by KERRY BARNES
***
Eric leaned back on his sofa with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his head. His eyes watered, the blow having been very hard. Zara’s eyes had looked at him so fiercely he wouldn’t forget that moment, not ever. It was not just the anger, there was so much disgust shown towards him.
Why couldn’t she look at him the way she looked at Mike? The sound of a ringtone made him snap out of his thoughts. It wasn’t one he recognized. He removed the phone from his pocket and saw instantly that it wasn’t his phone. Zara! He remembered now. He’d grabbed hers off the floor at her place. He thought about ignoring the call. But then something told him to answer it.
Perhaps it was her.
‘Hello,’ he answered eventually and somewhat dubiously.
Her voice was calm as she spoke. His heart was beating so fast, he wondered if she could hear it down the phone. He held his breath and listened. Although his head was still thumping from the clout, she’d given him, his shoulders finally relaxed. Just hearing those words that she’d forgiven him meant the world to him right now.
***
As Mike approached Kent, he called Staffie and gave him the low-down on Randy but was irritated by the bleeping sound until he realized it was another caller trying to get through. He ended the call and answered the unidentified caller. He quickly recognized the voice and before he’d a chance to talk he was told just to listen and listen very carefully. He didn’t argue. Unexpectedly, his phone died. Damn! He wanted to check up on Ricky one more time. He had a full battery when he’d left the lock-up. He wondered if there was a problem with his Bluetooth connection. But then, what did he know about phones?
Once he reached the A20, he put his foot down, hoping that Randy was still okay after what Woodrow had told him. It was a wonder the lad’s heart was even ticking. Staffie had mentioned that the boy was sweaty. He flew up West Kingsdown, along School Lane, and down into Knatts Valley. As soon as he entered the narrow lane and leaped from the car, the cold air hit him. The night was drawing in, and he hoped that Randy was fit enough for a trip to the hospital.
The moment Mike pushed the door open, Staffie clicked his gun. ‘It’s all right, Staff, it’s me.’ He scanned the large room and spied Dez out cold in the chair, still tied up. Randy was also laid out cold on an old leather sofa, which was against the far wall by the kitchenette.
‘How’s he doing?’
Willie jumped up. ‘He’ll live, the poor fucker. I’ve given him a spliff.’
Mike rolled his eyes. ‘For fuck’s sake, Willie, he’s got something wrong with his heart.’
Willie screwed his face up. ‘Yeah, so ya said. Look, I never gave him any cocaine. I just thought a joint might calm him down, sort of ease the pain a bit.’
Mike studied the lad. ‘Ease the fucking pain? You’ve knocked him right out! Jesus . . . well, anyway, you and Staff, get him in the car and run him down to Darent Valley Hospital. Stick him in a wheelchair and leave him at A&E.’ He looked back at Randy. ‘I guess, if he comes to again, give him another spliff, knock him out, and then get back here. We’ve a little matter to take care of. ’Cos, see that cunt there?’ He pointed to Dez. ‘He was the spunky rat that hurt Ricky.’
‘How the fuck d’ya know that?’ asked Staffie.
‘’Cos his own brother told me. And another thing, lads. I’ve just had a big tip-off. I think we’re gonna be rubbing our hands together tonight. So, let’s get our arses into gear. We’ve some serious fucking work to do and not much time either. Staffie, give us ya phone. My poxy thing’s died. I need to make a call.’
Staffie rolled his eyes and threw his phone over to Mike.
Willie grinned from one ugly ear to the other; he loved that cheeky look on Mike’s face. It only meant one thing – they were back in business.
***
Neil leaned across the bar. ‘Antonio, you can relax, mate. The lunchtime punters are all gone. See, no trouble. Now, pour yourself a stiff drink and also me one, while you’re at it.’
Antonio sighed wearily. ‘This is all getting too much for me.’
As he poured two tumblers of Irish whiskey, Shamus strolled over. ‘One for me?’
With another sigh, Antonio took another glass off the shelf and poured a generous measure.
From across the room came Tiffany’s upbeat voice. ‘What are ya celebrating?’
Neil winked. ‘Aah nothing much, yer know. But we’ve had a great day’s work, so why don’t yer come and join us?’
Just as Tiffany was about to fold her pinny, Neil’s phone rang. He frowned at the number and found a more private spot away from the bar to take the call.
Both Shamus and Tiffany watched the change in expression on Neil’s face. They waited for him to return.
‘Everything all right, mate?’ asked Shamus.
Neil shook his head and looked at Tiffany. ‘Right, Antonio, lock up and get off home. Tiff, I’m gonna drive you home. Shamus, are yer loaded?’
Shamus nodded and tapped the butt of his gun, which was held secure at the back of his trousers. ‘Aye, that I am.’
‘Er, what’s going on?’ questioned Tiffany, her eyes wide and curious.
Neil smiled. ‘Nothing, sweetheart, for yer to concern yerself with. It’s just safer if I drop yer home.’
‘I can walk, you know. I’m okay.’
Neil shook his head. ‘Nah, babe, I’d feel so much better knowing you’re all right, that I would.’ He brushed her cheek with his hand, making her blush. ‘Look, I’ll tell yer what. You get in the car with us, and I’ll explain everything on the way.’
Tiffany’s eyes sparkled. ‘Well, if you’re sure?’
Neil gave her a wide grin. ‘Yes, I’m sure, darlin’, that I am.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Zara drank two strong cups of coffee, having drunk too much brandy earlier. She wasn’t used to it, and tonight she had to be clear-headed. As much as she thought she was in control, she still trembled. She looked around her father’s bedroom and smiled to herself. He loved his hideaways, and he should have been an architect. The tall cabinet, which stood alongside his wardrobes, had a false front on it. For a moment, she wondered if Ismail had known about that hiding place too. As she pressed the far-right corner of the top panel, it unleashed the lock and popped open sufficiently for her to reveal another secret storage place. She sighed. There on a hanger was her father’s bulletproof vest and behind it there was a smaller one. Just once, she recalled, she wore it when she was a teenager. He’d had it made specially for her. A pang of sadness crept over her when she thought back to the day she’d worn it. He was at war with someone, and she was unsafe. He was terrified that the firm who had tried to take him down would hurt her. That was the day he sent her away. She begged and pleaded, but she remembered his words to her: ‘Zara, you will get me killed, if I’m worrying about you. I will take my eye off the ball, and that will be the end of me.’ So, of course, she acquiesced. Her father was the love of her life.
Her heart was broken that day because she couldn’t even tell Mike where she was going; in fact, she couldn’t even tell him she was leaving the country.
She pulled the jacket from the hanger and held it to her face. The smell reminded her of Mike, the pain, and the empty feeling she’d felt that day – from the fear of her father being killed and the dread of her unborn child being hurt. She’d planned to tell Mike that evening. She’d been so excited, so full of dreams of hope and happiness. They’d hidden their relationship from Izzy, or at least had tried to. As it turned out, it hadn’t done much good. Later, much later in her life, Izzy admitted he’d known about their affair all along.
A sudden hot tear pricked her eyelids. Her little boy, her precious baby, had never even met Mike. He’d died of a heart condition. She felt the chain around her neck on which hung the tiny ring and the cross. She was Jewish, and, really, wearing the cross was forbidden, yet it was the nurse who had given it to her the day little Michael had passed away, and she couldn’t be
ar to take it off. Instead, she had slipped her son’s ring on the same chain.
The bulletproof vest still fitted perfectly snug under her top. With a thick coat, no one would even guess she was wearing it. Not that it would stop her from getting killed by a bullet through the head, though. She looked down at the wooden cases below and pulled out two handguns. She shoved one into her waistband under her jacket and tucked one in her boot. She tried to walk but it felt awkward, and the boot looked bulky. Deciding to swap the second gun for a knife, she replaced the false front and closed the cabinet door. She then looked in the mirror. The vest didn’t show, and her right boot hid the knife sufficiently.
She took one last look around her father’s bedroom. ‘Oh, Dad, if you can hear me, send me good luck. I think I just might need it.’
As she opened the front door, she felt the cold air hit her face. Winter was definitely on its way. The sky was dark, and yet she felt so alive; perhaps it was fear or excitement, but either way, she was charged up on adrenaline and ready for the fray.
Her Range Rover was kept out of view beyond the four-car garage. She marched across the gravel drive before she took one last look around and then she hurried behind the garage and opened the car door. It was freezing inside, so she turned on the heaters and waited for the windows to clear. With her new leather gloves covering her hand and the prosthetic, she gripped the wheel and pulled away. There was only one road to her house, so she was safe in the knowledge that no one was following her. She paused at the end of the long drive and looked right carefully, studying the passing points along the narrow lane. It was clear there were no cars waiting, except for an old banger that had been dumped at the side of the road. No one was inside, so she knew she wasn’t being watched. She had her hair in a ponytail, her hair now being long enough to do so, and with a pair of night driving glasses on, she thought that it was very unlikely anyone would recognize her. To ease her nerves, she put the radio on, and to her delight, Alicia Keys was singing ‘Girl on Fire’. How apt, she thought, as she sang along to the words. The beat and the lyrics boosted her conviction that she was in the right frame of mind for what lay ahead. That was until the song came to an end, and a sudden icy feeling crept over her body. The lane was pitch-black, but her powerful headlights guided the way.
As a young woman, she would have been tingling with excitement at this point. Sat next to her father and off to their special place, the hangar still held so many beautiful memories and secrets. It was an extraordinary piece of architecture, a cleverly designed building, built by a genius – Izzy Ezra. Still, it was hers, with all its secrets.
She could see the entrance to the hangar up ahead. The most important night of her life was about to begin: there was no going back now.
When she’d visited the building a few days before, she discovered that her brother had sold her father’s favourite plane. However, Ismail hadn’t known about a very important piece of engineering inside the building itself. Only a select few knew, including Staffie, Willie, Lou, and her cousin.
As she approached the private lane that ran past the hangar, she turned her headlights off. Zara could drive along that lane with her eyes shut, she knew it so well. As soon as she was halfway, she stopped the car, pulled out her binoculars, and watched, but there was no sign of any activity, not even a light from a phone screen or a cigarette. Good. She would just wait awhile and monitor the situation.
***
After the disturbing phone call, Conrad rushed into his car and headed straight to his sister’s place. The last few weeks had been exhausting, and now that phone call; he just hoped it wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back. He frowned when he arrived. Rebecca’s car wasn’t in the drive. ‘What’s she bloody well playing at?’ he mumbled under his breath. Still, he parked in the street, walked up the drive, and was about to knock when the door opened.
She didn’t welcome him in but turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen.
Conrad followed. ‘Right, what’s going on?’
‘Coffee, Conrad, or something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s fine, so do you want to tell me what all this is about, or do I have to play guessing games?’
She handed him a coffee and gestured for him to take a seat at the breakfast bar. ‘Oh, Conrad, where do I start? There is something very strange going on. Alastair . . . ’
Conrad’s phone rang. It was Lowry. ‘Sorry, Rebecca, it’s work.’
She tutted. ‘For God’s sake, can’t you listen to me for five minutes? This is much more important than bloody work.’
The harsh and firm pitch to her voice made Conrad look up. ‘Sorry, you’re right, of course.’ He cancelled the connection, feeling rather guilty.
‘Yes, it’s Alastair. I think . . . ’
Conrad’s phone rang again.
‘Turn the bloody thing off for a minute, will you?’
His finger hovered over the Off key, undecided, but as he looked at the fraught expression on his sister’s face, he decided to do as she asked. They’d all been through a lot, and now she wanted his attention, he would be all ears.
‘Sorry, Rebecca, what were you saying? Something about Alastair, wasn’t it?’
‘Alastair’s gone missing. He won’t answer his phone, and Lance was here—’
‘Lance? What the hell for?’
Rebecca knew that her brother had every reason for being sceptical of Lance, but he’d never divulged his concerns to her. She knew it was to do with work.
‘He wanted to know where Alastair and Poppy were.’
Conrad’s eyes narrowed. ‘What the blazes has Alastair or Poppy got to do with him?’
‘Well . . . he—’
She was on the point of replying when the sound of car doors slamming and a loud bang at the door interrupted her.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Conrad, as he stepped down from the bar stool.
‘Police! Open up!’ came a deep voice.
Conrad and Rebecca both gazed at each other, totally dumbfounded.
As Conrad headed for the door, Rebecca was hard on his heels. However, on opening it, he gasped in utter shock. Two policemen, one with paperwork in his hand, looked grimly at Rebecca and Conrad. But that wasn’t the issue. It was the sea of reporters, microphones, and TV cameras behind them, ready to make the most of this heaven-sent opportunity to claim the scalp of the local MP.
‘Sorry, sir. Would you step aside? We’ve a warrant to enter these premises and to arrest Mrs Rebecca Mullins for failing to stop and report an accident.’
‘What? Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘Sir, her neighbour across the road has presented us with his camera footage of Mrs Mullins knocking down a young woman in this road a few days ago and driving away without stopping.’
Conrad turned to face his sister. ‘What the hell are they talking about?’
She didn’t have a chance to answer before a reporter started snapping away. ‘Is it true, Mrs Mullins, you drove away from the scene of an accident? Were you drinking that evening? Do you know who you knocked down?’
The barrage of questions left Rebecca speechless.
The officer held up his warrant. ‘We need to look at your car, madam.’
‘Rebecca, is this true?’
His sister’s face was whiter than white, and the look in her eyes said it all.
‘Jesus, what the hell have you bloody done?’
Before Rebecca could answer, a car came tearing along the road and stopped next to the police vehicles. It was Lowry. He was out of breath and flapping. ‘Sir, I’ve been trying to call you.’
Conrad’s expression of disgust at his sister’s incompetence was written all over his face, and he shook his head. ‘You stupid, stupid woman.’ He looked at the officer. ‘Was the woman killed?’
The officer shook his head. ‘No, sir. Details, however, are sketchy. The woman in question absconded from the hospital. All we know is she is roughly in her late teens, with bl
onde hair and blue eyes. And the nurse removed a gold necklace with a squirrel on it from the injured woman. Other than that, sir, we don’t know who she is.’
Conrad felt as though a cold spear of ice had hit him in the chest. It was obvious who the injured woman was. Assuming it was true, then it was unforgivable.
‘Commissioner, did you know about this? And do you intend to cover this up?’ asked one of the reporters.
Conrad sighed. ‘No. I do not intend to cover this up at all. If Mrs Mullins is guilty of a hit-and-run, then she will have to pay the consequences, like anyone else.’
A police officer stepped out of the garage and nodded to the arresting officer, confirming that there was evidence of damage to the front passenger wing of Rebecca’s car, suggesting she had been involved in an accident.
Rebecca watched as her brother walked away. He didn’t even look back to see her being read her rights.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Satisfied with what she’d seen, Zara started the engine again and slowly crept along with her lights off. As soon as she arrived in front of the hangar, she smiled. The floodlights were deactivated; no one had turned them back on. The shutters were open. It was another bright idea thought up by her father. No one would ever suspect that this vast building would have steel shutters that could instantaneously reach the floor by using a remote device. She’d only seen it happen once when she was younger; the loud bang as the shutters hit the concrete base had almost made her jump out of her skin. She fingered the remote control hidden under her gloved prosthetic hand, her body trembling with nervous excitement.
As soon as she stepped out of the car, she felt the cold, damp air hit the back of her throat. She shivered and zipped up her padded jacket. She liked how it looked on her, although it was just an illusion. It was fitted but had an even padding all over it, making her appear two sizes bigger, and yet sufficient for hiding the bulletproof vest. She just prayed that if she did get shot, it would be in the chest. She knew it would hurt because although the vest should prevent her from being killed, the pressure alone would probably knock her clean off her feet.
