Free Ratcatcher by Tim Stevens

than six hours, he estimated. There was no wallet or phone. Purkiss hoisted him back into the freezer, closed the lid.
    Vale said: ‘Why would Fallon leave his book in Seppo’s flat after killing him?’
    ‘He didn’t. I mean, he lives there too. That was his room I found the book in. The clothes in the cupboard are his size. Seppo and Fallon were sharing that flat.’
    The silence grew. ‘John, this has got me. I’ll need to think about it.’ The rustle, as always, of cigarette paper. ‘I do have something for you, though. Elle Klavan. She’s an active agent.’
    ‘Doing what?’
    ‘I haven’t got that sort of information yet. All I have is confirmation that she’s with Little Sister, as in not ‘ex’. I can make discreet enquiries at the Embassy over there.’
    ‘That’s useful.’ Most SIS personnel operated out of the embassies or consulates in the host country. He was walking fast to burn off adrenaline. ‘What do you want me to do with the body?’
    ‘Leave it. It’ll keep for a few days.’
    It made sense. Tipping off the police now could be awkward, especially as Purkiss’s DNA was all over the flat.
    ‘Also,’ said Purkiss, ‘there’s video surveillance in the flat.’ He’d spotted the tiny lens at the back of the fireplace just before leaving, hadn’t seen it the first time he’d searched the place because he hadn’t been looking for it. ‘I’m assuming Fallon set it up to see who came looking for Seppo.’
    He told Vale he’d call back later. After reaching the Old Town square, he spent a few minutes in the side streets, trying to find the internet café he’d spotted on his way earlier. Inside it smelled of coffee and tourists. When a machine was free he sat and slotted the memory stick into one of the ports. The box that came up told him the entire stick was password protected.
    Purkiss bought a paper cup of coffee the size of a small bucket and left the warmth of the café. He phoned Abby.
    ‘How soon can you get here?’
    ‘There’s a six a.m. flight, so, eleven tomorrow morning your time? I’ve already booked it.’
    He shook his head. ‘What if I hadn’t needed you to come?’
    ‘You always need me. Anyway, I’d have put the cancellation fee on expenses.’ Her voice dropped a notch. ‘Anything the matter, boss? You sound… I don’t know.’
    ‘I’m all right.’ He checked his watch. Ten forty-five. ‘Could you do something else for me?’
     
    *
     
    She called back within the hour. He’d wandered about the town, frustration gnawing at him, unease flickering on the periphery of his sensory fields. The face staring at him turned out to be somebody trying to read a restaurant menu near his head. The man who stumbled spraying red onto the cobbles hadn’t been stabbed, but had simply spilled a bottle of red wine after a glass too many. When the phone vibrated he tensed.
    ‘We’re in luck. All the flats in the block are owned by the same landlord.’ She gave a name and address. ‘It’s walking distance from where you are.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you found out if he’s at home this evening, did you?’
    She paused. ‘No, but I –’
    ‘Only joking. Great work, Abby.’
     
    *
     
    Over the chain stretched taut across the crack of the door the man’s eyes were black and baleful. He was old, a dressing gown open over a grubby vest.
    ‘Mr Väljas?’
    The man’s face clenched. Purkiss thought it was because he’d spoken Russian.
    ‘Apologies for disturbing you so late.’
    The man muttered something.
    ‘Sorry, I have no Estonian.’
    In Russian the old man said, ‘It’s nearly midnight.’
    ‘Sorry again. I have a question about one of your tenants.’
    ‘Who are you?’
    He held up his open passport. ‘My name’s Hughes. I’m a debt collector.’
    ‘English?’ The man’s tone softened, though he made no move to lift the chain.
    ‘Yes. The tenant’s Jaak Seppo. He owes tens of thousands in unpaid rent back in London. I traced him here but