Page 52 of Savage Reckoning

“Fucking archaic country,” I mutter, though really, we shouldn’t complain. It’s saved us a walk.

The pilot stays with the chopper while Rome and I hop down and sprint across the parking lot and around the base of the block of flats to arrive at the main entrance. We’re spared the bother of forcing our way in by the fact that a woman in a nurse’s uniform is just leaving as we arrive. I nod to her and grab the door before it can close.

We take the lift to the eleventh floor to emerge on a dingy landing that smells of urine and weed. There are three doors, numbered thirty-one, thirty-two, and thirty-three.

I start by knocking on number thirty-one.

It’s answered by a painfully thin girl, no older than seventeen at best, with a squalling infant balanced on her hip.

“Oh,” she greets us. “I thought you were someone else.” She makes to close the door.

My foot in the doorway puts a stop to that. “We’re looking for someone.”

“There’s no one here.” She shoves the door harder.

“What about your brother? Boyfriend?”

“What the fuck is this? I told you…”

“We need to check, honey. If you could just let us in it won’t take a moment.”

“You’re not—”

“Excuse us.” I barge the door open and step around her into the hallway of the flat.

The girl screeches behind us as we check each room. It doesn’t take long. The place consists of a scruffy, untidy lounge littered with empty food wrappers, dirty baby’s bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. A plastic mat is spread on the sofa, a nappy and pack of wipes beside it.

“Sorry about this,” Rome mutters.

He heads for the one bedroom while I check out the kitchen, then the bathroom.

We turn up nothing.

“Do you have a computer, miss?” Rome asks.

“A what? Do I look like I have a fucking computer?”

I have to admit, it seems unlikely.

“Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am,” I say and gesture to Rome. We’re done here.

“You want to talk to that nerd next door if it’s fucking computers you’re interested in,” the girl spits. She has to raise her voice to be heard above the yowling baby.

I halt in the hallway. “Nerd next door?”

“Yes. Number thirty-three. He’s always gettin’ stuff delivered. He’ll be on the Amazon Christmas card list, he will.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“How would I know? Techy stuff. I sometimes take the parcels in for him if he’s not there.”

Rome’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder. “You’ve been very helpful, miss.” He extracts two fifty-pound notes from his inside jacket pocket. “Here, treat yourself and the little one. Sorry for the disturbance.”

She gapes at the money for maybe a split second before grabbing it and stuffing it down the front of her top. “Anytime,” she splutters.

Outside on the landing once more, we eye the door to number thirty-three.

“We could just knock,” Rome suggests.

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