CHAPTER ONE – STARKLE, STARKLE, LITTLE TWINK…

Lifting the eyebrow had been a big mistake.

It was a face; that he was sure about, bloody grinning at him too. Sure, why not? If anyone deserved the piss taken it was he. Perhaps it was his; he was certainly off his face. The state he was in was bad enough, but he knew he deserved worse, far worse.

Nine sodding years of orange juice and cola down the proverbial. That doctor, what was his name? Strangeways? Strange bloody name. ‘Next time, you’re dead. Your last chance.’

Well, he’d shown all of them, hadn’t he? Nine years, and they hadn’t given him six months. Georgie B, eat your heart out. A couple of years in, when he began to hope he might just have started to crack it, he googled ‘liver damage’. It told him the same as the quacks: the liver would have recovered some, but the scarring stayed, for life. What was left of it.

If he needed an excuse, the Chief Super had delivered it. The two of them went back a long way, to when Geoff Taylor was wearing new sergeant’s stripes and Hunter had just made detective. Taylor had never been one to mince words.

‘I have only one thing to say, John: it was a right royal fuck-up. Entirely your fuck-up. And I don’t have to tell you, probably your last.’

Because of that fuck-up, Petra Slanik was dead.

Sure, she’d been hanging on to life by the thinnest of threads and likely to die anyway, but that made it no easier. He’d sat by her bed for nearly an hour after they’d finished sticking tubes and needles and electrical gadgets into and onto her. It was not the actions of a tough city cop, and it was the first time in his long career that he’d done anything remotely like it. He still did not know why. Maybe because she was the first one they’d found alive, and he felt somehow responsible for the others: Susan Klee, Janette Crask, Alice Mayne. He knew every detail of their lives by heart, and could see their faces in his dreams; Christ, he’d spent enough time looking at their photographs and histories on the white boards.

He’d had the job locked up so tight a cockroach couldn’t get through; policewomen in nurse’s uniforms checking the room every few minutes, a brown-overalled copper doing a janitor’s job with an electric polisher on the floor outside, two detectives poncing around with stethoscopes round their bloody necks and Glocks strapped to their bodies under their white coats, and four armed men with him in the nurses’ room at the end of the corridor. Damned near enough to start a bloody war. Just the bill for the job would be enough to send the Home Secretary’s blood pressure through the roof. He was positive: if the Badger showed up, they’d have him. The room was on the third floor, the corridor the only approach.

The Badger showed up all right, using the window-cleaners’ hoist and a diamond glasscutter.

The alarm note on the monitor in the nurses’ room had them all charging down the corridor. He was first in.

Petra’s throat had been slashed from ear to ear, a quick botch job, and blood was still spurting with her last remaining heartbeats over the bed covers and onto the floor.

It was not the Badger’s MO, but then he’d fucked-up too, hadn’t he? She hadn’t died like the others after he’d cut her. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He tried rolling over in bed and the pain in his head almost made him scream.

How much fucking whisky had he put away? He vaguely remembered buying a bottle in the off-licence near the cop shop and opening it as soon as he hit the car seat. After that it was a blank. If he’d driven home he couldn’t remember a yard of it. Sweat had soaked the bed and what he was wearing. Sixteen days into one of the longest heat waves on record; the night-time temperature had not fallen below seventeen Celsius, and the body trying to sweat the booze out had made it far worse.

He tried easing one eye open. That bloody face again; the Mickey-Mouse-with-a-permanent-take-the-piss-grin clock that Marie had brought with her when she moved in, and had the good sense not to take with her when she moved out. Thank God he hadn’t been with it enough to set the bloody alarm.

The damned thing started to ring. No, it didn’t, it was his mobile on the bedside table. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he grabbed for it and pressed the ‘on’ switch.

He grunted.

‘John, are you all right?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

‘Christ, you sound pissed.’

‘As a fart.’

‘Jesus! And you a teetotaller. D’you want me to come round?’

‘Janie, if you’re coming for a quick shag, believe me, it’s out of the question.’

‘In your dreams, soldier. I can make you a coffee.’

‘Thanks anyway. I’ll see you later.’

‘Everyone’s looking for you. Carlisle’s right pissed off. You’d better have a damned good excuse.’ She switched off.

In seven months Jane Bliss had become a good pal and had proved more than once that she was a damned good copper, even though to start with he’d hated having a ‘pest’, as the fast trackers were known, as a partner. They tended to be distrusted for years by the old-timers, and boy, you bet he was a member of that club! Best of all, she backed him all the way, no matter how wrong he was. He knew he was not doing her any favours; working with him she’d be tainted with the same suspicion he was, but he’d never change. When his long-time partner, Wes Halford, had retired, he’d guessed they’d give him another superannuated, tired old body, to slow him down. Give or take Taylor, and possibly Superintendent Ralph Cutter, he was far from being a blue-eyed boy with the rest of the hierarchy, particularly Chief Inspector bloody Carlisle, sod his eyes. Maybe the Chief Super had arranged it, hoping to spruce him up a bit. Leastways, Jane was easy on the eye: an inch shorter than he was, a genuine, not a suicide blonde, with dancing blue eyes, a high-cheeked, attractive, but thankfully not pretty-pretty face, a ready wit for her age and a figure to die for. Best of all, she was unattached. He fancied her something rotten, but she wouldn’t play ball, and he’d all but given up trying. Not that she was putting it about anywhere else, at least not as far as he knew, and he was a bloody detective, after all.  He’d never seen her phone or meet a man, and if there was one she was keeping him well hidden. She hadn’t given out any vibes that might hint she was gay, but then they didn’t, did they? He guessed he was just too old for her twenty-three year old body. Twenty bloody three and already a DI, with a law degree from London University and fast-tracked through Bramshill, and here he was at thirty-nine, the same fucking Inspector rank, and no one to blame but himself. And, he had to face it, bloody lucky to still be one. Even that was down to Taylor, who’d saved his bacon when he’d crashed, and several times since. She’d impressed him most with her reaction to being sexually hassled by Jim Relsus, another of the DIs, who’d pushed his luck too far with what he saw as fresh new game. She’d come out with the most wonderfully salacious put-down Hunter had ever heard, and he’d heard more than a few, not repeating herself once, and keeping it going for over a minute. He couldn’t remember all of it, but it started with, ‘You fucking ignorant, jumped-up, never-come-down, syphilitic, pox-ridden, arsehole-creeping clown…’ From that moment, she was ‘in’, as far as he was concerned. She was quite a girl.

He groaned. Jesus, the sweat was bad enough, but if he didn’t get out of bed right now he’d soon be lying in piss. The pain in his bladder was nearly as bad as the one in his head.

Keeping his eyes closed he levered himself onto his feet and felt his way into the bathroom, sitting down to pee. Having to concentrate where the stream was going would be pushing it. Anita, his ex, would be proud of him, he knew. Towards the end, when recriminations were flying fast and loose, she’d told him one of the main reasons she’d married him was that he always lifted the seat, no matter how pissed he was. In her mind, it raised him far above most of his fellow men. From the state of the bogs at work, and those he’d been in all over the country and abroad, he knew what she meant.

Remembering the detox process he knew what the next six months would be like after falling off the wagon. It was going to be hell on Earth again. Stupid, stupid bastard! And what he should have been doing was going after the killer, instead of wallowing in self-pity.

Still on the throne he took the plunge and opened first one eye then the other. Shit! The pain felt as if it was splitting his skull in two, but he stuck it out, and gradually it diminished to the point where he dared to pull himself upright, holding onto the edge of the sink, and look in the mirror.

The face that stared at him was one he hardly recognised. It was an old man’s face, sagging and rheumy-eyed, with mussed-up pepper and salt hair falling haphazardly all over it.

He stuck the plug in the hole and ran cold water till the sink was nearly overflowing, then painfully lowered his head until his face was under water. He left it there until he needed to breathe again.

It did wonders, but the face in the mirror hadn’t improved any. One thing he noticed: he was still wearing the trousers and shirt from the day before.

The house phone rang and he waddled into the living room, wincing with each step, and picked it up.

A cultured voice he’d heard three times before and knew instantly told him, ‘You have let me down badly, John. When I chose you I never imagined that you would go on the bottle again. I was watching you. I could have killed you any time I wanted.’

‘You fucking bastard! Why d’you have to slit her throat?’

‘Unfinished business, John. You can understand that, I’m sure. You’re a pretty tired old cop, but even you don’t like to leave a job unfinished, do you? Well, neither do I. I was worried about you, thought you might drown in your own vomit, but it sounds as if you’ll live. You will need to leave the whisky and vodka alone, and you really should have locked your door last night. There are dangerous people about; you should know that. By the way, I took a little memento of our time together; I hope you don’t mind. Just remember, keep off the booze. I do not want a second-rate drunkard looking for me. I want a challenge, and I expected that from you. Don’t prove me wrong, John. You will never catch me unless your brain is a hundred percent. Oh, no, that is not correct; I’ll rephrase it: you’ll never catch me. Oh, and no wonder your girlfriend left you; Marie, wasn’t it? You snore so very loudly. Keep well.’

Hunter slammed the handset onto the telephone base, picked the whole thing up and threw it onto the parquet flooring, where it smashed into dozens of pieces and sent chips flying out of the real wood floor that had cost him over a grand. The bastard wouldn’t be able to ring him again. And how had he got the number? It was ex-directory.

Bloody hell! He’d been in the flat!

He steered a wobbly course to the door, almost tripping over something on the way, and tried the handle.

‘Oh, shit.’ He couldn’t believe he’d been so fucking stupid. Fuck the booze. And what was that about a memento? What had the bastard taken?

He looked around at the clutter he could never be bothered to clear up since he’d been on his own. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he saw what he’d almost tripped over: a half litre vodka bottle with the top off, empty; the one he’d kept in the cupboard to prove to himself that he’d beaten the booze, and wasn’t that a fucking laugh? Grain and potato together; it was no wonder he felt bloody lousy.

He could feel his bunch of keys in his pocket, pressing into his thigh, so they were safe; he kept no money in the place, and no valuables, except, oh, no! Not his grandfather’s gold hunter!

The kitchenette had been described as ‘compact’ in the real estate literature, and he wouldn’t have tried to swing a moggy in it even if he’d had one, but he’d managed to fit in a small washing machine that hadn’t been used since Marie left. He pulled open the powder drawer at the top. The plastic bag was still there, the watch sealed inside it.

What the hell had he taken then?

The wallet? No, it was still in his jacket pocket. No worries there, or were there? He opened it up and checked his cards. All present and correct, but the bastard might have taken a note of the numbers and security codes. They’d all have to be changed, along with the locks. Marie’s face still looked out at him from behind her plastic cover, so he hadn’t taken her picture. There was just the one behind it, the one he kept hidden, because of all the bad memories it brought.  He pulled Marie’s photograph forward. It was gone: the only picture he had of his daughter Patricia.

He let out a roar that would have been heard at the corner of the street. The fuck-pig had taken the only thing in the world he still valued.

He slammed his hand into a cupboard door in frustration, wanting so badly to hurt the perp and only hurting himself in the process.

Getting in to work was urgent, and he’d have to hurry, but no way could he go without trying to smarten himself up a little.

He showered and shaved, put on clean pants and shirt and one of his better work suits, combed his hair and looked in the mirror.

He still looked ten years older than yesterday, but it would have to do.

Hitting the street he had to close his eyes again. The way he felt it should be pissing down with rain. Instead, that bloody great yellow orb was hitting him with rays so blinding out of a cloudless sky that the urgent need was for the darkest pair of sunglasses he owned.

They were in the glove compartment of his old Ford Mondeo, which was parked badly askew in his reserved space. He’d driven home. What a prat! If a uniform had stopped him it would’ve been the end of the whole shebang. Till last year the relationship between plainclothes and uniform had been good. Sure, they’d always taken the piss out of each other, but had mutual respect. Just the two cases, where CID had sorted out a few of the bad apples had soured things to the point where now there was bloody near open war.

He checked the door of the old banger. It was unlocked. Fucking idiot! He kicked the wheel in frustration and damned near crushed his toe. The air turned blue.

No way would he drive in. It would have to be a taxi, but he needed to cover up his boozy breath first.

He walked to the corner and turned right. A hundred yards brought him to the Blue Diamond Indian takeaway he used. It was closed, but he banged on the door for over a minute, till the owner, bleary-eyed, opened the door. He was angry and trying not to look it. You didn’t upset the police, ever.

Hunter shrugged, ‘Sorry, Sammy, I badly need your help. I can’t go in smelling of booze. Can you find me something to mask it?’

Sansiranjit took one look and felt sorry for him. He wasn’t too bad for a cop and he was a good customer; always insisted on paying, not like most of his sort.

‘A really hot curry, laced with lots of garlic, Mr H?’

Hunter tried to force a grin but couldn’t manage it.

‘You’re a lifesaver, Sammy.’

It fell on stony ground: ‘No, Mr H. I cannot swim, but I am bloody good cook!’

‘That you are.’ And a lifesaver, he added, under his breath.

‘Sit down. I put in microwave.’

‘Don’t heat it up too much. I’m late.’

It was one of Sammy’s hottest, and must have had half a bottle of chilli in with the curry. It broke the sweat out on his forehead, but strangely enough the spicy food made him feel almost like a human being again, even though he was disgusted with himself. Curry for breakfast; how bloody low can you go?

‘How much, Sammy?’

‘On the house, Mr H. It was left over from last night.’

‘And you’d have kept dishing it up for the rest of the week, so how much?’

‘Two pounds to you, Mr H.’

Hunter took a fiver from his wallet, ‘Here. It was worth ten times that.’

There were always taxis cruising his area of Lambeth and he picked one up within minutes in Black Prince Road.