Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2)

by Paddy Magrane

  The doubt solidified. Sam began thinking of the return home. Seeing Eleanor again. He swallowed hard, as a tsunami of emotion threatened to overwhelm him.

  It was too much. He returned to Tapper.

  An hour later, Sam climbed out of bed, pulled a blanket round him, and went into the main room, where Reni was snoring on the sofa, the fire dying before him.

  Sam jolted the policeman’s shoulder.

  ‘Guido,’ he said. ‘Wake up. I’ve got it.’

  Reni peeled open his eyes, groaned. ‘Got what?’ he mumbled.

  ‘A plan,’ said Sam. ‘Do you think Zahra can stay here for a little while longer?’

  Reni sat up, rubbed his face. ‘You’re so damn persistent. You would make a great policeman.’

  ‘In the short term, she’ll need tranquilisers.’

  Reni nodded. Then his forehead creased. ‘So, what’s this plan?’

  Chapter 64

  Westminster, London

  ‘Did you know you were a brief viral hit?’ asked Thorpe, leaning across the table.

  A plate of insalata tricolore, the ingredients swimming in olive oil, sat untouched before Tapper. They were lunching in a near empty Italian restaurant, a place that hadn’t been decorated since the 1980s. Tapper didn’t want to go anywhere he’d be recognised. He wanted, in truth, to crawl under a rock and never re-appear.

  ‘I mean, not you personally, although you are getting very favourable press. The boat. It was all over the net. Someone must have filmed it on their phone. It shows that man in flames on deck. Like some bloody horror film.’ Thorpe took a bite of garlic bread and began chewing. ‘It’s been pulled now,’ he said, through the contents of his mouth. ‘Bit grisly.’

  Tapper felt a great well of sadness rise from his chest. He thought he might cry, be sick, or both.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘That man you’re referring to was the only person I could trust. He was invaluable. He gave his life to save us. You do realise that? I notice you didn’t come rushing out to Sicily to lend a hand.’

  ‘You know I couldn’t risk it. My every move is scrutinised these days. And what with my new diary commitments, it was just impossible. Christ, I would have been there in a shot if I could have.’

  Tapper wasn’t listening. He took a swig of wine, something he’d been doing a lot of recently. The only way he could blot out the pain.

  Thorpe tilted his head. ‘Forgive me. I’m being insensitive. You’ve been through a lot. And believe me, I’m incredibly grateful. You saved us both. And the deal.’

  Tapper nodded numbly.

  ‘Do you know,’ Thorpe continued, ‘when the whole boat story emerged, I read the papers with huge admiration. You were a genius to come up with that when you were talking to the police. All that stuff about going under the radar to learn more about immigrants. It’s very helpful, you know. And even though the whole boat business is drowning some of that message out – at least for now – it still paints you in a very favourable light. It will make our announcement seem somehow more,’ he paused, searching for the right word, ‘thoughtful.’

  Tapper was staring at a faded print above Thorpe’s head, an image of Roman ruins and a coastline sweeping away in the distance. He looked closer and saw the caption: Taormina, Sicily. He felt the sadness in his chest again.

  ‘Can I ask,’ went on Thorpe, ‘was it your idea to get knocked out? Make it look like Wallace had gone mental?’

  The mention of Wallace by name merely accentuated the ache in his chest. ‘No. His. He said it was the only way we could make it look believable. He planned to jump. Then disappear. I would have provided for him.’

  Tapper felt his voice break.

  Thorpe reached out and patted Tapper’s hand. ‘There, there, old boy. Don’t get upset. Must have been bloody traumatic.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Thorpe raised his glass. ‘Well, no use looking back now, is there? Not when the future looks so rosy.’

  Thorpe raised his glass to clink with Tapper’s. The CEO lifted his reluctantly. Glass met glass, and Tapper drank long and deep.

  A cloud seemed to pass in front of Thorpe’s face. ‘The boat,’ he said, sotto voce.

  ‘What about it?’

  Thorpe looked to either side. The restaurant’s other diners were some feet away. ‘You said you destroyed it because you thought the police were getting close. That perhaps, in addition to any statement Idris might have issued, they also had a body?’

  ‘It struck me as a distinct possibility. I mean, of all the bodies that might have floated ashore or been fished out of the water, his would have seemed a little conspicuous.’ Tapper felt a perverse pleasure reminding Thorpe. ‘He hadn’t exactly drowned, had he?’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That there’s a body.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I do know that they’re not interested in pursuing the case. They mentioned an inspector – a loner, some obsessive.’

  ‘The one Keddie and Idris had hooked up with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he’s discredited.’

  ‘That’s my impression.’

  Thorpe looked dissatisfied. ‘And you say they plan to send Idris back to the UK?’

  ‘That’s what they told me.’

  ‘In which case, I will personally ensure that, as an escaped detainee, she is deported forthwith. Unless you have a more fitting solution in mind?’

  Tapper gave Thorpe a withering look. ‘I’m not a fucking hitman, Adam,’ he hissed.

  ‘And I never meant to suggest it,’ Thorpe said quickly. He paused. ‘What about Keddie?’

  ‘He can’t be deported to Eritrea.’

  Thorpe laughed nervously, now unsure of Tapper’s mood. ‘Quite. But what do you think his intentions are?’

  ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue, Adam. All I know is that he will be very pissed off still.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe he and the Sicilian policeman will try and pull something together.’

  ‘You don’t sound all that worried.’

  ‘I’m tired, Adam. I can’t think straight. The point is, even if there is a body, there’s no murder weapon and no crime scene. And the only witness will soon be on a plane to Africa.’

  Thorpe exhaled. ‘You’re quite right. And we have our announcement coming up at the end of the week. Time to look to the future, I believe.’

  Tapper drained his glass in a hollow display of agreement. The future meant nothing. The past was all he’d be thinking about.

  Chapter 65

  Heathrow Airport

  Sam’s flight touched down shortly after midday. As soon as the plane came to a halt at the terminal and passengers got up to pull bags from overhead lockers, Sam stiffened.

  He walked slowly, as calmly as his racing heart would allow, down long corridors towards passport control.

  The queue was moving fast. Soon Sam was at its head, being beckoned forward by a tired, overweight woman with peroxide hair. She glanced at his passport, passed it under a sensor on the desk, then slipped it back to Sam with a forced smile.

  He moved on, felt the tension in his body subside. He must have been crazy to think Thorpe would attempt to involve the Border Agency in his own personal mess. But Sam was tired, and Thorpe was an unknown quantity.

  In the Arrivals hall, he bought a basic Pay-As-You-Go mobile. He found a quiet corner in a café, and called Eleanor’s aunt.

  ‘Susan, it’s me.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘I’m back in London. Can we meet at the hospital?’

  ‘When can you get there?’

  Sam glanced at the digital clock on the Arrivals and Departures board. Factored in journey time across London. ‘Two hours? Maybe two and a half.’

  ‘Let’s say 4pm.’ She paused. ‘And Sam?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The consultant wants to talk to us.’

  *

  Susan was waiting at
the bedside with Mr Khan when Sam arrived. He smiled nervously at them, then looked at Eleanor. His breath caught.

  Although the tube had been removed, Eleanor’s cheeks had hollowed and her skin was pale and lifeless. He went to the bed and kissed her hair. It smelt unwashed. He whispered in her ear.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. ’

  They sat outside the room.

  Sam was the first to speak. ‘The breathing tube has gone. That’s good news, right?’

  ‘Her breathing is spontaneous now,’ said Khan. ‘But that’s because we were using a general anaesthetic in the early stages to relieve the inter-cranial pressure. We’re not now.’ He smiled tightly. ‘What’s more significant is that the MRI revealed the presence of small haemorrhagic lesions on the brain’s stem.’

  Susan reached for Sam’s hand and squeezed it tightly, which worried him enormously.

  ‘This suggests something called Diffuse Axonal Injury, or DAI. We think that the attack may have rotated her brain, stretching or shearing axons.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sam, ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Nerve cells, Mr Keddie. Axons are long extensions of nerve cells.’ Khan sighed. ‘DAI is very serious. It can be mild, but it can also be irreversible and, if extensive, lead to severe brain damage. Possibly death.’

  Susan began to cry and Sam unclasped his hand and wrapped it round her shoulder.

  ‘So what can you do to treat it?’ he asked.

  ‘All we can do is continue to run tests assessing her responses, and make sure we prevent long-term muscle damage or any infection from bedsores.’ He paused, looking at Sam, then at Susan. ‘We may need to think about transferring her to a hospital that can meet her needs more effectively.’

  Susan had stopped crying, as if this bit gave her some comfort.

  ‘Eleanor might be better off at the Royal Hospital for Neuro Disability in Putney,’ said Khan. ‘They have specialist physiotherapists there.’

  ‘Is that it?’ said Sam, his mouth dry. ‘She’s just going to stay like that?’

  Khan tilted his head. ‘Possibly. She may also deteriorate.’

  ‘But she could recover. Come round?’

  ‘It’s unlikely.’

  ‘But not impossible.’

  Khan twisted in his seat. ‘Not impossible.’

  *

  Outside the hospital entrance, Sam looked up at a grey sky, felt the chill envelop him. Traffic choked the streets. He found a vacant spot on the steps and sat, the stone cold beneath him.

  He knew what had happened these past days. How he’d shut out the possibility that Eleanor might not recover, ploughed all his energy into finding the truth behind her attack, discovering what secrets Zahra knew. How all the activity had stopped him dwelling on Eleanor’s condition. It was called denial. And as a therapist, he knew all there was to know about the subject. Pushing Khan to suggest hope was, in effect, more of the same. He could see how the consultant preferred to err on the rational, the medically likely. While Sam could not even contemplate it.

  But if he had to be in a state of denial to have hope, then so be it. Because hope was what Eleanor deserved.

  Sam lifted himself off the step. It was time to get to work again.

  Chapter 66

  Paddington, London

  Sam took the Tube to Paddington – close, but not too close, to his target – and booked into a large bed & breakfast on Sussex Gardens. He then went straight out.

  First stop was an internet café. He bought a cappuccino, and returned to the searches he and Reni had conducted the previous night. One result, in particular, had caught his eye. A picture of Tapper’s London home, in Notting Hill. It took him less than a minute to find the shot he’d seen before, but now it was time to take a closer look.

  The image was part of a long, gushing piece in an interiors magazine, which featured lots of glossy shots of the inside of the house, and one telling picture of the exterior. Almost cropped out of view, the top half of the house number could just be seen inscribed in black on a white wall by the front gate. He skimmed the article and soon found the other nugget of information he required – the street name.

  There was one more item to find, the contact number for Tapper Security’s HQ in London. Sam had it in seconds.

  Next stop was an upmarket stationery shop. Sam bought the most expensive plain white cards and envelopes available, and a good quality pen.

  He then found himself a telephone box. He slotted a handful of coins in and dialled the Tapper Security number.

  ‘Tapper Security, good afternoon.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Sir Harry Tapper’s personal assistant.’

  ‘One moment please, sir.’

  There was a brief burst of ambient music, then a cut-glass voice came on the line.

  ‘Sir Harry Tapper’s office.’

  ‘I’d like to make an appointment to interview Sir Harry for the FT.’

  ‘Have you interviewed him before?’

  Sam’s pulse quickened. ‘No, I’m a freelancer. Working on a piece about trends in the global security market.’

  There was a pause. Sam considered killing the call.

  ‘Sir Harry’s schedule is blocked out for the next three weeks.’

  ‘Can I ask if Sir Harry is in London?’ persisted Sam, his throat parching.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Perhaps you could slot me in if there’s a diary cancellation?’

  There was an irritable sigh.

  ‘He’s in town for the next two weeks. Give me your number.’

  Sam supplied a fictitious name and number.

  ‘We will be in touch in the unlikely event of a cancellation.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The final stop was a sports shop, where Sam bought running clothes and trainers. He returned to the bed & breakfast, dumped the stationery and got dressed.

  It was 7pm and dark by the time he left in his running kit, a beanie pulled low over his forehead. The streets were busy with cars and buses, the pavements thronged with people.

  It took him five minutes to jog to Notting Hill. By the time he cut on to Pembridge Crescent, his heart was beating fast, and not just from the exertion.

  Sam jogged up the street on the left-hand side, slowly drinking in the neighbourhood and terrain. The houses were substantial properties of white stucco, the interiors hidden at this hour by drawn blinds or closed shutters and curtains. There were detached and semi-detached houses, stretches of terracing and regularly spaced trees. There was also a length of railings that edged a garden. Sam saw a notice attached to them: Pembridge Crescent Residents Garden. Strictly Private.

  At the end of the street, he turned to make his way back on the opposite side. He slowed to a walk outside Tapper’s house.

  It was a huge double-fronted property. A path led from the pavement to steps that climbed to a portico and a front door painted in grey gloss. The right side of the garden was an abundant but carefully maintained area of shrubs, while the left was given over to a parking area. Sam noted the presence of a CCTV camera above the front door.

  He then repeated the loop twice more.

  It was on his third pass of Tapper’s house when he saw a black Range Rover moving down the street towards him. As he got closer, Sam saw that Tapper was behind the wheel. At this rate, Sam was going to be crossing the threshold of Tapper’s drive at exactly the moment the vehicle turned in.

  The car indicated and Sam, trying to act as naturally as possible, halted. But Tapper paused and flicked his hand languidly, inviting Sam to move on.

  Heart in his mouth, Sam waved back and jogged on. Behind him, the car turned into the drive. Sam was tempted to sprint away, but wanted to behave as normally as possible. Besides, had Tapper seen him, there would surely have been a look of recognition on his face. But it was dark and he suspected Tapper had not been examining the face of the runner outside his house that closely.

  Despite all that, his pulse was still flying as
he jogged away. He heard a car door clunk shut and half expected to hear Tapper call out. But there was no shout, and soon he was at the end of Pembridge Crescent, the first stage of his plan complete.

  He was far from relieved. The most difficult part was still to come.

  Chapter 67

  Paddington, London

  It was 6.45am and Sam, dressed in his running gear again, nodded at the sleepy man on desk duty before stepping out of the bed & breakfast’s front door.

  What had seemed do-able the previous evening now appeared the height of madness – and highly dangerous. What if Tapper saw him from the window or emerged from his house at the same time? He’d been lucky once. But his luck was sure to run out a second time round.

  As a bus – empty save for a large black woman dozing on the bottom deck – passed him and filled the bitter air with a cloud of diesel fumes, Sam countered his fears. So what if he was caught? He had nothing left to lose. Tapper had taken the only thing of value from him already. With that thought came a surge of courage.

  Figures passed him in the morning gloom, heads hunkered down into scarves and collars to fend off the Arctic temperatures. As he got closer to the real heart of Notting Hill, he counted around a dozen men out pounding the pavements like him.

  By the time Sam reached Pembridge Crescent, he felt confident, the endorphins surging through his system. He carried on running, progressing down the pavement on the opposite side of the road to Tapper’s house, so he had a better vantage point. To Sam’s huge relief, the black Range Rover was still parked in the drive. There was a light on behind a window blind on the second floor of the house, as well as just inside the hallway. If the car was there, then Sam was confident Tapper was still inside.

  Again, he turned at the end of the road, but this time stayed on the same side for the return journey to maintain an uninterrupted view of the property. In less than a minute, he was just across from Tapper’s place.