Free Vendetta by Dreda Say Mitchell Page A

card by the mug. As soon as he picked it up, the scent that Elena wore rose up to him. He placed the card near his nose. Everything she touched seemed to carry a whiff of perfume. Inhaled deeply. Liquorice mixed with another fragrance that always reminded him of his grandmother baking cupcakes.
    Thinking of yesterdays was going to get him no closer to finding her killer. He pulled the card back. Black writing against a simple white background:
    Club Zee
    No address, no email, no phone number.
    He hadn’t heard her mention the club before and it wasn’t a place that had come up in any of his investigations. He started to toss it back on the table – then his hand froze. The scent made it feel like she was in his arms, and putting the card back was like he was losing her all over again. He shoved it into his pocket.
    Scanned the room again. Only the tools of her trade, as the communication expert in the gang, were visible, including a shredder by the cast-iron Victorian fireplace. On a makeshift table was a high-end computer that had been handmade, together with an ‘in and out’ tray. Mac switched the computer on but the screen merely flickered and the machine refused to start. Next, he pulled off the lid of the shredder, but the machine was empty. Why put a shredder next to a fireplace? Unless you were burning something. He crouched down by the fire grate and emptied the remains of the last fire onto the carpet. The trouble with coal fires is that they don’t burn evenly; as Mac knew from previous investigations, it was surprising what could survive them. He began to sift through the debris but, as he did so, he stopped, listened and realised there were the slow, quiet but definite sounds of footsteps on the stairs.
    He pulled out his gun and took up position by the door to confront the intruder.
    A voice called out, ‘Have you found anything?’
    It was Little Miss Blonde Pigtails, halfway up the stairs. He put the Luger away and walked onto the landing. Only when he saw her did he remember his hands were covered in coal dust and soot. He knew he looked more suspicious than ever.
    He smiled. ‘No, I’m trying to find anything that might help.’
    She stood for a few moments before walking back down, but not before he saw the suspicion taking over her face again.
    Mac knew he had to work fast. In the remains of the fire, he found a charred photo. It looked like a family snap, but only two faces were visible, both of them men, wearing what looked like military uniforms. They both wore wide smiles. But he soon forgot the photo when he saw a powder-blue Post-it that was charred at one end. There was writing on it. He flipped it the right way. Read:
    ‘Get these documents to the big man in Hamburg. Don’t fuck up. Fuck up = death.’
    Death .
    The word bounced in his head and his brain started to move quickly. Who would have had the nerve to threaten her? Could it be the person who’d been sleeping on her sofa? No, he dismissed that. It didn’t make sense she’d offer shelter to someone who would kill her . . . unless Elena had done something to piss them off? His wound started pounding because he couldn’t think of one enemy she had. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. Started thinking again, more slowly this time.
    Fuck up = death.
    Who would have the authority to talk to her like that? Reuben gave the orders. Mac had seen with his own eyes what happened to those who didn’t obey orders. And sometimes to those who did. Mac considered the possibilities. Had Elena got something wrong? Or in her terror had she just abandoned her work? Not taken Reuben’s messages? Or just bolted?
    Mac slumped into the sofa. He did what Calum had told him to do. Sat down and considered the evidence. Motive?
    If Elena had botched up something important of Reuben’s then maybe he’d killed her and Mac was just meant to be collateral damage.
    Or if Reuben had found out that Mac was a cop, he would have killed the pair of