wait for Craig Linden.

  ***

  Craig Linden's arrival was like clockwork. He had left his stall at exactly twelve, turning it over to a part-timer he hired to cover his lunch. At five past the hour, his key rattled in the door to his flat. The bottom lock clicked first, and then the top.

  At the sound of the first lock being undone, Hank positioned himself to the left of the doorway, almost at right angles, the toes of his right foot resting on the rubber doorstop embedded into the floor. He held his breath, keeping deadly still to avoid detection.

  Craig pushed the door, swinging it inwards towards Hank.

  'Shelley?' Craig called out for his wife, stepping forwards into the living room. He seemed totally oblivious to the man waiting for him. Hank stepped up behind Craig, and reached for his neck. His hands were poised as they were with Shelley Linden, ready to execute Craig in one smooth twist.

  The opportunity to strike loomed, then vanished as Craig sensed that something was wrong. Craig spun, acting out of instinct. He clawed at Hank, aiming for his eyes. Hank turned his head, leaving Craig's fingernails free to claw Hank's right cheek.

  Hank suppressed the urge to roar in pain, instead swinging a pendulum-like hand towards Craig, catching the side of his head and sending him tumbling to the floor.

  Hank leapt after him, using his immense weight to pin him to the floor, then used his right arm to crush Craig's windpipe. Craig struggled in vain against the larger man, then began to convulse as his oxygen supply was cut off. Eventually, Craig went limp and life deserted his body. Hank collapsed on top of the body, exhausted from the struggle.

  ***

  'It's done.'

  Tiny grinned at the text message from Hank Williams, displaying a mixture of crowns and decaying t
eeth. He was glad Hank had learned to obey his order. He would be handsomely rewarded for services rendered, once he had disposed of the bodies.

  Tiny's flabby fingers pecked out a reply, 'Cut and chicken wire.' One simple text, sent from one disposable pay-as-you-go phone to another, condemned the remains of Craig and Shelley Linden to be treated like garbage. The cut and chicken wire technique was simple. The bodies would be dismembered, each piece wrapped in chicken wire and then dumped in the nearest body of water to rot, out of sight.

  ***

  A generously proportioned meat cleaver from Shelley Linden's kitchenette and a full-size bathtub made Hank's job easier than he'd expected. There weren't many one-bedroom flats with a proper bath in central London. He'd have to go out and buy chicken wire, but as long as he was careful coming and going that wouldn't increase the odds of being associated with the crime too much.

  As he was cutting up Craig Linden's corpse, the buzzer rang. Someone was outside the flat. Hank ran into the living room, cleaver still in hand, and stared at the door. His perception drifted to the entry phone buzzing to the left, an arrogant red LED flashing rapidly. He eyed the 'Do not disturb' function, and puffed a silent sigh of frustration, wishing that he'd had the foresight to turn it on before beginning his grizzly task.

  Hank's mind raced as he ran through his options. Then the buzzing stopped. The visitor had given up. Hank allowed his body to sag with relief, and then tensed again when he heard the front door swing open. Someone else had let the visitor in.

  Hank tiptoed to the flat's front door, and then pressed one bulbous eye to the peephole, getting a fisheye view of the stairwell.

  He began to sweat as his body went into fight or flight mode. He knew the woman climbing the stairs: it was Detective Tina Vaughn. She was in plain clothes and hopefully unarmed. Hank had to act quickly lest she break down the door and find him. He looked down; his clothes were covered in blood. If she saw him, it was over.

  Hank heard a knock at the door. 'Craig Linden. This is Detective Tina Vaughn. Open up.'

  Hank shook his head with regret. The panic began to subside as he realised what he had to do. He had no desire to be a cop killer, but it looked like he would have to deal with Tina Vaughn.

  He snatched up a frying pan from the kitchen, took up his position behind the door, then opened it inwards, crouching slightly so that his hairline was not visible above the door. As Tina stepped through, he swung the pan, hard. It connected with the front of her skull with a dull thud, and she dropped to the floor.

  Hank dragged her inside, and then slammed the door before anyone could see her. He leant down and felt for a pulse. She was still breathing, but she was out cold. He could get away long before she regained consciousness. He grabbed his phone. Tiny would be sure to know what to do.

  CHAPTER 35: HISTORY

  Pitch black greeted Tina as she regained consciousness. Pain flickered through her body as she squinted into the darkness, trying to make out where she was. Then, slowly and stiffly, she flexed her muscles in a vain attempt to move. She was bound tightly, with cotton wool stuffed inside her mouth to stifle her screams. Harsh cold metal pressed against her from her left, with little room to move. There was something plastic squished against her right side, but Tina had no idea what it was.

  She felt vibrations underneath her, the soft rumblings of an engine. Despite the darkness and her disorientation, it dawned on Tina that she was in the boot of a car. She strained to recall where she had been before waking up. She remembered the trip to Camden High Street, even as far as ringing Craig Linden's doorbell. So how did she end up in the boot of a car? Did it belong to Craig? None of that mattered right now. She had to escape, and fast.

  Taking a deep breath, she focussed on her situation. Her mind flashed back to her police training. Morton's instructions echoed in her mind: Kick out the car's rear lights, then try and signal for help. It was easier said than done; her feet were bound tighter than a nun's vagina.

  Tina wriggled, worm-like, and tried to angle her feet towards the corner she hoped contained the car's rear lights. She rocked back and forth, constrained by the rope. Little by little, she gained momentum until she was ready. As she rolled towards the corner, she kicked out as hard as she could. A muffled yelp escaped her as her toes collided with solid metal, and her eyes watered.

  She changed tack, trying instead to feel for the right direction. Her fingertips met the soft, lukewarm object wrapped in plastic that she had noticed earlier. With a shudder, she realised that she was not alone in the boot. She was on top of a corpse.

  ***

  Morton sat at a small fold-out dinner table, a relic with three legs that would have wobbled uncontrollably if not for the phone book used to steady the shortest leg. He rested his elbows on the table, and stared at the empty plate before him. He'd have to dish up soon, before dinner burnt.

  She should have been back by now, he thought as his hairs stood on end. In his heart, he knew something was wrong but it was too soon to raise the alarm. She was only a couple of hours later than she had said she'd be. It wouldn't hurt to check in with a few of her friends to see if they'd heard from her, would it?

  Morton plucked his mobile from his jacket pocket, and dialled the one man who was always attached to his phone. Ayala answered after just two rings.

  'Ayala, it's David. Have you heard from Tina? She was supposed to be back a few hours ago, and it isn't like her to be late.'

  'Back? What are you doing at her place, boss? Something you want to tell me?' Ayala's voiced was muffled, with a nasal quality.

  'Never mind that. Have you heard from her?' Morton rose from the table, and began to pace with his mobile held at arm's length on speakerphone.

  'No. I've been in bed all day, not spoken to a soul.' Ayala let silence hang in the air then felt compelled to break it: 'Bit of flu; awful weather; isn't it?'

  'Yeah. OK. Well, if you speak to her, tell her to call me.'

  Morton hung up, neglecting the niceties of saying goodbye. Where was she? He allowed himself to mull over several scenarios. It was cold out; she might have stopped for a hot toddy. Or worse, slipped on the ice. That could be it. He'd give it a few hours, and then try the hospitals. There was no sense getting worked up over nothing.

  He resolved to follow the logic his mind dictated, but his gut still squirmed as he returned to the dinner table alone.

  ***

  Tina leant heavily against a wall with her legs tucked underneath her as if she was praying. She was in a room barely larger than the car boot. It was lined with fluffy carpet, and more strips of carpet hung from the ceiling like stalactites.

  Her journey from the car had been uneventful. While she was still bound, she had been yanked roughly from the boot, and a bag had been placed over her head then tied around her neck.

  She had time to glimpse the inside of a double garage with shelving running along the wall, and an old boiler in the corner. Her captor was tall, but the bag stopped her from seeing any more than that. She'd been dragged over his shoulder and lugged down steps into a basement before being thrown into the room she now occupied. A trapdoor had slammed shut above her the moment she landed on the floor.

  While she had not yet freed herself of all her bonds, she had managed to wiggle the gag free and spit out the cotton swabs. It didn't do her any good. Her makeshift cell's carpet lining muffled the sound too well, not that it stopped her from yelling herself hoarse.

  There appeared to be no exit, but a gentle breeze flowed through an open grate somewhere above, tickling Tina's nape. The silence was the worst part. It isolated her from the outside world, and made it hard to tell how long she had been alone. Hunger pangs lanced through her, and thoughts of Morton's cooking pervaded her imagination. Would he be missing her?

  She strained again, trying to think of the last thing she knew for sure had happened before she found herself in the boot, but her mind resolutely refused to serve up those memories.

  ***
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  In the Incident Room, Morton watched the hands of the clock tick by. He had a ten o'clock meeting with the Superintendent to justify keeping the Joe Bloggs Junior investigation live, but it was barely five past nine, and his wits had already deserted him.

  He listlessly stirred sweetener into his coffee, desperately willing Tina to walk through the double doors unharmed. He'd tried the hospitals. She hadn't been admitted to any of the major London Accident and Emergency departments. He'd checked the drunk tank too, just in case. It was virtually empty, as was usual on a Sunday. He'd even tried to phone her next of kin, but her sister Catrin hadn't answered.

  Soon, twenty-four hours would be up, and he'd be able to formally have her listed as missing. Until then, he just had to get through the day.

  ***

  The Superintendent was running late for Morton's ten o'clock meeting. Morton could see him through the window in the office door, yapping into his phone and jabbing his index finger at thin air and otherwise doing his best to look busy. In reality, Morton suspected he was simply talking to his mistress.

  Despite his misgivings, Morton waited patiently in the corridor outside the Superintendent's office. It was an odd antechamber in the eaves of New Scotland Yard where few other offices were to be found. The Crown Prosecution Service nominally reserved one area, and a media suite took up half the floor. The remaining two rooms were split between a conference room and the Superintendent's private office. Naturally, the Superintendent occupied the largest room.

  Each room was lined with solid oak walls. Decorative motifs wended their way around the cornices, and police chiefs of yesteryear adorned the walls in oil portraits. Pure decadence, Morton scoffed. Such extravagance, when he was there to justify the continued investigation of a child's death.

  At twenty past the hour, the Superintendent waltzed out of his office, garbed in a daring silk waistcoat that did nothing to conceal his pot belly, 'Ah, David. I hope you haven't been waiting long.'

  'No sir,' Morton lied through gritted teeth.