Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller)

by Rachel Amphlett

  ‘So far.’ Porchester nodded. ‘And that’s the way we want to keep it. If word gets out that we’ve managed to lose a consignment of radioactive material before we’ve even begun the fracking programme, the public are going to crucify us.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Not only that, Prime Minister, but I’ve been going over the financial projections for this work, and I must again warn you that the costs of fracking for shale commodities far outweigh the benefits while OPEC continue to over-supply on oil.’

  The Prime Minister sighed. ‘The oil price will sky-rocket again, Hugh, I can promise you that. As soon as the Saudis and their cronies have proven their point to the United States and ensured any shale gas projects in North America are declared non-viable, we’ll be back to square one.’

  ‘Which brings me on to the other matter I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Porchester. ‘Think of it as a back-up plan, if you like.’

  The Prime Minister’s eyebrows knitted together as he listened.

  Porchester ploughed on, despite the other man’s increasing look of incredulity as he spoke.

  ‘So, you see,’ he ended, ignoring the sweat he could feel trickling between his shoulders, ‘if we can introduce this into the discussions with the other member States, we place ourselves in a very strong position with voters.’

  The Prime Minister blinked. ‘Exactly how did you manage to come to that conclusion?’

  ‘Well, looking at the results from the last election and opinion polls carried out over the past two months, much of your ongoing support comes from the older generation,’ said Porchester. He cleared his throat. ‘Much less from, say, the eighteen to twenty-five-year-old age group.’ He glanced up from his notes. ‘So, the people faced with increased fuel bills leading up to and into their retirement would probably support such a notion.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hugh?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I think it’s probably best you leave the discussions to me and my delegates, don’t you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  The Prime Minister shook his head. ‘I take your point about cheaper fuel, Hugh, but what you’re suggesting is preposterous. I’ll be a laughing stock in The Hague.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Hugh. That’s my final word on the matter, understood?’

  Porchester sighed. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good. Now, for Christ’s sake – find that isotope before the press get wind of it.’

  The Prime Minister leaned forward, pressed a button on the keyboard in front of him, and the screen went black.

  Porchester copied the motion, ensuring the camera in front of him was switched off, and then leaned back in his chair and wiped at his forehead with a shaking hand.

  ‘Shit.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Alan Wright licked his lips, slowly opened his eyes, and groaned.

  He turned his head, fighting the nausea that immediately welled in his stomach, and then rolled to his side and lifted his head.

  It was later than he’d imagined; the sparse street lighting outside cast shadows against the opposite building.

  He swallowed, his throat parched, and reached out for the water bottle he’d left next to his makeshift pillow.

  Empty.

  He cursed and then eased up into a sitting position. He checked over his shoulder, and his heart lurched.

  More hair covered the old jacket he’d been lying on.

  Alan sniffed the air; he stank and hated himself for it. Once, he’d been a proud man. That was before his gambling had destroyed his life, his wife walked out, their young daughter in tow, and the bank took their home.

  A convulsion shook him, taking him by surprise, and he cried out at its viciousness. Pain shot through his abdomen and crawled up his spine.

  No more excuses, he thought. Hospital. Now.

  The thought of dying, alone, in the abandoned warehouse was enough to make him stagger to his feet, grabbing onto a steel supporting pillar while the wave of dizziness threatened to knock him to the ground.

  He reached into the top pocket of his threadbare cotton shirt, his fingers brushing against the welfare identification card that he’d retrieved from behind a broken brick in the warehouse wall the previous night. He didn’t usually carry it around with him, its significance to a would-be thief too evident. It was his last tentative thread to the real world, and he wanted it with him when he got to the hospital. It was the only way they’d be able to contact his wife. If he lost the identification card, they’d never connect the dots in time.

  He desperately wanted to see her, to apologise, if he got the chance.

  He coughed, a wracking spasm that made him double over in pain. While he caught his breath, he cast his eyes around the mezzanine level, looking for something to lean on. There was no way he’d be able to walk to the hospital unaided.

  His gaze fell to a piece of timber that had been discarded alongside one wall, and he shuffled towards it, fighting the urge to return to his bed and curl up.

  I don’t want to die like this.

  And he was dying; he had no doubt of that.

  He’d ruled out food poisoning several hours ago. Whatever the two men had taken from the vehicle yesterday had made him sick; he was sure of it.

  If it was something that had been in the building that was causing his symptoms, word would have gotten out onto the street. The homeless looked out for each other like that, and the warehouse would’ve been avoided.

  No, those two men were hiding something.

  He groaned as he leaned down, his fingers brushing the surface of the timber. As his grip tightened, another bout of nausea consumed him, and he turned his head to one side just in time.

  Panting, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, before forcing himself upright. He turned and began to stagger towards the steel staircase that led down to the warehouse level, his pace slowing as he reached the top step.

  What if I break my neck?

  A manic gasp of laughter escaped his lips as he realised a broken neck was the least of his worries.

  He made his way down the staircase, one tread at a time. By the time he reached the warehouse level, sweat was pooling at his collar, bubbling at his forehead.

  He paused to get his breath back, his lungs clawing for oxygen in the stale air. He leaned on the piece of timber, squared his shoulders, and shuffled towards a metal panel behind the staircase.

  It was how he’d first entered the building. The doors had been chained and bolted by the owners, or whomever the two men had obtained their garage door key from, but he’d noticed a panel bent backwards on one of his regular walks through the estate. Taking advantage, he had peeled it back, crawled through the gap, and found his new temporary home.

  Now, he pushed the panel away and threw the piece of timber onto the pockmarked asphalt beyond before getting down on his hands and knees.

  He was through the gap and outside the warehouse, cowering under the halo of a streetlight, before he realised he was crying.

  ***

  Heather Stevens shoved her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket and scowled, kicking her heel against the kerb.

  It was bad enough that her salary was so crap she had to rely on public transport; it was even more annoying when the bus was running late, and she had to be home within the hour before the babysitter’s fees doubled.

  She shrugged her handbag farther up her shoulder and sighed.

  Sometimes, she wondered if walking out on her husband had been the right thing to do, but then she recalled the years of abuse and reminded herself she wanted a better future for her daughter.

  She shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep warm in the cool night air, before she became aware of movement off to her right.

  A man shuffled towards her, his gait unsteady. His hair appeared to stick out on end in great tufts, and his clothes resembled the rags she kept in a box under the kitchen si
nk at home for when she was doing housework.

  She swallowed, her heartbeat going up a notch as she gripped the strap of her bag, and then glanced back the other way.

  Traffic rumbled past in each direction, but it was a busy road, and none of the drivers would be able to see if she was in trouble.

  A group of people were walking slowly in her direction, but they were still several metres away, laughing and joking.

  A sudden longing to be out with her friends, having a good meal and a giggle on the way home crossed her mind, before she turned her attention back to the homeless man.

  In time to see him collapse onto the pavement.

  Heather ran towards him before she’d even had time to question her own sanity in approaching a complete stranger who could be drunk or, worse, under the effects of drugs.

  Instead, as she neared him, she dropped her bag to the ground and pulled out her mobile phone, dialling the emergency services as she felt under the man’s collar.

  His pulse was weak, faint – but there.

  She punched the button for the loudspeaker, placed the phone on the pavement next to her knees, and rolled the man over into the recovery position.

  She wasted no time when the operator answered.

  ‘My name’s Heather Stevens. I’m a cleaner at East City Hospital,’ she said, retrieving the phone and putting it to her ear. ‘I’m on the junction of Belvedere and Grange. I’ve got a man here with me who needs an ambulance – now.’

  She rattled off the few details, her basic first aid training locking in as she swept her gaze over the man’s still form, ignoring the questions of passers-by that now stopped and stared.

  She glared at them over her shoulder.

  ‘Will you give him some room?’ she snapped. ‘Unless one of you is a doctor, get out of the way – you’ll block the ambulance’s view, and they won’t see him.’

  The small crowd dispersed, evidently happy they wouldn’t have to help.

  ‘Sorry – crowd control,’ she mumbled into the phone. ‘How far away are they?’

  She listened as the dispatcher informed her that an ambulance was leaving the hospital forecourt immediately and asked her to stay on the line until they reached her.

  ‘Understood.’

  She crouched closer to the man, listening as the dispatcher relayed her location to the ambulance crew, their siren now audible at the far end of the road.

  ‘Who are you?’ she murmured.

  She leaned forward, wrinkled her nose, and methodically searched the man’s pockets.

  He stank, and she wasn’t sure if it was a permanent feature of his or one caused by his current ailment – whatever that was.

  Finally, in a pocket that had been re-stitched to the front of his shirt, she found something.

  Turning it over between her fingers, she read the front of the card.

  ‘Alan Wright, eh?’ she said. ‘You poor bastard. What happened to you?’

  She sat back on her heels, the emergency vehicle’s flashing lights in her peripheral vision as it bore down towards them, scattering traffic and pedestrians in its way with an extra blast on the siren by the driver.

  Tucking his identification back into the man’s pocket, she frowned, and leaned forward once more, her interest piqued.

  Blisters covered the man’s hands, and as she pushed his sleeve up his arm, the raw pustules continued.

  She snatched her hand away, the sudden thought that he might be contagious leaving her mouth dry.

  The ambulance slid to a halt at the kerb next to her, and she looked up at the sound of running feet.

  ‘They’re here,’ she said to the dispatcher and ended the call before standing up and facing the paramedic.

  ‘We’ll take it from here, thanks,’ he said.

  Heather stepped back as he and his colleague began slipping gloves over their hands, before pulling a stretcher over the pavement towards their patient.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, tugging the paramedic’s sleeve. ‘I think you need to be careful. There’s something wrong with his skin.’

  The man frowned. ‘His skin?’

  He stepped past her, crouched down next to the tramp, and gently lifted the sleeve away from his arm.

  Heather saw him bite his lip, and then he placed the man’s arm across his chest and straightened.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said and pushed past her, climbing back into the vehicle and slamming the door shut.

  Heather watched as the young paramedic spoke into his radio, his tone urgent.

  His words were muffled through the closed door, but she caught his eye when he turned his gaze in her direction, a worried look on his face. He appeared to listen to instructions and then spoke once more and hung the radio in its cradle.

  She stepped back as the door opened. ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘What’s going on?’

  She frowned. He looked scared and paused as if unsure what to say to her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you’re going to have to come with us, too.’

  ‘Why?’ Heather’s fingers tightened around the strap of her handbag. ‘I mean, I can’t – I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to get back before the babysitter’s fees go up,’ she said and then bit her lip, realising how she must sound. ‘Why?’

  ‘Those are my orders,’ said the paramedic. ‘Look, I’m sorry – but they want us all to report for a check-up as soon as we get our patient to the hospital.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Malikov glanced up from the latest report and frowned at the shouting that began emanating from the living area of the house.

  After a few minutes, it appeared that the argument hadn’t subsided, so he threw his glasses onto the desk, pushed back his chair, and stalked towards the noise.

  Two of the security men stood in the hallway, their jaws set, hands on weapons as they guarded the front door and tried not to show their interest in the raised voices.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ growled Malikov.

  It was unusual for Krupin to lose his temper. If he did, he could be unpredictable, something Malikov couldn’t risk. Not now.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ replied one of the guards. ‘It all started when Alexsei Krupin entered the room. The others were watching something on television, and then the shouting began.’

  The two men stood aside to let him pass, and Malikov pushed the door open. He repeated his question.

  ‘What the fuck is going on in here?’

  Five faces turned to him. One didn’t.

  Krupin.

  Instead, he continued to glare at the man in front of him, their noses almost touching. The other man’s face was red with anger, veins sticking out at his forehead, and spittle on his chin.

  ‘Alexsei? What is going on?’

  In reply, Krupin held up a mobile phone. ‘This idiot left his mobile phone upstairs,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Malikov swallowed. ‘Were any calls made from it?’

  Krupin shook his head.

  Malikov allowed a sigh of relief to escape his lips, and he finally pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead, before carefully folding the silk square and putting it away.

  ‘I thought I made it clear when we began this operation that no mobile phones were to be left lying around? Were my instructions not clear enough?’

  The four men standing nearest the walls of the living room nodded and tried without success to avoid his gaze.

  Malikov glared at the fifth man, whose composure was slowly slipping away, his arrogance and anger turning to fear.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Malikov,’ said the man. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘No,’ said Malikov. ‘You are right. It won’t.’

  He took Krupin’s gun from him, and shot the man in the chest.

  ‘I’ll see you in my office,’ said Malikov, handing the gun back to Krupin. ‘Now.’

  He made his w
ay back to his room and helped himself to a large whiskey, took a sip, and placed the tumbler on his desk.

  He rolled up his shirtsleeves and spun the laptop computer round as Krupin entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘We may need a change of plan,’ said Malikov and pointed at the computer screen. ‘I just received this.’

  Krupin picked up the laptop and read the short message. He checked his watch.

  ‘Nothing will happen tonight,’ he said. ‘There will be paperwork, too many people involved.’

  ‘How could this have happened?’

  Krupin shrugged. ‘They were careless.’

  Malikov fought down his frustration and clenched his fists. ‘You assured me they were competent.’

  ‘They are,’ said Krupin. He placed the laptop back on the desk. ‘I’m sure there is an explanation.’

  Malikov held up his hand. ‘It’s too late for that. We sever all communication with them, now.’

  ‘And achieve what?’ demanded Krupin. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘We still have bargaining power.’

  ‘And we’ll use it,’ said Malikov. ‘But I need assurances that this won’t come back to me.’ He pointed at the message on the screen. ‘And, at the moment, he’s the only one that knows.’

  Krupin pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Let me make some calls,’ he said. ‘But, please, Vasili – be patient. It’s not going to take long now.’

  Malikov picked up his drink and glared at Krupin over the rim of the glass.

  ‘Don’t lecture me on patience, Alexsei,’ he warned. ‘I’ve been waiting twenty years for this.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Dan snorted, his vision blurred, and then he jerked his head upright, his mobile phone ringing in his ear from its perch on the bedside table.

  He extracted his arm from under Sarah’s slumbering body and rolled over, pressing the ‘answer’ button before it went to voicemail.

  ‘Mel? What time is it?’

  ‘Three a.m.’