Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2)

by Paddy Magrane

  Sam had a sudden lurch of panic. ‘Has she been taken already?’

  ‘No,’ said Reni. ‘She’s still with Francesca, the lady from the mortuary.’

  It was a crumb of comfort. But they had lost. Spectacularly. Zahra would be returned to a country that would imprison and perhaps even torture her. Reni was ruined. As far as his superiors were concerned, he was an embarrassment – a reminder of an episode they wanted to make disappear. And the men who’d set in motion Eleanor’s attack and Fitzgerald’s murder had escaped justice.

  ‘What a fucking mess,’ he said.

  Sam put his head in his hands and attempted to shut the day’s disastrous events out of his mind. But it was impossible. He remembered, with a shudder, the moment he’d arrived in Pozzani and discovered Tapper at the hotel. He had followed Sam and Zahra all the way to Sicily to destroy them. He peeled his hands away and looked up at Reni.

  ‘You can’t send Zahra back.’

  ‘Please,’ said Reni, his voice full of exhaustion. ‘No more requests. I need my job. A couple more years at this rank won’t hurt me. Then I can collect my pension and slip away.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Sam, his voice pleading. ‘You’ve seen how powerful Tapper is. If Zahra ends up back in a detention centre – especially one run by his firm – she will not be safe. He’s still dangerous.’

  ‘But she’s got nothing on him now.’

  ‘Except the ability to identify the other man – the murderer. That’s got to worry him.’

  Reni was silent.

  ‘Look,’ Sam said, pulling himself off the floor to face the policeman. ‘There must be a way to finish this.’

  Reni placed his hands flat on the mattress, then clenched and unclenched them.

  Sam pushed on. ‘You were so close to solving this case. But instead of siding with you at the most critical moment, your superiors have dismissed your work. They have accepted the concocted story of a millionaire with influence on the island. They have colluded with him to cover up a murder.’

  Reni grimaced, as if he’d just swallowed something sour.

  ‘You’re on the side of the outsiders, Guido. You always will be.’

  ‘But what can we do?’

  Sam thought of his break, the moment he’d remembered the picture of Tapper at the marina. And that was just a general search. ‘We search again,’ he said, ‘but this time with different criteria. Tapper’s allies, business associates, political friends. Show Zahra the images.’

  Reni looked up, his face registering renewed hope. He nodded. ‘If she identifies one, then I can cross-check with flights from London – possibly ferries, though I doubt these two would stoop so low – that arrived before the disaster. Tapper and the other man probably travelled together, or certainly round about the same time. We need to be absolutely sure we have the right man.’

  Reni’s brow furrowed. ‘We haven’t got long. You need to leave the island soon. They’ve made that very clear. Given how much they bent over for Tapper, they may even be running an exit check at airports and ports. We need to do this now.’

  He paused in thought. ‘The station is pretty quiet at this time of night. I can arrange to have Francesca called away. And then get Zahra out of a back door. Make it look like she’s escaped.’

  ‘Where can we take her?’

  Reni looked upwards, eyes searching for a solution. A moment passed, then he turned to Sam. ‘My father has a cabin near Vizzini. Zahra can stay there. My mother will look after her. Mama has a big heart.’ He winked. ‘And she’s an outsider, like Zahra.’

  Chapter 62

  Hyblaean mountains, Sicily

  Reni drove into the night, heading north along more switchback roads. Zahra slept, her head resting on a blanket propped against the window.

  If nightmares didn’t intrude, sleep would be the one place she might briefly escape this. But their plan had at least given her focus.

  On a road that spanned a ridge, the lights of two small villages in the valleys either side, Reni peeled off left and began down a bumpy, rock-strewn track. Pine trees appeared either side of the car.

  Minutes later, the car’s lights swung into a clearing and Sam saw the cabin. It was a simple stone building, single-storey, with a tiled roof.

  Reni parked the car, then unlocked the old wooden front door with a large key, ushering them inside. Sam had expected a more basic place, but Reni flicked a switch and lamps blinked on to reveal a homely space. There was a galley kitchen off to their left, a rustic dining table and chairs, and an old sofa and two armchairs ranged round a fireplace. A few yellowing photographs hung on the walls, images of men hunting, and a couple on their wedding day.

  Their breath condensed in the cold air. Reni busied himself lighting a fire in the hearth and cranking up a stove in the kitchen. He then showed Zahra one of the cabin’s two bedrooms, which was basic, but comfortable, with a soft mattress and a pile of blankets.

  They ate tinned soup in silence, watching as the fire gathered strength, the flames dancing and leaping.

  ‘Shall we start?’ said Reni, once he’d cleared the bowls.

  Zahra tipped her head backwards, then swung it from side to side, like an athlete preparing for an event. She nodded.

  Reni fired up his laptop at the table, plugging a dongle into the side.

  ‘There’s a mobile phone mast in Vizzini,’ he said, grinning. ‘The signal’s better than Ragusa sometimes.’

  They started with ‘Sir Harry Tapper friends’. The search results seemed to be dominated by image after image of a party Tapper and his wife had hosted in Venice the previous year, a costume ball at the Cipriani. Endless pictures of gurning people, their eyes hidden by carnival masks. Next to useless. Eventually these gave out and there were pictures from various newspapers and society magazines of his parties in the Cotswolds. Men in dinner jackets and women in long gowns. Reni scrolled slowly through them, Zahra shaking her head.

  Maybe, thought Sam, this man was an outsider. Not a public figure or from Tapper’s circle of friends or associates. Publicly, Tapper appeared to be a happily married man. Maybe this mystery figure came from a secret part of his life. In which case, they might never find him online.

  They started another search, typing in ‘Tapper political allies’. There were dozens of images of Tapper and Gillian Mayer in India, both sporting garlands of white flowers round their necks at what looked like the opening of some big facility in the sub-continent. Another of him and the Home Secretary standing outside the gates of Creech Hill. Sam looked at Zahra, but she shook her head again.

  Soon the image results became less focused. There were no more pictures of Tapper and the screen filled instead with one mug shot after another of politicians. It was hopeless.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ said Sam. He typed in ‘Harry Tapper’ and was about to add ‘business associates’ when Google suggested a list of other criteria: ‘yacht’, ‘homes’, ‘children’, ‘helicopter’ and ‘shoot’.

  Slowly they went through each suggestion. Sam learned that Tapper’s yacht was built in Poole, that he had homes in Cape Town, London and New York, in addition to the property he already knew about in the Cotswolds, that his two beautiful children – like their dad, all tan and good grooming – attended a private school in Somerset, and that he had a helicopter on standby to take him on short-haul trips round the UK.

  ‘Try the last one,’ said Zahra. While Sam’s eyes had begun to droop she seemed wide awake. Probably firing on adrenaline, he guessed, as she fought the images of Abel lying in the mortuary.

  Sam typed in ‘Harry Tapper shoot’.

  The images were grainy, taken from some distance, but showed Tapper and a group of others standing in a field. They were dressed in classic country pursuit gear – flat caps, Barbour jackets, plus fours or wellies. They clutched shotguns, while Labradors stood to heel. There was a picture of Tapper aiming his gun into the air. Another of his wife taking a pot at some defenceless bird.


  ‘Him.’

  It was Zahra, her finger pressed to the screen. The room seemed to close in around them. There was a crackle and hiss from the fire. Sam and Reni exchanged a glance.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘That was the other man on the boat.’

  The picture showed Tapper and another man, also wearing a flat cap, walking and talking. Their guns were lowered to the ground. It was grainy, but Sam could make out a lean figure, slightly taller than Tapper, broad-shouldered with a square jaw. He clicked on the image.

  The picture was from the Daily Mail, the article titled ‘Sir Harry Tapper’s January shoot – the first unmissable date of the year’. Sam scrolled through the article, trying to find the image Zahra had pointed to. The screen froze.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered.

  Finally it moved on. And there was the image. Sam read the caption out loud. ‘“Sir Harry Tapper with Home Office Minister, Adam Thorpe MP”.’

  He opened another window, typed in ‘Adam Thorpe MP’, and pressed ‘Enter’.

  The page loaded. To the right was a clear head-and-shoulders shot of Thorpe. Sandy-coloured hair, blue eyes, strong symmetrical features.

  Zahra reared back, her mouth agape. A hand shot out and grabbed Sam’s arm. If she’d had any doubts before, she was certain now.

  ‘It’s OK, Zahra,’ said Sam. ‘He cannot hurt you.’

  Her breathing accelerated, rapid intakes as if she were convinced the oxygen in the room was running out.

  Sam slammed shut the laptop.

  ‘Look at me, Zahra,’ he said, his voice authoritative and calm. ‘Look at me!’

  Zahra turned to face Sam. She was still panting like a dog, her eyes bulging.

  ‘That man cannot hurt you here, do you understand?’

  The breathing would not slow. Sam took her hands, squeezed tightly. ‘Guido and I are here. We will not let anyone hurt you.’

  The pressure of Sam’s hands seemed to work. There was a slight nod from her.

  Sam shot a quick look at Reni. ‘Have you got anything to drink?’

  ‘My father has brandy.’

  ‘Get it.’

  Sam remained with Zahra, her hands held tightly in his.

  Reni returned with a bottle and a glass. He poured a measure.

  ‘You need to drink this, Zahra. It will help calm you down. Help you sleep.’

  Zahra, still breathing like a sprinter after a race, shook her head.

  ‘Please,’ said Sam, ‘drink. It will help.’

  With a shaky hand, Zahra lifted the glass to her mouth. She took a sip, grimaced, then took another.

  Her breathing began to slow. Sam sat with her, still gripping her hands, until it returned to normal. Without being asked, she then stood and retreated to the bedroom Reni had shown her. She lay down on the bed, eyes drooping almost immediately. Sam draped three blankets over her. He didn’t expect her to sleep well, but right now any rest was better than nothing. One thing was for sure, if she was staying here indefinitely, she needed sedatives.

  ‘She’s asleep, for now,’ said Sam, returning to the table. ‘Let’s have a slug of that brandy and take another look at this bastard.’

  Reni fetched a couple more glasses and poured the brandy. Sam drank, felt fire trace a path down his throat, and opened the laptop.

  He clicked on the top search result, Thorpe’s Wikipedia entry. He skim read then summarised out loud.

  ‘Born in 1972 in Shropshire, educated at Shrewsbury. Studied law at Bristol then took a job at an international law firm. Married to The Hon. Fiona Cruickshank; two children, Rory and Sophie. Stood successfully for Staffordshire East at a by-election in 2003. Rapid rise through the ranks at the Ministry for Energy and Climate Change, before a move to the Home Office where he was appointed Minister for Security and Immigration.’

  Sam paused. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Reni.

  ‘There was a reshuffle days ago. The Foreign Secretary resigned due to illness. The Home Secretary was given his job.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Thorpe?’

  Sam looked up from the screen. ‘He was promoted,’ he said. ‘Adam Thorpe is about to become the UK’s new Home Secretary.’

  Chapter 63

  Hyblaean mountains, Sicily

  Sam exited the Wikipedia page and scrolled through the rest of the results. He had a vague sense of the man, must have heard his name mentioned on the news at some point, but now Adam Thorpe came to life.

  There were dozens of references to him in the media. Plenty about his ascent to the top job at the Home Office. A piece that praised him for his role in negotiating with the Bahraini government to secure a promise that an extradited man wanted for inciting terrorism would not be tortured when he returned to his native country. An article in the Wall Street Journal that talked of his visit to the IMF to urge better co-operation in the freezing of bank accounts associated with terrorist activity. Thorpe was also mentioned in an editorial about alleged failures at the Border Force. The MP was quoted as saying: ‘I am incredibly proud of the work of the Border Force but it has to be acknowledged that there is only so much they can do with a problem that mushrooms year on year.’

  Reni got up to throw another log on the fire. He leaned against the mantelpiece, looking beaten. Abel’s murderer, it turned out, was one of the most powerful politicians in the UK.

  Sam carried on reading, gorging on the endless material online. There was the inevitable Twitter feed. He groaned as he read a mix of bland, earnest and achingly inclusive statements and platitudes from the politician’s office.

  Great to meet the young people of @Somalicommunity today and talk openly about refugee integration. Some spirited debate

  Thinking of my Jewish friends and colleagues as they celebrate #Purim

  But now and then, there were tweets with a little more bite.

  Looking forward to voting today on strengthening #counterterrorist laws. People of UK need protecting.

  Deport first, appeal later works. 1,250 foreign criminals exited UK last year, making country a safer place for all.

  There was a retweet of a Refugee Council post – Thorpe was apparently personally looking into the alleged abuse of a Sudanese woman detained at Creech Hill. He had also responded, in a roundabout way, to a query from a lawyer about potential changes to international extradition treaties.

  The man was clearly a skilled player, able to use the media to push himself, if not, at this stage, a particular agenda. There were shades of liberal and more right-wing leanings in his work and pronouncements, making him difficult to pigeon-hole.

  Reni had promised to cross-check with flight manifests – confirm that Thorpe did indeed enter and leave Sicily in August the previous year – but Sam sensed that was a formality. Zahra had positively identified Adam Thorpe MP, the next Home Secretary, as Abel’s murderer.

  Sam pushed the laptop to one side. How the hell did they get to someone like him?

  Reni was rummaging around in the kitchen. He came back with cheese and biscuits.

  ‘Leave this for tonight,’ said the policeman.

  They drank another brandy, ate the food. Afterwards, Reni found a towel and some clean clothes belonging to his father that Sam could wear the next day. At the door of the bedroom, the policeman clasped him on the shoulder, then headed back to the sofa by the fire.

  Sam felt anaesthetised by the brandy. In the bathroom, he slowly peeled off the filthy clothes he’d been lent at the Tiber Rowing Club.

  Standing before a small mirror, he was shocked by his appearance. The gaunt look of his face seemed to be matched by his body. Ribs that showed through his skin. He turned and caught sight of the wound on his back. It seemed swollen, as if slightly infected. But when he peeled the dressing off his hand, he discovered that it had, miraculously, begun to heal.

  Under the shower, he let the hot water run over him for ten minutes before he began to slowly soap himself free of sweat and
dirt.

  Finally, with a towel wrapped round his waist, he shuffled like a man twice his age towards the bedroom, pulling back the covers to collapse on to the sheets.

  His body sunk into the bed, as if desperate to become one with the mattress. But Sam soon realised his mind was not ready to switch off.

  He was, he knew, safe. At least for now. Tapper was in a clinic. Wallace was dead. But the day’s events kept replaying in his head. Running from the hotel when he discovered Tapper and Wallace were staying there. The fight in the half-finished house. His arrest. Hiding in the crypt – the very thought of which made Sam’s throat tighten. And then the sight of the burning motor yacht, and Tapper coming to on the quayside.

  In that instant Sam felt his exhausted body prickle.

  Wallace. It was all about Wallace.

  He sat up, propping himself on pillows. They had identified Thorpe but, as yet, had no means of getting to him. But Sam could see a way forward. By starting with Tapper.

  Tapper had not hired killers to eliminate him and Zahra. Which suggested he trusted no-one when it came to the job. Except the man he brought with him.

  Wallace was no sophisticate like Tapper. Yet there was a bond between them. Something that went beyond friendship. Tapper had expressed concern for Wallace on at least three occasions, and was distraught at the time of his death. Given what they now knew of Tapper and Thorpe’s relationship, was it possible that he and Wallace had once been lovers?

  In the end, the exact nature of their relationship was not the point. The fact was, Wallace was dead and that left Tapper, judging by his reaction on the quayside, bereft. A condition that Sam, as a therapist, could exploit.

  Doubt crept in. Even if Tapper cracked, it was highly unlikely he’d just spill the beans to the police. No, they needed some other form of leverage.