‘Kidnappers don’t usually call ahead,’ Shelley had told him.
‘This isn’t Mexico. There’s more than one way to profit from a kidnapping threat,’ Mowles had said. ‘It could be that it works more like extortion, like some kid offering to look after your car when you park it on the street. You pay the money because it’s easier than not paying the money; because it’s cheaper than having to pay guys like us.’
‘False economy.’
‘Exactly. And Guy Drake’s one of the smart ones. He knows that if he pays up once, they’ll never stop asking for money. They might also decide that what’s needed is a display of power. Just something to say “you’re vulnerable, we can get you”. We need to make sure nobody gets that idea into their heads.’
‘That’s where I come in?’
‘That’s where you come in,’ Mowles had agreed. ‘Bit of easy money.’
CHAPTER 8
MEMORIES, THOUGHT SHELLEY as he drove. They’ll kill you. Just like a blade or a bullet. Even the journey back there was like time travel. Still, at least it took him further away from the actor.
Reaching the Drake residence meant driving past Tittenhurst Park, the house once owned by John Lennon. Passing, he found that the road was clear so he took the opportunity to slow down and gawp at the famous gates, a living bit of Beatles memorabilia that never failed to move him. He wished that he’d known he’d be passing; he’d have brought Sgt. Pepper’s to play. Elvis would have to do, he thought, imagining the Beatles meeting the King at Graceland, treasuring those connections as he pulled away to continue his journey.
The thought kept him going until he reached another set of gates, beyond them the Drakes’ grand Georgian home.
The sight of it jolted him back – back to the person he’d been then: a soldier, starchy but battle-scarred, a nervous fiancé stressing over cash. It was just a job babysitting an anxious entrepreneur, but he’d resolved to bring to it the same level of professionalism he brought to soldiering.
That was what he’d told himself at the time.
He pulled up, got out of the car and approached, aware of a camera mounted on the gates. Through the wrought iron he could see the house, with a Jaguar and a Porsche parked out front on a vast pebble-covered driveway, as well as a Mercedes, an electric-blue BMW and a VW Golf. Drake’s house had always had various people in and out all the time: PAs, gardeners, men who came to clean the pool, upkeep the tennis courts or install gym equipment. That was rich people for you. They filled their homes with strangers and then bleated about wanting privacy.
He looked at the entry pad then pressed the intercom button, heard it ring and imagined it going off inside. A woman answered.
‘Hello?’
‘My name is David Shelley, I’m here for either Guy or Susie. An old friend.’
‘One mo—’
She was cut short by another voice: ‘What can I do for you, Shelley?’
He’d had warmer greetings. ‘Who’s that?’
‘We met at the funeral. Name’s Gurney. Sergeant James Gurney of the Parachute Regiment.’
Jesus, thought Shelley. And you thought the actor was a tool. ‘Yeah, I remember you,’ he said, ‘giving me the skunk eye at a funeral. Classy move. They teach you that in the Paras, did they? Or were you too busy getting daggers tattooed on your arm?’
Gurney chuckled. ‘Not got a regiment tattoo of your own, then? Don’t tell me, scared of needles?’
‘Don’t you believe it. I can put up with any number of little pricks. Right now, for example.’
‘Yeah, yeah, good one,’ sneered Gurney. ‘Very funny coming from the man on the wrong side of the gate. Tell you what, mate, I’ll let Mr Drake know you came to say hello. Why don’t you leave your number? Better still, write it down on a piece of paper, gob in it, screw it up, and throw it in the bin. Save me the bother.’
Shelley sighed, casting his eyes to the heavens as though looking for divine inspiration. ‘Listen, mate, I’ve got no argument with you, precisely because I have no business with you. I’m here for Guy or Susie. Put one of them on or let me in.’
His only answer was Gurney’s laughter, rendered metallic by the intercom system, and then a click as the line went dead.
Shelley stepped to one side and looked at the keypad thoughtfully. Surely not? he thought, and then on a whim punched in the code he remembered, Susie’s birthday. 1606. The gate hummed and began to swing open.
Some protection. They hadn’t even bothered to change the security code.
‘Fucking idiots,’ muttered Shelley, and stepped through.
CHAPTER 9
IT ALL CAME back to him as he crossed the pebble drive. The lawn on one side, perfectly trimmed and just the right shade of succulent green, hedges clipped neatly but not ostentatiously, a thoroughbred horse peering incuriously at him over a five-bar gate.
And on the other side the house, which wasn’t so much a house as a mansion, its flat frontage a luxurious shade of cream, the window frames gleaming white, sparkling glass reflecting the winter sun. No two ways about it, it was a gorgeous-looking pad.
Only problem: the short-arsed, red-faced bloke in combats and a camo top who’d just appeared from the front door. Not Gurney but cut from the same cloth. Sure enough, Shelley saw the tip of a Para tattoo peeking from beneath his T-shirt sleeve as he strode fast towards him, all spit and snarl, boots laced up tight and looking for action.
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’
He held a short-range walkie-talkie in one hand and had a Glock in an unsecured moulded holster at his hip, the sort you wore for a quick draw. As he advanced he indicated the holster as though to say, What do you think of that? but Shelley wasn’t impressed because there was no way in the world this bloke was going to start firing off rounds right now. And what kind of dickhead made a show of a weapon he had no intention of using?
Shelley didn’t break stride or slow down. He sped up.
The other guy saw. His eyes widened and his moment of feeling as if he had the upper hand evaporated in the time it took him to realise Shelley wasn’t in the slightest bit intimidated by the weapon and even less by the hard-man act.
Preparing to defend, the bloke took a step back, aligned his core, ready to use the walkie-talkie as a weapon and reaching for his Glock.
What he didn’t expect was for Shelley to go for the Glock, too, which is exactly what he did.
It all happened in the time it took to blink. Shelley knocked the Para’s swinging walkie-talkie hand out of the way, drawing the guy’s sidearm at the same time as he dropped and swept his legs from under him, sending him sprawling to the stones with a shout of pain, surprise and outrage.
It was messy, and it was ugly, and Lucy would have criticised the angle of Shelley’s arms, his stance, his breathing, whatever. Most of all she would have said that he’d used force when he should have been diplomatic, and she would have been right about that, because as Shelley rose with the gun held two-handed and trained on his opponent, he saw the hurt, humiliation and hatred in the other man’s face and knew he’d made an enemy for life. The Glock was dull, aged, probably a treasured weapon, and the fact that it had so easily found its way into Shelley’s fist was bound to enrage its owner even more.
But fuck it. It was done. It wasn’t as though Shelley could apologise, return the gun and compliment him on a well-kept weapon. He had to see things through.
‘One question. What are you lot doing here?’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ rasped the bloke in response.
For just a second – and thank God he restrained himself – Shelley considered adding insult to injury by putting a bullet in his leg. See how the little fucker liked that.
But he thought better of it.
‘I’ll ask again, what are you doing with the Drakes?’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ repeated the guy on the ground. Beached on the stones, he looked like a red-faced and bested bully wanting to run for his mother. S
helley wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a man look so pathetic.
‘Would somebody mind explaining just what on earth is going on?’ came a raised voice.
It was Bennett. He’d appeared from the front door of the house, smart in a navy suit, shirt collar open. He, too, held a pistol. Also a Glock. But he held it loosely, almost casually trained on Shelley, as though he’d be just as happy casting it aside.
‘I wanted to see Guy or Susie,’ said Shelley, ‘but Pinky and Perky here had other ideas.’
‘My men were just doing their job, Shelley,’ said Bennett firmly. ‘Now stand down, or I’ll consider this an aggressive trespass and be forced to take appropriate action.’
‘I don’t think so, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Shelley.
‘Oh, come on, Shelley,’ implored Bennett. He was well spoken, but with an underlying London twang, and he held forth with the confidence of an expert orator. ‘Neither of us is going to use these, are we? We’re on the same side, remember? It serves us no purpose to start taking shots at each other.’
Shelley thumbed the safety, shoved the gun into his coat pocket but held it there. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if it was Bennett who had been making enquiries about Emma Drake, but some instinct told him it was best to keep his powder dry on that score. Instead he said, ‘So, tell me what you’re doing here.’
‘As I’ve already told you, we’re here to provide security for the Drakes following the loss of their daughter—’ began Bennett, only to be cut off by a derisive laugh from Shelley. ‘And yes, you’re right,’ he resumed, ‘we need to improve if a guy can enter the premises and disarm Johnson as easily as you did.’ His smile was wintry. ‘Lessons will be learned. Admonishments given. But that doesn’t change the fact—’
‘Oh, come on. Security my hairy arse. You didn’t even change the gate code.’
Bennett looked amused. ‘Are you charging for this advice, Shelley? Or is it a freebie?’
‘Drake wants payback. That’s it, isn’t it?’ said Shelley. ‘And you’re here to do that for him. Or at least that’s what you’re telling him – that you’ll be able to help heal that broken heart of his. Is that what you’re pouring into his ear? Are we going to find drug dealers turning up dead?’
If Bennett was surprised that Shelley was so well informed then he hid it well. ‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘Do you really care? If Guy was standing here he’d tell you that the scum who sold drugs to his daughter deserve to die, and I think you’d look into his eyes and agree with him.’
‘I’d tell him that’s not how it works,’ said Shelley.
‘You won’t get the chance,’ said Bennett. ‘It’s time for you to leave, I’m afraid.’
Shelley gave the matter some thought, wondering what was to be gained by staying put for longer and deciding the answer was nothing, except for more beef. ‘Don’t follow me,’ he told Bennett. ‘I’ll drop the piece by the gate.’
As he went to leave, Shelley glanced up and saw a figure at the window of the house. It was Susie Drake, tall and willowy, her face framed by straight blonde hair cut in a bob. She was watching him, and for a second or so he considered raising his hand to wave, but decided against it.
Instead he turned, and the only sound in the bright winter morning was his feet crunching over the stones as he crossed to the gates, wiped Johnson’s Glock clean of his prints, dropped it to the stones, climbed into the Saab and left.
CHAPTER 10
SHELLEY WASN’T THE kind of bloke who made friends easily. He was what you might call a slow burner.
So it had been when he’d first met the Drakes: Guy, Susie and their daughter Emma. Guy was still only in his mid-forties then. He’d packed a lot into his life thus far, but the threats against his family had found their way deep beneath his skin. Newly etched into his face were lines born of concern and paranoia, maybe even a little fear, feelings that weren’t going anywhere soon.
Even so, he was ‘bluff northern businessman Guy Drake’, as the newspaper profiles always seemed to describe him. He didn’t like to think he needed help from anyone, and so at first he’d treated Shelley as though he resented having him there, as if Shelley was somehow evidence that he couldn’t take care of his own family, even though Shelley’s presence was in fact evidence that he was doing exactly that.
Shelley hadn’t taken offence – he knew it was complicated. He soon understood that his job wasn’t just to protect the family, it was also to deal with their individual expectations. He had to make them feel at ease with his presence there.
The way he did that was to keep himself busy. Rather than just hanging around with his registered weapon out of sight he decided to make himself into something of a family right-hand man. He took over driving duties, he ran errands, he suggested shooting trips with Drake and won his employer’s trust by bonding over clay pigeons and paper targets. Most rewarding of all, he started to teach young Emma martial arts. Shelley’s own style of fighting was partly learned in the regiment and partly self-taught, a combination of Filipino Kali, Krav Maga and Jeet Kune Do, with a bit of street fighting thrown in for good measure. And although at first he’d thought that something a little more formal would be appropriate for Emma, and he’d tried to get her started on Taekwondo, she’d soon sussed him out and insisted that he teach her to fight the way he did it.
‘The street way’ was what she called it. Like all privileged children, Emma was fascinated by the tough kids – those who spent their time hanging around town centres instead of tending to their horses. Back then she had all the qualities of someone who was destined to make her mark on life, whether life liked it or not.
Then there were the trips out. Susie Drake was that rarest of things: a multimillionaire’s wife who enjoyed a visit to the supermarket. She liked to choose her own fruit and got excited about the twofers.
Shelley had advised the family that they should carry on as normal: if they changed their behaviour then the threat-makers won. So it was that he found himself chauffeuring Susie and Emma on trips to Waitrose. As far as was possible he tried to maintain the normal rules of protection – never use the same routes, never keep to a schedule – but it was only Berkshire and they were only going to Waitrose, and besides, Shelley had started to think that it was time the threat status was down-graded. Plus there was another, more delicate, issue …
All of which meant he was not being as vigilant as he should have been the day the kidnappers struck.
CHAPTER 11
THEY WERE IN the family BMW, halfway between home and Waitrose, when Shelley first spotted the car following them, a Peugeot 307 in nondescript navy blue, one of the most common cars on the road.
He wouldn’t even have given it a second look were it not for the fact that there were two men sitting up front.
Might be nothing, he thought. The two guys could be mates on their way to the pub, or job centre, or picking up a car from the garage.
On the other hand it might be something. They might – just might – be part of the crew that had contacted the Drakes. And maybe that crew had decided to make good on their initial threat and show they weren’t to be messed with.
And if that’s what they were, then they’d have scoped out the Drakes already; they’d know that Shelley, Susie and Emma were on their way to Waitrose. Which meant that Shelley had missed their surveillance runs, too busy yakking. He swallowed, perspiration prickling his forehead, cursing himself as an amateur, thinking, You fucking idiot.
At the lights, the Peugeot eased out from behind and drew alongside. Shelley kept up his conversation with Susie and Emma in the back, surreptitiously checking out the Peugeot at the same time: two guys, one in a navy sweatshirt, the passenger wearing a black puffa coat. They didn’t look across. They, too, were deep in conversation: neither of them seemed to pay the BMW much attention.
Even so, Shelley remained alert, thinking things over. It could be that they were just a couple of blokes arguing over last night�
�s football.
Or it could be that they were good at their job, and didn’t want to show their hand.
He leaned forward as though to scratch his thigh, eased his SIG Sauer from its holster, checked the safety, and tucked it underneath his buttock.
The lights changed. The Peugeot beat Shelley off the line and then tucked in front of them. Right, thought Shelley, if they were kidnappers, then there’d be a second team. And the second team would be behind.
His eyes went to the mirror, scanning the traffic: VW Passat, one lady driver; behind that a Vauxhall of some kind, again a lone driver. But sure enough, behind the Vauxhall there was a white van, the builders’ sort, or at least that’s how they wanted it to look, dashboard stuffed with yellowing copies of The Sun, crumpled Burger King wrappers and discarded coffee cups.
The van. That was the second team. And if Shelley was right they’d make their way up the line of traffic to come up behind the Drakes’ BMW. Once in position the BMW would be boxed in.
When? was the question. They might wait until the supermarket. If they’d been carrying out surveillance – and Shelley thought so – then they’d know that Susie Drake was on a shopping expedition. The supermarket would be the perfect place. That’s where Shelley would choose.
But he was wrong about that.
CHAPTER 12
REACHING THE NEXT set of lights, the Peugeot was first in the queue, Shelley behind, the white van a few cars back.
His hands were tapping on the steering wheel as he continued a conversation with Emma, fielding her latest enquiry about what he’d done ‘in the war’. That’s what she always said: ‘in the war’.
‘Which war, Emma?’
Revenge Page 4
