A knife appeared in his free hand. He crouched down and used it to cut her free of the masking tape and the ropes, slicing them roughly yet thoroughly, yet somehow managing to avoid cutting her. When what was left of her bonds was scattered in several piles around the chair where she'd spent most of the last twenty-four hours, he stepped back and told her to get to her feet.
She did as she was told, so stiff she almost fell straight back down again. It felt strange being free. But not good, because somehow she knew that he wouldn't be tying her up again. Some time soon, maybe even in the next few minutes, he'd be finished with her. And when he was, that would be it.
'Put your hands behind your back, palms outwards,' he commanded, putting the knife away and coming round behind her. 'And don't try anything stupid, otherwise I'll make you scream.'
Tina moved her hands behind her and waited as he fitted a pair of new-style police restraints. Then finally she stood facing him, still dressed only in a blouse and socks. 'Do you mind if I put some clothes on?' she asked him. 'I'm very cold.'
He smiled. 'No. I like it when you suffer a little.'
He took her by the arm and pushed her in the direction of the open door, following behind her as she walked unsteadily through it, wondering if these would be the last steps of her life. She tried not to limp as she stepped painfully on the set of picks, which were pushing against the sole of her foot, hoping he wouldn't notice there was anything amiss.
The door led out on to a narrow balcony with stairs leading down to the ground floor on her left, and another door directly opposite.
'Keep going,' he said, pushing the silencer into the small of her back.
'Where?' she asked, standing at the top of the staircase, hating the uncertainty in her voice, because that would show him she was scared, and she couldn't have that.
'In there,' he said, pushing the door. 'Go on, it's open.'
Taking a deep breath, she went in, wondering what on earth was going to greet her.
What did was something far worse than she could have imagined.
The room was dark and fetid, lit only by a dim overhead strip light, the smell of human filth like ammonia in Tina's nostrils. A young woman, bruised and naked, with unkempt blonde hair and terrified eyes, whom she immediately recognized as Jenny Brakspear, was spreadeagled and chained to a black bondage-style contraption that had been attached to the far wall, completely covering the room's only window. A spiked collar kept her head in place and a plastic ball gag had been stuffed into her mouth to prevent her crying out. As Tina took a step closer, she saw that there were long dried rivulets of blood running down one arm. She followed them to their source and flinched when she saw that the tip of the little finger on her left hand was missing. An expensive-looking video camera on a tripod had been set up with the lens facing her to record her torment.
As the man responsible for it came into the room behind her, Jenny Brakspear moaned, and Tina recognized the sound as the one she'd heard the previous night. Trying not to gag against the room's stench, she looked at Jenny who was staring at her with pleading, beaten eyes, and mouthed to her that it was going to be all right, even though it was obvious that it would never be all right for her again.
'What do you think?' he whispered, coming close to Tina's ear. 'Aren't you lucky you're not being kept in accommodation like this.'
'Why are you doing this?' Tina asked, feeling a mixture of anger and black despair. It was difficult to believe that people as heartless as the man next to her existed. 'What's she ever done to you?'
'Would you rather I put you up there instead?'
'Just let her go, for Christ's sake!'
He chuckled. 'Ah, like I said earlier, you've got spirit, Tina Boyd. You interest me. That's why you're still alive. But this one . . . She's got no spirit at all.' He gave a melodramatic sigh. 'So she has to die.'
With a sudden movement he kicked Tina's legs from under her. As she fell to the floor, he raised the gun, took aim and, as Jenny Brakspear's eyes widened for the last time, shot her once in the groin, then once in the forehead.
Blood sprayed the board and Jenny's body shivered violently for several seconds before finally her head tilted forward and she was still.
'You fucking bastard!' screamed Tina, trying to scramble to her feet.
Stepping easily to one side, he kicked her in the side of the head, sending her sprawling, then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. 'Do you want to die too, Tina Boyd?' He laughed, a mad, sadistic ecstasy in his voice. 'Do you, darling? Like her?' He dragged her forward so she was right in front of Jenny's corpse and could see the blood running down the board behind her head. 'Or are you going to beg?' He let go of Tina's hair and threw her against the opposite wall, pointing the gun at her face with a steady hand. The joy on his face was frightening to behold. 'Well, Tina Boyd? What's it going to be? Beg or die?'
She stared down the barrel. Thought of all the people she'd lost down the years.
Hold it together, Tina. For Christ's sake. Think.
'Please don't kill me,' she whispered.
'Sorry? What was that again?'
'Please don't kill me.'
'So you're going to do what I tell you?'
She swallowed. 'Yes.'
He smiled. 'Good. That's what I want to hear. Get on your knees.'
Tina hesitated, her mind a whirl of thoughts. Trying desperately to come up with some kind of plan of escape.
'On your fucking knees. Now.'
Slowly she lowered herself, catching sight of Jenny's corpse out of the corner of her eye, head slumped forward, the blonde hair hanging down over her face like a forlorn shroud. She didn't want that to be her.
He took a step forward, unzipping his fly.
And then stopped. A loud shrill ringing was coming from his boiler suit, its sound filling the room. Keeping the gun trained on Tina, he checked the screen, frowning as he put it to his ear.
He listened for several seconds, looking annoyed, before finally speaking. 'Text me the address. I'm on my way.' He put the phone back in the boiler suit pocket and regarded Tina with an almost scientific interest, moving the gun ever so slightly so that the barrel was pointed directly at her forehead.
She swallowed hard, waiting for him to decide her fate.
'We'll have to wait a while longer for our fun, I'm afraid,' he said, lowering the gun. 'You can wait here with Jenny.'
Tina didn't say a word. Just watched as he walked to the door and turned the handle, thinking of the set of picks in her sock.
'Oh, one thing,' he said, as if as an afterthought. 'Stand up a moment.'
Slowly, Tina got to her feet and stood facing him.
'Thanks for that,' he said with a smile, and shot her in the foot.
Fifty-six
The clock on his office wall said five to four as Mike Bolt finished on the phone to yet another estate agent. He'd spoken to forty-five of them in all since he'd started checking for suspicious building rentals in the area of north-west Essex where the blue Mazda had last been sighted. He'd already overshot the time limit Big Barry had given him by close to two hours, and he knew he was going to get pulled off it soon to join Mo and the rest of the team in the next room where they were trawling through endless CCTV footage in the hunt for the lorry. But he was also sure he was on the right track. He would have bet a month's wages that Hook had his base somewhere within those 190 square miles.
He stretched in his seat, ignoring the exhaustion he was feeling, and took a gulp of lukewarm coffee. 'How are you getting on?' he asked Kris Obanje, who was sitting opposite him, wading through all the property details they'd been sent and dividing them into separate piles. 'Remember we're looking for properties that are big enough to store kidnap victims, and possibly even a lorry, and where the occupants aren't going to arouse suspicion from any nosy neighbours. That's got to narrow it down a bit, doesn't it?'
Obanje was a big man with a powerlifter's build and his chair creaked as h
e sat back in it and removed the thick-rimmed glasses that always gave him an intellectual air. 'So far I've got fifty-nine properties let in the area in the last six months where the monthly cost is over fifteen hundred a month. I don't think there's much point looking at anything for less than that.'
'Neither do I. But I'm thinking they wouldn't have let anywhere six months in advance. There wouldn't have been much point. How many of those have been let in the last three?'
'Twenty-five. And of them I reckon nine are promising, i.e. they're big enough to store a lorry and don't seem to be overlooked, and they're all let to people or companies not known to the agent.' He picked up one of the piles and handed it to Bolt. 'Have a look. I've spoken to the agents involved and apparently they all look like legitimate lets.'
Impressed with Obanje's organizational skills, which were far superior to his own, Bolt sifted through the details. They were a mixture of warehouses, industrial units, farms, a couple of grand country dwellings, one of which boasted a shooting estate, and a rundown cottage with fifty acres attached. All of them would have made perfect hideouts.
'Hook's a thorough man,' said Bolt, 'so if he's let one of these, it'll all look above board. But I bet if you dig a little it won't take long to find that the ID of the company or individual on the contract is bogus. So, I want you to check out each of the tenants of those nine properties, and see what you turn up. In the meantime there are still a few agencies that haven't sent through their details yet, and a couple I haven't been able to get hold of, so I'm going to chase them. Then I'll help you. OK?'
Bolt picked up the phone again, pissed off with the lack of urgency some of the agents were showing in the face of his enquiries. But before he could make his next call he heard voices outside followed by a knock on the door.
It was Mo, and he looked excited. Bolt immediately assumed there must have been a breakthrough on the hunt for the lorry.
But he was wrong.
'It's your blue Mazda, boss,' Mo told him. 'It's on the move. The ANPR people are following it. Big Barry's patched through to them in his office and he wants you in with him now.'
Bolt brightened. At last they had a break. He told Obanje to carry on with their list and followed Mo.
'Are you coming with me?' he asked Mo as they walked through the open-plan office and past the rest of the team, who were all looking up from their desks with the kind of expressions only worn when something big was happening.
Mo shook his head. 'No, he just wants you. You'd better hurry.'
Bolt ran down the corridor, going straight into his boss's office without knocking.
Big Barry was at his desk with the phone on loudspeaker. 'I'm just being joined by Mike Bolt,' he said into the microphone. 'This is his lead. Mike, I'm on with Dean Thomas of ANPR control, and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Antony Bridges of Central Command, who's heading up this inquiry. Dean, where is our suspect vehicle now?'
'He's on the M11 southbound,' said a thin, nasal voice over the mike. 'He passed junction six, the M25, one and a half minutes ago now. ETA junction five at current speeds is one minute. Over.'
'OK,' said a much deeper voice that Bolt immediately recognized as Bridges. 'Let me get this absolutely straight, Mike. You believe this vehicle is linked to our missing lorry, is that right?'
'Yes sir. In fact I'm absolutely certain it's being driven by one of those involved in the plot.'
'Do you have any idea where it's going?'
'No sir, and I can't be certain of the ID of the driver either, but he's definitely one of the men we're looking for.' He understood that Bridges had to check out the leads before authorizing any major intervention because, like anyone else in authority, he had to cover his arse in case things went wrong. But he was willing him to hurry up.
'Then we're going to follow this vehicle and see where it leads us rather than intercepting it,' said Bridges at last. 'I have air support standing by at Lippetts Hill. I'll call it in now.'
'Suspect vehicle has now passed junction five, M11, Loughton. Still heading southbound on main carriageway.'
'Shit, he's going quick,' said Bolt. 'What's the traffic like out there today, Dean?'
'Light into town. The camera's just picked him up at eighty-six miles per hour. Over.'
Typical, thought Bolt. 'We'd better hurry up, then,' he said to whoever was listening. 'The M11 ends at junction four. Then he's right into London.'
'The helicopter from Lippetts Hill will be in the air in thirty seconds,' said Bridges. 'His ETA to junction four is ninety seconds. We also have unmarked police vehicles converging there, with an ETA of two minutes. We won't lose him. Over.'
The room fell silent. Bolt was usually a patient man – you had to be to last as long in the police as he had – but he was finding it extremely hard to stay calm right now. It was still possible, of course, that this whole thing could be a false alarm, that the Mazda had been abandoned and it had been stolen by joyriders. Maybe it wasn't even connected to Brakspear's killer at all. But his instincts told him one of their suspects was in the car, and he'd learned a long time back to trust them.
As he waited, he drummed his fingers on the desk while Big Barry sat with his hands on his lap, staring into space, uncharacteristically quiet.
'Helicopter's in the air,' said Bridges. 'ETA less than one minute.'
'Suspect has just come off at junction four. Over.'
'Well, where's he going?' demanded Big Barry, before adding a belated 'Over.'
'We're not sure yet,' answered the controller with the first trace of uncertainty in his voice. 'Just waiting until he passes through another camera. Over.'
Bolt cursed. This was the problem with relying on all the fancy new technology. You could find just about anyone anywhere, but the problem was, not always when you needed to.
The silence in the room was deafening. They were all relying on a man they couldn't see who was sitting in front of a computer screen in Hendon.
The speaker crackled as the controller came back on the line. 'We've just picked him up on the North Circular roundabout. Looks like he's just turned on to the A113 heading south. Over.'
'I have unmarked vehicles one minute away and the helicopter should be overhead any second now. Over.'
There was a pause. Bolt could almost hear the seconds ticking.
Then DAC Bridges came back over the mike. 'Helicopter is now above junction four but he doesn't have the eyeball yet.' Another pause. 'He's now above the A113, but still no eyeball. Over.'
They all waited. No one said a word. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute.
'The helicopter can't see a blue Mazda anywhere on the A113,' said Bridges, irritably. 'I repeat: we can't see suspect vehicle anywhere. Over.'
'Has he not passed any other cameras?' asked Bolt, leaning towards the mike.
'There's one on the junction with the A119 approximately one and a half miles south. It hasn't picked him up yet. Over.'
'What's traffic like on the A113 south?' asked Big Barry. 'Over.'
'I'm not in a position to see,' answered the controller. 'It might be stuck in a jam. Over.'
Bridges immediately cut in, sounding angry. 'There's no jam. The helicopter reports traffic light. It's moving south but still doesn't have the eyeball. Over.'
'He's got to have turned off,' said the controller, 'but he won't get far. There are cameras east and west of him. As soon as he passes another one, we'll pick him up. Over.'
'We can't lose this bloody car,' said Bolt, louder than he meant to.
But as a minute turned into two, and then three, it was becoming clear that they had.
'He must have stopped somewhere. Over.'
'The helicopter's circling, but no sign yet. We also have unmarked cars in the area. I'm dispatching them into side streets off the A113. Over.'
Big Barry muttered something under his breath.
Bolt shook his head, exasperated. Finally he stood up, too restless to stay seated any longer. 'Have you go
t a London A to Z in here anywhere, sir?' he asked Big Barry. 'I need something tangible to look at.'
'I don't think it's going to help us much,' grunted Big Barry, but he reached into his desk drawer and after a couple of seconds pulled one out and handed it to Bolt, who didn't think it was going to be much help either.
He found the relevant page and immediately saw the name of the borough where the blue Mazda had last been seen.
Wanstead. Why did that seem familiar?
Then he realized. The forwarding address Rob Fallon had given him on the phone earlier had been in Wanstead.
He groaned.
'What is it?' demanded Big Barry, leaning forward.
'They're after Fallon again. He's in Wanstead now, at his mate's place.'
'What's the address?'
Bolt patted his pockets. 'It's in my notebook downstairs.'
He tore out of there and down the corridor, ignoring his team as he ran through the open-plan area into his own office and, without even acknowledging Obanje, who was diligently making notes with a phone to his ear, scrabbled round his desk under the piles of paperwork for his notebook.
It was another thirty seconds before he was on the phone to Big Barry reading out the address of Dominic Moynihan, knowing he'd made a terrible mistake allowing Fallon to leave the hospital without his armed guard. 'Get officers there straight away!' he yelled, hoping he wasn't too late.
Fifty-seven
As my eyes opened and I wiped the blood away with my good hand, I could see Dom still pacing the room.
Seeing me stir, he grabbed the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and waved it at me angrily. 'If you try and move, you'll get more of the same. I mean it as well. This is about my life now. My fucking life, mate. And right now it's more important than anything, including our friendship. It's why I've got to do what I've got to do.' He turned away and kept pacing up and down, the bottle in his hand, every so often glancing across to check I wasn't trying anything.
Every part of me was in absolute agony. If I'd taken every last painkiller the hospital had sent me away with I would have been dead before the pain eased. It was that bad. My head. My face. My arm. Even my side where I'd been hit by Bolt's car. Everything.
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