by J. F. Kirwan
Too late for two of them, Greg recalled. But a thought occurred.
‘What’s the most interesting piece on a chessboard?’
Collins frowned then smiled. ‘What a curious question.’
‘Indulge me.’
‘Why, the knight, of course.’
‘Because?’
‘It can jump over other pieces and can go around corners. It can surprise you. Does that help?’
‘No… Not yet… Maybe.’
Collins perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Let me give you a good piece of advice from an old acquaintance. Never let them put things in your head.’
Greg smiled. He’d told Collins the exact same thing four years ago.
‘Do you think you’ll get to keep your job?’ Greg asked.
Collins blew out some air. ‘It rather depends.’
‘On?’
‘Whether you find Jones before he kills again.’
‘No pressure, then.’
Greg’s phone buzzed as he walked down the corridor to the exit, alongside Simon. A text message. Greg stopped, stared at it a long time, tried to read it in different ways. But the message was clear enough.
‘You okay?’ Simon asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Greg lied.
Simon didn’t look convinced, but let it slide.
Greg focused on walking without support, which wasn’t easy, because The Torch had his ex-wife, Jennifer, and had just offered Greg a very simple trade.
Her life for Greg’s.
35
Matthews was waiting outside Reedmoor, his Mini blocking Greg’s Subaru in the car park. Perched on the bonnet of Greg’s car, he had a grin on his face that made him look like a troublesome gnome.
‘Who’s this?’ he said, nodding toward the muscled man stalking along warily next to Greg.
‘This is Simon,’ Greg said. ‘Simon Masters. Served with Finch in Afghanistan. He’s just been released.’
Matthews’s grin slid off his face faster than his backside removed itself from Greg’s Subaru. He rushed towards Simon, who recoiled.
‘Sorry,’ Matthews said, stopping himself at a discreet distance. ‘It’s just… she’s talked about you, I mean Finch, and, well, you’re probably not up to it, but she could really do with seeing you right now. It would really help her; she needs something to bring her back to–’
‘Is she all right?’ Simon said, cutting through Matthews’ babbling. He pointed at Greg. ‘He wouldn’t say.’
Matthews shook his head. ‘Shrinks, they never answer questions, do they?’
Simon turned to Greg, as if seeing him differently. Then he turned back to Matthews. ‘Take me to her. Please.’
Matthews looked to Greg, as if asking for permission, which was a first. ‘Greg, follow me in your car. Donaldson said we have to stick together. “Glue” was the word he used.’
‘Why do you need to stick together?’ Simon asked. His words came out slowly, as if he was trying to remember how speech worked. Greg guessed it wasn’t because Simon was coming off medicinal drugs. He’d simply been deprived of meaningful contact for five years. His brain hadn’t had much exercise.
Matthews didn’t know what to say, so Greg did the honours.
‘Simon, you left one war five years ago. I’m afraid you’re stepping into another. Finch has been hurt, but she’ll recover. You’re the best tonic she can have right now.’
‘Then let’s go,’ he said, turning to Matthews.
‘You go ahead,’ Greg said. ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital, there’s no way I can tail you through London traffic, I’ll just slow you down.’ But he was thinking fast. The Torch had been shadowing Greg since the beginning of all this, he or Rickard planting a camera in his home, cloning his phone. But that had been fixed. Had The Torch tagged his car? Followed him here? Left a webcam somewhere?
Could he be watching him right now, remotely?
‘But you’re coming, right? Because Donaldson won’t forgive me a second time, you know that.’ Matthews didn’t look happy. Still he beeped his car open. Simon got in.
‘Matthews,’ Greg said, lowering his voice, ‘wait a minute. Do you have something for me?’
Matthews looked left and right, then walked up close to Greg, and passed him a small-but-heavy bundle wrapped in a paper bag. Greg slipped it inside his jacket. But he needed to give Matthews a hint, without giving the game away.
‘Matthews, I’m just going to call my ex-wife, check she’s okay. I feel bad she got mixed up in all this.’
Matthews’ brow furrowed. ‘So call her from your car, you have hands-free, don’t you?’
‘You’re right. Hey, nothing like rekindling an old flame, is there? See you at the hospital.’
Matthews gave him a sidelong look. ‘Whatever.’ He headed back to his car. ‘Don’t lose us,’ he shouted, then he squeezed himself into the Mini. The feisty engine roared twice and sped away.
Greg got in his car, and sat there. He took the Colt out of its wrapper and stashed it inside his jacket. He had no intention of following Matthews. He took out his phone, and read the text from The Torch again, which had used Jennifer’s number. He tapped ‘Callback’. It rang once and then someone picked it up. A small part of his mind, the part that somehow wanted to believe in fairy tale endings, prayed for Jennifer to answer the phone, and say it was all a terribly bad prank.
‘You took your time getting rid of fatso,’ Tobias said.
Greg said nothing. He knew how this worked.
‘Listen carefully,’ Tobias said. ‘If you do everything I say, your ex will live. You have my word. You will die, she will live. And I will leave the country for good.’
That last part was unexpected. The icing on a cake of congealed blood.
All lies, of course.
‘Do you accept my conditions?’ Tobias asked.
Greg considered it for about two seconds. In truth, he didn’t need to, because ever since he’d seen the text, and even before then, he’d known The Torch would come to claim him. And now the bastard had Jennifer.
‘I need to hear her voice, to know she’s still alive,’ Greg said.
There was a rustling noise. A female voice.
‘Greg?’
He gripped the phone tighter, pressed it hard against his ear. ‘Jennifer, listen, it’s going to be okay, but I need to know it’s really you.’
He could hear her ragged breathing. No sobbing. She didn’t do sobbing. But he needed to be sure it wasn’t just a recording of her voice. ‘What did you say as we left the divorce court?’
‘Greg…’
‘Please. No one knows except us.’
She took a breath, and he could hear the strain. God knew what The Torch had already done to her. ‘Maybe next lifetime.’ She took another pained breath. ‘I didn’t mean it, by the way.’
That was Jennifer, through and through. Brutal honesty. And also giving him a way out. Saying, you don’t have to do this, because she knew as well as he did that The Torch would never let her go.
More rustling, a sound like a fist connecting with flesh and bone. No cry, just a momentary whimper of pain. Then it was back to Tobias.
‘Now you come to me,’ he said.
Greg needed to distance himself from his emotions, or this was going to go south very fast.
‘If she’s seen your face, why would you let her go?’
‘She hasn’t. Not my real face. And, like I said, I’m leaving good old Blighty forever.’
Greg had to ensure Jennifer got away. He had no real leverage. He had to manufacture some.
‘The Divine talked about you,’ he said.
Silence.
Greg waited.
When Tobias spoke, his voice was agitated. ‘You will tell me everything he said. Word for word. When you arrive.’ It sounded more like a threat than a request.
Greg constructed his next sentence carefully. Some would have argued that he should use Jennifer’s name, to make her seem more like a real p
erson than an object in The Torch’s eyes. Greg did the opposite, entering Tobias’ worldview, depersonalising her, making her seem like an insignificant pawn on the chessboard, one he could afford to let go. And in doing so, Greg made himself more of a player, an opponent to be beaten.
To be burned.
‘When I arrive, I need to watch it leave,’ Greg said.
There was a pause. ‘That can be arranged.’ His voice was more assured again.
‘Then I accept your conditions.’
‘Good,’ Tobias replied, glee in his voice. ‘Open your glove compartment and take out the phone inside.’
Greg flicked open the small compartment stuffed with maps and a maintenance logbook. On top was a smartphone he’d never seen before. Presumably a burner, untraceable. The skin on Greg’s back turned prickly. Tobias had been in his car. The smartphone rang. Greg tapped the screen and accepted the call. Tobias sounded eager, the characteristic anticipation that was almost as big a thrill for a serial killer as the actual killing act.
‘I can see you,’ Tobias said, in a sing-song voice, like a child playing hide and seek. He laughed at his own joke. A high-pitched, tinny laugh.
‘Now, throw your phone out the window.’
Greg hesitated. Once he did that, he really was on his own, not long for the fire.
‘Now!’ Tobias shouted. ‘And let me see you do it, or else I burn her fingers down to charred stumps! You know I’d like to.’
Greg didn’t doubt him. He dropped his own phone out the car window, tilting the new phone so that Tobias would see it fall outside the door.
‘That’s better,’ Tobias said. ‘You will follow my instructions to the letter. Any deviation, even of the slightest degree, and I will burn that miserable face of hers until it turns black and crispy. Am I making myself clear, Gregory?’
Greg recalled a phrase The Torch had used during his trial.
‘Clear as flame.’
‘Excellent. Place my phone on the dashboard so I can keep an eye on you. Good. Now, start the car.’
36
Donaldson had just visited Muriel and five other Yard staff in the burns ward, when he found Finch reunited with her friend. To say she was happy to see Simon was an understatement. It was good to see something positive come out of this shit-fest. He spied Matthews checking his phone, looking worried.
‘Where’s Greg?’ he asked him.
Finch shouted over from her bed. ‘Yes, where is he? I want to thank him for… for everything.’
She was holding Simon’s hand as he sat on the edge of the bed next to her. She looked physically fragile, but her eyes were back to being hawk-sharp. Good for her.
Donaldson put his hand over the phone that Matthews was tapping into. ‘Which part of “glue” wasn’t clear?’
‘He should have been behind me, in his car. He said he’d follow, and now he’s not answering texts or calls.’
‘Locate his phone,’ Donaldson said.
‘What do you think I’m… oh shit!’
Donaldson waited.
Matthews lowered the phone to his side. ‘He never left Reedmoor. His phone is in the car park where we Iast spoke.’
Donaldson battened down his anger. Blame never solved anything.
‘He must have left Reedmoor without it,’ Finch said. She was climbing out of bed, or trying to, with Simon supporting her. She made it to a chair, recovered her breathing.
Just then Donaldson’s phone pinged. He accessed the message, spent a long time staring at it before pocketing his phone.
‘Jennifer’s bodyguard has turned up. Dead,’ he said.
‘Crap,’ Matthews said. ‘Greg was warning me, trying to give me a clue.’
Finch coughed, swallowed with evident difficulty, then spoke. ‘What exactly did he say?’
Matthews scrunched up his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. ‘Said something about how he wanted to see his ex again, and then…’
‘Then what?’ Finch demanded.
Matthews looked despondent. ‘Said something about rekindling an old relationship.’
They got it straight away. ‘The Torch has her,’ Donaldson said.
‘And soon he’ll have Greg,’ Finch added.
Silence filled the room. Oddly, it was Simon who broke it. ‘So, find them. You’re detectives, right?’
‘Fair point,’ Donaldson said. He faced Finch. ‘Did The Torch, or Rickard, say anything?’
They waited while Finch closed her eyes and concentrated, her eyes moving behind her eyelids as if she was seeing it all again. Can’t have been easy. She opened them.
‘They had a short disagreement. Jones – I prefer to call him that, less scary – wasn’t happy about reusing the place where they’d killed Fergus. He said the other place was ready.’
Donaldson resisted asking the bloody obvious question and waited for Finch to trawl deeper through her memory. She stared hard into space, eyes wide open this time, no doubt trying to recall exactly what she’d heard, the reply, word for word, because the details always mattered, throwaway lines usually harbouring the most vital clues. She turned to face him.
‘Rickard said, “but I wouldn’t have been able to contact you”. I’m not sure what he meant.’
Donaldson, however, did know, because he knew Jones’ file. Jones was just five years old when his parents, both anthropologists, had taken him on a long trip into deepest Africa, on a quest to find out about a continuing and very secret human sacrifice ritual. He didn’t know the full details – though Greg did – but in a nutshell little Toby got to watch his father burn to death while his mother had her throat slit. He was then raised by one of the high priests for several years before an army patrol passing near the village happened to spot the boy playing in the mud. The villagers said they had found him. He was then brought back to England and put into foster care, and for the next three decades stayed quiet.
Quiet. Jones hated the internet, all things modern. He harked back to Africa, said it was ‘pure’ there, less cancers because they were closer to nature, some such bullshit. He hated the web, and mobile phones…
He got out his own phone and dialled the emergency backup base. ‘Give me Decker… Then interrupt him!’ He waited, while all others watched him. He noticed Matthews had his tablet tucked under his arm. ‘Fire it up,’ he said to him.
‘What are we looking for?’ Matthews replied, even as he unzipped its protective case with a Union Jack on the front, and began tapping away.
‘An area where there’s no phone or wifi signal,’ Finch answered.
Donaldson smiled at her. ‘Brain’s intact, then?’
She tried to smile back, but it was interrupted by a wince and sharp intake of breath as she sat up. ‘Sores on my ass and back,’ she explained. ‘God, I could kill for an espresso!’
Simon stood up. ‘Well, I might as well do something useful. But I don’t have any–’
Donaldson whisked him a tenner.
‘Anyone else?’ Simon asked.
Matthews opened his mouth but closed it as Donaldson replied, ‘No, we’re good.’
Simon left.
‘Where am I looking?’ Matthews asked. ‘And what am I looking for?’
‘A deserted warehouse, a lot of empty or disused land around it, because he likes to burn things and that makes smoke and noise.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere not too far,’ Finch said. ‘I remember now, he’d said to Rickard that it would have taken the same time to get there, given the traffic.’
‘But which direction?’ Matthews asked.
Donaldson was thinking fast while waiting for Decker to extract himself from whatever he was doing and get on the line. ‘You were abducted late, right?’ he asked Finch.
She nodded.
‘So, “given the traffic” might have meant that normally it would have taken longer.’
Matthews lowered his pad. ‘So, the M25. Normally it’s chokka, but at that time of night it would
have been quiet.’ He began tapping furiously.
‘Reedmoor,’ Finch said. ‘Somewhere near Reedmoor.’
‘Why?’ Donaldson asked. Not that he disagreed, it was also his hunch. But he needed to hear her reasoning. Two lives hung in the balance.
‘If Greg was intercepted there, then Jones must have already been close. And I,’ she cleared her throat, ‘I, er… I may have seen him while I was running in the Ash Ranges. It’s not so far from Reedmoor either.’
Donaldson already knew about this from Matthews, and via her time-released email. He’d talk to her about that later. But to keep everyone on track, he nodded. ‘Greg said it all kept coming back to Reedmoor.’
‘I reckon they’re within a ten-mile radius from Reedmoor,’ Matthews said, and then shrugged as they stared at him. He turned the tablet towards them, showing a time-and-distance map from Rickard’s place, given a one-hour journey time heading south. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing, surfing porn?’
Decker came on line. Donaldson gave him instructions, while Matthews fingered his tablet, zooming in and out. Simon arrived back with the espresso for Finch. He slipped one to Matthews as well.
‘Seven!’ Donaldson shouted down the phone. ‘That’s too many!’ He held it away from his ear so as not to hear the reply. He turned to the others. ‘We need something to narrow it down.’
‘Nothing more from my end,’ Finch said. Like it was an epitaph.
Donaldson was about to curse and get into an impossible guessing game as to the three most likely locations, because resources couldn’t cover seven locations in time, when he remembered something.
‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘They were right after all.’ He pulled the phone back to his ear. ‘Decker, a tramp was burned to death a couple of days ago when his home-made still exploded, but homicide said it didn’t look like an accident. Where was it?’ He walked over to Matthews, took the tablet from his hands and placed it on Finch’s hospital bed so they could all see, while he tapped in the location Decker supplied.
