‘What have you got?’ he asked, noticing that his hands were still shaking a little from the earlier adrenalin rush.
‘White wine. Vodka. Scotch. No beer, though.’
Scope knew he needed to keep his wits about him, but he also figured he’d earned a break. ‘Scotch, please. Large. No ice.’ He watched as she went through to the kitchen. She was wearing a tight white shirt and figure-hugging jeans that had found exactly the right kind of figure to hug, and Scope felt sorry for her because she could have done a hell of a lot better than the perma-tanned thug who’d tried to kill her tonight. Or Tim Horton, for that matter.
He thought of Tim then. A stuck-up social climber who couldn’t fight his own battles. He remembered a conversation he’d once had with him a couple of Christmases before Mary Ann had died. Tim had been drunk and uncharacteristically friendly as he’d told Scope about some of the goings-on in the House of Commons: the drunkenness, the sexual shenanigans, the rife use of coke by MPs. ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he’d slurred. ‘It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah in there sometimes. If the public had any idea what went on, they’d be apoplectic.’
Scope had believed it easily enough. He knew what self-serving, hypocritical arseholes most politicians were, but it disappointed him that pygmies like these were the political descendants of the likes of Churchill and Atlee. And it disappointed him even more that he was risking his life for a man like Tim Horton.
Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that he was doing this for a young, innocent kid. No one else. And now that he’d killed one of the people involved in his kidnap, Max was suddenly in real danger.
Frank – the man he’d answered the phone to – was a cop, Scope was sure of that. He had to be. There couldn’t have been more than three minutes tops from when the gun had gone off in Orla’s bedroom to when Frank had called Phil Vermont’s phone. Only a cop would have got the information that fast. And he had to be pretty local too. Which meant he could be ID’d if you knew what you were doing.
And Scope knew just the man for the job. When he’d been hunting the various individuals involved in the supply of the drugs that had killed his daughter, he’d crossed paths with a computer hacker with the online moniker ‘T Rex’. He had no idea of the guy’s real name – nor did he care – but on several occasions he’d used him to gather confidential information, and he’d always come up with the goods. Scope called his number now and waited while the call was redirected several times before an electronic voice asked him to leave a message.
‘It’s Scope. I need your help urgently. I’ll pay what it takes.’
‘Who are you calling?’ asked Orla, coming back in the room with a big glass of white wine in one hand and a Scotch in the other.
‘A contact of mine,’ he said, taking a hit of the Scotch. ‘A man called Frank called your boyfriend’s phone and thought I was him. He wanted to check you were dead. I told him you were, and he said the police were on their way, which means he’s a cop. Are you sure you’ve never heard of him?’
Orla shook her head. ‘Phil was always boasting about all these great contacts he had, but he never mentioned names.’
‘What did Phil do for a living?’
She pulled a face. ‘Not a lot. He used to be part owner of a club in the West End, but it went bust before I met him. I know he’s got some dodgy friends, and I’ve heard rumours that he killed someone once in a hit for some gangsters. To be honest, it was always hard to separate the truth from the bullshit.’
Scope asked for Phil’s address, and as he was scribbling down the details his phone rang. It was a blocked number, but he had a good idea who it would be. He excused himself and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
‘Scope. Long time no speak,’ said T Rex. Hi voice sounded wheezy, as if it was something of an effort to talk.
‘I’ve got a job for you. And I need it done fast.’
‘The last time I did work for you, people ended up dead.’
Scope was surprised T Rex knew about that, but then it wouldn’t have been too difficult to find out. He’d asked the hacker to find two different men, both of whom he’d later killed. ‘I don’t know anything about that. And no one’s going to die today. I just need you to ID someone for me. He’s a police officer called Frank, and he’s going to be based within a three-mile radius of Harlesden. He sounds middle-aged, and he’s likely to be reasonably senior. My guess is he’ll be plainclothes rather than uniform. Try DS rank and above and see what comes up.’
‘I’m good at what I do, Scope, but I’m not a miracle worker. How many coppers named Frank do you think work out of that stretch of north London? I’ll tell you. A lot. I need more than that. A lot more.’
‘He’s corrupt, so he may have been investigated before, and he’s also linked to a man called Phil Vermont, who’s some kind of petty criminal.’ Scope gave him Vermont’s address. ‘And this is urgent. I need results by 6 a.m. tomorrow at the absolute latest.’
T Rex sighed loudly down the other end of the phone. ‘I can’t guarantee a thing, but I’ll do my best. And it’ll cost you, Scope. For something like this I’m going to need to charge three hundred an hour. More if things get risky.’
‘You know I’m good for it,’ Scope told him, hoping he wouldn’t insist on a down payment. ‘And if you get me the goods by six, I’ll throw in a grand in as bonus,’ he added, knowing that Tim would pay anything to get his son back and save his own skin.
‘Don’t take this as an insult, but I was hoping never to hear from you again.’
‘Sort this out for me and you won’t,’ said Scope, ending the call.
Orla was sitting on the sofa, having already finished most of her wine, when Scope came back in. He finished his whisky in one gulp, wincing at the cheap burn as it rushed down his throat.
‘You look different,’ she said, staring at him. ‘Better.’
‘I was wearing make-up. I’ve taken it off.’
‘You don’t look the make-up-wearing sort.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘So I see. Did you have any joy finding out who Frank is?’
‘Nothing yet.’ He yawned. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a couple of hours’ sleep. It’s been a long day.’
‘I’ve only got the one bed, but you’re welcome to share it,’ she said with the kind of coy smile that probably worked wonders with most men between sixteen and sixty.
Scope, however, wasn’t one of them. ‘No, thanks. I’ll take the sofa.’ He motioned towards where she was sitting. ‘When you’re ready, of course.’
She stood up, a flash of anger in her blue eyes. ‘You don’t think I’m good enough for you? Is that it?’
He faced her down. ‘On the evidence I’ve seen so far, no. I don’t.’
‘Arsehole,’ she said, stalking past him and slamming the door behind her.
Scope lay down on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Orla, even though she’d behaved with total callousness towards Tim, and it seemed a few other men as well. She was clearly an intelligent woman, and from her accent it sounded like she’d come from a good home. It made him wonder when it had all gone wrong for her to end up in this sort of life, hanging out with lowlifes and hustling love-struck men twice her age. He wondered too when it had all gone wrong for his own daughter, Mary Ann, and how much he and his wife had been to blame.
And then he stopped thinking about any of it because he knew it would just hurt. Instead he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.
12
1.57 a.m.
The sound of the landline roused Tim Horton from an uneasy slumber.
He sat up and for a couple of seconds wondered what he was doing in the dining room in the middle of the night with the lights on and Diane sat across the table opposite him. Then reality hit him like a single hard punch to the gut as he remembered everything.
Diane was the first to pick up the handset. Sh
e listened for a couple of seconds – a stiff, blank expression on her face – before putting the phone on loudspeaker and placing the handset in the middle of the table.
The kidnapper’s disguised voice immediately came on the line. ‘You fucked us up, Horton!’ he yelled, his words tearing round the room. ‘Now your son pays. Listen to this.’
There was a two-second pause, then Max’s voice came on the line. ‘I’m scared!’ he was crying. ‘Please don’t hurt me. Please … Mummy!’
Diane let out an animal howl and grabbed wildly at the handset, putting it to her ear. ‘I’m here, baby, it’s going to be all right. Mummy’s here!’
‘Put the phone back on the table now!’ yelled the kidnapper.
She slammed it back down as if it were burning her hand.
‘You’d better start telling the truth, Horton, otherwise your boy’s going to get very badly hurt. We know for a fact you’ve sent someone to find your son, because he killed an associate of ours, which was a very, very bad move on his part, and an even worse one on yours. Now who the fuck is he? Tell me right now or I instruct another associate to cut one of your son’s thumbs off. I’ll then send you the video of it, and I’ll make you fucking watch it as well, every last second, and if you don’t, we’ll start on his fingers. Do you understand me?’
Panic reeled through Tim’s head. What the hell had Scope done? Was Orla dead? And did he admit the truth when, by doing so, he might well be sentencing his son to death?
Diane was staring at him with a combination of shock and pure animal rage. There’d be no support from her here. Right now, he was totally and utterly on his own.
‘Talk, Horton. Who did you call?’
The moment of truth.
Tim ran a hand down his face. It was moist with sweat. ‘All right, all right. I did call someone. I thought he might be able to help.’ He twisted in his seat, avoiding the condemnation in his wife’s eyes. ‘But I had no choice. I don’t want to die.’
‘You bastard!’ screamed Diane. ‘You cowardly fucking bastard!’
She was across the table in seconds, her hands outstretched like claws.
He felt nails raking down his face as his wife attacked him with all her strength, knocking him to the floor in her rage. He managed to grab her wrists and keep them away, but her force and anger surprised him. She spat in his face, screaming abuse, the tears running down her face, and in those terrible moments the love he’d once felt for her suddenly returned, and he wished there was something he could say to take her fear away.
‘Get off him now, Mrs Horton!’ screamed the kidnapper through the speaker. ‘Or I’ll cut your boy’s throat myself!’
The fight seemed to disappear from Diane in an instant and, still panting, she stood back up and turned away from Tim, who lay on the floor, his face stinging from her scratches.
‘Where’s the phone you used, Mr Horton?’ said the kidnapper as Tim sat back in his chair, keeping his head down like a chastised schoolboy.
He took the spare mobile from his trouser pocket and placed it on the table.
‘Who’s the man you called?’
Tim sighed. ‘His name’s Scope. He used to be married to Diane’s sister.’
‘Oh God, Tim. What have you done?’
‘Shut up, Mrs Horton,’ snapped the kidnapper. ‘And why did you think he could help?’
‘He’s ex-army, and I know he’s been in some tight situations and got out of them. I thought it would be more effective than going to the police.’
‘Well, it wasn’t, was it? He’s caused us a lot of problems, which means a lot of problems for you. And for your son.’
‘Please don’t hurt him,’ begged Diane. ‘I’ll do anything to save Max. Anything at all.’
The kidnapper ignored her. ‘We need to bring your dog to heel, Mr Horton. I want you to phone this man Scope right now, using the phone you originally contacted him on, and tell him that if he doesn’t come to your house immediately, then Max will lose a thumb. And keep the phone next to the handset so I can hear the conversation. And remember this: if you fuck up, or try to be clever, we start to really go to work on your son.’
Tim stole a glance at Diane, wanting to reassure her somehow that he’d do things the right way this time, but her look told him that it was far too late for that.
Feeling nauseous, he picked up the phone and dialled Scope’s number.
The phone rang on the coffee table, waking Scope from a dreamless, surprisingly deep sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he reached over and checked the screen, immediately recognizing Tim’s number. He moved to press the Answer button but stopped himself at the last second. If the kidnappers had already found out that he’d killed one of them, they might be forcing Tim to call him. Which meant it was best not to answer.
He could be wrong, of course, but if Tim was able to speak freely then he’d leave a message and Scope could call him straight back. He waited while the phone went to message, and thirty seconds later, just as he was beginning to waiver about his decision, a prompt told him that he had a voicemail message.
He listened to Tim’s desperate words in silence.
‘Scope, you need to come straight back here to the house. If you don’t, they’re going to hurt Max. Call back as soon as you get this message.’
Scope put down the phone and rubbed his eyes. Now he had a real dilemma. If he did as Horton asked, and ended his involvement, he might still be able to get out of this whole thing in one piece. He was pretty sure the police didn’t have enough evidence to connect him to the Phil Vermont killing, and didn’t think the kidnappers would come after him either. They struck him as a professional gang who’d accept the loss of one of their number as an occupational hazard.
But the fact that they were professionals also meant there was a good chance they wouldn’t release Max. It would be far easier simply to kill him. That way he couldn’t provide any leads. Even if Scope cooperated by stopping his search, it wasn’t going to save Max’s life.
So, for the moment, he was going to risk continuing with it, figuring that if he didn’t answer his phone, then the kidnappers couldn’t take it out on Horton.
He lay back on the sofa, hoping he wasn’t making a big mistake.
Tim Horton put the phone back down on the table. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘There’s a camera attached to the middle candlestick on the dresser,’ said the kidnapper over the landline loudspeaker. ‘It’s been filming you all evening. I want you to approach that camera, showing the screen on your phone containing your recent calls. That way I’ll know you’re not trying to be clever.’
Hugely relieved that this time he no longer had anything to hide, Tim did as he was told, quickly spotting the camera now that he knew where to look for it, even though it was barely half an inch long. He held up the phone a few inches away until, seemingly satisfied, the kidnapper told him to put it back in his pocket.
‘Right, Mr Horton, I think it’s time we finally got things moving, seeing as you can’t be trusted. Tell me the number of that phone you’re holding in your hand.’
Tim told him, feeling a growing sense of dread.
‘I’m going to text you the address of a hotel near Paddington Station,’ the kidnapper told him, his voice calmer and more controlled now. ‘You’re to get changed into the clothes you’ll be wearing for the select committee hearing, gather together everything you need, and then head straight there to Room 21 on the second floor. The key to the room is taped to the bottom of the candlestick holding the camera. When you get there, wait for my call.’
‘You’re not going to hurt Max again, are you?’ asked Diane. ‘Tim’s doing as he’s told now. He’s not going to do anything else stupid.’
‘If your husband does what he’s told this time, your son won’t come to further harm.’
‘I will, you have my word,’ Tim said, stung by his wife’s seeming indifference to his imminent fate.
‘You need to be at that hotel by 5 a.
m., Mr Horton. And we have cameras there too, so make sure you don’t try to pull another stunt like the last one.’
‘I won’t. I told you –’
‘And you’re not to use that phone to call anyone unless you have my express permission. I will call you on it periodically. Wait until the third ring before you answer. Now understand this: if I try to ring and I get a busy signal, or it goes to message, it’ll be your son who suffers. Understood?’
Tim nodded wearily. ‘Understood.’
‘Now go,’ said the kidnapper and cut the connection.
The dining room was suddenly filled with a thick, cloying silence. Horton looked at Diane, but she was staring down at the table. As he watched, a tear dripped onto the mahogany.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, the tears coming for him now as he realized all the things that he’d had and never appreciated until now, when it was far too late. ‘I, er …’
‘Just get out,’ she said, without looking up.
13
Frank Bale was in his study, staring at the live footage of the Horton’s dining room. Tim Horton had just said goodbye to his wife for the final time. Or more accurately he’d tried to. She’d acted like a corpse in his arms as he’d leaned down to hug her. He’d been crying like a baby as he begged for her forgiveness, but she wasn’t having any of it, which Frank thought was a bit harsh. Instead, she’d told him not to let down their son again and sent him off with a dismissive wave. Now she was sitting silently, looking fixedly at the wall, an occasional sob the only sign of her inner turmoil.
Frank took a long drag on his cigarillo, savouring the hit to his throat, and scratched at the patch of eczema in the fold of his belly with his spare hand. He knew he’d been hard on the Hortons, threatening to have their kid’s thumb cut off, putting them both through the ringer like that. But this was the business Frank was in, and sometimes it involved doling out pain to those who might not entirely deserve it, and anyway, it had been Tim Horton’s own fault, bringing in some violent killer of an ex-squaddie, rather than simply doing what he was told. It had taken all Frank’s negotiating skills to keep Vermont’s psychotic fellow kidnapper, Celia, under control when he’d rung to tell her that Vermont had been called away and wouldn’t be coming back before tomorrow at the earliest. At first she’d flipped, saying she couldn’t handle things without Vermont there, and demanding to know where he was, but Frank had finally calmed her down with the promise of an extra bonus. He’d also told her to knock the kid about a bit and record his screams for the benefit of his parents, something which the sadistic bitch had been only too effective in doing.
Dead Man's Gift 02 - Last Night Page 2
