Читать книгу The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel - Reginald Hill - Страница 18

Archambaud de St Agnan said, ‘Aren’t we too close?’

‘For what?’ said Andre de Montbard. ‘He’s used to being followed. That’s what makes it so easy.’

Ahead of them, the silver Saab turned right into a long street of tall Edwardian houses and came to a halt after about fifty yards. Andre pulled the black Jaguar into the kerb some three car lengths behind.

The driver of the Saab got out. He was a tall, athletically built man with shoulder-length hair and a lean intelligent face with a neat black moustache beneath an aquiline nose. Pausing beneath a street lamp to look back at the Jaguar, he put his hands together and made a small perfunctory bow before running lightly up the steps, inserting a key and vanishing through the door.

‘Cheeky sod,’ said Andre. ‘Thinks he’s bullet proof. He’s due a reality check.’

He got out, opened the back door and took out a sports bag.

‘You OK?’ he said to Archambaud who hadn’t moved.

‘Yeah. Fine.’

Andre said, ‘Listen, it’s OK to be scared. Really. Ones I always looked for were the ones who didn’t look scared first time out. Remember what they did to your uncle, OK? All you’ve got to do is give him a tap, I’ll be taking care of the serious stuff. Crap yourself if you must, so long as you don’t freeze, OK?’

Managing a smile, Archambaud said, ‘I’ll try to avoid both.’

‘So let’s do it.’

They walked quickly along the pavement and climbed the steps of the house. Andre glanced down the list of names by the bell-pushes, selected the one marked Mazraani and pressed.

After a short delay a voice came over the intercom.

‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’

‘Just like a quick word, sir,’ said Andre.

‘By all means. Won’t you come up?’

They heard the wards of the door lock click open.

‘See? Easy.’

They went inside. There was a lift but Andre ignored it and set off up the stairs.

The flat they wanted was on the second floor. They rang the bell. When the door opened, they went in. There were two men in the room, which was conventionally furnished with a sofa and easy chair, a hi-fi system from which, turned well down, came the voice of a woman singing in Arabic, and heavy oak dining table with four matching chairs. The tall man from the Saab was standing in front of the table, facing them. The other man, in his twenties with a wispy beard, sat in the easy chair. He was smoking a richly scented cigarette and avoided eye contact with the newcomers.

‘Evening, Mr Mazraani,’ said Andre to the tall man. ‘And this is…?’

‘My cousin, Fikri. He’s staying with me for a few days.’

‘That’s nice. Anyone else in the flat?’

‘No. Just the two of us,’ he replied.

‘Mind if we check that? Arch.’

Archambaud went out of a door to the left. After a few moments he came back into the living room and said, ‘Clear.’

‘So now we can perhaps get down to what brings you here. Won’t you introduce yourselves? For the tape?’

Mazraani’s voice was bland and urbane. He seemed almost to be enjoying the situation, by contrast with the other man who looked resentful and apprehensive.

Andre said, ‘Certainly, sir. I’m called Andre de Montbard, Andy to my friends. And my colleague is Mr Archambaud de St Agnan. He’s got no friends. And this lady singing is, I’d say, the famous Elissa? Compatriot of yours, I believe? Gorgeous girl. Lovely voice, and those big amber eyes! I’m a great fan.’

He moved to the hi-fi and turned up the volume, using his index knuckle.

Then he set his sports bag on the table, unzipped it, reached inside and took out an automatic pistol with a silencer attached.

A look of disbelief touched Mazraani’s features but the seated man did not even have time to register fear before Andre shot him between the eyes from short range.

‘Sorry about that, sir, but we wanted to talk to you privately,’ said Andre. ‘So why don’t you just relax and we’ll have that drink.’

Horror at what he’d just seen had paralysed Mazraani. He stood there looking down at the body, blinking now and then as if trying to clear the image from his vision, his mouth open but no words coming out.

Andre nodded at his companion, who looked almost as shocked as Mazraani.

‘Wake up, Arch!’ snapped Andre.

The man called de St Agnan gave a twitch, then reached into his pocket, took out a leaden cosh and swung it against Mazraani’s neck with tremendous force. He gave a choking groan and sank to his knees.

‘There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?’ said Andre. ‘And unless my nose has got stuffed up, you’ve not even crapped yourself yet. Now it’s show time.’

He went back to the sports bag and took out a video camera which he passed to Archambaud. Next came a black hood with eye-holes which he pulled over his head, then a pair of long latex gloves which he put on.

Now he took out a length of polished wood, about two and half feet long, like the extension butt of a snooker cue. And finally he drew forth a bin-liner from which he took a gleaming steel cleaver blade, six inches deep and eighteen inches long, with a threaded tail of another eight inches which he screwed into the end of the wooden butt.

Mazraani was trying to rise. Archambaud raised the cosh again but Andre said, ‘No need for that, Arch. Here, sir, let’s give you a hand.’

He placed one of the dining chairs on its side in front of the stricken man, then pushed him forward so that his head rested over the chair back.

‘Just get your breath, sir,’ said Andre. ‘Arch, you ready?’

‘Do we really need this…?’ said Archambaud uneasily.

‘Main point of the exercise. Just point the fucking thing and try to keep it steady.’

He pushed the tall man’s long hair forward over his head to leave the neck clear, grasped the polished wood of the butt and raised the glistening blade high above his head.

‘You rolling?’

‘Yes,’ said Archambaud in a low voice.

‘Then here we go!’

The blade came crashing down.

It took three blows before the severed head fell on to the carpet.

‘All that practise with logs, thought I’d have done it in one,’ said Andre. ‘You OK?’

Archambaud managed a nod. He was pale and shaking but he still held the camera pointed at the body.

‘Good man,’ said Andre.

He wiped the blade on the bearded man’s robe before unscrewing it from the handle and dropping it into the bin-liner, which he replaced in the sports bag.

‘Now all we need are the credits then we’re out of here.’

From the bag he took a cardboard tube about eighteen inches long out of which he pushed a paper scroll. This he unrolled to reveal it was covered with Arab symbols. After checking it was the right way up, he held it before the camera for thirty seconds.

‘OK,’ he said, replacing the scroll in the tube. ‘You can turn that thing off now. Time to go. You touch anything out there?’

‘Just the door handles and I wiped them.’

‘Great,’ he said, removing the hood and dropping it into the bag. ‘We make a good team. Morecambe and fucking Wise, that’s us. In fact, let’s see…’

He looked at his watch.

‘Four minutes thirty since we came through the door. I gave us five, and I was only expecting one of them. Now that’s what I call show business!’