by Adrian Wills
Eduardo had dropped them at the entrance to the mountain and insisted they head for the summit while he parked the car. He promised to quiz staff on the lower station and said he'd meet them in two hours.
'Five hundred?' asked Lucy, raising her eyebrows. 'You must be wrong.'
'It's what he's demanded so far, in cash. He doesn't have any idea what happened to Nick, and I don't think he really cares. He's playing us for mugs.'
'Don't be so ridiculous.' Lucy fought angry tears as she turned her back on her husband, leaned over metal railings, and stared at the tiny buildings below. Everything looked so small and insignificant from the mountain; the trees, beaches and flotillas of yachts and boats buzzing around the harbours like miniature replicas of the real thing. Another cable car made its slow journey up the mountain and deposited its complement of visitors on to the viewing platform.
'Lucy, I'm sorry, but I don't want you getting hurt. The money doesn't matter. But what are we doing here?'
'You heard what Miguel said. Nick left the hostel to come here, so someone must have seen him.'
'I know what he said. But I'm not convinced Nick...' Peter's words trailed away.
'Not convinced what?'
'That he was even at that hostel. What if Eduardo fed Miguel a story that he knew you wanted to hear?'
'Why would he?' Lucy snapped.
'For money? You said yourself it makes no sense that he'd come here with his backpack and all his stuff when anyone else would have left it in their room.'
Lucy scanned her husband's familiar face, trying to make up her mind about whom she believed. He was right; it did seem implausible that Nick would abandon the hostel with no good reason. But why would they lie to her? 'Peter, I need your support. I can't do this on my own. I know you never cared about Nick, but do this for my sake?'
Peter threw his hands up in submission. 'All right, let's not fight. Let's start asking around. Have you still got that photo?'
Lucy kissed him on the cheek and trotted towards a row of shops and restaurants under a white canopy. Peter followed begrudgingly, a few paces behind, watching his wife move from shop to shop, greeting each assistant with a wide smile, and handing over the snapshot. Each time the reaction was the same. They would carefully scrutinise the picture with a look of concern and hand it back with a shake of their heads.
Eventually, they exhausted all the outlets and every member of staff they could find. They rode a second cable car to the summit in silence and repeated the process, questioning shop assistants and café staff, but none remembered Nicholas Richards.
'Lucy, we'd better get back down again,' Peter said, gently, tapping his watch. 'Eduardo will be expecting us at the bottom in fifteen minutes. Maybe he's had better luck.'
Lucy nodded reluctantly. They squeezed into a waiting car and started the slow descent, blind to the breath-taking views through the windows. A second car delivered them back to the foot of the mountain, through a dirty, grey concrete ground station. Lucy trudged down the steps onto the street, scanning for Eduardo.
'I expect he's gone to check on the car,' said Peter.
'Go and find him, I'm parched. I'll grab a drink over there.' Lucy pointed to a café on the opposite side of the street. 'Come and get me when you find him.'
She crossed the street, dodging a slow moving stream of traffic, glad for a few moments of solitude to gather her thoughts and wrestle with her doubts. She took a seat at a table on the pavement, and ordered two Cokes from the waiter. While she waited, she replayed recent events through her head.
'Obrigada,' said Lucy, as the waiter returned with two red cans and two scratched high-ball glasses that had been filled with little round ice cubes.
She drank hungrily, and the cold liquid burned her throat. Across the road, Peter was striding towards her with purpose. As he drew closer, she recognised the look of concern on his face.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Eduardo. He's vanished.'
'I expect he's gone to fill up with petrol or something.'
Peter pulled out a chair and took his wife's hand across the table. 'No love, he's gone. There's no easy way to say this, but he's taken our money and cleared off.'
Chapter 29
Home and alone, the battle-weary sergeant ran the images through his head, replaying every graphic frame. He gulped down the last mouthful of beer, and threw the empty can across the room. It missed the bin and clattered across the floor like an expended NATO round. It was his last can, but the alcohol had done little to numb the pain. So he hauled himself to his feet, picked up his wallet, and ventured out of the warmth of the flat for resupplies.
The corner shop was a short walk away, illuminated brightly in a dark row of houses. It smelled of washing powder and newsprint. He headed directly to a chiller cabinet at the back, hooked out a pack of strong lager, and paid without speaking to the man behind the till, who glanced up only briefly from his crossword puzzle.
As he staggered out of the shop, he failed to notice the gang of three young men loitering in the shadows, watching in silence. Had he observed the scene as he was trained to do, he would have seen one of them, awkwardly tall, rocking from one foot to the other, cobalt-black eyes staring from under a hooded-top. But his thoughts were elsewhere, in another time and place, as he crossed the road and ventured up a side alley lit only by the glow of a sodium street lamp.
The gangly youth followed silently, and quickly closed the distance, slipping his hand behind his back, his fingers closing around the cold, hard handle of a carving knife in the waistband of his tracksuit trousers. He dropped his right shoulder, and barged past the soldier with a force that knocked him off his stride.
'Sorry, mate,' hissed the youth, whirling around and ramming the point of his knife into the soldier's chest. 'Now give us your wallet.'
The sergeant stood square, glanced down at the weapon and back at his attacker with contempt.
'Come on, I'm not mucking around. Give us your wallet. Now!' screamed the young man, trying to steel himself, and checking nervously for the reassurance of his two companions on guard at the end of the alley.
'Piss off,' said the soldier. He dropped his carrier bag of beer and snatched the youth's arm with both hands. He wasn't going to be pushed around by a young upstart on his own doorstep, knife or not.
He tightened his grip around the thin wrist and twisted, trying to wrench the weapon free, but lost his balance and stumbled. His eyes widened as he slumped forward, his face pale, the blade slicing through the muscle in his stomach as easily as a fruit knife through a peach.
The youth pulled his hand free with panic in his eyes. His hand covered in warm, silky blood, bright crimson even in the amber glow of street lamp. He stared; disbelieving what he'd done, then dropped the knife and ran.
The soldier fell to his knees with a terrible gasp, clutching the gaping wound as if trying to hold in his guts. Blood seeped through his fingers, pooling on the pavement, and he knew he was in trouble. A dull throb began where he'd been cut open and quickly became an intense pain. He wanted to run. To scream. And he was back in Afghanistan again.
He fell face down, his strength deserting him, and a creeping chill washed over his body. He felt so cold, his life slowly pumping out onto the street in a vivid scarlet puddle. All he wanted was to curl up and sleep, to make the hurt go away.
Through a dull haze, he heard a voice. Someone lifted his head. He prised open his eyes and recognised the man who'd taken his money in the shop.
'Can you hear me? Hold on, it's going to be okay. You're going to be alright. Help! I need help here!'
But it was already too late.
The soldier died on the spot where he had been stabbed, cradled in the arms of a stranger in a cold, dark alley not so far away from home.
Chapter 30
The sleek outline of the Bell 222 helicopter appeared over the horizon, stark against the azure sky. Inside, Larry Hopper was being treated to a spectacular view of London
where the River Thames cut a swathe through densely populated streets.
'What's the big white tent?' the Texan asked, his deep southern drawl crackling through the communications system.
'That was the Millennium Dome, sir. It's a concert venue now,' said the pilot.
They slowed as they approached the towering office blocks that dominated the old Victorian dock site, and where thousands of panes of glass now glistened in the low, autumnal sunshine. The pilot brought the aircraft to a virtual standstill over the river, with the rotor blades whipping up rippling peaks and gently nudged the chopper over land. With minute adjustments to the controls, he countered the buffeting crosswinds and landed with the gentlest of bumps on a helipad at the water's edge.
A black Jaguar with darkened windows rolled out from behind a nearby hangar and drew up close. A chauffeur in a charcoal suit and peaked cap jumped out and held open a rear door for Hopper as he sauntered from the aircraft with his personal assistant trailing in his wake.
The journey to his yacht, moored in the heart of the city's Docklands, took a little more than seven minutes. The Clara Barton, a 200-foot Italian-built superyacht had sailed in several days earlier, in preparation for Hopper's arrival on account of the businessman's refusal to stay in hotels when he was away from home. He hated their unfamiliar beds, obsequious tip-demanding staff, and tedious décor, and avoided them whenever he could. With its crew of twelve seasoned and trusted sailors, who Hopper insisted dressed immaculately in maritime whites, it was an expensive luxury, but one that the Texan could well afford. Besides, the yacht, with its sleek lines and tinted glass, made a bold statement, a declaration of his power and wealth.
The Jaguar delivered Hopper to the gangplank guarded by two muscled men in wrap-around dark sunglasses, where he was greeted by the yacht's captain, a tall Scandinavian with leathery skin.
'Good trip, sir?'
'Is Longhurst here yet?' Hopper snapped. Despite travelling in business class for his flight to Britain, the effects of jet lag were taking their toll on his humour.
'He's waiting in the conference room,' said the captain, with a slight bow.
Hopper marched on board and headed through a luxurious lounge with thick, cream carpet, a pristine white sofa, and white lilies on a coffee table, towards a conference room at the opposite end of the yacht. He crashed through the doors and startled Ken Longhurst, who sprung from a leather chair around an oval table.
He beamed at the Texan with an impossibly white set of teeth. 'Larry,' he said, with his hand outstretched.
'Been waiting long?'
'No, no,' Longhurst lied, subconsciously glancing at his watch.
'You've seen the papers today?' Both men sat, and Hopper beckoned to his assistant who had taken a seat at his side and pulled out a tabloid newspaper from a briefcase. Hopper glanced at the headline before sliding it across the table. 'War hero killed in race attack? Are you kidding me?'
Longhurst scanned the story, which had been carried over from the front page and covered almost the entirety of the fourth and fifth pages. 'I know, it's depressing,' he sighed.
'Depressing? This guy was a hero. He fought in Afghanistan, for your country, and was butchered like a dog in an alley on his doorstep. He should have been on a pedestal for what he did. He didn't deserve this.'
'The police are saying it might have been a mugging that went wrong,' said Longhurst, weakly.
'Mugging? Really?' said Hopper, with disbelief. 'You know it was a gang of Asians? The guy who found him saw them running off. It's pretty clear to me they knew he was a soldier and they hunted him down.'
'But why?'
'It's obvious. He was fighting the Taliban to make their God-forsaken country a better place to live. And this was his reward. Revenge. Pure and simple.'
'But the papers -'
'Ken, the police are covering up the facts. That's what's wrong with this place. Everybody's scared to tell the truth. It makes me sick. And you know what, I can guarantee they'll be folks claiming to be Brits, who've got the passports to prove it, rubbing their hands with delight. You know why?'
Longhurst shook his head.
'Because these kids who did this,' Hopper jabbed his finger at the newspaper, 'claim to love your country, but they don't want to play by the rules. They want Sharia Law and our women to be covered from head-to-toe. They sit around conspiring against us in mosques we allowed them to build. And you have to ask yourself, if they hate our way of life and what we stand for so much, why don't they just leave? You should be ashamed to have let this happen.'
'But nobody saw this coming,' Longhurst stammered
'I saw it coming. I've seen it coming for a while.' Hopper slammed his palm on the table. 'Your immigration controls suck. This country's given refuge to every waif, stray and bleeding heart from every hellhole around the world for years, but they have no respect for our freedoms or our way of life. Your governments have consistently let them all in without question because your politicians are lily-livered and weak, too afraid to stand up and make a difference, to defend what made this country great in the first place. I've seen it happen in the States and now it's happening here. The thing is, what you going do about it?'
'We're getting the message out, and people are listening to us, but it takes time. We're seeing real progress with getting representation at local council level, and I'm sure it's only a matter of time before we secure representation in the Commons.'
'But you don't have time. You need to act now. Stem the tide, put a block on immigration, and start destroying the cancer festering in your communities and eating away at your democracy. The time for politics has passed. We're at war. The front line might be in some desert in Afghanistan, but the battles need to be won at home. They've brought the fight to our front door, and we can either stand back and be cowed into surrender, or we can do something about it. We need to take direct action and the sooner the better.'
'What did you have in mind?' Longhurst looked intently into the Texan's rheumy eyes.
'Have you put the preparations in place like I told you?'
'I have two very capable men ready and willing.'
'Warriors, Ken. Soldiers of peace. I'd like to meet them. Bring them here, but be subtle about it. It's important they're not seen here.'
'Of course,' said Longhurst. 'I'm ready to do whatever it takes.'
Chapter 31
Blake had quickly settled into a routine, waking early for a small breakfast from his rations, before checking the electronic listening devices, each programmed to begin recording when triggered by movement in the house. On the whole, he found that once Proctor and Clark had taken to their beds, they didn't stir until late morning.
By six, he was in position on his stomach on the ridge overlooking the cottage, monitoring the men's movements and conversations throughout the day. Their exchanges remained frustratingly banal, as if they were killing time. They talked very little about the BFA and never about the Phineas Priests or any bomb plot.
Their routine was equally mundane. After taking a late breakfast, they usually spent their mornings watching daytime TV on a portable in Proctor's room. Occasionally, one of them would drive into Nutwick for milk, cigarettes, or a newspaper. Sometimes, they would head farther afield to a supermarket in a retail park on the outskirts of a nearby town, and Blake would watch the little blue dot on the screen of his smartphone snake its way along the back roads, stop for an hour, and wind its way back again. They returned with bulging carrier bags that revealed to Blake that they were living on a diet of ready meals, crisps, Coke, and beer.
Their afternoons varied little from their mornings, watching TV and taking the occasional nap, and by the early evening their drinking began. The more they drank the louder and more boisterous they would become, until they passed out some time after midnight.
Blake grabbed meals when he could, and focussed on building a mental picture of the inside of the cottage. He slept only when he knew Proctor and C
lark had turned in, and made sure he was back in position well before they surfaced.
After five days, a regular pattern had established, but on the fifth evening, everything changed.
During the day, Blake detected a nervousness in the men's behaviour. Their conversation was muted and their language terse. Neither man took a drink, and by early evening, they disappeared into their own rooms. Although the television in Proctor's room was on low, it was unusual not to hear the men's raucous laughter and obscene jokes.
That evening, Blake remained at his observation post, and shortly after midnight watched the grainy images on his monitor of the men emerging down the stairs and into the hallway. They left the house through the porch, and jumped into the red Renault. A moment later, the engine rattled into life and bright headlights illuminated the hillside, almost blinding Blake as he observed through the scope. The car pulled away and disappeared along the drive towards the main road, its taillights blinking.
Blake jumped up and ran through the wood, batting aside loose branches, and crashing through the undergrowth. He sprinted headlong down the hill, struggling to keep his footing. He vaulted the wire fence at the bottom, and reached his car out of breath, fumbling for the keys in his pocket.
There was no sign of the Renault on that stretch of road, which indicated to Blake that it must be heading north east, through Nutwick, towards the motorway. His suspicions were confirmed when he checked the blue dot on his phone.
He caught up with the car a few miles beyond the village. It was cruising along at a steady pace, well below the speed limit. Not too fast, but not too slow. Easy on the corners, cutting through the rolling countryside with its headlights dipped.
Blake kept his distance, ensuring the Renault's taillights remained just within sight, constantly checking the blue dot on his phone. He drew a hand over the six-day growth on his chin, and realised in the comfort of his car how grubby he felt. He was wearing the same clothes he had thrown on five days earlier. They were stained with mud, and covered in fragments of decaying leaves. Beneath his woollen hat, his scalp itched, his greying hair matted to his head. His feet were uncomfortably hot inside his boots, and his eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand into them. He blinked the discomfort away and concentrated on the road.
