Spare Me the Truth

by CJ Carver

  Sweat trickled down Dan’s back. He concentrated on keeping his pace steady.

  Only twenty yards to go.

  He felt a nudge on his calf from one of the dogs’ muzzles. He ignored it.

  Another nudge.

  He kept walking. Only ten yards to go.

  As soon as his feet touched the bottom step, the dogs stopped. Dan turned and looked at them. Heads cocked, they looked back, tongues lolling. He realised their stumpy tails were ticking from side to side. Tick-tock. A slow wag.

  ‘I wouldn’t let them fool you.’ A voice spoke behind him. Heavily accented Albanian. ‘A kid came over the fence last month looking to steal something and ended up in hospital having his face rebuilt.’

  ‘They’re handsome creatures,’ Dan said, knowing dog owners were invariably proud of their dogs. ‘Very strong.’

  ‘They have a bite pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Please, come inside.’

  The man bore a striking resemblance to his dogs. He was short and powerful with a wide head and powerful jaw. His hair was thick and brown, his lips fleshy. He was handsome in a muscular, bull-like fashion. He studied Dan with interest through cold grey eyes. He said, ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Besnik Kolcei,’ said Dan.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. But you can’t remember, can you?’

  ‘Who told you that? Jacks?’

  Besnik turned and walked away, not looking back.

  Dan’s chest tightened. Had this man killed his son? He had no memory of the man and no subconscious instinct either. Not a single thing to help guide him.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Besnik called out. ‘The red carpet?’

  Sheathing his miniature knife, Dan followed him through a hall and into a room filled with rows of metal shelves overflowing with items. There were china figurines, tools, pen-holders, pewter mugs, trophies, stereo speakers, books. Besnik walked through a door at the far end, passing a flight of stone steps leading to a basement. As Dan passed, he heard a man screaming. All the hairs rose on his body. He said, ‘What’s that noise?’

  Besnik paused to listen. Then he brought out a phone. He spoke into it as he walked.

  ‘Shut our guest up. He’s making a row.’

  Dan tasted acid in his mouth.

  He swallowed hard.

  He mustn’t forget why he was here. He had to keep his focus. He could do something about the man screaming later.

  He followed Besnik to the rear of the building and up a flight of stairs. He glanced outside, expecting to see the dogs, maybe one of Besnik’s thugs, but instead he spotted a small, lithe figure slipping between two shipping crates. It was only a glimpse, but the lightness of step reminded him of Savannah.

  On the second floor Besnik opened a door and showed Dan inside. Deep green carpet, dark wood desk and chairs, gilt-edged pictures on the walls, it felt like a club room if it hadn’t been for the two goons with thick necks and swollen knuckles standing to one side. While Besnik moved to sit behind his desk, Dan went to the windows, looking for the slight figure outside but didn’t see anybody. He glanced round to see the goons had taken up position in front of the door. To keep him in or stop others from entering, he couldn’t tell.

  He heard the click of a lighter as Besnik lit a cigarette. ‘What do you want, Mr Forrester?’

  ‘It’s about Gabriel.’

  Besnik’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I want to know where the handover is going to take place tomorrow. To your Daesh buyers.’

  For a moment Besnik stared. Then he gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘You haven’t changed, have you? Still got balls the size of watermelons.’

  ‘I also want to know who Cedric is.’

  Besnik laughed harder but there was no humour in the sound. ‘You cannot be serious.’ He looked over at his goons. ‘He lost his memory and now he thinks he is a comedian.’

  The goons looked straight ahead. They didn’t respond.

  ‘In return for this information,’ Dan said, ‘I will allow you to retain your British citizenship.’

  Besnik stilled.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that when the Home Office finds out about your past deals with a Russian arms broker in an attempt to win arms contracts from Assad’s regime in Syria, they won’t be best pleased. They will revoke your citizenship and you will have to leave the country, permanently.’

  ‘Lies,’ Besnik said with a flick of the hand.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Imad Mansoor. He’s willing to testify.’

  Besnik stared.

  ‘He’ll be a star witness in the case,’ Dan continued conversationally. ‘His documents note that a key part of his income came from you wanting to secure a deal to supply cluster weapons to Bashar al-Assad.’

  Besnik leaned back, seemingly expansive and confident, but his eyes began flickering fast, indicating he was thinking about how to respond. Leaning forward once more, he tapped a length of ash into the ashtray on his desk. He said, ‘Mansoor is dispensable.’

  ‘Oh, how predictable.’ Dan curved his mouth into a smile. ‘Which is why we brought him over here first, before you could get to him.’ Dan was bluffing, but Besnik couldn’t be sure he wasn’t telling the truth.

  A long silence followed, during which Dan looked at Besnik and the Albanian arms dealer looked back.

  ‘I think you’ve been talking to Nicola,’ said Besnik.

  Dan said, ‘Who?’ He injected his tone with uncertainty.

  Again, Besnik considered Dan. ‘Nicola is my darling wife and mother of my children.’

  He’d said wife, not ex-wife. Dan didn’t remark on it. Just said, ‘I didn’t know you were married.’

  Another long silence during which Besnik smoked his cigarette.

  ‘I’m not sure I can trust you, Dan Forrester, or anything you say. You’re a slippery customer who has already cost my organisation dearly. I think you have another agenda. Tell me, why are you really here?’

  ‘I think you already know.’

  ‘But if you don’t remember what happened, why does it matter?’

  Dan walked to the desk. He put his hands flat on its surface and leaned across. ‘Because you killed my son.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  ‘Ah,’ said Besnik.’ He lit another cigarette and exhaled, watching Dan carefully. ‘Now we get to it. Who told you?’

  Dan ignored him. ‘You killed him to warn others like me to leave you alone.’

  ‘Correct.’ The grey eyes held his without remorse.

  ‘You tortured my boy.’ This time, Dan’s voice shook.

  ‘And I forced you to watch every second. Is this what you want to hear?’

  A pain started behind Dan’s eyes. He remembered the post-mortem report. Luke Forrester. Three years old. Died of multiple wounds . . . A broken back, a three-inch gash on his forehead, a seven-inch gash in his scalp, a skull fracture, brain swelling, a lacerated liver and fractured pelvis and broken leg.

  Dan made himself breathe.

  ‘It sent you mad.’ Besnik gave a slow smile. ‘And since then, I haven’t seen a single one of your little grey men.’ The smile broadened. His voice was laced with triumph. ‘MI5. Gutless, spineless, ready to run away at the first opportunity.’

  Dan laughed.

  ‘Something is funny?’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Dan shook his head. ‘You really believe that? You really think we’d leave a cope muti like you alone?’ The Albanian tripped off his tongue easily. Piece of shit. ‘Someone’s been telling you porkies, because I had drinks with the Director General earlier and he told me he has two people in place and has had since I left the Service. How do you think I found you?’

  ‘You lie. I know all my men. They are family. None are traitors.’

  Dan leaned back and folded his arms. Raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d think a bit more carefully about where your team came from originally,
if I were you.’

  ‘They are all Albanian.’ Besnik flicked his hand arrogantly. ‘Loyal to me.’

  ‘And all Albanians have no interest in protecting themselves with the authorities and making a shit-load of money on the side, am I right?’

  Besnik smoked his cigarette in silence, watching him. Then he crushed his cigarette out. He said, ‘Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.’

  ‘I know,’ Dan said as if he’d just had a brilliant idea, ‘you tell me the details of Gabriel’s handover, who Cedric is, and I won’t kill you.’

  ‘Mr Forrester.’ Besnik sighed as though bored. ‘I think you should be careful how you proceed. You have your wife and daughter to think about, and –’

  It was the mention of Aimee that did it. One moment Dan was standing there, calm, controlled, the next a red cloud descended over him, sending his blood pressure through the roof. Pure rage scorched into every cell of his body. Blindly, driven by a primal fury he never knew he had, he launched himself across the desk. He piled into Besnik so hard the man toppled off his chair and crashed to the floor. Dan went with him. Besnik twisted, slamming his fist against the side of Dan’s face, making Dan’s ears ring but it didn’t stop him from bringing his head back and ramming his forehead as hard as he could straight into Besnik’s face.

  Gristle and bone crunched. Blood sprayed.

  Dan brought his head back again, wanting to pulverise Besnik’s face, smash it into pieces, but his arms were grabbed and yanked behind his back and he was being hauled upright. He jerked aside, breaking free briefly to punch one man in the face. The man reeled back and as Dan brought up his knee to ram it into his groin, the other man slammed him aside, sending him sprawling.

  The same man kicked him in the stomach. The breath rushed out of him and he curled up on the floor, wheezing, desperately trying to draw breath. As he fought to haul oxygen into his lungs, he tried to reach for his little hidden knife, but another kick in the side of his head immobilised him. He felt his face dig into the carpet briefly as he was turned onto his back.

  Besnik staggered to his feet, clutching his nose, coughing blood.

  ‘You fuck,’ he said. His voice was fragmented.

  Dan lay quietly, riding the pain.

  Then Besnik nodded at his goons.

  The first kick caught him high in the ribs. He rolled into a foetal position, trying to protect his stomach, his organs, his groin.

  The second kick crushed his kidneys, making him cry out. The two men continued to kick him. Besnik joined in.

  A kick caught him on the back of his skull. He felt a wave of nausea pass through him and then he vomited. He tried to raise his head away from the mess but couldn’t.

  The men grunted with the effort of kicking him again and again.

  Dan didn’t see the kick which smashed into the side of his head. The impact caused stars to explode behind his eyes. A deep ringing vibrated through his head and into his body.

  The two men grabbed his wrists. He was aware of being dragged across the floor, head lolling. He faded in and out of consciousness as he was lugged down one set of stairs, and then another. A cool earthy smell. The basement.

  He heard banging in the distance. A man shouting.

  The sound of bolts being pulled back.

  More shouting, but the voices suddenly vanished, as though someone had punched the mute button.

  He was on the floor and looking at an industrial-sized lamp dangling from the ceiling. A man’s face came into view. Eyes wide, panicky. He was saying something but Dan couldn’t hear through the pain. He closed his eyes.

  The pain went away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Tim didn’t know the man they dumped in his cell, or what he’d done, but he hoped he wasn’t going to suffer the same fate. The man was a mess. His face was already starting to swell and bruise. His eyes were puffy, his knuckles bleeding. His jacket was torn and covered in vomit. Blood was spattered everywhere.

  Tim felt a moment’s admiration for the guy. He’d obviously put up a fight.

  He squatted next to him and did his best to make him more comfortable. The thugs hadn’t cared how the man had fallen when they’d dropped him and now Tim cautiously adjusted the man’s limbs so they wouldn’t stiffen into awkward positions. He wasn’t a doctor but he knew he had to be careful, in case anything was broken. He was grateful the man was unconscious; he didn’t want to cause him any more pain.

  When he moved the man’s leg, twisted at a painful angle, Tim felt something in the man’s pocket. He had a quick delve and brought out a car key, attached to a key chain holding what looked like a couple of house keys. His spirits rose. If he escaped he could press the unlock button on the car key and hopefully the car lights would blink so he could identify the right vehicle and he’d jump in and drive away.

  But first, he had to get out of this room.

  The door was bolted from the outside.

  No handle on the inside. No lock.

  No windows.

  No way of breaking out unless he had a stick of dynamite. He let out a shout of frustration. In desperation he brought out the keys hoping they might inspire him. If he had a month or two, he could dig his way through the door. He fiddled with the silver keychain to find it had a screw cap.

  He unscrewed the top.

  To his amazement he pulled out a knife.

  Tim assessed the miniature weapon. Stainless steel, the blade had a double-edged spear point with a plain edge.

  He turned it from side to side. He could do some serious damage with this if he hit the right part of an assailant’s body, like an eye or throat.

  He’d been so absorbed with the knife that it was only when a man called out that he realised someone was approaching. Hurriedly, he secreted the knife back into its sheath and pocketed the keys.

  The bolts clanged back and two thugs stepped inside. The same men who’d dumped the unconscious man inside the room earlier.

  One of the men jerked his head at him. ‘Come.’

  Tim didn’t wait to be asked again.

  Anything to get out of this room.

  One man walked ahead of him, the other behind, boxing him in as they walked down the corridor. They marched him up the stairs and through a room filled with junk. He looked through the windows to see a scrapyard outside. Then they were crossing a hall. A door was on his left, leading outside. He took a deep breath and made a rush for the door but the man ahead of him simply put out a hand and grabbed his collar and punched him in the side of the head. Stars exploded. He collapsed as though his legs were made of rubber.

  He was dragged across the hall and into a room. The door slammed shut. He heard a lock click into place.

  Head muzzy, he struggled up.

  He was in a storage room. Boxes of files, envelopes, electrical leads, old fax machines, typewriters. Things were looking up. They obviously thought he was of such little threat they were prepared to lock him up with a variety of items he could use against them. But he wasn’t harmless. He’d happily smash a typewriter over the thugs’ heads until their brains leaked on to the floor. He was a survivor. He’d show them.

  Tim looked at the door.

  His eyes widened.

  More good news.

  It had a keyhole.

  He brought out the key chain and its concealed knife and set to work.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Monday 3 December, 8.45 a.m.

  Grace had spent Sunday at home with Ross. She hadn’t been able to put him off any longer. When he’d arrived he’d taken one horrified look at her and demanded to know what was wrong.

  So she told him about her mother’s past, who she used to work for, but nothing else. Nothing about Sirius Thiele, or that the deadline was tomorrow, or that Martin would be in immense danger if she missed it. And she certainly didn’t mention anything about the possibility of her secret being exposed. She wasn’t going to say a word about that until she was well and truly pushed against th
e wire.

  Ross was almost as shaken as she’d been by the fact that her mother had lied to her for so long. Why hadn’t Mum trusted her? Or had she been protecting her? She was aware her mother couldn’t tell anyone she worked for the Security Service, but she was her daughter. Yes, some things now made sense, why her mother was always so reticent when talking about her work, why Grace had never been to her office, but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  She felt deceived and cheated and if her mother had been there, she would have been tempted to slap her. Anger and hurt and fear intermingled, along with a deep distress that she couldn’t continue her search for the money because Ross was there. When she told him she wasn’t feeling well, Ross tucked her up on the sofa with a duvet and the TV guide while he brought little treats to tempt her appetite.

  She wasn’t ill, but she was tired, every synapse and cell in her body fatigued. She’d only buried her mother a week ago, and in that time she’d been threatened by a man she’d never met before, tailed another man through the streets of London and discovered that her mother used to work for MI5. And to top all this off was the small fact that her name had been written on the reverse side of a list of victims targeted by the Cargo Killer.

  No wonder she was shattered.

  But being compelled to spend a day alternately napping and watching old movies, being tended by the man she loved, seemed to have helped, because when she awoke on Monday, she felt more energised and able to cope. She would get through this. After all, she had an MI5 officer for a mother, which meant she should have inherited some of her traits, like strength, confidence and resilience. She wasn’t sure she was as brave as her mother, though, but she’d do her best.

  When she kissed Ross goodbye, he’d looked relieved.

  ‘I was worried,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve never seen you so low.’

  ‘No thanks to Mum.’ Her tone was dry.

  ‘She was only guarding you. Personally, I think she was an amazing woman. Being a spook suited her.’ He smiled and gave her a kiss and a hug. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days. Ring me if you need me any sooner.’