by Michael Kerr
“It’s excellent,” she said, turning to face him, conscious that he was making no effort to disguise a healthy interest in her barely covered crotch. She felt horny as hell. “What do I need to do now?”
“I’m going to apply a sterilised pad. In a couple of hours you can remove it and wash the tattooed area with lukewarm water and a mild antibacterial soap. Pat it dry and apply a small amount of some ointment that I’ll give you. And don’t go swimming until it’s healed. It will scab over. Don’t pick it. Let it fall off when it’s good and ready.”
“Thanks. Do you do body piercing?” Alison said, brushing his groin with the back of her hand as she swung herself off the table to face him.
“How old are you, sweetheart? The truth.”
“Seventeen,” she said. “I’m not jail-bait. You want to see my driving licence?”
He smiled. He knew what body piercing she was interested in having done, and it did not involve the use of sterling silver or gold. He went out from behind the curtain, locked the door and went back to her. She had removed the thong and was pulling her top up over her head. As he undid his jeans, he decided to give her a special discount. He knew that she would be back. There would be a lot more work done on and to this gorgeous body. And she was safe from him. Rule one: Never kill a customer.
It was nine p.m. when Nigel’s phone rang. He had been worrying himself sick all day, and nearly dropped the small decanter, that had been full when he started in on it, but was now three parts gone. He was pissed and knew it, but the malt whisky had not dulled his anxiety. He was in the shit up to his neck. Clive Adams had called him the day before to let him know that Marsha Freeman was dead; a fact that in itself was of no interest to him. That she had kept a blow-by-blow written and video record of her actions, was. The unprincipled, treacherous cow had put his career at risk, and caused good and powerful friends to turn against him, due to his being the unwitting agent who had made the initial introductions. Now, there was every chance that a cover-up would be impossible. Scandal was like flu, it spread rapidly. He could visualise extracts of the address book, or worse, stills from the videos being aired in the papers and on television. His name was missing from the book, presumably on one of the pages that had been removed. That gave him no solace. In effect, it made him a suspect, and he would be on film. What would Celia and his daughters think? How would they be able to cope with the shame that would be generated?
He picked up after what seemed an eternity.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Villiers?”
“Speaking,” he slurred. “Who is this?”
“A very good friend of Marsha Freeman’s. I have a page from her...what shall we call it, her fuck book? It has very personal details that you might want to keep well away from the public eye.”
“Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?” Nigel shouted into the receiver.
“Do not raise your voice to me again, Villiers, or I shall terminate this call and ring the editor of a newspaper with affiliations to the opposition. I am the person who sent Marsha to a much better place, and who has your life in the palm of his hand. It is not what I want from you, but what you want from me.”
Damage limitation came to Nigel’s mind. Maybe Marsha had not filmed him. And if there was no written record, then he might be able to skirt disaster. She may have only intended to squeeze a chosen few of her more affluent clients.
“How do I know that you are not with the press?”
“Because I know from the rather lengthy entry in front of me that you enjoyed ejaculating between Marsha’s ample, silicone-filled tits, Nige. And that you have an appendix scar, and a rather large and unsightly cyst where the sun don’t shine.”
“Very well,” Nigel said, now miraculously sober. “What are you proposing?”
Lucas had not intended to do any more than put the wind up the pompous fuck. But what the hell. He might as well up the stakes and hurt him where the bastard would feel the most pain, in his wallet.
“That you buy your way out of the mess you’re in, Nige. Thing is, you only get one chance to do it. If you contact the police, I’ll know, believe me. You need to get hold of fifty thousand pounds in used notes of mixed denominations. Put the money inside a blue nylon holdall and wait for my call. If you decide to be stupid, and I am captured, then an associate will bide his time and at some future date kill your wife and children.”
“What guarantee do I have that you will honour your side of the transaction?”
“None. We are both trusting that the other will honour this deal. I’m being opportunistic in making easy money, and you are saving your marriage, reputation and career.”
Lucas switched off the stolen mobile. This was giving him a buzz. He needed a plan. The pickup of the cash was the only point of risk. He did not think that Villiers had the bottle to go to the police, but he would assume that he would, and be ready for any eventuality.
Nigel downed another large scotch, thought it through, looked up Clive Adams’ home number and rang it.
“Adams.”
“It’s Nigel, Clive. I believe that the man who murdered Marsha just called me.”
Matt thought it would be Beth ringing. He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth, tossed it onto the coffee table and answered his mobile.
“Barnes.”
“We need you back here,” Tom said.
“We?”
“Adams and me. There’s been a development on the Freeman case.”
“Give me a clue.”
“The killer supposedly gave a politician who features on one of the missing pages a bell. Wants to sell his silence for fifty grand.”
“I’m on my way,” Matt said, ending the call and making for the door, picking up his car coat and keys, then pausing, returning to the lounge to retrieve the slightly crumpled cigarette from the table. He jammed it between his lips and left the house. Didn’t light it. It was a pacifier. Knowing that he could fire it up was half the battle. He kept putting it off. Hadn’t told himself he had stopped smoking, but was doing his best to hold on and not weaken. He needed to be in control, not at the mercy of an addiction. He wanted to get rid of the habit. It was a dirty, expensive, health-wrecking dependence. Maybe it was his time to stop. Even after just a few days he imagined his taste buds were sharper, and that the tightness in his chest was easing.
The traffic was light. He reached the Yard and made his way up to Tom’s office. He could see Tom and Adams through the open door.
“How do you know it was the killer who gave Villiers a bell?” Matt said, looking from one to the other.
“He told Villiers that he had done it,” Clive said. “And he definitely had at least one of the pages. He knew intimate facts that Villiers said only he and Marsha had shared.”
“I need to speak to Villiers,” Matt said. “Is he on the way in?”
“No,” Tom said. “He thinks he is being watched, and that the guy might have contacts. He’ll keep us posted, but says if we go near him, then he will pull the plug and go it alone.”
“Give me his number,” Matt said. “I want to tell this prat the facts of life.”
Clive rang the MP and asked him to have a word with Matt.
“Mr. Villiers, this is Detective Inspector Barnes. I am in charge of the Freeman investigation. I want to thank you for contacting us. I also want you to know that the only safe way for you to deal with this man is by working with us. Be aware that any meeting to exchange money will not be without personal risk. If the man you spoke to is who he professes to be, then you know what he is capable of.”
“What do you mean, if he is the man; he has the pages from the diary.”
“The killer could have dumped them. This could be anyone who happened upon them and decided to make some easy money.”
“What do you want me to do, Inspector?”
“I want to have one of my men at your flat. He will be armed for your protection, and will accompany you to any location
that you are instructed to drop the money.”
“Not acceptable. What if this maniac is watching the house?”
“He’s more likely to watch you, sir. While you are at the bank withdrawing the money, we’ll ensconce the officer inside your flat. All you have to do is fully cooperate and let us do our job. Okay?”
Matt took Villiers’ silence as being affirmative. “Tell me what his voice sounded like,” he said.
Nigel would never forget the voice. “He had no accent. I don’t mean he was well spoken. His speech was measured, as if he was disguising it. He was fully confidant. I believed every word he said. There was a quality of mirth in the tone. He was enjoying the power that the knowledge he had gave him. That is all I can tell you.”
“Okay, sir. Just make arrangements to withdraw the money, get back to us with the details, and wait for the call.”
“What about my wife and children, Inspector. Do you believe they are at risk?”
“Where are they?”
“At the family home in Devon.”
“This isn’t a personal vendetta, sir. This man has something you want, and is hoping to profit by it. He will view it as simply an opportunity to take advantage of.”
“And how will you catch him?”
“By following the money.”
Matt passed the phone back to Clive, who placated the jittery MP as best he could before hanging up.
“I think we should use GPS to stay with the cash,” Clive said.
“Difficult,” Tom countered. “You told me that he was instructed to put the money in a blue holdall. Where would you hide the device that the Global Positioning System tracks?”
Clive hiked his shoulders. “We can use a logger not much bigger than a ten pence piece and as thin as an After Eight mint, and plant it in among the notes.”
“Why risk him finding it?” Matt said. “We don’t need to track it electronically. There will be unmarked vehicles shadowing Villiers, and an armed officer in the boot of his car to ensure he comes to no harm.”
“You think it really is the killer?” Tom said to Matt. “Would he be dumb enough to try something like this?”
“If they didn’t fuck up and make mistakes we’d never catch them,” Matt replied.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Within seconds of hanging up, the phone rang again. Nigel picked up, expecting it to be Clive.
“I tried to call you back, but it was busy. Who were you talking to, Nige, the police?”
His bowels clenched. “No, I was calling my wife.”
“Maybe you were, and maybe you weren’t. No matter. It’s you that loses if you mess up. Give me your mobile number.”
Nigel did as he was told.
“That’s it for now, Nige. Keep that sucker charged up and switched on. When I call, I expect you to be ready to move.”
“Why did you single me out?” Nigel said, not expecting to be given an answer.
“Because sometimes in life we all take an instant dislike to someone. I’ve seen your smug face on the TV a few times, and you come across as a tosser who went to some shirt-lifter college like Eton, and who has never had to get dirt under your fingernails to bring home the bacon. You glibly pontificate about fidelity and family values. So when I flipped through the dead bitch’s address book and saw your name, I just decided to jerk you around for the pure fun of it. Goodnight Nige, old chum.”
Nigel stood with the burring phone in his hand until a musical tone preceded a recorded voice instructing him to ‘please hang up and try again’. He dropped the phone but remained standing, his usually keen mind dulled. The stranger who was threatening everything he had, was right. He had never come close to being the type of person he aspired to be. He could not resist temptation, when it came to sex. Celia was partly to blame. She dutifully raised her nightie every Saturday night and lay back as stiff as a bass broom’s bristles as he laboured to produce a teaspoonful of semen, that she would rush to the bathroom to rid herself of, as though he had shot her up with some noxious fluid that might give her all manner of infectious diseases. And the two girls were as emotionally constipated as their passionless mother. He was not living the dream. If he had not spent much of his time away from his constituency, then they might have separated years ago. Only by being up in London and catering to his needs had offset the emptiness of his loveless marriage. He wished that he had not been subject to such a formal upbringing. He was inhibited and would never realise the life that a part of him had always yearned for. He would like to just walk away from everything, piss off to somewhere like Goa and live on the beach as a middle-aged hippie. Just watch the sun set, drink scotch, and do what comes naturally with any willing partner. If this present difficulty could be overcome, then he would give some serious thought to bailing out. He did not want to be a husband, father or politician any longer. What he wanted was a simple life with no expectation of him from anyone. It crossed his mind that this stranger who was victimising him, might be the wake-up call he had needed; a blessing in disguise.
“I don’t like it, Matt,” Tom said after Clive had left.
“What in particular don’t you like?”
“That if this extortionist is also the killer, we might only get one crack at him. He might be smart enough to give Villiers the run-around. If he gets him to go on the tube at rush hour, it’ll be a nightmare trying to keep him in sight.”
“Okay, then let’s use GPS. But not on the money, on Villiers. If we can stay with him, then we’ll be there for the drop. We need to get it jacked-up before tomorrow, so that from the second Villiers comes out of the bank his movements can be monitored every step of the way.”
“It’s risky. Adams might be right in suggesting we put the logger in with the money.”
“The killer will expect something like that. He won’t trust Villiers. If he has half a brain, he’ll check the cash and switch it to another bag, and if he found the device, he could use it to lead us on a goose chase.”
Tom ran fingers through his thinning, sandy hair, gave it some thought and then said, “Arrange it.”
Matt was back home by one a.m. He checked his new answer phone, which he had only installed the month before at Beth’s insistence. The red light was blinking. He replayed the call: ‘Hi, Matt. I’ll be back home tomorrow morning. The flight is due in at six-fifty. I won’t expect you to be there, but I’ll give you a bell when I land. Love you’.
He let the good feeling percolate. He needed to hold her in his arms, hear her silky voice, and bathe in her engaging smile. The break had reinforced his conviction that Beth was now a part of his life that he could not envisage being without. Memories of their short time together crowded in. He seemed to be able to recall every second with perfect clarity. She was the most important thing in his personal universe. And yet he had excluded her from knowing too much. Had closed doors behind him on rooms that held too much pain to revisit. He now wanted to rid himself of the burden; to share his load with Beth. Circling thoughts took him back through one door, to experience a vivid flashback and a rush of emotion-packed memories. He was nineteen and believed that he was madly in love with Judith Tate. They had attended the same school, and Judith had been his childhood sweetheart. Hers were the first breasts he had cupped in his hands on the back row of the local cinema. She had let him make his first clumsy attempt at lovemaking with her in the back of an ancient Morris estate; not laughing as he struggled to roll a Durex onto his turgid member. They might have still been together, or grown apart as they matured. He would never know. It was his mother who tearfully broke the shock news to him on a bright and sun-kissed Sunday morning. Judith had been rushed to hospital with an intestinal blockage, suffered a massive heart attack while anaesthetised and being operated on, and not survived. It was too much to bear. But the mind is a powerful tool. He did not attend the funeral, and held on to the last kiss and embrace they had shared on the doorstep of her parents’ house; half deceived himself that she was visiting family i
n Australia, and that she would return. The part of him that was damaged had retreated, to be beaten back and repressed. Life went on around him like a strong wind, buffeting him as he wandered through it, apart from it. But the vitality of youth would not be denied. Life does go on, and he finally adapted, accepted, and moved forward.
Matt sighed, withdrew from the cold ethereal sepulchre in his mind and locked the door again. You had to know how to block things out. Jesus! There was so much pain and torment. Was he, even now, trying to put things to rights by fighting back against wrongdoers, even though he knew that it would never return anything to how it had been? Some undeniable force drove him to avenge the victims of brutality. Why did he need to be a part of that which was so unwholesome and negative? Was it a form of penance? Life was a bitch, and grinding it out by inflicting himself with solemn self-flagellation was not enough. He could not dismiss all the bad shit in his past by shunning the opportunity to open another door and let the room behind it be filled with happiness. Beth was his chance to salvage something from the rubble and rebuild. He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life, but determined that he would do whatever it took to ensure that he did not lose Beth.
He drove up the winding ramp, found a space on the first floor, parked and took the stairs down. Crossed the road, which was almost bumper-to-bumper with cabs and private hire vehicles. Entered the terminal building and looked up at a monitor showing arrivals. Her flight had landed on time. He waited at the roped-off avenue that was lined four deep with expectant friends and relations of soon to appear passengers. He could not fail to notice the high-profile uniformed police officers who all carried submachine guns close to their Kevlar-protected chests, and had holstered pistols at their hips. A way of life had disappeared forever since nine-eleven and the subsequent atrocities as the fight against terrorism continued.
He almost missed her. She was wearing a quilted jacket over baggy track bottoms, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. He stepped out alongside her.
