Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

FOUR

Saturday, 8am, Brooklyn

This is Weekend Edition. The headlines this morning. There could be help for homeowners after the Fed’s quarter point rise in interest rates; the governor of Florida declares parts of the panhandle a disaster area thanks to Tropical Storm Alfred; and scandal, British style. First, this news . . .

It was eight am and Will was barely conscious. They had not fallen asleep till well past three. Eyes still shut, he now stretched an arm to where his wife should be. As he expected, no Beth. She was already off: one Saturday in four she held a weekend clinic and this was that Saturday. The woman’s stamina astounded him. And, he knew, the children and their parents would have no idea the psychiatrist treating them was operating on a quarter cylinder. When she was with them, she was at full strength.

Will hauled himself out of bed and headed for the breakfast table. He did not want to eat; he wanted to see the paper. Beth had left a note – Well done, honey. Big day today, let’s have a good night tonight – and also the Metro section folded open at the right page. B3. Could be worse, thought Will. ‘Brownsville slaying linked to prostitution’, ran the headline over less than a dozen paragraphs. And, in between, was his by-line. He had had to make a decision when he first got into journalism; in fact, he had made it back at Oxford, writing for Cherwell, the student paper. Should he be William Monroe Jr or plain Will Monroe? Pride told him he should be his own man, and that meant having his own name: Will Monroe.

He glanced at the front page of the Metro section and then the main paper to see who among his new colleagues – and therefore rivals – was prospering. He clocked the names and made for the shower.

An idea began to take shape in Will’s head, one that grew and became more solid as he got dressed and headed out, past the young couples pushing three-wheeler strollers or taking their time over a café breakfast on Court Street. Cobble Hill was packed with people like him and Beth: twenty- and thirtysomething professionals, transforming what was once a down-at-heel Brooklyn neighbourhood into a little patch of yuppie heaven. As Will made for the Bergen Street subway station, he felt conscious that he was walking faster than everyone else. This was a working weekend for him, too.

Once at the office, he wasted no time and went straight to Harden, who was turning the pages of the New York Post with a speed that conveyed derision.

‘Glenn, how about “Anatomy of a Killing: the real life of a crime statistic”?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘You know, “Howard Macrae might seem like just another brief on the inside pages, another New York murder victim. But what was he like? What had his life been about? Why was he killed?”’

Harden stopped flicking through the Post and looked up. ‘Will, I’m a suburban guy in South Orange whose biggest worry is getting my two daughters to school in the morning.’ This was not hypothetical; this was true. ‘Why do I care about some dead pimp in Brownsville?’

‘You’re right. He’s just some name on a police list. But don’t you think our readers want to know what really happens when someone gets murdered in this city?’

He could see Harden was undecided. He was short on reporters: it was the Jewish New Year, which meant the Times newsroom was badly depleted, even by weekend standards. The paper had a large Jewish staff and now most of them were off work to mark the religious holiday. But neither did he want to admit that he had become so tired, even murder no longer interested him.

‘Tell you what. Make a few calls, go down there. See what you get. If it makes something, we can talk about it.’

Will asked the cab driver to hang around. He needed to be mobile for the next few hours and that meant having a car on stand-by. If he was honest, it also made him feel safer to have the reassuring bulk of a car close at hand. On these streets, he did not want to be completely alone.

Within minutes he was wondering if it had been worth the trip. Officer Federico Penelas, the first policeman on the scene, was a reluctant interviewee, offering only one-word answers.

‘Was there a commotion when you got down here?’

‘Nah-uh.’

‘Who was here?’

‘Just one or two folks. The lady who made the call.’

‘Did you talk to her at all?’

‘Just took down the details of what she’d seen, when she’d seen it. Thanked her for calling the New York Police Department.’ The consultants’ script again.

‘And is it your job to lay that blanket on the victim?’

For the first time, Penelas smiled. The expression was one of mockery rather than warmth. You know nothing. ‘That wasn’t a police blanket. Police use zip-up body bags. That blanket was already on him when I got here.’

‘Who laid it out?’

‘Dunno. Reckon it was whoever found the dead guy. Mark of respect or something. Same way they closed the victim’s eyes. People do that: they’ve seen it in the movies.’

Penelas refused to identify the woman who had discovered the corpse, but in a follow-up phone call the DCPI was more forthcoming – on background, of course. At last Will had a name: now he could get stuck in.

He had to walk through the projects to find her. A six-foot-two Upper East Side guy in chinos and blue linen jacket with an English accent, he felt ridiculous and intensely white as he moved through this poor, black neighbourhood. The buildings were not entirely derelict but they were in bad shape. Graffiti, stairwells that smelled of piss, and plenty of broken windows. He would have to buttonhole whoever was out of doors and hope they would talk.

He made an instant rule: stick to the women. He knew this was a cowardly impulse but, he assured himself, that was nothing to be ashamed of. He had once read some garlanded foreign correspondent saying the best war reporters were the cowards: the brave ones were reckless and ended up dead. This was not exactly the Middle East, but a kind of war – whether over drugs or gangs or race – raged on these streets all the same.

The first woman he spoke to was blank, so was the next. The third had heard the name but could not place where. She recommended someone else until one neighbour was calling out to another and eventually Will was facing the woman who had found Howard Macrae.

African-American and in her mid-fifties, her name was Rosa. Will guessed she was a churchgoer, one of those black women who stop communities like this one from going under. She agreed to walk with him to the scene of the crime.

‘Well, I had been at the store, picking up some bread and a soda, I think, when I noticed what I thought was a big lump on the sidewalk. I remember I was annoyed: I thought someone had dumped some furniture on the street again. But as I got closer, I realized this was not a sofa. Uh-uh. It was low down and kind of bumpy.’

‘You realized it was a body?’

‘Only when I was right up close. Until then, it just looked like, you know . . . a shape.’

‘It was dark.’

‘Yeah, pretty dark and pretty late. Anyway, when I was standing over it, I thought. That ain’t a sofa, that ain’t a chair. That’s a body under that blanket.’

‘Sorry, I’m asking you to go back to what you saw right at the beginning. Before the blanket was laid on the corpse.’

‘That is what I’m describing. What I saw was a dark blanket with the shape of a dead man underneath.’

‘The blanket was already there? So you were not the first to find him.’ Damn.

‘No, I was the first to find him. I was the one who called the police. Nobody else did. It was the first they’d heard of it.’

‘But the body was already covered?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The police seem to think it was you who laid down the blanket, Rosa.’

‘Well, they’re wrong. Where would I get a blanket from in the middle of the night? Or do you think black folks carry blankets around with them just in case? I know things are pretty bad round here, but they’re not that bad.’ None of this was said with bitterness.

‘Right.’ Will paused, uncertain where to go next. ‘So who did leave that blanket on him?’

‘I’m telling you the same thing I told that police officer. That’s the way I found him. Nice blanket, too. Kind of soft. Maybe cashmere. Something classy, anyway.’

‘Sorry to go back to this, but is there any chance at all you were not the first there?’

‘I can’t see how. I’m sure the police told you. When I lifted that blanket, I saw a body that was still warm. Wasn’t even a body at that time. It was still a man. You know what I’m saying? He was still warm. Like it just happened. The blood was still coming out. Kind of burbling, like water leaking from a pipe. Terrible, just terrible. And you know the strangest thing? His eyes were closed, as if someone had shut them.’

‘Don’t tell me that wasn’t you.’

‘It wasn’t me. Never said it was.’

‘Who do you think did that – closed his eyes, I mean?’

‘You’ll probably think I’m crazy, what with the way they knifed that poor man to death, but it was kinda like . . . No, you’ll think I’m crazy.’

‘Please go on. I don’t think you’re crazy at all. Go on.’ Will was stooping now, an instinctive gesture. Being tall was usually a plus: he could intimidate. But right now he did not want to tower over this woman. He wanted to make her feel comfortable. He bent his shoulders lower, so that he could meet her eyes without forcing her to look up. ‘Go on.’

‘I know that man was murdered in a horrible way. But his body looked as if it had been somehow, you know, laid to rest.’

Will said nothing, just sucked the top of his pen.

‘You see, I told you. You think I’m crazy. Maybe I am!’

Will thanked the woman and carried on through the projects. He only had to walk a few blocks to get into real sleaze country. The boarded-up tenements he knew served as crack-houses; the shifty looks of young men palming off brown parcels to each other while looking the other way. These were the people to ask about Howard Macrae.

Will had ditched his jacket by now – a necessary move on this bright September day – but he was still encountering major resistance. His face was too white, his accent too different. Most assumed he was a plain-clothes cop, drugs squad probably. For those who spotted it, the car following a few blocks behind hardly helped. Most people started walking the moment they saw his notebook.

The first crack in the ice came the way it always does – from just one person.

Will found a man who had known Macrae. He seemed vaguely shifty but, above all, bored, with nothing better to do than to while away a few daytime hours talking to a reporter. He rambled on and on, detailing long gone and wholly irrelevant local disputes and controversies as if they would be of burning interest to the New York Times. ‘You want to put that in your paper, my friend!’ he would say over and over, with a bronchial, smoker’s laugh. Heh-heh-heh. Humouring folks like this was, Will concluded, an occupational hazard.

‘So what about this Howard Macrae?’ said Will, when his new acquaintance finally took a breath during an analysis of the flawed stop light system on Fulton Street.

It turned out he did not know Macrae that well, but he knew others who did. He offered to hook Will up with them, introducing the reporter each time with the priceless character reference: ‘He’s OK.’

Soon Will was forming a picture. Macrae was a certifiable, card-carrying low-life. No doubt about it. He ran a brothel; had done for years. The sleaze community seemed to have a high regard for him: apparently he was good at being a pimp. He ran a functioning whorehouse, kept it looking all right – even took the girls’ clothes to the Laundromat. Will got inside, to see the rooms for himself. The best he could say for it was that it was not nearly as disgusting as he had imagined. It looked a bit like a clinic in a poor neighbourhood. There were no needles on the floor. He even noticed a water-cooler.

The whores told him the same story. ‘Sir, I can’t tell you anymo’ than what the lady already told you: he sold ass. Tha’s what he did. He collected the money, gave some to us, and kept the rest for hisself.’

Howard seemed to have been a contented sort of pimp. The brothel was his domain and he was obviously a genial host. At night, Will discovered, he would put on loud music and dance.

It was late in the evening before Will found what he had been looking for all day: someone genuinely mourning the death of Howard Macrae. Will had contacted the undertakers, who were waiting for the body to be transferred to them from the police morgue. He got the cab to drive over to the funeral home, a rundown place that was depressing even by the standards of the rest of the neighbourhood. Will wondered how many of these ‘garden-variety gangland killings’ they had to clear up.

Only the receptionist seemed to be around, a young black woman with the longest, most outlandishly decorated nails Will had ever seen. They were the only spot of brightness in the entire place.

He asked if anyone had been in touch to organize a funeral for Howard Macrae. Any relatives? No, none. The girl on the desk had the impression Macrae had no family. Will tutted: he needed more personal detail, more colour, if this piece was to work out.

Will pushed harder. Had no one been in touch about Mr Macrae, no one at all? ‘Oh, now that you mention it,’ said Nail Girl. At last, thought Will. ‘There was one woman, called in around lunchtime. Asked when we were going to have the funeral. Wanted to pay her respects.’

She found a Post-it with the woman’s details. Will dialled the number there and then. When a woman answered, he said he was calling from the funeral home: he wanted to talk about Howard Macrae. ‘Come right over,’ she said.

In the cab, Will instantly reached for his BlackBerry, tapping out a quick email to Beth. There was a rhythm to all this electronic communication: BlackBerry by day, when he knew his wife was near a computer terminal, text message by night when she was not.

Quick psychology lesson needed. Need to get interview with woman who knew the victim. Have led her to believe I work for funeral company. Will now have to reveal truth: how do I do that without getting her so angry she throws me out of her house? Need yr considered opinion asap, am just few mins away.

xx W

He waited; but there was no reply.

It was twilight when Will tapped on the screen door. A woman poked her head out of the upstairs window. Early forties, Will guessed; black, attractive. Her hair was straightened, with an auburn hue. ‘Coming right down.’

She introduced herself as Letitia. She did not want to give her last name.

‘Look, my name is Will Monroe and I apologize.’ He began babbling that this was his first big story, that he had only lied because he was desperate not to let his bosses down, when he noticed that she was neither doing nor saying anything. She was not throwing him out, just listening to him with a faintly puzzled expression. His voice petering out now, he gave her a pre-cooked line: ‘Look, Letitia. This may be the only way the truth about Howard Macrae will ever come out.’ But he could see it was not needed. On the contrary, Letitia seemed rather glad to have the chance to talk.