“I don’t suppose you can remember the names of any of the fellers she was supposed to have shagged?”
“No, none of the lads I was with. Why, you want to know what kind of shag she was?” He frowned.
“Something like that. All these dead soldiers have been found naked. I think they were going to the woods for sex, but got bumped off instead.”
“Then the answer is easy.” Maikel waved his cigar in the air. “Either the lads were gay, or they were not gay. Which was it?”
“It’s not that simple. The first and third victims were apparently heterosexual; the fourth was definitely bisexual and the second either gay or bisexual. None of it helps much, though, because even now a lot of gay soldiers keep their sexuality to themselves.”
Maikel nodded. “Yes, a lot of the lads don’t like it.”
“The second victim, the one who was killed near Colchester, claimed he was having an affair with Cowan. I thought it was bullshit at the time, but I’m not so sure now.”
“I’m serious, mate, she had a very bad reputation. I don’t know if she’s been killing lads, but she’s been shagging loads of them.”
“You’re sure about her and the MoD Police?”
“I’m sure. You were at Bastion then. Didn’t you meet her?”
“No, Shabs and I didn’t spend much time there that year. Just a couple of visits.”
“You didn’t hear about her and everything?”
“No, but I’ve got a contact in the MDP CID. I might give him a call and see if he knows anyone who was out there.”
We finished our cigars in silence and stole into the flat, keeping our voices low. I told Maikel I was leaving early and took the clothes I needed from my room. As soon as he’d gone to bed, I picked up one of the dining table chairs and positioned it under the access to the loft space. I stepped up onto the chair, raised the hatch as quietly as possible, and slid it to the left. Then I stood on tiptoe, and groped around until I felt a shoebox. I removed the shoebox, replaced the hatch, and returned the chair to the table. I opened the box, set the cloth package on the coffee table, and unwrapped it.
The SIG Sauer nine-millimetre semi-automatic had a black matt finish, for nocturnal use. The pistol was usually only issues to Special Forces, but had been my sidearm in Afghanistan. I’d requested a pair very early on in the life of 63 SIB as the standard Army issue at the time was the Browning High Power, which was single action. The P226 was a variant of a Swiss design, perfected by the Germans to such an extent that it had become ubiquitous for every military and law enforcement agency that could afford it. The weapon was short and stumpy, but accurate and reliable, and had served me well over the years. This particular weapon had been the property of an Afghan policeman, now deceased, and I was glad I’d brought it back with me.
I picked the SIG up, ejected the magazine, and checked the breech was empty. Then I lay the pistol on the cloth and took fifteen rounds from the shoebox. I loaded the magazine, slid it back into the grip, and cocked the weapon. Then I eased the hammer down, put the safety catch on, and wiped the excess oil from the exterior with a clean cloth. When I was finished, I wrapped the cloth around the pistol, put it back in the box, and placed the box on the floor next to the couch.
I set the alarm on my watch for half-five, switched off the lights, and lay down on the couch. Ideally, I’d have liked to have had Lawson with me tomorrow. Seeing as he wasn’t an option, the sidearm would have to do. I hoped I wasn’t going to need it, but – like the Asp on Sunday – I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it. More importantly, I now had Maikel to look after Siân, which was a huge weight off my shoulders. Perhaps that was why I fell asleep in minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I was up before my alarm on Saturday morning, my jaw aching afresh. I dressed comfortably, in another polo shirt, stretch denim jeans, and hiking boots. I fastened the jeans with a thick, leather belt, clicked the SIG Sauer safety off, and slid the pistol inside the belt, just to the right of the buckle. It wasn’t as secure as a holster, but it was better for concealment, and my shirt covered the weapon completely. I hid the shoebox under the sink, left the flat quietly, and drove to Acomb, in south-west York. I stopped at the Tesco to stock up with the essentials – water, sandwiches, M&Ms, and petrol – and followed the signs west for Wetherby. I had to loop through Wetherby town centre, which wasn’t a problem at this time of the morning, then headed for Harrogate. I turned left into Linton Road, and the same again into Linton Lane.
The transition from prosperous town to even more prosperous countryside was immediate, although many of the mansions were hidden behind trees. They were all on the right-hand side of the road; the left was entirely occupied by Wetherby Golf Club. Naturally, Bell was a member. Half a mile further south, a row of stone walls and hedges indicated I was approaching the village centre. I passed a house with a garden the size of a park, saw what looked like a wide driveway leading off the main road, and realised I’d overshot the Ridge. After another half mile, the golf club gave way to houses and the local pub, the Windmill Inn, where I found a small junction in the shape of a triangle. I spun around, retraced my route, and turned into the Ridge.
The avenue was lined with elm trees on both sides. The houses here were even bigger than those in the village centre, and park-sized gardens appeared to be the norm. I already knew Bell was a millionaire several times over, but it was hard to reconcile the deprived council estates where he peddled his crack, smack, and violence with the luxury of his lifestyle in Linton. Bell had only moved ten miles away from his birthplace, but it might have been ten thousand for all the difference. The Ridge petered out after a hundred metres or so, ending at the intersection of three driveways.
Bell’s was off to the right, a pair of black gates in a low stone wall. I could see the drive winding up and out of sight beyond a grove of trees. A sign on the gate said, ‘Private Property: No Trespassing’; a granite plate on the wall said, ‘The Big House’. Neither were very subtle. I parked on the verge directly opposite, in between two trees, my car facing the end of the Ridge rather than the main road. In doing so I effectively sacrificed all chance of a quick getaway, but I also made it clear which of the three houses I was watching. I rolled my window all the way down, switched off the engine, and checked the time: half-six.
I was trying to escalate the antagonism between Bell and me to the minimum extent necessary to achieve my goal of a personal interview. That was the mission, nothing else. I’d started by visiting Collier, who was at least twice removed from Bell. When that hadn’t worked I’d tried to meet Bell directly, deliberately selecting his place of work. Now I was parked outside his home. I could have hopped over the wall, found the house, and knocked on the front door, but I didn’t want to send Bell into one of his psychotic rages. I was hoping he’d work out that it was in his interests to meet me before the situation escalated to the point where one of us would have to kill the other. It was little more than hope, however, as it might not make the slightest bit of difference that I hadn’t broken into his house first thing. He hadn’t achieved his position at the top of the West Yorkshire drug trade by treating his enemies with lenience or restraint.
I was glad of the feel of metal on my skin.
Nothing stirred in the Bell driveway for an hour and a half, although a gentleman dog walker and lady jogger emerged from the other two gates. At five to eight a new Rolls Royce Phantom glided down Bell’s driveway. The gates swung open of their own accord, and I noted that while they were electric, there was no intercom to encourage visitors. Nor could I see any obvious pedestrian entrance. I knew the black Phantom belonged to Bell, but I couldn’t be sure he was inside it because of the tinted windows. The gates shut behind him, and I decided to celebrate the first sign of life in the Big House on the Ridge with a cold bacon and sausage sandwich.
I hadn’t brought any reading with me, as I needed to concentrate on the task at hand. This wasn’t the same as wai
ting in the reception of Big Ideas Property; this was sitting outside the home of Mr Big, Leeds’ most dangerous gangster. Vigilance might just keep me alive. Dangerous or not, it was incredibly boring, as the next hour and a half passed with only a couple more vehicles moving in and out of the neighbouring properties. I was subjected to a few curious glances, but no one waved or said hello, and no one asked me what I was doing. At half-nine a bright red Range Rover came down Bell’s drive. This time I could clearly see Mrs Bell and her young son inside. The boy stared as they drove by; Mrs Bell didn’t even notice me.
The next traffic through the gates was a silver BMW convertible, inward-bound, top-down in the sunshine. There was a very young man at the wheel, and he also had a remote control for the gate. He looked me over as he waited, then sneered and sped off up the driveway. I laughed, wondering if he was some rich kid, or one of the Leeds United players who lived in the village. I’ve never been much of a sports fan, and football is way down my list. I opened the bag of M&Ms, deciding to ration myself carefully this time, and established a routine of checking my surrounds in the mirrors every couple of minutes. After three hours without any threats, I conceded that I was probably overreacting, but at least the drill helped pass the time.
At half-ten the rich kid in the BMW came flying down the driveway. When the gates opened he drove past me very slowly, and gave me the eyeball in what I imagined he thought was an intimidating way. I guessed he was either going to engage me in conversation or hurl abuse, and was trying to decide between blowing him a kiss or telling him to mind his own business when he hit the accelerator and burnt rubber. On reflection, it was for the best: abusing Bell’s visitors would only escalate the situation unnecessarily.
Fifteen minutes later a young woman appeared from the trees directly ahead of me, jogging along a footpath. She had long auburn hair, tied back, and a freckled complexion. She was wearing a pink T-shirt and white running shorts, the latter over a pair of Lycra pants, and listening to an iPod. She looked seventeen or eighteen, perhaps older. She reached the Ridge, ran past me, and kept on for the main road. I couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain, but I was pretty sure she was Bell’s daughter, Sophie. If so, she was actually only fifteen. The hair and the freckles were right, anyway. I contemplated investigating the footpath for a pedestrian entrance to the Big House, but decided to stay put.
An hour later, I saw Sophie jogging back up the Ridge in my rear-view mirror. I debussed, brushed the breadcrumbs off my trousers, and closed the car door. I tried to ignore the fact that I was risking life and limb, smiled, and waved casually as she approached. I leant my arm on the roof of the BMW to show how little of a threat I was, and smiled some more.
Sophie slowed to a brisk walk and removed her left earphone. “I can’t stop – lactic acid – you can walk with me.”
I did. She was tall for her age, only three inches shorter than me. “Hi, Sophie, I’m Garth. Would you give your dad a message for me?”
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
We reached the top of the road and continued along the footpath. It wasn’t wide enough for two, so I gave her space and walked on the grass. “Your dad told me all about you.”
“He did?” She wrinkled her nose. “He’s not here. He’s playing golf all day.”
We were walking along the side of the Big House, but I still couldn’t see any buildings or signs of another entrance amongst the trees. The wall curved to the right, up ahead, and there was no end in sight. “Can you tell him I called when you see him, please?”
“Why don’t you just, like, phone and leave a message?”
“Oh, it’s far too important for that. Garth Hutt, don’t forget.” I stopped and watched her walk. She didn’t turn around. When she was round the corner, I took advantage of the privacy provided by the foliage to relieve my bladder against a tree. Then I returned to the car. Sophie hadn’t given me any indication of compliance; nonetheless, I had a feeling that I’d just crossed a line from which there was no return. I made myself comfortable again, and then scanned the surrounds. Line or no line, nothing happened, at least not for the next half hour.
I heard the Phantom before I saw it, the roar of the powerful engine. Bell didn’t pay me any attention, just drove straight up to the gates, waited for them to open, and continued up the driveway. I guessed Sophie had come through for me. Either she’d interrupted Bell’s jaunt on the links, or perhaps he’d noticed me this morning and phoned home to check everything was okay. I would have, had our roles been reversed. My anticipation of action was almost unbearable, but began to dull as the minutes passed uneventfully. The minutes became one hour, then two, and I guessed Bell’s return was merely a coincidence.
I learned otherwise at half-two.
A very large man walked down the driveway. He dwarfed even Hampton and his henchmen, and must have been at least six-foot-six and three hundred and fifty pounds. He was clean-shaven with short, curly blond hair, and wore a smart suit without a tie. I recognised him as Mark Napier, Bell’s number three. The gate opened as he approached. He crossed the Ridge, and made straight for me.
I remained as I was, sitting in the car with my right elbow up on the door. I heard the noise of a vehicle from behind, but kept my eyes on Napier.
He stopped a metre from me and bent over, hands on his huge thighs, pockmarked face close to mine. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Waiting to see Mr Bell.”
He smiled, his eyes slits in the flesh. “That right?” Both hands shot up – one grabbed my right shoulder, the other my throat.
If I hadn’t tensed in time, the blow would’ve fractured my windpipe. Even so, I gagged, temporarily stunned. The force knocked me back in the seat: I caught a glimpse of a white van in the rear-view mirror. I heard two doors open.
Napier’s fingers found purchase on either side of my neck and began to crush my carotid arteries.
I had five or so seconds before I passed out. I gripped hold of his right arm with my left hand, twisted my hips, and pushed my right hand down. My face felt like it was going to explode. I grabbed the SIG Sauer and shoved it into his chin from below.
Napier froze, but didn’t ease the vice on my throat.
I saw the first flicker of white light, tightened my hold on his sleeve, and cocked the pistol with my thumb.
Napier let go – I breathed again.
He held up his left hand and said: “Stop.” In the side mirror I saw a man with a silenced MAC-10 submachine pistol pointed at me. He lowered the weapon.
I still had hold of Napier’s other arm. “You think Mr Bell wants a gunfight on his doorstep?” I wheezed.
Napier frowned as he thought about it. He was obviously Bell’s brawn, not brains. The sound of another car approaching seemed to decide the issue. He grimaced and waved his free hand. “Fuck off.”
There were two men at the back of my car, one on either side, the second armed with a handgun. They both obeyed instantly, jumping into their van.
I let go of Napier’s arm, lowered the pistol out of sight, and watched the mirror. Napier straightened up as a dark blue Jaguar drove past us and turned into one of the driveways. When the car was gone, the driver of the van did a clumsy three-point turn and disappeared in the other direction.
Napier stepped away and stared at me. “I’m gonna find your family; I’m gonna take them away and hurt them for a long time. When I’m done, I’m gonna find you.”
“How about you ask Mr Bell if I can see him instead? That way, you won’t go back to jail.”
Napier turned around and marched up the driveway, the gates shutting behind him.
I eased the hammer of the SIG Sauer down, and tucked the pistol back under my belt.
Mrs Bell returned with the boy at four, but otherwise there was no movement. I wasn’t stupid enough to hang around after dark, but I gave it until half-six, which meant I’d spent twelve hours outside Bell’s house. I wanted him in no doubt as to my discipline and de
termination. I drove back to Linton Lane, turned right, and took a circuitous route to Harewood. I was expecting to be followed, but wasn’t. I’d deliberately chosen a path which would have exposed even the most expert of tails, so I was certain I was alone.
Nonetheless, I knew I wasn’t going to walk away from today unscathed. Whatever came next would all depend on Bell’s temperament, that peculiar balance between single-minded businessman and vicious gangster. If the businessman prevailed, he’d realise Siân wasn’t worth the trouble I was causing. If not, then I’d probably been safer with Maikel at Sangin. I thought about what I should do as I drove back to York via Harrogate.
*
“What happened?” asked Siân as soon as she walked in the door.
It was gone ten. I’d been home for two hours, but hadn’t changed, showered, or even touched the glass of Drambuie on the coffee table. In fact, all I had done was put the gun away, pour the drink, and stare into space.
“I didn’t see him,” I replied. Maikel came in behind her, smiling. “Do you mind if I speak to Maikel alone for a couple of minutes?”
“Yeah, I do! Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”
“Yeah, but I’d like to speak to Maikel first, if that’s okay.”
She spun on her heels, stormed into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. It was the first display of anger I’d seen since she’d arrived, and I was pleased. So far she’d been too afraid to be angry. Angry was better than scared. It was also much more like the old Siân I remembered.
Maikel looked at the door for a second, then turned to me and said, “What is it, mate?”
“Come on.” It was chilly outside on the balcony, but I wanted to make sure Siân didn’t overhear us. I slid the door closed as soon as Maikel joined me, but didn’t sit down. “I spent the whole day sitting outside Bell’s house and spoke to his daughter. He wasn’t happy, but he still won’t see me.”
Bloody Reckoning Page 12
