‘You’re a knob,’ Scowcroft managed, trying to put on a brave face.
‘Here.’ Barrett pushed something into the young man’s hand.
‘Your diamonds?’ Scowcroft said, shocked.
‘I didn’t swallow them. I got spooked on the train. I thought it would come to this, eventually. My good looks make me stand out too much.’
‘Stop trying to make jokes and give me a hug, Matthew,’ Charlotte told him suddenly, pulling her friend into a tight embrace.
At the display of affection, Scowcroft swallowed the ice-like lump in his throat. No Scowcroft was known for voicing their emotions, as Barrett and Charlotte well knew, but the young man tried his best.
‘Baz,’ he began, ‘I’m not a soldier, but I’d take a bullet for you. I know you’re Tony’s brother as much as I am.’
Barrett simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he put out his hand. Scowcroft took it, his grip like a vice.
There was only one thing left to say.
‘Good luck,’ Scowcroft told him.
And Barrett walked away. When he had put some space between himself and his two friends, he tossed his cap down onto the pavement and lifted his face up to Amsterdam’s camera-filled streets.
CHAPTER 27
HILL STEPPED OUT of the police control centre, but was stopped instantly by a commanding voice.
‘Detective Inspector Hill!’ He turned to see Sergeant Corsten approaching. With a sinking feeling, Hill considered that he’d misjudged the man.
He hadn’t.
‘Here’s my number,’ Corsten told him, handing over a piece of paper.
Hill’s eyebrow rose in question.
‘My priority is the safety of the people here,’ Corsten explained. ‘Including you, and whoever it is you’re looking for. Who those men are looking for,’ he guessed with a veteran officer’s insight.
Hill paused before his next move. He could see no reason why the Dutchman would set him up to fail, or to fall foul of the local police force, and so he took his phone from his pocket and entered the number, texting Corsten a link to the BBC News article and Barrett’s pictures.
‘I need to find this man, and take him quietly home before somebody gets hurt,’ Hill told him.
‘Is he a threat?’
Hill shook his head without needing to think. All the evidence suggested that Barrett was a brave and selfless man. His actions may have been illegal, but they were noble.
‘The people looking for him are,’ he added.
Corsten gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and turned back to the control centre. Hill saw the ebbing tide of ravers coming to and from the stage, and followed his ears in the direction of the driving bass.
‘Trance stage?’ Hill shouted. A blank-faced steward pointed lazily ahead.
Hill pushed on through the crowd, and was funnelled into a circus-sized tent, his senses overloaded as soon as he set foot within. Lasers and lights criss-crossed the air above the hands of a thousand joyous clubbers.
At the far end of the tent stood the main stage, where the image of a leather-jacket-clad DJ was cast up onto a huge array of screens.
‘Amsterdam!’ the DJ’s British voice came across the twenty-foot speaker stacks. ‘Make some fucking noise!’ The crowd replied with a roar that fought to drown out the drop of a pounding bassline.
Hill held his position at the rear of the tent and cast his eyes over the mass of bodies ahead of him. The thousands of moving limbs and the flashing light made it almost impossible to make out detail, and he wondered how he would find his target.
He pulled out his phone, and texted Corsten: ‘Anything?’
The reply was instant: ‘No sign of your man. I see you.’
Hill quickly texted back: ‘What about the men looking in the crowd? Where are they?’
This time there was a slight delay, and Hill ground his teeth as he waited impatiently, praying that the men had not slipped away. ‘Push down the left-hand side as you face the DJ. Thirty metres. Big guy on the edge there. Alone. Not dancing. Seems to be watching.’
Hill kept his phone in his hands and followed the instructions, spotting the man when he was ten metres away. Hill could see that he was a formidable build, muscular and bearded. The man seemed to be taking no interest in the music, only the crowd.
He remembered the bearded man in the police control centre and texted: ‘You sure he’s not one of yours? Special forces?’
There was a pause, where Corsten must have checked with the soldier, then: ‘Not ours.’
Hill didn’t move any closer, but kept the man in his sight. The detective was certain that Slate would have more men scouring the event. Having been burned once by the thieves, Slate’s men would surely call in reinforcements before springing their attack, and so Hill would watch this man, and let him lead the way.
‘I wanna see every one of your hands up!’ the DJ called, the crowd cheering themselves as their fingers reached for the sweeping lasers.
And not wanting to give himself away to Slate’s henchmen, Hill threw his own hands up with them.
CHAPTER 28
BARRETT STOPPED BESIDE a canal to get his bearings. Taking stock of his surroundings, and seeing that the locals outweighed the few ravers, he decided that he had found himself in the no-man’s-land between stages of the Dance Event.
The ex-Commando knew that his part in the heist was drawing to an end, but Barrett intended pulling the police into as long a chase as possible. Out here on the quiet streets, hemmed in by canals and tightly packed properties, he was a sitting duck.
He walked up to a Scandinavian-looking couple worn out from a day of drugs and dancing. ‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?’
‘Sure,’ the man replied enthusiastically.
‘Are there any stages around here?’ Barrett asked.
‘Right down the street, man. The trance stage. It’s banging!’
‘Thanks. What time does it finish?’
‘Like, six?’ the man guessed.
Barrett thanked him as he went on his way and began formulating a simple plan – he would lead the police to the stage and lose himself in the crowd. Should he evade them until dawn, he would slip out with the masses and attempt to take public transport to Belgium. If the police picked him up via their CCTV network – and Barrett hoped they would – then the press of bodies at the stage would give him the best chance for prolonging the chase.
He found the trance stage easily enough and entered to see a British DJ jumping up and down on top of the booth, exhorting the crowd to new levels of energy.
Seeing the smoke and flashing lights, Barrett was sure the crowd would make a maze in which the police would have to follow, but before he could let himself be swallowed by its depths, he turned his head up to the gloom of the canvas and hoped the police were watching.
Someone was.
Barrett saw him coming from his left, his soldier’s instinct registering the man travelling at an angle that was opposed to the other ravers, who pushed as one towards the DJ at the head of the tent.
Barrett swore, plunging into the crowd and wishing he had more time. He pushed and weaved his way into the densest section of the dance floor, any chance of keeping track of his pursuers lost amongst the raised hands and writhing bodies.
Then, as if a giant switch had been thrown, all light and music was cut away, the stage cast into a pitch-darkness that was pierced only by the whistles and shouts of the crowd.
‘Do you want more?’ the DJ’s voice echoed in the blackness.
The crowd roared that they did. Barrett prayed silently that his eyesight would adjust quickly to the dark.
‘Do you want more?’ the DJ screamed again, and the crowd matched his intensity.
‘Then let’s fucking go!’ the DJ boomed, and the bass pounded through Barrett’s chest, the lights coming up like a solar flare.
And in that flash of light, Barrett saw that his pursuers were almost on top of him.
And there he saw a fire exit.
Barrett ran for it, ignoring the steward who called on him to stop, and barrelled out into the cold October air. He kept running, and heard more calls behind him – the police were on his heels.
The veteran turned right, seeing an assembly of artist and production trailers at the rear of the domed stage. What he didn’t see were the thick cables running to and from them, and as Barrett chanced to look back over his shoulder, it was these that ended his flight.
He tumbled to the tarmac, feeling the skin scrape from his cheek and elbows. After a split second the agony of his already ruined nose began anew, but Barrett had no time to reflect on his pain.
Rough hands gripped him by the throat.
He was caught.
CHAPTER 29
A SUBDUED SCOWCROFT and Charlotte walked out of the twenty-four-hour supermarket, a bagful of fresh clothing in each of their hands.
‘We need somewhere to change,’ the young man said. ‘There’s portaloos around the raves. We can ditch our old stuff in them too.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I need light and a mirror for my make-up,’ she told him, and caught the young man’s look of frustration. ‘It’s a high-end club, Alex. If we’re going to fit in, I need to look the part.’
Scowcroft relented with a shrug, and pointed out a nearby hotel. ‘Let’s try that.’
They did, but the city centre hotel was fully booked. So were the next four they tried.
‘We’re running out of time,’ Scowcroft grumbled. ‘I can change in the street and go in alone.’
‘They won’t let a young guy in on his own. That kind of place, you need a one-to-one ratio at least.’
‘Ratio of what?’
‘Women to men,’ Charlotte explained. ‘Guys don’t pay five hundred quid a bottle to be surrounded by other men. Besides, I have an idea.’
That idea led them to a part of the city where the windows pulsed with red light and the silhouettes of writhing bodies.
‘Over here,’ Charlotte instructed the wide-eyed Scowcroft, leading him through the door of one of the more decrepit-looking brothels. Scowcroft was assaulted by the scent of bleach and cheap perfume.
‘Hello.’ Charlotte smiled at the establishment’s madam. ‘I’d like a girl please, and he’d like to watch.’
The woman didn’t bat an eyelid at the request.
‘One hundred euros.’
‘OK,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘And I’d like a woman, not a young girl.’
The madam shrugged and led them into a corridor washed with red light.
‘What are you doing?’ Scowcroft hissed into Charlotte’s ear.
‘Trust me, Alex.’
The madam pulled aside a heavy curtain, and the pair entered a shoebox that was home to a single bed, a toilet and a shower cubicle.
‘In there.’ She pointed first at Scowcroft and then at the shower.
‘OK,’ he stammered as the madam slid the curtain closed behind them.
A moment later, a curvy brunette glided her way in through the fabric, the cracks around her eyes deepening as she smiled an introduction. ‘I’m Eva,’ she whispered.
‘Eva, I’m Charlotte.’ The thief pushed a thick wedge of euros into the prostitute’s hand. ‘We need this room.’
Eva needed no more explanation. ‘Anything you want,’ she cooed, sitting down on the bed and groaning in mock pleasure as she counted her windfall.
‘This is so messed up,’ Scowcroft said, shaking his head.
‘It’s about to get worse,’ Charlotte told him, pushing a small bottle into his palm.
Scowcroft looked at the label.
‘Laxative?’ he asked, shocked.
‘Unless you want to cut the diamonds out,’ Charlotte answered plainly. ‘Put your T-shirt in the toilet bowl. Come on, don’t make this any worse than it has to be.’
The next few minutes were a low point in the lives of the thieves. Save for a wry smile between moans, the prostitute appeared unmoved. No doubt she assumed the pair were drug mules.
Grateful for the presence of a shower, Scowcroft changed quickly, at all times keeping his back to Charlotte – he did not want to catch a glimpse of his brother’s fiancée, no matter what intimacy he had just been privy too.
Pulling on a dark dress, Charlotte cast her eyes over her accomplice, approving of his well-fitted grey suit.
‘Beautiful.’ The prostitute beamed her own approval, as Scowcroft carefully pulled a coat over his shoulders – Barrett’s diamonds rested within its thick pockets.
‘Whatever happens, don’t let me forget my coat.’ He tried to smile.
‘How do I look?’ Charlotte asked him, finishing her make-up.
‘Amazing,’ he said honestly, before he could catch himself.
The pair weakly smiled their thanks to the prostitute, who stopped her moaning and pushed the money into the depths of her corset.
‘Have fun.’ She waved as Charlotte and Scowcroft slipped out of the brothel and onto the street, Charlotte’s heels ringing on the cobblestones. The air coming off the canal was tinged with ice, and Scowcroft pulled his coat across his body.
‘All right, love?’ a drunk British tourist slurred at Charlotte. ‘How much for a go around?’
‘Hold my hand,’ Scowcroft told Charlotte, surprising her. ‘If they think I’m with you, they won’t bother. We can’t afford to draw attention.’
Charlotte took his hand.
‘I’m worried about Baz,’ she confessed.
‘Me too,’ he replied. ‘Since what happened to Tony, he’s been like my brother. I only just realised that today.’
‘We’ll see him soon,’ she said, though she didn’t quite believe it herself.
‘I hope so,’ Scowcroft breathed, then surprised Charlotte by coming to a stop, his hand like a vice on hers.
‘I’ve got to ask you something.’ His voice became hard again. ‘Before this last bit, I’ve got to ask you. I’ve got to know.’
‘Go on then.’ Charlotte had been expecting this question.
‘My brother. Did you want to leave him?’
‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Yes, I did, Alex.’ She broke into a flood of tears.
Despite her words, despite his once furious anger towards her, Scowcroft pulled Charlotte close, his own tears coming.
‘Why?’ he sobbed. ‘Why would you leave my brother?’
It was a minute before she could speak, but eventually Charlotte mastered her emotions.
‘It wasn’t after he got hurt,’ she told him. ‘It was before that. All the deployments. All the worry. All the stress. It was too much, for both of us. It was too much, but he was in love with the Marines as much as he was with me. I knew he’d never leave it. And so one day I told myself it was over, but I wouldn’t tell Tony until he was back in the UK and safe. I didn’t want that in his head if . . . if . . .’
‘If the worst happened,’ Scowcroft finished for her.
‘And I feel like a bitch. It wasn’t until I saw him in that hospital that I knew I’d wait for him for ever if I had to, through a million wars, but by then it was too late, and he’s never going to know.’
As Charlotte’s tears began anew, Scowcroft pulled her closer.
‘He’s going to know, Charlotte. Because of what we’re doing right now, he’s going to know. Tony’s going to get his life back.’
CHAPTER 30
BARRETT’S WORLD WAS black.
A hood had been pulled over his head and the former Commando rec
ognised the dank, musty smell of wet hessian. It was a sandbag that was hiding his captors from his eyes, and Barrett could almost laugh at the irony that he’d pulled the same bags over the heads of dozens of Iraqi men.
But Barrett wasn’t laughing.
He was scared.
Since when did the police hood the men they arrested? Could it be that he’d somehow fallen foul of an anti-terror operation?
Perhaps Barrett would get his answers, because suddenly the hood was whipped away, his eyes quickly adjusting to what appeared to be the gloomy interior of a van. There was no sign of his captors. He tried to turn, but his feet were in shackles, his hands tightly bound behind his back.
He became aware of a presence behind him. He could hear the man’s breathing. Minutes passed while Barrett waited for his captor to say something or make his move. Finally, he felt compelled to fill the eerie void.
‘Look, I know we broke the law, all right? But you can’t go tying me up like this. You’re violating my rights.’
Silence.
‘Don’t you want to ask me anything? I’ll talk. I’ll tell you about how we got forced to do this, because the government won’t look after its own. How it bleeds its soldiers for oil, then throws them away when they’re broken. I’ll tell you about that!’ Barrett was shouting, his anger and bitterness growing.
His captor still said nothing.
‘What would you do if your partner was put in coma, and your government just left him to rot? Well? You’re a police officer – you think that’s justice?’
And then Barrett felt the presence of the man lean in from behind him, his words a chilling whisper against the captive’s ear. ‘I’m not a police officer.’
CHAPTER 31
‘IT’S ALMOST TIME,’ Scowcroft told Charlotte, looking at his watch as if mesmerised by the passing seconds.
The pair stood on the street opposite the entrance to Club Liquid. A line of would-be patrons stretched back along the block. When the doors opened to admit the lucky few, the pounding of house music pumped out from within.
Heist: BookShots Page 7
