The fifth door offered no resistance, and he stepped through into a stockroom. Metal cages were stacked around the edges, full of cardboard boxes and plastic trays. A sign for the exit glowed pale green in the far wall, and he trotted across, pulled it open and looked out into a fenced-off area outside. Beyond that he saw the pumps. Going out that way wasn’t an option.
Was that what he was doing? Looking for a way out? He checked his watch. Little over a minute since they’d pulled up. He figured maybe two more minutes, tops, until the man started to get suspicious. He had to let Jen know he was OK. Shit, his phone! Had he left it in the car? He breathed a sigh of relief as fingers closed around it. He bashed out a text to her, fingers feeling like clumsy fat sausages, grumbling at typos.
Am fine will call ASAP.
Half-truth. Little white lie at worst, but the last thing she needed now was any more reason to panic. He dialled Porter’s number and it was answered on the first ring.
‘I’ve already spoken to Jen. Where are you? Is he with you?’ Right to the point from Porter.
‘Thurrock service station, just off the M25. He’s in the car. I’m in the gents’. He’s driving a dark blue BMW, don’t know the reg. Says we’re less than ten miles from wherever we’re going.’
‘OK, that’s good, now get somewhere safe and call me back,’ said Porter. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
‘I can’t let him get away, Jake.’ Max hadn’t realised he’d made a decision until now. ‘I run now and we might never find him again. Who even is he, by the way?’
‘Joseph Baxter. Number twelve on our list, and don’t be stupid, Max. You know what he’s capable of. You need to leave this to me.’
‘What if he knows were my dad is?’ Max started to raise his voice but checked himself. ‘What if he’s got him stashed away somewhere like he did with Jen? I can’t just walk away, Jake. I can’t.’
‘Max, you need to trust me, we’ll be there—’
‘You can trace my phone, right? You can follow me wherever we end up?’ He didn’t wait for Porter to respond, to try and talk him out of it. ‘I’ve got to go; he’ll be getting suspicious.’
Max heard Porter’s loud protests as he took the phone away from his ear. Deep breath. And another. Tried his best to look natural as he re-entered the shop, and hoped his best was good enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
July 2009
Five nights had passed, and he’d seen the recruiter’s face every single one of them. No hot flush of guilt, though, more a feeling of detachment, of drifting. Released from a mooring by action, the polar opposite to his inaction in the warehouse all those years ago, albeit with the same result. Surprising how easily the world still turned. The lack of ripples spreading out from his actions. Almost as if it had never happened.
Except it had. The frayed thread on his suit jacket where a button should be stuck out like an unwelcome weed. He’d unbuttoned it in Fletcher’s office. Wore it in the bar that night. Could Fletcher have grabbed it as he fell? Pulled it off, sent it skittering under the sofa?
He half expected to see police tape criss-crossing the doorway when he walked back past the flat, but all he saw were drawn curtains and a ghost of himself keeping time in the dark windows as he walked past. One quick lap of the block and he was back again; still nothing. On the third pass, he walked up to the door, confident, as if he lived there. Let himself in with the spare key he’d found tucked into the back of Fletcher’s Filofax.
He stood beside the coffee table, staring at the cracks that ran through it like fault lines. Drank in the silence. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Closed his eyes, imagined for a second that this was his place, his life.
The button had wedged between two sofa cushions, and he held it up between finger and thumb, appraising it like a rare coin. No bigger than a ten pence piece, but enough to bring it all crashing down around him, to have placed him at the scene, powerful enough to put him behind bars. He checked Fletcher’s home phone for messages, but there were none. The handful of calls that had come through to his mobile were from numbers, not names. Could he really be so alone that not one person who mattered enough to be in his contacts had been in touch in almost a week?
The Filofax had been littered with all sorts of information not for prying eyes. Usernames, passwords, PIN numbers. The man must have had a memory like a sieve. Part of him wanted to run, get as far away from this, from London, as possible. As he skimmed through the pages again, strands of an idea started to form, twisting and weaving into a rope that he could cling on to, to help him survive this.
An email, sent from Fletcher’s laptop, using his account, to the managing director. Resigning due to ill health. It could be months before anyone came looking. Quick trip to the cashpoint, hood pulled up to avoid any cameras, eyes widening like a kid in a toy shop at the balance, high four figures. He could live off this for months if he was careful. Withdraw in stages, different cashpoints, over a few weeks.
He looked around at the flat one more time. He’d come here for employment. Granted, he’d left without a job, but it had paid off, and handsomely at that. Beat working for a living, that’s for sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He felt outwardly calm, even if his stomach was sloshing around like a ship in a storm. Stupid to think that Max could look into his eyes, see his intentions, but he’d kept his stare front and centre for as much of the journey as possible. When they’d fought in the kitchen, Max hadn’t seen his face, probably couldn’t even remember the colour of the eyes behind the ski mask, but it paid to be careful.
The time Max was inside gave him a chance to rehearse what was to come. He had to get the phone away from Max for starters. You didn’t need to be Steve Jobs to know how easy they were to trace. Might as well let him fire a flare gun out the window every hundred yards. Nobody should have missed Max yet, but they’d come looking soon enough, and he couldn’t get too close to their final stop until he had the phone.
Timing was everything. The where and the when was already decided. He had always been three steps ahead so far, so why should this be any different? He checked his watch. Max had been inside for nearly three minutes. Should he stroll in after four or five minutes, check out what was taking so long?
As he toyed with his options, Max exited the station and headed towards him. Nothing in the way he walked or looked seemed out of place, but something didn’t feel quite right. What was it? What was he missing? Max slid into the passenger seat, and it clicked into place.
‘Change your mind about the coffee?’ he asked as he started the engine.
Max looked blank for a second, stared down at his hands, up at the station, then right at him.
‘Oh, yeah, that. I’ve had five cups already today, to be honest, so probably not a good idea after all.’
It sounded wooden, rehearsed, and he fought back the urge to call out the lie, corners of his mouth twitching with the effort. They rejoined the flow of traffic, crawling past a slow-mo procession of tired, impatient faces, boxed in on all sides. Did Max suspect something? He seemed tense, unnaturally still, staring ahead with his best poker face on. Two can play that game. One thing was for sure, the next hour would bring answers. Just remained to be seen who’d be asking the questions.
Porter took a chance and called the service station. A sleepy voice at the other end snapped to attention when Porter identified himself. It took the ‘matter of life and death’ card to persuade him to check the CCTV and recite the plate on the BMW. Porter thanked him and promised an officer would be there soon to take a statement.
Next call was to Benayoun back at the station. She ran the plates, but it wasn’t what Porter wanted to hear. They belonged to a BMW registered to an address in Kensal Green. He called the service station again to check the plate, but it had been right the first time. Simple case of switching plates, something that most people wouldn’t notice for a day, maybe more.
Best they could do now was
head in the direction of Thurrock services, and wait for Benayoun to call with a location on Max’s phone. Styles’s phone was propped up in the cup holder, rattling with every bump in the road. Styles seemed oblivious, but, for Porter, it might as well have been a crash of cymbals. As he reached out to shift it, the first few lines of a text flashed up.
Unless you want to be stuck with Porter indefinitely suggest you get him back to the station asap. 5 p.m. latest.
Porter flicked his eyes from road to phone and back again, phone held in place between finger and thumb. Styles leant forwards, grabbed at it, acting indignant.
‘Hey, that could be a saucy message from Emma. A guy’s entitled to a little … privacy.’
Porter chanced a glance away from the road to watch his partner’s expression as he read the message. ‘Was it, then?’ he asked, seeing Styles finish and look away, out at the traffic.
‘Hmm? Uhm, no. I should be so lucky.’ Styles’s laugh came out a touch high, nervous almost.
Porter let it go for another few seconds, wanting to give him every chance to explain, but Styles said nothing.
‘Are you going to make me ask?’
Styles sighed, breathed in deep, opened his mouth to speak but only managed a phlegmy cough, like something was rattling around in his throat. Porter waited it out. Styles took another deep breath before he spoke.
‘Milburn. He dragged me to one side last week. Told me I needed to keep an eye, you know, in case you went off it with anyone else, except he spun it to be more a case of doing it for your sake; a favour type thing.’
‘And?’ Porter said, biting down on his lip. ‘How am I doing? You make sure you report back that I took the news well, won’t you? You know, having my own people spy on me.’
‘Guv, it’s not like that. It’s just—’
‘Just what? Grooming you to take over when he’s sidelined me, I take it?’ Even as he spoke, he knew he was being too harsh on Styles, but he was here, Milburn wasn’t.
‘C’mon, that’s not fair, you know I would never—’
‘Spy on me?’
Styles huffed out a long breath, like a moody teenager. Porter took a deep one of his own. Two more. Felt his temper dropping like mercury in winter.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Cos there’s nothing to say,’ Styles protested. ‘It’s not like I was going to scurry off and give him a blow by blow account of your day. Sod him. He can do his own dirty work.’
‘Look, mate, I’m sorry,’ said Porter after a pause. ‘Just seems like he’s everywhere, throwing enough shit to see what sticks. I know you’re not like that, and I shouldn’t have doubted you. Just needed to vent a bit, you know?’
Porter felt the atmosphere in the car clearing. They were still at least twenty minutes out from the service station when a final thought landed in Porter’s brain, like the last leaf from the tree.
‘Stuck with me indefinitely?’ he said. ‘Where else would you be going?’
Two seconds of silence stretched into ten. He looked over at Styles, saw the slump of his shoulders, fingers picking away at a thumbnail, unable to meet his eye, and knew the elephant had entered the room.
Max guessed they’d covered another five miles since the station by the time they pulled off the motorway. Dozens of questions rested on his lips, but no sense tipping his hand yet. Even seemingly innocent questions could give the game away, so he settled for what he hoped was a comfortable silence.
From the few glances he’d chanced, there was nothing familiar about the man. Nothing out of the ordinary. Average height, average build, average everything. So many times this past week he’d wondered what he’d say if he came face-to-face with this man. Wondered what he would look like. It almost felt like an anti-climax to find it was someone so … ordinary.
They peeled off at a roundabout, taking an exit towards Dartford.
‘So whereabouts is the place we’re heading?’
‘Not far now,’ replied the driver. ‘Ten minutes at most.’
He grinned as he spoke, like they were just best mates having a natter. If Jen hadn’t heard his voice, told him who he was riding with, would the smile look harmless enough?
The road was single lane now, bordered by beech trees that looked old enough to have seen the Industrial Revolution. Their green canopies mushroomed out, each barely touching its neighbour, like a string of children holding hands on a school trip. Past the last of the trees were the bones of a half-built housing estate, faded advertising board proclaiming affordable family homes. The green lawn on the picture was a far cry from the dry, brown earth around the sign, pounded into submission by construction traffic. Patches of long wispy grass clung on, Mother Nature’s comb-over, hanging on to the last of the topsoil.
They turned into the mouth of the estate and came to a stop by the sign, albeit with the engine still ticking over.
‘Do me a favour, there should be some house keys down by your door.’
‘Here?’ said Max. ‘I thought we were going to a station. These aren’t even built yet.’
‘I just do as I’m told. We use the show home here as a safe house. This place is months away from opening still.’
Max peered out at the row of houses, plastic sheeting spread across a few of them where roof tiles should be. Months? More like a year, and then some. He looked down into the storage pocket on his door. A CD case sat atop a carpet of sweet wrappers, but no sign of any keys, unless they were hidden underneath. He sensed, rather than saw, the movement to his right.
Everything seemed to happen simultaneously. A clicking noise, like a pilot light trying to ignite, but ten times faster. A wave of pain shot through him, from the base of his spine upwards. It felt like somebody had reached inside, grabbed every muscle and nerve ending, and pulled it like a Christmas cracker, and all conscious thought became as scrambled as eggs in a pan.
It felt like it would never end, but eventually it did, dumping him in his seat when it stopped, a puppet with strings cut. His head thudded against the window, vision swimming as if he was looking through a rain-streaked window. A hand cradled the back of his head, almost tender, until it grabbed a handful of hair, propelling him face first towards the dashboard. White hot pain lanced through his head, washing over him, everywhere at once. A lifetime of suffering squashed into a nanosecond, then nothing.
He worked quickly, stowing the stubby stun gun in his jacket pocket, lowering Max back against the headrest and reclining the seat. He grabbed a baseball cap from the rear footwell, tilting the brim down over Max’s eyes. Just a sleeping passenger.
Always a chance he could wake up prematurely, of course, but he’d catered for that as well. One pair of cable ties looped over Max’s wrists, a second snaked through them and around the hand grip on the door. Flesh puffed up either side as plastic bit tighter, but Max didn’t even flinch. He sat back, admiring his work. Only for a few seconds, though. Still so much to do. He reached into Max’s pocket and pulled out his phone. It prompted for a password but that had been expected. No matter. More important that he got rid of it. Max would tell him anything he wanted to know soon enough.
He wound down the window, swapped the phone to his right hand and scooted around in his seat, getting ready to throw it out backhand, but caught himself. No point getting sloppy now. Quick wipe with a handkerchief where he’d touched it, then slung it away from the car, watching as it skidded behind a clump of grass so dry it could pass for straw. One last check of Max’s restraints, then he spun the car in a wide circle using the flat of his palm against the wheel, like the Karate Kid waxing off. Almost free and clear. Almost.
‘I was going to talk to you about it,’ said Styles, legs like spindles fidgeting in the footwell. ‘Just never found the right time to say.’
‘And since when have I been so delicate that you need to pick your moments?’ Porter’s anger was back in spades now.
‘You’ve had enough on your plate. I just figured I’d wait t
ill all this blew over. I haven’t even decided for sure yet that I even want to transfer,’ Styles protested.
‘Really? Milburn seems pretty sure you do, and I doubt even he would just make that up on his own.’
‘That’s not how it happened. I was in his office and he just threw it at me. I hadn’t even approached him yet.’
‘Exactly, “yet”. But you were going to. Look, mate,’ Porter said, wrapping that last word in sarcasm, ‘you’re a big lad. You don’t need my permission to skulk off.’
‘Oh, come on, that’s not fair and you know it. I’d never walk off and drop you in it like this, especially when you’re all …’
‘All what?’ Porter’s voice was hard, flat, the kind of tone he reserved for a suspect in interviews. Why bother to tone it down? Styles was the last person he’d expect to be making moves behind his back, and this felt like nothing short of betrayal.
Benayoun’s voice cut across them both from the airwave handset by the gearstick.
‘Guv, it’s Benayoun. Trace is up. Signal has him six miles from your current location, and stationary.’
Whether the second part of that was a good or bad thing, Porter didn’t like to speculate. He looked to Styles, saw a mix of defiance and frustration. He had some nerve, that one. The only person who had a right to be pissed off was him. Milburn, Styles, Baxter, they could all go to hell. Thinking of Baxter brought him back to Max. The rest of this conversation, however it would play out, would have to wait till they got back to the station. He flipped a switch, watching the traffic part before their blue lights like the Red Sea, keeping Benayoun on the line in case Max started to move again.
Nothing Else Remains Page 22
