by Tom Bale
equipment to alleviate his fears that his enemies were
constantly seeking ways to destroy him.
Joe wanted to disable it permanently, but smashing the box would
make too much noise. Instead he pulled out the mains plug and used
his knife to sever the cable. Then he unscrewed the antennas and put
them in his pocket.
He opened the door and casually walked out of the room. As he did,
he heard footsteps on the driveway, approaching the house. Joe turned
and ran lightly up the stairs. There was no half-landing, so he wasn’t
out of sight until he reached the top.
He glanced round and saw two figures moving across the hall. One
of the gang was escorting a tall, thin young man in jeans and a long
white shirt. Oliver Felton. Neither of them appeared to have seen Joe.
Lucky, he told himself. Now that he was up here he decided to
survey the rest of the house. If it came to it, the police entry team
would welcome as much information as he could give them.
The bedrooms yielded nothing of interest, though a couple had
kitbags and spare clothing lying around. This was where the gang
had got changed.
Then he took the stairs to the top floor. He’d heard this was
Dreamscape’s key feature, though evidently not quite spectacular
enough to persuade anyone to part with six and a half million pounds.
The floor was dominated by an enormous room that ran almost the
full length of the house. A massive open-plan living space and a wall
of glass that gave stunning views of the bay. But Joe hardly gave it a
thought.
His attention was focused on the centre of the room. The gang had
obviously been up here as well – and what they had brought with
them filled him with horror.
Thirty-Seven
Although she hadn’t been born until 1946 Angela was doing her best
to invoke the spirit of the Blitz. That meant plenty of eye contact, lots
of encouraging smiles and, whenever possible, whispered messages of
support for her fellow captives.
So far she’d had mixed success. Terry Fox clearly approved, and had
adopted much the same approach himself. So had Valentin’s maid,
Maria, who had stopped weeping and even managed a watery smile
or two. But Valentin himself remained surly and uncommunicative,
staring into the middle distance as if he were alone in the room.
The men with him were little better. The American, Travers, was
constantly muttering to himself: either prayers, curses, or both. His
driver, who’d introduced himself as Pete Milton, looked shell-shocked
and petrified, his breathing ragged as a result of a broken nose. The
guard had refused to help him stem the flow of blood, and it was only
now beginning to clot.
If there was one consolation, it was that Valentin’s dreadful bodyguard,
Yuri, was notable by his absence. While Angela didn’t actively
hope they would shoot him, she realised that she wouldn’t exactly
grieve if they did.
It was an appalling admission to make, even to herself, and
sobering to consider how rapidly she’d fallen prey to such bloodthirsty
sentiments.
Is this what we all revert to, she wondered, once the veneer of civilisation
is stripped away?
A foot nudged against hers, and she looked up to find Terry Fox
watching her solemnly. You’re doing a grand job,’ he said. Your
husband would be proud of you.’
Before Angela could summon a reply, another of the guards brought
Oliver Felton into the garage. He looked unharmed, but his expression
of distracted sorrow was hardly uncharacteristic of him. He was
a strange young man; by some accounts, really quite disturbed. In all
their years as neighbours Angela had barely exchanged a dozen words
with him.
The prisoners were made to shuffle along the floor to make room.
Oliver sat down between Maria and Travers, directly opposite Terry
and Angela. Like Valentin, he didn’t acknowledge any of them; just
dipped his head and stared fiercely at the ground.
Angela sighed. Here was a young man who’d had every advantage
in life and yet resolutely refused to make anything of himself. She
couldn’t forget that when her own son had died, she’d found herself
shamefully wondering why God or fate couldn’t have spared him and
taken Oliver Felton instead.
Another of the gang came in. Like the others he was masked, but
the way he moved betrayed a sense of urgency, even alarm. Angela
pretended to take no notice, but strained to hear as he addressed the
guard who had accompanied Oliver.
'Where’s Manderson? He’s not answering his radio.’
'Isn’t he at Nasenko’s?’
'No. There’s no sign of him.’ The man lowered his voice, said something
else, then turned and hurried out.
A problem? Angela wondered. Then she thought: Good.
Joe stared at the large red cylinders. There were six of them, each
weighing forty-seven kilogrammes and filled with propane, suitable
for ordinary domestic heating. It was highly combustible. Joe had seen
the effects of a propane explosion once before, when a terrace of
council houses had been demolished during a violent feud between
rival drug gangs.
As far as he could recall, the quantity of gas on that occasion had
been less than was present here. Not only that, but Terror’s Reach
had no mains gas supply. Instead, it had to be delivered by lorry and
stored in bulk tanks, most of which were above ground. An explosion
that detonated those stores might level every home on the island.
The obvious conclusion was that the gang intended to use that
destruction to cover their tracks. But it seemed an excessive solution.
A lot of extra planning and effort, given that they’d need a timer, a
detonator and possibly some kind of conventional explosive to ignite
the propane. Joe’s instinct told him there must be another reason for
it, but he had no idea what.
His immediate concern was for the prisoners downstairs. He couldn’t
assume that they were going to be spared.
He completed his search of the room, but found no sign of a timer
or detonator. For safety’s sake they would probably be kept elsewhere,
most likely in the garage.
There was one other grim discovery, however. A body, wrapped
in black garbage bags. Joe knelt down and cut away a flap of plastic. The dead eyes and waxen flesh hindered identification for a
moment, but then he had it. The estate agent who’d driven past
this afternoon.
Joe stood up, feeling a fresh surge of anger. The poor guy hadn’t
done anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He returned to the landing and took the stairs to the first floor.
Reaching the second flight of stairs, he met one of the gang on his
way up. It was the older of the bridge guards, his sandy-coloured hair now slicked down with sweat. He looked up and frowned, perhaps
wondering why his colleague should have chosen to keep his mask
on away from the prisoners.
'Manderson?’ he said. Plenty of doubt in
his voice.
Joe grunted an acknowledgement while casually swivelling round
and heading towards the master bedroom at the back of the house.
'Where the hell are you — ?’ the man exclaimed. 'Hey! You’re not
Manderson.’
Joe didn’t bother to speak. He didn’t even look back.
He ran.
'I’m sick of this house.’
Liam looked up. Priya had made no comment when Turner led
Oliver away. If she wondered why Liam wanted her to remain here
with him, this might be the closest she’d get to saying so.
They were still in the dressing room, standing just a foot or so apart
amidst the heaps of fine clothing swept from the wardrobes. He could
feel the gentle puff of air when she exhaled.
Priya had her hands on her hips and looked ready for a confrontation.
Liam thought he might welcome that.
Yeah, well,’ he said. 'I don’t much like it either.’
'We’re already behind schedule.’ Her brow furrowed. 'Do you
honestly believe there’s someone out there?’
'I can’t really see it.’
'Then you should call it off. Better to concentrate on what we came
for.’
Liam waved towards the panic room. 'That’s what we came for.
And we can’t get to it.’
'So let’s talk to Valentin, and come up with a contingency plan.’
'If you can think of a way to get in, I’d love to hear it.’
Priya absorbed his sarcasm with a sweet smile. 'I do know a way,
thank you very much.’
'Go on, then.’ He edged closer to her, and was encouraged when
she didn’t step back.
She won’t admit it, but she wants me.
'If Robert Felton is the only person who can open it,’ she said, 'then
we must get Robert Felton to come here.’
Liam thought it was a stupid idea, but it was worth humouring her
for the time being.
'Through Oliver?’
She nodded. 'We call Robert. Threaten to torture his little boy if
he doesn’t cooperate.’
'Felton’s in the south of France.’
'So? He has a private plane. And we can wait all night if we
have to.’
'But the longer we wait, the more chance of getting caught.’
Priya’s smirk implied that his objection was cowardly rather than
practical. It produced in Liam a not unpleasant pulsing at his temples:
a familiar queasy excitement that usually signalled danger.
He said, 'We know that Felton doesn’t rate Oliver much. He may
not give a damn what we do to him.’
'In my opinion that’s a chance we have to take. If you disagree,
you’d better inform Valentin that it can’t be done. Tell him we’ve
failed.’
She smiled again, as though she was doing him a favour, laying it
all out nice and simple so that even a moron like him could see it.
And the way she said 'We’ve failed’, in the kind of mocking tone that
actually meant You’ve failed’. He felt the pulsing grow stronger, louder,
unstoppable, and then—
Liam was on her before he knew what he was doing. He knocked
her to the ground and fell on her, ripping the boiler suit open, tactically
aware of the weapons she was carrying, a gun and at least one
knife, reassuring himself that he just needed to keep her pinned tight
so she couldn’t reach them.
Priya hissed and spat at him, trying to form words even as he
put his head down and kissed her, pressing so hard against her lips
that she couldn’t open her mouth to bite him. He ground his erection
against her thigh, wanting her to know exactly what this was
about, as if she didn’t already, and even when he saw her eyes
blazing with fury he was undeterred, maddened by frustration and
a brutal determination that if he couldn’t unlock the treasures of
the panic room, he’d settle for unlocking whatever treasure she had
to give. He would take it by force and afterwards convince himself
that she had wanted it as much as he did.
But he got greedy. He tried to paw at her breasts, and that meant
releasing one of her arms. She immediately raked his face, pressing
hard enough to split her gloves and draw blood from his forehead.
He reared up, and she bared her teeth at him.
'I won’t make this easy for you,’ she snarled. You’d better be prepared
to kill me.’
Liam grabbed the stray arm and forced it down. He was now on
all fours, each one of his limbs trapping one of hers. They were both
panting, gasping for breath. He could feel blood trickling down his
face.
Stalemate.
'If you do this,’ Priya said, 'you’ll never get out of here alive.’
Liam already knew it was over, but he said nothing. Just looked at
her and let it sink in what a fucking idiot he was.
'Oh, Christ.’ He let go and rolled over, collapsing on his back right
beside her. In that moment he was unprotected, and he knew she
could quite easily carry out her threat. He didn’t care. If they couldn’t
get into the panic room he was a dead man anyway.
The bedroom door blasted open as Joe slid back the glass doors that
led out to the balcony. From there it was about a six-foot drop to the
flat roof below. Joe vaulted the balcony and felt something whistle
past his head. A bullet, he realised, fired from a silenced gun.
He landed heavily on the roof and was instantly up and running
for the edge. There was no time to pause or look back. Not even time
to consider using the gun he’d taken from Manderson. His pursuer
would be on the balcony in a second or two. If Joe was still on the
roof he would be an easy target.
The next drop was a lot further: ten or twelve feet. The safest method
would have been to lower himself down, but that wasn’t an option.
Instead he leapt out, clearing the path that ran in front of the building,
and landed on grass, using the fall-and-roll technique he’d learned
from a couple of parachute jumps he’d done many years ago. Too long ago, he thought, as it caused a jolting pain through his ankles
and shins.
As he got up he spotted the gunman on the balcony, peering down
at the garden. Joe’s leap had triggered a security light, but he’d
managed to roll into a patch of shadow. The harsh halogen beam
worked in his favour, intensifying the contrast between light and
dark.
But he couldn’t stay here for long. The gunman was already calling
in reinforcements as he turned and went back inside.
Joe dashed across the garden. Fortunately it was mostly turf and
paved terraces, without too many obstacles. There was a low wall at
the end, which led on to the communal deck. Joe slowed as he
approached it, conscious that there might be more men out here.
He climbed over the wall, looking carefully in both directions. He
decided he couldn’t risk turning left towards the beach. The danger
was that he’d get caught in the relatively narrow gap between the deck
and the road, with no other escape route.
Instead he headed towards Valentin’s. If he could get onto the property
he was sure he could find a decent
hiding place while he made
the vital phone call. After all, he reasoned, he only needed a minute
or two.
It was a challenge to run on the deck without making a lot of noise.
He was moving as fast as he dared, trying to stay light on his feet, at
the same time keeping alert for any sound or movement around him.
As a result he almost tripped over the obstacle in his path: a formless
black shape stretched across the deck.
Joe came to a stop just in time and instinctively dropped to his
knees. He brought his gun up, his finger already tight on the trigger.
Half fearing that a bullet might come winging at him out of
the blackness, he cast a quick look at the obstacle itself. He ended
up staring at it for a long time, trying to make sense of what he had
found.
A body.
Thirty-Eight
It was another member of the gang. Same black boiler suit, same
utility belt with the mask still tucked into it. No sign of his radio or
gun. He was lying on his side in a pool of blood. Joe could hear the
steady dripping as it seeped between the wooden planks and dropped
into the water.
He leaned over and saw a glistening shadow in the folds of the
man’s neck. A deep slash had opened his throat. It was essentially the
same wound that the estate agent had sustained, except this one was
deeper: a cleaner, more ruthless strike. The work of a professional.
Joe examined the man’s hands. Like his accomplices, he was wearing
thin latex gloves. There was no evidence of any defence injuries. Must
have been a surprise attack, probably from behind, and incredibly
swift. Either that or he’d been attacked by someone he knew. Someone
he trusted.
Out of habit, Joe lifted one of the wrists, rolled the glove up and
felt for a pulse. A voice in his head urged him to keep moving. He
couldn’t begin to comprehend what was going on, and right now
he shouldn’t even try.
But then he detected a pulse, weak and thready. Perhaps in response
to Joe’s touch, the man’s eyes opened briefly, but it was a dull, unseeing
gaze. He was beyond help, and yet Joe couldn’t bring himself to let
go of the man’s hand during his dying moments.
That decision cost him dearly. As he felt the pulse fading beneath
his finger, the timber behind him groaned. Joe started to rise, but
strong arms clamped down on his shoulders. He saw the flash of a
