The house’s front door faced directly onto the street, with the buzzers for the three flats next to it. It looked like the original door as well – old-fashioned plywood and not particularly sturdy, with just one lock. Scope had learned his housebreaking skills from an ex-soldier friend of his who’d left the army to become a locksmith. He’d broken into half a dozen residences during the period he’d spent hunting down the various individuals he held responsible for his daughter Mary Ann’s death from an overdose of unusually pure heroin. He was no expert, but he’d not been defeated yet, and he wasn’t going to have a problem with this door, either. Removing a set of picks from his jacket, he got to work, using a pocket-sized torch held between his teeth to illuminate his work.
It took him close to two minutes to unlock the door, but, with the rain battering down, no one came past during that time and he slipped inside unnoticed, finding himself in a small, dark foyer with the door to Flat A on one side, and a shelf on the other with slots for each flat’s mail. Flat B’s, he noticed, was empty. There was a timer light switch on the wall, but he didn’t turn it on. Instead, he moved quietly up the stairs through the darkness until he came to a narrow landing with the door to Flat B at the end.
He stopped in front of it and listened. There was music coming from inside. Nina Simone, if Scope wasn’t mistaken.
But there was something else too. It sounded like a muffled scream, followed by a faint, but distinctly male, grunt of exertion, and the sound of furniture being knocked around.
Whatever was going on in there, it was bad, so Scope took a step back and, using the banister for support, launched a ferocious two-footed kick at the door, striking it just below the lock.
The door flew open as the wood splintered and Scope stepped inside, shutting it behind him. Directly in front of him was a tiny enclosed kitchen. It was empty, but the light was on and there were a couple of takeaway cartons scattered with Chinese food, a couple of plates and a half-full bottle of red wine on the side-board. The music and the sounds of struggle were coming from behind a door to his right.
Pulling out the knife he’d brought with him, Scope rushed inside and found himself in a bedroom where a woman was lying on her front on a double bed, while a powerfully built man sat astride her, holding a plastic bag over her head as she kicked and bucked beneath him.
The man must have heard Scope come into the flat, because he’d already turned in the direction of the bedroom door and, rather than panicking, was reaching round behind him to pull out a small-calibre revolver from somewhere beneath his clothing. He pointed it straight at Scope, an angry expression on his face, as if he couldn’t believe someone would have the temerity to disturb him.
Scope didn’t have a lot of options and he was already charging the gunman, keeping as low as possible and trying to put him off his stride as he pulled the trigger. Luckily for Scope, the woman with the bag over her head still had some fight left in her and her struggles knocked the gunman off-balance and his bullet went wide as Scope hit him head-on. He grabbed the gunman’s gun hand and yanked it to one side, before driving him backwards off the bed and into the opposite wall, keeping the knife down by his side, knowing he had to keep this man alive.
But the gunman didn’t let go of the gun, even when he hit the wall with a hard thump. Instead it went off with a loud pop, putting a bullet in the ceiling. The gunman was carrying a lot of weight-training muscle and, with an angry roar, he tried to throw Scope off him. But Scope was fit and strong himself, and he held his ground, driving his head into the gunman’s chin, before bringing up his knife and pushing the blade against his throat.
Out of the corner of his eye, Scope saw the woman remove the bag and jump from the bed, heading to the door. He didn’t get a good look at her, but from her long blonde hair he guessed it was Orla. However, that momentary lapse in concentration cost him. The gunman shoved him hard, and Scope saw him flicking the wrist on his free arm. A half second later a wicked-looking four-inch blade shot out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket, its tip only a couple of inches from Scope’s gut.
Instinctively he jumped backwards, letting go of the gun arm and only just managing to avoid the blade as it swung in a vicious little arc at belly height. The gunman brought the gun back round to aim at Scope, trying to steady himself after the knife-lunge. But Scope was quicker. Keeping low, he leaped at the gunman, using his body weight to trap his knife arm in front of him, and drove his own knife deep into his gunman’s side, trying to knock the gun out of the way at the same time.
The gun went off near Scope’s ear, the bullet passing very close by. But already the gunman was weakening as the life seeped out of him. The gun clattered to the floor and, as Scope pulled out the knife, the gunman slipped down the wall into a sitting position, his eyes staring helplessly, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. A low moan escaped from his throat, and he tried to get up, but no longer had the strength.
Scope felt sick. A knife was a hugely personal way of taking someone out. There was something barbaric about it that he knew diminished him as a human being, but there was no time to think about that now. He crouched down, so his face was only inches away from the gunman’s, seeing him properly for the first time. He was mid-to late thirties and spray-tanned, with a thick head of dark, curly hair that looked dyed, and a face that would probably have been described as boyishly handsome a few years ago, but which was now tight and drawn, from a combination of hard living and cheap Botox. Even the gym muscles looked fake, as if they’d been Photoshopped onto him.
‘Where’s the boy?’ demanded Scope. ‘Where’s Max?’ The guy had to know, he was sure of it. Orla’s attempted murder, and the timing of it, was no coincidence.
The gunman turned his head slowly, a mixture of hatred and surprise in his eyes. ‘Fuck you,’ he whispered defiantly.
Scope grabbed him by the hair and pushed the blade hard against his cheek, drawing blood. ‘Tell me.’
But the gunman’s eyelids were flickering and, as Scope held him, his eyes shut altogether and his head slumped to one side. Scope hurriedly felt for a pulse and got something very faint, but even as he held his finger there, it faded away. He let the knife fall to the floor, knowing there was no way it could be traced back to him. He’d bought it in cash years ago from a shop in France and it looked like a million other hunting knives.
Even so, what had just happened was a bad development, on a number of different levels. With one of those involved in his kidnapping dead, Max was suddenly in a lot more danger. Orla was gone too. The flat door was wide open where he’d kicked it and he could no longer hear her in the house.
Scope cursed. He needed leads, and he needed them badly, but he had very little time. The gunshots hadn’t made that much noise, but they would definitely have alerted people in the other flats. Moving fast, he rifled through the gunman’s pockets, finding a wallet, keys and a mobile phone. The wallet didn’t tell him anything. There was about three hundred in cash, a wrap of white powder that was probably coke, and nothing else. Scope threw it on the floor and put the keys and the phone in his jacket, along with the dead man’s gun – an old Webley .22 that still contained three rounds in the chamber.
There were two wine glasses on the bedside table, both of them overturned. This meant that Orla knew her attacker and had let him in. Scope searched the table drawer, found nothing of use, but then spotted a handbag on the floor over the other side of the bed. As he picked it up, he heard an unfamiliar ringtone coming from his jacket pocket. It was the mobile he’d taken from the gunman and the screen was showing that the number calling was blocked.
Scope pressed the Answer button. ‘Who’s this?’ he grunted, trying to disguise his voice.
‘Who the fuck do you think it is?’ said the voice on the other end of the phone – male, middle-aged and sounding stressed. ‘It’s Frank. What’s going on? We’ve had reports of gunfire coming from inside her flat. The ARVs are already being scrambled. Are you stil
l there?’
‘Just leaving now.’
‘Is she dead?’
Scope didn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Now get the fuck out of there, and fast.’
The caller cut the connection, and Scope pulled back the curtain an inch. His heart sank.
As he watched, two cop cars pulled up on the street directly below him, and the first officer out was holding a Heckler & Koch MP5. It seemed the big guns had arrived.
Scope let the curtain fall back, feeling the adrenalin pumping through his system.
He was trapped.
Part Two
Last Night
9
10.26 p.m.
Taking one last look at the man he’d just killed, Scope shoved Orla’s handbag into the waistband of his jeans and turned and ran out of the bedroom. As he passed the flat’s front door, he heard the sound of heavy footfalls coming up the stairs. It was the police and they’d be in here in seconds. He grabbed a kitchen stool and used it to prop the door shut, then ran past the kitchen and into the small, cramped lounge at the back. The light was off and he almost tripped over a chair as he yanked open the rear window, knowing that if there were already police out the back then he was finished.
But twelve feet below him the back garden was empty. It backed onto an alleyway that bisected the row of houses he was currently in from the houses that faced onto the next street. It also looked empty, but that was going to change very soon, if the sound of the approaching sirens was anything to go by.
There was a loud bang on the flat door. ‘Armed police. Open up now or we are coming in!’ shouted a testosterone-fuelled voice from outside.
Ignoring him, Scope climbed out the window, swung round and dropped down to the unkempt lawn at the back of the house, putting out an arm to steady himself as he landed softly. Right now he was riding his luck. He just needed it to hold a few minutes longer.
Running across the garden, he unbolted the back gate and sprinted down the alley, not daring to look back. There was a high, spiked gate built into an arch at the end, which he knew would be locked and impossible to get past. Even as he ran towards it, a marked police patrol car pulled up on the far side of the alley. They were trying to cut off every escape route.
Scope didn’t panic. Panic was the enemy. If you kept calm you could get through anything. Even this.
Fifteen yards separated him from the patrol car, but as its doors swung open and the cops emerged, he scrambled over a wall into someone’s back garden, confident that he hadn’t been seen. The sirens were coming from all directions now, and lights were coming on in various houses as he vaulted another fence, then another, before landing in the garden of the end terrace house. They had a shed near the house and he scrambled onto it, heaving himself up onto the high wall that bordered the street. He could see the patrol car that had pulled up next to the spiked gate at the end of the alley, but not the cops, who he assumed were trying to open it. Otherwise the street was empty.
Keeping his breathing as regular as possible, he climbed over the wall and dropped down to the street, before crossing the road and breaking into a run, staying low as he used the parked cars for cover, pulling off his gloves at the same time. He was conscious of his heart hammering in his chest as the adrenalin coursed through him, knowing that if he was caught now, he wouldn’t be seeing the outside of a prison cell for years and years. But the fear exhilarated him. It gave him purpose.
He ducked right down as another patrol car came hurtling past him, lights flashing, as it headed for the murder scene, then stood back up and crossed the road again as he came to the street where he’d parked his car.
Which was when he saw a woman with long blonde hair getting into a Saab convertible about twenty yards further up on the other side.
It was Orla, and it didn’t look like she’d spotted him.
Scope broke into a sprint as she switched on the engine and reversed a couple of feet to give herself space before pulling out into the road.
Only five yards separated them now, but as Orla straightened up she must have spotted Scope, because she accelerated away, changing into second gear. But Scope was already alongside the Saab and he grabbed the handle, pulled open the door and dived head-first inside, smacking his skull against the dashboard as Orla let out a high-pitched scream.
Falling back in the seat, Scope managed to shut the door as she screeched to a halt at the junction.
‘Drive, for Christ’s sake, I’m on your side!’ he yelled, turning towards her. ‘And I’ve got your handbag.’
She gave him an uncertain look and he could see the fear in her eyes. It was Orla all right, but she looked younger than she did in the photo he’d seen.
‘Go on,’ he demanded. ‘If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now.’
She seemed to accept this and swung the wheel left, pulling out onto the road and accelerating.
Up ahead, Scope saw a car with flashing blue lights racing towards them. Quickly he slid off the seat and crouched down in the gap, wishing Orla drove a more spacious car. She started slowing up, then brought it to a halt.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘It’s the police, they’re blocking the road.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘They’re coming over.’
Scope felt his chest tighten. There was no way he was prepared to kill a cop. He’d never be able to live with himself – even if failing to do so meant he ended up behind bars for the next twenty years. ‘Don’t give me up,’ he whispered. ‘I’m the only one who can help you right now, and I know all about Tim Horton.’ He saw her flinch when he said this and, realizing he was going to have to rely on her, he pulled off his jacket and covered himself with it.
He heard Orla let down the driver’s window. ‘Is everything okay, Officer?’ she asked, sounding like she was leaning out the window. Her accent was middle-class Home Counties, not what Scope was expecting at all. ‘I’m not doing anything illegal, am I?’
Scope heard the cop reply but couldn’t make out what he was saying. He held his breath, fighting the urge to jump out of the car and run.
‘I haven’t seen anyone like that,’ she answered. ‘I’m just on my way home.’
The cop said something else, and then Scope heard the window going back up and the car pulled away.
‘Stay down for now,’ she told him as the car picked up speed.
A minute passed. Then two. Finally he pulled the jacket away from his head and sat back up in the seat.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.
Even in the dim light of the car, Scope could see she was very pretty, with sleek, angular features and high cheekbones. Her eyes were big and oval-shaped, their colour a pale, gleaming blue. It was no wonder Tim had been attracted to her.
‘I’m trying to find Tim Horton’s son. The people you’ve been working for have kidnapped him. He’s seven years old.’
‘You’re bullshitting me. Why would they do that?’
‘They’re using him to blackmail Tim. He’s a senior politician, for Christ’s sake, and men like him make very useful targets. I’m just trying to get his son back. He gave me your name and address, and I was coming there to talk to you. It’s a good thing I turned up when I did.’
Orla took a deep breath. ‘I can’t believe he tried to kill me.’
‘Who’s he?’
She glared at him. ‘I don’t know who you are, so why should I tell you anything?’
‘Because I saved your life, and right now you’re in a lot of trouble. Whether you like it or not, you’re involved in the abduction of a child. I’ll tell you something else too. When they snatched Tim’s son, Max, they murdered his nanny.’
‘I had nothing to do with any of that,’ she protested angrily. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt a kid.’
‘Well, you already have done, because the kidnappers could never have done it without you. But now you’ve got the chance to help me find him. Who was the man who was tryin
g to kill you?’
Orla was shaking, but Scope resisted feeling too sorry for her. Instead, he waited for her to speak.
‘His name’s Phil Vermont,’ she said eventually. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’
‘And was he the one who put you on to Tim Horton?’
She nodded. ‘But I didn’t know what Phil was going to do. I just thought we were running a scam on Tim.’ She paused. ‘We’ve done it before a couple of times. I meet a rich married man in a bar, start an affair, then we, er … we tap him for money. I thought it was going to be the same this time. But then Phil came round tonight and … Well, you saw what he was trying to do.’
‘It was risky trying to kill you in your flat.’
‘It’s not actually my flat. It’s just a short-term let that Phil sorted out, so that I had somewhere to take Tim back to. He didn’t like doing it in hotels, you see.’
‘How long were you seeing Tim for?’
‘A couple of months. Much longer than usual. I should have known something was up. Phil wanted me to get loads of info on Tim. He even wanted the alarm code on his house, and for me to get copies of his front-door keys.’ She shook her head. ‘Christ, I’ve fucked up so badly. I thought Phil loved me. I thought we were only doing this sort of thing to help clear his debts, then we could be together properly.’ She looked at Scope and he saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘What happened to him back there? Is he okay?’
Scope knew he had no choice but to tell her the truth. She was going to find out soon enough. ‘He tried to kill me. I killed him.’
Orla pulled over, her hands shaking on the steering wheel. ‘He’s dead?’
Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories Page 4
