by Chris Ewan
‘By which time it could be too late.’
Miller gathered in the iPad and butted it up against the table edge, pursing his lips.
‘Like I said, nobody has ever sent us a Red Flag.’
‘Today is Tuesday.’
She made a point of looking over towards the clock above the serving counter. The time read 6.20 p.m.
‘Yes, and the reason I’m telling you all this now is that I want you to watch tonight. I want you to see all those Green Flags popping up. We do it with everyone we introduce to the system.’
‘How many Green Flags am I going to see?’
She half expected Miller to duck the question, or to tell her she wouldn’t be able to watch every message. But he didn’t flinch.
‘Five.’
So there were five other individuals being protected by Miller. Six, now, including her. Not a big scheme. Not a huge operation by any stretch of the imagination. Which she supposed was a good thing.
She remembered what he’d told her right at the beginning. He’d talked about a discreet, highly bespoke service. And yet it was one that required all of his time. He had to be on call at a moment’s notice, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What kind of life was that? What kind of drive would sustain someone to live it?
Then she thought of something else.
There weren’t just six of them in the system. There were seven, in reality, if you included Miller himself. He was the hub, no question, but he was in hiding, too. From the same man as Kate. Which brought everything full circle. And was probably a risk. Possibly a sizeable one.
‘Are you hiding any of the others from Connor Lane?’
Miller looked away from her, towards the rain-drenched seafront. But all there was to see was the steam on the glass.
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘But it’s possible?’
‘Anything is possible, Kate. But the other people in the system aren’t your concern. We have your back. That’s all you need to know.’
Kate pushed her plate aside. She reached for her mug and leaned back from the table, glancing up at the television in the corner of the room.
And almost dropped her tea.
She was looking at a picture of herself. The photograph had been taken four years ago, when the law firm she was working for refreshed all the staff profiles on their website. The word MISSING was stamped across a BREAKING NEWS banner at the bottom of the screen.
Kate set her mug down too hard, drawing the waitress’s attention. She knew that she should smile, act casual, roll her eyes at her klutziness. Maybe then she could stand and lead Miller outside.
But she could do none of those things.
‘What is it? Kate?’ Miller’s phone started to buzz inside his jacket. ‘Damn.’ He fished it out, turning at the same time to see the television for himself, letting go of a low groan.
‘Stay calm. We’ve got this.’ He put his phone to his ear, grabbing his jacket and the iPad, sliding out of the booth. ‘We’ve seen it,’ he said, into the phone. ‘We’re on our way back.’
But Miller hadn’t seen everything. Not by a long way. Because as he’d started talking, another image had appeared on screen. It was a picture of Miller. Younger, smarter, neatly groomed in a suit and tie.
And scrolling across the bottom of the television was a ticker-tape message.
Police are searching for Nick Adams, former detective with Greater Manchester Police, in connection with a body found on the Isle of Man. Adams has also been named as a suspect in the unsolved murder of his wife and daughter four years ago. He is considered dangerous and members of the public are warned not to approach him.
Chapter Eighteen
Connor Lane raised the television remote from the corner of his desk and paused the live news feed, freezing the image of Nick Adams on the wall-mounted screen.
‘You still think this was a good idea?’
He pointed the remote at Mike Renner. The two men were sitting in Connor’s study, which had been his father’s study before him and was furnished like a gentleman’s den. His desk chair and the club chair Renner was slouched in were upholstered in green leather with brass studs. Nearby was a globe that doubled as a drinks cabinet.
Not that Connor felt like offering Renner a drink anytime soon.
‘You wanted him found.’ Renner’s shirt was greying at the cuffs and collar, his tie tight as a ligature around his jowly neck.
‘By you, Mike. Not by the police.’
‘He knows how to hide. I had to try something big to flush him out.’
Connor’s gaze slid back to the television.
‘He’s changed his appearance.’
‘But not his size. He’s still huge. Practically an ape. Someone will notice.’
‘And when they do?’
‘We’ll have a lock on him.’
‘Most likely inside a police station.’
‘Which is going to be an uncomfortable situation for him to be in with Lloyd involved.’
‘You’re placing an awful lot of faith in her, Mike.’
‘One thing Larry taught me is when the stakes are high, you play your strongest hand.’
Connor turned his head slowly, lips pressed thin. Both men knew that Connor hated it when Renner alluded to the way his father would have handled a particular situation.
‘Even if your strongest hand is a bluff?’
‘Especially then.’
‘Has it occurred to you that now he’s come back, the girl may do, too?’
Renner knew the girl Connor was referring to. Anna Brooks had disappeared four years ago, only days before she was due to testify in court that Russell had raped her. Russell had admitted to having sex with Anna, although he claimed it had been consensual.
Anna had vanished on the same night Nick Adams had gone underground. The same night his wife and daughter were killed. The same night, to all practical purposes, that the prosecution case against Russell had collapsed.
Both men were convinced that Adams had hidden Anna Brooks from them.
‘That’s highly unlikely.’
‘I want her found, Mike. She can’t become an issue again. Not now.’
‘And I’m working on it. I’ve been working on it. But the first step is Adams. We find him and it unlocks everything else.’
Connor was about to respond when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. His PA, Stacey, ventured inside.
Stacey was, without question, Connor’s least competent employee. Several times a day she revealed herself to be painfully dim. But she was also physically desirable and unashamedly awed by Connor’s wealth, and she more than compensated for her many shortcomings by certain tasks she regularly performed against, on top of and beneath his desk.
‘I told you I wanted privacy.’
Stacey wrung her hands. Her skirt was still a little rucked up from a pleasing, if all too brief, interlude in Connor’s day a half-hour earlier.
‘I have a call for you. He says it’s urgent.’
‘Then take a name.’
‘He won’t give me a name. He says you’ll definitely want to talk to him. Says it has to do with an item on the evening news.’
Her eyes strayed to the image of Nick Adams on the television, then dropped to her hands.
Connor shared a look with Renner.
‘Put him through. Close the door.’
The two men waited in the sudden charged silence, the only noise the fading percussion of Stacey’s heels and the static hum of the television screen.
Then the phone on Connor’s desk started to buzz. He answered the call on speaker.
‘Mr Lane?’
The voice was drawn and wheezy. Not someone Connor recognised. Renner’s shake of the head signalled it wasn’t anyone he knew either.
‘Who is this?’
‘Who I am doesn’t matter. It’s what I can do for you that matters.’
‘This number is unlisted.’
The ma
n’s laboured wheezing filled the room. Connor could hear the faint beat of dance music in the background and the yobbish chanting of a group of men. Was that German they were shouting?
The whispery voice said, ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’
‘None of my acquaintances would pass on this number to a stranger who won’t give me his name.’
‘Somebody did, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But let’s not get sidetracked. How about we focus on what I can give you, Mr Lane?’
‘And what is that exactly?’
‘The man on television. The man I’m guessing you’d especially like to find right now.’
Lane hitched an eyebrow at Renner, who pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded that he should proceed.
‘Supposing I know the man you mean. Why would you do that for me?’
‘You’re rich, Mr Lane. Why don’t you go ahead and take a wild guess?’
Chapter Nineteen
Kate rushed back inside the apartment, Miller following close behind. He snatched for her arm, calling her name, but Kate wrenched herself free, knocking into a suitcase on the floor.
She steadied herself on the kitchen counter, sweeping her hair from her eyes. She was angry and confused. She had a strong urge to lash out.
The apartment was a mess. There were suitcases and laptop bags open on every available surface, loaded with computer equipment and clothes.
Hanson clambered up from behind a table, wrapping a cable around his elbow and hand, just as Becca hurried out of the bedroom with an armful of clothes.
‘You OK, sweetie?’
‘Not even close. I want to know what’s going on.’
‘If it helps any, you’re not the only one.’
Kate flung a hand at Miller. ‘How do the police know I’m with you?’
‘Someone must have been watching your place on the Isle of Man. They must have seen me warn you.’
‘The police?’
‘I don’t think so. Not unless they said something to you?’
Kate’s jaw was tensed. She shook her head in a fast, irritated jerk.
‘So then it was the man Lane sent to kill you. He must have had you under surveillance.’
Hanson blew air through his lips. ‘Doesn’t explain how the cops know about it.’
‘They must have found where he was based. They must have searched his things.’
‘This fast?’
Miller shrugged, checking the time on his watch.
‘So what’s the play?’
‘I have you booked on separate flights out of Bristol airport. Your flights depart at 21.00 and 21.20. Kate’s headed to Lisbon. You’re set for Madrid.’
‘How long until we’re out of here?’
‘Give me another ten minutes and I’m good to go.’
‘Becca?’
‘I can make that.’
‘Good.’ Miller raised an eyebrow at Kate. ‘How’s your Portuguese?’
‘Are you insane?’ She sliced her hands through the air. ‘I’m not going anywhere yet. That news report said you’re wanted for murder.’
The room fell silent.
‘Not cool,’ Hanson told her.
‘Sweetie, really,’ Becca warned.
Miller looked at Kate for several long seconds. He didn’t blink or alter his expression. But Kate could tell he was angry. It was there in his eyes.
‘Are you really asking me if I killed my family? Because you know better than anyone what Lane is capable of, Kate.’
‘Maybe. But right now what I’m interested in is what you’re capable of.’
Becca moved as if to intervene but Miller raised both palms, warning her off. He didn’t break eye contact.
‘You need to hear me say it? Fine. I didn’t kill my wife and daughter. I did everything in my power to protect them. Lane sent a man to shoot them dead. The same man set fire to their bodies and our house when he was done. He burned them, Kate. He burned them right up.’
Kate swallowed hard, trying not to let his intensity deflect her. ‘So why does it say otherwise on the news?’
‘Honestly? I have no idea. But there was a line of enquiry put forward by one investigating officer. Sarah and I argued before she was killed. This particular detective got it in her head that an argument might have turned violent. She was wrong. You’re wrong.’
‘We don’t hang with killers,’ Hanson put in.
‘You hang with me.’
‘Yeah, but you’re the good kind of killer. There’s a difference.’
‘There is?’
‘There is to us.’ Becca took a step forwards. Then another. She approached Kate like she was a bomb she intended to defuse. ‘We’re short on time here, honey. You can trust us now or you can go it alone. Without Miller, I’d give you two days tops, but it’s your call.’
Kate looked between them. She was cautious by nature. She liked to weigh the pros and cons of any given situation before reaching a decision. But this situation was so far beyond anything she’d ever had to contend with that the only thing she had to go on was her gut.
‘We’re safe here for now, right?’ Her attention was locked on Miller. ‘You wouldn’t have booked these apartments under your own name. You probably dealt with the owner over the phone, or maybe you had Hanson or Becca do it. So nobody knows we’re here, even supposing someone in that cafe recognised us after we left. Which means we have longer than fifteen minutes to play with.’
Miller didn’t say anything.
‘I want to see those Green Flags you were telling me about. I want to see them before I go with you, or I don’t go with you at all.’
Miller looked at Hanson, then gauged Becca’s response. But Kate already knew that she’d won. He needed her just as she needed him. She didn’t know quite why yet, or what it was he hoped to achieve, but somehow, she was the key to it all.
‘Five Green Flags,’ he said finally. ‘Then we’re out of here. All of us.’
*
But they didn’t get five Green Flags. They got four instead. They popped up in rapid succession, a series of bland, two-word private messages sent between 7.02 and 7.10 p.m. The usernames of Miller’s clients comprised short random words and long numerical sequences. The process was fast and slick and wholly depersonalised, and Kate got the impression it had become simple routine for the individuals checking in, almost as if it was just another weekly chore, like taking out the rubbish or shopping for groceries.
Kate was sitting in front of the only laptop Hanson hadn’t packed away, with Hanson, Becca and Miller standing over her. It was a little over a thirty-minute drive to Bristol airport. Time enough – just – to make their flights.
Except that the fifth Green Flag stubbornly refused to come through.
They waited past 7.20 p.m. Then seven-thirty. Then a quarter to eight.
Nobody spoke and the silence between them grew more fraught with every passing second.
Then something happened. Something so unusual that, according to Miller at least, it was completely unprecedented.
The time was 7.48 p.m. and the message that blipped up onscreen consisted of just two words.
RED FLAG.
The group drew a collective breath and crowded in around Kate.
‘Where’s it from?’ Miller asked.
‘Hamburg,’ Hanson told him. ‘Client number three.’
Part III
Hamburg, Germany
Chapter Twenty
Clive Benson shovelled takeout currywurst into his mouth and looked through his apartment window at the plane trees and shop awnings of Schanzenstrasse, searching for a sign that he hadn’t screwed up.
Clive didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He never did. But he wasn’t only searching for strangers hurrying towards his building or unfamiliar vehicles. He was also hunting for meaningful numbers in the scramble of graffiti on the wall of the apotheke opposite, in the telephone number listed at the end of a letting agent’s sign, among the
prices of the fruit and vegetables displayed outside the late-night corner shop.
In nearly every way, Clive was entirely, even painfully, ordinary. He was in his early forties with too little hair, a too-big paunch and a too-fatty diet. But in one crucial respect, Clive was exceptional. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, numbers would speak to him. They might, for example, leap out of a newspaper advertisement to reassemble themselves into a combination that triggered pleasing childhood memories. Or perhaps he’d be strolling along the street and the digits on a series of car licence plates would rearrange themselves into the postcode of his first home, or the telephone number of an old girlfriend who’d cheated on him.
Numbers worked with Clive. They co-operated with him. He’d always been able to rely on them, even when nothing else in his life made sense.
Clive wasn’t a crackpot. Licking now at the curry powder he’d sprinkled over his wurst, he knew he didn’t possess some kind of extraordinary superpower. (And anyway, what kind of superhero would that make him? Acutely Aware Man?) It was just that he noticed things, analysed sequences and saw patterns, that would pass most people by. Probably he was on some kind of spectrum. Not that the thought bothered him a great deal. After all, there was a time when numbers had made him a lot of money.
Clive had started his own betting empire straight out of school. At first, he’d operated an unofficial book for a handful of friends, but within a few years he’d gone legit. Business was good and the profits were encouraging, but as his outfit matured and the stakes grew higher, one thing never altered: the numbers always remained on his side.
Until, that is, he began taking bets that weren’t really bets at all. Until a certain criminal gang in Manchester with a sideline in recreational pharmaceuticals made him an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse. Until, in short, he laundered drug money through his three high-street betting outlets in return for not being beaten, or stabbed, or, ultimately, killed.
At the bidding of a series of increasingly scary men, Clive had attempted to manipulate his precious numbers and the numbers hadn’t liked it. So they’d rebelled.
