Jat let out a patient sigh. I felt like a writer who’s accidentally deleted a novel he’s been working on for a year and Jat, my computer geek, was my only hope of salvation.
‘I’m looking for a location.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘Cheltenham.’ I didn’t know this. She could be held in London, or anywhere, but as McCallen had disappeared from Cheltenham, it was a fair bet. ‘Look for any links, addresses, references to a remote spot – warehouses, basements, lock-ups, somewhere you might hold a kidnap victim.’
‘A what?’
Jat was accustomed to my more arcane questions. He knew what my line of work had been, although it was never mentioned. My remark obviously struck him as unusual and outside my usual sphere. ‘I’m one of the good guys,’ I said in an effort to convince him that he was batting on the side of the angels, albeit fallen.
‘Right,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘I’ll get on it.’
Next, working to China rules, I made plans. Nine times out of ten, Hayes would keep his victims chained or manacled. A set of bolt cutters was top of my shopping list. I sped down the street and around the corner to the hardware store and shot in before they closed. On the way, I drummed my fingers lightly on the window of the watchmaker’s, nodded thanks. He nodded back – no smile, no light in his eyes, nothing more to report.
The choice was limited to very cheap and very expensive. I picked out an industrial strength heavy-duty pair of bolt cutters with high carbon steel blades that cost me almost two hundred pounds. It was a risk because monumental strength was needed to open the blades and I was at a disadvantage because the wounds to my arms had weakened the muscles. However anything less powerful wouldn’t work. I added nylon high-tensile rope, strong enough to strap McCallen to me if she was too weak to walk. After paying in cash, I nipped into the butcher’s, the counter already cleared for the day. I must have looked hungry because they sorted out a rump steak in no time. Next door I paid for two high-energy drinks with enough glucose to bring back a diabetic from a hypo. Back home I raided the medicine chest for an illicit brand of painkiller, which, if used in the right quantity, would knock out a donkey.
I’d done as much as I could for the day so I cooked and ate and pushed McCallen as far from my mind as possible, somewhere indistinct and on the edge. China’s motivation, however, continued to baffle me. He’d never been a pal of Billy’s and was happy to do his best to help me nail him. I offered no threat to China – I never had done – and only a foolish man takes out others without a damn good reason. China could be inconsistent and unpredictable, yet he’d always ticked to an internal logic. The way he was acting now suggested he’d had a brainstorm, the use of the electronically disguised voice a particularly unusual move. Maybe the guy was ill, I really didn’t know. What I did know was that I was up against a formidable enemy, the equivalent of Cheltenham Town FC versus Bayern-Munich. In one way it played to my strength. Against impossible odds, I became motivated and aggressive.
I itched for a gun in my hand. I knew how to get hold of one, even at short notice. In the circumstances, it was desirable. To do so would cross the line. There would be no going back.
That was my big dilemma.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I checked up on Simone before I hit the sack.
‘I’m freezing,’ she complained.
‘I said cheap, not bargain basement.’ My joke fell flat. She had no idea what I meant and by the time I explained, it had lost impact. ‘Where are you exactly?’
‘In a boarding house between Hackney and Lower Clapton.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘I bought food and ate it here. I’m so bored.’
‘Watch TV or surf the net.’
‘No Wi-Fi.’ She sounded miserable as hell.
‘I’m sure you can amuse yourself for a day or so. Read a book, catch up on your beauty sleep.’
‘No fun without you.’
I smiled, flattered.
‘I could as easily book into a cheap hotel in Cheltenham.’
‘It’s not safe.’
‘You can protect me.’
‘Stay where you are – please.’
‘As you wish.’ She sounded put out. I imagined her exhaling a big petulant sigh and regretting the day she’d met me.
‘It’s not as I wish. It’s how it is. I’m not prepared to jeopardise your safety. Stay calm and I’ll be with you before you know it.’ The thought that I might not succeed, that I might fail both the women in my life didn’t bear thinking about. I wished her good night and fell asleep. Three hours later, I was wide awake. Unable to settle, I ventured downstairs, padded about, restless. I asked myself why the security services weren’t knocking on my door. Answer: they had no knowledge that I was back in the picture. McCallen had stayed true to her word; Titus’s involvement was based on what he’d seen over twelve months before and whatever he’d got himself into before he died. Feeling reasonably secure, in spite of having GCHQ on my doorstep, I reckoned I could take a calculated risk. My false identity, backed up by false credit cards, together with my false digital footprint ensured my anonymity, if only in the short term.
Pouring myself two fingers of whisky, I fired up the laptop and checked out the latest news. The dead Russian in the quarry remained unidentified although, according to the news report, a tattoo on his back suggested links with Russian organised crime. Good luck with that, I thought. There were so many gangs it would take the police several months to track and identify him. Apparently the cause of death was regarded as unexplained rather than suspicious, the break in his neck pre-fall not yet established. It was simply a matter of time.
The body in the crypt was more revealing. Initially hitting the news in glorious colour – bondage gone wrong the favoured theory – it had dropped from the headlines as though Titus had never existed. As for the ‘missing civil servant’, the trail hadn’t gone cold – it was in the freezer. I didn’t know whether the lack of coverage was smart or stupid. It seemed to be the way the services operated. It didn’t mean they weren’t chasing leads, only that they were chasing them in secret. Gritty-eyed, I went back to bed and, against the odds, fell into the deep.
I resurfaced around ten. First up, I phoned Jat.
‘Nothing doing,’ he said. ‘It’s like trying to hack into the Pentagon.’
‘Are you saying you can’t crack it?’
‘No,’ he said, chippy. ‘There’s no such thing as an unbreakable code.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘I need more time.’
Something I didn’t have. ‘What are you like at tracing phone calls?’
He let out a groan. ‘Is this extra?’
‘It is.’
‘Not my field. I could maybe have a go but I’m not GCHQ.’
And I was hardly going to take a trip down the road to the doughnut, as it was known, to ask them to do me a favour.
‘No, forget it. Just crack on with the computer.’
‘I will, but phoning me constantly isn’t helping.’
I got the message, apologised and backed off. Next, I phoned Simone. It went straight to voicemail. I glanced at my watch. Maybe she was taking a bath. I made coffee, showered, shaved. I dressed from head to toe in black, then phoned her again. Still no reply. A little concerned, I sent an email to the contact on her website: ‘Checking in. Can you answer your phone?’
Examining the car and finding it clean of any hidden devices, incendiary or otherwise, I drove it down to the nearest garage, filled the tank and drove back. All through breakfast I had the gnawing sensation that Simone might disregard my orders, that, headstrong as she was, she’d turn up without warning, expecting my undivided attention when it was already divided. I didn’t know her well, but I was familiar with the reckless, risk-taking side of her nature. If she wanted to do her own thing, she’d cut off, cut loose and to hell with the consequences. There was invincibility about her that I found as wor
rying as it was intoxicating.
The afternoon plodded along in a fog of silence and frustration. I covered around six miles on foot in sleety rain, checking warehouse locations, rented lock-ups, places where a person could be held. The lock-up situation in Cheltenham is peculiar to the area. They rarely come up for sale because it’s more lucrative to rent, the perennial parking problem and lack of garages creating a ready supply of clientele. It was like looking for a coin in the Treasury.
On my return, I left a ‘tell’ on the front step close to the front door, a delicately placed potato crisp that anyone entering the house would crunch if they broke inside. I did the same with the back door then spent most of my time at the window, watching people slipping by, waiting for the phone call, wondering if China, enjoying domination, would send me halfway across the country, or, changing his mind, leave me and McCallen to fester for another twenty-four hours for no other reason than that he could.
Light faded. Workers came home. Darkness fell. This used to be my time and my terrain. No more.
Patience runs through my DNA but I needed the patience of angels. Every time I checked my watch, it seemed that only a minute had passed. A grim thought struck me that this was only a single instalment on the price I had to pay for all the acts of violence I’d committed.
Wired with coffee, I nearly dropped the phone when it finally rang.
‘Hello, it’s me.’
‘Fuck’s sake, why didn’t you answer my call?’
‘Because I knew you would be angry with me.’
I closed my eyes in an agony of frustration. Simone had broken loose, as predicted, and now she was blocking the line. ‘Where are you?’
‘Somewhere more comfortable, the Chapter.’
Crazy woman. ‘Were you followed?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Think’ wasn’t good enough. ‘Stay there. Don’t answer the door to anyone.’
‘Apart from you.’
She sounded immensely pleased with herself.
‘I have to go.’
‘À bientôt.’
See you soon. Maybe, maybe not.
An hour later the call I’d waited all day for came through. Same electronic voice, same anonymity. It didn’t bother with niceties, for which I was grateful. I muted my surprise when told the address.
‘And Hex,’ the voice said. ‘Remember – no cops, no backup. One stupid move and she’s dead.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The address was on an industrial estate in Alstone, a suburb of Cheltenham, the type of area where nice streets with tended homes and gardens co-existed with not so nice streets with boarded-up houses and broken-down cars outside. As soon as I reached the no-through road, I realised the hopelessness of the situation. China’s men would be everywhere, waiting to pick me off. More than ever, I wished I’d procured a gun. Martyrdom is never a good look.
I pulled up, cut the engine and, grabbing the bolt cutters, stepped quietly out of the car. Immediately, I was flooded in light. An image of another site, lit up like Wembley Stadium and crawling with men out to get me, rattled through my brain. Smashing the thought, I darted for the shadowy cover of a low, blocky concrete building with metal shutters in the doorway. Hunkered down inside, I worked out the immediate layout. At my back a front door made from toughened glass; beyond, a set of shallow stone steps; and, to the right, a reinforced door. I looked above my head for cameras and signs of an alarm. I couldn’t see anything but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. As soon as I made a move, the whole place could go off. However, if I were China and wanted to get rid of a couple of people, I’d hardly want an alarm to sound and grab the attention of the local police. I was only grateful there were no dogs. To date, I’ve never killed one, not even in self-defence. I wasn’t about to change the habit of a lifetime.
I tried the door, which was locked. At any moment I expected a figure to explode in front of me, a gun shoved up against my temple, but aside from me, there seemed nobody around. Actually it was quiet – too quiet.
I bent low and, scuttling on the balls of my feet, covered the perimeter, meticulously checking entrances and exits, by touch and by sight. It must have taken twenty long minutes. Each one I believed might be my last.
About to turn the final corner, a chink of light ghosted into the night from between a metal grille set low down and into the wall of the building. I squatted, resting on my heels, and put my eye to the slit. It was difficult to make out anything very much, but there was definitely an empty space, a single forlorn bulb swinging from the ceiling the only source of light. Realising my vulnerability, I glanced back over my shoulder, watching out for a puff of warm breath in the chill night air and the specific sound of a hard man’s footsteps. The only noise was the frantic beat of my heart. I was alone. It made no sense. It had to be a trap.
Putting my mouth against the metal, I called McCallen’s name softly. Getting no response, I called again, louder. Frustrated, I took out the bolt cutters and started on the grille when, suddenly, my phone vibrated. Ripping it from my pocket, I pressed it close to my ear.
‘Managed to break in?’
I said nothing.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘You know damn well who. Stop fucking me about.’
And then it hit me. The call, my drive here, my fruitless search was nothing more than a smokescreen. Simone. He had Simone.
I stood up, tore back across the yard to the car, China’s disembodied voice blaring in my ear. ‘You’ve slipped up, Hex, might have cost you your girl’s life. Careless.’
In spite of everything, I stopped dead and spoke with the utmost clarity and cold determination. I did not want China to be in any doubt what I would do to him. I also had to openly kill any emotional attachment to Simone. He had to believe the women were straight business. ‘If you’ve damaged either set of goods, I’m going to hunt you down and make you scream until you beg me to put a bullet in your brain.’
‘Threaten all you like. I had enormous fun, by the way. I’ll call you tomorrow night about the intelligence officer.’
‘So you can play another of your games? I don’t think so.’
‘If you care anything for McCallen, be ready.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I ran two red lights and nearly took out a group of late-night revellers. China’s men might have abducted Simone, or done what they needed to and abandoned her down a dirt track on the outskirts. You didn’t have to travel far to go from urban landscape to rural with the Cotswolds on the town’s doorstep.
The hotel was my starting point. As to what I’d find, I gave no thought. I did not dwell on what he might have done or the lengths to which he’d gone. The time for analysis would come later.
I threw the car into the closest parking bay and flew through reception and upstairs to the penthouse. I heard the sound of crying before I’d even knocked on the door. My legs felt weak with relief. Tears meant that she was in one piece.
‘Simone, darling, it’s me, Joe.’
The door opened a chink, the safety chain restricting entry. Simone’s tear-stained, swollen face emerged as she hovered on the other side. Two thin stream of mucus travelled from her nose to her mouth. I had never seen a woman look so dishevelled.
‘It’s all right now,’ I said, ‘let me in.’
She took the chain off, opened the door and collapsed onto me. Glancing over her head, I saw an overturned chair, the glass in the mirror above the desk smashed. In between furious tears, she gabbled so fast in French I couldn’t follow a word. To my untrained ears, it sounded angry and accusing, as though it was my fault. It was, I guess. All I could do was hold her tight. The front of my shirt, where her face had burrowed, quickly became sodden.
Gently, I inched her towards the bed, unpeeled her from me and got her to sit down. Shivering, she perched on the edge, bent forward, arms crossed tight, hands clutching he
r elbows. Her hair was down, a mess, strands sticking to her face. I put my jacket around her shoulders and took a spare blanket from the wardrobe and wrapped that around her too. Next, I raided the minibar, poured brandy for her, whisky for me. I pushed the glass into her hands. Two nails, I noticed, were broken. She cupped the glass tight as though huddling over a campfire.
‘Drink,’ I said, ‘it will help with the shock.’
She did, cautiously, and pulled a face at the sudden heat and warmth.
Pushing aside her hair, I examined the extent of the damage. Her bottom lip was split, her right cheek shiny and swollen. It could have been worse.
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
She snatched at her drink and feasted on me with dark, cold-as-night eyes. She blames me, I thought, for not being there to protect her.
‘He raped me,’ she said, leaden.
My stomach lurched. I reached out to touch her.
She recoiled. ‘Don’t.’
My hand dropped. I was out of my depth. How do you pump a woman for information when she’s been violated? ‘I’m so sorry. I –’
‘Should have been here.’ She screamed at me, spit flicking across my face. Now was not the time to tell her that, if she’d only done as I suggested, she would probably have stayed safe. I waited for her anger to abate.
‘Who was the man?’
She regarded me with slow, cynical eyes. ‘Funnily, he didn’t tell me his name.’
‘Okay,’ I said evenly, ‘can you describe him?’
‘He was a big guy, white, I don’t remember.’
‘It’s important you try.’
‘Why?’ she snapped. ‘All I want to do is forget.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I need to know who did this.’
‘So that you can catch him?’ She arched an eyebrow contemptuously and took another swallow of brandy. ‘He smelt of cheap cologne. He wore a brightly coloured shirt.’
I briefly closed my eyes. China. Christ, what had he done to McCallen?
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