Target

by Simon Kernick

  Wednesday

  Forty-two

  I was feeling groggy, having been given painkillers by a harassed-looking doctor who couldn't have been long out of medical school, and they must have been pretty damn strong because the terrible burning sensation in my right arm had been reduced to a dull throb. I still ached all over, and my mouth was bone dry, but I felt a vague euphoria. I was alive. Against all the odds, I was alive.

  My hospital room was small and bright, and I was lying in bed. Outside I could hear voices and people moving about. Comforting sounds. People meant safety. The clock on the wall read ten past midnight.

  As I lay there, I remembered with intense clarity digging my own grave in the rain, and watching Maxwell die. I'd never seen someone die before, even though I'd written about death vividly enough in Conspiracy. The sight of Ramon sitting lifeless in my bedroom had been awful, but seeing Maxwell actually murdered in front of me had been a whole lot worse. I remembered running through the trees, hearing the men behind me, thinking that this was it, the end; then the headlights, the sound of screeching tyres, and the car slamming me over its bonnet and sending me flying into the dirt.

  Jesus. I'd been so damn close to death. For the second time in less than forty-eight hours. It was as if I was involved in an intense, never-ending nightmare that seemed to get worse and worse.

  But it looked at last like it might be over.

  I was desperately thirsty. I hadn't drunk a thing since the two Peronis at Maxwell's, close to four hours ago now, and no water since the middle of the afternoon. There wasn't a glass on the bedside table so I climbed out of bed, my hospital-issue pyjamas crinkling in time to my movement. My head began to spin and I had to stand still and shut my eyes for a few moments.

  When I felt normal again, I opened the door and was surprised to see there was no police guard outside. The guy who'd come to me when I was semi-conscious had said he was police and that I was safe now. So, where were they?

  I stepped out into the corridor.

  And saw him immediately.

  He was about ten yards away, talking to one of the nurses. He was dressed in the black jacket and jeans he'd been wearing back at Maxwell's place earlier, and his boots were still muddy with the soil from Maxwell's vegetable patch, but he was wearing a baseball cap again now, and horn-rimmed glasses.

  For a split second I froze, unable to move, then he slowly turned my way and our eyes met. His lips curled in a tight, triumphant smile and, ignoring the nurse now, he put a hand inside his jacket.

  And that was it. I ran.

  But it was like wading through treacle. The painkillers, my injuries, my pure exhaustion, they were all slowing me down, making each step seem like an incredible achievement. And all the time I could picture him in my mind, raising the gun, aiming, pulling the trigger...

  I swung a hard left, narrowly missing a cleaner with his trolley coming the other way. Behind me, I could hear his footfalls as he gave chase. Someone yelled for security. Someone else screamed the words I was dreading: 'He's got a gun!'

  In front of me, the corridor stretched for thirty yards. A pair of orderlies were coming the other way, with a patient on a stretcher. Apart from them, it was empty. I was never going to make it. No way.

  In one instinctive movement I shoved the cleaner out of the way with my good arm, then, as my pursuer came round the corner, a calm, determined expression on his face, the gun he'd used to kill Maxwell by his side, I kicked the trolley straight at him.

  He was caught by surprise and crashed right into it, his momentum sending him sprawling in a heap.

  Ignoring the nausea rising up in me, and the throbbing in my head and arm, I kept running. My heart hammering relentlessly.

  The two orderlies stared at me aghast, then they both ducked down, using their gurney as cover.

  I didn't wait for the bullet. I saw a door coming up on my right and scrambled through it, slamming it shut behind me.

  I was in a small ward. A handful of beds were lined up against the opposite wall. But they were all empty. The whole place was empty. Outside, I could hear panicked shouting. More footfalls.

  I was trapped. Jesus, I was trapped.

  Looking round quickly, I located the light switch, flicked it off and plunged the room into darkness. Then, as quickly as I could, I slipped under one of the beds furthest from the door, and lay there on my back, staring up at the mattress several inches above me, knowing this was no cover at all, trying to calm my breathing. Waiting...

  The door opened and shut again, and the lights were switched back on.

  I held my breath. Outside, the noise seemed to have died away. Where the hell was everyone?

  The footsteps were quiet as the man moved through the room, coming steadily closer. My guts churned, my heart beat furiously in my chest. I tried desperately to think of an escape plan, my mind whirring and leaping but coming up with nothing, because of course there was nothing to come up with.

  The footsteps stopped. Right next to the bed. My lungs felt like they were going to burst. I had to breathe soon, had to—

  'Mr Fallon?'

  I recognized the voice. It was the police officer from earlier, the one who was with me after I'd been hit by the car, before the ambulance came.

  'My name's Mike Bolt, and I'm from the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.'

  He helped me out from under the bed and I got a proper look at him for the first time. He was tall and well built, with close-cropped silver-blond hair and piercing blue eyes, and there were three small scars on the lean, slightly lined face, one of them a vivid C-shape gouged into his cheek, that gave him an appearance that was close to, but not quite, thuggish. Right then he inspired confidence and I was glad he was on my side.

  'You lead a charmed life, Mr Fallon,' he said, leading me out into the corridor, where a number of medical staff had gathered to see what was going on.

  'Have you got the guy who was after me?' I asked him.

  'We're looking for him now,' he answered as we walked back to my room. 'But there's no need for you to worry. We've got armed officers all over the building.'

  I felt like saying that this could be construed as being a bit late, but didn't bother. I was pleased just to be safe, a feeling that was reinforced when I saw the three black-clad Robocop lookalikes standing outside the door of my room, wielding machine guns.

  Standing off to one side of them in jeans and check shirt was a short, squat Asian guy with a thick head of hair like a badger's, talking animatedly to the harassed-looking junior doctor who'd examined me earlier.

  'This is my colleague, Mo Khan,' said Bolt as the Asian guy turned round. 'We'd like to ask you some questions quickly if that's OK? It's extremely urgent.'

  'I don't think this is a good idea,' said the doctor, pushing past Mo Khan. 'This patient needs rest,' he added firmly, addressing Mike Bolt.

  'It's OK,' I said, pleased for the opportunity to finally tell my story in full. 'I'll speak to them now.'

  A few minutes later I was back in bed with a glass of water in my hand, feeling a little more relaxed as they took seats on either side of the bed.

  'OK,' said Bolt as Mo Khan produced a tape recorder, 'we understand you witnessed a kidnapping. Take us through everything from the beginning. And please don't leave anything out.'

  So this time I didn't. I told them everything, including what had happened to Ramon, knowing that there was no longer any point in holding anything back. Neither of them seemed fazed by my revelations. Instead they took me through every important detail of the past forty-eight hours, slowly and carefully, asking questions where necessary, but otherwise allowing me to talk.

  When I'd finished, I felt numb and spent. I took a big gulp of water and sat back against the pillows, hoping they believed me, but not sure what else I could say.

  'You're extremely lucky, Mr Fallon,' said Bolt, leaning forward in his seat. 'The man who's been after you is a professional killer.'

  'You know him
, then?'

  'I know of him. His name's Michael Killen, and he's extremely dangerous.'

  Hearing his name took away some of the mystery surrounding him. It had a diminishing effect, making him smaller and pettier, somehow less immortal. 'I know I'm lucky to be alive,' I said, suddenly feeling deflated. 'But does this mean you'll be able to find Jenny now? And Tina? She's still missing, isn't she?'

  Bolt nodded, an expression of concern crossing his face. It was clear he knew her. 'Unfortunately she is, yes,' he answered. 'We're in a better position to find both of them now we've talked to you and you've filled in the gaps, but I've got to be honest, we're still short of leads.'

  'So, Killen's escaped then?'

  'It looks that way. And I've got no doubt he knows where both women are.'

  It was Mo Khan who spoke next. 'Is there anything you can think of, Mr Fallon, any clue at all that might help us find them? Something you saw or heard that you haven't yet told us about?'

  'I've still got those photos that Tina sent me.'

  'We've already seen them,' he said.

  I wondered how this could be but didn't say anything. I was too busy racking my brains, but unfortunately to no avail. 'I'm sorry,' I told them at last, 'I can't think of anything.'

  They looked disappointed but thanked me for my help and got to their feet. It was clear they were finished with me for now.

  'One thing before you go,' I said. 'You turned up out of the blue at Maxwell's place tonight. How did you know I was there?'

  'Maxwell – Harvey Hammond – was a police informant of mine for a number of years,' Bolt answered.

  That caught me out. 'I was writing a book about him,' I said. 'I thought he was some bigshot criminal.'

  'No, he was small-time. He used to know a lot of people on the fringes, and he was good at keeping his ear to the ground, but he was no Ronnie Kray.' He gave me a sympathetic look, seeing that this news represented something of an unpleasant surprise.

  In truth, it was one of the biggest shocks I'd had in the last few days. I'd really believed in Maxwell, had been totally taken in by his tales of villainy. To find out that he was nothing but a lowlife snitch made me feel like a gullible prick.

  'One thing I've learned in twenty years as a cop,' continued Bolt, 'is that the real bad guys don't tend to talk about what they do, only the wannabes. Look at it this way, though. If it hadn't been for Maxwell calling me to let us know you were at his place, you'd be dead now.'

  As they turned to leave, something else occurred to me. 'And how did Killen and his mate manage to track me down to Maxwell's cottage? I'm positive I wasn't followed there and no one knew that was where I was going.'

  They exchanged glances again, and it was clear that neither of them had thought about this.

  There was a pause of a couple of seconds before a look of realization crossed Mo Khan's face. 'You said Killen gave you back your phone when he came to your place on Monday night, didn't you?'

  I nodded.

  'Where's the phone now?'

  'In my jeans pocket.' I pointed to where my clothes were hanging over a chair in the corner.

  He went through them until he found it and then, as I watched, he took off the back and started fiddling round inside. A couple of seconds later he removed a small round object, about half the size of a penny piece. He held it up for me to see. It emitted a tiny flashing red light. 'A GPS tracking device. Simple, yet highly effective.' He gave me a look that might have been sympathetic, or was possibly just pitying. 'It seems, Mr Fallon, that they knew exactly where you were the whole time.'

  Forty-three

  Bolt stood in the hospital car park, breathing in the cool night air. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving behind the smell of late summer foliage. He'd just finished paying the man from Autoglass, who'd put a new windscreen on the Jag, and he was pissed off.

  To have come so close to Hook – the man he'd been after for five years – and then lose him wasn't easy to stomach, particularly with Tina unaccounted for. But it could have been worse. They'd almost lost Fallon as well. When they'd arrived at the hospital earlier and run into the ARV team tasked with guarding Fallon at the entrance, they'd heard the commotion and had run through accident and emergency, disturbing Hook, who'd abandoned his pursuit of Fallon and fled, using two orderlies and their gurney as cover. Bolt had even caught a glimpse of him, thirty yards away down the end of a corridor. So near, yet so bloody far.

  His mobile started ringing.

  It was Big Barry Freud. 'What on earth's going on, Mike?' he demanded. 'I've just had a call from the assistant chief constable of Thames Valley Police. He says you've been involved in a shoot-out in Berkshire, ran someone over, and drove off in a car that was being treated as crime-scene evidence. Care to explain?'

  When he put it like that, it didn't sound too good, but Bolt was fairly certain that his actions had helped save Fallon's life, which was going to earn him some sort of credit. He gave Barry a brief rundown of the situation.

  'So you're saying it's all to do with this bloody kidnap that Tina Boyd's been investigating?'

  'It looks that way. Hook's definitely trying to do everything he can to shut up Fallon. And he's taking some massive risks. Like coming here tonight.'

  'Blimey. It must be a very lucrative kidnapping to be worth all this effort and this many murders. What do we know about this girl?'

  'Her name's Jenny Brakspear. And it's not a lot, but according to Tina, her father denied that any kidnapping had actually taken place. He said she'd gone on holiday. I had one of the team check up on Jenny's and her dad's backgrounds earlier, but everything ended up being put to one side when we got the call about Tina, and I haven't got the results back yet.'

  'I heard that the body wasn't Tina's.'

  'No.' Bolt knew he should have phoned Barry and told him it wasn't, but things had been happening so fast that night there'd been hardly a moment to stop and think.

  'And you still haven't heard from her?'

  Bolt sighed. 'No we haven't. But we've talked to Fallon.'

  'Was he any help?'

  'He's filled us in on what happened, but the problem is he didn't really know Jenny that well.'

  'Great.' Big Barry exhaled loudly down the phone. 'Which of the team was looking into Jenny's background?'

  'Kris Obanje. I think Mo's on the phone to him now.' Bolt looked across to where his colleague was standing on the hospital steps, talking animatedly into his mobile and taking notes at the same time.

  'Good. Find out what you can and keep me in the loop. I'm at home.'

  Bolt said he would, and ended the call. It was 1.20 in the morning, and he was exhausted. But he had a feeling neither he nor Mo Khan were going to be sleeping any time soon.

  Forty-four

  'According to Obanje, Jenny Brakspear's a complete unknown,' said Mo, pocketing his phone. 'Currently unemployed. She worked for an internet travel company based in Islington until about three months ago but got made redundant because of the credit crunch. No criminal record. Just an ordinary middle-class girl.'

  'Her dad's the key,' said Bolt. 'He's the one they've got to be blackmailing. What did Obanje find out about him?'

  'He's a company director of a gas wholesaler based in Cambridge. Good salary, and he's a part owner of the company, but there's not enough to hold him to ransom over. If he liquidated all his assets tomorrow then Kris reckons he could probably raise a few hundred thousand, but he hasn't even attempted to do that. The company's listed on AIM, the small company stock exchange, and there've been no share transactions this week, which there would have been if he'd been trying to raise money by selling his shares.'

  'So it's something else.'

  They both stood in silence for a minute.

  Then a thought struck Bolt. 'You said Brakspear's a director of a gas company. What type of gases do they deal with?'

  Mo shrugged. 'I don't know, and I don't think Kris looked into it in too much detail. But they
wouldn't be ransoming her for gas, would they? It can't be worth that much money.'

  'But if it's not money, I don't know what else it could be. Have you got a name for the company?'

  He flicked open his notebook. 'Mainline Gas Services.'

  'Let's look them up.'

  Mo Khan always kept his laptop with him on jobs. It was currently under the seat in the Jaguar. They got inside the car and he looked up Mainline on the net, using a plug-in stick.

  The company's website was pretty basic. It gave a brief history and an even briefer description of the services offered, and the gases they dealt with, none of which looked particularly controversial, although Bolt knew that this didn't mean much.

  Mainline had two directors. One was Roy Brakspear, and when Mo double-clicked on his name the photograph of an ordinary-looking man in his fifties with grey hair and an avuncular smile appeared. His background was equally ordinary. A Masters degree in Chemistry from Cambridge; twelve years as a chemist at ICI before founding Mainline with an ICI colleague in 1987; one adult daughter. No mention of a wife. The ICI colleague was Miles Cavendish, now managing director, a younger-looking guy with red hair in a side parting and a much more confident, go-getting smile in his website photo.

  'We need to speak to this guy,' said Bolt, pointing at Cavendish's mug.

  'He's not going to be pleased being woken at this time in the morning.'

  'It's an emergency. We've got no choice.'

  It only took a few minutes to find Cavendish's number. SOCA had access to every registered telephone number in the country, but in this case Bolt bypassed HQ and phoned directory enquiries, immediately striking gold.

  'This guy must be one of the last people in the country listed in the phone book,' he said as he wrote down the number. 'I'd never have my number there for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see.'

  Mo shrugged. 'Saira insists on it. Just in case any of her old friends are trying to look her up.'

  'And do any?'

  'No. All we get are calls from Indian call centres.'

  'I think when he finds out what this is about, Cavendish is going to wish we were an Indian call centre.'