Part 5 (1/2)

”Like TripAdvisor?” Milton said bleakly, quite happy to make Astor squirm a little more.

”Please,” he gasped. ”I can't breathe.”

Milton pulled his arm away and stepped back. He folded the piece of paper and put it into his pocket.

”What are you doing?” Astor said.

Milton eyed him.

”Give that back.”

Milton punched him in the gut, a stiff right-hand uppercut that bent him over. He grabbed the lapels of Astor's jacket and hauled him up until they were eye to eye again. ”Don't ever go there again.”

”I w-w-won't,” he gasped out between gasps for breath.

Milton left him there and walked back toward the brothel.

Chapter Ten.

MILTON HELD the piece of paper that he had taken from Astor and stared at it, thinking. There didn't seem to be any point in waiting. He had confirmation that Nadia was in the brothel, and he didn't want to leave her there any longer than necessary.

There was little to be gained by planning, either. He had broken into places more heavily secured than the flat, and he could already think of two ways that he could address this one.

The first was the direct approach, but he knew it was unlikely to work. The cage door was a significant obstacle, and, if he was unable to get in, he wasn't interested in leaving a record of his presence on the hard drive that the security camera would be connected to.

The second approach was to use subterfuge and misdirection. That was more appealing. And Milton could do subtle.

He retraced his steps back along New Wanstead until he reached the building. It was four o'clock now and nothing had changed: the same steady flow of traffic, pedestrians walking by on both sides of the road.

He crossed over to the vet's, made his way through the car park to his Polo and got inside. He could see the entrance to the building through the windscreen, together with another twenty metres to the right. The view to the left was obscured by a fence. It was a good enough view for what he needed to do.

He took out his phone and the small Bluetooth speaker he kept in the glove box. He connected the phone and the speaker, found the Faith No More playlist he had put together last night, and, as ”Ashes to Ashes” played out, he settled down to wait.

MILTON HAD only listened to three tracks before he saw a possible candidate walking toward the block of flats from the east. It was a man dressed much like Astor, in an overcoat and suit. He paused when he was ten metres from the property, took out his phone and referred to something on the screen. A map, perhaps. Directions. He walked on, stopped at the gap in the wall, and looked up and down the road.

Milton could see that he was nervous. He switched off the music and watched as the man turned off the road and made his way down the path to the front door.

Milton took his chance. He stepped out of the car and crossed the car park.

The man hesitated again; Milton waited until he pressed the intercom and leaned forward to speak into it, crossing the road between two cars as the man pushed the door open and walked inside.

Milton walked briskly, crossed the pavement and made his way to the door. He could see the man inside, just making his way through the lobby to the corridor beyond.

Milton entered the code on the keypad, waited for the lock to buzz open and went inside.

He paused at the letterboxes, opened one and pretended to look through the junk mail that had been stuffed inside. He could see the door to number two. The man was waiting there.

Milton knew that he would have to judge this to perfection; timing was everything.

He heard a deadbolt slide back and looked up as the glow of the lights from inside the flat leaked out into the corridor.

Milton heard voices.

”Phillip?”

The name was p.r.o.nounced with a harsh, guttural accent.

”Yes.”

”Come in.”

The man stepped back. There was the sound of a second deadlock sliding back and then a creak as the cage was opened. Milton dropped the letters and left the lobby, walking straight on past the staircase and into the corridor. The man he had followed from the street had stepped inside. A second man, well over six feet tall and heavily built, had stepped out into the corridor to let him pa.s.s. He was reaching for the cage door when Milton reached him.

”Excuse me,” Milton said.

”What do you want?”

Milton a.s.sessed him: six two, two hundred and fifty pounds. He was wearing jeans and a cut-off T-s.h.i.+rt that revealed sleeves of tattoos on both arms. He had a nose that looked like it might have been broken a few times in the past; small, mean, dark nuggets for eyes; and, above them, a thick, slab-like brow. A shaven head, with the faded track of a scar that curled from the point of his right ear around to the back of his head.

”This is Agincourt?”

The man glared at him.

”I'm looking for flat three.”

”Upstairs,” he said.

Milton was smaller than the man: two inches shorter and at least thirty pounds lighter. He doubted that the man would have realised the threat that he presented, and, certainly, he seemed content enough as he reached out for the bars to close the cage.

Milton stepped up, two quick steps, transferring his momentum into the straight jab that he landed square on the man's nose. Milton put his weight behind the punch and followed all the way through, aiming at a point six inches behind the man's head.

The man staggered backwards into the flat, and Milton followed him inside. Phillip was just inside the door, and both Milton and the big man tumbled past him. Milton glanced around quickly and saw the exact same layout as the flat that he had visited upstairs: kitchen to the left, corridor with doors ahead of him on both sides, another two doors at the end.

The big man stumbled back, but quickly recovered his balance. Milton followed up, throwing a left-right-left combination into his ribs and then both sides of his head, but the man had raised his guard and only the left cross into his ribs found its mark. Milton punched again with another right; the man managed to snag Milton's wrist, hauled him closer and b.u.t.ted him in the face.

Milton saw stars and tried to free his wrist. The man had a firm grip, and, before Milton could loosen it, he lashed out with a left hook that caught Milton on the side of his jaw.

Milton opened and closed his mouth, feeling the click of the loosened bones.

Two trailers of blood were running freely from the big man's nostrils; he reached up and swiped the side of his hand across his top lip, looking down at the blood on his finger and then wiping it against his trousers.

”You are dead man.”

There was a radiator fixed to the wall of the corridor with a wooden mantel atop it. A mobile phone had been left there, next to a china bowl that contained a handful of change and a set of keys. There was a b.u.t.terfly knife next to the bowl. The man collected it and, with a nasty flourish, he flicked his wrist and snapped the blade open. The man lowered himself into a well-balanced crouch and, pa.s.sing the knife from hand to hand, he started forward.

Milton backed away from him.