‘That figures, but even if it is, any opening between the ceiling and the wall will be hellishly narrow.’
‘We’ve got to give it a try.’
‘Stay put,’ I said.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘If I don’t come back, here.’ I reached down into my jacket, withdrew the Glock, and pressed it into her hand. ‘As long as it’s fully submerged, it will fire. The velocity will be slower, but it will still do the job.’ She took it, her eyes meeting mine. There was no need for words.
With the bolt cutters in one hand, I swam out to what I hoped was the facing wall. Hitting brick, I felt along the edge, my fingers connecting with the jagged remains of plywood and glass, shattered with the force of water bursting through. Swimming through the narrow gap, I felt air on my face, light from a full moon shining down onto a padlocked metal grille that blocked the escape route. Treading water, I drew on every reserve and hoisted the cutters for the last time and cracked open the lock. Next, I jammed the cutters in between the bars and, with a monumental effort born of desperation, pushed up and out, sliding the grille aside.
‘Don’t shoot,’ I yelled, as I grabbed a lungful of air and went back for McCallen.
Half-dragging McCallen through the water, I pushed her up through the open space and clambered out after her. Legs giving way, shock took its toll and every part of her trembled. Scooping her up, I held her tight to my chest, carried her in my arms, triumphant. We were free.
For now.
I wasn’t complacent. I no longer had my gun but, juiced up, it would take little for me kill anyone who got in my way.
I retraced my steps and stumbled through the dark, moving as quickly as I could while holding on to McCallen. My soaking, stinking jeans clung to my legs. McCallen was quiet, body spent and mind numb. We got back to the car and I laid her on the passenger seat. She looked up at me, grateful, unable to speak, teeth chattering.
I rushed around to the driver’s side and climbed in beside her. The clock told me that it was 4.50 a.m.
‘I’m taking you straight to A&E.’ I turned the ignition.
‘A fire station might be a better option.’ She attempted a laugh, not easy when your body is racked with the shakes. ‘They can cut these off.’ She looked down at the metal attached to her wrists and ankles.
‘You need medical attention first. I’m not sure how I’m going to account for the state we’re in without someone notifying the cops.’
‘Just drop me off.’
‘No, I’m coming with you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I want to.’
‘Then I’ll explain to them, don’t worry.’
‘Maybe you can also explain to Flynn.’
‘You know Flynn?’
‘Our paths crossed. You may need to put in a good word for me. I almost killed one of your colleagues.’
She let out a dry, throaty laugh.
I glanced across. Normally, she’d be rattling my cage, wanting to be first with the information. The fact she hadn’t pressed me told me that, now she was free, the impact of what had taken place had hit her. I suspected that the road ahead was going to be tough. I put the heater on full blast and floored the accelerator. Three minutes later, we arrived at Cheltenham General’s accident and emergency department. The department had been cut back but, in my book, a hospital was a hospital and the best place for McCallen.
* * *
I kept a spare phone in the car. McCallen used it to call HQ. She told them about Benz and ordered an alert on ports, airports and Eurostar. As soon as her release reached the right ears, I imagined the security service equivalent of a SWAT team putting in an appearance and carting me away. Made me wonder why Benz had led me straight to McCallen. There could only be one explanation: Benz intended to kill us, probably with a bullet to our heads, but the sudden, if anticipated, flood had played right into his hands and he’d decided to let us drown instead. It’s why the door was jammed tight.
The early hour of the morning, combined with McCallen’s status and condition, did the equivalent of ‘Open Sesame’ when we got to A&E. Avoiding triage, we were whisked straight in to see a duty registrar and, once McCallen explained the circumstances and insisted that she was taken care of in Cheltenham and not in Gloucester, I decided a low profile the best option.
‘You’ll be okay?’ I took her hand and stroked it. She looked so small and fragile against the white hospital pillows. I really didn’t want to leave her.
‘I’ll be fine.’
I nodded, awkwardly patted her arm, and made to go.
‘Hex,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I wouldn’t have made it on my own. Thank you.’
A soft glow of pleasure enveloped me. I smiled.
‘Something else,’ she said, her voice stern.
‘What?’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, will you?’
‘’Course not. I’m going home.’
‘You’ll come back later?’
I beamed. ‘Promise.’ I had a slew of questions. ‘Hang onto the phone,’ I said. ‘If you need me, give me a call on the usual number.’
‘Talk soon,’ she said, warmth in her expression. ‘Keep safe.’
‘And you.’
‘All I want to do is sleep.’
‘Fat chance,’ I winked. ‘Flynn and his crew will be after one hell of a debrief.’
The sound of sirens greeted my exit. I must have cut a strange figure with my battered appearance and smelly clothing. Head down, I hurried on, eager to clear out before someone in law enforcement flexed their muscles.
Dawn broke reluctantly, grey and drab. I stepped into it with something close to joy. McCallen was safe. Together, we’d pulled off the impossible. I was euphoric. Despite my body screaming for rest, my mind was sharp and alert. I had scores to settle – that evil sod Benz first in my sights. Even if I had to travel to Berlin to do him, I was going to take him out of the game. Next up, China Hayes. Brommer I’d leave to McCallen.
Reaching the car, I climbed inside and worked out my next move. Secure in the assumption that we were both dead, Benz was either far away, intending to catch a flight back to Germany, or lying low nearby to check on his handiwork. Without any knowledge of the man, it was difficult to fathom which action he’d take.
And this was where I suddenly lost the plot. Filed under all’s fair in love and espionage, Benz’s hatred of McCallen made sense. She’d used Lars Pallenberg to penetrate his nasty little neo-Nazi group. But why me? Was Benz working for China, or the other way around?
Puzzling this, I started the engine, pulled out of the car park and returned to the Backway. Crossing the rugged ground for a third time, this time I was looking at it with daylight eyes, searching for clues, something that would answer the unanswerable and fill in the gaps. I didn’t know Benz, bar the bare strap lines of a security profile. A champagne terrorist, he married radical, repellent and anti-Semitic views with a wealthy playboy lifestyle. Prone to violence, especially against women, he was like so many others I’d known: vengeful, stubborn and vicious. Still, I didn’t know how this particular guy ticked.
Retracing my steps into the building, it was much bigger inside than I’d imagined. The area I’d originally stepped into fed into another warren of rooms, the metal door to the basement one of four other doors, the remainder of wooden construction. Rust-coloured and filthy water lay mute and belligerent half a metre deep. Had we been trapped inside, we would have drowned. I gave an involuntary shiver and beat it. Knackered, I needed to recharge, catch some sleep.
Back in the car, I stuck the gear into a lazy reverse with the intention of rejoining the main route when, out of nowhere, an unmistakable flash of colour, vivid against the spectral light, whipped past, almost clipping my rear. Startled, I shook myself awake, my gaze fixed on a Lamborghini Aventador, two cars up ahead. My mind zipped back to the rectory, the party night.
Keeping pace, I fo
llowed at a discreet distance, conscious that, if the Lambo floored it, I’d be left behind. The Z4 was quick, but no match for a top speed of 217 miles per hour, not that it was likely to reach such dizzying speed in the middle of town.
One car turned off and I moved up the line, only a car between us. I caught a glimpse of foreign plates, German.
We were heading towards the hospital. It would be an audacious man who attempted to finish what he’d started. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Sure enough, the Lambo slowed as we drew near. Flashing lights and a battalion of unmarked police cars posted at each entrance and exit had the desired effect. The driver changed his mind and sped up.
We travelled south-east. On the approach to a roundabout, the flare of the Lambo’s lights indicated a left turn. I followed suit. The sculpted outline of the Aventador snaked across the first exit. A silhouette in the passenger seat, just visible through the tinted glass, caught my eye. So fleeting, so obscured by the low narrow triangle of a window, it would be easy to make a mistake, yet I couldn’t rule out that the driver had company, and that company was female. Brommer, I thought.
Straight over the next roundabout, marking time, I watched the Aventador turn right onto the London Road and A40. Next thing, it pulled out and, with minimal effort, overtook three cars. I guessed the capital was the possible final destination. It didn’t matter. With the driver’s window down, I got a good look at him. I’d recognise those blond dreads anywhere.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
I pulled over and called McCallen. When she answered her voice was low, as though she was speaking from underneath the blankets.
‘I’ve just seen Benz.’
‘Where?’
‘Heading for London. He’s driving a sapphire coloured Aventador.’ I reeled off the registration. ‘And he has a woman with him.’
‘Brommer?’
‘That’s my guess.’
I heard her relay the information to someone else. ‘We’re going to pick them up.’
‘Pity,’ I said, wishing I hadn’t. McCallen would know what I meant. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want me to come back sooner or later?’
‘Later would be good.’
I got it. The monosyllabic replies were code for ‘I’m still trying to save your skin’.
I drove against a tide of morning traffic. My endorphins had bunked off. I was filthy, in pain, and exhaustion was killing me. It took every effort to stay awake long enough to limp back home.
The house was fine. No nasty surprises. The clamour from neighbouring streets suggested that the remains of the constabulary of Gloucestershire were in the process of decamping from the Lansdown Road HQ to Cheltenham General. Suited me.
I showered, took a couple of painkillers washed down with strong tea and crashed out. I must have slept for around three hours. Stirring, and in time to catch the one o’clock news, I switched on Radio 4, not my usual choice, but good for serious coverage. Unsurprisingly, and in spite of the commotion, McCallen’s reappearance on the planet didn’t feature. Swinging my legs out of bed, I stood up and reached for a clean pair of jeans when an item, two below a shout line on more promising economic news, punched me full in the face.
‘A man found dead in the Thames last week has been identified as Horace Hayes. It’s suspected that rivals deliberately targeted Hayes, a former gangland boss, in a dispute over a cocaine deal.’
I sat back down. Simone had said that the guy who raped her wore a tropical shirt, not exactly the sartorial equivalent of a smoking gun and, no doubt, a wily defence lawyer would demolish any prosecution argument if suggested that it was, but it seemed a peculiar coincidence. It also left me with a can of maggots. Benz had no beef with me as far as I could tell. With Horace, aka China, out of the picture, who was out to crucify me?
I closed my eyes, went right back to the beginning, to Billy Squeeze. I’d come to believe that Billy was nothing more than a tool to wind me up, a noose in which to hang me, a raw nerve to press. Crazy thoughts crawled at the edges of my brain. What if, by some miracle, he’d survived? Failing this, what if, during those months of life on the run, he’d appointed a secret successor?
It’s said that when people die they take their secrets with them. Invariably, this isn’t so. Truth – a threatened, submissive commodity in life – has a habit of coming out fighting in death. The long-time mistress is revealed; the debts exposed; the faithful wife a serial adulterer; the kindly husband a cruel paedophile. Death doesn’t just level the dead. It levels the living. Rumour had it that Billy’s wife and daughters had been well provided for. Rumours, like Chinese whispers, can get lost in translation. I’d accepted at face value that Billy’s widow and family were left in the lolly because China had told me so. Either way, it was inconceivable that the Frankes didn’t now realise where the money had originated from, and it was a given that they knew more than me about other aspects of Billy’s life. I had to find out what it was.
First, I kept my word to Simone and, walking to the end of the street, flagged down a cab to take me to St Paul’s. I’m not superstitious, I’m target aware. If the security services were on the lookout for my car and me, I didn’t want to dish us up to them with all the trimmings. Hopefully, they were focused on Benz and Brommer. Even the security services had limited budgets and restricted objectives.
My taxi driver was chatty. ‘Don’t know what on earth is going on here today. The place is swarming with coppers.’
‘Probably a rugby match or something,’ I said, dismissively.
‘You’d think the doughnut was under attack.’
The driver dropped me off and I paid up. Angling myself past Simone’s car, I let myself in and, as a courtesy, called to the others that I was about. My voice bounced off the walls, hollow. There was no TV blaring, no music pounding, not even a snore.
Walking down the corridor and past the downstairs rooms, I tipped open the doors. Same old mess. Same idiosyncratic odour. Weirdly, I found the familiarity comforting. From the bottom of the stairs I called up and asked if anyone was home. No response. I went upstairs and, thinking Simone might be asleep, knocked softly on her door. Getting no reply, I pressed my ear against it. All quiet. I checked the bathroom, which was empty, and tapped again and called her name. Surely she hadn’t gone out? I’d been so specific about her security. Frustrated and angry that she’d disregarded my advice, I pushed open the door and felt the world shift beneath my shoes.
Every piece of furniture in the small room was smashed up and ransacked in a way that defied possibility. The bed was overturned, the mattress slit open, its innards spread across the torn up carpet; the shattered blind dangled from the window; one wardrobe door was wrenched from its hinges and upended; and these were the edited highlights. Anything that could be broken lay in pieces. A quick check told me that her limited luggage remained although the laptop had vanished. Most disturbing of all, so had Simone.
I thought back to the mystery woman in the car. Had Benz taken Simone against her will, possibly drugging her? Or had Benz taken and killed Simone, dumping her body, before making off with Brommer? Or …
I looked at my watch. Benz could be miles away. An agonising thought hit me. If the security services caught up with him, full firearms team in tow, there might be a shoot first, ask questions later policy. My mobile bleeped in my pocket. I took it out, recognised the number, and answered with dread in my heart.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
‘We’ve traced the Aventador,’ McCallen said. ‘Pulled over near Witney.’
‘And …’
‘We found Benz.’
Relief seeped out of me. ‘And the woman?’
‘No sign of Brommer.’
‘No, not Brommer, a French woman, Simone Fabron. I believe Benz may have abducted her. You need to question him immediately.’ I didn’t yet articulate the alternative thought whipping through my mind.
‘That’s going to be difficult. He’s
dead.’
‘Jesus, do you never take prisoners?’
‘My line, surely?’
A pulse ticked in my neck. McCallen’s cynicism and smart mouth signalled a remarkable feat of recovery. ‘What are you suggesting exactly?’
‘You called it in.’
‘You think I killed him?’ I could hardly contain my anger. ‘How was he killed, incidentally?’
‘Bullet to the brain. Close-up, with a pistol. Your speciality.’
‘I’m not even going to comment.’ It was meant to sound dignified. It didn’t come off, mainly because I’d have been more than happy to whack him myself had I been given the opportunity.
‘You stole a gun from one of my colleagues.’
‘Borrowed. You seemed fairly happy when I showed up with it in the cellar.’
‘It doesn’t look good.’
‘Appearances are deceiving.’ This mimicked the alternative film score currently playing through my head. I was the one who’d been deceived by appearances.
‘Have you fired it?’
‘Tell me something, is this Flynn’s working theory, or yours?’
‘I’m simply looking at the facts.’ She sounded maddeningly superior. God, she’d only returned to the fold a few hours ago and she was reverting to type. ‘They told me about Titus.’
‘And your point?’
‘Anyone who crosses your path has a habit of winding up dead.’
‘My postman and the guy I buy meat from looked okay this morning.’
She did not find me funny. ‘You know damn well what I mean.’
‘Did Flynn tell you how Titus died?’
‘Dead is dead.’
‘Wrong. Remember when Billy got his dirty little hands on me?’
‘Yeah,’ she said uncertainly.
‘Trussed me up like the traditional Christmas turkey?’ I added, so that there was no mistake and we were speaking exactly the same lingo. ‘Well, that’s how Titus died. And if you think me capable of that level of cruelty then I suggest you hang up right now.’
The line went quiet. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Getting angry never solved anything.
Final Target Page 22
