Garlic. The smell on Chandio’s breath was garlic!
“Listen to me Collins. It would only take one quick call to someone I know in the Met to get you banged up again. Forget your daughter, she was a little slut who liked fucking for drugs, okay? Just concentrate on answering my questions.”
Frank struggled against his bonds, face reddening as he tried to wrench his arms free. “I’ll kill you for that, you fucking turd!”
Chandio stood upright, smiling his pleasure. He picked up one of Frank’s fingers and bent it backwards, just far enough to make him gasped.
“You know,” he said in a conversational tone, “I could break this thing like a twig, but then the pain would only last a second or two before it dulled to a throb. So I’d have to break another, then another, and another.” He stared into Frank’s eyes, picking up his fingers in turn as he spoke. “I prefer pain that lasts, don’t you? Pain that cuts to the very heart of matters. Pain that brings the truth flooding to the surface.”
Frank suddenly realised that Chandio was a Sadist, someone who took great pleasure in hurting people.
Had he hurt Mandy this way? Yes of course he had!
Frank watched as Chandio slowly withdrew something from his pocket and held it up for his inspection. Nodding, Chandio twirled it between thumb and forefinger.
Frank had recognised it immediately - a long, slender flick-knife. Chandio pressed the button and the shiny blade flicked out, the steely snick echoing around the basement. He tested the point with his fingertip, screwing up his face in mock pain.
“Sharp,” he said, looking down at Frank with an almost angelic expression. “So my friend, who sent you down to scope us out, hmm?”
Frank just shook his head. The truth wouldn’t help him now, this man wanted his fun and until he’d had it, whatever Frank said would make no difference.
Chandio picked up Frank’s finger, pressing the tip of the knife under his fingernail. “I’ve heard that the pain of having your fingernail eased off can be quiet intense,” he said. “So intense in fact, that it acquires the agonising touch of a religious experience. What say we find out?”
*
Frank was sweating the muscles along his jaws bulging, the sweet-sour smell of fear filling his nostrils. He screamed again, the sound throbbing back at him, rebounding from the walls as though six men were screaming, instead of just him.
“Who sent you?” Chandio asked again, voice high with excitement as he pushed the knife deeper, slowly easing the bloody nail from Frank’s finger. He held it up to inspect it, then dropped it to the floor.
Through his tears, Frank watched the man’s smile grow wider as he picked up another finger. “What did the girl say to you?” he asked. Come on, you’ll tell me eventually. Why not make it easy and save yourself the pain.”
Frank took a deep shuddering breath, trying not to sob. He’d never experienced such pain before. It devoured his mind, his very being - spreading outwards from a red-hot centre to invade his whole body.
“So what did the girl tell you?” the Asian repeated in a matter-of-fact tone, as though chatting to a friend across the dinner table.
“That you supply drugs and you sell young girls for sex. I already told you all that,” Frank managed between clenched teeth. “Please ... no more ... I’ve told you all I know.”
Frank didn’t know how long it had been since Chandio had begun sliding the knife up under his fingernail, wiggling it from side to side as he went. It could have been a few seconds, or a few hours. He’d struggled, had cursed at the top of his voice, had screamed - in the end had begged - but Chandio just kept right on, his eyes alight with pleasure.
When Chandio picked up his next finger, Frank began to struggle against his bonds again and noticed a slight movement in the arm of the chair.
Was the joint loose? Please let it be loose!
He pulled harder and the arm rose slightly.
As Chandio began to work on his second finger, Frank pulled against the wooden arm ... and pulled ... and pulled ... throwing his body back and forth.
“Wait ... wait ...” he whispered, voice hoarse. “She did say something else.” The pain eased a little and Frank mouthed something, too quietly for Chandio to hear.
“What? Tell me.” The Asian leant forward, keen to hear what Frank was saying.
Instead of speaking, Frank powered himself upwards, meeting the man’s nose with his forehead, feeling the crunch as he connected.
Chandio shouted in pain, clutching at his face. Frank kicked him between the legs, yelling his defiance as he managed to wrench one arm free. He swung a blow to Chandio’s head with the wooden arm of the chair, connecting with the side of his face. The man dropped to his knees.
Frank kicked out at him again, catching him alongside the chin.
Chandio fell forward onto his face, his flick-knife skittering across the floor. Frank twisted himself out of the chair, but one arm was still securely fixed. He reached out with his foot, trying to hook the flick-knife towards him, but ... it ... was ... just beyond ... his reach.
Chandio rolled onto his back, groaning. Frank swore, pulling at the chair in desperation, trying to free himself. He managed to gain another centimetre or two and reached out with his foot again. The toe of his shoe slipped across the handle of the flick-knife.
Fuck no. Please ...
Frank tried again, pressing down harder with his toes. The knife turned, then span out from under his foot.
Chandio shook his head and rolled onto his side. Blood ran down from the wound on his scalp. He looked up at Frank with unfocused eyes. Frank ignored him, hooking the knife nearer, until, with a growl of triumph he was able to bend over and pick it up.
But before he could properly grasp it, Chandio reached out, snatching it from his fingers. In desparation, Frank stamped down on Chandio’s hand. He felt something snapped under his foot. Chandio screamed, his voice high, like a girl’s. He fell onto his back, cradling his hand to his chest and sobbing.
Frank snapped up the knife from the floor and cut himself free. He felt no pain, his body was electrified with adrenaline, heart hammering in his chest, his whole body alive.
Grabbing Chandio, Frank flicked him over onto his stomach, then knelt on his back, pulling his head back by his hair. Pressing the tip of the knife against the man’s neck, he leant in to Chandio’s ear.
“Did you kill my daughter?” he snarled.
“You going to knife me in the back as well? You’re good at that, aren’t you?” Chandio’s voice was thick with sarcasm as he sneered up at Frank.
Frank switched position, so that the knife was across Chandio’s throat. He pressed lightly. Blood oozed from beneath the blade.
“Did you kill my daughter, you bastard?”
Frank was sobbing his words - he just needed the man to tell him yes, so he could end this right here, right now - just a quick slice—
“Fuck you!” was the answer.
Frank began drawing the blade sideways and Chandio tensed. But at the last moment Frank threw the knife across the room and smashed Chandio’s face down onto the floor.
No, there was a better way.
Frank stood up on shaky legs, giving vent to his feelings with a final kick at the Asian’s ribs. He’d already spent time inside for murder - this wasn’t the way. Far better to get the evidence and send it to the police, let them take care of this scum.
*
Frank eased open the basement door and listened hard. All was quiet, so he stepped out into the kitchen. The only illumination came through the window from a street light.
Holding his breath, Frank listened again, the flick-knife held tightly in his sweaty hand. Making his way over to the door, he took care not to bang the table that unexpectedly loomed out of the darkness at him.
The kitchen door creaked loudly as he opened it and he cursed softly, sticking his head through the doorway.
Nobody about.
Stepping out into the hallway
, he froze when footsteps sounded overhead - somebody moving about upstairs. From the heavy footsteps, he guessed it must be the big ape that had carried him into the house.
He had to get out quickly, there was no way he could take on the big man, even with a knife.
Frank ventured out into the hall. The lounge door was open and he took a peek inside - empty. The TV was flickering in the corner with the sound turned off. Taking a few steps into the room he looked around. The settee sat opposite the fireplace and he hurried over to it, tipping it onto its back so he could get at the base.
A long sibilant hiss escaped his lips as his nail-less finger snagged the material. Tightening his lips hard to stop the curse that threatened to burst forth, he ripped across the material with the knife, exposing the interior of the settee.
Smiling in satisfaction when he spotted the big brown envelope stuffed in the back corner, he pulled the prize from its hiding place, opening the flap to look inside.
A toilet flushed upstairs. A door opened and closed.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase.
Frank turned, banging his hand against the wooden frame. A hot pain shot up his arm, causing him to drop the envelope. It hit the floor with a thwack, the contents spilling out.
The footsteps were louder now – nearer - nearing the bottom of the stairs.
Blood oozed from Frank’s finger and he made a careful fist to protect it. The pain eased slightly as he applied pressure.
Kneeling down, he quickly collected the papers, DVDs and photographs from the floor, pushing them back into the envelope again, before stuffing it down the front of his pants as he got back to his feet. Entering the hall, he ran for the front door, his heart beating faster as he caught sight of a shadow from the corner of his eye.
“Fuck!” The single expletive was followed by the sound of thumping feet.
Frank made a grab for the door lock, but his bloody fingers slipped on the chrome knob. He tried again, heart beating wildly as footsteps thundered down the hall behind him.
Then he was out on the street and running, his long, steady strides taking him further and further from his pursuer.
I should have killed the bastard. After what he’d done to Mandy, I should have killed the bastard.
The thoughts pounded through his head as he ran, and they only eased after he’d hailed a cab and stumbled into the back.
Chapter 26
Marcos Farris stopped running and bent over, breathing in huge gasps of air. His heart was thumping in his chest as though it were trying to break out.
The man had disappeared around the corner at the far end of the street before Marcos had even reached the half-way point. He ran like an athlete and Marcos knew that there was no way he could keep up, let alone catch him. Taking a few more deep breaths, he straightened up and shrugged.
Wondering how the man had got free, he headed back to the house and made his way down into the basement. His boss was sprawled on the floor and Marcos hurried to his side, spotting blood on his face. Alarmed, he lifted his head, checking that Altef was still alive. He was, but it looked as though he’d bitten his tongue. His boss stared up at him, eyes unfocussed.
“What the fuck happened?” Marcos asked.
Altaf didn’t answer, but managed to struggle to his hands and knees. Marcos helped him to the chair, easing him down into it. His boss wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then spat a bloody gob onto the floor.
“Bastard took me by surprise,” he mumbled. “Where is he?”
“Took off down the road like a bat out of hell,” Marcos answered. “He’s probably headed back to his hotel. Want me to try to find out which one?”
Altaf shook his head, then groaned, holding on to the chair. “No, he’s no threat. Just after info on his daughter.”
Ten minutes later, Marcos’ boss was forced to re-evaluate that statement as he surveyed the damaged settee. Taking the two photos that Marcos had picked off the floor, he studied them with a frown.
“Where they hell did these come from?” he asked.
“Must have been stashed in the settee by someone,” Marcos said, uprighting the piece of furniture.
“But she convinced me that she just had the stuff you found on her mobile and computer.”
“She obviously lied then,” Marcos said. He tossed the cushions onto the settee and grunted. “Even after you spent two hours working on her.”
Marcos didn’t add that he thought his boss must be loosing his touch, if a slip of a girl could survive a couple of hours with him in the basement and still be able to keep things hidden. He looked over Altef’s shoulder at the photos and drew a sharp breath when he saw who it was.
“Jesus,” he said, “do you think there were more of these?”
“I think that would be a yes,” his boss said. “If Con finds out I’ve let that bastard get away with photos of him and the girl, I’m dead meat. We’ve got to get them back.”
As Altaf stalked back and forth across the lounge, blood-soaked handkerchief in one hand, photos in the other, Marcos’ mind ticked over. Here was the chance he’d been waiting for - his chance to get out. If he played this right, he’d have enough money to take his family back home.
“Give me the photos,” he said.
Altef’s eyes narrowed and he stared at Marcos, as though wondering what his minder might be up to.
“I’ll get rid of them for you. We know where Collins lives. I can go up there and get them. He’s on a bike. If I leave now, I can get a flight up to Scotland and be there when he arrives. Once the photos are back, you’ll have no worries.”
Altaf sat down on the settee with a thump and leant forward, head in his hands. “Christ I can’t think. I think my nose’s been busted. Look, it’s started bleeding again.”
Marcos held out his hand. “What do you say? Let me take care of it for you, boss. That’s what you pay me for, right?”
Altaf closed his eyes and nodded, holding the photos out. “Don’t mess this up,” he said, then leant his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose.
*
It had been two hours since Frank had arrived and he was still stuck in the uncomfortable plastic chair they’d assigned him, with no sign of being seen yet. He gazed at the collection of people patiently waiting their turn.
A woman coughed, then cursed softly to herself, watching as a man farther along the row picked at his nose, examining the results of his probing with rapped attention.
Frank pulled the piece of cloth covering his finger aside for the twentieth time, glaring at the bloody mess underneath. He winced as the cool air set it throbbing again and quickly recovered it.
The large A&E department smelt musty. It had been raining steadily for the past hour or so and a lot of people were sitting around in damp clothes. The harsh overhead lights reflected at him from the front of the drinks machine opposite and had begun to give him a headache, and on top of all that, his finger had started to throb like someone was trying to inflate it with a bicycle pump.
Frank was not a happy man, and after a further exasperating and unresponsive ten minutes wait, impatience got the better of him.
As Frank leant over the counter, the receptionist looked up with a weary glance, her desk was heaped high with folders and assorted papers, and Frank wondered for a moment how far down the pile his notes were.
“Help you?” she said.
“Can you at least get me some bandages so I can dress this myself?” he asked.
The receptionist shook her head, then went back to clicking her keyboard as though he didn’t exist.
“Well thanks a million for all your help,” he said, but his sarcasm was wasted, she didn’t even break her rhythm.
Frank walked over to a corridor, where pastel curtains divided the wide space into small examination areas. The first two were occupied, the third empty. Crossing to a stainless steel trolley, he dug out some sterile dressings, quickly pocketing them. The receptionist gave him a hard stare
as he walked back passed her desk towards the entrance, but said nothing.
Out in the street, Frank hunched his shoulders as the rain lashed down on him. Where were all the damned cabs when you needed one?
Finally back at the hotel, Frank scrounged some aspirins and went up to his room, where he dressed his finger as best he could. The dressing was amateurish and cumbersome, but at least it would protect his mangled finger. He’d get it seen to properly when he got back to Scotland tomorrow.
Knowing he wasn’t up to the ten hour drive back up to Scotland in his present state, he checked on-line and booked a ticket on the sleeper train for himself and his bike. He had enough time to get his head down for a couple of hours before it left.
Chapter 27
Marcos Farris paid off the cab driver and hurried across Vincent Street through the rain. The steep steps were narrow and he had trouble getting down them. Opening the double doors, he nodded at the doorman. “Got a meeting with Mr Hunter.”
The doorman spoke a few words into his neck-mic before nodding back at him. “In you go,” he said.
Marcos pushed through another set of double doors and stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The club was packed, every table taken, the music so loud it hurt his ears. All eyes were on the stage, where three girls danced around poles.
A waitress in a flimsy black chiffon dress stopped in front of him. “I’m afraid all the tables are taken sir,” she said. “Unless you’d like to have a private session?”
“I’m here to see Conrad Hunter,” he said.
Marcos’ bulk made him feel awkward beside the petite girl, now standing on tiptoe as she checked around the club.
“Over there,” she said, pointing a slender finger at the far side of the room.
Marcos made his way over, trying not to jostle too many punters as he threaded his way between the tightly packed tables.
Stopping in front of a table at the back of the club, he looked down at the occupant. Conrad Hunter looked so different from his brother that people found it hard to believe that they were. Where Jeffrey Hunter was a big man, very much like Marcos himself, Conrad Hunter was thin, his deeply sunk eye sockets giving him a slightly ghoulish look.