Now everything was back under control and it was simply a matter of waiting for the next stage of the operation to begin. Frank had always known this was going to be a long twenty-four hours, which was why he’d sent the wife away to her sister’s in Spain for a few days. But the money was going to make it all worthwhile. One hundred and fifty grand in an anonymous foreign bank account. All for one day’s work.
Frank stubbed out the cigarillo, heaving himself out of his seat. Who said crime didn’t pay?
Scope was already awake, doing some stretches on Orla’s living-room floor, when his phone rang. It was 6 a.m.
Scope picked it up and saw that the caller was T Rex.
‘You owe me a lot of money,’ said the hacker. ‘I’ve been working on this all night.’
‘What have you got?’
‘As I pointed out to you earlier, there are a lot of Franks based round that area of London, and I’ve had to hack into several very sensitive databases, which is why it took so long – and why it’s going to cost you so much. Anyway, I narrowed the list down to four individuals who fit the basic description you gave me. You said he was corrupt, yes?’
‘That’s right. I’m pretty certain he’s got links to organized crime.’
‘Well, none of the four have ever been investigated, and none of them have any obvious links to Philip Vermont, who, by the way, Scope, is being reported as a possible murder victim. Apparently he died last night. That’s a coincidence, right?’
‘Of course.’
T Rex sighed like a schoolteacher frustrated by a promising yet rebellious pupil. ‘However, I google-earthed the home addresses of all four men, and one of them has a particularly attractive property for someone who’s spent his whole life in the police and is married to a freelance hairdresser.’
‘That sounds like our man. Give me the name.’
‘Not so fast, Scope. I didn’t mind what you did to the people I found for you before – they were drug dealers with plenty of enemies. But killing a senior police officer? That’s a whole different kettle of fish, and it’s going to lead to a much bigger investigation, which I really don’t want to be a part of.’
‘I’m not going to kill him.’
‘You always say that. And yet somehow they always end up dead. Plus there’s the small matter of my bill. You owe me four thousand, four hundred pounds.’
Scope stifled a yawn. He hadn’t slept well. ‘Listen. I don’t know anything about you. Anything at all. So nothing I do could ever come back to you. As for your money, you know who I am, and everything I’ve done, so it’s always going to be in my interests to make sure you get paid. So please. Give me that name. It’s urgent.’
T Rex paused, wheezing down the phone, before he finally spoke. ‘Francis Thomas Bale. He’s a DCI in the Met’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command based out of Wembley, so he’s high up. Age forty-seven, only two years off his thirty years’ service.’ He gave Bale’s home address to Scope.
‘Have you got a photo?’
‘Of course.’
Scope gave him a Hotmail address to send it to. ‘I’ll be in touch about the money in the next twenty-four hours,’ he said, ending the call and feeling the familiar pull of excitement. He was finally getting somewhere. There weren’t going to be that many individuals involved in this kidnap and he’d already taken out one. Frank Bale, he was sure, was going to know where Max was, and one way or another Scope was going to get the information out of him.
‘So what is it that you’ve done exactly? Aside from killing my boyfriend, that is?’
Orla was standing in the doorway, watching him silently. She was wearing a black satin gown that was half open at the top, revealing a line of cleavage that was only partly obscured by her blonde hair. The gown stopped midway down her thighs, revealing shapely, tanned legs.
Scope couldn’t help looking. Physically Orla was a very attractive woman. It was her personality that let her down.
‘How long have you been listening for?’ he asked her.
‘Long enough. You’ve got a loud voice.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.’
‘Who are you exactly?’ she said, eying him suspiciously. ‘You look familiar without the make-up.’
‘The less you know about me the better. And what you do know, you should forget as soon as possible.’ He picked up the piece of paper containing Frank Bale’s address and slipped it in his pocket. ‘Have you got a PC I can take a look at?’
‘Use the laptop on the table.’
He booted it up before logging on to the Hotmail address he’d given T Rex. There was a new email from an unknown sender, and Scope opened it and stared at a photo of the top half of a fat man with an egg-shaped head topped with a few desperate strands of sandy hair. He was wearing the kind of confident, slightly superior expression you saw on club doormen, and he was dressed in a well-cut suit that looked too expensive for most coppers.
‘Christ, who’s he?’ said Orla, looking over his shoulder.
‘You’ve never seen him before?’
‘Definitely not. I’d remember an ugly sod like that. Is he something to do with Phil?’
Scope deleted the email and turned to face her.
‘You don’t need to know. All I’d advise you to do right now is keep your head down and wait for all this to blow over. Let me worry about finding Tim Horton’s son.’
Orla looked up at him, her expression serious. ‘Look, I know I messed up with Tim. He was actually quite a nice guy, and I’m gutted that my actions got his son kidnapped, I really am. Whatever you think, I’ve got morals, and I want to help.’
Scope eyed her as dispassionately as he could under the circumstances, even though a part of him just wanted to tear off that gown and make love to her. It struck him that she could be a useful assistant as long as he made sure to keep her out of danger.
He nodded. ‘Okay. But do me a favour. Get some clothes on. We need to get back to my car, and fast.’
14
The hotel room was small, bare and cold. Outside the window, Tim Horton could hear the low, rhythmic rumbling of the early morning commuter trains as they made the final approach into Paddington Station.
He’d been here for more than two hours now, sitting on the unmade single bed, staring at the wall. Alone and waiting. He looked at his watch constantly, knowing that each passing minute brought him closer to the end. It was less than four hours until Matt Cohen – the sports agent who purportedly knew more about match fixing in English football games than anyone else – appeared at the select committee hearing. He was sure they wanted him to kill Cohen before he made any dramatic revelations. But how? He was a career politician, not ex-SAS. He was incapable of killing anyone. Even with his son’s life at stake.
On the way here, he’d thought about calling Scope again, this time to find out how close he was to locating Max, but had stopped himself, not just because he didn’t want to risk it, but also because, if Scope hadn’t made progress, then in a way it was better not to know. He needed a sliver of hope right now, however small. Guilt was weighing heavily on him, but only because he wasn’t angry with himself for requesting Scope’s help. Ultimately, he felt he’d had no choice. Not when the alternative was … death. The word was so harsh and final. Just the thought of it made him break out into a cold, nauseous sweat.
The phone rang in his suit pocket. It was a blocked number. He answered on the third ring.
‘Hello, Mr Horton,’ said the kidnapper, his voice calm. ‘I see you’re in the room.’
‘I got here a few hours ago,’ Tim said wearily.
‘I want you to know that your son is sleeping soundly. He’s fine now, and if you do what you’re instructed to do, he’ll be back safe and sound with your wife this afternoon. That’s what your sacrifice will achieve. A chance for your son to grow up and have his own children.’
Tim didn’t say anything. There was really nothing to say.
‘In the cupb
oard opposite the bed, there’s a coat hanging up. Remove it from the hanger.’
‘I want to speak to my son. I need to check he’s okay.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘Look, if I’m going to do this –’
‘You are going to do this. And you’re not going to speak to your son. Now do as you’re told.’
The kidnapper’s words exposed Horton’s impotence. Feeling exhausted and beaten, he slowly got up from the bed and opened the cupboard. The coat – a tatty-looking black Crombie – looked ordinary enough. And it was. It was what was hanging underneath it that set his pulse racing.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.
‘Now you know what you’ve got to do,’ said the kidnapper.
Frank Bale watched the hotel-room interior on the screen in his study. This was the moment of truth. If Tim Horton was going to panic and run, now would be the time. Frank waited until Horton stepped back into shot. The shock was written all over his face, but there was something else too. Understanding.
He was going to do it.
15
Dawn was just beginning to break as Scope walked swiftly down the quiet residential street. He was wearing dark glasses and a beanie hat, and the tanning make-up he’d applied in the car a few minutes ago gave him a Mediterranean appearance. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was enough for what he needed to do.
Frank Bale’s home was one of a new development of five three-storey townhouses set back from the road behind a wall topped with wrought-iron railings and electric gates. The residents’ cars were parked in spaces just in front of their respective houses, and he’d clocked Bale’s black Jaguar outside 25C, the middle one.
A commuter wrapped up against the cold was hurrying towards him in the semi-darkness so Scope kept walking, keeping his head down and letting the guy get a good few yards past him before he turned and jumped onto the wall, using the railings to pull himself up. Carefully climbing over them, he scrambled down the other side and bent down beside the Jaguar, planting the tracking device on its underside. Now Bale wouldn’t go anywhere without Scope knowing about it. There were already lights on in four of the houses, including Bale’s, and Scope knew he was exposed where he was. This wasn’t going to be easy. Bale didn’t have any kids, but he did have a wife, and Scope had no desire to involve her in any of this.
Taking a quick look round, he walked up to the front door to 25C and checked the lock. It was a brand-new card-operated system, and very difficult to get through unless you were an expert, which Scope wasn’t. The door itself was PVC, way too strong for brute force, and a burglar alarm flashed ominously a few feet above his head.
He wasn’t going to get in through the front, nor were there any hiding places in the parking area. The only way in was round the back, but there was no access from within the development so Scope went back over the wall, checking that the street was still empty before he jumped down the other side. He followed the road round to the rear of the building, only to find a fifteen-foot high wall topped with railings, keeping him out. These townhouses had clearly been marketed at the security-conscious, and doubtless Frank Bale had more to fear than most men.
Scope looked at his watch. A watery sun was rising above the grey, low-rise skyline. It was only a few hours until the select committee meeting began.
Even so, he had no choice but to wait.
Tim Horton stared at the padded black vest in his hands. It was a simple creation, made of cotton canvas, with shoulder straps and two large enclosed pockets at the front. The lower pocket contained a single block of something hard, roughly six inches by three inches, and about an inch thick, while the other pocket appeared empty.
He put the vest down on the bed and tore open the Velcro strap on the lower pocket, visibly stiffening as he saw what it contained. He was no weapons expert, but he knew immediately that what he was looking at was plastic explosives.
‘This is a bomb,’ he said, clutching the phone tightly to his ear.
‘Well done, Mr Horton. Full marks.’
‘It’ll never get through security.’
‘Of course it will,’ said the kidnapper with an alarming level of confidence. ‘As you can see it contains no metal, so it’ll go through the detectors without making a peep.’
‘But what if the machine bleeps anyway? They do it at random sometimes.’
‘It’s taken care of. As long as you don’t have anything metal on you, and you wear the vest under your shirt so no one can see it, there’ll be no problem at all.’
Tim felt faint. These people – whoever they were – had the whole thing thought through. He knew that the security in the Commons was full of holes. It always had been. People – the public, staff – were in and out all the time with only minimal checks. He’d never worried that much about it, assuming like everyone else that no one would dare to launch an attack on Parliament, and now they were going to use him to do just that. He was conscious that his breath was coming in fevered gasps. ‘It won’t work,’ he whispered, conscious of the lack of confidence in his own voice. ‘You need something to detonate it with.’
‘Full marks again, Mr Horton. After you’ve passed through the detectors on the way to the hearing room, go into the men’s toilets on the left and enter the third cubicle. If it’s occupied, wait for it to become free. Behind the bowl, you’ll find a mobile phone attached to a small battery unit and detonator. It’s small enough to fit into the empty pocket of the vest. All you have to do is put it in the pocket and walk back out again.’
‘Jesus, I can’t do that …’
‘Of course you can. Your son’s life depends on it, remember? But be very careful with the detonator. It’s quite sensitive and we don’t want any premature explosions.’
Tim’s legs felt like they were going to go from under him. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to charge out of this shitty little hotel room and run and run until he finally collapsed from exhaustion. Anything to make the pure terror that was surging through him go away.
Jesus, Scope. I never liked you much. But if you can help me now, I’d do anything to repay you. Anything in the world.
‘Be strong, Mr Horton. All you’ve got to do is walk into that committee room, sit down, act natural, and we’ll take care of everything else.’
‘What do you mean, act natural? You’re asking me to sit there and wait for someone to blow me and everyone else in that room to pieces. You’re asking me to die, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’m not asking you to do anything,’ said the kidnapper coldly. ‘I’m telling you. If you want your son to live, you will act naturally, you will keep your fear in check, and when the time comes, yes, you will die. But so that your son can live. Remember that. This is for Max.’
‘You fucking bastard.’
‘I’m going to let that go as you’re under a lot of pressure. But watch what you’re saying or the next time your son loses a finger.’
‘I want to say goodbye to Max. I want to talk to him.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘I’m not going to do it if I can’t speak to him.’
‘Don’t order me around, Horton. I’ll hurt your boy.’
‘You’ve already hurt him. How do I know he’s even still alive?’
‘Don’t raise your voice at me,’ snapped the kidnapper.
There was a pause. Tim was breathing heavily, strangely exhilarated by his pathetic act of rebellion.
The kidnapper grunted. ‘All right. Give me a phrase.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Give me a few words you want him to say. I’ll get him to say them, then play the recording to you down the phone. That way you’ll know he’s still alive. It’s the best you’re going to get.’
For a good ten seconds, Tim couldn’t think of anything at all. His brain was that fuddled. ‘Ask him to repeat something he’d say when he was very small. I love you to the moon and back. Twice.’ He felt a lump in his t
hroat. ‘It’s what he’d say to me when I put him to bed and read him a story. I haven’t done that in a while now. Tell him that I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much as I should, and that I love him more than anything.’
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Okay,’ said the kidnapper, sounding thoughtful. ‘I’ll call you in the next two hours. In the meantime, get ready. Your son’s depending on you.’
The line went dead, but Tim stood in the middle of the room with the phone to his ear for a good minute, allowing the tears to stream down his face. There was no way out. Last night it had all seemed so surreal. Now fate was charging towards him like a steam train and he was helpless in its headlights. His life was over.
But then a new thought struck him. He had the opportunity to be brave. To make his son truly proud of him. By going to his death as a man with his head held high. People would remember him as someone who gave his life so his son could live. They would think well of him, possibly for the first time in his life.
‘Be brave,’ he whispered, putting the phone away in his pocket. ‘Be brave.’
But even as he spoke the words, he could feel his hands shaking.
16
Scope stretched in the driver’s seat, trying to get comfortable. He and Orla had been in his car, two hundred metres further down the street from where Frank Bale lived, for well over an hour now. It was the only place they could park legally, and Scope was frustrated and impatient, knowing they were wasting valuable time. He’d had to turn the heating off to conserve the battery and the car’s interior was cold.
Dead Man's Gift 02 - Last Night Page 3
