by Tom Bale
‘This is going to put Tim’s nose out of joint.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’
‘Well, he’s always been ambitious. And if it came down to the two of us, I bet he’d fancy himself as the winning candidate.’
Denham nodded happily. ‘Let’s hope so, because then he’s liable to bugger off in a fit of pique.’
‘You don’t want to keep him?’
‘Give it a year, eighteen months at most, and we won’t need a service manager.’
‘Is that how long we’ve got?’
‘The end may come sooner still, if I’m made the right sort of offer.’
‘You’re selling—’ Dan began; and at last he understood. ‘But not as a going concern?’
‘Residential development, with some sheltered housing, that’s the likeliest option. I hope you won’t think too badly of me,’ Denham added gravely. ‘The staff will be looked after, I promise you that. Well, you’ll have a say, of course.’
‘Will I?’
‘Along with the post of general manager, I’m proposing to give you a share in the business. How does ten per cent sound?’
Dan was stunned. Perhaps misreading the look, Denham gave a dismissive wave. ‘Oh, it means nothing now. We’ve made fresh air for profits, the past few years. But come the sale, after fees and expenses, I expect we’ll realise about two million for the site.’
It was one of those silly cartoon moments, as though pound signs had appeared on Dan’s eyeballs. Ten per cent of two million was two hundred thousand pounds.
‘That should be enough to finance this business proposition of yours.’ He smiled at Dan’s incredulous expression. ‘As it happens, I thoroughly approve of a coffee shop. Low overheads, high margins, and best of all the online vultures and supermarkets can’t muscle in, because location is the key. Even in hard times folk like to treat themselves to a drink and a cake made for them by someone else.’ He winked at Dan. ‘In my retirement, I look forward to becoming a regular customer.’
****
Robbie stood up, shrugging off Jed’s help. A few people loitered nearby, one of his neighbours among them. Robbie had no idea how long they’d been there. The neighbour asked if he should call the police, but Robbie shook his head.
‘No real harm done,’ he said.
He trudged back to the flat, clutching the suitcase to his chest as if slow-dancing a lover. His suit was a write-off, covered in blood and torn at the elbow and knee. He stripped off, got back in the shower and carefully washed the blood from his face.
His elbow hurt like crazy, but there were no bones broken, and once he’d cleaned up none of his injuries was visible. That curious sense of elation persisted, perhaps because the beating hadn’t disrupted his plans in the slightest.
He put on another good suit, then came out into the hall and stopped dead. A battered old army-surplus kitbag stood by the front door. Jed emerged from his bedroom, wearing his green parka and carrying a rucksack. He saw Robbie’s expression and nodded.
‘I’m out of here.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Robbie was temporarily lost for words.
‘Seems like you’re getting yourself into all kinds of shit. I don’t wanna be around when it hits the fan.’
Robbie didn’t comment. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Pal in Swansea, for starters. So I’d appreciate some cash to tide us over. Let’s make it a grand.’
‘What?’
‘Golden handshake, sort of thing.’ Jed sniffed, aggressively. ‘I mean, to thank us for saving you from a kicking just now.’
Robbie wanted to say, They’d practically gone by the time you got there. But Jed had a mean look in his eyes.
‘I would, but I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘You’re a shit liar, Robbie. It’s sitting in your safe, that and a lot more besides.’
‘What? No, it’s n—’
‘6-8-4-3-1,’ Jed recited in a sing-song voice. ‘I could’ve cleaned you out whenever I wanted. Could’ve strolled away with the whole lot and left you in a bleeding heap on the pavement.’
Robbie was taken aback, but tried to recover. ‘All right. I appreciate that. The thing is, it’s not my money.’
Jed roared with laughter. ‘Since when did that ever stop you, ye cheeky bastard?’
CHAPTER 88
‘He’s binding us in.’ This was Patricia’s reaction to the call from Stemper.
On Sunday they had agreed with him that drastic action might be necessary. But it was one thing to discuss in theory; quite another to know the woman was coming here, right now. Their prisoner.
While Gordon could hardly move for the excitement, his wife was rather more measured. Shaking her head as Gordon tried to argue that there was nowhere else as suitable.
‘It’s about ensuring that we sink with him, if anything goes wrong.’ Then a harrumph. ‘If anything goes wrong. What am I saying? So far virtually everything has gone wrong.’
‘That’s not true. We’ve dealt with Jerry. We’ve identified our rivals. And now we have one of them in our possession ...’ Gordon decided it was safe to stand up. ‘I’d better get the room prepared.’
‘She’s not a house guest.’
‘Make it secure, I mean. Just in case ...’
She mistook his breathlessness for reticence. ‘I hope you’re not having second thoughts?’
‘I’m not. I promise.’
‘It’s what we agreed. A couple of lives, in exchange for all that good work ...’
‘More than a couple, potentially.’
‘But none of them exactly innocent. It’s still morally justified, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely.’ Earlier Gordon had been dreaming about his yacht, how occasionally he might enjoy a week away on his own – or, rather, minus Patricia. He wouldn’t be alone. One or two of his lady friends would accompany him. Or half a dozen, if the mood took him.
Moral justification didn’t come into it.
****
Stemper thought he might have trouble with the woman, but she turned out to be remarkably compliant. Once he had her in the car it was child’s play. He made her lie face down on the back seat, then tied her hands with a length of the nylon rope that he’d bought on Saturday.
She was warned that he would gag her if she screamed. She agreed to keep silent, and so she was, until they had driven out of Brighton and were heading north on the A23. At first her voice was dry with fear. She cleared her throat, made smacking noises with her tongue, and tried again.
‘Did you kill Martin?’
He was moderately impressed by the question. It showed a lawyer’s mind at work. A truthful answer would tell her a lot about who he was and what he was doing. And it seemed an unselfish enquiry, though there was a subtext: If you killed him, you might kill me.
‘What did the police say?’ he asked.
‘They have your description.’ Her tone now was overly confident: a bluff. ‘But no motive. They don’t understand why he died, and neither do I.’
‘You must have a theory, at least?’
‘No.’ The word emerged on a sob. ‘I haven’t a clue. But I promise, if you pull over somewhere and let me out, I won’t report you to the police. In any case, I can’t identify—’
‘I’m disappointed. I expected better from you.’
‘Please. I just think you’ve made a mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake. You’re Caitlin Scott, aren’t you? Sister of Robert?’
She gave a sigh of pure dejection. ‘What’s Robbie got to do with this?’
‘That,’ he said, ‘is what you need to tell us.’
****
Robbie. Somehow, directly or indirectly, it was her brother who had put Cate in this position.
DS Thomsett must have got it right, after a fashion. The two deaths were linked, and the link couldn’t just be her, or Robbie. It had to be Hank O’Brien.
But why had she and Martin been targeted, if it was Robbie they want
ed?
Presumably she would find out, if she was being taken somewhere to be questioned. That sparked a new kind of terror, not so much numbing as galvanising, because she realised she had nothing to lose. She couldn’t believe she’d been so weak, so passive before.
She lay still, listening to the rumble of passing traffic, the burr of tyres on tarmac, eating up the miles between here and her destiny. She fell into a strange dreamlike state, alert and yet sleepy, and tried not to think about the next step. Her attempt to escape, when it happened, should be spontaneous, not constrained or telegraphed by too much planning.
From her position on the back seat it was impossible to see the route they were taking, but the noise and the speed at which they were travelling suggested a motorway. She had driven on the M23 and M25 often enough to track the long westward curve of the slip road, then the steep climb into the Surrey hills.
Before long they left the motorway and followed a sharply meandering route on roads with far less traffic. She guessed they were in countryside just south of the M25: maybe the Guildford, Dorking area.
Then a sharp turn, the car bumping over a rougher surface, slowing, then jerking to a halt. The driver’s door opened and Cate’s heart began to race, her throat closing up, every nerve primed and every hope she had pinned on the next few seconds.
Make it count. Don’t shame yourself now.
CHAPTER 89
The rear door opened, but it was the one by her feet, not the other side as she’d expected. Her abductor grasped her ankles and dragged her over the seat.
‘Get out. Slowly.’
Cate did as she was told, wriggling and shuffling, having to use her chin to help propel herself along. With her hands behind her back, her only real weapon was her head, but he’d neutralised the threat by making her climb out backwards.
She was barely upright before he wrenched her towards him, forcing her head down. He had something in his hands, a hood, and even as she caught a glimpse of a large house – a red and white Victorian villa – he swept it over her head and she was blind.
‘This guarantees your safety,’ he said. ‘If it’s removed, you will die.’
Cate heard footsteps approaching on the driveway and knew that this was it: her last chance. Turning towards her abductor, she went up on tiptoe and launched a headbutt which seemed to catch him somewhere – his cheek, perhaps – and she drove her body forward, bumping past him and staggering blindly away from the car, her hands useless; no way to save herself other than to scream at the top of her lungs.
‘Help me! Please, help me! Call 999! I’ve been—’
A hand clamped over her mouth, through the hood, and she was dragged backwards and felt other people moving in, one of them possibly a woman. Definitely a woman’s fragrance, sickly and old-fashioned; everyone breathing hard from exertion and stress; grunts and whispered instructions as Cate kicked and fought against the hands that restrained her, knowing it was useless but determined to go down fighting.
‘Got a feisty one here,’ a man said, and his voice was smooth and cultured, a little in love with itself.
Then someone punched her, the blow so fast and strong that she had no time to tense in anticipation. It drove the breath from her lungs and made her light-headed, but she battled to stay conscious, hating herself with a ferocity that should have been reserved for her attackers.
She had wasted her opportunity, and knew there might not be another.
****
Gordon had chosen the smaller of the spare bedrooms to use as a cell. The door was reasonably sturdy, and could be locked with a key. The room had one window, but with some effort he was able to shift a heavy wardrobe across it. The only other furniture was a single bed and a chest of drawers. He removed the latter, but left the bed.
Then Stemper arrived, and the woman made a spirited effort to escape. It was only after they’d manhandled her inside and up the stairs that Gordon could take a good look at her. Not her face, of course. That remained hooded. But her body ...
Patricia caught him staring greedily at Caitlin’s breasts. She exhaled sharply but said nothing. She and Gordon were supposed to keep conversation to a minimum in the woman’s presence, though to Gordon it seemed a superfluous effort. Now they had her, he couldn’t envisage being able to let her go.
She was placed on the bed, face up, hands still bound behind her back. She wore a functional suit – M&S or Next, probably – in dark blue, the skirt riding well above her knees. Tights, not stockings, and simple black court shoes. The hood was an unwelcome addition, not even erotic in a fetishistic kind of way. It put Gordon in mind of that film, The Elephant Man.
Stemper fetched his briefcase and set it down on the bed. Caitlin flinched when the catches sprang open. He removed a set of pliers, looked at Patricia and gave a sombre nod.
‘Now, Caitlin, I have some questions to ask you.’ His voice, as ever, was so soft and mild, the delivery so steady in its pace, it was impossible not to hang on every word.
Caitlin said, ‘Please. I don’t know anything.’
‘Well, now, I had a feeling you would say that.’
Stemper slipped off the woman’s shoes. Caitlin jumped at the contact, drawing her knees up. He nodded an instruction: Hold her still.
This was Gordon’s first chance to lay his hands on her, and the prospect of it gave him palpitations. Standing at the side of the bed, he gripped the calf of her right leg, the flesh warm and soft, with strong muscles beneath. Stemper held her foot and carefully placed the pliers around the woman’s little toe. She began to breathe in short, urgent gasps. A whining noise issued from her throat, a long single note that grew in pitch until Stemper brought the pliers together.
Then a ferocious, spine-chilling scream. Gordon looked away from the business end of the bed: this was like Lisa’s birth all over again. Even Patricia, watching sternly at close range, seemed to blanch.
Only Stemper was unaffected. He eased the pliers off, the metal sticky with the blood that was seeping through her tights.
‘You see, Caitlin, the pain of a crush injury is out of all proportion to the damage done. You’ll know that if you’ve ever trapped your hand in a door. I doubt if I’ve even broken a bone here, and yet you’re going to suffer pure agony now, as it swells, as it burns. Think about that, and then imagine how it might feel if I repeat this procedure on every single toe, and then on every finger ...’
Caitlin whimpered, breathing in great hitching gasps that for Gordon prompted another recollection of his daughter: this time her legendary temper tantrums at the age of two or three. Patricia used to curtail them with a hard slap, and she was itching to do the same thing here, Gordon could tell.
But Stemper was in command of this process, and he merely waited.
‘Now, Caitlin, my first question. If you lie to me, I’ll do two more toes before I’ll even consider giving you an opportunity to speak. Was your brother, Robert Scott, involved in Hank O’Brien’s death?’
****
Silence. Maybe ten seconds of deliberation, and then she nodded. ‘It ... it was an accident. He didn’t mean to knock him down, I swear.’
‘Where does Robert live? I want his address.’
Gordon expected this question to meet resistance, but she gave it up almost immediately. An apartment in Hove.
‘And does he have what we want?’
‘I don’t understand ...’
‘You’re trying to say that you’re not part of the conspiracy?’
‘There’s no conspiracy. It was an accident.’
‘And who else was present? Who was with your brother on that night?’
A long pause. Stemper opened the pliers, a small but significant noise.
‘Just ... one of his friends.’
‘But they were in the pub with you. They helped you out when Hank overstepped the mark, remember?’
She gasped, as if taken aback by how much they knew. Gordon was desperate to speak himself, to crow a little, but
that urge – along with all his other urges – had to be repressed.
She said, ‘I think his name was Tom. I really don’t know.’
‘Then Robert will tell me,’ Stemper said. ‘And I’ll move on to the next toe.’
‘No, please!’ She sobbed a couple of times. She sounded weak, defeated. ‘The dispute was over money. Robbie agreed three thousand with Hank, but he’d made five thousand. From ... using the farmhouse. For a film.’
‘Entwined,’ Stemper said. ‘Yes, we’re aware of that.’
‘But no one killed Hank on purpose. It was late at night. A dark road. It just happened.’
‘So how did Robbie know about the documents?’
A baffled silence. Then she said: ‘The what?’
Stemper gave Patricia a peevish look. Gordon thought he understood why: Caitlin genuinely didn’t know about the paperwork.
At Stemper’s signal they filed out and gathered on the landing. He said, ‘I suspect she won’t be able to tell us what’s happened to the paperwork. In which case, finding her brother is far more important.’
The Blakes were in agreement. Gordon said, ‘And what about this other man, “Tom”?’
‘She’s lying. She knows who he is.’
‘My feeling exactly,’ Patricia said. ‘Why don’t you go after Robert? I’m sure we can get the rest out of her. Can’t we, Gordon?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gordon agreed.
CHAPTER 90
Probably less than wise, Robbie thought, turning up here after what had happened. And only a small comfort that Jimmy’s car was nowhere in sight.
Robbie had parked his BMW down the road, the precious suitcase locked in the boot. After ringing the doorbell he dabbed at his nostrils to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started again.
