Rio finally broke the heavy silence. ‘If you didn’t want me to come knocking at your door you shouldn’t have given me a bell earlier on.’
Wrong thing to say. Rio didn’t have time to go tripping down a way-too-twisty memory lane. Stick to the script. ‘I need your help.’
Calum didn’t move from where he lounged in the doorway – didn’t answer – gave Rio the time she needed to assess his face hoping to find some new lines, some loosening of the skin, anything to show that this man’s life hadn’t been easy in the three years since they’d seen each other. No, two years, Rio corrected herself. The last time had been at the funeral of Mac’s son, two years back. She’d kept her distance from him that day, just like his letter had laid out. The only signs of ageing in his face were two faint creases twin-set around the corners of his mouth. His dark brown hair was neatly placed around his paler face giving him a monochrome shading that was spoilt by those vibrant green eyes of his.
Calum straightened his tall frame and made his way to the other side of the desk, keeping well out of her space. Rio noticed his limp, the awkward movement of his right leg, just like she had the day of Mac’s boy’s funeral. She knew he’d probably damaged his leg in the car accident she’d heard he’d been involved in three years ago, when they were still— Rio shook the thought off and strayed into another unwanted territory instead: trying to see him in the hospital. She’d tried every which way she could to see him in the hospital, but he wouldn’t see her. By the time his letter arrived she’d found out he was in a private clinic somewhere. And then it was too late. Calum had been branded as dirty and kicked out of the force. What he had done the top brass weren’t saying and she couldn’t ask a man who had treated her like Typhoid Mary.
His leg wasn’t her business. Nikki Bell was.
‘You going to throw me a lifeline or not?’
He still didn’t answer her, didn’t miss a step as he rounded the desk and eased down into the swing chair making it squeak. He reached over and fingered the empty glass. He tilted his head to the side and ran his gaze slowly over her, from twist-out ’fro to just below her clenching stomach muscles. But he didn’t speak.
Well she had enough words for both of them, Rio decided, as anger bubbled in her bloodstream. Rio rounded the desk and was in his space in less than five seconds. Calum’s head moved slightly back, like he was enjoying a touch of unexpected sunshine, but his expression didn’t change.
‘You think you can ignore . . .’ Rio rasped as she bent over him, then her palm was like a missile thrusting hard against his chest, ‘Me?’
Calum’s chair skidded across the floor.
She followed him. Reached him.
‘You think you can push me . . .’ Slam. Her hand was back hitting his chest. ‘Away?’
His chair skated back and hit the wall by the window.
Rio kept her distance this time, pulling herself straight. But she wasn’t done with him. ‘Better people than you have tried to shoo me off, shut me up, tell me point blank to my black face that I don’t belong.’ Her chest rose with the impact of stuff she tried not to think about anymore. ‘But you’ve got a different style – pen and paper. Next time have the guts to say it to my face.’
Rio turned and headed for the doorway. The fury was so powerful inside her she wasn’t even sure she was walking a straight line.
‘Thought you wanted to find out about the hit on that little girl you’ve got tucked away somewhere?’
His voice made her freeze, one leg in the room, the other out. Rio felt the tremors of anger rippling through her body. Slowly she turned back to find Calum on his feet. The tension tightened between them as he headed for the filing cabinet, his once-upon-a-time sinful swagger replaced by an uneven gait. Good. She hoped his leg was fucking killing him.
‘Where did you hear about the contract on Nicola Bell?’ she finally asked, her voice calmer, but she remained near the door.
Instead of answering, Calum pulled out a bottle of Cognac from the drawer, left the drawer open as he retook his seat and poured a decent amount into the empty glass. Rio rarely drank; anything that got in the way of her thinking straight was off limits.
Calum drank deeply. Then said, ‘A contact of mine. Don’t bother asking for a name because you know that’s not the way I work.’
Rio took a step into the room, then another. ‘Did this person say who’s behind the hit?’
‘This isn’t a Mickey Mouse contract where the guy with the money meets the hired gun. It’s a professional hit, which means there’s never any face-to-face, just instructions: get the job done, wire the cash and walk away.’
Rio moved closer to Calum until the natural barrier of the desk was between them. ‘Is there a name in the frame for who the hitter is?’
‘It’s an anonymous business full of faceless people. I could find out, but why would I do that for you?’
Rio pressed her lips together. ‘Because a girl’s life is in danger.’
‘Not my problem.’
‘Then why contact me to give me a heads-up?’
He said nothing.
‘I don’t get it.’ Rio bent and leaned her palms against the desk. Major mistake – seeing Calum’s face in close-up reminded her that he was still one of the hottest males she knew. ‘You were one of the best officers I ever knew. And now I see before me a man who doesn’t give a crap.’
‘You know what crap is?’ Rio heard anger in his voice for the first time. ‘Being kicked out of the only job you ever wanted to do in your life while you’re lying in hospital—’
‘Are you saying that those rumours that you were covered from head to toe in filth weren’t true? That there’s a different reason you were made to leave?’
‘Why I was made to leave,’ he parodied her. Then let out a short laugh that sent nasty shivers down her back. ‘You make it sound like the commissioner thanked me for my service, shook my hand at the portal of Scotland Yard and then told me to piss off.’
Calum thrust his face forwards. He opened his mouth, but bit the words back. Grabbed his glass and drained it. Placed it back on the table with a firmness that said he was back in control. ‘I meant what I said three years ago – stay away from me. And the way I hear it, it’s not like you’ve kept your body sanctified and pure for my return. Phil Delaney ring a bell?’
So what if she’d been involved in a shag fest with Mac’s boss: the head of the Research Unit, Phil Delaney. Calum lost all rights to tell her where to put her vee-jazzy-jay when he issued his marching orders in cold, black ink. Not that Phil was getting access to it either these days.
Rio straightened back up, but felt like what she was about to say was putting her on her knees. ‘I need you to help me find out who has ordered this hit and who’s trying to carry it out.’
Calum folded his arms. ‘No-can-do.’ Stretched his mouth into a nasty mini smile. ‘Unless you’ve got the readies.’
It stuck in Rio’s pulsating throat to tell him she’d been sanctioned to involve him in the investigation if she needed to.
Rio twisted her mouth in disgust. ‘Is that what your life’s all about now? Money? The highest bidder, including those with blood on their hands, gets your services.’
Instead of being insulted, Calum laughed. ‘So you want me to put my neck on the line for old times’ sake? That ain’t—’
The buzz of the intercom sounded. Calum pressed the button on his desk without getting up to check the security camera. Rio heard footsteps on the stairs.
‘We’re done,’ Calum announced.
Now it was Rio’s turn to throw out smiles that had nothing to do with true laughter. He’d uttered the two words that gave her every right to ransack her way through his life. The sting of red creeping under his cheeks made it clear he knew he’d made a big league mistake.
‘No, we’re not done,’ Rio said softly. ‘You want me gone for eternity then you know what you have to do.’
‘Am I interrupting?’ a voice a
sked behind Rio, halting any comeback from Calum.
Rio turned to see the last person she expected to bump into – Stephen Foster.
‘What are you doing here?’ Rio swung her gaze back to Calum. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bye-bye, Ray Gun,’ Calum answered.
But Rio didn’t move. Instead her mind started buzzing. Why would Foster come to see Calum? Maybe they were associates and dealing with an on-going issue? No, Calum wore the face of a man who’d got one well and truly over her. Why was he so pleased? It must have something to do with the case.
‘Let me guess,’ Rio started with mock drama, ‘Foster has asked you to use your security consultant expertise to find out who the Greenbelt Gang are.’
‘Let’s just say that Mister Foster has the type of instant cash that I understand and doesn’t call my integrity into question.’
Rio grilled her brown gaze into Stephen Foster. ‘If I find out that you’re interfering in this investigation, I’m going to make sure I’m the person reading you your rights.’
Rio strode past him and hit the stairs. She was almost at the bottom when she heard Calum’s voice at the top.
‘The money up for grabs is half a mill, to take out the kid in five days. That means the clock’s already ticking.’
seventeen
6:55 p.m.
The Bells.
That’s all Rio could think about as she sprinted to her BMW. A feeling of dread inched up her spine.
Half a mill to take out the kid in five days . . .
Although there was a team keeping an eye on their home, stationed in a car across the road, there were many different ways of getting into a house: via a neighbour’s back garden; the roof; underground . . . Rio knew her brain was going into overdrive, but she needed to see Nikki’s family with her own eyes before she could breathe easy again.
She slammed into the driver’s seat, phoned the Bells’ landline – no one picked up. Rio contacted the protection team guarding the Bells.
‘I want you to check the house. Now. The back, the roof, and then knock on the front door. Report back to me immediately.’
Rio waited.
One minute.
Three minutes.
Five.
They got back to her on the seventh.
‘The back and roof are clear. Mrs Bell opened the door. Everything’s calm.’
‘Keep watching. You see anything out of place . . .’ Rio paused. ‘Don’t be afraid to use your weapons.’
Rio didn’t say the last lightly. The Met had recently been involved in two high-profile cases where firearms had been discharged. Although both inquiries had upheld the police service’s actions, the last case had been touch and go. The Met was still trying to rebuild its reputation with the public over that one.
Rio twisted the ignition key to be greeted by the stuttering noise the engine made when it refused to start. Bollocks. She should’ve whistled bye-bye to this car years back, but it was her beloved Black Magic Woman.
‘Come on,’ Rio chanted as she tried again, and again.
She slapped her palm with frustration against the steering wheel. The feeling crawling along her spine grew worse. If anything happened to the Bells—
Rio tried the car one last time as she did something she hadn’t done since she was a kid: prayed.
Heavenly Father . . .
The engine clicked into gear. As the car roared down the street she used one hand to switch her mobile onto speaker-phone.
‘Strong, I want you to meet me at the Bells now.’
The car lurched into a sharp right.
‘I’ve trawled all the camera footage and our guy from the hospital is on screen, but I couldn’t ID him; he’s not in our system,’ he said.
‘Where did he go?’
God if he was anywhere near the Bells . . .
‘Last image was from a traffic camera. The hitter going down the rabbit hole of the Tube system.’
‘Just meet me there—’
‘You think something’s going down?’
‘Just do what I say.’ Rio couldn’t help the volume her voice rose to.
She terminated the call. Put her flashing lights on. Sirens blazing she turned the speed dial to seventy in a forty zone.
7:05 p.m.
Patsy Bell quietly closed the bathroom door and breathed. Really breathed. She hadn’t felt like she was breathing since hearing about her brother-in-law’s and his wife’s murder. Not that she’d liked Maurice, because she hadn’t. He’d bullied her Frank about his career as a history lecturer; that type of job just wasn’t good enough for a Bell.
‘You should be in the City making a pile of money for the security of your family. Like me . . .’
Me, me, me; money, money, money – that’s all Maurice had gone on about. Frank had told her the tales about how his brother had sold his soul in the pursuit of riches. Well fuck living-Maurice and dead-Maurice. And as she was handing out overdue fucks, fuck Ophelia too. If it was up to her Nikki would never see Ophelia again, but Frank said . . .
Patsy shrugged off her bathrobe as she stared at the filled bath, just glad for the time to forget for a while that someone was trying to kill her daughter. She inhaled the sweet scent of the Fizzy Lizzy lavender bath bomb Frank had kindly popped in earlier for her. He’d even lit two tealight candles sitting on the edge of the bath. How her Frank had come from the same womb as Maurice she would never know.
Suddenly she smiled as she heard music drifting from downstairs. Her favourite piece: Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major. She loved the fire in it, the pace, the upbeat tempo. Good ole Frank always knew how to cheer her up.
‘Frank – my back!’ she yelled. There was nothing better in the world that the feel of her husband rubbing and soothing the stress away as he scrubbed her back. Patsy slipped into the water.
Umm . . . Heaven.
The water caressed her body and the soft aroma of the candles seemed almost to be running its fingers along her skin. Her body, heavy with fear and fatigue, became light and her eyelids began to droop.
She heard the door gently open and close but she was in the twilight world where sleep seems to be only a few wisps away.
Eyes still closed, she whispered, ‘I think after all this is over we should send Nikki to stay with my sister in Kent.’
Frank didn’t answer. Instead she felt his soft hand on her head. Patsy let out a sigh of contentment.
Umm . . . Heaven.
A hand jammed across the lower half of her face. Tightening. Squeezing. With one strong, seamless movement, she was plunged beneath the water.
7:30 p.m.
The traffic on the motorway was hell. Despite the siren, Rio was backed up in a line of traffic that stretched far into the distance. Boxed in: no way forwards, no way back. Rio punched her horn. She had to get out of here. She pressed down the passenger window. Looked across at the driver in the flash soft-top alongside her in the left-hand lane and yelled, ‘When the traffic starts rolling again, don’t move.’
Less than a minute later the traffic was back moving. The driver followed her instruction creating a gap big enough for her to manoeuvre into. The BMW kept going until it swerved into the hard shoulder. Rio racked up the speed.
=
7:34 p.m.
Finally some peace in the house, Frank Bell thought.
‘Pat?’ he called out of the front room as he pressed the replay button to start Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major again. Couldn’t stand all that hysterical violin shrieking himself, but his Pat adored it, which was good enough for him: bought the roses back to her cheeks when she was feeling a bit off.
‘Pat, honey, shall I come up and do your back now?’ he called out, the same time the violins kicked in.
No answer. His niece, Ophelia, thought her aunt by marriage didn’t like being called ‘Pat’ because she hated her name being shortened, but the truth was it was his special name for her and that’s why she didn’t like anyone else us
ing it.
Frank walked back over to the sofa and picked up the photo of Nikki he’d been looking at before – his little baby girl, ten days old, all screwed-tight eyes and tiny features. Innocent. The snap had been taken in this very room the first day they’d bought her home. God, how he wished she’d never gone over to his brother’s yesterday; how he wished he’d put his foot down for a change and made her stew and sulk her troubles away in her room. But he hadn’t and now some madman was out there trying to kill her. But Nikki was safe now; in the place she was meant to be. They might have troubles like any other family but underneath it all they loved each other.
Frank got up and placed the picture back on the mantelpiece as the music swayed in the room. He ran a palm lovingly across his daughter’s picture and then turned his attention to his mobile phone. He needed to make sure it was charged up in case Stephen Foster or that detective contacted them. He placed the phone at an angle on the floor near the wall socket and plugged in the charger. Ping. As he straightened he frowned thinking it was strange that Pat hadn’t answered him. Probably crying herself silly in the bath. Poor love.
‘Patsy?’ he called out again as he exited the front room.
No answer.
The violins grew faint as he took the stairs and called out to her again. The first thing he noticed when he reached the landing was that the bathroom door was slightly open. Frank tensed; why was the door open? Maybe Pat had gone into the bathroom and then left to get something in their bedroom? Frank quickly walked to the bathroom, pulled the door completely back, walked in . . . He staggered back when he saw what was in the bath. His wife staring at him, eyes wide, hair drifting around her face under the water. He couldn’t stop his chest heaving as his breathing wheezed high and loud from his mouth.
Oh God. Oh God.
He shot forwards, jammed over the bath as his hands dived into the water. Awkwardly he grabbed Pat under the arms and dragged her upwards. Gritting his teeth, he heaved her wet, dead weight from the bath and lay her tenderly on the tiled floor. He felt the pulse in her neck.
Death Trap Page 10
