It was just after one in the afternoon the day after the body was discovered when he was given the details he was waiting for. Sipping his fifth decaf of the day, he looked at the single sheet of paper that had been handed to him by a civilian member of the force.
The DNA from the hair follicles found under Waterstone’s fingernails matched no one on the PNC, nor did the fingerprints.
Damn!
It was time to cast a wider net. He forwarded the details to Interpol, then sent a request to the ministry of defence to check the armed forces databases to see if the suspect was or had been a serving member.
Latimer was ready to head home for the evening when he heard back from Interpol. It wasn’t good news. That left the MoD databases as his only real hope of identifying the man responsible for Robert Waterstone’s death, and they were notoriously slow in processing requests.
The clock ticked over to seven as Latimer grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He strapped on his backpack and helmet as he walked to the parking area, where he unlocked his bike and climbed on.
As he cycled towards the gates, Latimer continued to consider the similarities between this case and the one that saw James Knight sitting in a cell in HMP Brixton. The shallow grave complete with murder weapon, the abundance of physical evidence, the lack of tyre marks leading from the burial site, the anonymous tip-off via an email address that hadn’t been used before or since. He’d presented these to DCI Ingram in the hope that Knight might be released on bail, but she had been unreceptive. While she admitted that it appeared to be the work of the same person, it didn’t prove Knight’s innocence, and there would be hell to pay if Knight’s DNA was found at the latest crime scene.
With his mind on the case, Latimer almost barreled into the elderly man who was standing in his path. Latimer squeezed the brakes and almost went over the handlebars.
“You trying to get yourself killed?”
“I have the utmost faith in your riding abilities, Detective Inspector Latimer. Mind if I have a word?”
Latimer was unnerved. He didn’t know the man, yet the stranger seemed to know him. He got off his bike in case an attack was imminent and sized the man up. He was dressed in a long, dark woollen coat and wore a trilby on his head. The way he stood suggested he wasn’t about to launch into action.
“What about?” Latimer asked.
“The request you sent to the MoD this afternoon.”
That caught Latimer off guard. The only person he’d told about the request was DCI Ingram. “How did you know about that?”
“Walk with me,” the man said, and Latimer had little choice but to follow.
Chapter 27
“This is the Vodafone voicemail service for oh…seven……”
Scott hung up and threw the phone on the bed in frustration. It had been sixteen days since Kelly had left to go back to England, and he hadn’t heard a word from her in all that time.
If she’d had a change of heart and decided not to see him again, that was fine, but it was the silence that was destroying him. No text message to say “Thanks for the fun time but I think we should move on,” or an email to wish him all the best for the rest of his life. Just…nothing.
He didn’t think he could face another sleepless night, tossing and turning while wondering whether she’d had an accident and was lying in the bottom of a ditch somewhere. Maybe she was knocked down crossing the street, or slipped in the bath…
He didn’t want to do it, but he’d already waited too long. He had to have closure. He picked up the phone again and sat in front of the laptop in the living room to look up the name of the company she worked for. He dialed the contact number for the London branch.
“Pressley Mainwaring, Diane speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hi. I’d like to speak to Kelly Thorn please.”
“One moment, please.” Unnecessarily loud elevator music boomed in his ear as he waited for the call to be connected. “I’m sorry, “the same voice said, “but we have no one of that name here.”
He realised he’d made a rookie mistake. “She was recently transferred to your Melbourne office. Could you give me a contact number there?”
The receptionist looked up the number and read it out. He thanked her and hung up, then called the Australian branch. Halfway through dialing, he hung up. They were ten hours ahead, so it would be close to midnight in Melbourne. He would have to wait until late in the evening to call.
He knew that sitting staring at the walls would drive him mad, so he put on his jacket and opened the front door.
Scott almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the man standing inches from the door, his hand out ready to ring the bell. It was a man he’d hoped never to see again, a man who’d caused him so much pain and stolen his future from him.
“Hello, Ryan,” Malcolm Brigshaw said.
Chapter 28
Ryan hadn’t heard the Transit van pull over. The phone conversation through the earphones he’d been wearing had drowned out the sound, and now Paul Gardner was standing next to the vehicle, a pistol in his right hand. It was hanging down by his side, but his finger was already inside the trigger guard.
“Get in,” he said.
Ryan feigned surprise, hoping to buy some time. “What’s up, mate?” He raised his hands to straighten his collar and set off the panic button, but Paul advanced with the pistol up, aiming at Ryan’s face.
“Don’t move a fucking muscle. Hands out and get in the fucking van.”
Ryan had no option but to comply. Paul was only about four yards away now, and at that range it would be difficult to miss. He was sure he’d get an opportunity to activate the alarm at some point, so Ryan held his arms out by his side and walked to the back of the van. Paul moved with him, ensuring Ryan was never close enough to him to strike.
The van’s back doors were open, and inside Ryan saw Phil, his face like thunder as he toyed with an eight-inch blade. Ryan turned to Paul, who gestured with the gun. He didn’t look as angry as Phil, but Ryan didn’t mistake that for compassion. Paul was always cool. The only time he’d seen him lose his temper had been a couple of days earlier, when he’d set up this whole episode, and he realised that that had been for show.
Ryan climbed in and sat on the floor, and Paul got in and sat opposite him.
“You fucked up, Ryan,” Terry shouted from the driver’s seat as he started the engine.
“Shut it!” Paul screamed back. He pointed the gun at Ryan. “Strip.”
“What?”
“You heard him!” Phil said, jabbing Ryan in the shoulder with the blade. The strike drew blood, but Phil didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.
Ryan rubbed the wound and his hand came away bloody.
“Get on with it,” Paul said.
Ryan put his hands on his collar and located the panic device at the base of his neck. He cracked it as he pulled the garment over his head and tossed it aside, then slowly removed his trainers, socks and jeans. He had to give his back-up team time to get to him.
“Everything,” Paul said, pointing the gun at Ryan’s groin.
Ryan removed his underpants and put them on top of the pile.
“The watch, too.”
“What is this?” Ryan asked as he undid the clasp and discarded his timepiece.
Paul ignored the question. He opened the back door and threw Ryan’s belongings on the road. Terry jumped out and locked the back doors, then got back behind the wheel and set off.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” Ryan shouted, still playing the innocent. This wasn’t good. Brigshaw now had no way to track him, and he couldn’t take Paul and Phil out, not in the confines of the van. If he attacked one, the other would do him some serious damage.
He could only hope that the team looking out for him found the pile of clothes quickly and radioed back so that they could check CCTV, but even that wouldn’t guarantee a speedy resolution. He’d checked out all cameras in the area around his flat, not
wanting to be seen talking on one when making his reports. There were none along the route he’d taken, so anyone looking for him would have to scan all traffic on the nearby main roads, and that could take hours.
Somehow, he didn’t think he had that long.
“I’ll ask you again, what the fuck are you playing at?”
“You know exactly what’s going on, Ryan. If that is your name.”
“Of course it is. You know it is. You told me yourself, you checked me out, all the places I worked, everything.”
“Yeah, and you did a good job convincing those people to lie for you,” Phil chimed in.
Ryan gave him a look of astonishment. “Are you saying I paid those people to lie about me? Seriously? There must have been seventy people working at that factory, more on the building site. You think I paid them all off?”
“I don’t know how you did it,” Paul said, “but you fucked up when you told your people about the arms deal with the jihadists.”
“What people!” Ryan threw his arms up in frustration. “I wish you’d make sense.”
Phil grabbed Ryan’s neck and put his mouth close to his ear. “Paul and Terry were there,” he growled. “They saw someone dig in a couple of days before it went down, and just after I told you the deal was off, the guy suddenly leaves. You gonna tell me that’s a coincidence?”
Ryan turned his head as best he could, struggling against Phil’s vice-like grip. “Maybe it was Paul that told the cops. He said he hated the idea of selling to the Muslims.”
“There was never gonna be a sale,” Paul said. “I made it up.”
Ryan had suspected as much, but couldn’t go down without a fight. “Then one of you is trying to frame me,” he said. “I’m better than you in every way, and you’re jealous. Jealous that Marsh’ll see how good I really am and give me one of your positions. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Nice try,” Phil said, squeezing harder.
“Was it you?” Ryan grimaced. “You’ve never liked me, have you? You’ve got motive, you had the opportunity…yeah, I bet it was you.”
“You even sound like a copper,” Phil said, and banged Ryan’s head against the van’s internal wall.
“Enough!” Paul snarled. “We’ll get to the truth eventually.”
The ride took forty minutes, and Ryan knew the search for him would be well under way. One thing on his side was that the van they were using was the same one he’d travelled to Albania in. He saw the panel where a bored Phil had once carved his name into the metalwork. It was one of several vehicles Marsh and his men used, and Brigshaw had the licence plate numbers of all of them. All the intelligence officers back at Thames House had to do was check the CCTV to see if any were in the vicinity of his street and then follow them on camera.
It sounded simple enough.
In theory.
The van stopped, and Ryan heard doors slam shut before Terry opened the back of the vehicle. Paul backed out, his eyes always on Ryan, then gestured with the gun. “Out you get.”
Phil poked Ryan once more with the knife to ensure his compliance, and Ryan reluctantly climbed down.
They were inside what looked like a three-car garage. There wasn’t a lot of room, and it was freezing. Ryan saw two people standing in the shadows at the back, and a wooden chair was sitting on top of a large sheet of plastic wrap in the middle of the empty space.
Ryan knew what was coming, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but he just had to hold on until help arrived. He didn’t have to make it easy for them though.
When Phil grabbed his arm to move him forward, Ryan twisted and struck him in the middle of the chest with the flat of his hand, knocking the air from his lungs. Phil staggered backwards and hit the wall, and Ryan spun to face Paul.
He was a fraction too slow.
* * *
John Ward spun the grey Peugeot Traveller’s wheel to the right. The vehicle leapt across two lanes of oncoming traffic and drifted into Britannia Road. He kept his foot to the floor as two of his companions checked their weapons one last time.
“Two hundred yards,” the fourth member of the team shouted from the back.
Ward barrelled down the street as the distance was counted down, then stamped on the brakes when it got to five yards. The two armed occupants jumped out, their weapons by their side and eyes scanning.
“Here!” one of them said, ran to a pile of clothes in the road, picked them up and ran back to the van. “They must have taken him. Call it in.”
The man in the back abandoned the tablet showing the location of the tracker and got on comms to update the office.
“No sign of Ryan. Looks like they stripped him and dumped his stuff in the street. Check CCTV for any vehicles leaving Britannia Road in the last few minutes.”
“On it.”
Ward executed a smart three-point turn and roared back up to the main road. At the junction, he paused. “Come on…left or right?”
After what seemed like an age, he got a response. “Left. A white Transit.” The operator read out the index of the vehicle as Ward made the turn.
“Where next? Put it on speaker.”
They were now in the one-way system, but a choice soon presented itself. “Do I go straight or right?”
“Wait one.”
Drivers behind leaned on their horns as Ward stopped in the middle of the road. He ignored their protests, waiting for confirmation.
“Straight on. They’re on the M60.”
Ward gunned the engine. “North or south?”
“North.”
He flew across the roundabout and onto the slip road before bullying his way onto the motorway. “We’ll be at junction seven in one minute. Stay on or get off?”
“Stay on,” the control room said, “I’ll see if he gets off at junction eight.”
“Hurry,” Ward shouted. “We’ll be there in less than two minutes.”
“He stayed on. Checking junction nine…”
Ward stayed in the inside lane in case he had to leave the motorway. It was slow going, stuck behind a procession of lorries, but it gave the team back at the office time to work out the route to follow.
Ward had never met Ryan Anderson and had only been assigned to the case the previous day, but he felt like his guardian angel. It was his job to pull Ryan out of danger, but so far he’d been a step behind. He had to get to him soon, otherwise a brave young man could lose his life. Franklin Marsh wasn’t the type of man to give people a warning and send them on their merry way.
“We have a problem,” control said. “The cameras at nine are out. I’m checking ten.”
“Hurry,” Ward said, “I’ll be at nine in a couple of minutes. I need an answer.”
He slowed as much as he could, but the marker for junction nine soon appeared in front of him. “I need an answer,” he said once more.
There was nothing from control beyond “wait one”, but time was fast running out. He had to commit. Another reminder showed up on the gantry above the motorway, a large white arrow pointing the way to Trafford Park. Moments later, the exit was upon him.
Talk to me, Anderson.
* * *
Ryan knew the second he opened his eyes that he was in trouble. His ankles were bound to the legs of the chair with tape and his arms secured behind its back. More tape strapped his chest to the back of the chair and went under his seat and over his thighs. He could move only his fingers, toes and eyes.
The men who had been standing in the shadows were now bathed in the light of the single fluorescent unit hanging from the ceiling. One of them was tall and blond. Ryan remembered him as George, the bodyguard he’d taken out when he’d first encountered Marsh months earlier.
Marsh himself was also there.
“I must say, you surprised me,” Franklin Marsh said as he blew out a cloud of smoke. “Everything about you looked kosher, but thankfully Paul here thought you were too good to be true, didn’t you, Paul?”
Paul was standi
ng off to Ryan’s right and he nodded.
“So, what’s your real name?” Marsh asked.
“Ryan Anderson.”
The blow to Ryan’s cheek came from nowhere.
“This is how it works.” Marsh dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. “I ask you a question, and you give me an honest answer, otherwise the boys are going to have some fun with you. Got it?”
Ryan nodded.
“Okay. What’s your real name?”
“Ryan Anderso—”
This time the strike arrived from the left, a solid blow to the temple from Phil’s meaty fist.
“One more time.”
“My name is Ryan—”
Paul’s fist connected with Ryan’s nose and blood splattered as bone and cartilage shattered.
“He’s not getting it,” Marsh said. “Take off one of his toes.”
Phil gave Ryan an evil grin as he knelt in front of him, a pair of bolt cutters in his hand. Ryan shouted for him not to do it, but fire erupted from his feet as the metal blades made short work of his little toe.
Phil held up the bloody appendage. “One down, nine to go.”
“Name!” Marsh barked.
Ryan shook his head violently, knowing that they would never accept the truth.
Marsh nodded, and Phil went to work once more, taking the small toe from Ryan’s other foot.
“We can do this all day,” Marsh said. He lit another cigarette. “If you don’t want to give us your name, how about who you work for?”
“I work for you!” Ryan spat blood. “This is all a big mistake. Someone set me up!”
“Nice try, but I’ve known my boys for years. I’ve only known you two minutes. You should just tell us everything and this’ll all be over.”
Ryan knew that didn’t mean walking away with a telling off. He was going to die, unless a miracle happened.
“I can’t tell you anything if it’s not true!”
Motive Page 22
