Naked, he’d been gagged, had his feet bound and hands tied behind his back; that much he’d undoubtedly paid for. He’d probably paid for the knife too, something heavy-duty and symbolic, and they’d have been a good way into it before he’d realized he was getting more than he’d asked for, the subtle transition from client to victim.
At some point, as the bruising had bitten deeper and the blade had begun easing into flesh, he’d have known, and then some point later he’d have stopped whining and crying, begging through his gag, and then one or more times he’d have passed out, from the pain and eventually from the loss of blood. He’d been dead, or as good as, long before the final burst of violence had hacked through his neck.
So that was it for Viner. The collection of eighteenth-century furniture would be auctioned off, some of it after restoration, and likewise his library. His other library would be confiscated by the authorities, destroyed or mislaid. The apartment would go on the market, but people would know what had happened there so it would probably be another foreigner who bought it. And at some stage in the cleaning process someone else would come too and sweep the place, mopping up any last fragments of his professional life. After that, there’d be nothing.
The phone was by the windows which were open, so when JJ sat down the pervasive smell in the room was held back a little by the street air. The body too was obscured by the furniture, but from where he sat he could see the raggedly separated head lying on its side under a chair, eyes open, staring, carpet-level toward the door where he’d come in.
It didn’t look like a hit. Viner had gone in for rough with street kids—a cheap explanation but probably close. It definitely didn’t look like a hit; that was the only thing that mattered. He’d call London, sort out a new handler, and then he’d be back to business as usual. It was a shame though, Viner had been okay.
As okay as people got, anyway. His material could be as off-target as anyone else’s, and when it came down to the wire he’d have sold people. But it had never come down to the wire and for the most part he’d been sound, sick in the sexual department but one of the few when it came to business.
A scooter tore up the street below; early evening, the city quiet, a time for teenagers to tear up streets on scooters, the whole night ahead, possibilities. It was a great time of day out there in the city, disjointed sounds playing out the bottom of the lull. He found himself distracted by it, drawn way into some indistinct memory, then pulled back again by the smell lapping toward him at the faltering of the breeze.
It made some people sick, the different ways death smelled, but it was a skill worth having, to be able to smell a corpse and know it. And the smell here wasn’t the worst; Viner had soiled himself but he was still fresh, had probably been there only a few hours, an early-afternoon rendezvous turned sour.
JJ tapped out the numbers on the phone and waited, then let the alarm tone sink in and the automated telecom voice repeating itself. Please try again. He tapped them out again and listened, put the handset down and stared at it, puzzled. Numbers like that didn’t change, didn’t stop being available; it didn’t make sense. He tapped it out a third time, carefully, more deliberately, got the same result, and put the phone down.
Another number reeled itself off in his head, but he held off using it. Something was badly wrong; for the contact number not to be working, there had to be a mess somewhere. He still couldn’t quite believe the scene in front of him was wrapped up with it, but suddenly he was uncomfortable, no longer certain it was a good idea to get in touch.
It hardly seemed necessary, but he tapped out a random number to cover his tracks, putting the phone down as soon as it rang. It was reassuring somehow to imagine some early-evening apartment, thrown into a moment’s suspended animation by that single ring of the phone, its occupants yanked by the leash and then released again to speculate on who might have called.
And the thought of another apartment made him look once more at Viner’s. It was too tidy, a couple of things knocked around near the body but the rest of the place untouched, or else turned over by someone who knew what he was doing. If a rent boy had done it he’d have ransacked the place. The way it looked just didn’t square with the way the man had been killed.