The Payback

by Simon Kernick

  When a welcome pause broke in her mother’s talking, Tina grabbed her laptop and asked her father if she could use his printer. Five minutes later she was sitting at the desk in his study, poring over hard copies of Nick Penny’s phone records on the dedicated number he’d used for their investigation.

  In the earlier bills, there were plenty of calls, including many to overseas numbers, where Wise’s various holding companies held countless secret bank accounts. Wise had long been suspected of laundering money from the illicit businesses he was involved in – most notably drug smuggling, people trafficking and prostitution. She knew Nick had drawn a blank at every turn and, as she sat there, remembering his initial gritty determination to bring Wise to justice (a determination she’d found so attractive at the time), it struck her how naive they’d both been, thinking that they could ever find evidence where everyone else had failed.

  As if to prove her point, the calls had gradually thinned out as the months passed, and the overseas ones had disappeared altogether. Nick had never let on to Tina that his determination was flagging, but it must have been hard to keep up his motivation as the doors to success had closed one after another.

  In the week before she’d last spoken to him, he’d only made four calls on the phone, and had received none. Three were to UK-based mobiles, all of which he’d called before. The other was to a central London landline number, again one he’d called a number of times before. Nothing stood out.

  She took a deep breath as she came to the calls for the last seven days, the crucial ones during which he must have made the discovery that had led to his death. He’d made eight calls and received two.

  The last call he’d made had been to Tina’s own mobile number the previous day at 4.45 p.m. Only hours, possibly even minutes, before he’d died. She frowned. She didn’t remember getting a missed call from him, although she’d been in a meeting for much of the previous afternoon and had had the phone off for its duration. Had he intended to tell her something? She pulled out her phone now, went back through the missed calls page, and sure enough, there it was.

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered, surprised she’d missed it. But then she’d had half a dozen missed calls during that meeting, including three from her reluctant, now former, witness Gemma Hanson.

  She shook her head sadly, wondering what it was he’d wanted to say, and knowing that she’d probably never know now, then pushed her emotions to one side and looked at his other calls. Three of the ones he’d made had been to the same number. It was a foreign mobile with the prefix +855, which was one she didn’t recognize. Straight away, she noticed that two of the calls had lasted over ten minutes, and she felt that familiar excitement that came from stumbling on something interesting.

  She Googled the +855 prefix, seeing immediately that it was from Cambodia. She tried to remember if Paul Wise had any connections there, but nothing came to mind.

  According to the world clock on her phone, Cambodia was seven hours ahead, which made it five in the morning. Pretty damn early for a Saturday, but worth a try.

  Her call was answered on about the tenth ring by a man talking in the local language. His tone was brusque and he sounded as if he was some kind of official.

  Tina asked him if he spoke English.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered stiffly. ‘You are through to the Phnom Penh Police, Detective Bureau. Who is speaking please?’

  ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Tina Boyd from London’s Metropolitan Police.’ She waited while he wrote this information down before continuing. ‘I am following up on a number of calls made by a UK-based journalist to this number on Monday and Tuesday of this week. His name was Nicholas, or Nick, Penny.’

  ‘This is the main switchboard number for the Detective Bureau. Do you know what it was he wanted?’

  Tina chose her words carefully, wanting to make clear the importance of the call. ‘I’m afraid not. But I’m sorry to have to tell you that he was murdered here in the UK yesterday, and we’re extremely interested in finding out whether it had anything to do with the calls he made to you.’

  If this information fazed the officer, he didn’t show it. ‘I will see what I can find out, but we are a big department, and it is very early in the morning here.’

  ‘I understand that. Anything you can do would be hugely appreciated by the British police.’

  Tina was put on hold. But when the man finally came back on the line five minutes later, it was obvious he hadn’t found anything out. ‘I will circulate a memo and see if anyone remembers speaking to him, but that is all I can do. Do you have a number that you can be reached on?’

  Tina gave him her mobile number, then took his name and thanked him for his time before hanging up. She wondered what Nick could possibly have wanted to talk to the Cambodian police about, and whether he’d actually got through to anybody who’d helped him.

  He’d also made two calls to different numbers with the prefix +63 – another country code she didn’t recognize. One had been to a landline, the other a mobile number. He’d also received a call from the mobile lasting more than twenty minutes. All three had been made at various points on Tuesday morning, just a couple of days before he’d died.

  A quick search revealed that +63 belonged to the Philippines. Once again, off the top of her head Tina couldn’t recall Wise having any business links there either, and for the first time it struck her that this might not have anything to do with him.

  But if it hadn’t been to do with Wise, then why had she too been targeted? It didn’t make sense. He had to be behind this somehow.

  Before she called the Philippines, she studied the only other number that Penny had called that week, which was also a number that had been used to call him. It was a UK-based mobile, which looked vaguely familiar, so she reckoned its owner was someone he’d been in contact with before. Whoever it was had also been the last person to call Penny before his number went out of service, at 11.30 on the morning he’d died.

  Taking a deep breath, she punched in the number now.

  ‘Satnam Singh,’ said a well-educated voice at the other end after barely a ring.

  Recognizing the name as someone Nick had mentioned before, Tina introduced herself, apologized for the time, and asked if he’d heard about what had happened.

  ‘Yes,’ Singh replied. ‘I heard this morning. We worked together at the New Statesman a few years back. It’s terrible news. I understand you were working with him on the Paul Wise case.’

  ‘I was,’ she answered, hoping that Nick hadn’t mentioned anything to him about their affair. ‘Although he was the one doing most of the work.’

  ‘And do you think it was suicide?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Interesting. Why not?’

  Tina had no desire to get into a lengthy conversation with a journalist she’d never met, so she said that right now it was nothing more than a hunch.

  ‘I don’t think it was suicide, either,’ said Singh. ‘I spoke to Nick twice this week and both times he sounded fine. No sign at all that he was about to take his own life.’

  ‘Can I ask what it was you spoke about?’

  ‘Is this an official interview?’ he asked guardedly.

  ‘No. Nothing I’ve been doing on the Paul Wise case has been official, so this is just between us.’

  ‘And is this line secure?’

  ‘It is, I promise.’

  ‘OK. Nick rang me on Monday night and asked me if I could find out if Paul Wise had travelled to certain countries on certain dates in the past.’

  ‘And why did he think you’d have that information?’

  ‘Because my brother works for a company that stores the PNR databases for a number of large airlines.’

  ‘What’s a PNR?’

  ‘It stands for passenger number record, and it’s a record in the database of an airline’s computer reservation system that contains the itinerary of the passenger. Because of the size of the databases, they tend to be host
ed by specialist companies like my brother’s rather than on the airline’s own systems. I’d got information about passenger manifests from him several years ago when I was researching a story, which is how Nick knew about the connection.’

  ‘And I’m assuming your brother’s not allowed to give out that information?’

  ‘Correct. But he has access to it, and on that occasion he did it as a once-in-a-lifetime favour to me.’

  ‘And this time?’

  Singh sighed. ‘Nick was desperate. He genuinely believed he was on to something that might help in his libel defence against Wise. Under those circumstances, and considering he’d always been a good friend of mine, it was difficult to turn him down.’

  ‘What was it he was so interested in?’

  ‘Whether Wise had travelled to Cambodia and the Philippines on certain, different dates. One was in 2007, the other in 2008.’

  Tina felt her heart begin to pound as she asked her final question. ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  Between 12 and 18 September 2007, Paul Wise had been in Cambodia, and between 11 and 26 June 2008, he’d been in the Philippines. That was the extent of the information Satnam Singh had given to Nick Penny. According to Singh, they hadn’t discussed what Nick had needed it for. All Singh knew was that he’d needed it, and urgently.

  Tina thanked him for his help, then called the Philippines landline number on Nick’s bill. It immediately went to automatic message, telling the caller that he or she was through to the Manila Post, that the main offices were currently closed, and giving another number that could be called twenty-four hours a day to report a story.

  Tina hung up. It was a quarter past six in the morning in the Philippines, and for a moment she considered calling the mobile, but stopped herself. She had no idea who the number belonged to, and if she called it this early, the person on the other end might be reluctant to cooperate.

  Instead, she fed the digits of the number into the Google search box, and pressed Enter.

  And hit the jackpot.

  A company called Aztech Direct Rentals came up. Beneath it was a short advert for a vacation apartment to rent in a place called Anilao. The owner was listed as a Mr Pat O’Riordan, a name that was unfamiliar to Tina. Next to it was the mobile number from Nick Penny’s phone records.

  She wrote down the information on the screen, and Googled the name Pat O’Riordan.

  A long list of results came up on her laptop screen, and as she ran her eye down them she saw that there was a Pat O’Riordan, now retired, who manufactured high-quality concert whistles, whatever they were; another who was a tax accountant; nine who were listed on Linkedin, the business directory—

  She froze. There it was, near the bottom. What she was looking for.

  She double-clicked and started reading, a slow coldness creeping up her spine.

  Because she now knew exactly why they’d had to kill Nick Penny.

  Thirteen

  It was the deep grey hour before dawn when I arrived at the address I’d been given, a compact-looking two-storey detached house set back behind thick foliage and a high stone wall topped with a line of rusting razor wire. Situated about halfway down a narrow residential backstreet, it looked like it had seen better days.

  The house was dark and the street silent as I stopped at a solid iron gate. It had a sign on it which stated that the property was protected by a company called AAA Emergency Response Inc, which was no great worry since all it meant was that if my target got a chance to call them (which he wouldn’t), there was still a good five minutes minimum before they could get to the house, by which time I’d be long gone.

  Tipping the brim of my baseball cap down so that it better obscured my face – just in case there was a hidden camera somewhere – I slipped on plastic gloves then, having found the key I was looking for, very slowly opened the gate. Even so, it still squeaked loudly.

  I stepped inside, shutting the gate behind me, and slipped the gun from beneath the jacket I was wearing, screwing on the suppressor. I was in a small, secluded garden, well stocked with a variety of tropical plants. Sweet-smelling bougainvillea climbed up the walls of the house, and a table and chairs were arranged on a patio in front of locked French windows. The place looked like something out of the colonial era, and it struck me as I crept over to the front door, admiring the wooden shutters on the window, that they’d made a real effort with this place, and that if I had to live in Manila, I’d choose somewhere like this.

  With the buildings next to it a good thirty feet away on either side, it also made it perfect for an assassination, since it was highly unlikely anyone would hear any shots.

  I looked at my watch. 6.16. I’d managed to grab a few hours’ sleep, and was feeling alert if not refreshed. Although I’d had the phone on silent, I had two missed calls from Schagel. One at 3.30, the other an hour later. Which wasn’t like him at all. Calling me when I was on a job was both dangerous – just in case the phone went off at an inopportune moment – and a sign of impatience that I wouldn’t have expected from a consummate pro like Schagel. It made me uneasy.

  Checking once again that the phone was on silent, I used the two other keys on the ring to open the front door, and was pleased to see that the target hadn’t deadbolted it from the inside. It was clear that Schagel was right, and he wasn’t expecting trouble. Either that or he was very careless.

  I moved through the hallway in the direction of the staircase, trying hard but without success to ignore the photos on the walls. They were family pictures, featuring the silver-haired man I was here to shoot, and an attractive, middle-aged Filipina woman, who I assumed was his wife. There were also two kids. Both boys. In some they were very young, but in the more recent ones they were adults in their early twenties. It crossed my mind that one or both of them might be at home, but I immediately dismissed the thought. Schagel would have known, and he would have told me. I might not have liked the guy but I trusted his information absolutely.

  I didn’t like the idea of killing a man in his own home. I liked the idea of killing his wife there even less. Together in the marital bed. It was all too personal, because it showed me exactly what I was destroying. Not just two lives. But their whole, shared history as well.

  I’d only killed people in their homes twice before, and both occasions were a long time ago. Plus, my victims had been brutal, sick killers themselves and had deserved everything that was coming to them. But this time . . .This time the intended victim was a journalist, for Christ’s sake. He’d dug something up on one of Schagel’s clients, and now he was being made to pay. As Schagel had pointed out, more journalists die in the Philippines than any other country in the world, and I doubted if very many of them were corrupt.

  I could feel the doubts coming on, and I had to work hard to force them aside, something I was sadly getting better at as my body count grew.

  But the stakes were higher this time. Do this, and Schagel had hinted that there might be a chance he’d let me retire and live out my life in my own secluded corner of the world, never hurting another human being again.

  I mounted the stairs, gun out in front of me, listening hard to the silence, conscious of every squeak of the wooden steps.

  And then, as I reached the top and found myself on a landing with doors to either side of me and too many photos on the walls, I heard it. Coming from the room at the end.

  The sound of a mobile phone ringing.

  I heard movement behind the door, someone climbing out of bed, cursing sleepily.

  Now was the time. Do it now, I told myself, and I could be out again in two minutes. Back at the hotel in ten.

  There’s never any point in putting off the inevitable. It’s one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned over the years.

  So I didn’t. Taking deep, steady breaths, I yanked open the door in one movement.

  The target, Patrick O’Riordan, was standing next to the bed. Stark naked, his silver hair all over
the place, he was holding his trousers and rifling through the pockets, hunting for the mobile phone. The bed was empty.

  He turned round as I raised the gun and his eyes widened. He looked so damn vulnerable, so shocked that his life had come to this sudden, abrupt point, that when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. His lips simply moved, and small burbling sounds came from between them. I could see first the fear, then the resignation in his eyes. And finally that first glint of hope as he realized I was hesitating.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  I pulled the trigger, twice, the gun kicking in my hand as he staggered backwards, hit both times in the chest. Then he fell back against the window, and slid slowly down it to the floor, his mouth filling with blood. And all the while he was staring at me as if he couldn’t believe how cruel I had been.

  Unable to stand the accusation in his stare, I took four steps over to him, lowered the gun and, still trying to avoid those eyes, shot him a final time in the top of the head from point-blank range.

  He grunted once and slid down on to his side, his eyes closed. I didn’t bother feeling for a pulse. Instead, I turned away and made for the door.

  Which was when I heard the sound of a flushing toilet coming from the other end of the landing.

  Fourteen

  I just had time to close the door and get behind it. Keeping my breathing low and even, I listened as the footsteps came closer, the pace of their owner too casual for her to have heard anything.

  Except when the door opened and the figure came inside, I saw that the her was actually a him, and a young one too. Probably no more than twenty, at most. Like O’Riordan, he was stark naked, except his body was a lot more toned, the ravages of age still yet to catch up with him.