by Bill Vidal
The taxi pulled away and she started to cross the ten metres to her front door.
‘Mrs Clayton?’ he asked, smiling as he moved in her direction.
‘Yes,’ she replied, unsuspectingly smiling back. She did not recognize the face but the American accent was unmistakable.
Salazar came up to her, still smiling as she stood half-turned in his direction, her hand still reaching for the keys inside her bag. He took her firmly by the forearm with his left hand and pressed the gun into her stomach.
‘Keep very quiet and come with me,’ he said in a low, commanding voice, the artificial smile still broad on his face. He gave her just two seconds to recover, to let the situation sink in. Salazar had done this before. You had to give the target time to think, otherwise they panicked and made a stupid bid to run. He concentrated on her eyes, When he saw her look of comprehension he continued: ‘Otherwise I’ll start shooting in the house.’
That registered and Tony knew it. For sure she would have kids in there, and mothers the world over were alike. She walked with him, docile, murmuring incoherent questions. When he lifted the Bentley’s trunk lid he noticed the expected hesitation, so he stopped smiling and pressed the gun barrel into her side.
‘Get in there,’ he ordered fiercely and Caroline complied.
He looked at her as she curled up in the spacious boot, then gently started easing the lid down. ‘Stay quiet, just relax. We’re going somewhere, twenty minutes at the most. I’ll be driving. One move and I’ll blow your brains out, understand?’ Then he firmly closed the trunk until he heard it click shut.
The abduction had taken less than a minute.
Tony Salazar turned left towards Kensington High Street and there left again, merging with the few cars heading towards Hammersmith. In ten minutes he would be on the freeway. He was extremely pleased with his performance and now had his leverage on Tom Clayton. A fair swap for forty-three million bucks.
What Tony did not notice in his elation, as he drove off, was the small face peering out of the window of number 61. Patrick Clayton frowned and wrinkled his nose in puzzlement.
‘Paula! I just saw Mummy get in the back of a car!’ he announced.
‘Did you now, Patrick?’ replied his young nanny without looking up from her sewing. ‘And where exactly did you see that?’
‘Right here!’ said Pat excitedly. ‘I swear, Paula, she got in the boot of a car!’
‘Patrick Clayton, what are you talking about?’ She stood up and walked towards the window, nervously adjusting her hair-band with one hand as she pulled the curtain to one side and studied the square.
‘I see nothing, Patrick. Why would Mummy get in the boot of a car?’ She giggled nervously at the preposterous idea.
‘There was a man, Paula, I saw him. He took Mummy by the arm and walked her to the car. There,’ he said pointing to the vacant space. ‘That’s where he was parked! Then he got in and drove away, that way,’ he pointed with his finger.
Nanny frowned. She bent her knees until her face was at Patrick’s level. ‘Are you sure it was your mother?’
‘Of course. I heard a taxi noise, so I came to look. I saw Mummy get out and pay the taxi and then there was this man.’
‘And they walked up to the car you saw, and she got into the boot?’
‘Yes!’
‘Not the back seat?’
‘No, it was the boot! The man opened it and Mummy got in!’
Paula believed Patrick was telling the truth, but as to what sense it all made she could not think. She asked the boys to sit down and watch television, then went to the phone and called the bank.
It was past eight in the evening and the call was taken by Security, who confirmed that Mr Clayton wasn’t there. She tried Tom’s mobile number but heard only a recorded message advising that the phone was turned off. She hoped she was not making a fool of herself, but all the same took a deep breath and dialled 999. The emergency operator took her details and assured her a policeman would be over very shortly.
The first patrol car arrived in five minutes. Flashing lights but no sirens – in deference to the genteel neighbourhood where noise complaints would be certainly forthcoming no matter what the gravity of the situation. Two uniformed officers knocked on the door and were let in by a distraught nanny. She ushered them into the drawing room and the female officer put her arm gently round Paula’s shoulders and sat her down. When the nanny collected herself, she repeated what the boy had told her. The constables then turned to Patrick, who by then looked worried at the sight of policemen in his house, and coaxed him gently into restating precisely what he had seen.
They were asking him to confirm he had no doubt he had seen his mother, when a call came through on the officers’ lapel radio. They were ordered to keep everything quiet, move their car away from the Clayton house and await orders from Scotland Yard. When the details of the nanny’s emergency call had been entered in the police computer, an immediate cross-reference had been made to Special Branch. The radio controller had called the Yard, and the Yard in turn had relayed the message to Chief Inspector Archer. At the time he had been in his car with Harper on their way back to Victoria Street. Sweeney had been left behind, minus his passport, with Claridge’s lobby still under a detective’s watchful eye. Clayton had declined a lift – he needed a drink to relieve the tension, he had told them – and they had last seen him walking towards Park Lane. Upon receiving the communication, Archer gave the driver the new address and told him to turn off the lights and sirens well before reaching Kensington Square. Fifteen minutes later they were in the Clayton home. Harper, three policemen, Nanny and the two children. For the third time Patrick related the details of his mother’s apparent abduction. Unfortunately his description of the abductor was vague.
‘Did you get a good look at the car?’ asked Harper.
‘Yes,’ replied Patrick with conviction.
‘Do you know what kind it was?’
‘Of course,’ the boy said confidently. ‘A maroon Bentley Continental R Coupé.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Archer.
‘Patrick is our expert on cars,’ offered Nanny by way of explanation.
‘A maroon Continental R! Hey, Pat?’ said Harper. ‘You didn’t by any chance get the registration number, did you?’
‘I don’t remember it,’ said Patrick quietly. Then he perked up as he recalled, ‘But it started with an S, so it was either a ’97 or a ’98!’
‘Good lad!’ Archer complimented him.
‘Sir, if I may make a suggestion?’ the policewoman spoke up. ‘That’s a rare motor. Few are built and even then most go for export.’
‘Your suggestion, officer?’ asked Archer.
‘Call Rolls-Royce. They’ll give us the names and addresses of the owners. At least the original owners. We could trace it from there.’
‘Get on with it,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Good idea. In the meantime put out a call for any car fitting the description.’
They got the number from the operator but when they telephoned, a recorded message said the offices were open from nine to six. They speculated, correctly, that there would be security guards in place. A call to the local police resulted in a car being despatched post-haste and ten minutes later a Cheshire police officer reported from the car maker’s office to relay the name and telephone number of the firm’s marketing director. They got him just as he was about to go out to dinner, but when told Special Branch required his help urgently he agreed to go to his office and look up the information.
Half an hour later the executive called back: six maroon Continental Rs in total. One to a minor royal, two to well-known stars. One to a Mr Duncan Cameron in Inverness. And two to the rental company Eurosport.
They called the hire people immediately but at first encountered some resistance. How, the reservations clerk demanded, could he know for sure he was indeed talking to the police?
‘I’ll send a squad car to arrest you, lad
. Will that be sufficiently convincing?’
The clerk told Archer what he wanted. One car was currently locked up in the Heathrow depot. The other had been on hire since Wednesday to a Mr Antonio E. Salazar.
For a moment Archer and Harper were speechless. Salazar? In London? At least there was no longer any doubt. Sweeney would have some serious explaining to do before the night was over.
‘Address?’ Archer demanded.
‘114 East Seventy –’ he started reading.
‘In England, you ass, in England!’ shouted Archer, who was tiring of the officious little man.
‘Oh, let me see … yes, London Intercontinental Hotel, Hamilton Place –’
‘Thanks,’ said Archer sharply, and hung up without waiting for the rest of it. ‘The rascal is holed up in a Mayfair five-star,’ he explained to Harper. ‘Ten minutes’ walk from Sweeney’s hotel!’
‘He wouldn’t be taking Mrs Clayton there, would he?’ Harper stated the obvious. ‘So where else?’
‘First things first.’ Archer turned to the uniformed officers. ‘I want you to go to Claridge’s.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We have a plain-clothes man in the lobby. Nichols is the name, Detective Sergeant. Make yourselves known to him. Then go up to room 501. Richard Sweeney,’ he said, handing over the American’s passport. ‘Arrest him and caution him. If he wants to know the charge, it’s conspiracy to kidnap, for openers. We’ll draw up the rest later. Take him to Savile Row and bung him in a cell on his own.’
‘Yes, sir. Is he dangerous?’
Archer looked at Harper, who considered the question for a moment and shook his head. ‘No, not him,’ he stated. ‘But we don’t know who else is in London with him. So watch it.’
When the pair had left, Archer asked Paula for permission to use the telephone, then called the Yard to order an armed unit to the Intercontinental Hotel. He assumed Salazar would not be there, in which case they were to turn his room inside out.
‘Anything else?’ he asked Harper.
‘I guess, for the moment at least, the best thing you and I can do is sit here and wait for Mr Clayton. He may well be more open with us after this.’
Paula promised to return with tea after she put the boys to bed. By then Tony Salazar had reached the motel near Heathrow. He drove round to the back and reversed the car up to his room. There were only two other cars parked on that side, he noted, and little in sight beyond – just a rough field and in the distance the glow of Europe’s largest airport. The lights were on in the only two rooms that had vehicles outside them, and neither adjoined his. Salazar unlocked the door and went to turn the bedside light on. After a swift look round he returned to open the car boot. He waved his gun at Caroline and marched her into the motel bedroom. He ordered her to take her coat off and lie down on the bed. She was still confused, trying to regain some composure and to understand why this was happening. Salazar went into the bathroom and returned with a large towel, then took out a flick-knife from his pocket and cut the towel into ribbons. Caroline attempted to start a dialogue but he waved the knife at her and told her to shut up.
‘On your stomach,’ he commanded in his nasal tone. ‘Put your hands behind your back.’ He tied her wrists together and repeated the process with her ankles. ‘Now, lady,’ he explained threateningly, ‘you give me any hassle and I’ll shoot you. Got that?’ He waved the gun until she nodded. ‘I ain’t bothered with you. You mean nothing to me. It’s your fucking husband I’m after. Now he – well, he’s as good as gone. But you, lady? You just behave, and who knows? You may live to find another husband!’ He laughed unpleasantly as he sat at the foot of the bed.
Caroline said nothing. She was terrified, almost unable to believe her ordeal, yet strangely relieved by her release from the nightmare ride.
‘Now tell me the easy way. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied in earnest, holding back her tears. ‘Why do you want him?’
Salazar slapped her hard across the face, a single full smack of his open hand.
Caroline bit her lip and remained silent.
‘Think again. I ask the questions, okay? He ain’t at the bank, he wasn’t home when we left. Where does he go after work? Got a skirt tucked away some place?’ He licked his lips suggestively.
‘Leave me alone, you bastard,’ she pleaded hysterically.
‘Lady, you need to be taught some manners.’ He slapped her again, this time with the back of his hand, making her nose bleed, then briskly wiped the blood with the remnants of the towel. He did not want bloodstains on the bed.
He smiled again and looked deliberately at her long legs. The skirt had risen well above the knees and Salazar felt the eroticism of total power.
Caroline recognized the look and her fear increased.
‘You’re quite a looker too, ain’t ya?’
Caroline said nothing, tried to avert her eyes and prayed that somehow this bad dream would end.
‘Listen, lady. Your old man stole forty million bucks from me. Now I want my money back. That sound unreasonable?’
So that was it, thought Caroline. This creep standing there in front of her was the owner of the money Tom had found in Zurich.
‘My husband no longer has your money,’ she told him through swelling lips. ‘He never wanted it in the first place. Today he went to give it back.’
‘Who to?’
‘Richard Sweeney.’
‘You know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he must have changed his mind. He didn’t give it back. That’s why you’re here. So where’s my fucking money?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my husband.’
‘Yeah, I intend to do that.’ Salazar then dialled Clayton’s number.
When the phone rang, Archer and Harper braced themselves and called for Paula.
As she picked up the receiver they stood next to her, ears straining. It was the same man that called earlier and once again he asked for Thomas Clayton. Harper heard that and urgently tapped his chest.
‘Just a minute,’ she said nervously and passed the handset to Harper.
‘Tom Clayton,’ said the DEA agent after a short pause.
‘Hey, Thomas, this is Tony Salazar. Know the name?’
‘Sure,’ replied Harper. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want my money, Thomas, but first I tell you something. Guess who’s here with me?’
‘Quit playing games, Salazar,’ Harper said firmly. As far as Salazar was aware, no one knew that Caroline had gone missing. Maybe late from shopping, that was all. Harper played along.
‘I got your wife. Nice piece of tail, Clayton. Now where’s my money?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Where you can’t find me. Here, talk to her.’
He pressed the phone against Caroline’s face and heard her say, ‘Tom …?’ But then he perceived something – perhaps a slight widening of her eyes, a suppressed intake of breath. Salazar quickly pulled the phone away from her and heard the calm American voice telling her not to worry: everything would be all right. With his free hand, Tony unzipped Caroline’s handbag and tipped its contents on the bed.
‘What’s your wife’s date of birth, Clayton?’ he asked holding her driving licence. ‘You got three seconds.’ He counted three and hung up.
‘Who was that, you stupid bitch?’ He struck her several blows, this time with his closed fist, to the ribs and the stomach. She felt the pain and begged: really she did not know. Salazar drew his gun again and placed the barrel hard against her cheek.
‘Last time, lady. Where is your husband?’
‘I don’t know! I told you I don’t know! He has –’ she started to sob uncontrollably and was angry at herself for it. ‘He has a mobile phone. Call him on that.’
She gave him the number and Salazar reached again for the phone.
At that time Clayton had been waiting for a taxi outside the Four Seasons Hotel. Aft
er leaving Sweeney’s room, he had wandered along Brook Street and down Park Lane, deep in thought, interrupted only as he crossed Hertford Street when a fool in a maroon Bentley had taken the corner at high speed, forcing him to jump back on the pavement. He had told Caroline he would ring her about eight-thirty and meet her at Mark’s for dinner. Tom assumed that by then the Sweeney business would be over and worries about Zurich bank accounts should be history. They would go out and celebrate, he had said lightly – celebrate the fact that once, albeit briefly, they had been worth fifty million dollars. As he walked into the hotel he dwelled upon the fact that he still had over forty million, but the sword of Damocles had not been sheathed. He had two drinks in the mezzanine bar, waited until eight-thirty to be sure Caroline was back and then called home. He was astonished when Paula passed him over to Harper. The drug-enforcement agent explained the situation as they knew it and Tom said he’d be home in fifteen minutes. He jumped into the cab, oblivious of the hotel doorman’s outstretched palm, and urged the driver to take him to Kensington Square as fast as possible. As the taxi turned into Hyde Park, Tom’s mobile telephone rang.
This time Tony Salazar was brutally terse and refused to let Tom talk to Caroline. ‘You go to the cops, she is dead,’ he said. He wanted a meeting, somewhere quiet where Salazar could see no other faces. ‘You know London,’ said Salazar. ‘Pick a spot. I’ll check it out before I show myself. Anything looks funny, I’m off. I’ll mail you a card with the location of the lady’s body.’
Tom suggested ‘my country house’. It was 80 miles from London. Guaranteed dead quiet. Not a neighbour in sight.
‘Give me the address,’ demanded Salazar.
‘No. You ask my wife,’ replied Tom. ‘If you’ve already killed her, kiss goodbye to your thirty-seven million for openers. Then I’ll come after you.’
Salazar swore obscenely before reminding Clayton that the sum was ‘forty-three million plus interest’.
Tom ignored him. ‘Any time you like after midnight. I’ll be there. All night.’ On that note he clicked the phone off, slid open the window separating him from the driver and said he’d changed his mind: ‘Hertz rent-a-car, Marble Arch.’
