by Ben Cheetham
“I see a man who likes to spend his money on flash cars and beautiful women, but who has reached a time in his life when he’s ready for something else. Something more meaningful.”
“What makes you say that?”
Jack pointed to the photo of Mark and the redhead. “His hair’s been recently dyed in the other photos, but in this one his grey is showing. He’s not trying to hide his age from the woman. He’s comfortable being himself with her and he wants everyone to know it. He loves her.”
Butterfly scowled. “And that’s why he stole my son, is it? To show her how much he loves her?”
“I don’t know. Let’s hope so.”
“Shall I tell you what I see? An arrogant bastard who thinks his money can buy him whatever he wants, no matter what the price to others. Well I’m going to show him he’s wrong.”
Jack fixed her with a hard stare. “If you’re going to hurt Kavanagh, we can stop the car right now and you can put a bullet in me. I’m here to help you get Charlie back, not to help you commit murder.”
“Don’t worry, Jack, I won’t hurt him.” Butterfly added ominously, “Unless he’s hurt Charlie.”
“In everything you’ve read about Kavanagh, has there been any mention of him having children?”
“No.”
Jack nodded as if that backed up his earlier suspicion. “I think he left it too late to start a family – at least naturally.”
“I guess we’ll find out if you’re right soon enough, won’t we?”
Butterfly glanced at a road sign that read ‘London Orbital M25. Guildford 15’. Jack’s gut instinct told him he was right, but he had to be ready for the other possibility. “I’m warning you, Butterfly. I won’t stand by while you hurt someone.”
“I know you won’t. That’s why I love you.” She turned away as if it hurt too much to look at him.
The iPhone rang again. “It’s Steve,” said Butterfly. She let the call go through to the answering service. ‘Voicemail. Slide to listen’ flashed up. She swiped and put the phone on loudspeaker. “Jack, pick up the sodding phone will you?” said Steve. “A man fitting Ryan Mahon’s description has been found at Sandbach Services on the M6. The guy’s in hospital. Sounds like someone’s done a real number on him. Jesus Jack, please tell me it wasn’t you. And I’ve just spoken to the guys assigned to Laura. The daft bloody mare’s gone and snuck off on them. At least I hope she’s only snuck off. She’s not answering her phone. Tell me she’s with you, Jack. I’m starting to wonder if I should tell the DCI about Mark Kavanagh. Naomi’s fine, by the way. She’s scoffing pizza in my living-room. She wants to know where you and Laura are too. Call me.”
“Ryan’s alive.” Jack’s words came out in a long breath. “Let me call Steve,” he implored Butterfly. “Half-an-hour from now Guildford police could have Kavanagh in custody.”
In response, she returned the phone to her pocket and said, “Drive faster.”
“I’m already doing the speed limit,” said Laura.
“I don’t give a shit. Put your foot down.”
Laura floored the accelerator, swerving into the middle lane to undertake several cars. They left the motorway behind for the equally busy A3. Laura weaved in and out of traffic, using the hard shoulder, prompting irate beeps and gestures from fellow motorists. “If we carry on like this, we’ll get pulled over,” said Jack.
“Ryan might have already contacted Kavanagh,” Butterfly shot back.
Jack shook his head. “Right this minute Ryan’s under armed guard. From now until the day he dies, he won’t be able to take a piss without asking permission.”
From the expression on Butterfly’s face, he might as well have been talking to a brick wall.
“Daft bloody mare,” Laura repeated Steve’s words with a hmpf.
“He likes you,” said Jack. “A lot.”
“Should I be flattered or worried?”
“Both.”
As they neared their destination, Butterfly’s eyes grew feverishly bright with anticipation. Despite her obvious exhaustion, her feet tapped out a rapid rhythm. Jack watched her, half-fearing, half-hoping that her agitation would bring on another one of her ‘events’. The thought of her potentially suffering further brain damage was agonising, but so was the possibility that she would do something to Kavanagh from which there would be no coming back.
It wasn’t long before they were speeding through the leafy outskirts of Guildford – big, mock-Tudor detached and semi-detached houses, privet hedges, parkland, oh-so-English Surrey. The sat nav directed them along the western outskirts of the town centre through streets of Georgian and Victorian terraces. On the south side of town, they found themselves amongst detached houses that grew more ostentatious with every passing mile. Many of the houses could only be glimpsed set well back from the road behind tall walls, hedges and gates. In the near distance a wooded hillside basked in the moonlight.
“You’ve reached your destination,” announced the sat nav.
They pulled over at the end of a broad driveway that led to wooden double-gates flanked by brick gateposts and a wall. A sandstone plaque set into the wall was engraved with ‘Kavanagh House’. A galaxy of solar lights cast a soft glow over a sprawling garden. The house was set on a slight rise. Four huge bay-windows with sandstone architraves overlooked the garden from either side of a first-floor balcony reached via French windows. The house was topped off by arched attic windows recessed into a slate roof that sported three towering red-brick chimneys. At the left-hand side of the house, welcoming orange light emanated from a suitably big conservatory.
“Not bad,” Laura commentated with typical dry understatement.
Breath whistling through his teeth, Jack pulled on his shoes. The pain made fresh sweat pop out on his forehead. He examined himself in the mirror. There was a crust of blood on his upper lip from head-butting his car’s airbag. He cleaned it off with bottled water and dampened down his hair. He still looked like baked shit, but it would have to do.
“Get in the back,” he said to Laura. “And both of you get down behind the seats.”
Laura clambered into the back and he shifted across into the driver’s seat. “OK, so here’s how we’re going to play this. I’m going in there alone. You two stay hidden in here. If I pick up on anything suspicious, I’ll come out and let you know.”
“I want to come in with you,” protested Butterfly.
“That’s not going to happen.” Jack pointed to a Victorian-style cast-iron lamppost outside the gates. “You see that odd-looking lightbulb. It’s a CCTV camera. I guarantee you the entire grounds are covered by cameras. The chances of someone sneaking in there are zero. But if you want to give it a go, be my guest.”
Butterfly stared at him uncertainly for a second, then hunkered down into the foot-well. Jack turned to Laura. “You don’t have to come with us.”
“Just try and stop me.”
He smiled thinly. He would have been surprised if she’d said different. “Have you got your phone?”
“Ryan took it.”
“Give her the phone,” Jack said to Butterfly. Again she hesitated and Jack continued, “Look, we either do this my way or not at all.”
“I won’t call anyone,” Laura assured her.
“Unless things go to shit,” said Jack. “Then you get the hell out of here and call 999. Do you hear me?”
“What if you’re still in the house?”
“Leave me behind.” Seeing his sister’s reluctant frown, he added, “I’m serious, Laura. I can’t protect you in there.”
Laura arched an eyebrow. “I seem to remember it’s me who’s done most of the protecting in the past few years.”
“You know what I mean. This is different.”
With sudden urgency, Butterfly pressed the iPhone into Laura’s hand saying, “OK, Jack. We’ll do it your way.”
He eyed the gates uneasily. “Let’s just hope Kavanagh doesn’t recognise Ryan’s car.”
Chapte
r 39
Jack pulled the Range Rover forwards, lowered the window and leant out to press the intercom button. A well-spoken female voice came through the speaker, sounding surprised that someone had come calling at this time of day. “Hello. Who is this?”
“My name’s Detective Inspector Jack Anderson.” Jack displayed his warrant card to the camera. “Apologies for disturbing your evening, but I’m here to speak to a Mr Mark Kavanagh. May I ask who you are?”
“Oh… erm…” The voice sounded flustered now. “I’m his wife, Suzanne Kavanagh. What’s this about?”
“I urgently need to talk to your husband. Is he in?”
“I’m not sure. Hang on, I’ll erm… I’ll just have a look.”
He’s in, thought Jack. Whatever else she might be, Suzanne wasn’t a very good liar. Several seconds passed. The seconds extended to a minute. “Something’s wrong,” Butterfly whispered from the backseat.
“Shh,” retorted Jack as the intercom crackled back into life.
This time a gravelly male voice with a thick East London accent said, “Hold your identification out of the window.” There was no deference to authority in the voice. It belonged to a man used to giving orders.
Jack did so. “Am I speaking to Mark Kavanagh?”
“Greater Manchester Police. You’re a long way off your beat, aren’t you?”
“Is this Mark Kavanagh?”
“What could Greater Manchester Police possibly want to speak to me about?”
The reply confirmed that it was Mark. He didn’t sound like someone who’d been born into wealth. He sounded more like an East End barrow boy done good. Maybe that was how Kavanagh had heard about what the Mahons had to offer. Perhaps he had some dodgy pals back in Kray country. “It would be best if we spoke face to face, Mr Kavanagh.”
“I’ll decide what’s best. Now let’s hear what you have to say. Unless you have a search warrant that is.”
This isn’t the first time this guy’s had dealings with the police, thought Jack. Either he’s not fazed or he’s a fucking good actor. “I don’t have a search warrant, Mr Kavanagh. There’s no need for anything like that. I’m here in regards to a case involving stolen building materials.”
“I don’t deal in stolen materials. My company’s record is above reproach.”
Mark’s tone was indignant, but Jack thought he caught a trace of relief. “I’m aware of that, Mr Kavanagh. You’re not under suspicion. We have reason to believe someone has been stealing from you and using–”
“Stealing from me?” Mark broke in with disbelief. “No one’s steals from me. I can tell you that with one hundred percent certainty.”
“Unfortunately we have different information.”
“What bloody information?”
“Let me in and I’ll show you. I assure you this won’t take long. And it would be very much to your benefit, Mr Kavanagh.”
The intercom lapsed into silence. Jack waited tensely. He was banking on being right about Kavanagh’s background. A man who’d worked his way up from the East End to millionaire’s row Surrey was not the type to tolerate someone stealing from them, be it one pound or thousands. And even if Kavanagh suspected the stolen building materials story was bullshit – which someone as savvy as him surely did – he wouldn’t want to appear suspect by turning the police away from his door.
“Come up to the house,” Mark said at last and the electronic gates swung inwards.
“Here goes,” said Jack, accelerating along a driveway that curved upwards between ornamental pine trees. “Keep your heads down.”
“Shouldn’t you have a weapon?” said Laura.
“No. I’m going to talk to the guy and have a look around. That’s all. Now zip it.”
At the top of the slope the driveway widened into a floodlit circle with an oversized SUV and a sleek sports car in it. To the front of the house an immaculate lawn descended towards colourful flowerbeds and shrubberies. Jack gave Laura the car keys and, gritting his teeth, got out of the Range Rover. He limped to the front door. Through the tall conservatory windows a grand piano and a selection of expensive-looking furniture was visible.
Mark was waiting within an arched brick porch. Jack recognised him from the e-zine article – swept back, silvery brown hair; same height as Jack, but slimmer build; smooth, tanned face; sharp features and even sharper dark eyes. He was casually dressed in jeans and a jumper. He looked like a man at ease with the world and his place in it. There was no sign of Suzanne. He held his hand out, but not to shake Jack’s.
“ID.”
Jack showed his warrant card. Mark took another long look at it before gesturing for Jack to follow him inside. The house’s interior was as pristine as its exterior – polished parquet floors, plush carpets, chandeliers, elaborate cornices, tasteful paintings. A perfect marriage of period features and modern comfort. There was a sideboard overflowing with flowers and gilt-framed wedding photos of Mark and Suzanne. The happy couple were kissing outside a picture-perfect chapel. The photos didn’t look to have been taken long ago. If anything, even with the silver hairs, Mark looked younger now than then, as if someone had been taking good care of him.
“How long have you been married?” asked Jack.
Mark gave him a look that was more annoyed than suspicious. He clearly wasn’t one for small-talk. “Why?”
“I was looking at your wedding photos.”
“Two years.” For the first time, the brusque edge was absent from Mark’s voice. “Are you married?”
Jack’s mind went back to the Sussex church where Rebecca and he had tied the knot. It was similar to the one in the photos – lichen-scarred stone, ancient stained-glass, faded gravestones. Thinking about it now, it seemed like another lifetime. “No.”
“I used to say I’d never get married. Now I wish I’d done it ten years earlier.”
“Why’s that?”
“Suzanne’s a godsend. She looks after me better than my old mum did.”
Jack wondered whether there was more to it. Perhaps ten years ago Mark wouldn’t have had to buy an heir to his fortune – if that was indeed why he’d paid fifty grand for Charlie. Glancing around, Jack saw no baby paraphernalia. After Naomi’s birth, the cottage had degenerated into a chaotic jumble of bibs, nappies, baby bouncers, dummies, rusks and the like. But then again, they hadn’t been able to afford a cleaner. It must have taken a small army of cleaners to keep this place in tip-top shape. If nothing came of this visit, it would be worth tracking them down for a chat. Cleaners often knew as much about the goings on in a house as their employers.
Mark led him to a large dining-kitchen fitted with glossy white units, integrated chrome appliances and black marble work surfaces. Half the kitchen was given over to deep sofas and armchairs. The other half was dominated by a central island surrounded by chrome and leather stools. A wall of glass doors overlooked a patio furnished with rattan furniture and exotic potted plants. If Butterfly’s baby was here, Suzanne obviously wouldn’t be breastfeeding him. There would be bottles, formula milk and sterilisers. But the work surfaces were free from any such clutter. Everything was spotless. As if it had never been used.
A bolt of pain crackled up Jack’s leg. He leant against a work surface. “You don’t look well,” observed Mark, his tone more curious than concerned.
“I’ve got a bad foot.”
“How did you do that?”
Jack shrugged. His brain was too fogged with pain to come up with anything.
“That’s what happens when you hit middle-age,” said Mark. “Your body goes to pot. Things stop working as they should do.”
What things? Jack resisted the urge to ask.
Mark perched himself on a stool. He didn’t offer Jack a cup of tea. You don’t get rich by giving things away, Jack mused cynically. He sat down too, puffing his cheeks as he took the weight off his injured foot.
“So what have you got to show–” Mark started to ask, but broke off, his eyes widening at
something over Jack’s shoulder.
Jack jerked around. “Shit,” he hissed.
Butterfly was advancing along the hallway. Laura wasn’t far behind her. “I’m sorry, Jack,” said Laura. “I tried to stop her.”
Mark sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “What is this? Who are you?”
“You know who the fuck I am,” Butterfly retorted.
“Why would I know who you are?”
Mark flinched backwards against the fridge as Butterfly levelled the handgun at his face. “Where’s my son?”
“Butterfly,” snapped Jack. “You agreed to do this my way.”
