As casually as he could manage, Sam crossed the road towards the house. Despite his earlier confidence, fear had now returned with a vengeance. His heart was hammering against his rib cage as he got closer. He glanced at his watch. It was 7am. What time did Tapper leave for work? God only knew.
He was now feet from the driveway, and the Range Rover. The front was facing outwards, which was perfect. Sam glanced around. At the windows of the surrounding houses, at the pavement across the street, then up and down his own. A man in a thick coat was moving at a pace some twenty metres in front, heels sounding out an impatient beat on the paving stones as he headed away from Sam. Otherwise the coast was clear.
Sam unzipped his jacket, took out the envelope he’d stashed in there and moved into the driveway. He then reached across the Range Rover’s bonnet and carefully slid the envelope under one of the car’s windscreen wipers.
The task completed, he broke into a jog and sped away. A few metres on, he moved between two cars, glanced up and down the street, and ran across the road. He reached the railings of the garden he’d spotted the previous evening and, after briefly looking round to satisfy himself no one was looking, placed his right foot on a flat gap between two spikes. He grabbed a spike in each hand and pulled himself up, dropping down into the greenery. Finding himself a shrub to hide behind, Sam crouched down and peered out from behind the dense leaves. It was the perfect place to study Tapper’s house. The question was, for how long? At some point, certainly when it became too light, he’d have to exit his hiding place. And what if Tapper didn’t come out? Decided to work from home? Or was picked up by a driver? Sam thought of Eleanor and was overwhelmed with a sense of failure – of letting her down. He couldn’t let that happen.
Around fifteen minutes later – as the day was dawning bright and clear, the pavements were becoming busier and Sam was about to abandon his mission – Tapper’s front door opened.
Chapter 68
Notting Hill, London
Sam held his breath.
Tapper pulled the front door closed behind him and strode down the steps. He wore an overcoat and carried a compact tan briefcase. A scarf was tied elegantly around his neck. He looked a little tired but otherwise, to Sam’s irritation, tanned and untroubled, as if he’d just got back from skiing, not a manhunt in Sicily that ended in fiery destruction and death.
At the base of the garden path, he turned right towards his Range Rover. Up until this point, he appeared almost in auto-pilot mode. He unlocked the 4x4 with his fob and the vehicle blinked awake. But as Tapper moved round the front of the Range Rover, he caught sight of the envelope and halted.
Positioning the envelope on the windscreen, rather than posting it through the letter box, was deliberate. Not only did Sam want to avoid the CCTV camera above the front door, he also needed to see Tapper’s reaction. And now he could, in delicious detail.
Tapper reached for the envelope, turned it over, then ripped it open, pulling out the card inside. Sam had chosen heavy stationery, something that Tapper might have used himself. He wanted the message to have gravitas.
The effect was electrifying. Even from his hiding place, Sam could see the colour drain from Tapper’s face. As if he’d been confronted with news of a terminal diagnosis. Tapper looked up from the message, face full of panic as his eyes scanned the street in both directions. At one point they seemed to lock on to the very spot where Sam was hiding. Sam crouched down even lower, his body tensed to make a run, possibly deeper into the garden.
But Tapper looked on. He then returned to the message. He turned the card over, as if searching for something extra, some further clue. But Sam knew that the words contained all the meaning that was required.
He had written one short phrase:
You loved Pat, didn’t you?
The wording was very deliberate. He had been tempted to rail at Tapper. But Sam knew that the way to really de-stabilise the man was to make him confront a loss that he could not afford to acknowledge.
That Tapper was gay or bisexual and did or did not conceal it from those around him was of no concern to Sam. It was about forcing him to look at pain he was trying to suppress, in the hope that it would make him unravel.
Looking at Tapper now, he sensed a rallying of strength in his nemesis. The man was a CEO after all. A survivor, as well as a ruthless hunter of other men. He stuffed the note back in its envelope, then the whole thing into a coat pocket. Got in his Range Rover, started the vehicle and accelerated away with an angry growl of engine.
Chapter 69
Notting Hill, London
The following day, mindful that Tapper would be on the lookout for the envelope dropper, Sam left three-quarters of an hour earlier.
When he reached the house, the Range Rover was nowhere to be seen. There were two possibilities. Tapper was away – possibly on some last-minute business trip – or he was trying to thwart Sam by parking the vehicle elsewhere.
Sam would not be defeated. Pulling the beanie low over his face, he opened the garden gate and dropped the envelope on the tiled path, several feet from the steps and out of shot of the camera. He then sprinted from the house as if someone had just fired a starting gun. At the end of the road, he crossed, slowly making his way back to his hiding place.
Tapper was out of the house ten minutes later. He looked less polished than the day before, some hint of stubble around his jawline, a greying around the eyes.
He saw the envelope immediately and stooped to pick it up. He ripped it open and tore out the card.
The effect, on reading Sam’s short message, was subtly different to the day before, but just as satisfactory. He walked to the gate and looked up and down the street frantically. He dropped his briefcase to the pavement and ran a hand through his hair. He looked close to tears.
Sam felt a frisson of cruel pleasure at seeing his enemy so distressed. The messages were achieving their goal.
Today’s was similarly short, and written on the same heavy card in the same pen.
You’ve never trusted anyone as much as Pat, have you?
Eventually Tapper deposited the message in his coat pocket, took one last look up and down the street, then walked with a slow, defeated gait, towards the junction with Pembridge Road. Sam watched him stop at the end, as if lost. Then he seemed to come to, lifting his arm at an approaching cab. A taxi pulled alongside and Tapper climbed in, soon disappearing from view.
Chapter 70
Notting Hill, London
Sam knew that a fresh approach was required for the next drop.
He’d been watching a homeless man who occupied the same bench in Sussex Gardens, whatever hour Sam passed. The man was broad and heavy set and seemed oblivious to the temperatures. And despite his life on the street, he was comparatively cheerful, belting out a greeting to people he knew.
That evening, Sam approached him.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if you could help me?’
The man, who was aged anywhere between twenty and sixty, his face a red, weather-beaten landscape of creases and pockmarks under a thick ginger beard, looked jokingly to his side and behind, as if suggesting that Sam had to be talking to someone else.
‘Beyond giving you the time, I’m not sure how much use I am.’
Sam noticed with some relief that there wasn’t a stench of booze on him. He needed reliability.
‘I’ve got a job that needs carrying out. A letter I want delivered to an address round here.’
‘And you’re too busy to deliver it yourself.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Sounds dodgy.’
‘I’ll give you fifty quid if you do it.’
One of the man’s eyebrows arched.
‘Sounds very dodgy.’
Sam was regretting even mentioning it to the man.
‘So you want to pay me to deliver a letter.’
He nodded, ready to call it off.
‘For fifty quid.’
/>
‘Look, if you don’t want to do it, just say –‘
‘Done.’
‘But no money until you’ve delivered it.’
‘How do you know you can trust me, and I won’t just fling it in the Paddington Basin?’
‘I’ll know if you’ve delivered it.’
The following morning, Sam left the bed & breakfast at 6.30am and took a circuitous route to his usual hiding place, avoiding passing Tapper’s house. From his spot behind the hedge, he could see Tapper’s Range Rover was back in position, as if he were now inviting messages, or laying a trap.
At 6.50am, Sam spotted his homeless friend walking up the street. He suspected the man had not been given much in the way of responsibility recently. He looked puffed up with importance, like he was delivering news of Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo.
The man stopped at the house and opened the garden gate. He hesitated at this point, as if the grand frontage had intimidated him. But then he pulled himself together and walked towards the portico.
Suddenly the front door opened and Tapper was out, dropping down the steps and racing to the man. He grabbed him by his lapels and began ranting. ‘How dare you do this? Fucking with my mind, you bastard! I’ll fucking kill you!’
Sam watched with horror and increasing guilt. The homeless man was a big guy but Tapper was like someone possessed.
He heard the homeless man mumble some kind of response and saw Tapper’s rage deflate a fraction as he realised the figure before him was just a messenger. Still grasping the lapels, Tapper spoke again, his voice clear in the still morning.
‘Who gave you this letter to deliver?’
‘Some random guy approached me,’ said the homeless man.
Sam tensed.
‘Describe him.’
There was a pause.
‘Bald, about 5’9”. With a paunch.’
Sam exhaled.
Slowly Tapper let go of the lapels and the man handed over the envelope, before walking briskly away.
Tapper ripped the note open. It took a moment, and Sam wondered whether he was somehow hardening to the messages. But then he heard him cry out like a wounded animal. The homeless man looked back, then hurried on his way as if he’d just escaped the clutches of a mad man.
At the open doorway of Tapper’s house, a slim woman appeared in a silk dressing gown. She called to Tapper but he turned round, snapping: ‘Get back in the house, Yvonne! This is none of your business.’
The message Tapper still clutched in his hand was, again, short, to the point, and designed to hit him where it hurt the most.
Pat gave his life to save you both. But does Thorpe appreciate that sacrifice like you do?
Chapter 71
Notting Hill, London
Later that morning, Sam paid the homeless man.
‘I owe you an apology.’
‘Too right. He was a bloody psycho.’
‘Which is why I’m paying you £80.’
‘Oh, nice one.’ He grinned, revealing a mouth that was missing a front tooth. ‘Got any other dodgy tasks that require the sure hand of a homeless vagrant?’
‘Sadly not.’
Sam headed next to the internet café. With Tapper crumbling, it was time to step things up.
Once settled at a monitor, one he’d chosen close to a back wall that couldn’t be overlooked, he searched for ‘contacting an MP’. Within three clicks of the mouse, he had Thorpe’s email address. He thanked God for the machinery of democracy, even if it did allow the election of monsters like Thorpe. He then opened a long neglected Hotmail account, and pasted Thorpe’s address into a new mail message.
Sam had rehearsed the lines in his head, but now that he came to type them, he found that his fingers were slipping with sweat on the keys.
Dear Mr Thorpe,
Given your current and future role, you are no doubt already grappling with the complexities of the immigration debate. I wonder, therefore, whether you can answer my question. Is there anything that can be done to stabilise the countries these immigrants are fleeing? As human beings, surely we must do everything we can to avert the catastrophes that have occurred in the waters of the Mediterranean, not least the tragedy that claimed the lives of 100 immigrants – men, women and children – close to the Sicilian town of Pozzani last summer.
Yours sincerely,
Sam Keddie
Sam took a deep breath, then pressed ‘Send’.
Chapter 72
Westminster, London
The Home Office building on Marsham Street has three large atria and a central street, ensuring that, at any given time, no worker is more than six metres away from natural light. Which was exactly what Adam Thorpe didn’t want right now. He craved a covering of darkness and an office that wasn’t walled in glass, but thick stone.
He had been catching up on constituency and social media correspondence with a private secretary. Many of the letters, emails and tweets he received were easily responded to by a junior, but every Thursday afternoon, there was a brief get-together to discuss those messages the private secretary felt merited a more considered response.
‘Finally, Minister,’ said the secretary, an intense and rather humourless young man who’d been plucked from a glittering career at McKinsey & Co, ‘there’s this – an email that came in this morning.’
He handed Thorpe the printout. ‘My sense is that one of the team could pen a response. That you’re in agreement and the Foreign Office and Department for International Development have this in hand, etc etc.’
Thorpe grasped the sheet of paper, began to scan its contents and then felt his stomach floor give way at the mention of Pozzani. By the time he reached the end and saw the signatory, his body was covered in a cold sweat and the blood had drained from his face.
‘Minister? You’re looking a bit off-colour.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Thorpe, his mouth as dry as a desert floor. ‘Give me a minute will you, Dominic? Need to make a call.’
Dominic exited the glass office like a dutiful dog and Thorpe dialled Tapper’s number on his mobile.
‘Adam,’ said Tapper sleepily.
‘Did I bloody wake you?’
‘I’m sick. At home. What do you want?’
‘Well sorry to fucking disturb you. I’ve just had an email from Sam Keddie.’
‘Oh?’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ Thorpe placed a hand flat on the printout, covering, for a brief, blissful second, the poisonous words. Then he removed his hand. ‘He penned a bloody clever message. Dressed it up to look innocuous to my people, but struck the fear of God into me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Don’t you mean “we”?’
There was silence at the other end, then an exhausted sigh. ‘I’m not feeling great, Adam.’
‘Well in case you’ve forgotten, this affects us both. You can’t just zone out.’
Thorpe heard Tapper’s slow breathing. The man sounded as if he were tranquilised. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he finally said.
‘Maybe it’s time to get a lawyer involved,’ said Thorpe haughtily. ‘Someone who’ll point out to him what happens when you mess with a member of Her Majesty’s Government.’
As soon as the words left Thorpe’s mouth, he knew how scared he sounded.
‘I guess a lawyer is an option,’ said Tapper sluggishly.
Thorpe ended the call with an angry stab of his thumb. What the fuck was wrong with Harry? The Tapper of old would have simply engaged a thug from his former life of crime and snuffed the bastard shrink out. But today’s Tapper was in fucking bed. Which left him to deal with it.
Dominic was hovering outside the office. Thorpe attempted to smile and lifted a hand, fingers splayed, miming the word ‘five’. Dominic nodded.
Think, for fuck’s sake.
Keddie was not going to give up. If the shrink did have evidence – and that was now a distinct possibility – then maybe he wanted some
thing in return for not going to the police or press. A deal of some sort.
He had to reply. As much as it stuck in his throat, he had to correspond with Keddie. The time for a lawyer might come, but for now, there had to be a solution that didn’t involve discussing the painful details with anyone else.
He opened his email and began typing, his ears throbbing with blood. Mindful of the fact that his correspondence could be scrutinised by others, he kept the language as polite and neutral as Keddie’s first message.
Dear Mr Keddie,
Many thanks for your message and for your interest in the subject of immigration.
You are right about the need to stabilise the countries from which so many immigrants flee. To this end, the Foreign & Commonwealth Office and the Department for International Development work together to find ways of nurturing more settled conditions, both politically and economically, in a number of countries in Africa and the Middle East.
As you can imagine, it’s a huge task and there are limits to our reach. In the meantime, we must find compassionate ways of dealing with increasing numbers of immigrants attempting to reach Europe, whilst also protecting our borders and the needs of our own citizens.
I hope I have addressed your concerns. If not, please feel free to contact me again.
Yours sincerely,
Adam Thorpe, MP
Pressing ‘Send’, Thorpe imagined himself dancing very close to a huge out-of-control fire.
There was a number at the bottom of Thorpe’s email. Not a direct line, but one that connected the caller to his department within the Home Office. He felt sure Keddie would call.
Chapter 73
Paddington, London
His nerves frayed, Sam took a stroll up Praed St, cutting down a pedestrianised alley to the Paddington Basin.
It was another bitterly cold day and a wind cut right up the canal, tearing at Sam’s coat. The windows of huge apartment blocks looked down on him, the glass reflecting the sun but no warmth. He looked down at the water, its surface rippling with agitation, and thought of the solicitor, Fitzgerald, and his death in the freezing depths of the Regent’s Canal. His thoughts then turned to Eleanor and he felt an ache in his chest, followed by a dizziness that threatened his balance.
Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2) Page 23
