Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,19
the bull-headed man and was staggering away with the tranquilliser starting to spread through him, the other man had been close enough behind him that he’d heard him muttering into his phone in Russian. The content wasn’t particularly revealing – he’s hit, I’m going after him, or similar – but the throaty vowels were unmistakeable. Although there wasn’t anything odd about the man’s being a Russian speaker, ethnic Russians making up over a third of the city’s population according to the guidebook he’d bought, it might be significant that Fallon was working with Russians.
*
Seppo’s flat was in a residential area of Toompea Hill in the upper Old Town. Using the looming silhouette of the city’s castle as a landmark, Purkiss strode up the hill, pausing once to look back at the view over the city below. The autumn chill had deepened, cooling the sweat he’d accumulated.
He reached the end of the street he wanted and looked up it. Rows of parked cars lined one side. At a crouch he crawled up the street beside the cars, keeping his head up enough that he could peer into each one. None looked occupied. Straining his eyes, he stared across the street and identified Seppo’s block. From where he was, Purkiss couldn’t tell which of the two first floor flats was Seppo’s. Lights were showing from behind the drawn curtains in the windows of only one of them.
He watched the entrance to the block for ten minutes to see if anyone would emerge. There wasn’t much point. The place would have been searched already, the trap set and waiting for him to spring it. They’d be either in the flat itself or in the lobby, most likely the first. In that case breaking in wasn’t an option, even if he could make it up to the window somehow once he’d established which of the two flats it was, because he’d be heard. Short of waiting until whoever was in the flat finished his shift and was relieved – and who knew how long that would take – the only course was the direct one.
He crossed the road beneath the flood of the streetlights, feeling his back contract as it anticipated a bullet between the shoulder blades. He made it to the door. Seppo’s number was unadorned by any name. He pressed the buzzer and waited. Nothing.
He tried again, twice. The response was the same. There were twenty-four call buttons. He pressed them in rapid succession. Within seconds the voices started coming through, short and rising into questions at the end. In Russian he muttered, ‘Hi, it’s me.’
Another Babel of monosyllables, then a sharp buzz and he pushed the door open. The lobby was dim and smelled of antiseptic. He mounted the stairs, saw that Seppo’s flat was on the right, which meant it was the one without visible lights on from the street. At the door he paused. A booby trap? Breath held, he tried the handle. Locked. He got out a credit card and set to work.
He’d been half expecting a complicated system, given Seppo’s past as an agent, but the lock yielded at once. He pushed gently and let the door swing open. No light greeted him. For an instant he felt the primal terror of stepping into the dark. He reached for a switch. The passage filled with light. With a vase he found on a table just inside the door, he propped the door ajar and, hugging the wall, he moved down the passage. He reached an open doorway into the living room and dived in, rolling on his shoulder and coming up at a crouch. There was nobody in the room.
He turned on the lights and did a quick survey. It was simply and tastefully decorated, like someone’s home rather than a safe house. A sword, some kind of antique, hung on the wall. Otherwise there was little to give any impression of the occupier’s personality. The surfaces were dust-free and clean, apart from the shadow of a scrubbed stain on the carpet by the fireplace.
Purkiss put his head into the kitchen. It too seemed in order. He had crossed the living room to explore the rest of the flat when the echo of footsteps rang up the stairs. He ducked back into the living room, but the front door was already swinging open.
EIGHT
‘He didn’t mention anything about a visitor.’
She was early thirties, Purkiss guessed. Light brown hair tied back, thin fawn pullover and suede jacket, jeans.
‘He wouldn’t