by Peter Boland
Savage turned to see Bluetooth on the floor reaching for the gun. Savage threw the metal teapot at his hand. It collided with his knuckles. Bluetooth snatched back his burnt and now bruised hand, buying Savage a couple of precious seconds.
“Run!” he said, grabbing Tannaz by the hand.
Chapter 49
They made it out of the library, expecting the subdued thud of a silencer round to whizz past their ears. Maybe Bluetooth couldn’t shoot with his left hand. Maybe Wellington didn’t want to risk firing a weapon out in the hallway. It didn’t matter. They weren’t safe until they were out on the street, and in public.
They thundered down the wide stairs, past the men sitting at the reception desk, alarm on their faces as Tannaz and Savage hurried past.
Out on St James’s Street, Savage flagged down a black cab and got in. “Victoria station,” he said to the driver.
As the cab sped off, Savage and Tannaz looked out of the back window, expecting one of Wellington’s men to come bundling out of the club, gun blazing. No one came.
“Do you think Wellington would have really shot us in there? In the middle of a gentlemen’s club?” asked Tannaz.
“Like he said, I’m sure it’s not the first murder that’s got covered up in that club.”
“What do we do now?” asked Tannaz. “We’re screwed. Nearly got ourselves killed back there.”
“I am a bit disappointed,” said Savage, gazing out the window.
“A bit? That’s the understatement of the year.”
“Yeah, I never got to try that posh tea they served. Bet it was something special.”
“You’re kidding me?” said Tannaz. “What about Wellington? He’s been onto us all along. Got us on the run. Aren’t you worried about him?”
“No, not really.”
Tannaz grabbed him by the arm to get his attention. “Savage, he’s either going to kill us or get us put away. He’s got footage of you. And he’s got evidence of me hacking into his account and systems. Savage, I could go away for a couple of years. And you could be put away for life, doesn’t that bother you?”
Just then Savage’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. “It’s a text from Wellington: ‘I’m coming to get you.’ Smiley face.”
Tannaz swore. “We need to get away from here double quick. And we need to ditch our phones. Stop him tracking us.”
Savage nodded, spoke to the driver, “Can you go via the Embankment?”
“That’s a big detour,” said the driver.
“Don’t care,” Savage replied.
The driver shrugged. “It’s your money.”
“That reminds me,” said Tannaz. “Just before that guy with the Bluetooth headset took Wellington’s phone off me, a text popped up on his screen.”
“What did it say?”
“It was odd. I think it was one of the tree-preservation numbers. I recognised the format, three numbers, forward slash, then four numbers. Someone wanted to put a bet on it. It said twenty thousand in Bitcoin on, then the tree-preservation-order number. I couldn’t remember which one. Definitely one of the ones from Dead Maids. Like someone was betting on a tree.”
“Why would anyone bet on a tree? That’s a pretty dull betting game.”
At Piccadilly, the driver turned right instead of left and drove through Trafalgar Square, clogged up with hordes of tourists and sightseeing buses. They passed Charing Cross Station and turned onto the Embankment where a slow-moving river Thames sloshed its way to the sea. “Pull over,” said Savage to the driver. Then to Tannaz, “Give me your phone.” Tannaz obeyed without hesitation.
Savage climbed out of the taxi, strolled over to the wall beside the embankment and the river beyond, and threw in both phones, then returned to the taxi, which continued its journey to Victoria station. Savage stared out the window, deep in thought.
“Savage, are you okay?”
“Never better,” Savage grinned. “We’ve got Wellington right where we want him.”
Tannaz slapped her head. “Am I missing something, Savage? We just got our asses handed to us. Barely got out of their alive. Are you saying you knew that would happen?”
“No, of course not. I was just as surprised as you were. Man, that business with him being Archie, didn’t see that coming.”
The taxi rattled its way through the burgeoning afternoon rush hour.
“You’re surprisingly calm. He’s been onto us ever since you called his office and demanded Dave’s stuff back.”
“Yes, but nothing’s changed, has it? So he knows we’re onto him and has done for a long time, so what? Do you want to wallow in self-pity or do you want to get him?”
“Want to get him, of course.”
“Glad to hear it because we have the advantage now.”
Tannaz snorted a laugh. “How have we got the advantage?”
“He thinks he’s got us on the run. Thinks we’re scared just like every other person he’s come into contact with. He’s over confident. He thinks he’s just outmanoeuvred one of the best hackers in the country and an ex-Gulf War member of the SAS, even disguised as a down and out called Archie. His ego couldn’t be any bigger right now. He’s on cloud nine, probably celebrating with a brandy or a whisky—you spotted that, right from the start, sort of.”
“I did?”
“Archie, or Wellington, as we know now, used to slip notes under my door asking if I’d like a whisky. He used to spell it with an ‘e’. I thought he just couldn’t spell, but as you quite rightly pointed out he was spelling it the Irish way, because he’s from Ireland.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Go back to Southampton. There’s something I need to pick up from Tivoli Gardens.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“No, that’s the last place he’d expect us to be. He thinks we’re running scared. Besides, we’ll only be there for a minute or two.”
“I need to get my stuff from the hotel.”
“No, we can’t. Too dangerous.”
“You just said he won’t be expecting us to go back to Tivoli Gardens. Surely that includes the hotel.”
“Okay, fair enough.”
They went to the hotel first. Tannaz unplugged various bits of computer equipment and shoved them in her bag. Savage turned his back while she got out of her business clothes and changed into her civvies, including her beloved DMs. “Ah, that is so much better,” she said. Tannaz stood up and immediately began tearing down their little evidence wall, peeling off the printouts one by one.
“We haven’t got time for that. Let’s go,” said Savage.
“Alright fine.” Tannaz left them and slung a couple of bags over her shoulder and made for the door. “Well, are you coming?”
Savage stood statue-still. Mesmerised by the three printouts still stuck on the wall. The GPS map of all the trees at Dead Maids, the roulette table and the man with the pixelated face hanging from a branch in the Sea of Trees in Japan.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” Tannaz huffed. “What is it?”
Savage didn’t say anything.
Tannaz clicked her fingers. “Savage. Come on. We can’t hang around.”
“Might be something. Might be nothing,” he muttered.
“Stop being cryptic. What is it?”
Savage shook his head. “It’s far too twisted even by Wellington’s standards.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.”
Savage turned away from the wall and shook his head again, as if disagreeing with himself. He halted, then turned back and said, “Okay, here goes. Wellington obviously has something big going on at Dead Maids. Didn’t want to tell use because he’s sadistic and liked seeing us squirm. You can be sure it’s another gambling game, we know that from the text you saw, someone betting on a tree, okay?�
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“Okay.”
“Right, hold that thought.” Savage pointed at the GPS printout on the wall. “Remember Goth-guy and his girlfriend, taking shots of all the trees? They weren’t doing it for fun, they said it was for work, remember? Let’s assume he was doing that for Wellington, taking shots of every tree, matching it to each tree preservation order, and therefore each GPS location.”
“Apart from Dave’s one, the one that got cut down.”
“Now look at what’s happened at Dead Maids. Three people have supposedly committed suicide who had a connection with Wellington. However, the fourth, the hiker, Samuel Thwaite, had no connection to him. Came all the way down from Doncaster to commit suicide. He was drawn there, just like people are drawn to the Sea of Trees in Japan to commit suicide. It’s a mecca for taking your own life. We thought Wellington might be trying to create his own Sea of Trees right here in the UK at Dead Maids. We couldn’t figure out why.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“So let’s assume he is trying to recreate the Sea of Trees in the New Forest. To do that, he’d need to start a trend of suicides to establish the place so it gets a reputation, get the ball rolling. What if Dave was the first? What if Wellington heard from his men about Dave’s plan to die up a tree? What if that gave Wellington an idea, a diabolical idea?”
“That’s a lot of what ifs, and what idea?”
“I’m coming to that. Let’s assume it’s true. To turn Dead Maids into the UK equivalent of Japan’s Sea of Trees, he’d need to cause a big splash, get it in the headlines. A normal suicide wouldn’t do that. They happen all the time, nobody bats an eyelid. But a dead body falling out of a tree would get headlines. So Wellington’s men give Dave the rest of the money he needs for the Nembutal. In return they tell him he has to use a specific tree.”
“They give him the printout with the ringed number,” said Tannaz.
“Exactly. Dave agrees. Does the horrible deed, and Wellington gets his son Ben to bribe Joel Diplock to cut it down. Dead man falls out of tree. The story is all over the papers, in the news, everywhere. That gets Dead Maids noticed. His PR stunt works. The place and that name— for crying out loud, Dead Maids—so memorable, it’s a perfect news story. But it’s still not enough to get the place established as suicide central. He needs more bodies hanging from trees. He picks on Dave’s son, Luke. It’s plausible, he’s just lost his father so why wouldn’t he commit suicide. We know better than that but the police buy it. Then there’s Sylvia Sanchez. Just lost her patient Jenny Hopkins at the care home, also plausible reason for suicide, but we know better. Now Wellington has to be careful, he’s sailing close to the wind here. Three deaths, all loosely connected with him. He can’t afford another one. He doesn’t have to. The trend has taken hold. The fourth person to commit suicide is genuine—the hiker, Samuel Thwaite, has no connection to Wellington, drives all the way down from Doncaster to hang himself from a Dead Maids’ tree. And now that’s happened, the game can begin properly. I think you saw one of the first bets being taken.”
Tannaz shook her head in confusion. “What game?”
Savage pointed to the wall, at the two printouts side by side, the GPS location map of the trees and the roulette table. “Think of Dead Maids as a giant roulette table. In roulette, people place bets on which number they think the ball is going to land on. Dead Maids is just the same. People put their bets on trees, using the corresponding tree preservation order number. But instead of a ball landing on the number…”
“It’s the next person to hang themselves,” Tannaz said quietly.
“Exactly. They’re placing bets on the tree they think will be used for the next suicide.”
Tannaz collapsed on the bed. Hand clamped over her mouth, she swore. “How can someone be so vile, so heartless?”
“We already knew he was heartless. It’s just the depths to which he’s prepared to go, all for, what did he call it? Good old-fashioned betting.”
Tannaz clenched her jaw. “He needs to pay for what he’s done.”
Chapter 50
The little VW pulled up outside Tivoli Gardens. The cold, grey morning did nothing for the building’s appearance, a crumbling monument to poverty.
“What are we doing here again?” asked Tannaz.
“We need some muscle power.”
“Are you sure this is safe? What if Wellington’s men are watching the place?”
“It’s a risk, but like I said, it’s the last place Wellington will expect us to be. And we’re not going to be long. Plus, he’s so cocksure of himself I doubt he’s worried in the slightest about us. Probably imagining us scuttling away, like little ants.”
“If you say so.”
“Have you got the present?”
“Sure have.”
Tannaz and Savage exited the car, walked up to the front door, unlocked it and went in. Tannaz looked around cautiously, expecting Wellington and his men to leap out at any minute.
Inside the dingy hallway they went straight to Dink’s bedroom door and knocked. Seconds later, Dink appeared. The friendly giant beamed brightly at the sight of Savage. “John!” he cried, bear-hugging him tightly in his massive arms.
Savage struggled for breath, just about managing to get a few words out. “Hey, Dink. Can you loosen your grip a little?”
“Sure,” said Dink, letting go of Savage.
Savage groaned with relief. “This is my friend Tannaz.”
“Hi, Tannaz,” said Dink. He turned to Savage. “I thought you’d left for good.”
“Sort of. I don’t think I’ll be coming back here after this.”
The smile evaporated from Dink’s face, reminding Savage that he was just a youngster at heart. “Archie’s disappeared too,” he said. “Haven’t seen him since you left.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about, Archie. We’ll keep in touch, I promise. Listen, Dink, have any of Wellington’s men been hanging around the house, keeping an eye on the place?”
Dink shook his head. “Nobody’s been here since you kicked Vlad and Truck out.”
“Good to know,” Savage replied. “Hey, I’ve got a present for you.”
Tannaz handed over a large boxlike parcel, covered in bright yellow paper.
Dink’s smile returned. “Can I open it?”
“Sure.”
Dink’s giant hands tore the paper to shreds, like a kid on Christmas day, revealing a traditional woven-wicker picnic hamper, complete with carrying handle and two buckled fastening straps.
Dink gasped with delight, then fumbled with the straps, desperate to see what was inside. The opened lid exposed its contents—a full plate and cutlery set fastened against the inside, together with four plastic glasses. What really caught Dink’s attention was the food. A huge smoked salmon with cream cheese, fresh bread rolls and a bottle of chilled non-alcoholic sparkling wine.
“As I promised when I first met you,” said Savage. “A smoked-salmon picnic.”
Dink hugged Savage, nearly cracking his ribs. “You’re the best, John.” Then he turned his attention to Tannaz who held up her hands.
“No, I’m good,” she said. “I don’t do hugs.”
Dink ignored her and gave her a bone-crushing embrace. Then he bounced up and down excitedly. “Can we have it now?”
“Of course,” Savage replied.
They sat on the floor in Dink’s room, which was surprisingly clean, having an indoor picnic, letting Dink take the lion’s share of food and drink. It disappeared quite rapidly.
“That was amazing,” Dink said, picking crumbs off his plate.
“Are you still making your soup, like I showed you?” asked Savage.
“Every day,” he replied, getting up to take a book off the mantelpiece, entitled The Best Soups Are The Ones You Make Yourself. “Got myself a book and everything.”
/> “That’s great, Dink. Are you trying to stay off the junk food?”
Dink looked away guiltily. “I still like eating crisps.”
“How many bags do you eat a day?” asked Savage.
“Just the one.”
“That’s not so bad,” said Tannaz.
“Yeah but it’s these bags.” Dink held up a discarded crisp packet from his wastepaper bin. It was family-sized, made for sharing.
“Hey, don’t worry,” said Savage. “You’re doing good. Got to have a few indulgences now and again. Listen, Dink. I need to ask you a favour.”
“Yes, anything,” Dink replied.
“I need your strength.”
Out on the road in front of Tivoli Gardens the three of them stared down at the storm-drain grate. A couple of feet long by about a foot wide, it was an old, dull-brown cast-iron model with six thick bars across it like fat sausages. Designed in an era when things were built to last, the grate looked like it hadn’t moved for over seventy years.
“You know,” said Savage. “There are people that go around collecting shots of drains and manhole covers like this.”
“Really?” said Tannaz.
“Yeah, they’re called drain spotters.”
Tannaz winced in disbelief. “Shut up.”
“I’m not joking, it’s true. Sounds like a nice way of spending your time.”
“You need to get a life, Savage.”
Savage turned to Dink. “Think you can lift it?”
Dink looked worried. “I don’t know. I won’t get in trouble, will I?”
“No, course not. I’ll take the blame if anyone says anything.”
“Well okay, then.”
“Now be careful, Dink. That thing’s solid iron. Make sure you…”
Before Savage had a chance to finish his little health-and-safety speech, Dink had bent over, grabbed the grate with both fists and tore it from its mounting, scattering years of collected dirt and debris onto the pavement.
