His captors spoke in Russian, laughing occasionally. He wondered what they were saying, tried to make out words. The only thing he caught was something that sounded like ‘kingsman’.
There was a film called Kingsman. He’d seen it with Jane. Were they talking about that? Maybe he could engage them in conversation about Kingsman. There was a joke about anal sex. He’d laughed like a drain at that one. If only he knew the Russian for ‘anal sex’. If only he knew any Russian at all.
Then the van shuddered to a halt. He heard the side doors opened then the rear doors. ‘Come,’ said the guy who’d stayed with him in the back, pulling him to his feet at the same time as he dragged off the hood.
They were outside now and Johnson recognised where he was immediately. A place he was never, ever going to bring his bimmer to for her service or MOT.
‘I know this place. Why did you bother with the hood?’
But he knew the answer even as the words left his mouth. They wanted to unnerve him. Well, if they thought they were going to scare Johnson, they had another think coming, because ex-Paras don’t scare easy.
Another of the big guys came to him. They grabbed him roughly under each armpit. ‘Oi!’ he yelled as they hoisted him almost off his feet and half dragged him to the garage entrance.
On the other hand, who was he fucking kidding? He was absolutely terrified.
They dragged him through the reception area. There was no old man there today, just a woman who lifted the phone and pointedly looked in the opposite direction as he was dragged through the room to a door at the back and then into the corridor beyond. He expected them to pull him into an office but instead they went past, Johnson still held up by a Russian heavy on either side, half walking, half being dragged to another door.
‘Machine Shop’, the name was on the door which was flung open and Johnson shoved inside so hard he lost his footing and fell painfully to the concrete floor. He stayed there for a moment or so to gather himself, and then raised his head to take stock of the welcoming committee.
There waiting for him was Dmitry, his beefy arms folded, with Sergei beside him, as well as the old guy, who sat close to a table on which was arranged a series of instruments: knives, saws, scalpels, a hand drill.
There was one other thing about the room – an extra terrifying detail. The plastic. It hung off the walls and lined the floor, clear plastic sheets.
Johnson was special forces. He’d seen all sorts of bad shit. He knew exactly what the plastic was for.
He looked pleadingly at Sergei, who had been his first point of contact in the organisation, when he’d leapt at the chance of making easy money and getting one over on Shelley at the same time.
But Sergei’s eyes swivelled away, and Johnson recognised that look: Things are out of my hands. You’re on your own, mate.
‘Mr Johnson,’ said Dmitry breezily, ‘you and I need to have a little chat.’
Johnson was shoved into the chair, a hand on his head. His two companions busied themselves at his hands and feet. Working fast, they cable-tied his ankles to the legs of the chair, his wrists to struts behind.
He looked up to see a CCTV camera watching over him, its green light blinking. He gazed into the lens and was wondering whether he should call for help when Dmitry said, ‘No sound, I’m afraid, Corporal. Dedushka doesn’t mind though, he likes silent movies.’
Dedushka? Dedushka? Wasn’t that a Kate Bush song? Johnson’s eyes skittered. The evil old guy, the one watching TV last time he was here, levered himself from his chair. One of the men moved forward, perhaps to help, but the old guy warded him off with an angry flick of his hand. And then, bent a little, the old man moved to the table on which the instruments had been laid. Torture instruments.
‘You won’t need those,’ whined Johnson. ‘I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Ask, just ask.’
His gaze went to Dmitry, who stood beside Sergei. Did he imagine it, or did the two of them look almost uncomfortable? Johnson experienced a brief surge of hope as it struck him that this wasn’t the way these guys wanted to conduct their business. They were professionals, not sadists. They weren’t like this evil old geezer.
‘It is Grandfather,’ Dmitry told him, reading his mind. ‘He does insist on having his fun. And of course, we are who we are, we have a reputation to uphold.’ He raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, Dedushka?’
The old man turned, a silvery line of saliva tracing its way down his chin. He was ninety if he was a day, this old boy. When his hand reached to the table it shook like an autumn leaf.
But he understood everything Dmitry was saying. He understood exactly what was required of him. The instrument he had selected was a straight razor and as he opened it and began to advance on Johnson, something almost supernatural happened: his hand ceased to tremble.
‘Where would you like to start, Grandfather?’ asked Dmitry. He shot Johnson an almost sympathetic look. Like a parent at the dentist’s. Be brave, it’ll all be over soon.
‘The nipples,’ croaked Grandfather. ‘I always start with the nipples. That way they know we mean business.’
‘Very good, Grandfather. You may begin with the nipples.’ He gestured and one of the heavies took a kitchen knife from the table, moved forward and used it to slice the front of Johnson’s T-shirt, parting it like a waistcoat. ‘Will he lose consciousness, do you think?’ asked Dmitry.
‘Not yet, not yet,’ replied Grandfather. Stepping in front of Johnson he squinted to get the measure of his subject and raised the straight razor. His other hand, steady as a rock, went to Johnson’s chest to tauten the skin, ready for the first incision.
‘Good, good,’ said Dmitry, ‘we need him to talk.’
‘Oh, he will talk,’ said Grandfather.
Light ran along the blade of the razor as it slashed downward.
And indeed, Johnson talked. He talked plenty. When the screaming was over.
CHAPTER 33
SHELLEY WAS STILL waiting for Johnson and Drake to arrive when his phone went. It was Claridge.
‘Hello, mate,’ said Shelley.
‘Shelley,’ replied Claridge. But the word was drawn out, school-masterly. ‘And where might you be at this very moment in time?’
‘Oh, come on. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
‘Well, I have to say that I’d much rather I asked you questions and then you told me no lies. How about we try that? Or how about if you get in touch with me asking for help in the Emma Drake death, and I give you that help, then that in turn entitles me to hear the truth from you?’
‘It’s better for you if you don’t.’
At the other end of the line, Claridge sighed long and hard, a sigh of the eternally downtrodden, like an end-of-her-tether mother-of-three. ‘You’re at Drake’s house,’ he said.
Shelley couldn’t help himself. He looked left and right, even up. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’m MI5, Shelley, I get to know these things without even breaking a sweat. Do you know what else I know?’
‘Go on …’
‘Some people attacked a building used by an outfit called Foxy Kittenz last night. I’m assuming you would know something about that, especially as it has been reported by an eyewitness that one of the men doing the attacking – balaclavas, Shelley, baseball bats, I really thought this sort of thing was beneath you – was none other than Guy Drake. What do you have to tell me about that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Shelley coolly. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No, I didn’t think you’d have anything to do with it, my reasoning based mainly on the fact that if you had been involved then you would have hit the right building.’
Shelley’s blood chilled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Foxy Kittenz operates two units. We believe that Emma Drake took her life in the other one, closer to where she was living, closer to where she was found, closer to the dealers she used. You hit – sorry, I mean
whoever it was that did the hitting hit – the wrong place.’
To take the call Shelley had wandered over to a far edge of the driveway close to the border of the lawn. Standing there, he raised his eyes to the heavens and thought of the poor beaten guy cowering on the tarmac, the girls thrown into the street. Drake would say it didn’t matter, that they’d struck out at Foxy Kittenz, and so what if the wrong building was hit and the wrong guy got beaten.
Shelley knew one thing for sure. It would have mattered to Emma.
‘Now, there’s something else,’ continued Claridge. ‘Something that I’m afraid makes this rather more serious than it already is.’
That brought Shelley back down to earth. ‘What?’
‘Detective Inspector Phillips has been keeping me up to date on the investigation, parts of which have been handed over to us at MI5. A colleague of mine has made the connection between the Foxy Kittenz enterprise and a section of the Chechen Mafia operating in London. It seems that Foxy Kittenz is one of their many businesses.’
Shelley swallowed. ‘Right,’ he said.
‘You know these people,’ said Claridge. And yes, it was a statement, not a question. ‘You have caused trouble for these people in the past.’ Again, a simple statement of fact.
‘Afghanistan, 2004,’ said Shelley. ‘We took down one of their supply lines.’
‘There have been other occasions but yes, that’s probably the one that caused them most hurt.’
‘So I’m messing with dangerous people,’ said Shelley. ‘You’re right, I’ve done it before.’
‘The difference is that last time you messed with the Chechen Mafia you did it with the SAS and Her Majesty’s Armed Forces at your back,’ said Claridge. ‘This time you’re on your own.’
CHAPTER 34
WHEN DRAKE ARRIVED home shortly afterwards, they stepped out to greet him. Bennett and Gurney: well, they no doubt had loose ends to tie up before they upped and got the fuck out of Dodge. Shelley, on the other hand? At first he’d been telling himself that he wanted to supervise the clean-up operation, or that he wanted to look into Drake’s eyes and see if he was at all ashamed by his behaviour last night.
But he’d had second thoughts about all of that. In the meantime he’d realised that what he most wanted to do was see Susie. It was her with whom he needed to make his peace.
So his heart sank when Drake’s Jaguar swept into the drive and Susie was not in the passenger seat. Drake peered balefully at the three men through his windscreen, and he appeared to take a deep breath before letting himself out of the car to face them.
There they stood, Shelley, Bennett and Gurney, looking like the housekeeping staff in a period drama, and for a moment or so Drake faced them in silence, unspoken recollections of the previous night passing between them.
But no shame. No apology.
That’s it. I’m going, thought Shelley. I’m out of here.
‘I don’t think much of my welcoming committee,’ said Drake without humour. He turned his attention to Shelley. ‘Surprised to find you here. I thought you’d have gone by now, taken your conscience and cleared off to give your halo a polish.’
He and Shelley stared at one another, as though Drake was daring him to come back on the halo comment, but Shelley ignored the jibe. Laugh it up, fat boy. I’m not making excuses for you any more.
‘Where’s Johnson?’ asked Drake, breaking the stare and talking to Bennett.
‘Due any minute,’ said Bennett. He thrust back his shoulders and took on the mantle of officer in charge. ‘We need to torch the van, get rid of anything that connects us with last night.’
‘You think the police are going to come knocking?’ said Drake, and Shelley had to restrain himself from letting out a gasp of frustration. What planet was this bloke on?
‘Yes,’ replied Bennett with the kind of patience and calm that Shelley feared he himself couldn’t possibly muster, ‘we anticipate the police getting involved at some point.’
‘Oh yeah, and who told you that?’ growled Drake. ‘Was that our friendly local alarmist there?’ He tilted his chin at Shelley.
Bennett’s face stayed neutral but his eyes found Shelley, who saw the silent apology there. ‘The fire spread,’ explained Bennett. ‘An eyewitness heard the name “Drake” being shouted. It seems likely they’ll come and ask questions. It’s an outcome we anticipated and prepared for. That’s why you have an alibi.’
Drake was about to say something when his phone rang. He fished it out of his blazer pocket, looked at the screen. ‘Number withheld.’
‘Don’t answer it,’ said Bennett quickly, but Drake shot him a look.
‘Don’t be soft, man,’ he said, and lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Hello,’ he barked, every inch the gruff northern businessman, not prepared to take shit from anybody. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘this is Guy Drake.’ He paused. ‘Wait a second,’ he said, ‘before I say another word, why don’t you tell me who you are?’ And then he activated the speaker and placed the smartphone on the bonnet of the Jaguar.
‘Who am I?’ said the voice, and Shelley knew at once they were in big trouble because there was no doubt about it: the guy was a Russian, which meant he was probably a Chechen. ‘I am somebody that you have upset. You have disrupted my business and cost me money.’
‘That was the idea, pal,’ said Drake. Trying to stop him from saying anything incriminating or inflammatory, Shelley drew his finger across his throat, shaking his head at the same time, but of course, Drake being Drake, he ploughed on. ‘You got what was coming to you. Believe you me, you can count yourself lucky.’
‘Wait. Am I on speakerphone, Mr Drake? Please, introduce me to your friends listening. Perhaps these are the same men who helped you to beat up my employee and scare off my girls? Perhaps feeling very pleased with themselves. Are they as brave without their masks and bats, Mr Drake?’
Shelley experienced an odd sensation. He felt ashamed of himself.
‘Gentlemen, that was good work you did smashing that equipment,’ continued the caller, ‘and if ever I need some equipment smashing you can be sure I’ll call upon your services. But you see, there’s a snag. You now need to pay for all the damage you caused.’
Drake snorted as though to say, You should be so lucky, but the Chechen continued, ‘I would like twenty million please. Pay this money straight away with no arguments and there will be no more bloodshed.’
Drake’s chewing habit always became more pronounced in times of high drama, and his jaw now moved rhythmically, like a man battling with gristle. For a moment Shelley wondered if he might simply blow his top there and then. To his credit, he maintained composure.
‘Listen, my friend, I don’t know who you are, or who you fucking think you are, but last night was about teaching you a lesson, not the beginning of a beautiful new relationship, you get me? And I can tell you this much. Those men in the balaclavas? You’ve got them to thank for the fact that we didn’t go much, much further. What’s more, your lad who works there has got them to thank for the fact that it’s only a visit to the hospital he needs, and not one to the graveyard. Now I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear your pathetic blackmail attempt and tell you to fuck right off.’
There was a pause. It was as though the Chechen decided to try again. ‘Mr Drake, my name is Dmitry and I work for people whose wealth and influence equals yours. But the difference between them and you is the way in which they have acquired that wealth and gained that influence. You think that you have gone over to the other side, yes? That you have become a bad man? And you have, because it’s a bad thing you did, paying men in balaclavas to scare girls with baseball bats. But you probably think it doesn’t matter, because you think that your bad is a good-guy kind of bad, and anyway your wealth and influence will save you from your British justice system, and it probably will, because that is the way the world works. Your wealth and your influence can indeed save you from jail.
‘But it will not save you from
us, Mr Drake. Those feeble men you have, ex-soldiers, old men thrown out of the army. Maybe they are tough guys who tell you they can keep you safe. But they can’t. Really they can’t, Mr Drake. All I have to do is give the order. And we won’t just kill you, Mr Drake, we’ll take you somewhere, and we’ll make you watch as we hurt and kill your loved ones, and then we’ll kill you, and we’ll do it slowly, over a period not of days or weeks, but of months.’
Shelley’s mind raced. This guy, how come he was telling them his name? More to the point, how did he know that Drake’s men were ex-military? A lucky guess, perhaps? Or something else?
‘Tell you what, mate,’ said Drake. His voice was rising. His cheeks had reddened. ‘You can fucking do one. Russian Mafia, is it? Something like that? You’re a fucking joke. Something out of a bad Sylvester Stallone movie. I tell you what, mate. You send your fellas here. Send as many as you like. I’ll be waiting. And I’ll come back at you twice as hard with everything I’ve got – and that’s everything I’ve got within the law and outside it, which is a lot more than you can muster, I promise you that. You think I’m underestimating you, do you? You fucking turkey. I’ll fucking show you how we do things in my country.’
There was a pause. Shelley wondered about the temperament of this man Dmitry. Was he going to lose it?
No. ‘Then let the battle commence,’ said Dmitry.
The line went dead.
The sound of a car engine made all four men look in the direction of the front gates. They could see through the wrought iron to the approach road beyond.
About two hundred yards away was a metallic-blue BMW, getting nearer.
CHAPTER 35
‘THAT’S JOHNSON,’ SAID Bennett.
‘Wait,’ said Shelley. He’d seen what Bennett and Gurney had not. A short way behind the blue BMW was a black Range Rover.
‘Are either of you armed?’ said Shelley to Bennett and Gurney. In reply Bennett flapped open his jacket to reveal the grip of a pistol. Gurney drew his own Glock and held it loosely at his side.
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