Imelda closed Ali’s profile and opened her browser. ‘I was right,’ she said. ‘Dalziel No. 5 was 2009 – a year after the Port Finish. Howard had just finished his chemo.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Gould, right clicking the window on the computer. The programme icons changed to content thumbnails – and an endless screed of Dalziel whisky documents filled the screen. ‘Why was he hiding all this shit?’

  Imelda opened another folder, then another, and another. She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing here – it’s all company paperwork.’

  Gould chewed his lip. ‘I didn’t know what we’d find, but it wasn’t this.’

  Imelda looked in the wing mirror. ‘I don’t like sitting here.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ said Gould, feeling the blood soaking into his seat.

  They huddled in the doorway, pressing the buzzer as the sound of engines blew towards them.

  ‘Yes?’

  A woman’s voice, lightly accented.

  ‘Mrs Sobieski?’ said Gould. ‘We were wondering if we could have a word with your son?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You are here for the finger?’

  An electric charge crackled over Gould’s skin. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  40

  ‘What is she talking about?’ hissed Imelda. ‘We already have Albie’s finger – it’s got his tattoo on it!’

  They were nearly at the second floor, and the pain in Gould’s leg was screaming.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Then why say yes?’

  ‘What am I supposed to say to that?’ said Gould. ‘Besides, it’s a wee trip down memory lane.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Rocking up at some flat, looking for a finger?’ said Gould, knocking the door to the apartment. ‘I haven’t done that since I was fifteen.’

  The door swung open. ‘Hello?’ said Mrs Sobieski.

  Gould smiled. ‘Hi,’ he said, holding the backpack over his bloodstain. ‘Thanks for letting us in. Is Jordan home?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, standing aside. ‘He’s been off school since it happened. Ready to go back now, I think, but, you know – I don’t want to push it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Gould, following the sound of explosions. ‘Through here?’

  ‘Yes, in the lounge room. On his Game Boy, of course!’

  Gould pushed open the door.

  The room was dominated by a gigantic television. Jordan Sobieski sat cross-legged in the crook of an armchair, eyes fixed on a flashing wargame.

  ‘Jordan!’ his mother shouted, knocking off his headphones with a cushion. ‘The police are here!’

  ‘Oh, we’re–’ Imelda started.

  ‘DI Sam Chalmers,’ said Gould, settling on the edge of the sofa as the TV went black. ‘Do I smell coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Sobieski. ‘There’s a pot if you’d like one.’

  ‘Couple of sugars would be great,’ said Gould.

  Mrs Sobieski turned to Imelda, who shook her head. ‘Two seconds, then,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, Jordan,’ said Gould, as she left the room. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, wee man.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ said Jordan, his pupils still adjusting to the absence of screen. He shifted the bowl of crisps from his lap.

  ‘Good. What can you tell us about the man who was hit by the car?’

  ‘He was–’

  ‘It is in his statement,’ interrupted his mother, frowning into the tray in her hands as she returned. ‘I don’t see how it will help to put him–’

  ‘We just need to confirm everything,’ said Imelda, laying a hand on Gould’s shoulder. ‘After a few days, sometimes people who’ve seen traumatic things change their minds, or remember new details.’

  Gould took his mug, then lifted the little jug and peered inside. ‘Double cream?’

  ‘Polish coffee,’ said Mrs Sobieski.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Gould, dropping a thick splodge into his little mug.

  ‘He was a wee guy,’ said Jordan. ‘But, like, solid, and he had his hair up.’

  ‘Up?’

  ‘Aye, like a man-bun. And he had gold teeth.’

  ‘You saw his teeth?’ said Imelda.

  Jordan gave her a gappy grin. ‘He smiled at me, and I saw his gold teeth, and I went to myself, “Mint, that guy’s got gold teeth.”’

  ‘That sounds pretty definitive,’ said Gould. ‘And he was Japanese, is that correct?’

  Jordan shrugged. ‘He was, like . . . an Asian guy?’

  ‘But you didn’t see his passport?’ said Gould. ‘I’m just putting the boy at ease, ma’am,’ he added, seeing Mrs Sobieski’s expression.

  Mrs Sobieski perched on the edge of her chair. ‘It was terrible. The car, it speeded up. Very deliberate. The sound’ – she covered her mouth – ‘I will never forget it.’

  ‘And you swallowed something at the moment of impact?’

  ‘Aye, man,’ said Jordan, standing up. ‘The car hits him, right? And I was eating a kiwi wi’ a spoon, right, so my mouth’s open, and the guy’s looking at his fags, so he doesn’t see the car, and then something flies out, and I swallow it, just . . . boom . . . like that, like, I didn’t mean to, it must have just came off in the crash, so it was in my mouth and–’

  ‘You swallowed his finger?’ said Imelda.

  Jordan nodded eagerly. ‘Want to see it?’

  ‘More than you would believe,’ said Gould.

  Imelda sat on the arm of the sofa, a hooked finger pressed to her lips.

  ‘You’re just in time,’ said Mrs Sobieski, smiling. ‘He did the poo only last hour.’

  ‘Peachy,’ said Gould.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Jordan, returning with a pale speck on his palm.

  Gould put out his hand. ‘So, did you put it in a bag of peas or–’ He looked up. ‘It’s made of rubber?’

  Mrs Sobieski glanced at her son. ‘Yes . . .’ she said carefully. ‘We told detectives on the phone . . . did you not–’

  Gould’s head spun. He looked at the little fingertip, its manicured nail set perfectly into convincing artificial skin. ‘Holy shit,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Imelda.

  Mrs Sobieski tucked Jordan behind her. ‘Can I see some identification?’ she said.

  Gould was typing into his phone. ‘Why didn’t I think of this before?’ he muttered, scrolling as fast as he could. ‘Yes! There – look.’ He turned the screen around. A heavily tattooed man in nothing but a pair of sunglasses and some sumo-style pants was leaning on a lamppost. He was holding a cigarette in his left hand.

  A left hand missing the tip of its little finger.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Imelda.

  ‘The moustache tattoo was on Albie’s left hand, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Imelda. ‘He’s left-handed. So was Howard.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gould, scrolling. ‘We thought sending his pinkie was just because of the tattoo, so you’d know they were serious, but it’s more than that – it’s a yakuza ritual. Here,’ he said, reading aloud: ‘yubitsume: finger shortening . . . to punish by amputating the little finger of the left hand.’

  Imelda grabbed his arm, her breathing frantic. ‘Then where is he?’

  Gould shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to think.

  ‘Jordan, go to your room,’ said Mrs Sobieski, reaching for her phone. Imelda snatched it away. ‘Hey! Who are you people?’

  ‘My son was kidnapped a week ago,’ Imelda whispered, gripping her arm. ‘The police can’t find him, nobody can find him, and we think this finger has something to do with it. Please don’t call it in. Help us. Help us find my son!’

  Mrs Sobieski looked at Gould. ‘The boy in the papers?’

  ‘Albie,’ said Imelda, tears welling in her eyes. ‘His name’s Albie.’

  Mrs Sobieski glanced after Jordan. ‘All right.’

  Gould was pacing the floor. ‘This is who took Albie,’ he said, fist clenched round the fingertip.

  Imelda gasped. ‘This actual man, from the hit and run?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gould. ‘This actual guy.’

  ‘How can we be sure?’

  ‘Because there’s been no communication from the kidnappers since, what, Tuesday night?’

  She nodded. ‘The ransom call. In the robot voice.’

  ‘Computer program,’ said Gould. ‘Stabby Joe was shouting at me in Japanese, the same word, over and over: Ina something. That must be this guy’s name. They were looking for him. And looking for Albie, too.’

  Imelda went pale. ‘He’s stuck on his own somewhere?’

  Gould nodded. ‘Albie’s finger was posted on Wednesday – this guy was hit on Wednesday morning. Think about it – after Albie went missing, you got a phone call every day, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But when this guy was killed everything went quiet. The yakuza can’t know where he’d been keeping Albie either, otherwise someone would have replaced him. He must have been hit on the way back from posting Albie’s finger.’

  ‘How can we find him?’ Imelda looked as though she might collapse. Mrs Sobieski held her up.

  ‘Where was the man heading when he was hit?’ said Gould, looking at Mrs Sobieski.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We were facing the tyre shop. I’m sorry, I–’

  ‘That’s a start,’ said Gould, heading for the door. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Mrs Sobieski.

  They ran down the stairs, Gould’s sliders flapping through the close.

  ‘We’ll go to the post office first,’ he said, ‘see if they noticed anything about him. And we can ask around. If anyone saw where he was going, we can follow his footsteps – and find Albie.’

  Imelda was struggling to control her breathing. ‘What are the chances of actually finding someone who saw him?’

  ‘Good, I think. We ask shopkeepers, guys with dogs, bus drivers . . . the police must already have been asking,’ Gould finished, opening the door to the street, ‘so anyone who saw him will–’

  Kenzo Sasaki was leaning on the pick-up. In one hand he held a smoothie, in the other a slender knife.

  ‘Well, fuck,’ said Gould.

  ‘Dokoda,’ said Sasaki, straightening up, ‘Inamoto Hideowa?’

  ‘Inamoto,’ said Gould. ‘That was it!’ He turned to Imelda. ‘Meet me at Mount Florida station.’

  ‘What? Robbie, wait, what are you doing?’

  Gould handed her the backpack, squeezed her hand – and charged.

  41

  Sasaki raised his knife – then staggered back as Inamoto’s prosthetic finger hit him in the eye. Gould rushed past on to the road, only to find himself surrounded by the rest of Sasaki’s men.

  ‘Temeeno tama totteyaru!’ Sasaki shouted, striding round the front of the pick-up.

  ‘I don’t know what that means!’ Gould shouted back, then glanced to his right. ‘But here’s my lift.’

  A black 4x4 ploughed into the yakuza. Sasaki jumped clear, rolling as he hit the pavement. ‘Yes!’ shouted Gould. Then: ‘Ah, come on!’

  Angus Chisholm emerged from the driver’s door, a baseball bat loose in his hand.

  ‘Motherfucker!’ he shouted, blood still in his teeth. He turned to Sasaki. ‘What the fuck–’

  A yakuza cut him off with a blow to the jaw.

  Chisholm landed on his car, ducking as a knife slashed at his throat. One of his henchmen barrelled into the yakuza, their limbs tangling on the ground. ‘That’s my piece of shit,’ Chisholm yelled at Sasaki, scrambling to his feet. ‘So why don’t you fuck off?’

  Sasaki rolled the knife around his fist, then flexed his arms. ‘Koitsuha orera no monda!’ he screamed.

  ‘If it’s going to cause an argument,’ said Gould, hands over his head, ‘I can go.’

  ‘Don’t you fucking move!’ screamed Chisholm. Sasaki ran at Gould – then fell as Chisholm caught his stomach with the tip of his bat. The two gangsters rolled across the road, each scrabbling for purchase on the other’s throat. A knife moved between them, and Chisholm cried out, blood squirting between his fingers as he grabbed his chest.

  Imelda stood frozen in the Sobieskis’ doorway. ‘Immy!’ shouted Gould. ‘Run!’ She met his eyes – then dived for the pick-up and started the engine.

  Sasaki pulled the knife from Chisholm’s chest, wiped it on his sleeve and raced after her.

  ‘No!’ Gould yelled, flicking off one of his sliders and clonking him on the back of the head. ‘Over here!’

  Sasaki, his attention broken for a split second, turned in time to see Imelda spin out and barrel round the corner. Chisholm’s blood dripped from the wakagashira’s knife.

  As Gould took off his other slider, police cars screamed into the street, blue lights flashing.

  Battle cries and screams faded into officers shouting as he pounded the tarmac, leg howling in pain, Sasaki’s hard-soled feet drawing closer with every step. He threw a scooter behind him, then knocked over a wheelie bin, but Sasaki kept coming, breath hissing between his teeth. Dodging a speeding van, Gould crossed towards the final block of tenements and the cyclists crossing the footbridge.

  ‘Move!’ he shouted, waving his arms as Sasaki’s fingers brushed his shoulder.

  ‘Eh, I think you’ll find we have the right of way,’ called the nearest cyclist.

  ‘Move, you Spandex prick!’ screamed Gould. ‘Now! Move, move, move!’

  ‘Korusuzo!’ shouted Sasaki. ‘Korushiteyaru!’

  A police car skidded round the corner, siren blaring, officers already spilling from its doors. Gould toppled the cyclists like dominoes as Sasaki threw himself forward, closing his fingers on Gould’s trailing foot. Uniformed bodies fell on Sasaki, smothering his cries as Gould scrambled over the side of the bridge.

  He hit the water with a thud.

  The cold bit down, hard. Gould wanted to gasp, to scream, to fill desperate lungs emptied by the impact, but he forced himself under, flailing against the current and pushing for the cover of hedges and trees. He felt the water pulling him, uncontrollably, into the swell – then struck a branch lodged in the sediment. He heaved himself to the surface, spluttering on a lungful of icy water as he dragged himself to the bank.

  The grass was warm against his cheek, and he lay for a moment, his back heaving with deep, grateful breaths. The sirens were still blaring, and there was shouting in the street. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he mumbled, dirt between his lips.

  When the burr of a helicopter grew in the distance, Gould pulled himself to his feet, coat hanging on him like chain mail. He wriggled out of it, then grabbed the perilous fence and inched along the bank, rusty paint flaking into his mouth with each slippery step.

  The helicopter hovered closer – and a gap appeared in the bars. Gould dropped to his knees, stuck his head through and wriggled forward. A fencepost scraped along his spine.

  This is what the infra-red will see, he thought, shorts slipping down as he dragged himself under the post. They’ll probably put it on the fucking news.

  Eventually, painfully, like a calf achieving a difficult birth, he slid through and lay on his back, watching the clouds.

  The helicopter shot past. Gould jumped to his feet, grabbing a shirt from a washing line and ducking into the close. It took him a minute to settle his trembling hands enough to fasten the thing over his dripping T-shirt. Then he pushed back his hair and walked out, paying just enough attention to the ruckus to avoid looking suspect.

  One of Sasaki’s henchmen was sprinting down a distant block. The helicopter veered after him, and Gould picked up his pace.

  By the time he’d shuffled all the way to Mount Florida station – freezing, barefoot, his new shirt already soaked – Imelda had worked herself into a panic.

  ‘Robbie!’ she shouted, jumping from the pick-up and throwing her arms round him. ‘God, I thought they’d got you!’

  ‘Which ones?’ said Gould, watching the helicopter rumble in the distance. He lifted her arms away. ‘You ready?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s close, isn’t he?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Gould, climbing into the cab. ‘I can feel it.’

  42

  ‘That’s Chisholm in the ambulance, ma’am,’ said a uniform, adding, when Sam raised her eyebrows: ‘Paras said he’ll make it.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Daremo kuchiwa waraneeyo,’ said Sasaki. The kumiin thinned their lips.

  ‘Any word on the translator?’ Sam sighed.

  ‘On the way, ma’am.’

  Chisholm’s men were lined up against the opposite wall, the street closed off by roadblocks and tape. So far, nobody was talking.

  Sam crouched in front of Sasaki, who stared flatly back. ‘Robbie Gould?’ she said, miming broad shoulders, throwing a punch. ‘Gould?’

  Sasaki narrowed his eyes.

  ‘What about . . . ?’ Sam mimed putting flip-flops on her feet.

  Sasaki curled his lip.

  ‘You’ve met him then,’ Sam said to herself. ‘Shit, Robbie, where are you?’

  43

  ‘I don’t need to send something to Japan,’ said Gould, shorts dripping on the post office floor. ‘I’m asking if you’ve seen someone from Japan.’

  ‘A package from Japan?’ said the wizened lady behind the screen.

  ‘You had a customer in here,’ said Gould, as though he was screaming into a drainpipe. ‘Mr Inamoto, on Wednesday morning. You have to help us. We asked a bunch of people on the way here, but no one’s seen anything. He must have been in here – a wee guy, hair up in a bun, gold teeth, mailed a parcel. Japanese.’

  Another elderly woman thumped a Wet Floor cone beside his dripping shorts. Gould closed his eyes.

  ‘A parcel to Japan?’ said the wizened lady. ‘I don’t think–’

  ‘No!’ shouted Gould, hands flat on the screen. ‘It was a local package – Park Terrace in the West End. Can you not check the–’

  ‘I remember that!’ said the lady with the mop. ‘Fancy houses on Park Terrace.’

  ‘Great!’ shouted Gould. ‘Anything else? Did he give a sender’s address or anything?’

 

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