John Milton: The Jungle Part 21

She looked as if she was about to respond, but bit her lip instead.

"It's going to be fine," Hicks said.

She turned away so that he couldn't see her face. "Is it? How do you know that?"

"John will help you."

"And what is John going to do to do that? You said it yourself-he will tell me to leave, just like you did. And what will I do then?"

"I didn't say that," he said. "I don't know what he'll say. But he's a good man. He'll do whatever he can to fix things for you."

"Enough," she said. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Hicks exhaled, a little of the tension dissipating. She went into the kitchen, and, after a moment, he followed. She had filled the kettle and put it back on its stand to boil. Hicks went to the sink and filled it with hot water and detergent. The plates and utensils that they had used last night were stacked on the counter and needed to be washed.

"You want a coffee?" she said.

"Please."

"Don't worry, Hicks. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She scooped a spoonful of coffee granules and poured it into one of the cups.

"s.h.i.+t," she said.

"What's the matter?"

She held out the jar. It was empty.

"I'll go and get some."

"I need cigarettes, too," she said.

"And I could do with some more beer. Do you want to come?"

"I'd rather stay here," she said. "Do you mind?"

Hicks paused. She was right; there was a risk that she would be seen this close to Wanstead. "No," he said. "Of course not. Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine," she said. "I'll stay inside."

Hicks decided that it would be good to let her have a little time to herself. They had been together for the better part of a week. They would both benefit from a little time alone to decompress, especially after what had happened the night before. She had said it herself: she would stay inside. She was frightened. She wasn't going anywhere.

"I'll be back at lunch," he said. "No later than that."

"We need some more vegetables for dinner," she said. "I could write you a list."

"Okay." Hicks indicated the pen and the notebook on the counter. "Write down what you need, and I'll go and get it."

He went out into the hallway and put on his jacket and zipped it up so that his shoulder holster and the Sig Sauer were hidden. He went back into the kitchen. Sarah had finished the shopping list. She tore it out of the notebook and handed it to him. "Carrots, green beans, orange juice, yoghurt, cigarettes. Anything else?"

"That's fine."

"What kind of cigarettes?"

"I don't mind."

"Okay." He folded the list and put it in his pocket.

She followed him to the door. "Thank you, Hicks."

"No problem. Lock the door behind me."

He stepped outside into the cool morning air. There was a group of young boys gathered around the bandstand at Arnold Circus, and Hicks could hear the dull thump of music from the open windows of a parked car. He set off, leaving the building behind him and making his way to the convenience store on the main road.

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

DRAGO'S WAKE was held at the pub that Pasko owned in Maida Vale. It was a detached, mock-Tudor building of two storeys, standing alone on the corner of Maida Vale and the Kilburn High Road. It had black painted half-timbering and a concreted-over beer garden, where drinkers sheltered beneath mismatched parasols. There was always a barbecue outside, whatever the weather, with men grilling beef and lamb just like they did in the Balkans.

Konstantin Pasko and his wife, together with Florin and the other members of his close family, had lined up at the door and welcomed the other mourners. The men were first, all of them standing in single file, and then the women came next, their heads covered with black scarves. The mourners were taken down the line and introduced to the family by Pasko's grandchildren. Within ten minutes, the room was filled. The children took turns serving everyone with food, raki, and cigarettes.

Pasko sat at the head of the main table. He was supposed to accept the condolences of the other mourners, but each new plat.i.tude wound him just a little bit tighter. His jaw began to ache from clenching his teeth, and his knuckles popped as he squeezed his fists. His wife noticed and told him to go outside to get a breath of fresh air.

He didn't argue. With a curt nod, he excused himself from the table and left the room. There was a fine drizzle falling, and he turned up the collar of his coat. Maida Vale was a busy road, and traffic rumbled by in both directions. The strain of keeping a lid on his anger was telling on him. He had a splitting headache and he needed a drink. But that would keep.

"Father."

He turned. It was Florin.

"You know what I want?" Pasko said to him.

"Father-"

"You know Ilya is keeping pigs now? I want to find whoever did that to Drago and feed him to them, inch by inch, until he begs me to stop."

"Father-"

"What, Florin?" Pasko snapped.

"That's why I need to speak to you-what happened to Drago. Llazar has one of the girls."

"What?"

"One of the girls from the flat. She's here."

"Which girl?"

"He didn't say."

"She's here now?"

"Yes. Upstairs."

THERE WAS a door to the side that gave access to the rear of the pub and the stairs to the upper floors. Pasko and Florin went through into the private hallway next to the armoured door that guarded access to the upper floor. There was an intercom panel next to the door, and Pasko pressed the b.u.t.ton.

He heard Has.h.i.+m's voice. "Yes?"

"It's me. Let me in."

The lock buzzed and Pasko pulled the door back and climbed the stairs. There were several rooms on the first floor: three bedrooms, a relaxation area, a bathroom. A sitting room had been turned into an office. There was a pool table, a small bar and a large flat-screen television that was usually showing football or boxing. Pasko opened the door and went inside. Has.h.i.+m, one of his deputies, was leaning against the bar. He had fought alongside Pasko at Staro Gracko and Volujak. He was a large man, p.r.o.ne to bouts of depression, but unquestionably loyal.

Pasko stepped inside the room and saw the other occupant. She was young and pretty, but dressed tras.h.i.+ly, like a little tramp. He remembered her from when she had been brought into the country. They had bought her from the smugglers, just like the others they had purchased to swell the staff at their brothels. Syrian, he thought. He remembered her name: Sarah. He recalled it because she was one of the girls who was due to have been in the flat when his son had been killed.

One of the girls who had run.

"It is Sarah, isn't it?" he said.

The girl nodded. She was frightened.

Florin followed his father inside and closed the door behind him.

Pasko turned back to the girl. "Do you know who I am?"

"No."

"I am Konstantin Pasko. You have heard of me, I expect?"

"Yes."

"I understand that you left the flat where we were so kind to let you have a room."

"He took me. He made me go."

"Who?"

"The man who attacked..." The words trailed away.

"The man who murdered my son?"

The girl did not speak, but became even more pale.

"You know I am upset about what happened to him."

"Yes..." she started. "Of course."

"You look thin, Sarah. Have you eaten?"

She shook her head.

There was food on the bar: a platter of smoked meat and pickled preserves. Pasko's attention was drawn to a black pot that had been placed on a serving plate. He took two bowls and a ladle and scooped out two servings. He indicated that the girl should follow him to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She sat, and he put one of the bowls down in front of her. He sat opposite.

"This is pace," he said. "You know it?"

"No."

"It is an Albanian delicacy, especially popular in the mountains. You take a sheep's head and boil it until the meat comes off easily. Then you stew it with garlic, onion, black pepper and vinegar. You add flour, too, to thicken the stew. It is a hearty meal. Try it. You must eat. You are skin and bones."

She started to eat. It was obvious that the meal was not to her taste, but she dutifully ate the first spoonful, then the second and third.

Pasko ate with her for a moment.

"This man," he said at last. "The man who killed my son. Who is he?"

"His name is John Smith."

"And that is a fake name?"

"I don't know."

"I think so." He took a spoonful and slotted it into his mouth. "Tell me what happened."

"It was a normal day. A client came to see me. I was waiting for him. Drago opened the door, and then Smith forced his way inside. I heard the crash and came out to see what was happening. They were in the kitchen. I don't know what happened, but when I looked inside, Drago was on the floor. He had a bag over his head. He must have suffocated him."

Pasko felt a tremble of anger and concentrated on the stew. He ate two spoonfuls of it, chewing deliberately, looking down into the bowl until he had mastered himself again.

The girl was looking at him nervously when he finally looked up.

"What did he want?"

"He had come for a girl."

"Which girl?"

"She was working in the flat the day before he came. Her name is Nadia. Smith was asking me questions about her. That's who he wanted."

"Why?"