Free Ratcatcher by Tim Stevens Page A

he’s not at home. You’re listed online as the landlord.’
    The fury was back in the eyes. Purkiss realised it wasn’t directed at him. The door closed,  reopened with the chain off. Inside it stank of sweat and onions and fried meat.
    The man was shaking his head. ‘I knew he was up to no bloody good.’
    ‘He’s behind on the rent with you?’
    ‘No. He’s always been regular. Been there –’ He screwed up his face. ‘Three years? No trouble at all. Then, one day, I find he’s got someone else living there. A man. Not homosexual stuff, the guy’s got his own room. I tell Seppo I think he’s taken in a lodger. Subletting. He says no, the man’s his friend, staying a few months.’
    Purkiss let some of his eagerness show through. His pulse was hammering. ‘Did you meet this other man?’
    ‘Sure. Pleasant enough fellow. Name of –’ He broke off, suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Because Seppo had an associate in London, who was also involved in fleecing the landlords.’
    ‘Son of a bitch.’ An elderly woman appeared halfway down the stairs. He barked at her and she fled. He picked his way across the cluttered living room to a sideboard, rummaged in a drawer, found a notepad. ‘Julian Fisher.’
    It meant nothing. ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘Forties. Average in everything. Friendly smile.’
    ‘Like that?’ Purkiss had downloaded the photo of Fallon to his new phone. The man peered at it.
    ‘That’s him, yeah.’
    ‘How long has he been staying in the flat?’
    The man turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Three, four months. Haven’t seen either of them for about a fortnight. Lots of properties to keep an eye on.’
    ‘And you said it was okay for this Fisher to stay?’
    ‘Wasn’t thrilled about it, but I’m a nice guy, and Seppo’s been a good tenant over the years. You should see some of the arseholes I get. I asked his friend a bit about himself, what he did and so on. He was quite forthcoming. He’s working his way around the Baltics, doing small jobs to pay his way while he travels. Seems a bit old to be doing that sort of thing, but hey, live and let live.’
    ‘Did he say what work he was doing now?’
    ‘Bartender at Paradiis . You know it? Shithole of a nightclub out east. Always in the news. Drug raids, stabbings, you name it. He’d stick out like a sore thumb there.’
    Purkiss didn’t think so. Fallon’s unremarkable appearance meant he could adapt himself uncannily to any environment. He nodded.
    ‘Mr Väljas, you’ve been a great help. Thanks.’
    ‘You catch these guys, you cut their balls off for me, okay?’
     
    *
     
    Out east meant a couple of kilometres outside the Old Town. He flagged down a taxi, sat in the back and willed himself to relax without letting the fatigue overwhelm him. The driver navigated crowds of young whooping party animals. At one point Purkiss recognised the main road where the pursuit earlier had started and ended.
    The entrance to the club was unprepossessing. A small pink neon sign flashed the name, Paradiis , over a blue martini glass. From across the street Purkiss could see a dark archway with steps leading up under an awning and two bouncers in the shadows at the top. People were streaming up there but there was no queue. It was too early for that, just after midnight. He walked up the steps. The door opened in a blast of bass-driven noise.
    The bouncers were mirror-eyed walls of meat in tight, shiny black suits. They stared at Purkiss’s rumpled jacket and shirt and chinos, and motioned for him to step aside. They frisked him, one taking the upper body and one the legs. He was a little rough round the edges after the chase earlier, so he supposed he looked as if he might cause trouble. The torso man found his wallet, held it up as if it were a weapon. Purkiss didn’t want to draw attention by making a fuss. He made a show of sighing in resignation, peeled off a couple of notes. The bouncer grinned goldly and clapped