‘So long as it keeps us in touch,’ Rickman said, willing Megan to be careful.
* * *
Megan kept her eyes on the road. ‘Would it be “practical” to betray a boy who looked up to you?’
Doran said, ‘That would depend on the circumstances. I gather you have a particular example in mind?’
‘My brother.’
He glanced over at her, curious. ‘Ward . . .’ The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘My real name is Ceri Owen.’
The seat creaked as he turned fully to face her. ‘Gareth,’ he said softly. ‘I should have seen the resemblance.’
‘Don’t see why.’ Megan’s voice was light, flippant. ‘I mean, you don’t visit, you don’t call, you don’t write . . .’
He remained twisted in his seat, so that Rickman and Hart could see only his profile: snub nose, hollow cheeks, jet-black curly hair.
‘What do you want, Ceri?’
‘I prefer Megan.’
The seat creaked again, as he moved closer, as if to get a better look at her face.
She didn’t look at him. ‘The question is, what do you want, Mr Doran?’
He smiled, spread his hands as if to say, It’s simple. ‘I want my money back.’
Megan tutted disapprovingly. ‘We really can’t do this unless you’re honest with me.’
Doran settled back in his seat, and stared stonily ahead, and she drove on, this time looping in a wide figure of eight, but always keeping within the city district. The traffic was halted in Castle Street: a function at the Town Hall. The floodlighting illuminated a crowd that had spilled out from the ballroom onto the balcony. They stood sipping champagne and chatting, women in ball gowns, men in evening suits, stark against the creamy sandstone.
‘So,’ Megan said, ‘The truth: what do you want?’
‘I want to put my hands around your throat and choke the fucking life out of you,’ he said.
She nodded, apparently unperturbed. ‘That’s understandable. I, on the other hand, want you to admit what you did to my brother. But, since we’re being honest, I should also tell you that I want to take a gun and put a bullet in your brain.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact, and without rancour.
He blinked, evidently shocked, and turned to look at her again.
Megan acknowledged this with another brief nod. ‘Good — we’re clear on our objectives.’ She glanced at him. ‘You have the advantage of strength — I doubt if I could fight you off — so what happens next really depends on the choice you make: money or revenge. I don’t have a gun, so it’s pretty clear I’m not going to kill you. But I’m a hacker. I don’t need a real gun — not while I have a virtual gun to your head. So, if you want your money, you should act nicely and make no sudden moves.
‘Oh, and since I have the advantage, you should probably tell me what I want to hear.’
Doran’s jaw worked so hard he looked like he might break a tooth, but after half a minute, it seemed he decided to play along. ‘Gareth blew his chances and he went to prison for it.’
‘What “chances”?’
‘What the hell does she think she’s doing?’ Hart said.
‘So far, she’s playing it smart,’ Rickman told her. ‘Letting him know what she knows, so he’s really got nothing to hide.’
‘But if he tells her, he’s going to have to kill her.’
‘That’s what she’s gambling on,’ Rickman said, keeping his eyes on the screen.
‘What “chance” did my brother ever have with a shark like you?’ Megan demanded, emotion creeping into her voice.
‘He could have been a senior manager in the firm,’ Doran said.
Megan sighed, changing down the gears, cutting through a narrow side street. ‘You’re veering from the truth again, Doran. And frankly, your money trail is getting cold.’
For a moment, it looked like Doran might grab the wheel and force the car into one of the high walls of the side street, but then he exhaled and made a deliberate effort to relax the fingers of his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you want the truth?’
Megan lifted one shoulder. ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
Chapter Forty-seven
Doran looked at Megan for a few seconds. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘If it gets me my money, I’ll say whatever you want.’
Rickman sucked air through his teeth. ‘He’s onto her.’ He glanced at Hart. ‘He’s making it clear he feels coerced. If she asks him a leading question now, the CPS will throw this evidence out before it gets within spitting distance of the magistrates’ court, never mind the crown court.’
‘I want . . . the truth,’ Megan repeated with slow, deliberate emphasis.
‘Okay . . . Good . . .’ Rickman purred the words, talking softly as though he had a radio link with Megan. He willed her to stay cool, to make use of her manipulative skills.
‘The truth . . .’ Doran said it as though trying to remind himself what it meant. ‘We should have walked out of there with a hundred thousand pounds-worth of diamonds; all we got was blood on our hands.’
‘Gareth wasn’t the only one who screwed up that night.’
Doran stared at her. ‘He killed the old man. He admitted it at the trial. And he never appealed against his sentence.’
‘Because he accepted his part in it. What about you? You’re not denying you were in the Orrs’ house when they were murdered?’
‘You sound like a cop.’
Unexpectedly, Megan laughed. ‘Well that would be because I’m in the surreal position of asking you about a murder — two murders — and I’m not really sure of the social niceties of this situation. For some reason, it didn’t come up in social studies role-plays at GCSE.’
Doran watched her as they continued in a perpetual loop, going round and round the city centre in a figure of eight, like a car on a very slow Scalextric track.
‘Come on, Doran,’ Megan said. ‘You saw me naked. Where would I be hiding a wire?’
Rickman glanced at Hart. ‘I didn’t see that — we didn’t get that, did we?’
Hart gave him a sideways glance. ‘Maybe she knew who’d be watching and wanted to preserve her modesty.’
Abashed, Rickman looked again at the screen.
Doran nodded. ‘So this is just — what? To give you peace of mind?’
‘Let’s say I’ve heard Gareth’s side — I wanted to hear yours.’
He frowned, hesitating, as if he wasn’t sure exactly where to start, or what to tell her. ‘Two people ended up dead. That was — unfortunate,’ he said, after a full half minute. ‘But your brother ended up in prison, and that was stupid — unnecessary. He walked into that police station. Nobody made him.’
‘He couldn’t live with what he did,’ Megan said, her voice raw with sudden emotion. ‘How do you?’
Doran stared at the road ahead. They were approaching the Town Hall for the third time. A burst of spring rain spattered the windscreen, and the party began to move indoors, their laughter and exclamations just audible in the bubble of isolation within the car. The spotlights and the reflections of traffic lights and streetlamps on the building gave it an almost festive glow.
‘I have a beautiful family, a nice house, I have—’ He snorted — ‘had — a successful business.’ He stared at the Town Hall building. ‘I have the respect of people like them.’ He lifted his chin, indicating the few remaining revellers on the balcony.
‘And that helps you sleep at night?’
He smiled, and there was something like regret in it. ‘The pills help me sleep at night.’
‘You love your family,’ Megan said. ‘Didn’t it occur to you when you tortured Mr Orr in front of his wife that they had a family? You do know their son discovered the bodies? You have sons — how would you feel if your sons were forced to look at what you did?’
‘I did what I had to.’
Rickman held his breath.
‘You had to kill her?’
/>
‘I slapped her — just the once.’
‘You broke her neck.’
‘As I said, it was—’
‘Unfortunate. Yes, I remember. So, you killed her — accidentally, I’ll concede that. Is that why you felt you had to murder Mr Orr?’
‘I didn’t—’
‘You put the knife in Gareth’s hand. You held a gun to his head.’
‘All he had to do was cut him. One small cut.’
‘What — to show willing?’ She sounded bitter and angry, and Doran responded, turning towards her.
‘To protect him.’
She slammed on the brakes and a car behind them screamed to a halt just in time. The driver sounded his horn and drove around them as they faced each other angrily.
‘To protect yourself. Gareth said your name — he told me. You took two lives to protect yourself.’
‘No,’ Doran said. ‘It wasn’t just for me.’
Megan gave a short, humourless laugh.
‘Use your head,’ Doran said. ‘You’re involved in a crime, you don’t report it. All he had to do . . .’ He seemed at a loss for a moment. ‘It was a token gesture — I’d have done the rest.’
Shocked, she sat back, letting her hands slide off the steering wheel. ‘You’d have done him the favour of killing Mr Orr? And, what was the plan? That you’d go back to being father figure and mentor?’ She was almost breathless with incredulity. ‘Did you really think that Gareth was the sort of person who could torture and murder another human being and pretend it never happened?’
‘He could be a free man, now,’ Doran said, dogged, even a little resentful. ‘Top of his profession.’
Megan shook her head.
‘I — liked the kid,’ Doran insisted.
‘He’s dying.’ Megan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Gareth is dying.’
Doran said nothing.
‘My brother is dying — is that “unfortunate”?’
‘He did this to himself.’
Megan wiped her eyes. ‘Yeah,’ she said tiredly, ‘that’s what he keeps telling me.’ She put the car in gear and they continued on, past grey buildings on wide roads, twisting, circling, returning again and again to the same landmarks, the same questions, each pass bringing something more sharply into focus, a building more readily recognisable, a truth more transparent.
‘What about Sara?’ she asked.
Doran sighed. ‘It was an accident. They were supposed to take your computer, grab you, if they could find you.’
‘Did they think Sara was me?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes through the minds of men like them?’
She stared hard at him. ‘I’m sure a man like you could hazard a guess — I mean, you’re not so different, are you?’
‘Your friend’s death was an accident,’ he insisted.
‘But you gave the order.’
‘To search your flat, yes.’ He was clearly losing patience.
‘You say you’re a practical man, but with all these “accidents”, it seems more like incompetence.’
‘Stop,’ Rickman murmured. ‘Leave it, Megan.’
Hart tensed, anticipating Doran’s reaction.
But the anger they had seen building up in the man seemed to dissipate all at once, and he was cold and still. ‘Oh, you’ll find I can be quite efficient, Megan.’ Again, the muscle in the line of his jaw seemed to ripple, and then he said, ‘I’ve been very patient, but now I’m bored, and I’d like my money.’
Megan’s eyes flicked to the camera, and reading her expression, Rickman thought for a moment that she might try one more time. ‘Don’t,’ he said.
* * *
*
Minutes later, Megan parked outside a nondescript building; low-rise, with steel-frame windows and pitted grey concrete — six or seven storeys of unremitting ugliness.
‘One of the little banks had its regional HQ here,’ Megan explained. ‘Before they got swallowed by a global giant. The basement strong-room is impressive, and with the additional technical security do-dads these guys have, it’s probably as safe as the Bank of England.’
Doran ducked his head to get a better view. There was no company logo, no name on the building, not even a street number. ‘A bit low-key, isn’t it?’
‘Its anonymity adds another layer of security,’ Megan said. ‘I bet even you didn’t know of its existence.’
‘Which makes me suspicious,’ Doran said. ‘Maybe I’ll step inside with you.’
Megan smiled. ‘You’re welcome to try.’
As the car door opened, the chopper could be heard as a distant buzz. Rickman warned the pilot and he ascended into the cloud cover. Megan walked away from the car without looking back.
Doran was out of the car in seconds, and Hart and Rickman were left looking at the empty car interior. Without the helicopter, they were effectively blind. ‘Does anyone have eyeball target?’ he asked.
His speakerphone crackled, and then Voce confirmed that he could see the car as well as Megan and Doran. The slightly echoing sound of a relayed radio connection gave his voice a weird quality, as if it was coming from a distant and lonely landscape, and Rickman was reminded of the faint voices and vague shapes that made up Megan’s web of connections on the internet. ‘Keep them in sight,’ he said. ‘But do not approach.’
* * *
Doran was by Megan’s side in seconds; he kept close as she approached the double doors under a mean and sodden-looking concrete canopy. She pressed the buzzer and it was answered instantly.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Melanie White,’ she said, without preamble.
Doran looked askance. ‘You can call yourself Mickey Mouse, for all they care,’ Megan said. ‘So long as the biometric checks match.’
A pause, then, ‘Good evening, Ms White. Would you please identify your companion?’
‘Patrick Doran,’ she said. ‘He’d like to come in with me.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Ms White. It’s against protocol.’
‘I understand, but—’
‘Our rules are not open to discussion or negotiation, Ms White.’ He managed to sound reasonable and immutable at once. ‘The protocols are absolute.’
‘Listen, pal,’ Doran said. ‘We’re not leaving till—’
Two large and extremely useful-looking security men appeared from nowhere, and Doran broke off, startled. They wore the navy-blue uniforms more typical of hotel porters than security guards, but they were definitely not the type to argue with.
Megan’s smile of apology was tinged with amusement. ‘Looks like you’re waiting in the car,’ she said.
* * *
On the computer, Rickman and Hart watched Doran slide back into the passenger seat. His hair was wet, and he wiped a hand over his face to remove some of the rain before dipping into his coat pocket.
‘Now what?’ Rickman said.
Doran pressed a fast-dial number, and in seconds he was connected. ‘John, I’m in a side street off Tithebarn.’ He glanced around, trying to find a sign. ‘Can’t see a street name. It’s on the right, though, just after Exchange Street. Get close but stay out of sight. I’ll be needing you any minute, now.’
A CCTV camera caught a light-coloured Mercedes travelling slowly up Tithebarn Street three minutes later. The car pulled into the bay next to a bus stop. One of the surveillance teams drove by and confirmed that the driver was John Warrender. Tithebarn Street was one-way, and Warrender was in position to follow as soon as Megan turned out of the side road.
‘She’s on her way out, Boss,’ Voce said, after another ten minutes had elapsed.
Megan placed two sports bags on the ground and waited for Doran to get out of the car to check them. When he nodded, she got in and started the engine as he finished zipping up the bags. Doran went around to the passenger side, but the door was locked. Megan pressed the electric wind on the window.
‘Flag a taxi,’ she said. ‘You can afford on
e, now.’ She gunned the engine and screeched away from the kerb.
* * *
Doran ran after her to the corner, carrying the sports bags. He dropped one and waved Warrender over.
The Merc roared across four lanes, headlamps still out, nearly clipping the rear end of a hackney cab. The driver pulled down his window and swore long and vociferously, ending with a two-fingered gesture.
Warrender pulled up at an angle to the kerb and Doran threw the bags on the back seat, piling in after them. ‘Move!’ he yelled.
They fishtailed from the kerb, ran a red light, narrowly missed a second collision and forked right, heading towards the museum.
‘Shit!’ Warrender scanned the cars ahead. ‘Where did she go? Did I take the wrong turn?’
Doran leaned forward, gripping the front-seat headrests for support. ‘There!’ He pointed to a light-coloured Orion at the traffic lights. She was indicating right. Behind them, unnoticed, armed officers in an unmarked car. Voce followed, two cars back. The helicopter descended through the low cloud and established visual contact again.
Megan swept right in a tight loop; it looked like she might take the tunnel turn-off at the roundabout, but at the last moment, she cut left, heading past the wedge-shaped building at the bifurcation of Victoria and Whitechapel. In recent years, it had been the offices of the Labour Party, now it was a fitness studio. With its tiered windows brightly lit, it looked like a liner, docked in the mizzly streets of the city.
This was the busy end of town, and traffic was heavy. Megan’s Orion dodged left, then right, squeezing between two buses. From there, she reached the lights as they changed to red, and drove through, merging with the flow of traffic turning right. Warrender blasted the Merc’s horn, and drivers turned, bewildered.
‘Don’t lose her,’ Doran warned. ‘Don’t you lose her now.’
Warrender turned the wheel, mounting the kerb and edging past the knot of traffic. A group of girls, on the start of a night out, squealed as he drove at them, scattering them right and left. Car horns blared and police sirens began to wail, causing more confusion. Drivers looked around, trying to gauge the direction of the sound.
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 33
