by Tom Bale
speaker, and just above that, the tiny round lens of a camera.
Priya pressed the call button and waited, feeling uncomfortably
exposed. The sun was lower in the sky, but still ferociously hot. The
air was sluggish and heavy; not even the gentlest of sea breezes to
offer respite. The scent of cow parsley filled her nostrils, so rich and
sweet it made her slightly nauseous.
She shouldn’t have come. This was a bad idea.
She pressed the button again, and felt a crawling sensation as the
hairs on her neck rose. A flush of heat spread across her breastbone
and up into her face. She was being watched, by the same hungry
gaze as before.
She looked around, scanning the road in both directions. There
was no one in sight. No cars or voices or music. Just some muted
chirping from the woods behind her, as though the heat had drained
the birds of their will to sing.
She backed away from the wall. Shielded her eyes from the sun as
she examined the upper floors of the house. At the same time, the
crawling sensation receded.
It must be the camera. He was inside, watching her on a monitor.
Priya sighed. She didn’t relish telling Liam that she’d failed to make
contact. His opinion of her was low enough already. And if her coming
out here spooked the boy into calling his father, then the whole operation
would be in jeopardy.
She took a slow breath. Making sure she appeared composed and
in control, she stepped back to the intercom. She pressed the button
and held it in while she spoke into the grille.
'Hello? Are you there?’ She had no idea if he could hear her, but
by now she had nothing to lose.
'Is that Oliver? Please let me know if you’re listening.’
She released the button and waited. Her skin was still crawling, but
she fought away her disgust and looked directly at the lens, borrowing
a sweet, demure smile from the conscientious young scholar she’d
once been.
No response. He wasn’t willing to reveal himself. But he was there;
she had no doubt of that.
Turning away, she decided it wasn’t an entirely wasted effort. More
a case of laying the groundwork for what was to follow.
Oliver heard the intercom buzz as he sprinted along the corridor.
There was a spare handset at the top of the main stairs, but he ignored
it. The one on the ground floor had a bigger screen.
As he reached it, the buzzer sounded for the second time. He
snatched up the handset, activating the camera set into the outside
wall – and there she was, right in front of him. Cool, calm, beautiful.
Huge dark eyes. Lips so full and soft that he could barely imagine
how they might feel as they engulfed him.
She frowned at the camera, then backed away. Oliver almost cried
out. He didn’t want her to give up this easily. He wanted her to stay
where he could see her.
Most of all, he wanted to let her in. He wanted that very badly. His
finger remained on the button; every nerve, every fibre screaming at
him to do it. Let her in.
Have some fun.
Then she strode forward, filling the screen once again. She moved
so close it produced a kind of fisheye effect, exaggerating the size of
her features. Mirroring her, Oliver knelt and put his face against the
monitor. When she smiled, he smiled back.
He watched her mouth opening and closing. She was talking to
him. But to hear her, he would have to press the button and open a
connection, and if he did that she would know.
His finger tightened on the button. He felt it give, very slightly,
under the pressure. His heart was beating wildly, pounding away as
though it was already out of control.
But he knew he wasn’t going to open the gates. He had to let
her go.
Oliver opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue and tenderly, in
one smooth motion, licked the screen all the way from the bottom to
the top. Licked her from the base of her neck to the crown of her
head.
The screen had a dusty, electrical flavour: not unpleasant. As she
turned away, he groaned. He could feel the adrenalin pumping
uselessly in his system and knew he had to find an outlet. Had to vent
it somehow.
But he had done the right thing. He couldn’t quite trust himself
to be alone with her. He was. . . unpredictable. It had taken real
courage, real maturity to recognise that fact. And for doing so, he
deserved a treat.
Buzzing with good vibes, he leapt to his feet and went in search
of fire.
Liam paced the lobby, unconsciously avoiding the telltale patch of
lighter wood. On one level the estate agent’s death didn’t trouble him
at all. Human casualties had been factored into the plan from the
beginning. But now, with Priya gone and nothing to do but wait, he felt
a niggle of concern.
He was doubtful about her mission, doubtful enough to wonder
if it was merely an excuse. Perhaps she’d had second thoughts and
done a runner, or even gone next door to call the police. He saw
how plausibly she could put him in the frame for the estate agent’s
murder.
The buzzing of his phone was a welcome distraction. He answered,
listened for a few seconds, then nodded. At least some things were
going to plan.
'We’ll take over the surveillance from here,’ Liam said. 'Tell Turner
to hold steady. And I want the roadblock ready to go when I give the
word.’
As he put the phone away there was a knock on the door. Two
quiet raps; the prearranged signal. Priya was back.
He opened the door and she stepped past him, wafting in hot, dry
air infused with her perfume.
'He wouldn’t answer,’ she said. 'But he’s in there.’
'Shit.’
'He won’t tell anyone.’
'How do you know he won’t?’
'I just know.’
Liam snorted. 'Don’t give me any bollocks about women’s intuition.’
Priya said nothing. Just looked at him and blinked slowly, managing
to convey both amusement and contempt. For a moment Liam was
inclined to grab her by the arm, throw her across the room and get
a few things straight about who was in charge here.
Then he thought about the boot knife, and the fact that he couldn’t
afford to spend every other second looking over his shoulder.
He took a deep breath. Gestured towards the stairs.
'The American’s here. They’ll be heading out soon.’
Robert Felton wouldn’t permit matches in the house, but Oliver had
a box of two hundred hidden at the bottom of the vanity unit in his
bathroom. He kept them to demonstrate to himself that his craving
was under control. Like any recovering addict, he took pride in his
ability to resist temptation.
But this was a special occasion. He had earned the right to succumb.
He could have done it outside, but there was precious little thrill
to be had from that. Outside, it was just another bonfire.
He chose the kitchen floor. It was some kind of Italian slate.
> Hideously expensive, so it ought to be fire-resistant. Whether it would
crack at high temperatures, he had no idea. If it did, he’d just say he
had dropped something heavy on it.
The pyre he constructed was meagre, but symbolic. One of his
favourite porno mags – to represent his desire for the woman, successfully
restrained. Haifa bottle of brandy – to represent another common
vice, though not really one of his. And, lastly, the jacket of one of his
father’s favourite handmade suits.
Oliver tore a few pages from the magazine, crumpling hairless genitals
and vacant pouts into surreal erotic waste. He splashed brandy
over the jacket. Lit the first of the matches, held it beneath his nose
and inhaled, dreamily, until it guttered and died.
He opened his eyes. Took a breath and considered for a moment.
Did he have to do this? Should he do this?
Silly question.
He lit another match. Ignited the brandy.
Fifteen
The traffic around Brighton was just as congested as Joe had thought
it would be. By the time they found an empty bay, in the car park
beneath the Churchill Square shopping centre, it was five thirty-five.
Too late.
Jaden yawned and announced that he was hungry. Sofia was still
asleep. Cassie carefully lifted her out of the car and into the buggy.
'So where are we going?’ she said.
'It’s supposed to be a surprise.’
She gave him a look, one eyebrow arched. 'Come on, Joe. I’m not
a big fan of surprises.’
He shrugged. 'There’s something to collect at Merrion and Son.
But we’re probably too late.’
'I doubt it, knowing Valentin.’
Her cryptic comment made no sense until they reached the shop,
nestled within one of the quaint narrow thoroughfares known as
The Lanes. This was the oldest part of Brighton, once a tiny fishing
village called Brighthelmstone, now crammed with designer
boutiques, trendy restaurants and about a thousand jewellery shops.
Despite its modest frontage, Merrion and Son was one of the most
expensive.
There was a CLOSED sign on the door. Joe tried it anyway: locked.
He peered through the glass at the dimly lit interior. Spotting movement
inside, he knocked. A moment later a face swam into view. They
heard a key in the lock.
The door opened and Merrion Junior greeted them. He was a
plump, glossy man in his forties, more car dealer than a jeweller:
sharp suit, hair perfectly waxed and parted, and the neatest fingernails
Joe had ever seen on a man.
He ushered them inside and locked the door behind them.
Embarrassed, Cassie apologised for their lateness.
'Oh, we’re always here for a while after locking up. It’s really not
an issue, Mrs Nasenko.’
Anything for a client as wealthy as Valentin. Joe watched the jeweller
scurry behind the counter, unlock a drawer and produce a small velvet
case. Cassie was concentrating on Jaden, who was busy planting sticky
finger marks on the glass-fronted cabinets.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Joe said. He beckoned Jaden towards a
display of watches. 'Let’s see if you can tell the time.’
With obvious reluctance, Cassie approached the counter. Merrion
Junior had opened the case and removed something from inside. He
held it out to Cassie, who made no move to accept it.
'Nice,’ she said, her voice flat.
The jeweller coughed politely. 'Made to Mr Nasenko’s exact specification,
it’s a platinum eternity ring with sapphires, diamonds and
the most exquisite centrepiece. A Paraiba tourmaline.’ Breathless with
excitement, he gushed, 'Isn’t it fabulous?’
Cassie said nothing. Joe glanced round and saw the jeweller struggling
to hide his dismay.
'I believe Mr Nasenko intended it to be a surprise. I imagine you’re
somewhat. . . overwhelmed.’
Cassie nodded, finally taking the ring from him.
'How much did it cost?’
'I, uh, I don’t think it would be appropriate to divulge . . .’ He
exchanged a panicked look with Joe. 'Our instructions were — '
'I know. You can’t tell me.’ She sounded so forlorn, it was as though
she’d suffered a bereavement rather than received a present that, in
Joe’s inexpert judgement, had to have cost around ten thousand pounds.
By now Merrion Junior also appeared to be on the verge of tears.
'Would you like to wear it?’ he said.
Cassie shook her head. 'No. Leave it in the box, please.’
When they were outside Cassie acknowledged Joe’s anxious look.
'I’m a spoilt little bitch, right?’
'I don’t think that,’ he said. 'But Merrion Junior certainly will.’
A beat of silence, then laughter.
Cassie said, 'Do you think he’d have waited there all night for us?’
'Possibly. Valentin’s an important customer.’
'He must be, the way they suck up to him.’ She grew thoughtful.
'I wonder what else he’s been buying lately.’
'He can afford it, can’t he?’
'That’s not what I’m worried about. Not this time.’ She indicated
that she didn’t want Jaden to hear, so Joe took his hand as they walked
through the Lanes, while Cassie pushed Sofia in the buggy. They
looked for all the world like a perfect family unit, Joe thought.
'It seems like a lovely gift, but it’s not,’ said Cassie. 'For a start, a
gift is something you give to someone. In person. You don’t just send
them along to collect it.’
'True. I guess Valentin isn’t the romantic type.’
And think about it. An eternity ring. What does “eternity” mean?’
Catching Joe’s frown, she said, 'It’s all right, I’m not that thick. It
means for ever. That’s the message Valentin wants me to get. He’s
going to own me for ever.’
She picked up her pace, moving a couple of steps ahead of him.
Joe might have caught up, asked why Valentin would need to send
such a message, but the answer was already there if he cared to look
for it.
When he’d taken the job with the Nasenkos he’d never imagined
the extent to which he would become bound up in their problems.
He’d reached the point now where he took active steps to avoid knowing
more than was necessary. It went against his nature, because he’d
spent years in a world where the tiniest missed detail could prove
fatal. He’d immersed himself in lives far more chaotic and painful
than these without incurring any emotional damage.
Perhaps that was the trouble, Joe thought. This was so much harder,
because he actually cared about Cassie and her children.
They were wandering back towards the car park when Joe spotted a
phone box and remembered the call he’d intended to make. He had
his mobile with him, but decided a public phone would be better.
Save him having to ditch his mobile afterwards.
'I need to ring someone. Are you okay to wait here a second?’
Cassie regarded him as though he must be joking. 'Borrow my
mobile.’
'No. It’s fine.’ Leaving her perplexed, Joe ste
pped into the booth.
He dialled the number from memory and waited, listening to the burr
of the phone and the thudding of his heart.
A familiar but wary voice said: 'Hello?’
'Hi, Maz. Can you talk?’
'Course I can. How are you, Joe?’
'Surviving. You?’
'Same as ever. No point asking where you are?’
“Fraid not. Better for you that way.’
'So what’s the occasion? Planning a return to civilisation?’
'They wouldn’t have me. No, I need a small favour. Can you check
an index number for me?’
'I’m off duty, mate. Just about to light up the barbecue. Pop in if
you want,’ Maz added cheerily.
'Wish I could. Don’t suppose there’s anyone you could ask?’
A quiet chuckle. 'I’m already dialling the landline. What do you
intend to do with the information?’
'Nothing. I promise.’
'Okay. Go on, then.’
Joe recited the number, then heard a clunk as Maz switched phones.
He nodded at Cassie through the glass, knowing he’d face an interrogation
for this.
Maz came back on, a wry humour in his voice. 'No record. Either
you misread it, or they’re false plates. Your instincts obviously haven’t
deserted you.’
'Just a hunch, really.’
Are you going to tell the local plod about this mysterious vehicle?’
'Not sure if it’ll help. But I’ll think about it.’
Maz tutted. 'Whatever you do, be careful, yeah?’
'Thanks. Say hello to Jill and the kids.’ Then a pause, which both
of them were expecting. This time Joe didn’t need to ask the question.
'No word from Helen, I’m afraid,’ said Maz.
You are still trying to trace her?’
'I do what I can. But if someone’s determined not to be found,
then generally they stay that way. You know that better than anyone.’
Yeah,’ said Joe sadly. 'I suppose I do.’
They activated the transmitter ahead of time. For ten minutes there
was nothing to hear: just a buzz of silence that had a vaguely rhythmic
component to it. In fact the sound quality was excellent, but that
didn’t become apparent until a seagull squawked and nearly blasted
their heads off.
Hastily adjusting the volume, they caught a rueful joke about bird
shit and, soon after, the clinking of bottles and glasses being set down
on a table. Another voice said: 'Here they are.’
