Boxed Set: The Deadly Series: Detective Jack Mackinnon: Books 1-3 Page 5

  Collins’ face was grey as he looked down at his shiny, black shoes. Mackinnon made up his mind to talk to him again later and make sure he really was all right.

  “Briefing,” DI Green said, turning and walking back to his car. “Wood Street in one hour.”

  ***

  “Do you know what happened?” a woman with a toddler balanced on her hip asked Mackinnon and Collins. The kid had a runny nose and rubbed at it with the back of one hand, managing to wipe it all over his face.

  “Do you live near here?” Mackinnon asked.

  “Yeah, I live in there, don’t I?” The woman nodded at the PC standing by the blue and white tape, guarding the entrance to Jubilee House. “But he won’t let me back in.”

  She had a shiny, red face and wore a short, denim skirt and a white vest with a black bra underneath. One of her bra straps had slipped down over her right shoulder.

  “We will be as quick as we can,” Collins said. “But a man has been…”

  “Well, that’s nothing to do with me, is it?” She yanked up her elastic bra strap and snapped it back into place. “I need to get inside and get my little boy’s milk. It’s too hot to stand around out here.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual last night?” Collins asked.

  “What?”

  “Did you see anyone hanging around?” Collins asked. “What number do you live at?”

  Mackinnon watched the shutters come down. Her face blank, she narrowed her eyes.

  “Why are you asking me questions? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just minding my own business.” She tucked a strand of greasy hair behind her ear.

  “Just tell us what number you live at,” Collins snapped.

  Mackinnon raised his eyebrows at Collins’ tone.

  “All right. Calm down.” She lifted the kid onto her other hip. “Number sixty.”

  Mackinnon paused for a minute, trying to remember the layouts of the flats. “Then you live opposite Mr. Blonski at number sixty-two.”

  “The Polish fella? Yeah.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember. He keeps to himself. Lives with a girl. Snooty cow, if you ask me. Always looking down her nose at everyone. She asked me once if I wanted to use their washing machine. She thought my washing machine was broken because Taylor’s clothes were dirty. I mean, the cheek of it. Kids get dirty, I told her. That’s just what they do.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tina Mathews.”

  “Were you at home last night?”

  “No.” Her eyes narrowed again. “I was at my boyfriend’s place.”

  Collins pulled out his notepad and took down her boyfriend’s address, while Mackinnon spoke to a couple of uniforms and asked them to start canvassing the other flats. Someone must have seen something.

  When Collins finished talking to Tina Mathews, he looked at his watch and waved Mackinnon over.

  “The crime scene manager said we can take a look at the flat now if you think we have time before the DI’s briefing?”

  Mackinnon nodded. “Time for a quick look.”

  Mackinnon and Collins made their way back to Henryk Blonski’s apartment, keeping to the path marked out by tape. “What do you reckon, Jack?” Collins asked. “Is it a coincidence that his sister is missing?”

  “Could be, but I don’t think so.”

  Collins was quiet for a while as they walked up the stairs, then he turned to Mackinnon and said, “Doc said he was killed with a blunt object, a blow to the back of the head. Two or three blows, perhaps.”

  They reached the sixth floor, and they both looked down at the dark bloodstains on the yellow tiles.

  The photographs had been taken and evidence collected. The clean-up crew would arrive soon to wash the blood from the public areas.

  Mackinnon and Collins stepped over Henryk Blonski’s blood and into the flat.

  The paint on the walls was old and slightly yellowing. The flat clearly hadn’t been decorated for some time. The carpet, worn thin along the centre, was a dirty green colour.

  Despite the fact the walls were crying out for fresh paint, and the carpet should have been replaced years ago, Mackinnon’s first impression was that the flat was clean. He had been inside many homes on the Towers Estate, and this was easily the cleanest he’d seen. The smell of furniture polish lingered in the air.

  The flat had an empty feeling to it already.

  They walked into the living room. There were a couple of cheap armchairs, upholstered in an ugly, green fabric. A small table and chairs set back against one wall. A small TV set, no stereo. The carpet, like the one in the hall, had seen better days, but it was clean.

  On the mantelpiece, above an ancient-looking gas fire, there was a row of framed photos. Mackinnon picked one up and took a closer look.

  “Anya and Henryk?”

  Collins walked over and peered at the photograph. “Yes. Henryk gave me a couple of photos of Anya yesterday. Pretty, isn’t she?”

  “So young. Nineteen, did you say?”

  “Yeah. She looked a bit older in the photos Henryk gave me, so I think this is an older one.”

  Mackinnon stared at their smiling faces. What could have happened? Henryk Blonski was now dead. Was Anya dead, too? Mackinnon found it hard to reconcile this image of Henryk Blonski, with the battered body he saw this morning. The Henryk Blonski in the photograph was handsome, confident and radiated vitality. He looked so full of life.

  Mackinnon replaced the photo next to the ticking carriage clock on the mantelpiece and glanced over at Collins, who seemed to be staring at a spot on the floor. “Are you okay?”

  Collins shook his head. “Oh, yeah, fine.”

  “You look pale. Maybe you should get some air.”

  Collins blew out a long breath, puffing out his cheeks. “It’s just… You never get used to it, do you? The poor bloke. He seemed like a nice enough…” Collins took another deep breath before walking out of the room, shaking his head.

  Mackinnon picked up the photograph again, this time focusing on Anya’s face.

  “What happened to you?” he muttered.

  Anya Blonski had wide-spaced, blue eyes and her smile revealed a gap between her front teeth. Innocent. That was the word that came first into Mackinnon’s thoughts as he stared at her. He put the photograph back on the mantelpiece.

  Appearances could be deceptive.

  Mackinnon entered Anya’s bedroom next. He stopped by the door and took in the scene. Like the rest of the flat, her bedroom was very tidy. Sequinned scatter cushions and turquoise throws covered the bed and the small chair next to it. A fluffy rug lay next to the bed. She had tried to make the place homely, to put her stamp on it.

  In the corner of the room was a narrow, pine wardrobe, with a few marks and dents in the door. Mackinnon opened it. It was packed full of colourful dresses, jeans and shoes. He felt a tug of disappointment and frowned. This wasn’t good. If she had gone off somewhere, she would have taken her clothes with her.

  But maybe she did. Maybe she had lots of clothes and only took her favourite things with her.

  He could hear Collins moving about next door in Henryk’s bedroom.

  Mackinnon looked at his watch. They would have to make a move soon to get back in time for the briefing. He looked in on Collins. “Find anything?”

  Collins held up a slim, black notebook. “Address book. It’s all in Polish. We can get a Polish interpreter in to take a look. Should help us contact his next of kin anyway.”

  “Did they have more family over here?”

  Collins shook his head. “Henryk said it was just him and Anya. He said he called his parents back in Poland in case they heard from Anya, but he didn’t tell them she was missing. He didn’t want to make them worry.” Collins sighed and slipped the notebook in a plastic bag, then peeled off his gloves. “I don’t suppose he imagined how this would turn out.”

  “There’s no sign of a disturbance inside the flat,” Mackinnon said.

  “No,” Collins said. “It looks like whoever attacked him caught him outside. Maybe they waited for him to leave, or to come home.”

  “So tell me again about Anya’s disappearance,” Mackinnon said.

  “Anya Blonski, nineteen, Polish. Hasn’t been seen for two days. No criminal record. No boyfriend. Very few friends, according to her brother, and she didn’t socialise much. She worked at Starbucks part-time, attended a school of some sort the rest of the time, taking dance classes.”

  From the way the details rolled off his tongue, Mackinnon knew the facts must have been going around and around in Collins’ head as he tried to make sense of it all, looking for something he might have missed.

  Collins and Mackinnon got back to Wood Street Station in time for the briefing. Mackinnon was expecting DI Green to hand the Blonski case to MIT, the Major Investigation Team, leaving Mackinnon and Collins to go back and finish up their paperwork on a case involving a Romanian gang of thieves targeting tourists in the city.

  To Mackinnon’s surprise, DI Green outlined their preliminary strategy on the Blonski case and began to allocate tasks to Collins and him. He explained MIT were closing in on a suspect, a taxi driver who cruised the city, picking up young men outside clubs, then sexually assaulting them.

  “It’s all hands on deck in MIT at the moment,” DI Green said. “Officially, MIT are handling the Blonski case, but for now, you two will need to do most of the leg work.”

  The rest of Mackinnon’s day was spent with a phone clamped to his ear, tracking down acquaintances of Henry and Anya Blonski in the UK and Poland.

  10

  CHLOE LIVED WITH HER daughters in a three-bedroom semi in Oxford. As Mackinnon drove down the Woodstock Road in the Mondeo he borrowed from a friend, he lowered the volume on the radio and looked out for Chloe’s house. He’d only visited once before, and that had been in daylight.

  Mackinnon looked at the clock on the dashboard. Nine pm. He hoped Chloe was the understanding type.

  Finally spotting the sign for Cavendish Place on his right, Mackinnon turned in and nosed the car into the gravel drive of number seventy. Chloe opened the front door before he’d even gotten out of the car.

  As his feet crunched over the gravel, he smelled freshly cut grass and the smoky tang of a bonfire. It was a refreshing smell, so different from London.

  Chloe grinned at him. “I thought you might have gotten lost.”

  Mackinnon leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Sorry, it’s been a hell of a day at work.”

  Chloe frowned. “I don’t suppose you’re allowed to tell me about it?”

  “I don’t think you’d really want to hear about it,” Mackinnon said, and truthfully, he didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to switch off for the evening, to enjoy Chloe’s company, and forget work. Most of all, he wanted to wipe away the image of the bloody, battered Henryk Blonski, which seemed to be indelibly printed in his mind.

  They walked through to the kitchen, and Mackinnon shrugged off his jacket as Chloe poured him a glass of Shiraz.

  “Are you hungry? I thought I’d make pasta.”

  “Sounds great.” Mackinnon took the glass of red wine Chloe held out to him. “Do you need me to do anything?”

  “No, there’s not much to do.” She started to chop up some chorizo. “You can put some music on if you like.”

  Mackinnon wandered over to the iPod speaker station and started scrolling through the tracks. “Anything in particular you fancy listening to?” Mackinnon asked, noticing she had a lot of classical music stored in the iPod.

  Chloe filled a saucepan with water and set it on the hob to boil. “You choose.”

  Mackinnon picked out an oldie. “Sam Cooke’s Greatest Hits.” Chloe turned and smiled at Mackinnon as Sam began to croon, “You send me.”

  A pile of magazines sat on the shelf beside the speakers. Mackinnon glanced at one with a teenage girl on the cover. She was plastered in makeup and held a banner declaring her the winner of a singing competition.

  Chloe noticed him looking. “They’re Sarah’s magazines. You can move them if they’re in the way.”

  Mackinnon shook his head. “They’re not.”

  “They are weekly instalments of the latest Singstar competition. Sarah has every copy. They are a bloody rip-off, four pounds a copy.”

  “Reality shows seem to be on all the time these days,” Mackinnon said. He watched Chloe pour a dash of olive oil into a pan followed by the chorizo, a few chopped cherry tomatoes and a handful of basil.

  “Yeah, both girls are mad about them.”

  The pasta sauce bubbled away in the pan. It looked simple enough, but the delicious aroma made Mackinnon’s stomach rumble.

  “That smells delicious.”

  Chloe picked up her wine glass and looked at Mackinnon over the rim. “Well, they do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  Mackinnon grinned. “Where are the girls tonight?”

  “Sarah’s spending the night at her father’s and Katy is staying at a friend’s for a sleepover.”

  “How’s Sarah taking the New Zealand thing? Has her father told her he’s going yet?”

  Chloe nodded. “Yes. She’s taking it surprisingly well. She’s full of chatter about how her father told her she could stay with him for the holidays, and maybe even attend university out there. In fact, she doesn’t seem angry with him at all.”

  “That’s good,” Mackinnon said and took a sip of his wine.

  “Yes, her dad’s flavour of the month. But I can’t do anything right at the moment. I tried to explain that Stuart would need time to settle and flights to New Zealand are expensive, so maybe she shouldn’t expect too much. She accused me of trying to ruin her relationship with him.” Chloe shrugged. “It’s difficult. I don’t want to be the one who pours cold water all over her dreams, but I don’t want her to be disappointed. I know he’s going to let her down again.”

  Chloe looked up. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be boring you with all this. It’s your fault. You’re just too easy to talk to.” She spooned a serving of pasta into a large white bowl and handed it to Mackinnon. “Let’s talk about less depressing things!”

  After finishing a second helping of pasta, Mackinnon sat back on Chloe’s sofa, feeling happily stuffed and yawned. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  “You must be shattered you were on earlies today, weren’t you?”

  Mackinnon nodded, doing his best to stifle another yawn.

  “Maybe you need an early night.” Chloe raised an eyebrow suggestively.

  Suddenly Mackinnon felt wide-awake. “Now, there’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

  ***

  Upstairs, clothes off, under the covers, Chloe suddenly sat bolt upright. “What was that?”

  “What?” Mackinnon said, sitting up next to her.

  Then Mackinnon heard it too. A low rattle, then the sound of someone moving about.

  “There’s someone downstairs.” Chloe gripped his arm.

  “It’s probably one of the girls.”

  “No,” Chloe said. “They would have phoned to tell me if they were coming home.”

  Mackinnon swung his legs over the bed and put on his jeans. “I’ll check it out.”

  He padded out of the bedroom, barefoot and bare-chested, and paused to listen. He could hear a definite rustling.

  There was someone down there.

  The noise was coming from the kitchen. He walked down the stairs as quietly as he could. His foot pressed on a creaky step, and he winced, holding his breath.

  The rustling continued. Whoever was down there hadn’t heard him. He descended the rest of the stairs as quickly as possible and crept down the hallway. It was dark, and he was in an unfamiliar house, but he didn’t want to switch the lights on and warn the intruder he was coming.

  He walked along the dark hallway, trailing a hand along the wall to guide him. There was a small table with the telephone on it around here somewhere, wasn’t there?

  Mackinnon’s toes found the table before his eyes did. He clenched his teeth and swallowed the swear words he wanted to shout.

  The kitchen door was partially open, and he pulled it open a fraction further, so he could see what he was up against. There was no point barrelling in if the intruder had a weapon. Mackinnon didn’t have much of a plan, but it made sense to take a look at what he was up against.

  A crash sounded in the kitchen.

  Mackinnon would never admit it to anyone else, but it felt as if his heart missed a couple of beats. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans and inched forwards closer to the door.

  The door swung open and connected with Mackinnon’s face.

  He let rip the swear words he’d swallowed only a moment earlier.

  Christ, that hurt. He staggered back, nose burning, eyes watering.

  He saw a silhouetted figure shift in front of him. Furious, he shot forward, arms outstretched. Whoever just broke his nose was going to pay.

  Then Mackinnon heard a scream. A woman’s voice. Chloe?

  Mackinnon turned, confused; then light flooded the hallway.

  In front of him stood Sarah, Chloe’s elder daughter, her mouth open, ready to scream again.

  Chloe’s pale face appeared over the banister.

  “Jack?” she called. “You scared me. I thought… Oh, Sarah. What are you doing home?”

  Sarah’s lower lip trembled. “What’s he doing here?”

  Chloe tied the cord on her dressing gown, folded her arms across her chest and walked down the rest of the stairs.

  “Jack is staying here tonight,” she said. “Now answer my question, young lady. What are you doing home? You’re supposed to be staying at your father’s.”

  Then Chloe noticed Mackinnon’s bloody nose for the first time and gasped. “Did you do that, Sarah?”

  “Not on purpose!”

  “It was the door,” Mackinnon muttered, tenderly touching his nose to see if it was broken. But he may as well not have bothered for all the attention Chloe and Sarah paid him.

  Sarah glared at her mother. She no longer looked scared. She looked furious. “Oh, I see. Now Jack’s around, I can’t even come home when I want to. You want me out of the way, is that it?”