The Final Minute

by Simon Kernick

  When I first arrived, I had my own cell, and one morning I was standing at the sink cleaning my teeth when two of the wing’s screws came in. The most senior of the two was called Mr Crawley and he’d been the one who’d given me what they called a ‘welcome briefing’ when I’d first arrived. He was a big, cheery Yorkshireman with a crumpled, ruddy face that looked like it had been moulded out of playdough by a two-year-old and an air of real warmth about him – the kind of guy you’d end up talking to in a pub.

  ‘Right, Sean,’ he said, giving me a rueful smile. ‘The governor needs to see you. We’re on Amber Status at the moment so we’re going to need to put the cuffs on, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’ I asked, putting down the toothbrush. I was hoping that somehow it might be good news, like a quashed conviction.

  ‘No idea,’ he said, as the other one, whose name I couldn’t recall, closed the cell door. ‘You know what the bosses are like. They never talk to us plebs. You must have had that back in the police.’

  We continued to chat amiably while he turned me round to face the wall and applied the cuffs, which was when I noticed that the other screw was filling up the sink with hot water, using his finger to gauge the heat. I said something light-hearted about the governor being a bit OCD if he needed me to wash twice before he saw me, but my instincts immediately told me that something was wrong.

  And they were right to, because the next second Mr Crawley grabbed me from behind and swung me round, and he and the other screw forced my head into the sink, holding it underwater. The water was painfully hot, but not hot enough to scald. I struggled like a madman but Crawley was a lot stronger than I’d imagined, and anyway, there were two of them, so it was futile. I couldn’t even cry out.

  Because of the angle they were holding my head at, I could actually see them holding my head under and I looked up, desperately hoping they’d catch the panic in my eyes and have second thoughts about what they were doing. It was then that I saw the one whose name I couldn’t remember had a phone in front of his face, and was actually filming what was happening.

  Panic spread through me like a virus as the need to breathe grew stronger and stronger. My lungs felt like they were going to burst and yet still they held me under. I remember thinking I was going to drown. I struggled even harder, trying to lash out, but they had me pinned.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had been shoved in, my head was yanked out of the hot water by my hair.

  ‘Jason sends his love,’ hissed Crawley in my ear as I gasped for breath.

  I knew exactly who he was talking about: Jason Slade, a sadistic drug dealer who was one of the nastiest thugs I ever had to deal with. The irony of it was that I’d never even put Slade away. We’d tried to catch him out in an undercover op years before but he hadn’t taken the bait and, because he was such a piece of shit, and because I knew he was guilty of some really heinous crimes, I’d let my anger get the better of me and had attacked him outside his home one night with a pair of makeshift knuckledusters. He hadn’t managed to get his revenge at the time, but the nastiest criminals have long memories, as I was finding out to my cost.

  Crawley gave me maybe ten seconds to get some breath back then he dunked me again, keeping me under even longer this time. He repeated the process twice more, and on the final time I actually took in a lungful of water. For a couple of seconds I genuinely thought I was going to die before Crawley pulled me out and shoved a hand towel over my face to muffle my choking.

  ‘Now I wouldn’t have done that if you weren’t a rapist,’ he said in an almost regretful tone, ‘but the fact is you are. So, just like the rest of them in here, you deserve what you get. Now, I can see you’re a sensible man, so the best bet’s not to say anything to anyone.’ He sighed and gave me one of his rueful smiles. ‘Because if you do, it’ll be bad. Very bad.’

  But it was going to be bad – very bad – anyway. I was sure of that. Jason Slade was nowhere near the most powerful man I’d crossed. There were others who’d pay good money to see me dead, and if Slade could get to me, they could too. After that incident, I could remember thinking that I was never going to make it out of there alive. That I was going to die in that hellhole.

  And then something happened.

  When I was a young undercover officer, there’d been a guy about ten years older than me who’d acted as my mentor. His name was Jack Duckford, and he was a good-looking London boy with a nice line in patter. We’d worked together on a number of assignments and had stayed friends on and off for some time afterwards. He’d moved away from undercover, joining the National Crime Squad and specializing in hunting down organized crime gangs, and one day, about a month into my time in prison – maybe a bit more – he came in to visit.

  I could remember being shocked to see him. We hadn’t talked in at least three years and most of my friends and former work colleagues were avoiding me like the plague, so I was happy that someone from my past had finally turned up to see me.

  We didn’t make much small talk. When he asked me how I was getting on I told him the truth. ‘It’s bad, Jack. I don’t think I can do five years of this.’ I explained what had happened with Crawley and the other screw, keeping my voice down because you never knew who was listening. ‘Is there anything you can do to help?’

  He looked at me very closely. ‘Did you do it, Sean? Did you rape that woman?’

  My answer was emphatic. ‘No. I’ve never forced myself on any woman in my life. You know me. I wouldn’t do that.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I know you wouldn’t. I just had to hear it from you, that’s all.’ He looked around at the blank walls, taking in the soul-destroying blandness of the place. ‘Jesus, they’ve fucked you, Sean. All the good work you’ve done over the years, and they repay you like this. Letting you rot in here with all the nonces.’

  ‘You remember Jason Slade, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember that lowlife arsewipe. Although I’d prefer not to.’

  ‘He was the one behind the attack. And there are plenty of other people gunning for me too, and now they’ve got a way in through the screws. They’re going to hurt me again, and bad.’

  Jack frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to do anything on an official level, Sean. People aren’t exactly lining up to help you. But I’ll ask around, see what I can do. I’ve got a lot of good contacts on both sides. They may be able to apply some pressure in the right places.’

  I thanked him, and we continued talking for a few minutes about this and that. It was strange, because I couldn’t really understand why he’d come. It wasn’t as if we were great friends. But then, when the inevitable silence descended on the conversation, he leaned forward in his seat and said, ‘Stay strong in here, Sean, and I’m sure you’ll get out sooner than you think. And whatever happens, call me as soon as you do. I might have some work for you.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  He smiled. ‘The type you’re good at.’

  Thirty-two

  Tina had developed an appreciation of food over the previous few months, and along with coffee and cigarettes it had become one of her most important pleasures. She’d learned to cook, and found the whole process therapeutic. Tonight, though, she’d taken the quicker option of a tuna and avocado salad with crusty homemade bread and hummus, and had only just finished eating when there was a loud knock on the front door.

  She looked at her watch: 8.10. She was pretty sure it was Mike Bolt, but with everything going on at the moment she wanted to be on the safe side, so she went upstairs and looked down at the doorstep from the spare bedroom window.

  There he was. Her former boss, sometime lover, and good friend. The man she’d come close to falling for more than once but never quite managing it. They hadn’t seen each other for close to eighteen months now, after their one proper attempt at a relationship had fallen apart before it had even got going, courtesy mainly of Tina herself. Commitment issues, her therapist Debbie c
alled it, but unfortunately Debbie had yet to come up with a cure.

  Although she didn’t like admitting it to herself, Tina missed Mike, and she was disappointed to see that he’d come with his colleague Mo Khan rather than alone. She went downstairs and let them in. There were formal handshakes all round. Mike managed a smile but there wasn’t the usual gleam in his bright blue eyes.

  She led them through to the lounge and asked if they’d like a drink but they both declined.

  ‘Sorry about how late we are,’ said Mike. ‘But you know how it is.’

  She smiled. ‘No problem. I didn’t have plans.’ She sat down on her sofa and they both moved the armchairs so they were sitting opposite her. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I smoke. I’ve just finished dinner and that’s always the cigarette I like the most.’

  Mike smiled again. ‘It’s your house, you do what you want. OK with you, Mo?’

  Mo made an ‘I don’t care’ gesture as he sank into the chair, and Tina noticed that he’d put on even more weight since she’d last seen him several years earlier. He’d never been the skinniest of cops but another couple of pounds and they’d have to help him out of the chair.

  ‘We’ve just come from the Sunny View Hotel,’ said Mike formally, ‘where a man was murdered earlier today in the room you rented in the name of Mr Matthew Barron.’

  ‘Well, Matthew Barron, whose real name as I told you is Sean Egan, rented it. I just paid.’

  ‘I want you to go through everything that’s happened since Sean Egan – who’s now our chief suspect in the murder – came to see you,’ he continued, ignoring her interruption.

  For the next ten minutes Tina went through the story in detail, avoiding any mention of her own missing persons case, since she still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure it was relevant yet.

  ‘It’s a pretty outlandish story,’ said Mo when she’d finished recounting what Sean had told her about why he was being chased by people he didn’t know for a reason he’d yet to remember.

  ‘I know,’ said Tina with a sigh, ‘and I’m still not entirely sure it adds up. He said the house where he was staying in Wales had been burned down by the couple who went there to kill him.’

  ‘So why didn’t you report the matter to the police immediately?’

  ‘Because all I had was his story, which sounded even more outlandish when he first told it. I Googled articles about houses burning down near Pembroke, which was where he said it was, and one did burn down on Monday night as he claimed. But there was no mention of there being bodies inside. I asked Sean to hand himself in. I sent him to the hospital because he had amnesia, and that’s where the two men who identified themselves as police officers – the two who, according to Sean, were in the hotel room today – abducted him.’

  Mike frowned. ‘And they wanted to know the location of some bodies?’

  ‘That’s what Sean said.’

  ‘And he gave you no clue as to who those bodies might be?’

  Tina could hear the scepticism in his voice. ‘No,’ she said, deciding to keep back the details of Sean’s recurring dream. ‘He claims he has no idea, although I’ve only got his word for that.’

  ‘Mo, can you check if the local police found any bodies in that burned-out house?’

  With an effort, Mo pulled himself out of his seat and went out into the hallway to make the call.

  For a couple of seconds Tina and Mike just looked at each other. He was a good-looking guy, she thought. Big, broad-shouldered, with amazing eyes, and an air of kindness about him that had always attracted her. Yet somehow she’d managed to mess their relationship up.

  ‘How are you getting on with the case?’ she asked, breaking the silence.

  Mike gave her a laconic smile and Tina realized the bond between them was still there. ‘I’ll level with you because you’re levelling with us. Not very well. We can’t ID the dead man at the moment because he wasn’t carrying any, and the surviving witness, whose name’s Carl Hughie, isn’t cooperating. It looks like Hughie’s involved with MI5 and he’s got some very powerful friends because we’re having real difficulty even getting to interview him. I’ve already had a call from my boss at Homicide Command telling me he’s coming under pressure from on high to go easy on this guy. Apparently, whatever Hughie’s involved in is a matter of national security. We’ve tested his hands and the gloves that we found on him for gunshot residue but so far nothing’s shown up.’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Tina. ‘Sean admitted shooting Hughie’s colleague. He said it was self-defence.’

  ‘That’s a lot of self-defence,’ said Mo as he came back in the room and sat down. ‘The victim was shot four times, including once in the head at point-blank range.’

  Tina’s expression didn’t change, but the news concerned her. More and more she was beginning to realize how unpredictable Sean was.

  ‘You also need to know that he fled the scene wielding the gun and threatening staff and guests,’ continued Mo, ‘before hijacking a car at gunpoint. They don’t sound like the actions of an innocent man. We all know your history with him, and the fact that he saved your life, but if you hear anything from him, you’ve got to tell us.’

  ‘I will,’ said Tina, but she wasn’t certain she would. She didn’t like the fact that Mike’s inquiry was being interfered with from on high before it had even properly begun. She thought of Dylan Mackay and the beating she’d given him that morning. It had been wrong. It had been illegal. It could even have been construed as torture. Yet it had got her at least some of the answers she was looking for – answers that Mike and Mo would never have got.

  Mo’s phone rang. ‘That was Grier,’ he said when he’d finished the call. ‘There were two as yet unidentified bodies, a man and a woman, found in a burned-out house in rural Pembrokeshire on Monday night. They haven’t yet got a definitive cause of death but initial findings suggest they both died violently.’

  ‘I can help you ID the bodies,’ said Tina. ‘Sean gave me these.’ She handed Mike the two driving licences Sean had taken from the house.

  Mike inspected them carefully, before handing them to Mo. ‘Where did he get these?’

  ‘He took them from their wallets.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Mo. ‘We’ve got two dead bodies, and Sean Egan rifles through their possessions then tells a story about two mysterious hitmen killing them who no one else saw. It doesn’t look good for him, does it?’

  It was a fair point. ‘I know,’ said Tina. ‘Which is why I’m talking to you now. Believe it or not, I got caught up in this completely by accident.’

  ‘As usual,’ said Mo.

  Tina opened her mouth, then thought better of it. There was no point getting into an argument.

  Mike gave Mo a look to say ‘go easy’ before turning back to her. ‘OK, let me make things crystal clear for you, Tina. This is no longer anything to do with you, so you need to keep out of it, let us do our job, and we’ll do our best to keep your link to an on-the-run murder suspect out of the papers. Deal?’

  Tina nodded. ‘Deal.’

  But, as she let them out the door, she knew immediately that it was a promise she couldn’t keep.

  Thirty-three

  Dylan Mackay wasn’t good with stress. For a start, he wasn’t used to it. Life had dealt him some pretty good cards. Rich parents who’d always given him what he wanted; a top-drawer education at one of London’s premier public schools; enough superficial charm to get other people to give him what he wanted; and the kind of foppish bad-boy looks that women always seemed to go for. He could have been a millionaire by now if he’d applied himself. The problem was he never had. He’d scraped into Leicester Uni even though Ma and Pa had had their hearts set on Oxford, having already developed a taste for good drugs and high living. He’d dropped out after two years, done a gap year that had turned into three, spent a hell of a lot of money that wasn’t his, and ended up as a DJ scraping a living at friends’ parties. Because that was the thing
about Dylan. He was never short of friends.

  But friends don’t pay the bills – not ones the size Dylan had run up anyway – and when the old man had cut him off a couple of years earlier after he’d turned up to a cousin’s wedding off his head on a murderous combination of high-grade chang, champagne and MDMA and exposed himself to the bridesmaids at the reception (two of whom were under the age of twelve), he’d been forced to look for alternative forms of income. The problem was, when you started doing illegal stuff – and Dylan had been doing a lot of illegal stuff these past two years – you ended up dealing with some pretty dodgy people, which was how he’d got himself in the situation he was now in.

  He should never have said a word to Tina Boyd. The moment he’d started talking he’d regretted it. He’d wanted to fight back – Christ, he had. Dylan was no coward, as more than one guy had found out to his cost, but she’d caught him by surprise, and when she’d held that broken glass to his face and threatened to cut him – and he knew she would have done it too – he’d had no choice but to cooperate. Even so, he hadn’t given up the name she’d needed, and he was at least proud of that. Still, now that she’d taken his phone it was only a matter of time before she found out the name of the man he was protecting, and if that happened, then, put bluntly, he was finished.

  He knew who’d put her on to him as well. It was that little slut Sheryl Warner. She’d been big buddies with Jen and Lauren, and he remembered the way she’d kept asking him loads of inconvenient questions when they disappeared off the scene so suddenly. She was lucky she wasn’t made to disappear herself – thankfully, she’d shut up after a while, and things had settled down.

  Until now.

  He was looking forward to paying Sheryl back for her big mouth. He knew she fancied him, so he’d pop round her place one evening, all smiles, and when she let him in, he’d kick the shit out of her. The thought excited him, but his revenge was going to have to wait because at the moment Dylan had bigger fish to fry. He’d been instructed to call a certain number if anyone started asking too many questions about Jen and Lauren, and had been told in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if he didn’t. What had stopped him from calling the number so far was fear. If the man he was meant to call knew that he’d cooperated with Tina and admitted his own role in pimping out Jen and Lauren, then Dylan was in real trouble. Which was why he’d spent the last twelve hours or so in a state of abject terror.