match that he’d been in a hotel room with a murder victim? If he was lucky, the DNA match wouldn’t come in until tomorrow. Odds against him, and Rio would be on his trail before eleven tonight.
He reached the downstairs door. Pushed it open. Dropped the bracelet back in his pocket. Stepped out into the street.
‘Mac?’
He looked up to find Calum’s head poking out of the window. His former colleague didn’t look pissed any more, but Mac wouldn’t put it past him to chuck a bucket of cold water on him.
‘Still carry Lady L with you?’
Lady L was Calum’s nickname for his Luger. Mac nodded, still suspicious.
‘You might find this handy,’ Calum said. ‘Catch.’
He dropped a box down to Mac.
Mac caught it. Looked inside. A half-filled box of ammo and an EDC – everyday carry handgun. Exactly what he needed for what he had to do.
‘I think I’m the one now who needs to get my head seen to,’ Calum called out.
Mac didn’t answer. Didn’t tell him that he was on his way to see the ‘house doctor’.
fourteen
10 a.m.
Mac was on the west side of London, a few streets down from Harley Street. He knew he was taking a risk here, going to see Reuben’s ‘house doctor’. But if he didn’t get some medical attention soon it might slow him down, get in the way of finding out who’d popped Elena. And nothing was going to do that. Besides, a doctor topping up his wage packet providing under-the-counter care for criminal clients might have other information as well.
Mac found Harley Street. Stood on the opposite side of the road and studied the clinic he was after before carefully checking the cars that were parked up on the street. One caught his eye, a black Mercedes with windows tinted deep like the road to hell. It had a long, ridged, raised line just below the door handles that made the curve of the doors jut out like metal cheekbones. The driver’s window was down so he was able to see the two men inside, both up front, decked out in suits and shades. One of the men looked across at Mac. He tensed. Were they waiting for him?
The driver of the Merc looked away. Leaned forward. Started the engine and then the car glided down the street and turned onto a main road. Mac didn’t bother to wait and see if the car returned. He crossed the street again and walked up to a flat-fronted Georgian building with black railings that matched the style of the balcony on the fourth floor. Sihaa Centre . To cover itself for injuries and illness, the arms gang had provided itself with ‘health cover’ that left no trace behind for the law to follow. A contract had been agreed with the discreet clinic in Harley Street to make sure that, in the event of ‘personal injuries’, they would be taken care of, no questions asked.
Mac checked his watch.
10.03.
The place should be open but it looked locked up. He tried the handle of the main door. It opened. The reception area was all tanned floorboards, soft, lavender lighting and plump, cosy armchairs.
Mac took himself off down the corridor that led to the consulting rooms. Behind a half-open door he heard movement. He pushed the door wide to find Doctor Mo Masri, alone, cleaning instruments.
Startled, the doctor looked up and said, ‘I’m sorry, can I help . . . ?’
The words died in his mouth as he recognised Mac. And Mac couldn’t blame him. The last time he’d seen Doctor Mo hadn’t been a feel-good moment. It had been in the summer when Mac had sustained a cracked rib after a particularly nasty incident at a lock-up down South London way. Word had reached a local gang that the illegal arms crew he’d infiltrated were on their patch and they’d tried to rip Reuben’s people off. Bad move – the lightweights had bitten off more than they could chew and smashed ribs had ended up as the least of their problems. Doctor Masri had been called to treat his wound, and when Mac had undressed for the doctor to examine him, a sawn-off shotgun had
He reached the downstairs door. Pushed it open. Dropped the bracelet back in his pocket. Stepped out into the street.
‘Mac?’
He looked up to find Calum’s head poking out of the window. His former colleague didn’t look pissed any more, but Mac wouldn’t put it past him to chuck a bucket of cold water on him.
‘Still carry Lady L with you?’
Lady L was Calum’s nickname for his Luger. Mac nodded, still suspicious.
‘You might find this handy,’ Calum said. ‘Catch.’
He dropped a box down to Mac.
Mac caught it. Looked inside. A half-filled box of ammo and an EDC – everyday carry handgun. Exactly what he needed for what he had to do.
‘I think I’m the one now who needs to get my head seen to,’ Calum called out.
Mac didn’t answer. Didn’t tell him that he was on his way to see the ‘house doctor’.
fourteen
10 a.m.
Mac was on the west side of London, a few streets down from Harley Street. He knew he was taking a risk here, going to see Reuben’s ‘house doctor’. But if he didn’t get some medical attention soon it might slow him down, get in the way of finding out who’d popped Elena. And nothing was going to do that. Besides, a doctor topping up his wage packet providing under-the-counter care for criminal clients might have other information as well.
Mac found Harley Street. Stood on the opposite side of the road and studied the clinic he was after before carefully checking the cars that were parked up on the street. One caught his eye, a black Mercedes with windows tinted deep like the road to hell. It had a long, ridged, raised line just below the door handles that made the curve of the doors jut out like metal cheekbones. The driver’s window was down so he was able to see the two men inside, both up front, decked out in suits and shades. One of the men looked across at Mac. He tensed. Were they waiting for him?
The driver of the Merc looked away. Leaned forward. Started the engine and then the car glided down the street and turned onto a main road. Mac didn’t bother to wait and see if the car returned. He crossed the street again and walked up to a flat-fronted Georgian building with black railings that matched the style of the balcony on the fourth floor. Sihaa Centre . To cover itself for injuries and illness, the arms gang had provided itself with ‘health cover’ that left no trace behind for the law to follow. A contract had been agreed with the discreet clinic in Harley Street to make sure that, in the event of ‘personal injuries’, they would be taken care of, no questions asked.
Mac checked his watch.
10.03.
The place should be open but it looked locked up. He tried the handle of the main door. It opened. The reception area was all tanned floorboards, soft, lavender lighting and plump, cosy armchairs.
Mac took himself off down the corridor that led to the consulting rooms. Behind a half-open door he heard movement. He pushed the door wide to find Doctor Mo Masri, alone, cleaning instruments.
Startled, the doctor looked up and said, ‘I’m sorry, can I help . . . ?’
The words died in his mouth as he recognised Mac. And Mac couldn’t blame him. The last time he’d seen Doctor Mo hadn’t been a feel-good moment. It had been in the summer when Mac had sustained a cracked rib after a particularly nasty incident at a lock-up down South London way. Word had reached a local gang that the illegal arms crew he’d infiltrated were on their patch and they’d tried to rip Reuben’s people off. Bad move – the lightweights had bitten off more than they could chew and smashed ribs had ended up as the least of their problems. Doctor Masri had been called to treat his wound, and when Mac had undressed for the doctor to examine him, a sawn-off shotgun had
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