Chapter 45

In the office, Charlotte, looking helpless, sits with arms wrapped around the wildly sobbing Kirstie,
patting her on the shoulders, making crooning noises and pushing a conveyor belt of tissues into her
hand.

I feel terrible.

Fucked that one up, didn’t I…?

Perching a hip on the desktop by her, “Kirstie… I’m so sorry. I tried…”

She sniffles into the tissues. “It’s not your fault, James. He wouldn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t listen to
you.” She rummages in a pocket, tugs something out; a crumpled ribbon of velvet.

She holds it in her hand. The single pearl it carries dangles forlornly. “It’s done,” she says.

“Do you want to go home?” I ask. “I’ll drive you.”

Her head swings. “No, thank you, James. I’d rather work. I’d rather be here.”

*****

 

Klempner - Twenty-Six Years Ago

True to his prediction, Bech produces an address for Conners in under an hour. “I put Malory on there,”
he says, “to check out if she’s there. It’s on the fourth floor, but he confirms he’s sighted a red-headed
woman moving around inside.” He tugs at his chin, eyeing me speculatively. “What are your orders,
sir?”



I want nothing more than to walk away from this. To lie down. To sleep away the banging inside my
head.

“Sir?”

This is about survival…

“Sir, we cannot let this woman run free. She knows too much. She’s a loose cannon.”

He’s right…

But I can’t bring myself to give the order.

Bech inhales. “Sir, I understand that you find this difficult. If you wish, I will handle it.”

“No!”

Bech jolts at my tone.

More calmly, “No. As you say, Bech. It has to be handled. Tell Malory to stay where he is. Keep a track
of where they are. We’ll meet him there.”

*****

By the elevator, Malory is waiting for us as we arrive. In blue overalls and with a toolbox on hand, he’s
making a show of working on a radiator under the window. Conners’ apartment is down the corridor
one way. In the other direction; the landing branches to the stairwell, then more apartments.

“They both inside?” I ask.

“She’s inside.” Malory thumbs out of the window, down and across the street. “He’s in the take-out.
Saw him go in there ten minutes ago.”



Bech grunts. “Should be due out any minute now then.”

As we watch, a familiar figure, carrying a large flat box, exits the pizza parlour and crosses the road. He
enters the building and a few seconds later the indicator for the elevator flashes downwards for the
ground floor.

“You two stay in the background,” mutters Bech. “I’ll meet and greet our Mr Conners.”

Malory and I retreat to the stairwell, watching through the glass panel. Bech stands away from the
elevator to be behind Conners as he exits and turns for his apartment.

The elevator bings, the doors open and Conners steps out, heading for the corridor. Bech follows
behind. “Mr Conners? Frank Conners? Could I have a word please.” He flashes a badge, and for just a
moment, Conners only sees the badge and the uniform…

Then his eyes widen in recognition…

He has no time to react. Bech cuts off his words with a punch in the gut that drops him to his knees,
gasping and coughing. Then he and Malory haul him upright between them.

“Keys,” I snap.

Bech reaches into one pocket, then another. Then frisks him. “Not on him.” He glances at me and I nod
permission.

Bech produces his gun, shows it to Conners, holds it to his temple. “Here’s what’s going to happen.
We’re going to that door. You’re going to call her and tell her to open the door. All very normal. Nothing
to upset her. If anything does upset her before the door opens, you’ll be taking the high-speed short-cut
to the ground floor. Understand?”

Conners rolls eyes at me. “Larry…” His voice chokes. “I thought we were friends?”



“So did I. That must be why you tried to steal Mitch, eh?” He pales.

Bech shifts, his voice low and silky. “Only so many chances, Frankie. You going to do as you’re told?”
He pushes him away and along the corridor, the barrel still levelled towards him.

Conners stands in front of the door. Bech, Malory and I stand to one side. Conners looks to me again,
sweating. I raise brows and eye-point him back to the door.

He taps, starts to speak. “Mitch…” He swallows. “Mitch. It’s me. Open up.”

The click of a peep-hole, the rattle of a door chain, the rasp of a lock…

The door opens. Bech jams in a foot, pushing hard and from beyond, there’s a shriek of fear…

Mitch…

Scared…

My guts drops.

Bech and Malory barrel in, pushing Conners ahead of them. As I follow in behind, Bech is on her, a
hand at her throat, the gun coming up to her face.

I roar. “Get your fucking hands off her!”

His face whips round to mine, fury written there, the whites showing all around his eyes. Then he
subsides, pushing her away with the flat of his palm on her chest.

“You handle Conners,” I say. “Get him out of my sight. I’ll deal with him later.”

Flat-lipped, Bech jerks his chin to Malory. The two frog-march Conners, squealing all the way, to the
door and out.



Mitch stands, chest heaving, hair a-fly… Her breath comes in quick bursts and her pupils are dots.

“Don’t come near me.” She skitters back. “Don’t you dare come near me. Don’t touch me!”

Pressed against the wall, she darts eyes this way and that…

Looking for a weapon?

An escape?

“Mitch, I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

Her chin lifts. “And what about Frank? What about those girls I saw? Chained up. What happens to
them?” Her lip curls. Disgust drips through her voice. “You sell them to the highest bidder? Is that it?”

My abs clench. I don’t speak.

She looks at me as though she’d found a maggot in her food. “Is that what you would have done with
me once you'd got bored?”

“No. No. I would never… Mitch it’s different with you. You’re different. And… I’m different when I’m with
you. You make everything… better.”

Believe me…

Please… Believe me…

“You had me fooled, Larry. You really had me going. When you left, I was coming to see you. To say
yes. To say, I’d give it a try. And then I saw them…”

Disappointment claws at me…



So close…

“Mitch, it was like that. But it’s different now. I'm changing. You've changed me. I'll change it all,
everything; Blessingmoors, everything. You can help. I want you to help me.”

“Change what?” she hisses. “Not sell your women? Your goods? What will you do? Let them go? Send
them home, wherever they came from?”

“Yes. I’ll set them free. Send them home. If that’s what you want. If you’ll stay with me.”

She sucks, as though working up saliva. “And your man there, that took Frank away... Bech was it?
There’s a murdering bastard if I ever saw one. Will he agree to all this? Just like that? All that profit
down the bend?”

“Bech’ll do as he's told.”

Her panting isn’t quite so frantic. Her eyes are softening. “Come with me, Mitch. Please. You know it’s
good between us. Be with me.”

Her head raises. “What about Frank?”

You ran to him…

You chose him over me…

Some two-bit salesman...

“Come with me and I'll let Frank go.”

Anger flashes across her face. “That's how it works with you, isn't it? Coercion. Force. You have no
concept of freedom to choose.”



I step forward. She doesn’t back away. Carefully, I reach, holding her at the shoulders. I drop my
forehead to hers. “I just want you to choose me. Choose to be with me. Please, Mitch.”

But her voice is cold. “I can't be with you… the man you are, Larry.”

“Mitch, please…”

But she twists away from me, heading for the door. “I’m going now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Let me go!”

There’s a crash and shouting from somewhere out beyond the door. Then Bech’s echoing voice. “Get
up the stairs after him…”

What the fuck…?

I dash out, sprint back to the elevator. Bech is shouting up the stairwell.

“What the fuck happened?”

“We got him into the elevator; just about to head down. Bastard turned on us. Attacked Malory and got
out the doors right at the last moment just as it was going down.”

“And you were doing what exactly? One slack-jawed salesman left this room with two supposed trained
professionals in control, and he attacked you?”

Bech blanches, looking down, tension visible in his jaw.

“We’ll talk about this later. Get after him. Find him… Alive and undamaged.”



Mitch…

I about face, head back to the room…

The door is closed…

Locked.

Banging on the timber with the flat of my hand, “Mitch, open up. Mitch, open the fucking door.”

From behind, something creaks, and a voice says, “Can’t you keep the damn noise down?”

I turn to face a five-foot troglodyte wearing bunny slippers and an attitude. “Go find something to do,
grandma.”

She glares at me but retreats with the slam of bolts being drawn home.

I turn back. Nothing happens at the door, but something is going on in the room. The sound of banging
echoes through, then a clang…

Then a series of splintering crashes…

Breaking glass?

… and whimpering?

I stand back and plant my boot squarely above the lock. It oomphs under my foot. A second kick and
with the screech of shattered wood and tortured metal the door bangs open…

… just in time for me to see Mitch climbing through the window.



In my dash to reach her, shattered glass crunches under my feet and I trip, almost falling over the
heavy, cast-iron pan lying abandoned on the carpet.

But I get there, reaching, trying to catch. My fingers graze her skin, her face, her neck, snagging on
something which strains and pops to dangle from my fingers before she twists, swinging at me with
something…

A second cast iron pot canons into my hand, crushing it against timber and broken glass. White pain
erupts and for seconds I can do nothing but gasp for breath.

Spots dancing behind my eyes, cursing, I clamber out after her, seeing her already well below me,
helter-skeltering down the fire escape.

She sprints, descending, clattering down steel steps. I swivel, snatching for the handrail, but my fingers
are slippery with blood streaming from sliced fingers and palm. Digging into a pocket I drag out a
handkerchief, wrapping it around my streaming hand.

*****


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