I’d heard that 1 City Square was one of the most sought-after business centres outside of London, and could see why as soon as I walked into the atrium. I wasn’t surprised to discover that Big Ideas Property was on the top floor, and took one of the glass lifts up. I entered the front office, which was directly opposite the Queens Hotel, with a glass frontage overlooking the square. The receptionist was about my age, blonde and pretty, but nobody’s fool. I gave her my name and enquired if it was possible to see Mr Bell. She knew I didn’t have an appointment, but asked anyway. When I answered in the negative, she replied likewise. I told her it was urgent and was directed to wait in one of the leather armchairs.
The phone rang as soon as I sat down and the secretary put a call through to someone whose name I couldn’t catch. I produced a tatty paperback copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Existentialism and Humanism, specially selected as being slim enough to fit unobtrusively into my jacket pocket. I opened the book and heard the secretary mention my name to someone over the phone. I waited a while before I started reading, to no avail. At one o’clock, she told me I would have to leave as she was going for lunch, but expressed every confidence that Bell would see me if I came back in an hour’s time.
I adjourned to the lounge bar of the Queens Hotel, where I washed down an expensive cheese and pickle sandwich with a more modestly priced Diet Coke. I returned to Big Ideas Property at two o’clock exactly, and resumed my seat. Shortly after, the secretary and I were joined by a middle-aged man with long grey hair, a flashy designer suit, and what appeared to be an alligator skin attaché case. A younger man opened one of the two interior doors, and they both disappeared behind it. I’d not seen the man before, but he was too young and too tall to be Bell. I noted the door led to a corridor, which suggested several offices in that direction, and also that there was an electronic lock.
The new arrival left at a quarter to three, escorted by his host, who then spent ten minutes trying to look down the secretary’s top, during which I learned her name was Jessica. At three o’clock a tall, well-built man wearing black-framed glasses arrived. I couldn’t say what it was exactly, but something about him suggested he’d served in the military. Though he spoke in non-regional and unaccented English, I guessed his service might have been outside of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Jessica addressed him as Victor, and gave him a couple of envelopes. He thanked her and went through the as yet unopened door. I couldn’t see where it led.
I was well over halfway into Sartre’s lecture when Jessica called me. I put the book away and followed in Victor’s footsteps, as directed. I heard a buzz and click as the lock disengaged. I opened the door and stepped into an office twice the size of the reception area, with an identical view of the Queens and City Square. Victor was sitting behind an L-shaped desk. I closed the door and walked over.
He didn’t stand up. “My name is Putnam. I’m one of Mr Bell’s assistants.”
I wasn’t fooled by his obvious education and grooming; I could see he was dangerous. He didn’t invite me to sit so I stood behind one of the chairs, hands behind my back. “Hutt. I’d like to see Mr Bell about a woman named Siân Matthews.”
“I’m familiar with the name.”
I assumed he was talking about Siân rather than me. “Good. I want to speak to Mr Bell face to face. Out of respect, I asked Collier to arrange an appointment for me. Instead, he set me up in Leeds Army Surplus and…there was some trouble.”
“I heard.” Putnam betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
I tried not to either. “I didn’t start it, and I didn’t want it. All I want is to meet Mr Bell, wherever and whenever he chooses. Perhaps you can help me where Collier failed?”
“I don’t think so. Were you prepared to tell me where Ms Matthews is, I might be able to assist, but I understand you’re acting under some sort of misapprehension, and making a misguided and foolhardy attempt to protect her.”
“I won’t tell you where she is.”
“Then Mr Bell has nothing to say to you.”
“Isn’t it enough that one of his men is dead?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re done here, Hutt.” He rose and leant forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. They were large and looked powerful, like the rest of him.
We locked eyes for a moment, but I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, or anything to gain by remaining.
I turned, walked out the door, and kept going. Out the suite of offices, out the building, and out of City Square all the way back to Quarry Hill. The afternoon had proceeded pretty much as I’d expected, but I’d had to make the attempt regardless. I wasn’t too sure what came next, but I knew it was going to be as dangerous as my visit to Leeds Army Surplus, and I knew I’d have to do it alone. As I negotiated my way through the traffic, my thoughts were even darker than they’d been on the outward-bound journey. There was an unexplained hold-up on the A64, which was long enough to ensure I was caught in the York rush hour. By the time I parked the BMW in Emperor’s Wharf I was angry, frustrated, and depressed.
I checked my postbox, and found a sturdy stapled A4 envelope, blank on the outside, but obviously stuffed full. Lawson on Bell, with any luck. I climbed the stairs to the top, put my key in the door – realised it was unlocked.
Inside, I heard raised voices.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I put the keys back in my pocket and the envelope down on the floor.
I took a deep breath, flung the door open, and stepped in.
Maikel, Mac, and Siân were all standing in the lounge. Mac and Siân were laughing and Maikel was saying, “He nearly cause a kick-off!”
Mac saw me first. “Howay, Garth!”
I noticed he was holding his camera. “Jesus, you two scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” Siân’s vivacity evaporated.
“Is my fault,” Maikel replied. “I phone Siân before I knock on the door. She told me what you said and everything, but she knew it was me.”
I held up my palm. “That’s fine, just a minute.” I retrieved Lawson’s envelope, closed the door, and shook hands with Maikel. “It’s good to see you so soon, but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in London?”
“Yes, mate, but the plan’s changed. My platoon is coming back from Afghan, and I have an extra week off. I thought you might want some help.”
He didn’t know the half of it. “Thanks, I’m glad you’re here.” I dropped the envelope on the table and said to Mac: “I managed a few shots of Strong going in, but the battery died before he left. He was there from ten to one, give or take a few minutes. I wish I’d caught his departure on camera, because you won’t believe who he left with.”
“Aye, I probably won’t.”
“Bavister.”
“You’re joking!”
“No, I’m not.”
“Do either of you want a drink?” asked Siân.
She was looking the best I’d seen her so far. I should’ve expected it really, given that she’d been chatting with two good-looking men in what was probably the closest she’d come to normal circumstances in a long time. I didn’t want to ruin the moment by mentioning Bell or Putnam. “Yeah, I’ll have a large Drambuie, please; it’s been a long day.”
“No, thanks,” replied Mac. “I’ve got to get going, but I’m glad you don’t think I’m gay any more.”
“How do you work that out? Most of the lushest men are gay. Everyone knows that.”
Mac shook his head in mock dejection.
“I was telling them about when we were in Majar al-Kabir,” said Maikel, grinning.
“I bet you were.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling.
Maikel sat on the couch and Siân went into the kitchen.
“I only came to pick this up,” said Mac. “Thanks for the photos.”
Mac said goodbye to everyone and I saw him out before joining Maikel and Siân. She’d poured me a very large Drambuie, and I realised I’d been thoughtless
when I saw their soft drinks. I took a belt of it anyway, and sighed with pleasure at the sweetness on my tongue and the burn in my throat. “I needed that.”
“Trouble?” Siân’s demeanour changed instantly. She grabbed her left shoulder with her right hand and leant forward.
“No, no, of course not. I’m just tired because I waited three hours to see a feller called Putnam, who didn’t want to help me, and nearly the same again stuck in traffic.” I smiled with what I hoped was reassurance. “Do you know Putnam?”
Siân scratched her cheek. “Yeah, he’s Mick’s top man. Him and a big guy called Napier. Putnam’s crazy. He’s even crazier than Mick. Shit, what happens now?”
I looked at Maikel, sitting next to me. “How long were you thinking of staying?”
“How long do you want me to?”
“The weekend would be a good start. I didn’t think I’d have any luck at Bell’s office, but it was worth a try. Now I’m probably going to have to follow him, and wait for the right opportunity. It’ll take time, though, and I’d feel better if I knew you were here.”
“You don’t want me to come with?”
“There wouldn’t be any point. I’m not going to do anything dangerous,” I lied. “I’d much rather you were with Siân.”
“If you don’t mind?” he asked her.
“Only if you don’t find me too off-putting. It’s cracking to see you again.” She leant back, shuffled in her seat, and gave him a quick smile.
“When I come back, it’s to see you both.”
“That’s settled then, thanks very much.” I had another swallow of Drambuie. “I’m also starved, but I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Why don’t I take you out?” said Siân. “Both of you. Give me a few minutes to get ready.” She stood up and disappeared into the bedroom.
I was pleased to see a return of some of her earlier cheer. “Are you hungry?” I asked Maikel.
“Starving.”
“I know just the place; the Mason’s Arms.”
*
We were back at the flat by half-nine, as I wanted to go through the information on Bell. For the same reason, I’d only had two pints of Guinness with the meal. Siân appeared to have enjoyed herself at the Mason’s, and even managed half of a steak sandwich, which was pretty impressive given the pub’s notorious portions. Maikel had helped her with the rest while I waded through my chicken and sweetcorn burritos. I left the two of them watching TV, took a quick shower, and then made myself comfortable on the balcony with a bottle of water, my cigars, and Lawson’s envelope.
I had no intention of attempting to follow Bell. The sum total of my plans involved loitering outside his house until I annoyed him enough to grant me an audience. Not big, not clever, and not even possible if Lawson hadn’t provided me with his home address. In the absence of the date, time, and place of Mrs Bell’s next appointment at the salon, it was the best I could do.
I immediately discarded half of the envelope’s contents, which were notes on the life and death of Private Marillier. Claymore was the least of my concerns at present. My own safety was higher up, with Siân’s the priority. I couldn’t help Calum from here, so I’d just have to hope that his boyfriend kept him safe. Siân had spoken to him every day since Monday; he either wasn’t worried, or was putting on a brave face for her. Bell had of course already known Calum’s whereabouts when he’d sent his men last year, so it wasn’t really much of an indication of his reach. I was more concerned about Bell finding Siân here. He knew my name, I’d owned the flat for five years, I was sure he’d be able to find me with very little effort. At the moment, Siân and I probably weren’t worth that effort. If and when I turned up at Bell’s house, that could all change. I’d never been as relieved to see anyone as when I’d seen Maikel this evening, and I couldn’t think of a better man to hold the fort for me.
The rest of the envelope contained information about Bell, and appeared to have been gleaned from a variety of sources, including PNC and reports by police detectives and other law enforcement officers. I started off reading each page carefully, but sped up when I didn’t find anything of immediate relevance to my situation. Bell was forty-four, had been married for seventeen years, and had two children: a daughter of fifteen and a son of twelve. I literally felt a chill run down my spine when I saw that he not only didn’t smoke or take drugs, but was also teetotal. That, more than anything else, made me realise the kind of man I was up against. It was all business for him and it seemed his only vice was a propensity for violence, though Lawson was right about his lack of criminal record. He was a successful entrepreneur, a family man, and even a philanthropist, putting some of his money back into estates like Gipton and Seacroft. He could afford to; he was milking them dry with drugs.
Although more than fifty per cent of Bell’s assets were currently estimated to be from legitimate sources, he’d built his empire on the production, distribution, and sale of crack and smack. He’d later branched out into magic, which I’d heard of as the poor man’s Ecstasy. Like crack, magic was cheap, powerful, and extremely dangerous. Bell had made good use of his armoury by providing contract killers for select clients, but never went into the illegal weapons market because it wasn’t lucrative enough. His latest business enterprise, possibly the most profitable yet, was money-laundering. There was mention of his directorship in Leeds United, but no evidence that he was using the position for illegal purposes. There wasn’t any evidence that he controlled the Leeds United Service Crew either, but the Serious Organised Crime Agency suspected both.
I’d been right about Victor Putnam: he was ex-army, the French Army. He’d served five years in the French Foreign Legion before working for Bell, as his right-hand man. Mark Napier, whom Siân had mentioned, was the left hand. Putnam had a short criminal record, but no jail time. Napier had served two years for GBH and a year for a combination of firearms offences; he’d been clean for the last four. There were also notes on Hampton and various others, although I didn’t find Collier’s name anywhere. To give him his due, Lawson had produced a comprehensive dossier in the minimum of time, but there wasn’t enough detail about Bell’s everyday existence for me to work out how best to reach him. The list of addresses would help, as would the photographs of Bell, his family, and his associates.
I put the pages back into the envelope and checked my watch: eleven o’clock. Time for a cigar before bed. I glanced over my shoulder to see Maikel heading my way.
He opened the door, joined me on the balcony, and slid it closed quietly. “She’s gone to sleep.”
“That’s early for her. Good. Cigar?”
“Yes.” He grinned, pulled out the other chair, and sat. “You’ve not seen her old boyfriend yet?”
We unwrapped our Tampa Perfectos. “No, but I hope to be able to arrange something this weekend. I’m really glad you’re back. I owe you. If there’s anything – and I mean anything –”
“That’s it.” He waved dismissively, the subject closed, and puffed the cigar alight from my match. Once he had an even burn, he asked, “What’s all this, and the paper on the table?”
I drew on my cigar and blew out the match. “The case I’m helping the cop with. Can you keep a secret?”
“Just like that.”
“There’s a serial killer in the Army at the moment.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How many dead?”
“Four so far. All young, male soldiers, shot dead in the woods. Winchester, 2007; Colchester, 2009; Hohne, last year; York, last week.” I watched as Maikel mentally ran through his postings and detachments.
“I wasn’t there. You know who he is?”
“No, but the police have three suspects at the moment, one of whom you might remember from the Sun on the weekend.”
“Who?”
“Chas Bavister, a major in 1 YORKS.”
“The sex pervert?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Ever met him?”
“No.”
&nbs
p; “Me neither. The second is a colour sergeant at 15 Brigade called Vaughan; I doubt you’ll know him.” He shook his head. “You probably won’t know the third either, but you’ll have heard of her.”
“Is a woman?”
“Not any woman. It’s Theresa Cowan.”
“Shit, you being serious?”
I puffed on my cigar. “Yeah, I am.”
“I know her.”
“You’ve met?” I asked.
“Yes, in Afghan in 2011, in the summer. She was at Camp Bastion.”
“Yeah, she was. How did you meet?”
“She asked me to bed.” I tried to stifle a laugh and failed. “No, I’m serious, she wanted a shag.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “I was engaged. I said no.”
“Are you seriously telling me Theresa Cowan asked you for a shag? Are you sure she just didn’t want a drink or something?” He shook his head. In fairness, he’d never been one to exaggerate about anything. “What was she like?”
“Ah, no, mate.”
I sat up, suddenly alert. Maikel only used that particular phrase for the most exigent of situations. I could only recollect three previous occasions: infantry training during his first British winter, our baptism of fire in Basra’s Old Quarter, and the Siege of Sangin. “Go on.”
He looked over his shoulder, as if to make sure that Siân couldn’t hear. “She is a nymphomaniac. It wasn’t just me she want to take to bed; she went with different lads all the time. She got through half a dozen at least while I was at Bastion.”
“How long were you there?” I asked. Despite feeling like a ghoul, I was intrigued.
“A month.”
“She slept with half a dozen different blokes in a month? No, it must have been rumour. She’s famous, single, and pretty good-looking from what I’ve seen…I’m not surprised people talked about her.”
Maikel shrugged. “Maybe, but I heard she was given a warning by one of the staff officers in HQ. They do something, because when we left she was knocking around with the Mod Plod lads.”
Bloody Reckoning Page 11
