The Camelot Code by Sam Christer Read Free Book Online

looks up at the detective and anticipates his question. ‘Right now, all I can tell you is what you can see. He’s male, late twenties, well-nourished, around a hundred and seventy pounds. Looks perfectly fit and healthy, except for being strangled to death.’
    ‘No gun or knife?’
    ‘Not that I see.’
    Irish had expected a weapon. ‘Did the unsub use a ligature?’ He works his way around the pit so he can stand next to her and the body.
    ‘I don’t think so. The body’s quite dirty, though.’ She leans across and inspects the neck from several angles. ‘I can’t see any ligature marks, but look here…’ She points. ‘There’s bruising, abrasion, as though he’s been held from behind in a very strong choke hold.’
    Irish bends over the corpse. ‘I see it. How would it have been done?’
    ‘Stand up and turn away from me.’
    He does as he’s told.
    Up close, Irish’s odour of sweat and alcohol is worse than the corpse’s. She ignores it while she uses her right arm to demonstrate a v-shaped lock on him. ‘The assailant probably jammed his head in the crook of his arm and then swung him up and over his hip.’ She leans a little so Irish can feel the choke.
    ‘Whoa, whoa, enough. I get it!’
    She lets go. ‘You okay?’
    ‘Yeah.’ He rubs his neck.
    ‘Hold a person long enough like that and they choke out. Keep doing it and they die.’ She moves back to the body. ‘I used to be a soldier. Learned close-combat skills along with medicine in the Marine Corps.’
    ‘I see.’ Irish carries on nursing his neck. ‘I guess not many guys took first dates too far with you, then?’
    ‘Not many.’
    He turns his head left and right to free the cricks in his neck. ‘You got any gloves? I want to go through his pockets.’
    She dips into her coveralls and produces a spare vinyl pair. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look pretty pale.’
    ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Apart from being half-killed by you, I picked up a cold, that’s all.’ Irish stretches the gloves and works his fingers inside. Truth is he feels weak as a kitten and wants to sleep for a year.
    The vic’s jeans yield a squashed carton of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, sticks of gum and the corner of a newspaper. There is a Washington phone number written on it. Irish pulls out his cell and calls it. The techies told him there’s a facility to record calls but he can’t remember how to do it.
    The call beeps out and trips a message service.
    An old voice, slow and precise, rolls down the line. ‘This is Amir Goldman; I’m not available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone – and be sure to visit our showroom in Kensington, the antiques capital of DC.’
    Irish hangs up and looks at the scrap of paper. The dead man lying in front of him no doubt called Amir to check he was in the store. Then he turned up and killed him. ‘I need this bum’s prints, ASAP.’ He peels off his gloves and dumps them on the sheet. ‘Thanks, doc.’

19
     
THE BRONX, NEW YORK
     
    Nabil stinks of garage grease. He hates the smell almost as much as he hates America.
    It rides with him now, an unwelcome passenger in the cab of the white flatbed truck that he’s ‘borrowed’ from work to get home. Even in here, he can’t get away from it.
    The twenty-four-year-old parks outside a verminous brownstone apartment block and climbs filthy stairs to the sixth floor. There’s no point trying the lift; he can’t remember when it last worked – doubts it ever will again.
    He lets himself in to his short-term rental and slams the door so hard it makes the frame tremble. Hopefully, it pisses off the old guy next door who beats on the paper-thin wall every night.
    He goes straight to the squalid kitchen, pulls a ready meal of Mac and Cheese from the refrigerator, forks the top and puts it in the microwave. While it cooks, he sticks his phone to his ear and speed-dials the only number on the handset.
    ‘It’s Nabil. I’m home.’
    That’s all