Death is the New Black

by Dominic Piper

  He’s had a load of his guys making her life hell for almost a month. She’s hired a private investigator, but what the fuck; he knows their sort and has dealt with them before.

  I try to put myself in his place. I try to imagine what action I’d take. I couldn’t get MacQuoid, I couldn’t get his wife, but I can get to his daughter. She’s been handed to me on a plate. I have to do something. I can’t just let this go. It’s just too good an opportunity to miss. That bastard MacQuoid’s daughter; she’ll be the payment for all I’ve had to go through.

  Would he be thinking of siphoning money out of her company? Resuscitating the protection business that Isolda said he once had? Some form of extortion? I can’t see how that would work. You don’t start off an enterprise like that by abducting your mark.

  The obvious thing is that he’ll just kill her or torture her to death, just so he can feel good and self-righteous about himself. Is he that mad? Is it worth the risk? Maybe it’s not. First of all, if Sara was found dead somewhere or just vanished into thin air, Isolda would know who was behind it.

  Hasn’t he done enough damage to Isolda already without something like that happening? Would Isolda have such a lack of moral fibre that she’d keep quiet about it? Just let her dad get away with anything because he was her dad and she owed him?

  Secondly, if he disposed of Sara in some way, the police would be involved. I’d make sure of it even if Isolda didn’t. This whole thing is a mess now. Tommy and his boys have fucked up too many times. The link between Tommy Jennison and Sara is too strong and it supplies a great motive; it would be easy to convict him. There are a fair few people outside the Jennison magic circle who know some of what’s going on. There’s me, for a start, then there’s DI Bream, for another.

  But what if he doesn’t care who knows? Isolda told me that her dad and Uncle Jackie had been in school together. Uncle Jackie was seventy-one, so her dad must be around the same age. Maybe Tommy thinks that whatever he does would be worth it. He isn’t a young man. He may be resigned to being caught whatever it is he decides to do. He just wants to have his pound of flesh.

  He may accept that going to prison again would be a fair price to pay for avenging himself on one of MacQuoid’s family, for rubbing MacQuoid’s line out of existence. Isolda can look after herself now. Except she’ll probably be in prison. Perhaps he didn’t think that bit of it through or perhaps it’s relatively unimportant in the scheme of things.

  I’m getting a headache from speculating, and it’s all bullshit, really. I’ll just have to see what happens and play it by ear. My main aim at the moment is simply to rescue Sara and come down hard on these scumbags, if need be.

  I get to the roundabout and take the second exit into Spaniard’s Road. This is a long, straight dual carriageway with parks and woodland on either side. This goes on for quite a while until we enter a built-up area with big houses and even bigger trees. Once we’re through that bit, we drive along for three or four miles until Isolda points to a turning on our right that I almost miss.

  It’s the entrance to a private road. There’s a red and white traffic barrier with a drop skirt blocking our way. To the right of the barrier, there’s a modern, metal gatehouse with two uniformed staff inside. There are four obvious security cameras on top of the gatehouse, two attached to a wall on the other side and a couple of dummy cameras attached to a tree. I drive up to the barrier and stop.

  When they see us, both security guards get out to have a closer look. I open my window and lean backward in my seat so they can see my passenger.

  ‘Miss Jennison! How are you?’ says the older of the two, an elderly ex something-or-other with a grey moustache and tea on his breath.

  ‘I’m fine, George. Just popping in on my dad for a surprise visit.’

  ‘Ah. I won’t bother to ring him and tell him you’re on your way, then!’

  She laughs. He melts. ‘No. There’ll be no need for that, George. Thank you anyway. See you later. Oh, and George – don’t work too hard, will you.’

  ‘See you later, Miss Jennison.’

  He gives me a brief, frosty grin. For a moment there I thought I’d become invisible. The traffic barrier ascends and we continue on our way.

  We drive along fairly slowly. There are speed bumps every ten feet or so. I don’t slow down for them to give Black Suit a little jolt of well-deserved pain in his dislocated shoulder. He groans the first and second times, and then he’s quiet. After a while, I start seeing big houses on both sides of the road, usually pretty well hidden by large trees.

  We pass maybe eight or nine of these before Isolda points to a gated entrance on our left. I turn in and stop. She gets out and presses a discreet black entry phone, says something, then gets back in the SUV. The gate opens and we drive on.

  The house is enormous. If someone told me that it belonged to some wealthy stockbroker I wouldn’t hesitate to believe them. In fact, it looks like there are three houses in the same plot of land, unless the two smaller ones are extremely elaborate and ornate garages or dog kennels.

  I’m no estate agent, but I would guess we’re looking at a seven or eight bedroom place here. There’s a central front door flanked by Doric columns, ten big windows on the ground floor, eight on the first floor. Built, I would imagine, in the 1940s or 1950s. Price? In this area, somewhere in the region of five or six million at the very least. So it’s official; crime does pay.

  The SUV crunches its way around a semi-circular gravel drive. Black Suit has another moan as I brake suddenly. I get out and Isolda follows after a couple of seconds. The front door opens. Three men appear.

  The first one I take to be Tommy Jennison. This is purely from my assessment of his age. Other than that, he’s quite unlike how I imagined. I was thinking of someone cut from the same cloth as Footballer Dad, but Tommy is different. Tall, good posture, handsome in an ageing chat show host way, perma-tanned and greying but not completely grey; definite pension advert material. One hand in his trouser pocket the other by his side. His eyes are on Isolda and he’s grinning.

  The second guy is about five ten and wide and I mean wide. Fifty-inch chest at least and certainly XXXL in t-shirts, which I’m sure he never wears. Prime bodyguard/bouncer material with piggy eyes like two piss-holes in the snow. Probably early fifties, could be younger. Humourless, grim mouth, badly broken nose that wasn’t set properly and big hands covered in thick black hair. He’s carrying a small yellow plastic box. Maybe it’s his sandwiches.

  But it’s the third guy that disorientates me the most. For a fraction of a second, I think it’s someone that I know, someone I encountered in the past or someone I once worked with. I process his appearance: thirty, noticeably short, big fists, bad teeth, neck tattoo, angry demeanour. Then it hits me like an avalanche.

  This is the guy I encountered in Marylebone High Street on my way to the initial meeting with Sara. The little shit who was jostling people left right and centre. The one I decided to deal with. The one I called shortass. The one I called girlfriend. The one who tried to punch me and got smacked into the pavement for his trouble. The one who ended up having the shit kicked out of him by a bunch of office girls.

  And I suddenly know for certain that this is Isolda’s boyfriend. Gaige joked about them having a lunchtime row when I was in Sara’s office. When I first met her, Isolda’s eyes were a little red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying.

  I remember this guy storming down the street with a black cloud over his head and wondering what the problem was. Did he know what she had in mind with me? No. That would be virtually impossible. I knew there must have been a problem with her personal life, but couldn’t guess and/or didn’t care what it was. Once again, she’d overwhelmed me and made me take my eye off the ball.

  It’s an inappropriate time for clichéd observations, but I can’t imagine what she can possibly see in him. He must be only five foot tall and has a face like a petulant little monkey. Isolda is tall, strikingly beautiful and extremely
voluptuous. I try not to think about them together; I may throw up. Is it because he works for her father in some capacity? Is she being coerced? My God – was he Burglar Bill?

  I see him staring at Isolda and smirking. I turn to look at her and find I’m peering down the barrel of Black Suit’s Taurus PT 100. She’s holding it like a pro and it’s aimed straight at my head. The safety’s off and my stomach goes cold as I hear her racking the slide and a round going into the chamber. Who taught her how to do that? Her dad? Shortass?

  It was in my jacket in the back seat of the SUV. All the speed bumps must have gradually made it visible and she chose her moment and grabbed it when I got out. I’m bloody useless. I’ll have to give Sara a full refund if she’s still alive.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daniel.’

  Tears are flowing down her face. Her lower lip is quivering. I can’t stand it, I really can’t.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Isolda.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I never do.’

  It happens really fast. Wide Chest throws the plastic yellow box to Shortass who catches it and opens it up. Wide Chest then strides over and pulls both of my arms behind my back. Under normal circumstances I could have him on the floor in half a second, but not with a gun aimed at my head. That would be asking for trouble and I think I’ve got enough as it is.

  His grip on my biceps is powerful and extremely painful, making me feel light-headed and nauseous. Tommy Jennison watches and smiles pleasantly. I think of his pleasant smile then of the six-inch nails torture. I mustn’t forget that if I survive whatever’s going to happen next.

  Shortass takes a small syringe out the yellow plastic box, holds it up and pushes the plunger. Fluid sprays into the air. I’m guessing it’s not vitamin B. He holds it in his fist and jabs it into my shoulder. There’s a dull ache as he injects whatever it is into my bloodstream. I look down at him.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need to stand on a box, sonny?’

  I get a swift punch in the stomach for that, though I think if those turn out to be my last words, that punch would be an OK price to pay; it was moderately witty, cruel and demonstrated a certain insouciance in the face of possible death/danger/whatever.

  Shortass’s grinning monkey face is the last thing I see as the darkness starts to arrive. The sensation isn’t that unpleasant. I wonder if he recognises me from the other day. I rather hope he doesn’t.

  26

  THE DARK PLACE

  I decide that I’ve been lying on my side long enough when my hip really starts to ache. The side of my neck doesn’t feel too good, either, and my right hand seems to have gone to sleep.

  I roll over so I’m lying on my back and that helps a little. I massage my hand and gradually the tingling goes away and I can feel it again. I rest both hands on my stomach and lie there.

  I’m just on the edge of nausea. I think if I moved too rapidly or tried to get up or had to speak to someone, then I’d probably throw up, so I lie still, breathe steadily but not too deeply, and try to focus on something.

  But I can’t.

  I’m not really sure whether I’m awake or asleep. Do I wake or sleep? Where’s that from? I open my eyes; at least I think I’m opening my eyes, because it’s as pitch black as when I think I’ve got them shut. There is a slight difference, though. When I think I’ve got them shut, I experience an unpleasant rushing sensation, as if I’m speeding along in some out-of-control fairground ride. This brings nausea with it. When I think I’ve got them open, that sensation goes away and so does the nausea.

  I lie still for a little while more. I’m not sure how long for. I’m not sure if I fell asleep. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. I’m not sure if my eyes are open. Perhaps my eyes are open and I’m blind. That thought creates slight panic and with it comes the nausea, so I crumple that consideration up and throw it away.

  It’s very quiet here and I’m not quite sure where I am. I wonder which country I’m in. Am I on a job? An assignment? Somewhere abroad? Have I been caught? I’m definitely not at home. The hardness and coldness of this floor doesn’t feel like anywhere that I can remember lying before.

  I can feel my heart beating, so I’m definitely alive, which is something. Unless I’m imagining my heart beating. I can feel my tongue tingling in my mouth. Odd sensation. Not sure why that is happening.

  During the action of closing and opening my eyes, I’m seeing or perceiving bright flashes of colour: purples, greens and oranges. They are still there when I assume my eyes are completely shut.

  Just now, on the very edge of my perception, I could see a big fluorescent green ball with a corona of orange. I can follow these things around as they move and I can feel my eyeballs moving from left to right, trying to keep up with them, trying to keep them in one place long enough for me to have a good look. But they’re always just on the edge of my direct vision.

  Unlike something ordinary, like floaters, it isn’t the movement of my eyeballs that is giving these coloured shapes motion. They’re doing it on their own, quite independently, even though that’s not strictly true as they’re almost certainly a product of my mind. Ode to a Nightingale; that was it. Written in Hampstead. What a coincidence.

  It does occur to me, however, that these things actually really exist; they’re always there and something you don’t usually notice, for various reasons.

  Sometimes the blackness I perceive with my eyes shut or open becomes a bright white. But it’s so white that it’s actually black. It’s like someone or something is demonstrating to me that black and white are the same thing. Why would they want to do that?

  As I lie here, I get the idea that there’s nothing beneath me; that I’m floating a few inches above the floor; or that the floor is absent altogether and there’s nothing there at all. I know that can’t be true, but I touch the floor with one of my fingers, just to check.

  The floor is where it should be, but just that small finger movement has replaced the floating sensation with the high-speed rush, which is both unsettling and nauseating, though I know if I do nothing and don’t think of anything it’ll eventually stop.

  I start thinking of that girl, the waitress, Klementina. She was Swedish. Mobile number was 07002690444. Liked Chinese food. How do I know that? Did I arrange to take her out? Have I already taken her out? How did it go? Blonde hair and a remarkable bust. Strong accent. She was called Klementina. Her hair was blonde and there was loads of it. Was she a student?

  I decide that I’m going to sit up. That should answer a lot of questions about my physical and mental state, so I steel myself and focus on raising my upper body a few inches off the ground. This is more difficult than I thought and I immediately feel rapidly and spectacularly dizzy.

  I stay still. I don’t return to my prostrate position, even though my body is demanding that I do. My stomach muscles hurt, but they hurt a little too much, and I wonder if I’ve been in an accident of some kind.

  I attempt to push myself up a little further. This time, I place the palms of both hands against the floor to give myself a little support. It’s a cold floor, which I hadn’t noticed before. It’s concrete, or something similar. It’s gritty and dirty. Is this a garage, perhaps?

  I push myself up as slowly as possible to prevent the dizziness and nausea until I’m actually sitting up. The pain from doing this was remarkable, but not too debilitating. Eventually, I use my right hand to grip my right thigh and pull, and place my left hand flat on the floor to keep my balance.

  The first thing I do is to manually open my eyelids with my fingers. It’s still pitch black. Maybe I am blind. I hold my hand six inches away from my eyes, but still can’t see anything. I wiggle my fingers and wave my hand from left to right, but still there’s nothing.

  I can feel my heart beating faster from the effort of getting this far, then it slowly starts coming back to me, courtesy of the pain in my stomach. Someone punched me. Some guy I don’t
know. I can’t remember why he did it. Maybe he didn’t like me. Was I in a fight in a pub?

  My hand moves up to rub my shoulder. Something is making it itch and there’s a dull pain there, too. A hypodermic syringe. Some liquid spraying up into the air. I can remember the jab as the needle went in.

  Am I sick? Was I in a hospital? The punch makes that unlikely. The punch was close in time to the jab in my arm, I’m sure of it. They don’t punch you in hospitals, not regularly, anyway. I’ve got a slight ringing in one of my ears. I don’t understand where that came from. A loud noise?

  There’s a woman holding a gun. She’s beautiful, but she’s crying about something. She seems to be unhappy. She’s pointing the gun at me. Was it me that made her cry? Have I been caught? Is she going to kill me? I’m on my own if I’ve been caught. That’s what they always tell you.

  It’s a good-looking gun. Silver. I can see her face in my mind. I try to focus on it. It’s like an anchor for me. If I can look at her face then I may be able to think more coherently. Maybe I can discover who this woman is. Maybe it’s someone I’m seeing socially. Maybe it’s someone I work with. Do I work with people who look like that? It must be a good job if that’s the case.

  Her lips are full. Kissable lips. Dark red lipstick. It’s called Dark Plum. The lipstick, I mean. How do I know that? White, even teeth. Her skin is pale. Her mouth is turned up at the edges, but she’s not smiling. Her mouth is always like that. Beautiful brown eyes. Quite a dark brown, really. Her eyes might even look totally black from a distance.

  She has long, black eyelashes. Long black hair. Delicate features. Good cheekbones. There’s personality in the eyes. Humour. Passion. Is this someone I work for? She’s talking to someone called George. Who’s George? Do I work for George?

  George is letting us in somewhere. He knows this woman. I’m driving. It’s like a big jeep. I get the feeling that we’re going to a hotel. Are we having an affair? Is she married and I’m taking her to a hotel? Have we just met? Are we married to each other and we’re on holiday? Is it a business conference? What sort of business?