by Chris Ewan
Two years ago, the police had come calling with a warrant to take a look at Clive’s business records. They had forensic accountants at their disposal who were able to see exactly where the numbers were giving him away.
Clive was presented with a choice: testify against the drug gang and spend a lifetime in witness protection, fearing constant reprisals, or spend eight to twelve years behind bars, locked up with the same men who would be convicted on the basis of his skewed record-keeping.
The odds weren’t good either way. The numbers looked very bad indeed. Until a third, previously unheard of opportunity presented itself.
Which had led Clive to Hamburg, courtesy of the man who called himself Nick Miller, but who, it now turned out – by virtue of the Sky News channel on the cable TV in the laundrette below his apartment – wasn’t called Miller at all.
Life in Hamburg had been tough from day one. Clive spent his days lonely and isolated, afraid to make any meaningful connections in case he somehow gave himself away. He existed in a constant state of anxiety, terrified in one moment that the British police would somehow locate and deport him, and in the next that a member of the gang he’d betrayed, and whose assets had been seized along with the rest of Clive’s business, would track him down and take revenge.
In the early weeks of his stay, Clive had sought refuge among the tawdry distractions of the nearby Reeperbahn – the all-day nightclubs, the live sex shows, the dive bars and prostitute booths – but soon, even those had lost their appeal. Now, he ventured out as little as possible, spending long days in his miserable flat, which had a major damp problem courtesy of all the steam from the laundrette, and which, in turn, aggravated his asthma.
But the real problem was that Clive’s precious numbers had been forbidden to him. Nick had said that he couldn’t get back into the betting game because he had to lead a different life now. And though Clive could appreciate the logic of it, could even, deep down, acknowledge that it would be close to impossible to get a piece of the Hamburg numbers action anyway, he also couldn’t deny the need that was bubbling inside of him.
The numbers had been calling to him, whispering in his ear. They’d been telling him to go somewhere else. Somewhere hotter. A place with an expat British population. Spain, or maybe Portugal. But some place, anyway, where he could start small, test the water, build anew.
And now, he was sure, he’d found a way to get there. A number would be his salvation.
Two hundred and fifty thousand.
That was the sum he’d specified to Connor Lane. That was the amount that would fund his escape.
The only problem had been how to collect, since a bank transfer was definitely out. Nick had Hanson monitoring all Clive’s accounts. So cash on delivery was the only option. And anyway, Lane had wanted someone there when Nick showed up.
Another betrayal. Clive felt a twinge of guilt. Nick had helped him to begin with, there was no denying it, but his rules were suffocating him. He lived on a few measly euros a day, earned by cleaning the offices of an international consultancy firm two bus rides away. It was demeaning. This evening, Clive had finished his final shift and he didn’t believe any of the late-working execs would notice when he failed to show the following day.
A knock on the door.
Clive peered down from his window at the entrance to the laundrette. The street was deserted. He hadn’t seen anyone approach.
Setting his currywurst aside, he shuffled through his living room to his front door, wiped his hands on his vest and undid the three security bolts Nick had insisted on fitting.
The man standing before him was short and muscular, with grey lidless eyes set wide in his head. He was wearing a blue-and-white tracksuit and carrying a weighted holdall. The number 26 was printed on the front of his tracksuit top.
Which, to Clive’s mind, could mean one of two things.
It could be a simple 26, or a 2 and a 6, or a 6 and a 2, all of which were harmless.
But if you took that 2 and you divided the 26 by it then you got 13. And 13 was always bad.
Clive wheezed as he opened his mouth and asked, ‘Do you have the money?’
‘No money, Clive. There’s been a change of plan.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Late morning the following day, Miller stood among the pyramids of fruit outside the corner shop across from Clive Benson’s apartment. There was a police van and a patrol car parked in front of the laundrette. An officer in a blue uniform and high-lace boots guarded the door.
It was obvious to Miller that something had gone badly wrong. The Red Flag was no hoax. But it was also clear that whatever had happened here had taken place many hours ago. The uniformed officer looked complacent, almost bored, and there were no emergency lights or rubberneckers gathered on the street.
Kate leaned towards him. ‘What do you think?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘Do you think your client is up there?’
Miller didn’t reply. It was possible, he supposed, but if Clive was inside his apartment, it was because he was dead. That would explain the presence of the police and it would account for the stutter of camera flashes that kept lighting up the window above the laundrette sign. Miller had seen the work of enough forensics units during his years with Manchester CID to have a reasonable idea of the procedures the German force would be following.
Kate leaned closer. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘We’re not going to do anything. You shouldn’t even be here right now.’
Which had to be the understatement of the year. Miller was breaking all his rules by allowing Kate to accompany him to Hamburg, let alone to the street where one of his clients was based. But then it wasn’t as if she’d left him with a lot of choice. As soon as the Red Flag had blipped up, she’d insisted on coming with him. She needed to know his system was still secure. She had to see it functioning with her own eyes before she could commit to it for good.
Miller could understand where she was coming from but he’d had to decline. He had no idea what he’d find when he reached Germany because Clive hadn’t responded to any of Hanson’s attempts to contact him. So he’d refused Kate’s request point blank, only for her to up the stakes.
‘I’ll go to the police. I’ll give them your alias and tell them about everything you’re involved in here. I’ll give them Hanson’s name. Becca’s, too.’
Becca had looked like she might slap her. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Try me.’
‘That would be a really bad idea, Kate.’
‘Without us, Lane will find you,’ Hanson added.
‘Maybe.’
‘No “maybe” about it. He’ll track you in days.’
‘You told me you were the best.’ Kate looked at each of them in turn. ‘All I’m asking is for you to prove it.’
‘You’re blackmailing us.’
‘I’m seeking assurances. You’d do the same thing if you were in my shoes.’
Miller doubted that. Not after everything they’d done for Kate already. But her threat was explosive enough to be treated as genuine. They both had to get out of the UK before the police appeal gained momentum. And Clive needed his help.
So now here they were, standing together in the middle of Hamburg, the scent of ripe fruit hanging in the air and an unknown situation confronting them from across the street.
Miller said, ‘Stay here. Try to look inconspicuous.’
Kate blinked up at him and he knew right away what a dumb thing that had been to say. She was wearing some of the clothes Becca had picked out for her – tan chinos, a green fleece and a blue baseball cap – but she still looked terrific.
Miller had on beat-up jeans over his scuffed desert boots, a flannel shirt and a blue nylon jacket. He also had a small rucksack fitted over his shoulders.
‘Where are you going?’ Kate asked him.
‘I need cigarettes.’
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘Maybe
now’s the time to start.’
The corner store was the size of a cramped studio flat and stocked as if it was a supermarket. Everything anyone in the neighbourhood could possibly desire was jammed inside. The way Miller saw it, a corner store was the lifeblood of any neighbourhood. It guaranteed gossip.
He worked his way towards a counter that seemed to have been hollowed out from cascading rows of confectionery. A guy in his early twenties was sitting behind the cash register, flicking through a magazine.
‘A pack of Lucky Strike.’ Miller’s German was good, close to fluent. He’d spent a lot of time in the country these past few years. ‘And a box of matches.’
The guy had on heavy eyeliner and he wore multiple studs in one ear. He reached behind himself without looking up and his fingers landed on the cigarettes, then crabbed along to the matches. His nails were painted black, the same tone as his hair.
‘Eighteen euros.’
Miller smiled. Tourist rates.
He removed a fifty from his wallet and laid it on top of the cigarette packet.
‘The apartment opposite. The police outside. What have you heard?’
The guy looked up blearily. He didn’t smack gum, but he got close.
‘You’re screwing me on the cigarettes, friend. But that’s OK. You can keep the fifty. Just tell me what you know.’
The guy smirked sleepily as he reached out and took the cash.
‘The man who lives there is English. Like you.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘People tell me different things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Some say he was stabbed. Others that he was shot. One customer told me they found him hanging from a noose.’
Miller’s stomach plummeted.
‘He’s dead?’
‘It’s what I hear.’
‘Who found him?’
‘The woman who runs the laundrette called the police. The lock on her door was broken. She’s had trouble with junkies busting in. We all have, round here. She was afraid to go in alone.’
Miller thanked the man and scooped up his cigarettes and matches, drifting outside without another word, at which point his phone buzzed and he fumbled it to his ear.
He heard Hanson say, ‘I got a hit for our client’s name in a hospital database. He’s in intensive care.’
‘You’re telling me he’s alive?’
‘As of two minutes ago, although his medical notes haven’t been uploaded yet. I guess they’re still reacting to the situation. According to the records, he wasn’t admitted until ten o’clock this morning.’
Miller gazed blindly ahead. If what Hanson was telling him was really true, then it was a reprieve, in a way. So why was he finding it so hard to believe? Why did the hearsay from the goth behind the shop counter seem more credible?
All too slowly, he became aware of Kate tugging on his arm, calling his name.
‘Miller, we have a problem.’
And that was when he snapped out of it and saw that she was right. He’d been staring blankly at the uniformed officer on the other side of the street. The officer was peering back at him and now he was lowering his mouth to the radio clipped to his jacket.
‘We need to get out of here,’ Miller said. ‘Right away.’
‘Huh?’ Hanson asked, over the phone.
‘Not talking to you.’
He switched his mobile to his other hand and raised his right arm in the air. A cream Mercedes taxi swooped towards them and Miller snatched open a door at the rear, bundling Kate inside.
‘Which hospital?’ he asked Hanson, ducking in next to Kate.
‘The University Medical Center. You need an address?’
‘No, no address. I’ll call you back.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jennifer Lloyd sat on a thinly upholstered chair with her shoulders back, one hand clasped loosely over the other. Her left hand was on top of her right, functioning as a shield. Her right hand concealed her squash ball. She was squeezing the ball rhythmically. Not all that frequently. Not terribly fast. A lot slower, certainly, than the runaway beat of her heart.
Commissioner Bennett looked down on her from the opposite side of his desk. He was standing and clutching the backrest of his office chair so hard that she was tempted to ask if he could use a squash ball of his own.
Bennett was early fifties, medium height, very trim and very lean, never seen inside the NCA building, to Lloyd’s knowledge, in anything other than his full dress uniform. His face was drawn, his skin pulled tight against the prominent bones beneath. Lloyd had heard other officers refer to him as Skeletor, though never the ones with any interest in long and fruitful careers.
‘Quite the turnaround, DS Lloyd.’
It was the second time Bennett had used the phrase. The first had been when Lloyd had entered his office. He’d motioned for her to sit and then he’d closed the door to his glassed-in corner unit and spread the Venetian privacy blinds to peer out at the secretarial pool beyond. He couldn’t have made the situation look more illicit if he’d tried. Lloyd didn’t know whether to believe he was unaware of the rumours concerning their relationship or whether he preferred others to gossip about an improbable affair rather than the true purpose of her visits.
Which was to inform and betray and subvert.
Except not today, maybe. Because even for a man with a fearful reputation, Bennett was clearly agitated.
‘So, DS Lloyd, you have an awful lot of our people, and most of the British public, searching for one of our own. Your nemesis, I suppose we might call him.’
‘We followed the facts, sir. They led us to Adams.’
‘And the evidence?’
‘That too.’
‘By which, of course, we mean an unverified, indistinct image, provided to us by an anonymous source.’
‘The image is authentic, sir. Our tech team are confident of that.’
‘Well, that’s reassuring, Lloyd. Because it’s not as if our tech team have ever been wrong before, is it?’
Bennett yanked back his chair and dropped into it hard. He braced his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. He remained completely still for several long seconds, during which Lloyd squeezed her squash ball extra hard.
‘Are you really confident about this? How far do you believe in it?’
‘All the way, sir.’
‘Good.’ He nodded definitively. ‘Because I believe in you, Lloyd. In my opinion you raised some valid concerns about Nick Adams four years ago and you have grounds to be concerned again now. So I want to know where he’s been and what he’s up to. I want to know why. We have a mess on our hands. Tell me what exactly is being done about it.’
Lloyd eased off on the ball and drew a fast breath.
‘The team are functioning well, sir. We already have a series of hits from a number of surveillance cameras at Bristol airport. They show a woman matching Kate Sutherland’s description boarding a flight to Hamburg, Germany.’
‘I know where Hamburg is, DS Lloyd. You can dispense with the geography lesson.’
‘The techs are working with facial-recognition software to prove that it’s her. She’s changed her appearance quite effectively but there’s no doubt in my mind after seeing the images. We already have provisional calls in to the German police. We believe she’s travelling with fake ID, possibly in the name Kate Ryan. We’re working on confirming that.’
‘And Adams?’
‘No hits yet. We’re still looking.’
‘So they may not be together.’
‘We still have a great deal of information to sift through, sir. And there have been a lot of calls from the public. We’ll find something.’
‘What else?’
Lloyd hesitated.
‘The team are eager to talk to Connor Lane. His likely role in this situation is impossible to ignore, particularly in light of the discovery of Patrick Leigh’s remains. Young and Foster are planning to drive to the Lake Dis
trict to interview him.’
‘He’s agreed to speak with them?’
‘Only on condition that his lawyer is present.’
‘Then they’re wasting their time. Lane’s lawyer will hedge and delay and generally prove what a fine and expensive pain in the arse he is.’
Lloyd happened to agree. She happened to have said the exact same thing. But Young was persuasive. And the general attitude of the unit was resentful about the hunt for Nick Adams. Resentful of her. Even Foster was giving her the stink-eye, as if it was her fault the evidence pointed towards Adams having some level of involvement. The simple fact was they wanted Connor Lane to be solely responsible for what had happened on the Isle of Man. They wanted to go after him.
‘I’m intrigued, DS Lloyd. You keep telling me what the team are doing.’
‘With respect, sir, reporting on the activities of the unit was the brief you asked me to fulfil.’
‘But I picked you for that role precisely because you’re not a team player, Lloyd. You never have been and you never will be. So what I’d like to know is what are you doing?’
‘Sir?’
‘Here’s the thing about witch-hunts, Lloyd. Eventually, the witch gets found. But times have moved on a little since the Dark Ages. These days, you need hard evidence before you can burn them at the stake.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
Bennett gave her a withering look and lowered his right hand below his desk. He opened a drawer and removed a bulging Manila folder held together by frayed elastic bands.
‘Is that what I think it is? I thought it had been destroyed.’
‘Then you were mistaken.’ He tossed the folder on to the desk. ‘I’ve had this in safekeeping. And now, I’m returning it to you.’
Lloyd reached out for the folder. The file was heavy and the cardboard had wilted and started to tear where the rubber bands were cutting into it.
The paperwork inside contained all of Lloyd’s original notes on the murders of Sarah and Melanie Adams. Lloyd had found enough circumstantial evidence to make her believe Nick Adams could have been responsible for their deaths, but no concrete proof.
