Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

by Karla Forbes

  “Certainly, sir,” the voice continued amicably. “As you probably know, the holiday park is set in the grounds of a beautiful country house in Hampshire, on the fringes of the New Forest. We have fifty lodges set in nearly thirty acres of woodland, plus several smaller flats within the main building. All the accommodation is self-catering, but we have a very nice restaurant, a clubhouse with bar, and a swimming pool with sauna and jacuzzi.”

  “It sounds as though neighbours aren’t a problem,” he said, sensing that this might be significant.

  “You’re right sir, it’s very private. All of the lodges have plenty of ground around them, so you can have peace and quiet when you want it, but with the option of mixing with the other guests when you wish.”

  “Can you hang on a minute?” Nick asked. He put his hand over the receiver to give himself time to think. Malcolm Fox had packed and left home in a hurry. The last number someone had dialled from his phone was a holiday park which boasted privacy as a major selling feature. It was tenuous, but right now Nick knew that it was his only lead. He had no other address to check out; searching the house had yielded nothing. He could either investigate the holiday park, or stay on the run until either Mason caught up with him or Ed came back to him with something more concrete. He came to a decision.

  “It sounds ideal,” he said. “I’d like to stay for a week.”

  “Of course sir. What dates did you have in mind?

  “From today if that’s possible.”

  “No problem. Would that be a lodge or a studio flat?”

  Nick couldn’t say. That would depend on what he found when he got there.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Can I decide when I see them?”

  “Of course. Would you like to pay over the phone by credit card?”

  “No need,” Nick said quickly. “Give me the exact address. I’ll be with you by evening. I’ll pay in full when I arrive.” He scribbled down the address and disconnected.

  His next problem was Annelies. She would expect to tag along, and so far his track record of successfully saying no to her was poor. He pushed it to the back of his mind; something to be dealt with later. He stood for a moment wondering what else he could do, and then walked back into the kitchen. It looked as unpromising now as it had done ten minutes earlier. He opened cupboards and drawers, but the only thing he discovered was that Fox wasn’t a martyr to cooking. Apart from several tins containing soup or beans, there was little to suggest a culinary lifestyle. The fridge was almost empty, and the sink was piled high with dirty dishes. He rummaged through the rubbish bin, but the contents only reinforced the opinion Nick was forming about Fox’s lifestyle. Apart from a few dried-out tea bags clinging to the side of the bin, there was only an assortment of polystyrene trays smeared with the dried remains of various ready-made meals.

  He gave one last look around him and slipped out into the garden. It was evident from the ragged patch of grass and flower borders overgrown with brambles that Fox’s lack of household skills didn’t stop at the kitchen. Nick hurried over to a dilapidated shed standing in one corner. It was leaning at an angle with the door half-hanging off, but a quick scrutiny of the inside yielded nothing; Fox had long ago given over ownership to the spiders that had festooned the corners with thick, dusty webs. Nick stepped back out again and stood for a moment, unwilling to walk away with so little to show for his efforts. He stood for a while, thinking, his chin in his hand, and it was then that he saw it: a disturbed area of soil by the side of the shed. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to disguise it by pulling the brambles back into place, but there was no mistaking the fact that a small area of ground had recently been dug over.

  Nick’s interest quickened. He doubted that Fox had been preparing the ground for a sowing of winter vegetables. He stepped back into the shed and found a shovel, propped behind the door. There was a dry crust of soil still clinging to the edge. His excitement grew. He snatched it up, hurried back out again and started digging. The corner of a black plastic bin liner was just inches below the surface. Nick threw a quick look over his shoulder, suddenly feeling exposed to the eyes of any neighbour glancing casually from an upstairs window, then crouched down on his hands and knees and raked at the soil. The bag came away easily, confirming his suspicions that the hole had only recently been dug. Resisting the temptation to examine the contents there and then, he hurried back inside.

  He lost no time in emptying the contents of the bag onto the kitchen work surface and regarded them with a puzzled frown. There was a Bunsen burner, a tripod, an empty bottle of acid, and a large ceramic bowl and spatula; both were caked in a residue that he didn’t recognise. He took the bowl over to the window to examine it in more detail, sniffing it and holding it up to the light, but the residue stubbornly refused to identity itself. He returned it to the work surface and stood back, regarding it critically as he wondered what it could be. He noticed a sticky red smear on the side of the bowl and looked at his finger in surprise before remembering that he had cut it on the way in to the house. Licking the blood from his finger he picked up the spatula to rub away the residue, but his efforts made little impression. It seemed to be baked on: a coating of dry, clinging granules. He scratched at it with the spatula until he had dislodged a small scraping of the unidentifiable matter then touched it very cautiously to his lips. It tasted faintly sharp and metallic.

  This was too important to ignore. He took the last couple of sheets of kitchen roll hanging from a dispenser, laid them on the work surface, and using the spatula carefully scraped the remains from the bowl onto the paper. There was probably less than an eighth of a teaspoon in total. He folded the paper into a small parcel and looked around for somewhere to stow it. Lying on the work surface was a small box of matches. He tucked his paper package alongside the last two matches and slipped the box into the pocket of his jeans.

  He looked around him but there was nothing else to see. There was, however, one last thing to do. He walked back into the hall, dialled 999 and asked for the police. He cut right across the operator who came on the line asking him for his name and address.

  “That isn’t important,” he told her. “I have a message for Detective Inspector Mason. He is with the Kent Police Force based in Canterbury. I assume this is being recorded, so I don’t intend to repeat myself. My name is Nick Sullivan. He knows who I am. Tell him to check out Malcolm Fox, last address 2 Queensway Road, Croydon. He is one of the men who murdered Tim Wellerby. He might also want to speak to Mrs Jackson, of 7 Sea View Avenue in Seaford, who sold Fox the boat.”

  “I’m sorry,” the operator said brusquely, “but we’re not a message-taking service. Do you have an emergency or not?”

  “Does finding three murderers count as an emergency?” Nick demanded.

  “Sorry? Well yes…I suppose so,” she conceded.

  “Then get my message to him,” Nick ordered. “He’ll know what it’s about.”

  He hung up and strode quickly from the house. He didn’t know whether or not the message would get through. He only knew that he didn’t want to be around if the police turned up.

  He yanked open the passenger door, startling Annelies who was concentrating so hard on the road ahead that she hadn’t seen him coming.

  “Get out of here, now!” he ordered, handing back her mobile. She took one look at his face and for the first time in her life instantly obeyed.

  “Where are we going?” she asked nervously.

  “Anywhere away from here,” he said. “I’ve just placed a call to Mason. I don’t want to hang around in case he acts on it.”

  Annelies headed south. “So what did you find?” she asked after a moment’s silence, as she negotiated heavy traffic.

  Nick shrugged. “There was no one there. It looks as though Fox has packed in a hurry. The only lead I’ve got is a holiday park in Hampshire called the Forest Lodge. I think it’s worth checking out.”

  Annelies peered at a distant street sign. “What
do you want to do? Go home first so we can pack a few things, or head straight for the M25 and pick up the M3?”

  Nick braced himself for yet another argument. “I told you before, this is my fight.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not this again, Nick. You know I won’t leave you to sort this mess out by yourself, so why don’t you just give in with a good grace and save us both a lot of effort?”

  He gave her a weary smile. “I think it was Nietzsche who said ‘Battle not with monsters lest you become one’.”

  Annelies feigned outrage. “Eh! Are you calling me a monster?”

  Nick nodded. “I always thought you were such a compliant little thing. When did you turn into a stubborn, argumentative mule?”

  Annelies burst out laughing. “A long time ago, actually. You just never noticed.”

  “Apparently not,” Nick agreed despondently. He hesitated, wondering whether to risk Ed’s wrath by using Annelies’ phone, or risk alerting the Police to his whereabouts by using his own phone. It was no contest. He used his own phone and minutes later was talking to Ed.

  “It’s Nick,” he said. “Can you talk?”

  Ed lowered his voice. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back to me. I’ve got more on Fox.”

  “Go on,” Nick urged.

  “I’ve been doing some digging. He served his time in Lewes Prison. I know someone on the staff there, so I gave him a call. It seems that Fox shared a cell with someone called David Wilson. I can’t say for certain that he and John Harris are the same man, but he fits the description: middle-aged, long beaked nose, and apparently more intelligent than the average inmate. He was articulate and well-spoken. Had a degree in Chemistry or something.”

  Nick scowled. “That sounds like him. What was he in for?”

  “Stealing from his employers. He worked in the diamond industry for several years, but eventually it wasn’t enough for him to be buying and selling them for his employers; he wanted to line his own pockets. He thought he could get away with swapping some of the most valuable diamonds with cheaper alternatives, but the company’s security measures weren’t as lax as he thought they were. He’s not a thug like Fox, but in a way he’s just as dangerous. He isn’t violent for the sake of it, but that’s only because he’s a damn sight cleverer. You have to take care with that one. People who knew him in prison say that if you crossed him you ended up hurt, but he would always get someone else to do his dirty work. He gives the impression that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill if he thought he had to.”

  “I know,” Nick said flatly. “I watched him murder Tim, remember?”

  “Oh yes…of course,” Ed said, apologetically. “Anyway, there’s more. I asked my mate if there were any Germans in there at the same time. Guess what.”

  “I’m sure I can, but why don’t you tell me?”

  “There was a German in there called Gerhard Hubner. A real hard nut, apparently. He was in for trafficking.”

  “What, drugs?”

  “No, girls. He lured them here from Eastern Europe with promises of a better life, but then put them to work in brothels. Most of them were too scared to testify, so the police could only charge him for minor offences. He only served a few months but he put the time to good use. He made it his business to find out the backgrounds of his fellow inmates, so when he came out, he had a whole range of skills to draw on. A Teutonic version of the Old Boy Network.”

  “Very handy for him,” Nick muttered sullenly. “Any idea what he might be up to now?”

  “No idea,” Ed admitted. “But I’ll keep my ear to the ground. And in the meantime, keep your bloody phoned turned off!”

  Nick disconnected and turned to Annelies, his face solemn. “I’m sorry, but this is getting too heavy. I can’t take you with me. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you on my account.”

  Her face fell.

  “Please, Nick,” she begged, “don’t push me away. We’ve been friends for too long. You say you couldn’t forgive yourself if anything happened to me, but how do you think I would feel if I stood back and did nothing and you got yourself killed?” Her fingers fluttered in agitation. “You’re in trouble, Nick, and it’s when you’re in trouble that you need your friends. If you give yourself up, you could be serving a life sentence for a murder you didn’t commit – but you can’t possibly go after these men alone.”

  A tear began to trickle from the corner of her eye. Nick mentally groaned; he had never been able to resist tears.

  She brushed it away with the back of her hand. “I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I’m not stupid. I know it’s dangerous. I just want to be there, looking out for you and watching your back, because not being with you and worrying about you will be far worse.”

  He regarded her for several long seconds, then turned his head and stared in silence through the passenger window. Her words had moved him more than he could have thought possible, and at that moment he could barely trust himself to speak. Instead, he pondered the irony of a life in which he had thought he had everything until it had unravelled around him. Only now had he discovered that the most valuable thing he possessed was the one thing he had never known was his: Annelies’s love.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah Feltham woke into a nightmare. The first thing she became aware of was a pounding headache, but as consciousness returned, other more terrifying feelings began flooding into her brain. She was lying on her side, her face pressed into something that felt like a mattress, but was too thin to protect her from the cold, hard floor. She tried to move, but found her arms pinioned behind her back. She came fully awake as the shock flooded her system with adrenaline and swept away the last lingering fog of confusion.

  All around her was blackness. Was it night? She couldn’t be sure. She realised then that there was something covering her eyes. Her mouth too, was tightly bound with tape. She began to tremble violently, both from the cold and the invading sense of terror. She lay for a moment, her heart beating rapidly as she tried to remember. There had been a car across the road; it had broken down. There was a man, he had been trying to get a signal on his mobile but then another man had arrived. They had attacked her, holding something over her mouth…Chloe had been crying…

  Oh God! The baby!

  Sarah flailed around, desperately trying to free her wrists. Her screams of terror, muffled by the tape, came out as muted cries. She kicked her legs and made contact with a nearby wall. It echoed hard like metal. She realised that she must be lying in the back of a van. She kicked again and again. At that moment there was a grating sound like a key being turned, then a door opened, bringing with it a cold draught. There was a slamming sound and the draught was snuffed out. She pulled away in terror as a hand gripped her tightly around the back of her neck and something cold and metallic was rammed against her throat.

  “Can you feel what this is?” a man’s voice asked. She froze, too petrified to respond. The knife dug deeper. “I said, can you feel what this is?” The voice was heavy with menace.

  She nodded dumbly.

  “Good. Now let me make myself clear. If you make the slightest sound, I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”

  Again she nodded.

  “If you do anything apart from breathe, I’ll slice open your jugular like a tin of sardines. Am I still making myself clear?”

  His voice was just inches from her ear. She could smell his sweat mixed the mustiness of his deodorant. The skin on his hands was coarse. She sagged in compliance.

  Very slightly he relaxed his grip. “If you promise not to scream, I’ll take the tape off your mouth. If you try anything, you’ll be dead before you know what’s hit you.”

  She tried to nod, but was convulsed with trembling. In the same moment, the tape was ripped from her mouth. She spluttered and drew in deep lungfuls of air. Until then she hadn’t realised that breathing was difficult. Immediately the knife was pressed again to her throat.

  “Please,�
� she stuttered, “you’ve got to let me go. My daughter is alone in the car. She’s only a baby…”

  “Quiet!”

  “For pity’s sake,” she begged, “my son will have to be picked up from…”

  “I said, shut up!” The words were ground out through gritted teeth. “Do you want the tape back on?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then keep your mouth shut and only talk when I say you can!”

  She gave a little whimper and fell silent.

  “Good. If you want to see your kids again, you’ll listen to what I have to say. You’re going to stay here for a couple of days, and then, if you behave yourself, you can go home again. As long as you don’t do anything stupid you won’t get hurt.”

  Sarah tried to speak. The words came out as a croak. She moistened her dry lips with her tongue and screwed up her courage. “I can’t stay here. Please, I beg of you…let me go.”

  “You’ll go home when I say you can,” the voice said unemotionally. “But only if you co-operate.”

  Sarah stifled a sob of terror and tried to sound calm. “I will co-operate, but I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Nothing.”

  She heard him move away from her, and all pretence of calmness evaporated. She called out to him in panic. “Please…don’t leave me like this!” She sensed him hesitate. “Please,” she begged again “will you at least take the blindfold off?”

  She heard him come back and then felt his hand brush past her face. With one yank the tape was ripped from her eyes. She flinched as a light from a torch flooded her vision, and it was several seconds before she could make out a familiar face scowling back at her. It was the man from the lane.

  “Thank you,” she stuttered, abjectly grateful for the small act of kindness. He accepted her words with a dismissive shrug.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice fractured with emotion. “We’re not wealthy people. You must know we can’t pay a ransom.”