Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

by Karla Forbes

  Nick fell silent. When he next spoke, he sounded as though he was choosing his words carefully. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

  “No. Why should there be?” Ed snapped. “You say you lost these men?”

  “Yes, I was careless. I slept too long. When I woke up they’d gone.”

  “Gone for good, you reckon?”

  “I don’t know,” Nick admitted. “They’ve done a lot of driving around and moving from place to place. They might come back, but I wouldn’t rely on it.”

  “So what now?” Ed asked, his tone more normal. “Are you going to do what I suggested in the first place and give yourself up?”

  “Why would I do that?” Nick asked, sounding slightly more relaxed. “I still haven’t found the proof I need, and for some reason that I don’t understand, I’ve got the whole country looking for me. If I didn’t give myself up before, I’m damned if I can see how it will help to give myself up now.”

  “Because,” Ed pointed out, “you’ve come to the end of the road. Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

  “What…take me in, you mean?” Nick sounded alarmed.

  “Of course not,” Ed said. “But you said yourself that you’ve lost them. How long do you think you can go on like this?”

  “For as long as it takes,” Nick said stubbornly.

  “You gave it your best shot. It wasn’t enough. You’re making things worse for yourself. We need to sort this out. Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll come over. Just me, no one else.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nick said flatly. “I won’t let you ruin your career on my account.”

  “I won’t,” Ed assured him. “No one need know. Tell me whereabouts in Ramsgate you’re staying and I’ll drive over.”

  “I was staying at the Golden Galleon Caravan Park, but that was before I saw myself on national television. I spent last night in the car.”

  “You’re getting yourself into some deep shit,” Ed observed.

  “You noticed?”

  “OK, go back to the caravan park and wait for me there. If I leave straight away, I can be with you in just over an hour.”

  Ed disconnected before Nick could argue further, and sat for a moment deep in thought, his loyalties torn. He now knew the whereabouts of a man who every force in the county was trying to get their hands on. He should do the sensible thing and take the information straight to his boss. It certainly wouldn’t do his career any harm.

  He started to push away from the desk, but sat down again. His sister was lying in hospital waiting for an operation to relieve pressure on her brain. If that was down to Nick, then Ed wanted to get to him first and mete out his own form of justice before the police took him into custody.

  But what if Nick was telling the truth? If he was not only innocent of Tim’s murder, but genuinely believed that Annelies was safely at home? If that was the case, it was support from his friends that he needed, not a kick in the guts. Ed wavered, unsure how to proceed. He and Nick went back a long way. He thought he knew the man. The Nick he knew wouldn’t have left Annelies lying in a ditch, and was probably incapable of doing something so terrible that every police force in the country would be on high alert to find him.

  But perhaps he didn’t know him at all.

  Ed came to a decision. There was only one way to get to the truth.

  He checked out the address of the Golden Galleon, programmed the postcode into his phone, then grabbed his car keys. Carefully avoiding eye contact with his colleagues who glanced without interest in his direction, he walked straight past his boss’s office and jogged to his car. Unless the traffic was heavy, he could be in Ramsgate in just over the hour.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stephen Taylor screeched to a halt, abandoned his car half-across the pavement, and ran blindly up the path. As he threw himself through the front door, his wife was standing in the hall waiting for him, her face taut with the strain of trying not to fall apart. He hurried towards her and folded her into his arms.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, fear tying his stomach into knots. “I got a message… Something about Emma?”

  Jenny extricated herself and silently handed him the note. He reached out to take it, but instead let his hands fall to his sides.

  “Read it,” she told him.

  He took the note with shaking fingers. As he read, his face turned pale.

  “I’ll call the police,” he said distractedly.

  “No!” she cried. “It says no police.”

  “But we must,” he told her gently. “These people have got Emma. We can’t deal with this alone.”

  “No police,” she said, more forcibly. “The note says that if we do everything they say, we’ll have her home again before evening.”

  “And you believe that?” he said scathingly. “Are you really going to take the word of these bastards, people who are capable of abducting a child off the streets in broad daylight?”

  Her lower lip began to tremble. “I have to believe it. If I don’t, I’ll go mad.”

  He was struck by a sudden terrible thought. “Where’s Leah?” he asked, peering anxiously over her shoulder.

  “She’s safe, but deeply shocked,” his wife told him. “She’s gone to her room.”

  He looked again at the note, and then at his watch. “I’ve got to get moving. They’ve barely given me long enough to do everything they say.” He released her from his arms and stepped back, regarding her with concern. “I have to go. Will you be OK here by yourself?”

  “I haven’t got a choice. No one else must know.” She clutched hold of his arm. “Promise me you’ll be careful. This is our little girl’s life at stake.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he assured her. With one last worried look, he turned on his heel and hurried out of the door reading the note in his hand.

  ***

  Nick heard the line go dead and wondered what the hell to do. He neither wanted, nor expected, Ed to drop everything and drive over to Ramsgate. He walked pensively back to his car, going over the conversation in his mind. Something hadn’t been right. He had known Ed for too long not to realise when he was holding something back.

  The most obvious answer was also the least palatable: Ed was going to turn him in. Nick slipped behind the wheel of the car, but sat, going nowhere, as he considered how to proceed. Perhaps he had pushed their friendship too far. Ed was a policeman, after all, and had at one time been fiercely ambitious. He hesitated, wracked by indecision, knowing that even as he dithered Ed could be picking up the phone and arranging a welcoming committee at the caravan park.

  Would he really do that? Nick didn’t want to think so. Ed was often foolish and self-centred, but never deceitful. If anything, it was often his lack of duplicity that got him into trouble.

  Then why had he insisted on driving over? It didn’t make sense. Ed had made it damn clear from the start that he thought Nick should turn himself in. There was no way that he would risk his career for a cause that he had already pronounced hopeless.

  With a start Nick became aware that a passer-by was staring at him through the windscreen. He remembered that his face had been on national television that morning, and he suddenly felt exposed. He flicked the key in the ignition and pulled away, still undecided about where to go. He drove through a small hamlet on the outskirts of Ramsgate, and noticed a newsagent’s shop with the newspapers stacked outside in racks. He pulled over and sat for a moment waiting for an elderly lady to select her newspaper and go into the shop. When the pavement was clear, he hurried over, snatched a paper and quickly scanned it. His relief at finding that he wasn’t on the front page was short-lived; he was on page five, same photograph, same description. He shoved the paper back into the rack and tried another. This time he was on page three. He selected the local paper and found that it had done him proud; he had star billing on page one.

  He hurried back to his car, decision made. With the whole country looking for him,
he no longer had a choice. Trusting Ed had become his only option.

  ***

  McKay addressed the group of people assembled in the office of the Chief Executive of Kent International Airport, Kevin Fryer. To his left was Anson from MI5, to his right was Anson’s junior colleague, Matt Curtis, and opposite him was Fryer and the Head of Airport Security, Philip Doughty – an older taciturn man who seemed, at this moment, to have all the troubles in the world on his shoulders. McKay, on the other hand, was firing on all cylinders, in his element, and doing what he enjoyed the most.

  “Armed officers will be deployed here, here and here,” he said, stabbing at relevant points on a map of the airport. “The police marksmen will be on the roof here and here, and plain-clothes officers will be mingling with the crowd around the pick-up zone and the car parks, ready to act at a moment’s notice. Remember, we’re going to have to be ready to react instantly. We have no way of knowing what’s been planned until it actually happens, and I doubt whether we’re going to be given much time to think about it.”

  He turned to Doughty. “You’ve got ambulance and fire crews standing by?”

  The older man nodded. “Yes, just as you said.”

  “Good.” McKay addressed the rest of the group. “As you can guess, in the meantime, we haven’t been sitting on our backsides. Every port in the country is on the lookout for these men. Their homes have been kept under constant surveillance, along with Fox’s car, which was found parked at Ashford International railway station. We’ve checked all their known relatives, acquaintances and accomplices, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. Until they are forced to show themselves, there’s little more we can do. At the moment they’re probably holed up somewhere with a vehicle that isn’t registered to them, but they’re going to have to make a move sometime after the pick-up. And when they do, we’ll have them.”

  “Has there been any more word from them?” Doughty asked the group in general.

  “Nothing at all,” Anson admitted. “They’re careful bastards. They obviously know that any form of communication is a risk, so apart from telling us where we could find Sarah Feltham’s body and providing us with their demands and instructions, they’ve maintained absolute silence. We’ve been monitoring the mobile phones that are registered in their name, but they haven’t been used recently. If they’ve got phones, they aren’t legit.”

  “What about bank accounts?” Doughty ventured.

  “No luck there either,” McKay told him. “All three men cleared out their accounts three weeks ago and haven’t used a cash machine or credit card since.”

  “It seems incredible that in this day and age three men can simply disappear,” Fryer commented.

  “It’s not so hard if you planned it properly beforehand,” Anson said. “Particularly if you know where to go for everything you need.”

  “Like forged credit cards and passports?”

  Anson nodded. “Yes, but they can’t stay in hiding for ever. There’s no point in demanding sixty million quid’s worth of diamonds if you can’t get your hands on them.”

  “That’s right,” McKay agreed. “And as soon as they come crawling out of the woodwork, we’ll have them. Kent Police will be deploying unmarked cars and a helicopter to track them, and other forces are on standby to take over. They’ll be trying to get out of the country quickly, so if it’s not the airport it will probably be by boat. I’ve got the coastguards standing by.”

  Fryer coughed politely to interrupt. “You’re not assuming that they’ll collect the diamonds in person are you?”

  “No,” Anson replied. “It would be nice if they did, but life’s rarely that easy. Someone will probably be doing it for them, whether by coercion or because they’re being paid. Either way, there will have to be a handover at some point, and that’s when we’ll get them. It doesn’t matter how it’s done: whether the courier hands the diamonds over direct, leaves them somewhere for them to collect later, or even throws the box out of a moving car, we’ll be right on hand to see it happen and we’ll be taking appropriate action. And don’t forget,” he added, “there’s always the possibility that Hubner and Wilson don’t know that Fox raped Mrs Feltham, in which case they won’t know that we’re onto them. They might be under the impression that they can come and go without being recognised.”

  “Assuming it’s still on,” McKay pointed out.

  All eyes turned to him. “What do you mean?” Anson asked guardedly.

  “There’s been no word since Sarah Feltham’s body was recovered. For all they know we might not be going along with it?”

  “They’ve proved they’ve got plutonium,” Anson pointed out. “What else do they need to do? They’ll know exactly how seriously we’re taking it.”

  McKay looked unconvinced. “I’d feel happier about this if they’d been in touch. Have you any idea how big the overtime bill is going to be for an operation of this magnitude?”

  “Your point being?”

  “They might not show up.”

  “Trust me,” Anson said confidently. “This afternoon, at precisely fourteen-hundred-hours, Matt here will be waiting in the arrivals hall of the airport with a box under his arm and a placard around his neck, and I can assure you that someone is going to turn up and ask him for the package for Amsterdam. When they do, we’re going to be ready for them, regardless of the cost of the overtime bill.”

  “Have your lot had any luck finding Sullivan?” McKay asked, pointedly.

  For a brief moment Anson looked uncomfortable, but quickly recovered his composure. “Not yet. But it won’t be long.”

  McKay’s smile was almost sweet. “Let’s hope so, because there won’t be much kudos in having our three suspects in custody if the capital has just been taken out with a plutonium bomb.”

  “I told you,” Anson snapped, momentarily allowing his composure to slip, “it won’t come to that.” He started to gather up his papers. “If that’s all, gentlemen, I suggest we reconvene here at thirteen-thirty.” He nodded to Curtis. “Come with me, Matt. We’ve got work to do.”

  McKay watched them go with a frown. and waited until the door had clicked closed behind them before voicing his concerns. “Bloody MI5,” he growled, “we don’t need them interfering with this.”

  “But aren’t they supposed to be the experts when it comes to home-grown terrorism?” Fryer asked.

  “I’m sure they think that’s true,” McKay agreed, “but I’d be more impressed if Anson wasn’t pinning all his hopes on finding one man. They’re also supposed to be the ‘experts’ in tracking and surveillance, but they’re no nearer to finding Sullivan than we are.” McKay scraped his chair as he pushed away from the table. “And that’s in spite of them having a multi-million pound budget at their disposal, whereas Sullivan has nothing except a desire not to get caught and possibly a gut full of plutonium. It doesn’t inspire much confidence, does it?”

  Fryer and Doughty exchanged worried looks. Put like that, they could only agree.

  ***

  Ed drove into the Golden Galleon Caravan Park, pulled over to the side and looked around him. The place was deserted. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to stay here in November, and judging by the very few cars dotted around, most sensible people agreed with that sentiment. He peered around him hoping to spot his sister’s car, but it was nowhere to be seen. With mounting irritation he drove a slow circuit of the park, scanning every likely hiding place until he arrived back at the entrance. He killed the engine with an oath.

  “Where the fuck are you, Nick?” he growled under his breath. “If you’ve run out on me again…” He left the threat unfinished, stepped from the car and strode resolutely towards the Reception office. As he reached out his hand to open the door a figure detached itself from the shadows.

  “Hi, Ed. I’d rather you hadn’t come. This isn’t your fight.”

  Ed whirled round to see Nick leaning against the wall, hands deep in his pockets and his face half-hidden under
the hood of a mud-stained fleece. He was wearing glasses and several days’ stubble, and at any other time Ed would have walked straight past him and not recognised him.

  Ed squinted at him in disbelief. “Nick?” he said distractedly. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to make sure you came alone,” Nick told him bluntly.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Ed asked, staring harder. “You look like shit.”

  Nick ignored the comment. “As lovely as it is to chat,” he said, “I’d rather not hang around where I can be seen. I’m a wanted man, remember.” He turned on his heel and strode off towards the trees, leaving Ed to stumble after with his polished city shoes sliding in the mud. He caught up with Nick at the edge of a small clearing where Annelies’s car was parked. Nick was hanging back, watching.

  “What’s up?” Ed asked warily.

  “Nothing, I hope,” Nick murmured under his breath. “I’ve learnt to be careful. I don’t go anywhere until I’ve checked out that it’s clear.”

  “This is how you’re living?” Ed asked, taking in the scene with a wave of his hand. “Sleeping in Annie’s car, afraid to show your face? Shit, Nick, you don’t even look well. Why don’t you give yourself up? Anything must be better than this.”

  “And be put in prison for a crime I didn’t commit?” Nick said stubbornly. “No thanks, mate. I’ll stay as I am. Why did you come?”

  The question caught Ed unawares. “Why wouldn’t I come?” he asked, not meeting Nick’s eyes.

  “You know why not,” Nick said, matter-of-factly. “Helping me might damage your career.”

  The bitterness in Nick’s voice wasn’t lost on Ed. It riled him, and gave him the excuse he wanted to go on the attack.

  “OK, you bastard, I’ll tell you why I came… Because Annie’s in hospital and you put her there!”

  Nick’s face drained of colour and he looked, if possible, even more haggard than before. “What?” he asked, shocked.

  “You heard me. She was run over by a car and she’s in hospital. She’s waiting for an operation this afternoon, and it’s your fault for involving her in your sordid problems.”