‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Elizabeth shook her head.
‘No, you’re right, it doesn’t matter. That’s all in the past, what matters is the future. The future of the company.’ She put the phone back in her pocket again. ‘So, here’s what happens next. What we were trying to do in Brochu hasn’t worked, it’s not your fault – not entirely – but I’d like you to call Soledad Mistral. Tell her you want to meet, say … the day after tomorrow.’
Jags nodded slowly.
‘I see. So you don’t know where she is.’
Elizabeth smiled.
‘You need to concentrate now Jags, listen to what I’m saying. You came back here to save me … and I appreciate it. But now you need to save you. Go ahead and call her and all will be forgiven.’
‘Forgiven?’
‘That’s right. A clean slate, just tell her that you’ll meet her at the same restaurant you took her to before. One p.m. the day after tomorrow.’
Jags got his phone out of his pocket. He went to his recent calls, found Soledad’s number and dialled it.
92 Deep Fake
THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG
Patrick racked his brains for specific days and times when he knew that Dan had been present in a certain part of the hotel. The bars, restaurants and their encounters in the lobby. They checked the CCTV from all of them – there was nothing. All evidence of Dan ever having set foot inside the Headland Hotel was gone.
‘Who can do that? I mean who has the capability?’
Carver shook his head.
‘I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that whoever it is has also made sure that the credit card and passport details that reception are holding are just as unhelpful.’
‘So we’ve got nothing?’
‘Not nothing.’ He pointed at the stack of discs. ‘Your idea is still a good one; I reckon there’s still a chance we find the original CCTV of Viv that they copied and swapped in.’
‘And?’
‘Well, apart from that we need to hope that Staples himself turns up. I’ve got a hunch he might. He hasn’t checked out and we’ve still got something he wants. Could be he’s biding his time or waiting on a new set of orders.’ Carver paused. ‘Perhaps we need to chivvy him along.’
‘How?’
William got his laptop and old mobile phone out from inside his yellow plastic bag, made a space for them on the desk alongside the cartons of takeaway food and switched them both on. Patrick watched while Carver connected to the internet using the hotel Wi-Fi.
‘These devices of ours have been pretty good at attracting their attention when we don’t want it. Let’s see if it works when we do. We should eat some of this food before it goes cold.’
Carver persuaded the old security guard, Anthony, to take a break and so he and Patrick sat next to each other, eating takeaway and watching CCTV of Viv, walking up and down various corridors. Now and again Carver’s London mobile would vibrate on the desk as a number of unlistened to messages arrived. He deleted several from his students requesting more time to finish their essays before listening to a message from Donnie that was intriguing and troublesome in equal parts, and a couple from Naz reminding William that he needed to send her his Hong Kong contact number. There was a note of excitement in her voice. He flipped his laptop open as well and checked first his emails, then a few stories on the BBC News website before finally taking a look at Dan Staples’ Wikipedia page.
Carver shrugged.
‘Well, if they don’t know who and where we are after that little lot then I don’t know what to do. Might as well fire a flare off the roof of the hotel.’ He squinted at the screen. ‘One thing about being back on the job, I’m getting a much more exciting selection of adverts being pushed my way.’
Patrick looked and saw a glitzy ad across the top of the screen offering VIP weekends at a well-known casino in Macau. On the side was another for a Gentleman’s Club in Lan Kwai Fong.
‘Lucky you. Rebecca thinks these tailor-made ads are terrifying.’
‘So do I. Back at home the only ones I get are for Nordic cruises and budget funerals.’
Carver yawned and Patrick looked across at him.
‘William, you must be knackered. Why don’t you turn in? I’ll do another hour or so then I’ll do the same, we can pick it up tomorrow.’
‘Nah, I’ll do a little bit longer.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to. Viv and I didn’t always get along and looking back now, I realise that was my fault. She tolerated me at a time when I was pretty hard to tolerate.’
‘Right.’
‘She wasn’t the only one.’
‘Well …’
‘How about this? You do one more sweep of the bars just in case Staples has come back while we’ve been cooped up in here, have a pee, get a coffee and then you can take over and I’ll go try and sleep.’
‘Deal.’
93 Redemption
PUBLIC SQUARE HQ, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA
Soledad’s number rang. And rang. Jags listened, praying that his call might remain unanswered, and it seemed that this might be the case. Then there was a sudden click. A woman’s voice. Quiet but clear.
‘Hola?’
‘Soledad? It’s Jags.’
‘Yes?’
Jags looked at Lizzie and smiled.
‘Wherever you are, Soledad … leave there now. Ditch this phone and don’t go home. Run!’
Elizabeth barely moved. The slightest tilt of the head, but that was enough. Chairs and desks flew in different directions and within moments they were on him. They covered the five feet quicker than he thought they would and Jags only just managed to turn and duck as the first punch flew past his face. He kicked and hit and gouged and fought – if this was going to be his last fight then he wanted it to be a good one. He caught a couple of Lizzie’s boys with decent hits – one with a fist to the kidneys and another with a left hook that broke both Jags’ knuckle and the man’s jaw. A well-placed knee lifted hard into some poor unfortunate’s groin left the man screaming in pain and out of the game for the duration and at that point Eldridge reluctantly joined in. Jags gouged a couple more eyes but he was surrounded and tiring and there were too many of them. The four men grappled with him until each had a limb. They were locked hard onto their quarry now and both he and they knew it. He managed a couple more kicks and then suddenly the lights went out and Jags realised that someone at his back had pulled a thick plastic sack over his head. The bag was being twisted tighter and it filled fast with his own panted breath. He tried to slow his breathing but it was difficult. They kicked repeatedly against the backs of his legs until eventually his knees folded and he was forced to the ground. Still he strained against the bag and as he did, the plastic stretched. It was hard to breathe, his head felt heavy but still he pushed – stretching the bag some more – until there above him, standing watching, he saw Elizabeth. Or her outline anyway. A strong hand was trying to force his head down, but he pushed against it, lifting his head some more. She was staring at him and now he heard her voice.
‘I’m sorry Jags.’
His head was swimming, he was suffocating – choking on his own fumes.
Oblivion was close now.
Or possibly hell.
It was hell that he deserved.
‘Fuck it.’
One of the men who’d come off worst from the fight kicked Jags’ corpse a couple of times before being pulled away by Eldridge. He put the bloodied man down in a seat before returning to receive Elizabeth’s next instruction.
‘Tell them to bring the equipment and do it here. Seal off this floor.’
‘Right. And what about the others?’
‘Tell Fred’s men to continue as instructed. Repair what needs repairing.’
94 Remembrance
CAVERSHAM, ENGLAND
McCluskey wore the red poppy for most of October and a good part of November t
oo. She had never missed a Remembrance Sunday service at her local church and she wasn’t going to miss this one either. The vicar did a good enough job, although once again the Union Jack outside the church was hanging upside down and she felt she had to mention this as she was leaving the church. She tempered this criticism with praise, in particular for the idea of getting local schoolchildren to read the long list of names of servicemen and women from this parish who had died in action down the years. It was a long list and McCluskey wasn’t the only one drying her eyes on a tissue or handkerchief by the end of it. A peal of church bells sounded bright and clear in the cold morning air as she walked back home.
The black Mercedes was parked outside her house, this time with no one in it. She saw a shadow at the upstairs window – inside her command and control centre – and stopped. She needed a moment to gather her thoughts. She could call the police again and wait for them to arrive: until they did she could hide around the side of the house.
‘Bugger that.’ McCluskey opened her handbag and looked inside. ‘First things first.’ She took the Swiss Army knife that she used as a key ring, pulled out the longest knife and punctured all four tyres on the Merc. That done, she walked around to the rear of the house and silently back in through the kitchen. She took up position in her living room, knowing that the only way the man upstairs was going to leave was via the stairs down into the hall. She armed herself.
The flat-faced man who came down the stairs had a boxful of McCluskey’s stuff in his arms and no idea that he was no longer alone in the house.
‘Are you the cunt who killed my cat?’
He turned, a shocked look on his face. A golf ball hit him square in the forehead. She threw another, which hit him just above the ear. He shouted – a mix of pain and fury in his voice – and retreated backwards up the stairs. McCluskey yelled after him. ‘I’ve called the police, they’re on their way.’ This was a lie and now she came to think of it, an oversight. She got her phone out and was through to the operator and about to speak when the man came again, walking slowly down the stairs, a snub-nosed gun in his hand.
‘Put the phone down Mrs McCluskey.’
The accent was American or maybe Canadian.
‘No.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Then don’t, get out of my house.’
‘I will. But I need to take that box with me.’
‘No chance.’
She had a golf ball in her left hand and she launched it but missed. The man started walking slowly towards her, his hand out in an attempt to calm her. McCluskey reached behind her towards the mantelpiece, in search of more ammunition. Her hand found a snow globe and she turned and chucked it. It bounced off his arm and smashed on the floor. She glanced down and saw what looked like a broken grey tuning fork in a pool of white speckled water. ‘That was my Twin Towers, you bastard. You’ll pay fer that.’ She ran at him, hands raised. The flat-faced man turned sideways, stepped backwards and hit her hard on the cheek with the side of his gun as she went by. McCluskey fell.
‘Stay down.’
‘Fuck you, ya banger.’
She climbed back onto all fours. She had her hands on the edge of the sofa, preparing to stand, ready to fight, when the butt of the gun came down hard on the top of her head. And darkness fell.
95 The Full English
THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG
William woke early; the time difference between Hong Kong and home had left his body clock not really knowing whether it was coming or going. He tried his best to wash and dress quietly, so as not to wake Patrick who was sleeping on a fold-down mattress on the floor, but his stumbling about eventually roused his colleague.
‘Hey William.’
‘All right. How’re you feeling?’
Patrick looked at his watch.
‘Bit early to say. Okay I think.’
‘Good. Did you have any luck with the CCTV last night after I left?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay, I’ll check at reception to see if there’s been any sign of Staples, get myself some breakfast and then pick up where you left off.’
Patrick rubbed his eyes.
‘It’s five a.m.’
‘Early bird gets the worm. See you later.’
The early bird got a disapproving look from the waiter in charge of breakfast at the Headland Hotel. The man put Carver by a window and offered him a menu, which William waved away.
‘Don’t need it. I’ll have the full English.’
The waiter nodded, removed the second setting from the table and left. Carver flicked through a copy of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal that he’d picked up at reception. The duty manager had informed him that there was still no sign of, or word from, Dan Staples. Not checked out, but still nowhere to be seen. His full English arrived, looking rather sorry for itself – a single plump sausage, one rasher of bacon, a spoonful of scrambled eggs and a slice of black pudding all gathered closely together – as though for protection – in the centre of a huge white plate. Carver looked up at the waiter.
‘Is that it?’
‘The Full English.’
‘Right. In that case I’m going to need more toast. A lot more.’
He demolished the breakfast in no time and then worked his way steadily through the bite-sized quadrangles of toast. He found himself wishing that he’d thought to bring the Dundee thick-cut marmalade with him.
It was almost six by the time he knocked on the door of the security office and the grey-haired security guard opened it.
‘It’s me again Anthony, I’m sorry to say.’
Carver settled back in, kicking off his shoes while Anthony read the note that Patrick had left, detailing where he’d got to last night. The guard offered him a cup of coffee from his thermos, which William gratefully accepted, and they set the machines running again.
Half an hour passed. Then an hour and Carver started to wonder how much longer Patrick would sleep for. He needed a wee. He glanced across at Anthony.
‘Can you pause all this for a minute so I can pop to the toilet? I’ll only be …’ He stopped mid-sentence. ‘Fuck me, look! They missed something …’ Carver pointed at the monitor closest to Anthony’s right hand. ‘… they didn’t manage to erase everything, that’s Dan Staples right there, riding that lift. What date is that?’
The old man leant forward, squinting.
‘That’s not the archive tape. That’s now.’
96 Sick Days
PECKHAM PRIMARY SCHOOL, LONDON
Rebecca sat in the nurse’s room and tried to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It wasn’t easy, nor particularly pleasant. The cramped room stank of carbolic soap and after school club was still going on out in the hall. She heard kids yelling and the occasional thump of a flat-sounding football hitting a wall. The headmaster poked his head around the door.
‘I’ve booked you a cab, I’m sending you home.’
‘No, I’ll be fine, really I just …’
‘It’s done. We can do parents’ evening without you for once. Bugger off. Come back when you’re not such a horrible green colour.’
Rebecca gave him an appreciative smile. The cab took an age to get across London in the evening rush hour and Rebecca slept for much of it. By the time she got out, outside the flat on Highbury Fields, it was pitch black, the orange street lights were on and she felt a little better. Perhaps she might even manage something to eat? There was pesto in the fridge, some pasta in the cupboard. A quick meal in front of the TV, a bath and then bed. She thanked the driver, got her house keys out of her bag and opened the front door. She was halfway up the stairs when she realised that she hadn’t heard the front door pull itself shut behind her. She turned round and heard the door to the street, only now, slowly closing. She peered over the bannisters, down into the shadowy hall, but there was no one outside the downstairs flat. She leant out further to get a view of the alcove where people stacked bikes
and buggies.
‘Hello?’
97 Repairs
THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG
The curtains were still drawn and in the half-light, Patrick initially assumed it was Carver standing at the foot of the fold-down mattress, staring down at him. He had a rucksack by his side.
‘Hello bud.’
‘What the …’
Dan dropped into a crouch and in one quick movement leapt forward, grabbing Patrick’s wrists and wrenching his arms out to the side before pinning them to the floor with his knees. Patrick tried to kick up at his attacker – his legs flailed around, displacing his sheet and blanket, but nothing more. Dan sat back, his full weight landing heavily on Patrick’s stomach and winding him. ‘Calm the fuck down buddy, this’ll go a whole lot quicker if you just stay calm.’
‘F … fuck you.’
The words came out sounding reedy and weak and the repairman just grinned.
‘Where’s the memory stick Patrick? Just give me that and we’ll be done.’
‘I don’t know.’
Dan shrugged. He bunched his right hand, lifted it to shoulder height and punched his victim hard in the face. Patrick heard the bones in his nose break and felt a bolt of excruciating pain, but when he opened his mouth to scream, Dan clamped his thick hand over it, silencing him.
‘Let’s try again. Where’d you put it?’
Patrick shook his head.
Dan removed his left hand from his victim’s mouth and hit him again with the right. Harder this time. Patrick could taste blood in his mouth, sour and metallic. His eyes were streaming with tears, leaving his vision blurry. Dan covered his mouth again and his bloodied nose as well. He couldn’t breathe.
‘Either you can die here – like your mate – or you can tell me where the memory stick is.’
Patrick was trying to mumble something. Dan took his hand off his mouth.
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