Maltese Steel Page 8

  The river was dry, probably had been for nearly a hundred years by the look of the trees and bushes growing there. Now Steel understood why Brad wanted to get to the bridge.

  Below, in the dried-up stream, it was the perfect cover. With plenty of undergrowth to get lost in, and Steel would have little chance of finding him. Brad turn, his smile got broader, he moved as if to give Steel the bird, but he never got the chance.

  Brad suddenly spun around, knocked off his feet like he had just been hit by a bus.

  As Steel ran towards Brad, there was a crowd starting to gathered. There were people taking photos with their cell phones, others were trying to hold people back. At the same time, some struggled to get closer, including an elderly couple. Steel heard screaming, then he saw the blood pooling from the body. Steel pushed his way through the gathered crowds and saw Brad’s twisted body. Steel pushed everyone away and began compressions. As he pushed down, blood fountained from a wound in Brad’s chest, forcing the people back. Steel looked at the wound, confused at first. Why hadn’t he seen it before? The hole was tiny, possibly five centimetres in diameter, possibly from a .22 calibre weapon.

  ‘Call for an ambulance,’ Steel yelled as he put his hands on the wound to try and control the bleeding. That’s when he felt the boy’s body grow still.

  Brad’s heart was no longer beating.

  Steel looked down at the body. Brad’s brown eyes are staring up into space, cold and vacant. As Steel checked Brad’s pockets, he made it look like he was searching for other wounds. A little trick he’d picked up over the years. He had found a cell phone, bits of junk, and a wallet. But Steel only needed Brand’s cell phone.

  ‘Did someone get an ambulance?’ Steel shouted to the crowd. He looked up to a mass of blank faces.

  His temper boiled.

  ‘Idiots!’ he shouted. ‘Instead of filming this, why don’t you try calling for help? And you can forget the ambulance. He’s already dead,’ Steel growled angrily, pushing through the crowd and making his way down the road, back to the restaurant.

  At the restaurant, Steel ordered a coffee and asked to use the toilets to wash up. Steel had figured someone would have mentioned what had happened, which saved him a long drawn out account of the events. Just that the blood belonged to the victim and that Steel had tried to save him – hence the blood-stained clothes. Surprisingly, the man behind the counter seemed happy with Steel’s account and even told him that the coffee was on the house for his efforts. The man behind the counter was short, his black hair was thinning and parted to one side. There was a pencil moustache above his thin-lipped mouth and deep-set dark eyes.

  Steel thanked the man, and headed for the bathroom, hoping to clean off as much of the blood from his hands and clothing that he could. After about ten minutes of scrubbing with soap and paper towels, Steel had removed most of Brad’s blood, but there were still traces on the sides and in the folds of the fingers. He felt anger, anger that someone had taken a man’s life so coldly.

  Steel made his way outside the restaurant and found a small corner in the shade so he wouldn’t put off future customers. The man from behind the counter had brought Steel a small black coffee with a glass of water. Steel thanked the man for his generosity and waited until the man had left before pulling out Brad’s cell from his pocket. Steel switched the phone on but found it was password-protected.

  Something Steel had expected. He pulled out his own phone and pressed an icon on display and switched on a cloning programme. Steel could copy all the information on Brad’s phone, but it would take time depending on how much crap Brad had on his. A picture came up on Steel’s phone that showed two phones and a long bar in the middle, this would show how much was had been copied. Steel sat and enjoyed the coffee, all the while, playing through what had happened on the bridge. Each time he thought it through, something irritated him, something was off. Someone or something seemed wrong.

  By the time the police arrived, Steel had was on his second small coffee, and the programme had finished copying. Steel had been just looking through a navigation app that Brad had been using when the cop arrived.

  Steel had figured there was no point disappearing and drawing the police to the wrong conclusion. Besides, he would have to talk to them soon enough anyway, if only to find out what they knew about Lucy’s death.

  The cop who came to see him was young but seemed experienced. He was tall with an athletic figure. He had a natural tan and thick black hair. The blue of his shirt matched the black tie and peaked hat. He had his notebook in his hand as he approached.

  Very professional.

  Steel just sat near the door and watched the commotion near the body.

  ‘Hello, sir, I am Constable Gatt ’ said the police officer, in a surprisingly deep voice.

  ‘Hi,’ Steel rose up out of his chair. ‘John Steel.’ Steel went to shake the guy’s hand but paused. Despite washing his hands in the bathroom of the café, it did not seem enough.

  ‘Witnesses said you tried to save the man, is that correct?’ said Gatt. Steel nodded as he looked past the officer to the men from the coroner’s office as they loaded the body into the back of a black government van.

  ‘They also said you were chasing the man, just before he was killed,’ Gatt said, as he straightened himself out as if to make himself look bigger.

  ‘His name was Brad West. He had information I needed. He was the ex-boyfriend of my God-daughter,’ Steel’s voice gave off no sign of emotion. His words were as stone as his expression. ‘Her name was Lucy Foster if that helps.’

  The cop looked up from his scribbling in his notebook and stared into the black lenses of Steel’s sunglasses. ‘Lucy Foster you say…?’ Gatt said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, she died a few days ago up at a place called Azure Window. A friend asked me to come over,’ Steel said. The constable wrote it down in his notebook.

  ‘I’m staying at the Grand Excelsior Hotel if you have more questions, Constable,’ Steel said.

  Gatt made a note in his book.

  Steel saw Gatt took down everything in that book.

  Very efficient.

  Very professional.

  There was a buzz on his radio. Someone in the control room gave a message in Maltese.

  The cop looked over to Steel and smiled.

  Steel returned his look with one of confusion. Was he in trouble?

  ‘Mr Steel, Sergeant Burlo, would like to see you. At the station,’ said the cop. Steel thought for a moment. Sergeant Burlo was the cop Foster had mentioned. He was the one in charge of Lucy’s case. Coincidence? He did not really believe in them.

  ‘OK,’ Steel replied. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’ll take you, don’t want you getting lost on the way, do we?’ Gatt said sarcastically.

  Chapter Twenty

  The police department wasn’t too far away from the scene. Just a couple of minutes walk, and Steel was at the Mosta Rotunda. Steel felt the curious eyes on him as he was led to the station. He was a man covered in blood being escorted by the police. Steel thought of the many images that might have sprung into peoples minds. Was he a killer or a victim?

  The blood had dried into the material and was now ruined. Steel doubted even an excellent dry cleaner could do any with it apart from burning it.

  Mosta police station wasn’t hard to miss. It was a two-story building stood right next to the Rotunda. Outside there were flags on poles and a strange honeycomb statue. A palm tree sat in a small garden area. But what made Steel smile was the red British telephone box next to a park bench.

  ‘Nice touch,’ Steel thought.

  Steel walked into the main lobby of the station. The cold air from its air-con smacked him in the face like a wet towel. It felt good, but with all this hot-cold-hot-cold, he was chancing to catch something. Steel saw there was a male uniformed officer behind a long wooden counter. The three bars on his epaulettes indicated the guy was a sergeant. Probably the desk sergeant, Steel figured. He was a
n older guy, possibly in his late forties. He was tall and lean with a short army-style haircut. Steel thought this guy must have been in the Force when the Brits had the island. Steel saw the nameplate on the guy's shirt. It said Mamo.

  ‘This could be good, or this could be bad,’ Steel thought. He wasn’t sure of the situation with the Brits and the Maltese people, especially the cops.

  Steel did not know. All he knew was that as soon as he opened his mouth and that British accent came flooding out, the guy behind the desk would do one of two things. Greet him with kindness or find an excuse to lock him up.

  ‘He’s here to see Sergeant Burlo,’ Gatt said. Mamo nodded and pressed a buzzer to release the door catch. There was an electronic whine, and the door to the secure part of the station clicked open. Gatt opened the door wide and let Steel go in first.

  Steel was led through one dogleg corridor after another. The walls were a very light grey colour, which was well illuminated by the long halogen strip lights above. The Battleship grey vinyl floor shone with cleanliness, but still revealed black scrapes where fresh boot polish left a mark.

  Steel was led down a left-hand corridor with doors to the left and right – each one with a distinctive shield on them.

  Interrogation Room and a number.

  Steel was led to number five.

  Why? He had no idea.

  Maybe the others were full, perhaps whoever was going to talk to him, their favourite number was five.

  But it did not matter.

  Whatever the case. Steel knew then, and there this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat.

  Steel knew interrogation rooms. He’d seen a lot of them – worked in a lot of them, been a prisoner in a few of them. He’d been in Police ones, military ones – terrorist ones, all kinds. But they all were designed to do one thing – intimidate the person in them.

  Steel took a seat facing the sizeable two-way mirror. The room was small, ten-by-ten feet at the most. In the centre of the room was a small oblong table, and four chairs. There were cameras in each corner and the microphone in the middle of the metal table. The walls were a putrid yellow, and the floor was the same grey vinyl as the hallways. It was a standard interrogation room.

  And Steel was in it.

  The door opened, and a small framed female officer brought a mug of coffee and a hand full of milk and sugar in sachets. She smiled and placed them in front of Steel. She stared him straight in the face.

  Her eyes searching. For what Steel did not know. It wasn’t a ‘stare a psycho in the eyes and see why he did it,’ look, it was more ‘what do I make of this guy’ assessment.

  She was an attractive woman, but not his type.

  His type right now would be tall, slender and holding the keys to the place saying ‘let’s get you out of here.’ But she’d brought him coffee – whether it was her decision or not, it didn’t matter.

  He needed coffee and they’d at least done that – or at least or whatever it was. The dark brown sludge reinforced Steel’s thinking all police stations bought from the same crappy dealer.

  The milk and sugar they had given him did not make it taste any better, if anything, it was worse.

  Steel leaned back in the chair and stared into the mirror as he ran through things in his mind. Rewinding the events in his mind, searching his memory for a clue to the shooter. The calibre was too small for a long shot, and too many people in the way. Plus, there was a hell of a lot of bridge. Whoever had shot Brad had been facing him. There were plenty of pedestrians, and the only vehicles were travelling past Brad, not towards him. So a drive-by was out of the question. And besides, Steel would have seen such a shooter.

  The door opened, and a big, plainclothes cop walked in and sat down in front of Steel. Steel noted the white shirt with the thin blue stripes that ran down it, together with his blue trousers and brown shoes. He imagined there was a casual suit jacket to match the pants somewhere in the building. Burlo was a detective, and so had an appearance to maintain. Steel imagined his cars were pristine, both work and off-duty. He had short black hair and Greek God facial features most Western men would kill for.

  Steel had noticed that about Malta, all the women were beautiful and all the men relatively handsome. Still, he had seen the same thing in most Mediterranian countries.

  Burlo placed a paper carryout a cup from a local coffee shop next to a tan-coloured file.

  Good choice, Steel thought, looking at the coffee mug in his own hand.

  ‘So Mr Steel, or do you prefer Lord Steel,’ Burlo said. ‘Or, how about Detective Steel of the NYPD?’

  Steel said nothing.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Gann Burlo,’ the guy said. He opened a leather organiser and placed a chrome ballpoint on the white legal pad. ‘You got a lot of titles, makes a man wonder,’ Burlo growled the words. His voice was deep, not gravelly like a blues singer, just deep like it came from his boots rather than his throat. Steel could imagine the guy in the local choir, singing all those deep notes. The thought of Lee Marvin singing ‘wanding star slipped into Steel’s head, and made him smile inside.

  Good song, great movie.

  Steel said nothing.

  Steel looked over, his eyes were thankfully hidden by his sunglasses. He could see Burlo was pissed, and probably with good reason. After all, Steel was pissing in Burlo’s pond.

  ‘So, what the hell you doing here, sir. I sure hope it’s a vacation and not an… investigation?’ Burlo looked Steel over.

  Burlo had pulled Steel’s records, not that there was much there. Time in the British Armed Forces emigrated to the US and joined the SEAL teams, after that, he was working homicide with the NYPD.

  It was enough to worry about him.

  ‘A friend invited me over. He had a death in the family. He asked me to…’ Steel paused for a moment as if finding the right words that wouldn’t land him in jail. ‘…Have a look. To see what may have happened. He knows I work with the NYPD and hoped I could assist.’

  Burlo rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair.

  ‘And the name of this friend?’ Burlo asked. The tip of the pen hovered over the blank sheet of paper, ready to scribble down any relevant information.

  ‘Marcus Foster,’ Steel said, his voice was cold. Steel had already had enough of this guy. Burlo was just doing his job, but he was wasting Steel’s precious time.

  Burlo stopped writing and looked over at Steel. ‘Marcus Foster…as in the Lucy Foster suicide?’ he said.

  ‘If you say so,’ Steel shrugged.

  ‘There is nothing to investigate, accident or suicide. No foul play, as you New York cops might say,’ Burlo said. Tossing the pen onto the pad and sat back in his chair.

  Steel felt the irritation from Burlo. Which Steel considered reasonable. He wouldn’t like anyone pissing in his pond either. ‘What makes you think otherwise?’ Burlo said.

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t started yet,’ Steel lied.

  ‘You know it’s a waste of time,’ Burlo said, rocking on the back legs of the chair.

  Steel watched him for a moment. Wondering if Burlo meant it or if he was fishing?

  Cop tricks, they were all the same. Lead someone in a false sense of security, maybe they’ll let their guard down, let something slip.

  The funny thing was, Steel was doing the same to Burlo.

  Stalemate.

  ‘It’s my time to waste,’ Steel said.

  ‘Don’t you have bad guys to chase in New York?’ Burlo laughed.

  ‘I thought I’d give them a little vacation. I thought I’d work on something here.’ Steel’s voice was cold, detached, emotionless.

  ‘OK, Mr Steel, what have you found out about Lucy?’ Burlo asked, the veins in his temple throbbing. He knew that Steel had something, and that irritated the hell out of him.

  ‘You were there… you attended the scene?’ Steel asked.

  Burlo nodded slowly.

  Steel took a sip from the coffee, just to put some moisture back into h
is lips.

  ‘I spoke to Lucy’s friend, Zoe Keen, asked her if she knew anything or if there were any problems with anyone. That’s when she pointed me in the direction of Lucy’s ex-boyfriend…literary as it happens. I followed him as he was heading for Zoe’s place of work. For some reason, he appeared to be tracking her on his cell phone. When I approached, he bolted. He was afraid of something… and it wasn’t me,’ Steel explained. ‘I chased him to the bridge, and that’s where it happened. I did not see a shooter and judging by the hole, it was a low-calibre bullet, probably a .22 or something similar,’ Steel said.

  Burlo saw the puzzled look on Steel’s face. He could see Steel was struggling with something.

  ‘What is it?’ Burlo asked.

  ‘If it had been a sniper, he would have needed to get into position and set up, that takes time. So if not a sniper, who? There was traffic about, but it was going in the wrong direction. So it could not have been a drive-by shooting, plus the traffic was moving too fast, so there was no clear shot. There were plenty of people about…’ Steel stopped in mid-sentence. Searching his memory of the bridge for clues to the shooter.

  ‘What is it?’ Burlo asked, leaning forwards intently.g

  ‘On the bridge,’ Steel said, replaying the scene in his head. ‘People were stood around, taking photographs. There was a woman with a pram, she was getting the hell out of there. Also, an old man and what I presume was his wife, they were trying to get to Brad,’ Steel added.

  ‘Maybe she used to be a nurse, wanted to help?’ Burlo said. Steel shrugged.

  ‘Possible, but there was something strange about them,’ Steel said. His mind straining to reconjure the image.

  ‘Strange how?’ Burlo asked.

  ‘The way they moved and held themselves, it was almost like you see on tv. Like a young person playing the roll of an older one.’ Steel said. His gaze locked into space as though all he could see were his memories. Burlo made a note of the people hoping to get a view on CCTV camera of them.