Terror's Reach

by Tom Bale

  'Lovely,’ she lied. 'Though it’s sweltering out there. Poor Brel was

  labouring.’

  Donald bent down, stroking the Labrador’s head. You go far too

  fast, that’s the trouble. It’s not the damn Tour de France.’

  'It keeps me fit. I wish you’d exercise more often.’

  'No point,’ he said, licking a finger and turning the page. 'See

  anyone?’

  'Not really. Just that chap who works for the Nasenkos. Joe.’

  Angela saw her husband flinch. His body tightened, his head dipping

  closer to the refuge of the book. She grabbed the kettle and tipped

  the dregs into the sink.

  'That’s his name, Donald. He’s called Joe. I can’t help that, and I

  can’t not say it.’

  Yes, you can.’

  'Oh, Donald.’ Her exasperation blew out on a sigh, lost in the

  gurgling rush of water as she refilled the kettle. Here was a man who

  decidedly did not bear his suffering with good grace.

  So many times she had resolved to confront him, try and bring this

  nonsense to an end. But always she found herself putting it off. Today

  her justification for doing so was slightly more impressive. The accident

  had left her weary and shaken, and a lot more upset than she’d

  dared admit to Joe.

  Because the truth was that the motorcyclist had seen her in plenty

  of time, and yet made no attempt to correct his position.

  If anything, he’d been aiming right at her.

  The first thing Liam noticed was that the gates were open. A second

  later he spotted a car on the driveway. It must have come in after

  Gough had left the island.

  He let the van roll past the entrance, coming to a halt alongside

  the perimeter wall. The neighbouring property was partly obscured

  by a screen of mature fruit trees, and there were no buildings at all

  on the opposite side of the road. Plenty of privacy, at least.

  He turned off the ignition and thought about what to do. Almost

  immediately he was interrupted by a rapping on the bulkhead. A wary

  voice called his name.

  Yeah, all right.’ Liam slipped out of the cab, wiping his face with

  his hands. He checked the road was clear, then opened the rear doors.

  The wash of hot stale air made him recoil.

  The van was loaded with equipment, which included eight large

  propane cylinders. Squashed amongst them, Priya should have looked

  grimy and dishevelled, but there didn’t seem to be a trace of sweat or

  dust on her.

  'Welcome to Terror’s Reach,’ he said, and as she stepped down it

  was all he could do not to gasp.

  Even in blue jeans and a plain black top, she looked like an

  Indian princess. Or maybe a Bollywood star, playing the part of an Indian

  princess. She was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

  Her hair was dark and lustrous, as light and fine as smoke. She had milkand-honey

  skin, every inch of it utterly smooth and unblemished.

  No sense denying it to himself, Liam thought. He was hooked.

  While Priya took in the magnificence of the building, Liam studied

  her face. He saw her eyes widen, then narrow again with concentration.

  He noted the way her lips came together, leaving just a tiny hole in the

  centre.

  The house was called Dreamscape, and to Liam it resembled a

  dozen gigantic Coke cans, stacked in two layers of six. It was a

  monstrosity: eight thousand square feet of prime real estate. The curved

  exterior walls were clad in red and white glass ceramic panels, while

  the interior featured huge open-plan rooms and a wealth of solid oak

  and marble.

  The current price tag was six and a half million, and it had been

  on the market for nearly two years.

  'The design’s too idiosyncratic,’ Priya said at last. 'That’s why it

  hasn’t sold.’

  'That, and the fact it’s overpriced by about three million quid.’

  She turned to him, frowning. 'Why are the gates open?’

  Joe finished clearing up while debating whether to walk along the

  road to the beach and see where the mysterious van had gone. At the

  same time a voice in his head told him to leave it. His job was to

  watch over Cassie and her children, not patrol the island for rogue

  builders and potential litter louts.

  He was still undecided when the front door opened and Cassie

  Nasenko appeared, carrying a tall glass of water.

  'Thought you needed a drink,’ she said. You’ll give yourself a heart

  attack, working so hard in this heat.’

  'I quite enjoy it,’ said Joe. The glass was slippery with condensation.

  He was careful not to drop it, or let his fingers brush against

  hers.

  He drank gratefully, while Cassie turned and inspected his handiwork.

  'It’s coming on well,’ she said, without much enthusiasm. He

  knew she’d have preferred to leave the shrubbery untouched.

  'Thanks. Is Jaden okay?’

  Yeah. He still wouldn’t have a nap. And Sofia didn’t have long

  enough, so they’ll probably end up being grumpy tonight.’

  Joe tutted. 'I bet you’re looking forward to seeing your friends?’

  Yes, I am.’ Her gaze flickered towards the house. 'Oh, and there’s

  been a change of plan. Yuri wants to see you.’

  'He didn’t send you out here, did he?’

  It was a curt response, enough to make Cassie blush.

  'I was bringing you the drink.’

  'I know. Sorry.’ Trying to soften his tone, he said, 'It’s just… I don’t

  work for Yuri. I work for you.’

  She crossed her arms, clapping her hands against her shoulders as

  if suddenly cold. 'Actually, you work for Valentin,’ she said, and there

  was an unspoken message in the pause that followed. And so do I.

  Liam leaned into the van and reached for a heavy-duty metal toolbox.

  He was aware of Priya’s scent, something light and floral. She was

  standing just behind him, her hands clasped together. Anxious but

  not panicked, which was a relief. Maybe she wouldn’t turn out to be

  a total liability.

  'Did anyone notice you on the way here?’ she asked.

  'A guy out front at Nasenko’s place.’

  'A gardener?’

  'No. One of the staff Then he remembered. 'What was that noise

  you made?’

  'Oh, I lost my balance. Sorry.’

  Yeah.’ Liam gave a brusque nod. Maybe not a total liability . . .

  He opened the box and the top tier concertinaed out. He removed

  a set of drill bits and examined the weaponry concealed beneath them.

  Half a dozen semi-automatic pistols, complete with silencers, and a

  selection of knives.

  He stopped mid-delve. At this point he knew nothing about the

  threat he was facing. Was a gun a tad excessive? Was a knife too messy?

  'Ah, fuck it.’ The remnants of his Irish accent were strongest when

  he cursed: sounded more like feck it. He left the toolbox and shut the

  van doors. Gave Priya an encouraging glance. 'Come on.’

  The boundary wall was about five feet high, painted a brilliant

  white, its curving design mirroring that of the house’s front elevation.

  The wide double gates were carved from Iroko hardwood,
electrically

  operated, with an intercom set into the wall beside them.

  Liam knew the building had an extensive security system, with a

  network of movement sensors and high-definition cameras. It was quite

  feasible that someone would be monitoring their approach, so he made

  sure to stroll up to the front door, his leisurely manner and pleasant

  smile reinforcing his entitlement to be there.

  Priya followed, studying the large potted palms along the driveway

  as if half expecting someone to leap out at her.

  'Relax,’ he said.

  'I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you.’

  Definitely an attitude there. He found himself dwelling on her mouth

  again, that tantalising little gap, and had to push the image away.

  Later.

  The car was a red Renault Megane Sport, parked close to the house.

  Liam casually trailed his hand along the bonnet as he passed it. Still

  warm.

  The front door was made from heavy oak, flanked by narrow windows

  of opaque decorative glass. There was a security camera mounted

  above the door, and a covert one embedded at eye level in the door

  itself.

  'Go with me,’ said Liam, and knocked firmly.

  'What are you planning to say?’

  'Depends who answers.’

  He heard movement inside. The door was opened quickly, without

  any caution, by a young man in pinstriped trousers and a puce-coloured

  shirt. He was about thirty, with dark hair and big brown eyes. A good

  looking guy, and didn’t he just know it.

  But his glib smile died as he registered their presence. His gaze

  was drawn to Priya, then reluctantly back to Liam, and in his narrowing

  eyes Liam spotted an unmissable trace of guilt. With that, a number

  of things became clear.

  'We’re here for the viewing,’ Liam said, taking a step forward.

  'What?’

  'We arranged it with the agents, Taplin Ward.’

  'You must be mistaken. I’m from Taplin Ward, and I don’t recall—’

  'They told us you’d meet us at the house.’

  'But they don’t know I’m—’

  Thank you, Liam thought, and he punched the man in the throat.

  Seven

  Joe followed Cassie across the driveway, her flip-flops slapping against

  her heels with a sound like insistent wet kisses. She branched towards

  the playroom, where the electronic thwock of a virtual tennis ball

  was accompanied by a cry of victory. Jaden was a demon on the Wii,

  regularly defeating Joe not just at tennis but at bowling and even

  boxing.

  Joe continued on to the kitchen. It was divided into two distinct

  spaces. The rear section was about twenty feet square, as sterile as an

  operating theatre with its white ceramic floors, Poggenpohl units and

  Corian worktops. A step led up to the front half, where a breakfast

  table and a couple of easy chairs looked out over the terraced gardens

  and the grand sweep of the bay.

  While he’d been working out front, a sleek motor yacht had appeared

  and was sitting at anchor just inside the deep-water channel. On the

  bridge, a crew member in white raised a pair of binoculars and seemed

  to focus in their direction.

  Yuri Deszniak paid it no attention. He was sitting at the table, a

  pair of mobile phones set before him like cutlery. In one fist he

  clutched a glass of cognac, and with the other he lifted a cigar to his

  mouth and took a long, appreciative suck. The maid, Maria Vargas,

  had just delivered a pot of coffee. In place of thanks, Yuri flapped an

  impatient hand towards the wall of glass. He required ventilation.

  Sniffing disdainfully, Maria turned away. She was a short, squarish

  woman in her fifties, wearing a plain grey dress and a white apron.

  Still oblivious of Joe’s presence, Yuri watched her stretch up on tiptoe

  to open one of the high windows.

  You have a big ass, woman. Did I tell you that before?’

  Maria made a small gesture, acknowledging that she had heard but

  didn’t necessarily agree. She knew not to take Yuri too seriously, but

  nevertheless she still feared him.

  'I ask myself, is there a man alive who would fuck you, eh?’

  Joe snorted. 'That’s rich, coming from an ugly bastard like you.’

  Yuri spun round, glowering as he saw who was speaking. Maria

  scurried past, briefly making eye contact with Joe. She was smiling.

  'Another thing,’ said Joe. 'Next time you want to speak to me, come

  and get me yourself. Cassie’s not here to run errands for you. She’s

  your boss’s wife.’

  Yuri’s bark of laughter told Joe exactly what he was thinking. The

  marriage was a mistake, easily rectified.

  'I answer to Valentin. Nobody else. Not her,’ he growled, stabbing

  a finger at Joe, 'and not you.’

  'That’s crap.’ Joe felt his heart beating faster again. So much for self

  control. 'It’s time you started showing her a bit more respect.’

  Yuri looked amused. 'Or. . . ?’

  Joe held his gaze. He was aware of Maria retreating to the depths

  of the kitchen.

  'Or face the consequences,’ he said.

  You would fight me?’

  Angela’s advice came back to him. Accept that it’s part of who you

  are.

  You bet I would,’ said Joe. 'I’d kick your arse right into next week,

  and I’d enjoy every minute of it.’

  With the element of surprise, a punch in the throat can be just as

  effective as any weapon. The estate agent keeled over and landed

  heavily, his head thumping against the solid oak floor. His eyes shut

  and for a few long seconds he didn’t move.

  Maybe he’s dead, thought Liam, surprised by how calm he felt.

  He and Priya entered the house and closed the door behind them. He

  listened for signs of inhabitation, but the building felt empty.

  The estate agent’s eyes opened and his body started thrashing, his

  hands clawing at his throat. He let out a long, strangled noise.

  'He’s suffocating,’ Priya said. 'He can’t breathe.’

  'He can breathe. He’s just forgotten how, because he’s panicking.’

  Liam gave the man a kick in his lower back. The estate agent

  twisted away. His frantic gurgling subsided and he took a couple of

  big gulping breaths, like a baby after a tantrum.

  'I suppose he looks like an estate agent,’ Priya said. 'That shirt is appalling.’

  'It was an educated guess. But I think he’s AWOL.’ Liam crouched

  down, tugging the man’s arm to get his attention. 'What are you doing

  here?’

  The man coughed first, then said, 'None of your business. Who

  the hell are you, anyway?’

  Liam grabbed him by his hair and slammed his head on the floor.

  The impact reverberated around the cavernous hall. Liam’s hand came

  away sticky with hair gel. The man groaned and shifted a few inches,

  leaving a smear of blood on the floor.

  'I have to get back. I’m due in a meeting at six.’

  'Six o’clock on a Friday? I don’t think so.’

  A shameless flicker of acknowledgement from the estate agent. His

  was a career where exaggeration came as naturally as smiling: getting

  caught
out was merely an occupational hazard.

  'In a bar,’ he conceded. 'We all get together every Friday.’

  'Not today, you won’t,’ Liam said. You still haven’t explained what

  you’re doing here.’

  The estate agent swallowed. “I’m meeting someone.’

  'Who?’

  'A woman.’

  Liam glanced at Priya, indicating the house. 'I suppose you can’t

  blame him. A place like this standing empty and he has the keys. It’s

  got to beat the back seat of his car.’

  'My car!’ The man groped inside his pocket, brought out a set of

  keys. 'Take the Megane. I promise I won’t tell anyone.’

  Liam feigned interest in the proposal. 'Company car, is it?’

  'Well . . . yeah, but—’

  You know, I’m stunned by your generosity. Offering me a car you

  don’t own, while you shag someone in a house you don’t own.’ He

  laughed. 'What about the woman? I bet she’s not yours, either.’

  The estate agent stared at him, uncertain how to reply.

  'Of course she’s not,’ Liam answered for him. You worthless piece

  of shit. I don’t want the car.’

  The man went to put his keys back in his pocket, but Liam snatched

  them from his hand. He turned to Priya.

  'But we do need to get it in the garage before his lady friend arrives.

  Bring the van in as well.’

  'What if someone sees me . . .’

  'I’ve got to watch Mr Slick here.’

  'Please,’ the estate agent blurted. 'Tell me what you want.’

  'Shut up.’

  'If it’s something in the house, just let me go. I swear I won’t say

  a word.’

  'I told you to shut up!’ Liam shouted.

  Priya waited for him to face her, and said, 'I can deal with him.’

  Liam was doubtful. He’d argued against her late inclusion in the

  team, and he still wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing here. All he

  knew was that she’d been some kind of science prodigy who’d gone off

  the rails and ended up in rehab, where a former client of Liam’s had

  trawled her up. Not difficult to see what had attracted his interest, but

  it hardly qualified her to guard a frightened and desperate hostage.

  I don’t know if that’s wise,’ he said.

  'Better than someone spotting me and wondering what I’m doing

  in a builder’s van,’ Priya said. 'Go on. I can handle it.’

  But Liam had spotted a glimmer of hope in the estate agent’s eyes.

  He kicked him in the side, hard enough to crack some ribs. The man