by L J Morris
The driver sat back up. ‘Harry Nash sent me to pick you up. I’ve been instructed to make sure you’re okay and keep you safe.’
Kinsella looked at Carter quizzically. Carter shrugged. ‘Okay.’
The driver raised the window and Carter opened the rear door. ‘After you, Danny.’
They both climbed into the back of the Range Rover and the driver pulled away.
Carter looked around the inside of the car – it was spotless. Whoever Harry Nash was, he paid a lot of money for his cars and he kept them in good order. He looked at the driver; the man’s neck was thicker than his shaved head and Carter could make out a tattoo sticking above the collar of his shirt. Judging by the man’s broken nose, and the size of his shoulders, he hadn’t always been a driver. ‘Can I ask where you’re taking us?’
The driver looked in his rear-view mirror. ‘You have a meeting, sir. With a Mr Lancaster. I’m to take you there first.’
Carter had known it would be Lancaster who’d arranged their release, but who was this gangster Harry Nash, and how was he involved? This was all getting more confusing by the day. ‘I don’t suppose you know what’s going on, do you?’
The driver looked confused. ‘Sir?’
‘Doesn’t matter, I’m sure I’ll find out shortly. Will it take us long to get there?’
‘Not long, sir. Just sit back and relax, I’ll have you there in twenty minutes.’
* * *
Edward Lancaster sat on the park bench where he and Carter had met many times before. It wasn’t overlooked by any buildings and there was only one path up to it. If anyone was going to overhear them without being seen, they would need to deploy some serious technology. He took a sip of his coffee, a second cup sitting on the arm rest, steam rising from it.
Carter appeared at the end of the path and made his way to the bench. He sat down next to Lancaster as if they were two old friends, meeting for a chat. ‘Hello, Edward.’
Lancaster handed Carter the cup. ‘Hello, Simeon. Thought you might like a decent coffee, now you’re no longer a guest of Her Majesty.’
Carter smiled. ‘I knew it was you, how did you pull it off?’
‘Your solicitor did a lot, he’s the only one who had dealings with all of us: you, me, and Harry Nash.’
Carter pointed back towards the car with his thumb. ‘How is Nash involved?’
‘He’s apparently a friend of one of McGill’s contacts. Looks like more favours are being called in.’
‘Thank God for Frank’s dodgy contacts. If not for them, we’d have been dead inside a week. Who arranged for our release? That’s above even your pay grade.’
‘Let’s just say I won’t be able to slag my boss off in public ever again.’
Carter took the lid off his coffee and blew the steam from it. He hated drinking through the little hole in the plastic. He was looking forward to a good, strong coffee in a proper mug. ‘Can I assume that we now have to do something for him in return?’
Lancaster nodded. ‘You know the game so well, Simeon.’
‘Give me the bad news, what’s it going to cost us?’
Lancaster checked for anyone approaching down the path. ‘He wants Sinclair and McGill to come in. He wants the folder handed to him personally.’
Carter laughed. ‘Everyone wants the folder, Sinclair – us, Vadim, your boss – we don’t even know if Sinclair’s managed to get hold of it yet.’
‘I hope she has, for all our sakes. The Home Secretary is trying to make a grab for power. In private, he’s saying that the PM will never be fit enough to come back. He wants to mount a leadership challenge and he’s got backing from MPs in the Commons.’
Carter remembered why he hated politicians. With the country on the brink of absolute chaos, some of them were more worried about positioning themselves to be close to the power. Some of them saw this as a career opportunity. ‘What about Ali and Frank? Has anyone spoken to them?’
Lancaster shook his head. ‘They dropped off the grid when they were in France, but there was an incident in London that has their hallmark stamped all over it.’
‘They are resilient. When you say hallmark, I’m assuming deaths were involved?’
‘Three, including the Westminster sniper. Quick, clean and efficient.’
Carter took a sip of his coffee. ‘Yeah, that’s them. I’ll try and get Sinclair to come in but it’s up to her. No one will make her do something she’s not happy with. Tell your boss that it needs to happen somewhere neutral, somewhere she can see them coming. She won’t feel safe otherwise.’
‘I’ve already told him that, he’ll let me know when he’s got something in place. In the meantime, Simeon, don’t tell me where you’re staying. It’ll be better that way.’
Carter looked back along the path to where the car was parked. ‘I’m not sure I know myself.’
Lancaster stood up and held out his hand. ‘You know my number. Call me once you’ve contacted Sinclair. I’ll arrange the meeting.’
Carter finished his coffee and dropped the empty cup into the bin beside the bench. He shook Lancaster’s hand. ‘Will do, Edward. Take care.’ He left Lancaster and walked back to the car.
Chapter 38
Monte Cristo Books was situated on a quiet side street, not far from Pall Mall. From the outside it looked like a small bookshop that was being crowded out by more modern, much bigger businesses. What the casual passer-by didn’t realise, what wasn’t obvious from the outside, was that Monte Cristo Books covered four floors of the Georgian building and occupied the upper two floors of the neighbouring shops. With close to a million second-hand and antique books, the inside was like a maze where book lovers would come along to lose themselves for hours. The coffee shop next door also belonged to Monte Cristo Books, and was where McGill and Sinclair were sitting.
The street was a dead end and the shop could only be approached from one direction. Sinclair and McGill were sitting in the window seat of the coffee shop – Sinclair facing the bookshop’s door and McGill watching the street. ‘I don’t like this, Ali. If they block off the end of the street, we’ve got no way out.’
Sinclair took a sip of coffee. ‘We won’t be here long. Callum goes in and talks to the owner, either the folder’s here or it isn’t.’
McGill ate his third biscuit. ‘Still don’t like it.’
Porter walked up to the front desk and smiled at the woman who was looking after the till. ‘Is Oliver Marlowe here today? My name’s Callum Porter, we’ve met before.’
The young woman returned his smile. ‘He should be here, I’ll just check for you.’ She picked up a modern reproduction of a 1930s Bakelite telephone and pushed a button, waiting for an answer. ‘Oliver, you have a visitor. A Mr Porter. Okay, I will.’ She put down the phone. ‘He said he’ll be right down.’
‘Thank you.’ Porter looked at Durand, who was standing a few feet from him watching for anything suspicious, and nodded.
After a few minutes, a tall, thin grey-haired man wearing glasses walked through from the back of the shop. He had a stubbly beard and was wearing a tweed jacket that looked a little worn around the cuffs and elbows. He held out his hand to Porter. ‘It’s good to see you again, Callum.’ He glanced at Durand. ‘Is Justin not with you? It would be good to see him again, too.’
Porter shook his head. ‘Can we talk, Oliver? Somewhere private? It’s very important.’
Marlowe looked concerned. ‘We can go in the back. Please, come through to my office.’ He led them through a corridor of bookshelves to a set of three steps that dropped down to an old mahogany door. Durand stayed at the top of the steps, while Marlowe and Porter went through the door and into the small office at the back of the building. Porter had been in the office one time before, with Justin. It made him more certain that either the folder was there or Marlowe would know something about it.
Marlowe sat on a leather wing back chair, next to an old disused fireplace that now had a vase of artificial flowers in it.
He gestured towards an identical chair, opposite. ‘Do sit down, Callum. Tell me, how have you been?’
Porter lowered himself onto the well-worn leather, keeping his damaged leg as straight as possible. He took off his sunglasses. ‘The skin around his eyes ranged in colour from a deep purple to a sickly yellow. There was a cut on the bridge of his nose and his bottom lip had a deep gash in it. ‘I’ve been better, Oliver.’
‘Oh, my poor boy. What on earth happened to you? Were you attacked?’
‘It’s a long story, Oliver, but some nasty people want something that belonged to Justin. I wouldn’t tell them where it was, so they did this.’
Marlowe lowered his voice. ‘Is the man outside one of them?’ He stood up and moved to his desk. ‘We can phone the police. I could lock the door till they get here.’
Porter shook his head. ‘It’s okay, Oliver, he’s here to protect me. There are two more of my friends in the coffee shop.’
Marlowe sat back down. ‘What did the people who did that to you want? Who are they, and where’s Justin?’
Porter knew that Marlowe had known Justin for some time. They had worked together in the shop and developed a close relationship. What Porter had to say next wasn’t going to be easy – for either of them. He swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘He’s dead, Oliver. They killed him.’
Marlowe didn’t move. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open as he tried to process what Porter had said. He shook his head then sat forward and placed his hand on Porter’s knee. ‘I’m so sorry, Callum. I really liked Justin. I know you two were close.’
Porter nodded. ‘Thank you, Oliver.’
Marlowe sat back; he’d genuinely liked Justin Wyatt and felt sorry for Porter. ‘What happened? Why did they kill him?’
‘It was the same people who had me beaten. They killed him because he had something they wanted, something important. I think he might have left it here, with you.’
Marlowe nodded. ‘He did leave a folder here. He said it was nothing, asked me to look after it for him. I knew there was more to this than he told me.’
‘So it’s here?’
Marlowe walked to another mahogany door, in the opposite wall. He unlocked it and swung it open. Behind the door was an alcove that housed a large safe. ‘For some of our more valuable books.’ He entered the combination and pulled open the thick steel door.
The inside of the safe looked like a bookshelf; old leather-bound books and manuscripts lined its shelves. On the left-hand side, underneath a stack of manuscripts, was a plain brown folder. Marlowe slid it out and gave it to Porter. ‘He told me it would be you who would come and get this. He told me never to give it to anyone else, no matter who they said they were.’
Porter took the folder. This was it, the information, the evidence, everything they needed to bring down Vadim. This simple cardboard folder was the reason so many people had died. ‘Thank you for taking care of it, Oliver, it really means a lot.’
‘I’m glad I could help you to help Justin, I hope it stops all of this. Here, I’ll give you a bag to put it in.’ He pulled a canvas courier bag out of another cupboard and held it open.
Porter slid the folder into the bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Thanks. If anyone else comes looking for this, don’t put yourself at risk. Just tell them you gave it to me. I won’t be in any more danger than I already am.’
‘Should I be worried about you, Callum?’
Porter shook his head. ‘I’ve got some good friends around me, people who can take care of things. I’ll be okay.’ He held out his hand. ‘We’ll talk about this over a hot chocolate and marshmallows, one day, Oliver.’
Marlowe took Porter’s hand. ‘I do hope so, Callum. Look after yourself.’
Porter opened the door and went back up the steps into the corridor, where Durand was waiting. ‘I’ve got what we came for, Luke. Let’s get out of here.’
Durand nodded and led the way back to the shop.
McGill was about to bite into another biscuit when he noticed the car. ‘Blue saloon at the end of the street. Two up, watching the exit. Three more coming this way.’
‘We need to warn Callum and Luke.’
McGill took another biscuit then followed Sinclair through the connecting door from the coffee shop into the bookstore. Porter and Durand were just returning to the front desk, about to leave, when Sinclair walked through the door and pointed back towards the way they had come. ‘We aren’t going out the front, Frank’s spotted some followers.’
Marlowe waved them all to the back of the shop. ‘Follow me, I’ll take you upstairs.’ He looked at the woman behind the till. ‘Don’t take any risks, Sharon. Stall them, and then tell them you think I’m in the office.’
‘Okay, Oliver.’
Marlowe unlocked a door in the back corner of the shop that led to a lift. He inserted a key into the lift call button and the doors opened. ‘Right, everyone in.’
It was a squeeze getting five of them in the lift, but they wouldn’t be in there for long. When the doors opened again, they walked out into Marlowe’s penthouse apartment. McGill checked out the modern decor. ‘Very nice, your shop must be doing well.’
Marlowe locked off the lift. ‘The shop and a sizeable inheritance. My father didn’t disown me, after all.’
‘Well, that does help, I suppose. We aren’t headed for the roof, are we? I don’t like roofs any more.’
Marlowe led them through the flat to another lift door. ‘Not the roof; you could take the fire escape down, but you’ll only end up back in the street. This lift goes down to a basement garage shared by all the buildings in the block. There’s a door down there that brings you out on the next street along.’
Sinclair and Durand got into the lift. Porter shook Marlowe’s hand one last time. ‘Thank you, Oliver. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.’
Marlowe gripped Porter’s hand. ‘Good luck, Callum.’ He looked at McGill. He didn’t know who he was, but he looked like a man who was used to violence. ‘I need you to hit me.’
‘What?’
‘It needs to look like you forced me up here. In case there’s any suspicion that I helped you.’
Porter tried to get out of the lift but Sinclair pulled him back. ‘He’s right, Frank. It’s the best way for him to be safe.’
‘Okay.’ McGill led Marlowe away from the lift, out of Porter’s view. ‘Are you ready?’
Marlowe nodded. ‘Don’t do too much damage.’ He gritted his teeth.
McGill took a step to his side. ‘After three. One …’ McGill threw a right hook and Marlowe dropped to his knees.
McGill helped him to his feet. ‘Sorry about that, I didn’t want you to duck, might have hurt more. Are you okay?’
Marlowe took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the trickle of blood running down his cheek. ‘I’ll be fine. Go. Good luck.’
McGill got into the lift and the doors closed.
There were no electronic numbers to tell them which floor they were on, this was a private lift straight to the car park. McGill pulled out his Glock. ‘Only one stop. Everyone be ready.’
Sinclair and Durand drew their weapons. McGill was first out of the lift as the door opened. The car park was deserted. ‘The exit must be on the far side.’
The four of them ran between the cars to the exit. Durand took the lead. ‘They don’t know me, I’ll act like someone who’s just parked their car. If there’s anyone out there, they’ll hesitate long enough for us to deal with them.’ He climbed the steps to the door and pushed it open.
The exit door couldn’t be opened from the outside, so the man who was standing there had obviously been put in place to make sure no one came out; these people had done their homework and knew about the car park. As Durand stepped onto the pavement, the man outside shoved a pistol into his gut. ‘Back inside.’
Durand shrugged his shoulders and spoke to him in French: the actions of an innocent tourist who’d taken a wrong turn.
‘I said, back inside.’ The man pushed him back through the door and down the steps. Durand walked away from the steps, away from where the others were crouching. The man wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there and didn’t turn around. He thought he had got there first, that he was in the perfect position to set up an ambush. He couldn’t have been more wrong. As he stepped towards Durand, his weapon raised, McGill stepped out of the shadows and shot him.
Durand turned to face them. He wasn’t trembling or freaked out in any way, what had just happened hadn’t bothered him at all. He lit a cigarette. ‘I think we should fuck off.’
Sinclair pushed Porter up the steps. ‘My thoughts exactly.’
The four of them went up the steps and out onto the street. McGill took the lead and they disappeared into the throng of lunchtime pedestrians.
Chapter 39
Brantleigh House was an eighteenth-century country house, surrounded by mature gardens and rolling parkland. It was also surrounded by secure fencing, CCTV cameras, and security guards. Harry Nash senior had bought it in the late seventies from a bankrupt lord who couldn’t keep up with the maintenance and running costs of such a substantial property. It wasn’t out of the ordinary back then, some manor houses and palaces were opened up to the public, or even turned into attractions, to help pay their costs. Many an ancestral stately home had been snapped up by rock stars and Hollywood actors. Harry Nash buying the house wasn’t unusual enough to raise any eyebrows. Over the years he had done a lot of work to bring it back to its former glory, and it looked stunning.
As the people carrier pulled into the entrance, the iron gates swung open and the two men in the small guardhouse waved it through. Sinclair looked out of the window at the imposing house at the end of the long, tree-lined driveway. ‘My god. You said it was a country house, not a palace.’
Nash smiled. ‘Just something Dad picked up when I was very young. It was going cheap, we couldn’t afford to buy it at today’s prices.’
McGill whistled through his teeth. ‘I couldn’t afford the taxi to get up the driveway.’
