‘I know that,’ Sam replied. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’
Sam struggled to keep his calm – he wanted to grab Miles by the throat and shake the truth out of him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know where she is, or not?’
‘I know where she might be,’ he said.
‘Then for God’s sake, tell me, Miles, please,’ Sam implored. ‘This isn’t a game, you know.’
‘Oh, I know it’s not a fucking game, Sam,’ he shot back, his expression darkening. ‘I’ve lost everything, remember? And I might lose the apartment too,’ he added.
Sam backed down, not wanting to rattle Miles for fear that he’d just shut down, or started rambling again about himself. He tried softening his approach. ‘Miles, I’m sorry about what’s happened to you, I really am, but this is my wife’s life we’re talking about. You called me over here. Now please, tell me what you know.’
The tactic worked. Miles nodded. ‘I have a telephone number. The number they call me from.’ He handed Sam a piece of paper with the number scrawled on it.
Sam looked up. The London number looked familiar. The combination of numbers similar to another number he knew. ‘Is this everything?’
Miles nodded. ‘I don’t know where they are, I don’t know any names, but I have that number.’
Sam looked at the number again, trawling his mind for the reason why it seemed so familiar. ‘Why give it to me now?’
‘I want to help,’ Miles said. ‘And I’m scared of what they might do to me. Please, help me, Sam.’
Miles cut a pitiful figure. Sam should have known. This wasn’t an act of altruism, it was self-serving. But it didn’t matter. ‘Did they ever say why they were doing this?’
‘No, never.’
Sam left the apartment block and pulled out his phone. He began to type in the numbers on the piece of paper. He didn’t know whether this was the right thing to do, but he did it anyway. The last number keyed in, the phone began to dial through. It was then that the text appeared on the screen.
Sam cut the call off immediately.
The phone had recognised the number, already stored in its memory. It had been the landline number of their friends who, up until a few months ago, had lived in the flat upstairs. Those who had Anna were calling Miles from there.
51
Sam sheltered behind a tree in the park and watched the upstairs window for signs of life. The flat above his had its living room facing the front. He had approached the house from the opposite side of the park, hoping that it would afford him cover. There was nothing to say that there already weren’t people watching him in the trees off to the left, but he just had to hope that wasn’t the case.
Was he doing the right thing?
A few minutes more and still no movement. He thought about his new upstairs neighbour; the man who had introduced himself as David Braithwaite. The supposed City Banker. Tall, thin, blue eyes, pointed nose. Vincent. The guy had moved in about five months ago. It had certainly been a long term plan. Sam thought back to the handful of times he had seen the neighbour, and the two times they had spoken. The first was the day after he moved in, when Anna and he went around to welcome him to the neighbourhood. He’d been friendly enough, but didn’t give much away and they spent just five uncomfortable minutes there.
The second time was the night of Stacey Bond’s death.
Vincent couldn’t have been with Stacey, he hadn’t been the one to inflict the blow and send her crashing into the water. But he had probably directed the operations. And he’d watched Sam rush out of the house on his futile mission to save the poor girl.
Sam decided to go for it. He crossed the street, and as quickly and quietly as possible, entered his home. Once inside, he headed straight for the kitchen drawer, stuffed full of accumulated junk. They’d been meaning to clean it out for years, but somehow never got around to it. He found what he was looking for right at the back of the drawer. Fiona and Martin had given them the spare key some years ago, the time they had gone on what would be the first of several trips to America.
He pulled out his phone and called the number upstairs. The call connected and then just kept ringing. It didn’t mean there was no-one there though.
Now Sam called Louisa. Again there was no answer, so he left another message.
‘Louisa, it’s Sam. I’ll explain things later, but I know who has Anna. They’ve been staying here, in the upstairs flat. Call me as soon as you get this.’
His next call was to Paul Cullen.
There was no answer there either, so again he left a short message, not wanting to waste time.
‘Paul, please call me as soon as you get this message. It’s Sam Becker. I know who has my wife. Come over to the flat as soon as you can.’
Saying the sentence sounded unreal. Was he really close to seeing her again? Was she just a few feet away from him?
He ended the call and stared at his phone. Should he call the police? His finger hovered above the nine. Locky, Miles, the gang themselves, had all warned him that Vincent McGuire had contacts within the police. It might have been a bluff, but Sam wasn’t prepared to take the risk. He trusted Paul Cullen, but no-one else.
Sam held up the key and twisted it in the light, pondering whether what he had in mind was a good idea. But the thought of Anna being so close was enough to dispel any doubts. He couldn’t wait for Cullen.
He left the house and moved to the side of the building, to where the front door to the upstairs flat was located. The guy might have had the locks changed, but then again maybe he hadn’t.
The key worked, and within seconds he was inside. He moved quietly up the stairs that directly faced him, expecting that Vincent or one of his men would be waiting. But as he emerged onto the landing, the place was in silence. He went from room to room. It just looked like any average bachelor flat, with the usual mix of functional items and boys’ toys. But then, in the back room, was the evidence.
It took him aback. Anna’s suitcase.
Sam knelt down and unzipped the case. All her belongings were still there. He could smell her perfume on the clothes. As he knelt over the case his phone rang. If anyone was in the flat, the shrill tones would alert them to his presence.
‘Hell.’ He wrenched the phone out of his pocket. It was Louisa.
‘Louisa, I can’t talk right now,’ Sam whispered, cupping a hand around his mouth.
‘Sorry, Sam, I only just picked up your messages,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Louisa continued. ‘It’s the guy from the campsite bar; he’s done all of this?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something else,’ Louisa continued. ‘Something about what you said, about the name black wolves...’
‘Go on.’
Louisa hesitated. ‘It’s, well, it’s to do with Marcus, it’s something I saw. He’s...’
Sam never got to hear the end of the sentence.
52
Sam woke in darkness. He could tell immediately from the rolling and turning that he was in a moving vehicle. He was aware now that there was some kind of material wrapped tightly around his head. It squashed his cheeks, hindering his breathing. Trying to raise a hand, he realised they were tied in front of him. He tried to get some kind of bearing. He was sat on something hard. Through the material he could smell oil and grease. He was in the back of a tradesman’s van, maybe.
They had taken him.
Through the terror he felt an unexpected sense of hope. Maybe this would lead to Anna, to some kind of resolution.
But now the decision not to call 999 seemed unwise. Louisa might alert the police, or Paul Cullen may have picked up his message. But what could they do? They would have no idea where he was.
He considered whether to let his captives know that he was wakened. Whoever had attacked him in the flat must have used knockout gas, and he had that vague sense of
nausea that his post-operative patients often complained about. They’d held the cloth firm against his mouth and nose, and the last thing Sam had remembered was slumping to the ground, his vision fading in the all-enveloping fog.
He remained silent and still, just listening to see if he would hear something, anything that might better explain the situation. But he heard nothing. Sam had just decided that he was alone when a hand came down hard on his right shoulder.
Whoever it was didn’t speak. The unseen hand grabbed Sam at the sleeve and pulled him along the wooden bench. Sam then heard what sounded like back doors unlock, and through his hood some light penetrated.
‘Out.’
The hands grabbed at him again, hauling him outside, with Sam blindly feeling the way down onto the ground. Now the nausea grew. He followed the person, like a dog on a lead, half-tripping over a shallow step as they entered a building.
Sam was led along a series of twists and turns. Then, without warning, he was pushed down hard onto a chair. He heard a door slam shut and then someone began untying his hands. Finally they removed his hood.
‘Hello, Sam.’
Marcus Johnson took a seat opposite.
53
Sam just sat there, looking at Marcus, stunned. He couldn’t quite get his head around the situation.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Sam?’ Marcus asked. The question was almost business-like, as if this was some kind of bizarre job interview.
When Sam didn’t reply, Marcus tried again. ‘Don’t you want some kind of explanation?’
The nausea returned. ‘What’s going on, Marcus?’
‘I did all this,’ Marcus said.
‘No,’ Sam replied. ‘You didn’t.’
Marcus blinked several times but held his gaze. ‘I killed Cathy. We were out on the dunes, we were drunk, and we got into an argument...’
‘No.’
Marcus continued flatly. ‘She started shouting and pushing me, I pushed her back, she slapped me. And then I took a swing at her. I didn’t even know I had the bottle in my hand.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Sam replied. It was like Marcus was reading a script.
Marcus continued. ‘The bottle hit her across the side of her head. I tried to do mouth to mouth, anything, but she was dead before she hit the ground. I didn’t know what to do, I panicked, left her body there, and went back to our tent. You know the rest.’
‘You’re lying,’ Sam said, searching his friend’s face for an explanation of why he was doing this. ‘I know who murdered Cathy.’
‘I killed her, Sam, don’t you understand?’ This time there was some emotion, something like frustration. ‘I’m admitting it, here, face to face.’
‘I know who killed Cathy,’ Sam repeated. ‘The guy from the campsite, in the club house. Vincent McGuire. The one you warned off in the toilets. He murdered my sister, Marcus, not you.’
Marcus listened. He looked worried. Sam could see his chest rise and fall with each breath.
Sam continued. ‘I don’t know why he did it, maybe revenge against you for challenging him, maybe revenge against Cathy because she rejected him. Maybe it was just fun for him, a sick game that he’s still playing.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Marcus said, but this time the words were clearly forced, staged, as if Marcus himself didn’t believe them.
‘I’m right. This person, this sick bastard, he’s set up everything. The train crash, Richard Friedman, everything. He’s been doing this to play with us all, Marcus. He’s been in control for the past fifteen years. You, me and Louisa. It’s all been about the three of us. Everyone else, the Ainsley family, Anna, Richard Friedman, they’ve been used by him to get at us. And now he’s using you, isn’t he?’
Marcus blinked.
‘Is he watching us now?’ Sam asked. ‘For kicks?’ He looked around the small room, finding what he was looking for in the top right hand corner.
A camera.
‘This is all part of the same sick game,’ Sam said, looking at the camera.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing, Sam,’ Marcus said. He lifted his sleeve to reveal a tattoo. A black wolf. ‘I’m one of them, Sam. I killed Cathy, and I’m part of this, don’t you see? Those men who beat you, I’m with them.’
‘No,’ Sam replied. ‘I don’t believe you.’ Again he looked at the camera. He felt empowered. He had worked this out. ‘It’s time to end this.’
‘Here, Sam,’ Marcus said, pulling out an object from his pocket and trying to hand it to him. It was a small handgun.
Sam recoiled. ‘I don’t want it.’
Marcus tried again. ‘It’s loaded. Do it. Point the gun right at me and pull the trigger.’
‘No.’
‘Whether you believe me or not, Sam, it’s the only way to save Anna.’
Now he was telling the truth, Sam could see. ‘He wants this, doesn’t he? He wants me to kill you, while he’s watching. I’ll never do it.’ He looked once again at the camera. ‘Do what you want with me, but please don’t hurt my wife.’
Suddenly Marcus looked defeated, the gun falling limply to his side. ‘Why believe me now, Sam? All those years, you believed I murdered Cathy, but now, you don’t?’
‘Like you said in the snooker hall, I know you well, Marcus. I can see it now when I look at you. You didn’t kill Cathy. At the trial, if I’d really looked, I would have known then too.’
Marcus put a hand to his head, resigned horror across his face. ‘He’s going to kill us all now, Sam. The game’s over. And it’s all my fault.’
‘Why is it your fault?’
Marcus ran a hand across his face. ‘This is all for me, Sam. Not you, or Louisa. It’s all for me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He murdered Cathy and set me up, as a punishment for challenging him, just for daring to tell him to leave her alone. I never knew, but he had friends in the prison - the gang in there, they called themselves the Black Wolves; they were with him. He had people watching me all this time. And when I was released, he came after me, using you, Louisa, and the others.’
Sam stared at the gun, then back up at the camera, still thinking of a way out of this situation. ‘When did you know, that this was all about you?’
‘Today,’ he replied. ‘Richard Friedman’s drawing in the Tate gallery. I saw their image, the black wolf, in the background of the picture. I knew then it was all connected, so I went to contact them, to see if I could do something, maybe exchange myself for Anna.’
‘But they got to you first,’ Sam finished.
Marcus nodded, suddenly looking utterly defeated. ‘He’d killed before, Sam, before Cathy. He told me. If I’d known what kind of person he was, I’d never have gone in there after him. Then none of this would have happened. Cathy would still be alive.’
‘You can’t blame yourself. You only did what I wanted to do.’
‘Sam,’ he said, ‘killing me is the only way to save Anna.’ He gestured at the gun. ‘I’m ready for it, I’m prepared.’
Sam ignored Marcus’s sacrificial offering. There was no way in the world he would do that, even if he thought he would make a difference. For fifteen years, as Marcus languished in jail, and he progressed in his medical career, this sick individual had climbed the criminal ladder of loan sharking, pimping and violence, maintaining this grudge. No, this man, Vincent, wasn’t going to willingly give them a happy ending, and there would no plea bargains. Their only chance was to stick together and try to overcome him. ‘Is Anna still okay?’
‘I haven’t seen her, but I’ve heard them talking. She’s in this building.’
Sam stood up and moved towards the door.
Marcus reached out to pull him back. ‘Sam, don’t. He said he’d kill her if we tried to do anything.’
The door was open. He turned back to Marcus. ‘I’ve got to do this. Is that gun really loaded?’
‘Yes.’
Sam took the weapon from him and moved out into th
e corridor. The gun felt so alien in his hand, and he didn’t even know whether he’d be able to fire it. But he needed something. Marcus followed close behind, looking out at their rear. ‘Sam, it might be too late.’ But Sam continued undaunted, hoping to God that Vincent McGuire hadn’t carried out his horrific threat. They moved nervously from room to room, but saw no-one.
And then with one more door open there she was, facing them, tied to a chair. She tried to smile through the gag. ‘Anna, thank God.’ Sam quickly untied her as Marcus guarded the door. Sam gently cupped her face. He had never felt so overjoyed. The emotion was intoxicating. ‘Are you okay?’
Anna nodded. She looked exhausted, but smiled again. ‘I am now.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Marcus said from the door. ‘It looks like everybody’s left.’
‘They said something about a fire,’ Anna said. ‘About starting a fire.’
Sam turned to Anna. ‘What?’ Vincent intended to kill them all, as the final act in his vendetta. But he wasn’t going to succeed. He looked across at Marcus. ‘Let’s get out of here, now.’
The three of them fled the room and headed for the stairs. But as they neared the bottom, they realised that something was very wrong. You could feel the heat, radiating from along the downstairs corridor.
Marcus stopped and threw back a look of horror. ‘The place is already on fire. They’re trying to burn us alive in here.’
Sam smelled the air. ‘Petrol.’
He stepped past Marcus and reached the bottom of the stairs. As he turned the corner he was hit with a volcanic blast of hot air, and smoke billowed from further down the corridor. Behind it he could see the glow of the fire, which had already taken hold.
‘Back up the stairs,’ Sam ordered, shepherding everyone higher. ‘There’s no way out down there.’
Back onto the original level, Sam searched the rooms for an opening window. Most of the rooms were windowless or had no opening, but he finally found one. Moving to the window’s edge, he peered out at the ground below. They were too high up to escape this way.
Someone To Save you Page 33
