Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Sean Slater is the pseudonym for Vancouver Police Officer Sean Sommerville. Sommerville works in Canada’s poorest slum, the Downtown East Side – an area rife with poverty, mental illness, drug use, prostitution, and gang warfare. He has investigated everything from frauds and extortions to homicides. Sommerville has written numerous columns and editorials for the city newspaper. His work has been nominated for the Rupert Hughes Prose Award, and he was the grand-prize winner of the Sunday Serial Thriller contest. His debut novel, The Survivor, was published to rave reviews. Snakes & Ladders is his second novel.
Praise for The Survivor
‘A satisfyingly authentic debut from a man who really does know about the bleak side of the human psyche . . . written with an unexpected gentle irony, and featuring a lead character that the author clearly likes, it’s a neat, stylish thriller from a writer to watch’
Daily Mail
‘The USP of this energetic debut thriller is that it’s written about a Vancouver cop by a Vancouver cop . . . In fact Sean Slater writes the sort of pacy superior pulp you’d expect from an author who’d never eaten a doughnut on a dull stakeout’
Daily Telegraph
‘Fast-paced, gripping and impossible to put down, Sean Slater’s debut novel is an explosive, action-injected tale told by a great new talent. A fantastic read’
CHRIS CARTER, author of The Night Stalker
‘The Survivor grabbed me by the throat from page one and held on until the very end. Slater’s debut is a rocket-paced evocative thriller. Gritty, dark and graphic, The Survivor is at times hard to read but always harder to put down. A terrific read’
DANIEL KALLA, bestselling author of Pandemic,
Blood Lies and Of Flesh and Blood
Also by Sean Slater
The Survivor
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012
A CBS Company
Copyright © Sean Slater, 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Sean Slater to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-85720-040-2
eBook ISBN 978-0-85720-041-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Acknowledgements
In The Survivor, I thanked everyone in the world who has ever
supported me in my writing career. In Snakes & Ladders, I am
being more specific. This book would not be what it is without
the help of my usual advisers:
Joe Cummings, my plot & character mercenary
Kirk Longstaffe, my idea bouncer and information safeguard
And my dear wife Lani, who not only acts as my first reader and editor, but who endlessly takes care of our home so I can actually have a few hours here and there to write these novels.
Professionally, I have to thank everyone at Simon & Schuster UK, especially:
Libby Yevtushenko for being such a wonderful editor
Clare Hey for her tiresome diligence in ironing out the wrinkles
Suzanne Baboneau for giving me the opportunity to break into the writing world
And everyone else there who has worked so hard with regards to typesetting, proofing, cover art, publicity and so on.
I would also like to thank everyone at the Darley Anderson Agency for their constant work behind the scenes:
Rosanna Bellingham
Madeleine Buston
Mary Darby
And, of course, Clare Wallace.
It is always an unexpected delight to receive an email from
any one of you.
Last, and certainly not least, I have to thank my fantastic agent, Camilla, who acts as an editor, agent, negotiator, adviser, friend and counsellor – heck, this woman wears so many hats, she needs a walk-in closet at the office. Life in the writing world would not be as exciting or enjoyable without her. She has been a godsend, pure and simple.
For anyone I might have missed, apologies all round.
Sean
This book is dedicated to three amazing men:
To Gramps, for always being there for me.
To Dad, for finally finding your way and coming through at the end.
And to Larry ‘Big Poppa’ Oakley, who has always been a rock of support for everyone in the family.
Snake Eyes:
Definition:
1)
The lowest possible roll of the dice (two ones) in a game of Craps, or
2)
Extremely bad luck
Contents
Day One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Day Two
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Day Three
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
Eighty-Nine
Ninety
Ninety-One
Ninety-Two
Ninety-Three
Ninety-Four
Ninety-Five
Ninety-Six
Ninety-Seven
Ninety-Eight
Ninety-Nine
One Hundred
One Hundred and One
One Hundred and Two
One Hundred and Three
One Hundred and Four
One Hundred and Five
EPILOGUE
One Hundred and Six
One Hundred and Seven
One Hundred and Eight
One Hundred and Nine
Day One
One
The black mask was made entirely from leather. Rectangular slits were cut out over the eyes and mouth areas, and running down the back, interlacing through the eyelets, were a pair of long, thin straps.
The Adder tightened these straps, firming the mask to the back of his head as he stared at the young woman before him. Her name was Mandilla Gill. Mandy. And he knew her well.
She was pretty and young – nineteen to be exact – and bound to the chair not by any physical restraints but by the medications he had given her. More important than all of that, she was about to be freed from the cold darkness of this world. It was time for her salvation.
The Beautiful Escape.
‘Please,’ she said. Her voice was soft, distant, barely a whisper.
‘Everything is all right,’ he told her. ‘Do not be afraid.’
The girl looked like she wanted to respond, but said nothing back.
The Adder scanned the room. It was dark and cold, and the walls reeked of old, set-in dampness. All across the floor was litter – old newspapers, dirty clothes, garbage of all kinds. The Adder walked across the trash to the other side of the room and stared at the camera he had placed just outside the window.
The angle was perfect. And it had to be.
Satisfied, he turned around and knelt before the girl. Already her breathing had slowed to a critical level and her eyes were taking on a lost, distant look. Even in the pale dimness of this room, the Adder could see that.
There wasn’t much time left.
‘Please,’ she said, and this time her voice was far away from him. So very, very far.
‘Do not be afraid,’ he said again. ‘I’m freeing you.’
The Adder smiled at her. He held her head in both hands. Stared deep into her eyes. And made sure that she saw he was there for her.
‘Fly away, Little Bird,’ he told her. ‘Fly away.’
And Mandy Gill did.
She was soaring.
Two
Snake Eyes.
Mandy Gill’s life crapped out on a cold and grey winter day. The dice of life were loaded against her. They always had been, ever since the day she’d been born. She died isolated, in a sad and lonely place. And the worst part about her death was that it could have been prevented.
If anyone had cared.
The thought of this filtered through Jacob Striker’s mind as the homicide detective pulled his cruiser up to the old hotel. The place was a shithole. Old boards covered the broken windows; gang graffiti painted the walls, and crabgrass mixed with dirt made for a front lawn. This was the Lucky Lodge Rooming House, and anyone who lived here wasn’t so lucky.
Mandy Gill was the perfect example of this. Her last trip out of here would be under the stiff white plastic of a coroner’s body bag – an undignified end to an unfair life.
Game over. You lose.
Striker’s fingers clenched into fists as he climbed out of the unmarked patrol car. He hated this place. Always had. This entire area, too. It was Strathcona, a one-way ticket to nowhere for the mentally ill and drug-addicted. Too many checked in, so few checked out.
Such was life at the Lucky Lodge Rooming House.
Over the years, during his stints in Patrol and Homicide, Striker had been here too many times to count. Overdoses. Suicides. Forcible Confinements and Murders. All bad, no good. But being here today was especially terrible.
For personal reasons.
Striker killed the thought and walked down the cracked-cement walkway, which was covered in rotting leaves and half hidden in the four o’clock dimness. The cold January air was crisp with the hint of coming snow, and blowing in angry gusts. It ruffled his hair and stung his skin.
Striker reached the door, shouldered it open and went inside.
The foyer was dark, and the walls held the smell of old dampness. Striker avoided touching them. Everything was quiet and calm. The nearest hall light was burned out, and the only other light that existed was down at the far end of the corridor.
It flickered strangely.
Striker walked down the hall and took a closer look. What he saw was not surprising for this area – the light wasn’t coming from a bulb, but from the flame of a candle, flickering in the draught. He reached out, pawed the wall, and hit the light switch.
Nothing.
The building had no power.
In his coat pocket was a flashlight. Striker fished it out and turned it on, then made his way up to the third floor on steps that sounded weak and hollow. At the top, he turned left and surveyed the hall. Through the yellow gloom, he spotted a man in a blue uniform.
Patrol cop.
Striker shone the beam on him. The cop was young. Asian. Looked no more than twenty years old and fresh out of the academy. Definitely out of his element. He had his own flashlight out and was shining it nervously around the hall. When he spotted Striker, he let out a heavy breath.
‘Hey,’ he got out.
Striker stepped up to the doorway. ‘You got a name?’
‘Yeah, Wong. I’m on Charlie shift. Team Two-Ten.’
Striker looked at the man’s badge number and saw that it was 2864 – over a thousand numbers higher than his own badge number. It made him feel old. He nodded at the young constable. ‘I’m Detective Striker from Homicide. Where is she?’
‘Just . . . just over here.’ The kid shone his flashlight into the nearest room. Unit 303.
‘Have you touched—’
‘Nothing. I didn’t touch a thing. Not a single thing.’
Striker was pleased to hear that; the kid had been taught well.
He turned his attention to the room before him. Everything was still, and darkness hung about the air in different shades. In the centre of the room, lying back in an easy chair, was the body of Mandy Gill.
The rest of the room was empty.
Striker frowned and looked at Constable Wong. ‘Where’s your partner?’
‘Partner? I . . . I don’t have one. I’m one-man.’
‘You mean you’re at a Sudden Death alone?’
The kid shrugged. ‘I had to be. There was no one else to go. Thought someone else would clear by the time I got here. But so far, you’re the only one.’
‘You got balls, kid. Next time wait.’
Constable Wong never took his eyes from the body. ‘She looks . . . fresh.’
Striker nodded sadly. The kid was right; the death looked somewhat recent.
‘She’s listed in the directory only as Gill,’ the young cop offered. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to confirm anything yet. I could run out to the car for the laptop, if you want.’
‘There’s no need to,’ he said. ‘You’re right about her identity. Her name was Mandy Gill and she was nineteen years old.’
‘Oh, you already researched her?’ the cop asked.
Striker shook his head sadly. ‘I knew her.’
Three
The body of Mandy Gill had been discovered by accident. The original call to the Lucky Lodge had come in as a Suspicious Person complaint from an anonymous caller. A shadowy figure had been seen lurking in the bushes behind the dilapidated building, somewhere close to Union Street.
That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary – SusPers were a dime a dozen, especially in the Strathcona area – but lately, over the past nine months, the City had been having problems with an arsonist. Because of this, the area from Union Street to Pender had become a top priority. So a unit had been dispatched immediately.
Newbie cop Wong drew the short stick. Working a one-man car, he had attended the scene and stumbled across the sudden death.
Mandy Gill.
Striker stepped into the small apartment, being mindful of where he placed his feet. The air was just as cold inside the building as it was outside, and he found that disheartening.
He looked around. The suite was minute, built into two separate rooms: one washroom and one common room, which was complete with a kitchenette, sitting area, and one shabby, single-mattress cot, which was tucked away in the far corner.
All in all, it was a sad statement of this girl’s life.
Dirty dishes filled the sink. A carton of milk was left on the stove. And old newspapers and junk mail littered the counters and floor.
After a long moment, Striker stepped into the centre of the room and stopped avoiding what needed to be done. He shone his flashlight on the dead girl before him and really looked at her.
It pained his heart to do so.
Mandy Gill was sitting back in an old easy chair that was made from threadbare fabric. She was positioned to look out of the only window the room had – a cracked pane that faced west. In her hand was an empty vial of pills, and in the corners of her mouth was the white crust of pill paste. Her chest was completely still.
Even in the unforgiving glare of the flashlight’s white beam, it was apparent that all the colour had drained away from her dark brown skin, turning it more of an ash-grey colour.
Striker leaned closer and studied her face. The underlying musculature was slack, and her eyes were wide open and milky, staring through the window at a world that was as cold to her now in death as it had been in life. An empty expression marred her face, and it struck Striker like a physical blow.
Mandy Gill looked sad, even in death.
Striker killed the thought. He turned and located Constable Wong, who was standing quietly in the doorway.
‘When did you arrive on scene?’ he asked.
‘Huh?’
‘How long you been here?’
‘Uh . . . twenty minutes, maybe more.’
Striker nodded. ‘Did you clear the place?’
Wong jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘All the other apartments are unoccupied. In fact, she’s not even supposed to be in here. This place was condemned over a month ago. Everyone was supposed to have moved out by now. Who knows why she’s even here.’
‘She’s in here because she had nowhere else to go. You got the manager’s number?’
‘In the car.’
Striker forced a smile. ‘Well, we can’t read it from here.’
Wong clued in and left the room. When Striker heard the young constable’s police boots clomping down the steps, he focused his attention back on the dead girl before him. He tried to think of her as ‘the body’ or ‘the deceased’.
As anything but Mandy.
It was impossible. His conscience would not allow it. Memories hit him, and all of them sad. He had hoped she would escape this place. This area. This rotten city altogether. But like so many others before her, she hadn’t left. And in the end, she’d found her own way out.
The only way she knew.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I should have done more.’
He reached out and gently touched her face.
And he frowned.
She was still slightly warm.
A thought occurred to him. He stood back up from Mandy Gill’s body, walked into the kitchenette, and approached the stove. On it sat a carton of milk. He touched it.
It was still cool.
Not a lot of time had passed since the woman’s death – too much for any hope of resuscitation, but not a lot in terms of a crime scene. And every Sudden Death had to be considered a crime until ruled otherwise. He took out his pen and notebook, and wrote down: Time? When he looked back up again, his eyes found the throw-rug on the floor and lingered there.
The rug was an old thing, probably something Mandy had snagged from the Salvation Army or the First United Church. Green threadbare fabric, just like the recliner, with dirty yellow flower designs.
But the colour and pattern were not what stole Striker’s attention – it was the strands of the carpet. The indentations in the weave. And the more he looked at it, the more he realized that the chair had been moved from its normal resting spot. Now it was angled westward. Facing out of the window.
It was odd.
Had Mandy wanted to watch the setting sun during her death? The timing would seem to suggest so. And if not, what had she been looking at?
Striker approached the window. Outside, the dusk was slipping slowly by. In the coming twilight, streaks of blood-orange sun blistered the charcoal sky, making the world look warmer than it actually was.
Three storeys down, the next neighbouring lot was vacant.
Striker scanned the area. The lot was filled with construction debris from the demolished house. He was about to focus his attention back on the room and begin sorting through Mandy’s articles when something outside the window caught his eye – a glint of something metallic in the sun’s fading rays. On the ledge, just outside the window, was a small object with a circular glass front.
A camera.
It was facing inside the room.
Striker grabbed on to the window and tried to lift it, but time and rot had caused the frame to swell. As a result, the window was wedged tight. Impossible to open.
Whoever had placed the camera on the ledge had done so from the outside.
Striker considered this. He leaned forward for a closer look, then heard a soft, raspy sound behind him. He spun around, not knowing what to expect.
After a short moment, he relaxed. It was just air escaping the body – a normal occurrence during the beginning of decomposition. Relieved, he turned back to focus on the window once more. What he saw shocked him.
The camera was gone.
Four
The Lucky Lodge was small for a rooming house. Each floor had only three units per side, and each unit was an SRO – Single Room Occupancy. Because of this, there were only six rooms on the third floor, and only three of them faced west – one on either side of Mandy Gill’s unit.
The window ledge where the camera had been set lay closer to the south neighbour than the north, so Striker headed for unit 305. He kept his pistol drawn and made his way towards the hall.
Without the ambience of Constable Wong’s flashlight, the darkness of the complex seemed thicker than before. Deeper. And as if to make the situation even harder for him, the blazing orange light of dusk faded completely as the sun slipped in behind the blackish western cloud banks.
Striker stood behind the cover of the door frame and angled his flashlight. It was a mini Maglite. It didn’t hold a candle to the full-sized ones patrol members used, but it was all he had. He rotated the lens to turn the narrow beam brighter and shone it down the hall.
Everything was still. All the doors were closed.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he yelled. ‘Make yourself known!’
No reply came back, only silence.
For a moment, Striker considered waiting for Constable Wong. Rookie or not, two cops always gave better odds – and that was on the assumption that there would be only one threat awaiting him in the other room.
But thoughts of a suspect escaping ate away at him. He readied his pistol and slowly moved down the hall. When he reached the door to unit 305, he stopped. Listened.
Nothing but silence.
He reached out and grabbed the doorknob. The steel was cold to the touch. When he turned it, the knob refused to move. It was locked from the inside.
‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker said again. ‘I know you’re in there. I need to talk to you about the tenant in the next suite. Open the door.’
Again there was only silence. And then . . . .
A sound.
It took Striker less than a second to identify it – the soft, scraping noise of a window being raised.
He took a quick step back, then jumped forward and kicked the heel of his foot between the doorknob and frame. Entry took only two kicks. The steel lock remained intact, but the rotting wood of the frame let loose a loud snaaaap! and broke inwards. The door flew back, slammed into the wall, and Striker aimed his gun and flashlight all around the room, hitting each of the four corners.
No one was there.
He quickly surveyed the room. The layout was a mirror image of Mandy Gill’s unit. Kitchenette, cot, washroom and main sitting area, all in one. The kitchen was vacant. The underside of the cot was visible with no one beneath it. And the bathroom had no one inside.
The window was wide open.
‘Fuck,’ Striker growled.
He hurried across the room to the window and looked down at the vacant lot below. With the sun all but gone, the shadows were wider and deeper. Everything was grey and black now. Impossible to distinguish.
There were many places to hide.
Striker assessed it all – from the huge commercial garbage bins of the back lane, to the underground parking lot on Gore Avenue, to the heavy row of bushes that flanked the communal area of the Prior Street Park.
Everywhere he looked there were escape routes.
He spotted Constable Wong returning from his patrol car.
‘Cover the southwest corner!’ Striker ordered. ‘Someone just took off from this room! Call for more units and a dog. I’ll take northwest!’
The young constable froze, though for only an instant, before nodding and racing south. When he disappeared behind the curve of the next building, Striker turned back and ran for the doorway. He was barely halfway across the kitchenette when his shoes caught on something. He stopped running, looked down. In the dimness of the room, the objects he had stepped on were not easy to define, so he shone his flashlight on them.
Not plastic, but wire. Trays of some kind.
Refrigerator trays.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when the fridge door came flying open. It hit Striker with enough force to send him reeling backwards. He landed hard on the floor, and rolled. He raised the gun, shoved his back tight against the far wall, and readied himself for an attack.
But none came.
He looked across the room. Racing for the window was a figure – average height. Lean build. Dark clothes.
‘Stop! Police!’ Striker ordered.
But the suspect ignored him.
Striker scrambled to his feet and dived towards the window – but the man was fast. He was already three-quarters of the way out by the time Striker reached him. He grabbed on to the suspect’s hand and yank him back. But it was too late. The suspect slipped out of reach, and Striker was left standing there, clutching one of the man’s black leather gloves.
The man plummeted three storeys down. No scream, just silence. He hit the crabgrass, rolled down the small slope of hill, then got back to his feet.
Striker tried to flood the man with light from his flashlight, but from three storeys up the beam was too weak. All he saw was black clothing. A dark hoodie. And beneath that, what appeared to be a black leather mask. The suspect leaned down and picked up his camera. Then, for a brief moment, he looked back up at the window.
‘Don’t move!’ Striker ordered.
But the man ignored him again; he turned and raced into the shadows of the south lane. And then he was gone.
