The two men eyeballed each other for several seconds, but it was Donald who backed down and turned away, immediately regretting that he'd seen fit to rile the other man. Regretting, too, that he'd ever agreed to work with him in a freelance capacity. The pay was good – a hundred and fifty grand, fifty already in his hands, the other hundred following as soon as the job was finished. But for the first time he wondered if he was going to actually receive this last instalment. If Hook was prepared to leave O'Toole dead, why not Donald himself as well?
He decided he was going to have to watch his back.
Fifty-three
I was sitting up in bed, thinking about Jenny Brakspear, when there was a knock on the door and who should step inside but my old friend Dom, holding a box of chocolates in one hand and a Waterstone's book bag in the other. He was dressed in an open-neck shirt and well-cut suit, and his face was lean and tanned. He'd lost weight and it looked like he'd been working out.
I grinned, pleased to see him, but a part of me was also jealous. This was Jenny's boyfriend, the man she'd been with for close to a year, and who'd been living it up in Dubai when she'd needed him most. Unlike me. I'd been there when it mattered.
'Hello mate,' he said with a supportive smile. 'How are you? Brought you a few bits and pieces.' He laid the chocolates and the book bag on the table beside the bed and shook my good hand. His grip was weak. Usually it was tight and confident, but I guess I didn't look like I could handle a firm handshake.
'Thanks, mate, it's appreciated.'
He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and awe. 'I can't believe what's happened to you. I really can't.'
'The evidence is here.' I gestured at the police guard still outside the room. 'It happened.'
'I heard Maxwell's dead.' I'd introduced Dom to Maxwell a while back because he'd always wanted to meet a real live gangster. Maxwell had told me he thought Dom was an arsehole.
I nodded. 'I saw him die.'
And then it all seemed to hit me in one go, a huge rolling wave of shock: how close I'd come to death, not once but twice; the crystal-clear image of Maxwell's corpse in that muddy grave... For several seconds I couldn't speak.
Dom looked worried and asked me if I was all right.
'Yeah, I'm fine. I just need a moment.' I ran my good hand through my hair, amazed that my body didn't ache more than it did, although I suspect that was the drugs, then took a slug of water. 'I don't know what's happened to me, Dom. It's like I've stepped into some kind of nightmare.'
'I can't believe anyone could get to Maxwell.'
I grunted, remembering the way he'd begged for his life. 'These people are way out of Maxwell's league. They're way out of anyone's league. And the worst thing is, they've still got Jenny.'
'I know,' he said.
'Why would anyone kidnap her? And kill so many people to cover it up? That's what I can't understand.'
'Have the police not given you any ideas why she might have been snatched?'
'Not that they've told me, but I'm out of the loop now. I've asked them to keep me posted, but I'm not holding my breath.'
'What are you going to do now?'
It was a good question. I couldn't go home as my flat was now a crime scene – not that I wanted to go back there anyway. To be honest, I never wanted to go back there again. 'I don't know,' I told him. 'I don't want to stay here any longer, and apparently they're removing my police guard because I'm no longer considered to be in danger, so...' I let the sentence trail off, hoping it would act as a hint.
It did. 'Why don't you come and stay with me for a few days?' he suggested, looking like he meant the offer. 'I took today off. I should be able to get the rest of the week too.'
'Are you sure?' I asked, hoping he was.
'You're my mate, Rob. Course I'm sure.'
I was touched. So much so I felt like shedding a tear, though thankfully I managed to stop myself. Instead I immediately climbed out of bed, desperate to get out of the place. Hospitals aren't much fun at the best of times, but when someone's tried to kill you in one, it acts as a pretty sizeable incentive to leave.
However, what with my somewhat unusual circumstances, coupled with the British penchant for bureaucracy, it didn't prove all that easy. First of all, I had to get permission from Thames Valley Police, who were in charge of guarding me, who had to phone Mike Bolt, who agreed in principle with me leaving but wanted a forwarding address in case he needed to reach me, before the assistant chief constable finally rubber-stamped my request. It was then the turn of the hospital itself to be convinced that I was in a fit state to be released from its care, and for some reason they were even more reluctant to see the back of me than Her Majesty's finest, insisting that I wait for the duty doctor to give me a thorough going-over, even though he was only a third of the way through his rounds. So it was well over an hour before I at last got into Dom's car for the journey back to London, laden down with enough painkillers to knock out a football team.
We didn't speak much. I was still a little shell-shocked by events, and all the drugs I'd had were making me dopey. But when we reached Dom's palatial pad in Wanstead and he cracked open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and told me to relax while he cooked a late lunch, I began to perk up. Dom had never been the best cook in the world – takeaways were our main dietary staple when I was living there – but this time he actually put together a half-decent king prawn stir fry, although given the lack of food over the last few days I'd have devoured pretty much anything.
After we'd eaten, we retired to the front room with the wine and talked about what had happened. Dom asked me plenty of questions but he seemed to take particular interest in the actions of the pale murderous Irishman. 'He sounds stone cold,' he commented after I'd told him about the casual murder of Ramon in my bedroom, and I thought I caught just the slightest hint of admiration in his voice. 'Maybe now Maxwell's gone you should consider writing a book about all this. It'd probably sell millions.'
Dom had always bought into the glamour of the criminal underworld, which was why his bookshelves were full of sensational true crime books, and why he'd been so keen to meet Maxwell. His attitude irritated me, but then I'd been seduced in exactly the same way.
'He was an animal,' I said with a conversation-ending finality.
'Shit, I'm sorry mate, I didn't mean it to sound flippant.' He looked genuinely remorseful. 'It's just, you know, I didn't know people like that really existed.'
The drink continued to flow and we moved on to happier subjects. We began to reminisce about the old days: the laughs we'd had in school; the disastrous teenage double date we'd been on with the twin Queen sisters, when Dom made his date Sam cry and mine, Justine, attacked him with her shoe; the disastrous camping holiday to the south of France when the two of us, aged seventeen, got on the wrong train at the Gare du Nord in Paris and ended up spending four rainsoaked days in Belgium . . . Good times, too long ago now, when the world was a fun and easy place, one in which stone-cold killers had never roamed.
As we laughed and talked, I genuinely forgot my troubles in that soft, comforting embrace of alcohol, but then I remembered that Jenny Brakspear was still out there somewhere, and the thought made me feel guilty.
Seeing the change in my expression, Dom asked me what was wrong, and when I told him, he too grew serious. 'I know how you feel, mate, and if it's any consolation, I feel the same way. But neither of us can beat ourselves up about it, especially you. You did all you could to find her, and now, thanks to you, there are plenty of people out there looking.'
'That doesn't mean they're going to find her, though, does it? Not if she's well enough hidden.'
'You can't think like that, Rob. You've got to be positive. You know with all the technology they've got these days, they can find anybody. Shit, look how easy the Irish guy and his mate found you. One tiny GPS transmitter and they can trace a person down to the nearest metre.'
'I suppose so,' I said, not r
eally sharing his confidence.
He picked up the empty wine bottle from the pine coffee table. 'Shall I crack open another one?'
'I don't know. I'm feeling it already with the painkillers.'
He gave me a sly smile. 'Come on. Drown the sorrows. You can always sleep it off later. Remember, you've done your bit.'
Like a lot of City boys, Dom had always drunk a lot. It was an easy way to handle the pressure and the long hours. I'd never caned it to quite the same extent, but I figured another bottle probably wouldn't do a huge amount of harm. There was nothing else I could do to find Jenny, so I might as well forget about it for a while. 'Go on then,' I said. 'In for a penny and all that.'
He looked pleased – after all, no one likes to drink alone – but as he left the room I realized that something was bugging me, although in the fog of the booze it was difficult to identify what it was.
Then I remembered.
I hadn't told Dom about the GPS transmitter in my mobile. I went back through the conversation we'd had, trying to work out if I was mistaken.
Then something else hit me, its ramifications so immense and terrifying that I suddenly sat bolt upright on the sofa.
Maxwell didn't have mobile reception at his place.
He used to say he was happier without it because only a handful of people had his landline number, which meant only people he wanted to speak to could get hold of him. It meant that when I interviewed him for the book, I never got interrupted.
So the kidnappers couldn't have used the GPS to find me there. Which could only mean one thing: they'd had inside information from somewhere.
And as I turned towards the door, I knew immediately where it had come from.
Fifty-four
The smile on Dom's face died the moment he came into the room and saw my expression. I think in that moment he knew that I'd found him out.
'What is it, Rob?' he asked with a casualness that seemed forced as he put the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc down on the table.
'Where's Jenny, Dom?' I demanded.
'What are you talking about? How should I know?'
I told him about the lack of a mobile reception at Maxwell's place.
'What the hell's that got to do with me?'
'You knew where Maxwell lived, didn't you?'
'Well, yeah, but so did quite a lot of other people.'
'But none of them were intimately acquainted with Jenny, were they?'
Part of me couldn't believe I was saying what I was saying. After all, Dom was my friend of more than twenty years, a normal guy who'd lived a normal life and who'd never been in trouble before. Yet when I'd spoken to him on the phone in Dubai the other day, something hadn't rung true. It was the way he'd denied that he'd talked to Jenny for months, even though she'd told me he'd been calling her, trying to get back together. Because why on earth would she have made something like that up?
'You were lying when you said you hadn't spoken to Jenny for months, weren't you? So tell me,' I said, raising my voice now, 'where the hell is she?'
'Christ, Rob, don't be so fucking stupid. Why the hell would I ever get involved in a kidnapping? I'm a businessman, not a criminal. You're delirious, mate. You need some rest.'
He tried staring me out, wearing an expression of righteous indignation and surprise that I'd seen him use plenty of times, usually when he was trying to convince someone he was telling the truth. It usually worked, too, and was doubtless one of the reasons he'd been so successful in business. Back in the old days it had always convinced our teachers he was telling the truth. But I knew him too well. Most of the time he did it when he was lying.
As if to confirm my suspicions, the skin beneath his right eye began to twitch, a long-standing habit that invariably occurred when he was under stress.
I felt the rage building in me. 'You bastard! Where is she? Where's Jenny?'
'What the fuck are you talking about?' he shouted, his voice filling the room. 'You're fucking delirious, Rob, so don't say stuff you don't mean, all right? Why don't you just go for a lie down or something? OK?'
'Where is she? Is she still alive?'
'Shut the fuck up!' he hissed, the guilt coming off him in waves.
'I'm going to call the police, Dom. Right now. I've got the number of one of the senior guys on my phone. Maybe you can convince him you don't know what's happened to Jenny, because you know what? You're not convincing me.'
I stood up and pulled the phone from my pocket with my good hand, still finding it almost impossible to believe that this was happening. Of all the shocks I'd had recently, this was undoubtedly the biggest of all. Which was why, I suppose, it had taken me so long to work it out.
'Put the phone down, Rob,' said Dom with an icy calm. 'Now.'
'No.'
The punch came out of nowhere, connecting perfectly with my jaw and sending me crashing back on to the sofa. The phone flew out of my hand, thudding on to the carpet somewhere out of sight.
Before I could react, Dom grabbed a cushion from one of the sofas and sprang across the coffee table, his face contorted with an angry panic I'd never seen there before. He landed on top of me, one leg digging into my broken arm, and I cried out in pain, trying to avoid the blows raining down on me. Then suddenly the cushion was being pushed into my face and I could no longer see anything. I struggled under him, but he was an ex-rugby player, and even though he'd lost weight he was still a big guy, and in my condition it was always going to be an unequal battle.
I heard him grunt with exertion as he forced the pillow down hard and I felt the panic surge in me as my breath became trapped in my throat. I grabbed his thigh with my good hand, squeezing it as hard as I could. I wanted to beg him for mercy, to tell him that if only he let me go I wouldn't say a word. But only muffled gasps came out as I fought for air.
Without warning, the cushion was pulled away. Dom was staring down at me, tears in his eyes. 'You fucking prick!' he shouted, bringing back his fist. 'Why did you have to get involved? Why couldn't you have just kept out of it and got your own fucking girlfriend? Then none of this would have happened!'
I started to say something but he punched me again, full in the face, although this time there was less power in the blow. I could tell then that he was incapable of killing me. I could hardly move, and my arm was in so much agony I thought it might have been broken again. Even so, I felt hopeful, because it seemed that Dom still possessed some kind of conscience.
He stood up, breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists. Thinking.
Spitting blood from my mouth, I spoke through gritted teeth. 'If you tell me where she is, Dom, I'll call the police anonymously and give them the location. I won't mention your name, I promise.'
'I don't fucking know, all right!' he shouted, pacing the room. 'I haven't got a clue where she is!'
'So what's going on, Dom? Tell me. Please. I'm your mate.'
He gave a sort of groan. 'You were, Rob. But not any more.'
'I can help you. Honestly.'
'No, you can't. You most definitely fucking can't. The only people who can help me are not going to want you shooting your mouth off.'
'I'm going to leave now,' I said, getting unsteadily to my feet, ignoring the way the room was spinning. 'I won't say a word. I promise.' But my plea sounded hollow, and we both knew it.
Dom shook his head firmly. 'I'm sorry, mate, but I can't allow you to do that.'
Knowing I had no choice, I started towards the door, giving him the kind of anguished, vulnerable look I hoped would make him feel sorry enough for me that he wouldn't intervene.
He blocked my path, and I saw that his expression was hard and determined.
I went for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the coffee table, but the booze and pills had made me way too slow, and he knocked me out of the way and grabbed it himself.
'Don't!' I yelled, throwing up my hands to protect myself but unable to stop the bottle connecting with my temple.
Somethin
g in my head seemed to explode, and my legs went from under me. I landed hard on the sofa, the back of my head smacking painfully against the armrest, the blood already pouring into my right eye while the vision in my left began to swim.
I saw a wobbling, swirling image of Dom take a mobile from his pocket and, just before unconsciousness finally enveloped me, I heard him speak four words to the person on the other end with an eerie, unnerving calm that chilled my bones.
'We've got a problem.'
Fifty-five
There was movement outside the door, and Tina tensed as it opened, the hood over her head preventing her from seeing who it was.
For several seconds there was silence. Then she heard a sniffing sound close by her.
'Hmm, it smells like someone couldn't control herself.'
It was him. The man who'd abducted her.
Then, in one sudden movement, the hood was ripped off. Squinting against the brightness of the light, Tina saw him standing in front of her, dressed in a boiler suit and gloves, a mocking half-smile on his thin lips, a pistol with silencer in his hand.
He yanked the gag from her mouth, but she barely noticed the pain. Her raging thirst overcame everything. 'Have you got some water?' she asked, her voice a dry rasp.
Without answering, he pulled a bottle of Evian from one of the boiler suit pockets and pushed it into her mouth.
Tina drank thirstily, consuming the whole bottle in one go.
Almost immediately she experienced a powerful urge for a real drink, something that would make this horrendous situation more tolerable. 'Have you got anything stronger?' she asked before she could stop herself.
He brought his face close to hers, the saucer eyes inspecting her with interest, and she cursed herself for letting him see her weakness. 'I'm afraid not, Tina Boyd. But then, I wouldn't want you drunk for what I'm about to show you.'
She felt the fear coming then, in hard waves that tightened every muscle. 'What are you going to show me?'
He leaned down so his cheek was touching hers. It felt like rubber. 'It's a surprise,' he whispered into her ear.
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