Chapter 97
Sunday, 12 August 2012
THE SOUNDS OF hydraulic doors opening and shoes slapping on tile stirred Karen Pope from an edge-of-consciousness sleep.
The Sun reporter lay on a sofa in Private London’s lab, feeling wrecked by a fatigue that was compounded with worry. No one had heard from Knight since he’d walked out the rear door of his house. Not Pottersfield, not Hooligan, not Pope, not Morgan, nor anyone else at Scotland Yard or Private.
They’d waited for him at his home until shortly after dawn when Pottersfield had left to examine the bodies of the two dead women found in the abandoned factory. Pope and Hooligan returned to Private to run the fingerprints that Hooligan had taken at Knight’s house through the Balkan War Crimes database.
They’d got a hit almost immediately: Senka, the oldest of the Brazlic siblings, had been all over the place. When Hooligan informed Pottersfield, the inspector told them that preliminary fingerprint work on the more recently slain woman positively identified her as Nada, the middle Brazlic sister.
At that point, around eight a.m. that Sunday, Pope had hit a wall of exhaustion and had lain down on the couch, using one of Hooligan’s lab coats for a blanket. How long had she slept?
‘Hooligan, wake up,’ she heard Jack say. ‘There’s a beat-up Rasta at the front desk looking for you. He says he’s got something that he was supposed to hand-deliver to you for Knight. And he refuses to give it to me.’
At that Pope opened an eye to see the American standing at Hooligan’s desk and Private London’s chief scientist rousing from a nap. Above him, the clock read 10:20.
Two hours and twenty minutes? Pope sat up groggily, then got to her feet and stumbled after Hooligan and Jack out of the lab to the reception area, where a Jamaican sat painfully in a chair by the lift. A large bandage covered his grossly swollen cheek. His arm was in a cast and secured by a sling.
‘I’m Hooligan,’ the scientist said.
The Rasta struggled up and held out his good hand, saying, ‘Ketu Oladuwa. I drive de cab.’
Hooligan gestured at the cast and bandage. ‘Crash?’
Oladuwa nodded. ‘Big time, mon. On my way to Heathrow. Broadsided by a panel van. I been in hospital all night.’
Pope said, ‘What about Knight?’
‘Ya, mon,’ the Rasta said, digging in his pocket and coming up with a smashed iPhone. ‘He gimme dis one here last night and tell me to drive it to Heathrow and then back to his home to find you or some inspector with da police. I went to Knight’s home when I got out of hospital dis morning, and police told me you gone, so I came here.’
‘To give us a smashed phone?’ Jack asked.
‘Wasn’t smashed before da accident,’ the Rasta said indignantly. ‘He said something on dat phone help you find his kids.’
‘Fuck,’ Hooligan grunted. He snatched the remains of Knight’s phone from Oladuwa, spun around and took off for the lab with Pope and Jack close on his heels.
‘Hey!’ Oladuwa yelled after them. ‘Him say I get reward!’