by T. J. Lebbon
No new light came on inside the building. But three minutes later she heard a car engine start nearby, and then Andy’s car emerged from the car park behind the apartment block. He pulled over for her. She jumped in and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘No sign of anyone being inside?’ she asked.
‘No reason there should have been. I don’t use my real second name, there’s no way they could track me. Jane Smith is very good at covering tracks.’
‘I hope she’s good at more than that,’ Emma said.
Andy didn’t reply. As they drove back towards where they’d parked the van, Emma tried not to consider just what might be needed to save them all.
Things that Jane Smith would have to do, and she and her family might yet be forced to face.
Chapter Twenty-Four
On the Move
‘Time to split up,’ Holt said. They’d been driving in silence for the last hour, and since crossing the Severn Bridge into Wales Rose had known this moment was coming. It made sense. Andy had called for her help, not her and someone else. She had not initially embarked on this journey in answer to his request, but when it had appeared en route she had not been surprised. Besides, Holt was not here for Andy.
Although she was almost certain that their paths here would cross again soon, she and Holt would approach from different directions.
‘Service station in two miles, drop me there,’ Rose said.
‘I’m happy to leave you with the car.’
‘This heap of shit? I’d rather walk.’
Holt tapped the wheel as if comforting his old Renault. He was probably secretly glad she had not taken up his offer. She suspected that he was pleased that she had come. There was something about when they were close that kept the world at bay.
Holt was taciturn as usual, but over the few years she’d known him Rose had gone some way to understanding Holt’s language. It had taken her a while to realise it was more in what he did not say or do than what he did. A man who had seen so much death and horror, and who had dealt some of it himself, could never communicate in any normal, even rational way. But there were instincts he could not hide.
Rose believed that he had come closer to her than anyone else since leaving his wife and child almost two decades before. He’d never told her that directly, and their relationship had never become physical. At least, not in the sexual sense. She believed they were very physical with each other, even though they rarely touched. They could communicate with a look, a shrug, the way they held their bodies, and whenever they were close she was aware of his presence with a warm clarity. It did not require contact for them to touch each other.
At times, she was afraid that he had become her safety buffer against the horrors of the world. She was even more afraid that after he had spent so long killing for cash, she had become his.
Rose had never wanted to discuss this aspect of their relationship. She feared that if either of them analysed it too much, it might set a seed of ruin into whatever it was they had. So she and Holt did what they always had. They continued. They persisted. And, sometimes, they worked together.
Their work was something she found much easier to analyse. Rose had acquired a new set of skills, tutored by Holt and progressively more self-taught. They ranged from electronic surveillance, to covert observation, to diverse methods of killing. She used these skills to help people she believed deserved her help, and sometimes in return she was paid.
Holt sometimes still killed for money because he still enjoyed it.
Their purposes and reasons were clear, but such truths troubled her. She had never felt that Holt was trying to draw her into his own clouded world, and she was glad. But she also did not have the right to try and lure him out towards hers. After what she had done, Rose was the last person in the world to distinguish between good and bad.
He pulled off the motorway into the service station. The satnav on his phone indicated that there was less than twenty miles to go before Abergavenny.
It was almost two in the morning, and this time of night the roads were mostly deserted. Overnight freight lorries, night workers, a couple of coaches, the service station car park was relatively quiet.
‘There,’ Rose said, pointing across at a Travel Lodge. Holt turned off the car lights and parked a hundred metres away, drifting to a halt close to a parked van. They waited in the darkened car for several minutes in case anyone was watching them. Peoples’ attention quickly drifted.
While they waited, Rose checked the small rucksack she’d brought with her. It was a runner’s backpack, fitted with hip pockets, water bladder and straps that would ensure it moulded closely to her body. She’d spent a long time adjusting these straps’ placing and length, and now it hardly felt like she was wearing it. Inside were a few spare clothes, money, the grenade, knife, and her Glock and spare magazines. She carried her phone in her shorts pocket, and in the rucksack were two cloned SIM cards.
There was also an old iPad, intricately locked, containing information that she would never show anyone else, not even Holt. Over the years she had constructed her own network of useful contacts, faceless social media outlets and information.
In a hidden pocket there was also a whole new identity, including passport, National Insurance card, driver’s licence and other documentation that would give her access to a sleeping bank account and online presence. The identity she’d used to enter the country was already cast aside. Now she was Jane Smith once more. She liked it better that way.
‘I have the feeling we’ll be seeing each other again soon,’ Holt said.
‘We should stay in touch,’ Rose said. ‘We can help each other.’
‘Don’t we always?’
Rose left the car and closed the door behind her. No goodbyes. No good lucks. As always, they acted as if this was merely a pause in their lives together.
Yet Rose felt a tug at her heart when Holt drove away. One day he’d turn his back on her and she would never see him again. Either he’d end up dead in a shallow grave, or she would.
She did not watch his car leave. A woman standing motionless in a dark car park would look suspicious. She strolled towards the hotel, rucksack slung over her shoulder, and all the while she was checking out the few cars in the hotel’s dedicated car park.
All the usual were there. Fords, Mazdas, a few BMWs, a sporty Mercedes, a couple of Vauxhalls. She ignored the cars parked in the row directly next to the hotel, because some people tried to park as close to their room as possible. Last thing she needed was a curtain twitching at the sound of a car engine. By the time she reached the wide path to the hotel’s main entrance, she’d singled out a Renault Megane. Several years old, easy to steal, and not a vehicle likely to dear a second glance.
She left the path and headed across a grassed area towards the corner of the car park. All was quiet. She took a tool from one of her rucksack’s shoulder straps, a stiff metal band that was hooked at the end.
It took almost a minute to pop the car’s lock and open the door. She waited anxiously for the scream of an alarm. If one came, she’d walk casually away. No one took much notice of car alarms, but if they saw someone running at the same time, she might be in trouble.
No alarm. It was a messy car inside, passenger seat scattered with fast food wrappers, a jacket hanging in the back. Probably a businessman’s vehicle. It made her feel less guilty than if she’d been stealing a family car.
Three minutes later she was driving from the service station, sun visor down and baseball cap on in case any CCTV cameras caught an image. Britain was the most watched country on earth, making much of what she did more hazardous than usual. Perhaps that was why she’d only been back once since her experiences with the Trail.
That visit had been three years ago to help Andy Scott escape the clutches of his family. He’d seemed like a good guy at the time. He’d got in touch through convoluted channels, and she’d spent several weeks researching his story and assessing his needs bef
ore even replying. Everything he’d told her panned out. The Scott gang were very good at remaining hidden, and they had been avoiding the law for almost a decade. She suspected they had an internet wizard at their disposal to help facilitate this. But Rose had her ways and means, and while she’d found it difficult to pin down their exact location or responsibility for various crimes, Andy’s stories had merged perfectly with what she had been able to discover.
They had met once. She always met her clients. Experienced though she was at all manner of electronic communication and research, nothing beat meeting face to face. She’d liked him. He’d seem honest, for a criminal, at least. But he had never been a man of violence. His reasons for wishing to establish a new identity were sound, and she could understand. His family gang had perpetrated a sudden rash of increasingly violent crimes, led by the man called Lip who had come into their midst, and who had driven them quickly to murder. The man who she suspected was Monk, the killer Holt now pursued.
Andy had wanted out.
Since then, her work had kept her overseas. There had been two requests from Britain, but both she had turned down, burning all communication channels and ensuring that the people she’d shunned had no way of holding a grudge.
Rose had travelled to Turkey, Egypt, Moldova, Portugal and Sweden. Holt had gone with her most of the time. Sometimes the jobs were simple and clean. Sometimes they were not. She had killed again, as had Holt. She made no effort to keep count, and the faces of those she had murdered made no appearances in her dreams. The weight of guilt she bore was reserved only for her dead family, and there was no room for more.
Only bad people died at her hand. It was no justification, and certainly no defence. But she ensured that remained the case nonetheless.
The fine lines, the grey areas between good and bad, were places Rose did her best not to travel.
Turning from the motorway and heading north towards Abergavenny, her phone chimed as a Twitter message came in from an account for which she’d set up notifications.
AndyMan: We’re on the move.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amateurs
Even before he stopped the Jeep halfway along the driveway, Lip knew they weren’t there.
The place might have been a rich family’s summer home, and this summer they were elsewhere. Or maybe it was a holiday let that had not been booked for this week. Either way the converted barn looked deserted, locked up tight and lifeless.
Lip exited the Jeep to get a better look. He was used to trusting his hunches, and he had a strong feeling that Andy and the others were not here, and never had been. Curtains were too neatly tied back each side of the windows; if someone was hiding inside, the curtains would have been disturbed, maybe even drawn. A burglar alarm high on the front wall blinked, still armed. Through one of the tall windows beside the front door he could see the faint blue glow of the alarm control panel.
He walked slowly along the gravel driveway. There was no sign of movement anywhere. This was not the place,h he was almost certain of that now, but he’d have to check.
It was a shame. He was looking forward to some more fun. The couple he’d caught fucking in their bed had got off lightly, and he was already regretting leaving them so soon. Maybe he should have stayed a while longer. The book he’d been using was torn and slick with blood, but he had already spotted the man’s belt over the back of a chair, a reading lamp, a pint glass of water beside the bed. There were countless ways to hurt and kill, and that was why he so rarely used knives or guns. His was a whole world of weapons.
He scooped up some gravel and threw it at the building. Most of it clicked dully from the stone facade, but a few chunks clunked from glass. Nothing broke, but the sound was loud enough to alert anyone inside.
No movement. Nothing. This was a waste of his time.
Lip turned his back on the empty barn, and as he reached the Jeep his phone vibrated. It was Sonja.
‘Nothing here,’ he said.
‘Nor here,’ she said. ‘I can’t contact Cal and Roman.’
‘Ask me if I’m surprised.’
‘They went to the college, we’ll meet you there.’
Lip disconnected and jumped into the Jeep. He’d known from the beginning that the hired help were amateurs. If they’d lost Andy and the others, encouraged them to flee, he’d have words with them himself.
Somewhere quiet, and without Sonja to mother over them both.
‘Still nothing?’ Lip asked.
‘I’ve been inside,’ Mary said. ‘Security guard’s throat’s cut, and I found the Scot dead in a toilet.’
‘Best place for him,’ Lip said.
‘But there’s no sign of Roman,’ Sonja said. ‘His phone’s going to voicemail.’
‘We’d best not hang around here,’ Lip said.
‘Where else do we go?’ Mary asked.
‘Mary, you need to do your thing,’ Sonja said. ‘They were hiding here, but now they’re on the run. We need to know where they’ll be going. Any holiday places the family might have, relatives, anything like that. You know what to do.’
‘And any place Andy might have, too,’ Lip said. ‘A bolthole or safe house.’
‘He’s not so easy to find,’ Mary said.
‘We know who his friends are now. You’ll find where he lives.’ Lip scanned the car park, alert for dangers. They shouldn’t stay this close to two bodies. There might have been shooting. Police might already be on the way, and they spent a lot of time and effort doing their best to avoid any contact with the law, accidental or not.
But it was still heavy and hot, even the air itself feeling lethargic and exhausted. Lip was tired. He had not slept for over twenty-four hours. He wanted this over soon, and Andy and the family in their grasp.
Then perhaps he’d rest before the real fun began.
Sonja lit a cigarette, breathed in and sighed heavily. The smoke hung around her head, ghostly in the moonlight.
‘Mary can come with me,’ Lip said. ‘We’ll head out of town in a different direction, but not too far. Stay in touch. Either we’ll hear from Roman, or more likely Mary will find us something useful.’
‘I don’t like the thought of Andy getting away,’ Sonja said. ‘After all this, I don’t like the idea of him still being out there.’
‘He isn’t out there,’ Lip said. He held out his hand, palm up. ‘He’s here, with me. We’re just letting him have a final run on his last day.’ He looked up at the sky. The few sparse clouds were streaked silver, and those higher up were already tinged pink.
Sonja left in her BMW, and Mary jumped into the front of the Jeep. As Lip pulled out of the college grounds she opened her rucksack and took out her laptop, phone and tablet.
After she’d connected her phone, she flipped open her laptop and the current webpage faded in. Lip caught a glimpse of movement as a frozen image flowed into a film clip. The pale flash of bare skin. A tuft of pubic hair, a flurry of movement, a close-up of a flaccid penis. The sound of a scream. Blood on skin, and then the deeper, more intimate colours of opened flesh.
Mary tapped a few keys and the image froze, then closed down. She didn’t even glance at Lip, nor did her face betray embarrassment or shame. He’d seen her watching such images before, fascinated, totally absorbed, and shameless. He knew her predilections, far better than she knew his.
Sometimes, she played videos while they were fucking. She seemed to get off on it, and he didn’t mind. But they did nothing for him, these frantic images of naked flesh, frightened faces, and eventually a blood-red climax to match her own. He could watch them with no reaction either way. They were unimaginative and boring. ‘If only you could see some of the things I’ve done,’ he’d said to her more than once. Over the past couple of years she had seen a few things. But now he believed she would see so much more.
He might even let her film some of what happened. The thought of that struck him, and he jerked the steering wheel. She glanced up, but said nothing.
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That would be something to watch while we’re fucking, he thought. He imagined Andy’s face melting with acid … Dom’s stomach open and squirming with rats …
‘We’ll get them,’ he said quietly.
‘Sure we will. Now let me work.’ Mary began her thing.
As Lip drove, he glanced across at the open laptop now and then. This part of her life was a mystery to him. He’d never been one for technology. Just as his weapons were usually improvised, so his technological know-how was similarly basic. He found no need for social media or internet, and he used his phone sparingly. While faces shone with the reflected glare of computer screens, his awareness of his surroundings remained sharp, and he saw so much more.
That didn’t detract from Mary’s abilities. He respected what she could do, and sometimes it proved useful. He hoped that now was one of those times.
‘Digging,’ she said. She often muttered to herself when she worked. She knew that Lip was not really interested, but still she spoke, and he’d never told her to be quiet. In truth he quite enjoyed hearing her voice like this. Distracted, almost innocent, shorn of the need for acceptance that often strained her words. Especially when she spoke to him, he heard a desperation in her voice. It was almost as if she knew he would leave her eventually.
‘He’s a slippery fucker,’ she said, tapping keys. ‘Always knew he’d had some help to disappear. I’ve spent a long time over the past three years looking for him, here and there. But when you’ve had a good job done, it’s almost impossible. He’s like a different person now.’
‘He’s still the same smug bastard.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Lip drove slowly and with no real aim in mind. He glanced frequently across at the screen. He made little sense of what he saw, but it was still intriguing.
