‘You evil son of a bitch.’ He caught a wheeze in his chest, swallowed it, prayed hard that if there was a god in heaven he would give him five minutes alone with this thing without his gun. So help him, he would kill him.
‘I thought I warned you about the name-calling, Adams.’ Sullivan lost the smile.
‘Inside. Now.’ He stepped back, turning sideways and manoeuvring Ashley with him.
‘Move it!’
His eyes never leaving Sullivan’s, Matthew took a step only to find his progress barred by the barrel of the gun.
‘A word of warning,’ Sullivan said, ‘if you’re wired, if you’ve alerted anyone, your wife and Snow White here, they’re both dead. Got it?’
She was still alive. Matthew closed his eyes, this time offering up a silent prayer of gratitude. ‘Oh, Jesus …’ Matthew’s legs almost gave way as Sullivan allowed him further into the property.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Not very gentlemanly, keeping ladies hanging around, Adams, is it?’ Patrick watched with interest, as the copper turned a pale shade of white. Reeling on his feet, he was, poor sod. He actually looked as if he might pass out. Didn’t take him long to recover himself, though. Patrick watched on as Adams pulled himself up, bracing his shoulders in that bloody annoying Bruce Willis nothing-gets-to-me way he had. It obviously did though. He might be trying to keep a grip, but the little tic going in his cheek was a dead giveaway. Patrick had noticed it when Adams had paid him a visit in the nick. Seen it many times, when the pathetic little runt had tried to stand up to him as a kid. Most recently, before the bastard had kicked him to the floor like a dog, for which the copper was about to get payback. Oh, yes, his fuse was lit all right. The man was a ticking time-bomb, far too reactive to be on the force, in Patrick’s humble opinion.
Patrick barely had time to free himself of the girl before the copper exploded.
‘You fucking animal!’ he seethed, lunging towards him.
But Patrick was ready. ‘Down!’ He levelled the shotgun, ready to blast Adams to kingdom come if he didn’t back off.
Clearly realising he might be at a disadvantage, Adams stopped, his expression pure thunder, his chest heaving. Oh, dear. Was that a little wheeze Patrick could hear in there? Quietly amused, he noted how Adams was struggling to control his breathing, another giveaway as to the copper’s high state of anxiety. Patrick probably knew the signs better than Adams did.
‘I said, down, Adams.’ Lowering the gun, Patrick indicated the floor, which is where he wanted Adams. No one, but no one, constantly refers to Patrick Sullivan as an animal and gets away with it.
‘Unless you want your wife and Snow White to see your blood splattered all over the walls, that is?’
Adams didn’t budge. Taking slow breaths, he stayed exactly where he was, his fist clenched at his side and in his eyes … pure murder. Patrick felt the tiniest flicker of apprehension run through him.
‘We can play the waiting game if you like, Adams,’ he made sure to hold his gaze, ‘but I’m not sure your good lady will be very keen on the idea. Are you?’
Patrick’s gaze flicked in the direction of the man’s wife.
‘Do it,’ he ordered. ‘Face front and get down on your knees, copper, if you value her life.’
‘You bastard.’ Adams took another laboured breath and ran his hands over his face. Then, glancing heavenward, finally, he did as instructed.
Got him, Patrick thought, hugely satisfied that the copper seemed to be getting the message. Patrick had the upper hand now. This time, it would be Adams, defenceless on the floor, while he broke his fucking jaw. Quid pro quo, as far as Patrick was concerned.
‘Right, you,’ he swung the gun in the girl’s direction, and then quickly back to Adams, ‘get over here. And bring the dog leash with you.’
‘What dog leash?’ she asked, after a second glancing around stupidly.
Patrick felt a stab of irritation. Was she being deliberately insolent? No, he decided. Her tone had been one of undiluted fear. Unlike the copper, obviously she wasn’t too dense to realise what the consequences of deliberately provoking him might be.
‘On the floor by the door, and hurry it up.’ Patrick kept his eyes on Adams, who was gulping back deep breaths now, considerably shaken, Patrick imagined, as he took in the carefully planned scene before him. Patrick actually thought his little wife looked quite nice, perched up there in her red stilettos. She really did have good legs. Shame not to show them off. She was wobbling a bit, though, he noticed. He did hope she didn’t fall off them and do herself a mischief. Clearly, she wasn’t used to wearing high heels to titillate hubs. Or maybe she couldn’t be arsed, since Adams was no doubt into younger flesh.
‘Loop it around his neck.’ Patrick motioned the girl, who was taking her own sweet time. ‘Move it!’ he barked, as she dilly-dallied. They were all at it, trying his patience, as if he had all the time in the world, which he hadn’t. He needed to be on his yacht, heading for sunny climes a.s.a.p., before the law did get wind of who’d shot Adams’ little lapdog. The lovely Mrs Adams didn’t want to hang about much longer either, from the looks of her. Shaking from head to foot, she was now. One slip and click, clack, crack: dead bird, swinging from the rafters.
‘Pull it tight,’ he instructed the girl, as she continued to fanny about, looking piningly at Adams. As if he gave a toss how she looked.
‘For crying out loud … Give it here!’ Patrick snatched the end of the slip lead she’d draped ineffectually over the copper’s head.
‘Over there.’ He nodded her over to the far wall. ‘Sit down on the floor, like a good little girl and do not utter a word. Got it?’
Patrick waited while she complied and then turned his attention back to Adams, who’d clearly managed to put his dubious detecting skills to good use and realised he was in deep shit.
‘Comfortable?’ Patrick smiled.
Adams didn’t answer, but Patrick forgave him that on the basis he was pretty choked.
‘So, tell me again, what is it you think I am, Detective?’ he asked pleasantly.
Adams hesitated before answering. ‘Nothing,’ he said, without conviction, in Patrick’s mind, and certainly not with a whole lot of respect.
He yanked the lead tighter. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ Adams repeated, and then gagged as Patrick gave the lead another yank.
‘Telling me you think I’m nothing isn’t the right answer, is it, you insolent bastard!?’
‘Anything … Christ.’ The copper spluttered and coughed.
‘I’m waiting, Adams.’
‘I don’t … think you’re anything,’ Adams rasped, his hands going to his throat.
Patrick held the tension. ‘Not an animal then?’
‘No.’ A little more conviction this time, Patrick thought, but probably not a lot of honesty. Still, on the basis he didn’t want the copper actually choking to death just yet, he relented and slackened the lead off a little.
Adams pulled air into his lungs.
‘Let her down,’ he asked, obviously struggling to breathe now. Patrick wasn’t slow to notice the rattle in his chest. Poor bastard looked well on the way to an asthma attack. Such a shame.
‘You forgot the magic word,’ he reminded him.
‘Please,’ Adams obliged immediately. ‘I’ll do anything. Whatever you want, you’ve got it. Just … please let her go.’
‘Anything I want?’ Patrick enquired, cocking his head interestedly on one side.
The copper closed his eyes and nodded, humiliated, Patrick hoped, but not enough. Not by far.
‘What? Like bring my brother back?’ Patrick paused to let the man ponder the impossibility of this task.
Adams’ answer to which was to look defeated. He would really, wouldn’t he? Patrick felt a knot of anger unfurl in his chest.
‘Restore my good reputation with Hayes, will you, Adams? Tell him what a great guy
I am and return his consignment?’
Adams had nothing to say there either, surprise, surprise.
‘And what about my daughter, hey, Adams? She’s training to be a veterinary nurse. I was looking forward to seeing her graduate. And now you’ve gone and fucked that up, too, haven’t you?’
Patrick was so furious about that, he was tempted to shoot his brains out right here, right now. Still no answer from Adams, ignorant sod.
‘That was a question, Detective,’ Patrick reminded him of his manners. Again.
Adams gulped hard. And well he might. In his position, the man should be scared. Very scared.
‘I’m sorry,’ he finally offered, at least attempting something near contrite.
‘Too little too fucking late, Adams,’ Patrick snarled and tensed the lead. ‘Will sorry bring Chelsea back? Well, will it? If you hadn’t turned up, poking around in my business, she wouldn’t be lying out there now stone-cold-fucking dead!’
‘Jesus Christ! What do you want?’ Adams looked up at him.
Terror in his eyes, Patrick saw, with some satisfaction. Wasn’t so high and mighty now, was he? Towering over him, putting the boot in, his little lapdog standing by and watching him. Bastard.
‘For starters: you to grovel, Adams. To crawl on your hands and knees and beg.’
‘I’ll do it! Whatever you need, I’ll do it. Please …’ Adams glanced towards his wife and back ‘… let them go.’
Patrick looked him over. ‘And where would the fun be in that?’ he asked leisurely. ‘I want them to see, Adams. I want your adoring little family to know what a snivelling little coward you are under all that police bravado. How, when push comes to shove, you would gladly sacrifice them to save your own worthless skin.’
The copper ran the back of his hand over his forehead.
Patrick wasn’t too happy with him moving without permission, but he gave him that, given his current position.
t ‘You see, Adams,’ he went on coolly, ‘in my mind, people who intimidate and bully other people, calling them names, like bastard and animal, when they’re obviously neither of those things, need to be taught a lesson, don’t y’think?’
He paused to let that sink in. ‘You’ve humiliated me once too often, Adams. Even way back when we were kids you just couldn’t resist, could you?’
Matthew looked desperately at him, no idea where the hell this was going.
‘Don’t look as if you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ Sullivan fumed, ‘getting me hauled up, in front of everyone, taken the piss out of. I bet you just loved that, didn’t you, Adams?’
The school assembly? Matthew’s heart lurched in his chest. This was utterly insane.
‘That requires an answer, Detective.’
Panic clutching at his insides, Matthew scrambled for the right one. ‘No. I …’
‘Louder, Adams.’ Sullivan gave the lead another tug.
‘Yes! Whatever! Just …’ Matthew’s voice cracked. ‘For pity’s sake, let them go!’
‘Pockets, Adams, empty them,’ Sullivan instructed. ‘Everything on the floor. Now. And if you’re thinking of using the gun you no doubt have secreted about your dubious person,’ he aimed the shotgun at Rebecca, ‘she just might fall off her shoes. Get my drift?’
Hopelessly, Matthew nodded and looked back to Becky.
The fear constricting his throat threatened to choke him as he met her eyes. Her eyes were haunted, desperately pleading above the ugly tape on her face. Her limbs were shaking. Her feet pushed into stilettos. Blood-red stilettos. Matthew felt his own blood run cold. The kind of heels she’d often said she couldn’t walk in to save her life. And now her life depended on her staying upright in them, perched on a box, her hands tied behind her, a rope around her neck which would pull tight and hang her in an instant if …
God, no. Perspiration running in rivulets down his back, Matthew hurriedly fumbled to retrieve the contents of his pockets. Finding his wallet, he laid that on the ground, followed by his phone. His hand closed around the cold metal of the gun in his other pocket. It might as well be a water pistol. There was no way to use it. No way to risk trying. Pulling in a ragged breath, which stopped painfully short of his chest, he lifted the gun out, laid that on the ground, and then waited.
‘Push it away.’ Sullivan nodded towards it.
Matthew noted the bastard’s finger brushing the trigger of his shotgun and did as instructed.
‘The cuffs, Adams,’ Sullivan reminded him.
His gut twisting as he guessed what use Sullivan would put those to, Matthew reached around under his jacket and retrieved his handcuffs. His mind raced as he placed those down, frantically searching for a way to try to persuade a psychopath from doing what he was intent on, dread settling like a hard stone in his stomach as he came up with nothing.
‘You’ve forgotten something else, Adams,’ Sullivan commented, glancing down at the items.
Confused, Matthew shook his head.
‘Your little puff tube, Adams. Where is it?’
Shit. Matthew blinked away the sweat tickling his eyelashes. Without that, if he had a full blown attack, he’d be worse than useless. Sullivan would reach for it anyway, if he didn’t give it up. Matthew knew him well enough to know that. Gulping back his mounting terror, he pulled the inhaler from his inside pocket, praying that the preventer he’d taken earlier might help ward off an attack, which felt more imminent by the second.
He fully expected Sullivan to crush it under his heel. Perplexed when he didn’t, Matthew concluded that Sullivan needed him alive and functioning, for now, until he’d completed the transfer of money. Thereafter … For himself, Matthew was past caring. For Becky, though … He looked back to her, his heart cracking inside him. For Ashley. Matthew glanced towards her. Ashley’s eyes, where he’d glimpsed a glimmer of happiness, of hope, were back to those of a guilty, frightened child’s.
‘Oi, Snow White,’ Sullivan gestured her, ‘bring me some water. And be very careful if you don’t want to end up in more trouble than you already are for shagging the copper. She didn’t rate you much, by the way. Did you, sweetheart?’ Sullivan went on, revelling in his pathetic power. ‘Prefers it rough. I must say, she gives good—’
He stopped, panic flooding his eyes, as Ashley shouted behind him, ‘Stop! Stop now, or I’ll shoot!’
Oh, Christ. Matthew’s gaze shot past Sullivan, to where Ashley stood, the gun—his gun, which somehow she’d managed to pick up—held in both hands—and pointed at Sullivan. Pointed very shakily at Sullivan.
She was ashen-faced, unfocussed. She hadn’t got a cat in hell’s chance of hitting him. ‘Ashley, don’t,’ Matthew attempted to inject some kind of calmness into his voice.
‘It’s not worth the risk.’ He glanced towards Becky, praying Ashley would understand.
‘You’d better fucking not, Ashley.’ Sullivan turned his gun towards Matthew, ‘unless you want to splatter the copper’s brains all over the show. Then again, maybe you do. Hey? What do you think, sweetheart? Would you like to take a pot-shot at him? Shoot him in the leg or the arm for using you so cruelly and then casting you aside?’
Ashley’s eyes at last found Matthew’s; he saw palpable fear in hers.
Matthew’s insides flipped over as she tightened her grip. ‘Don’t listen to him, Ashley. We’ll get out of this, I promise. Just put the gun down safely.’
‘Yeah, right. Course you will, sweetheart, if you do as I say and don’t listen to anymore of the copper’s bullshit. You really are full of it, aren’t you, Adams?’
‘Ashley?’ Matthew tried to concentrate on her, watching helplessly as a tear cascaded down her cheek, then another.
‘Ashley,’ he tried again, but Ashley appeared not to be hearing him. Catching a sob in her throat, she lifted the gun higher.
‘I’ll do it!’ she cried, shaking so badly now she could barely support the weight of it, let alone aim it. ‘I will.’
‘You do, and click, clack, crack, sweetheart, the lovely Becky swings.’ Sullivan’s aim swung back to Becky. ‘Put it down! Now! Over there, by my bag.’
‘Do it, Ashley,’ Matthew implored her, his heart almost imploding. ‘Ashley, please …’ he begged.
‘Better do as the copper says, sweetheart,’ Sullivan warned her. ‘It’s her funeral if you don’t.’
Matthew felt the cloying atmosphere close in on him, as Ashley deliberated. She glanced at him, back to Sullivan. Then, choking out another sob, she lowered the gun.
‘Over there.’ Calmly, Sullivan nodded towards the bag. ‘And then, sit.’ He waited while she placed the gun where he’d instructed and then made her way falteringly to the far wall, where she slid, looking shell-shocked, to her haunches.
Sullivan moved then, pointing his shotgun towards Matthew.
‘Stay,’ he said and backed away, to pick up the gun and secure it at the back of his waistband.
He didn’t look at Ashley, didn’t acknowledge her at all, but strolled back to Matthew instead. ‘You have some online banking to do.’ Pausing in front of him, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and thumbed something into it. ‘You have an incoming text. Make the transaction. Make it smoothly. Make it now, and no funny business. Do I need to add threats?’
Matthew glanced incredulously at him, as Sullivan picked up his phone and handed it to him. Did he really think he’d try anything? That he gave a stuff about money compared to the life of his wife? Dragging a hand quickly across his eyes, Matthew pulled up the message, as Sullivan walked around him. Calling up his bank details, ignoring Sullivan’s slow whistle of appreciation as he obviously noted the balance, Matthew selected Make a Payment
, pasted Sullivan’s details in and hit Send.
It didn’t go. Fuck! Matthew’s heart stopped.
‘What are you pissing about at, Adams?’ Sullivan asked warily behind him.
Matthew felt the hairs rise on his neck. His mouth went dry.
‘No signal,’ he said tightly.
Sullivan didn’t speak for a second, and then, ‘You prat!’ he fumed. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that? You’ve just been online. I sent you a—’
Death Sentence Page 24
