Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  ‘No. It’s a guess. But when he’s after something he’s unstoppable.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘He’s after getting Clem back. These people have offended him. He thinks they need a lesson or two. Shame he wasn’t around last night to understand the consequences.’

  I close my eyes. It’s happening again. A deep gust of something I can only describe as evil. How come things have got so bad so quickly? How come we got abducted in a hotel car park in the middle of a major city? In how many other ways is this insatiable monster – the narco biz – going to gobble us all up?

  I put the question to Cleggie. He thinks about it for a moment or two, then shrugs.

  ‘We used to call it going to war,’ he says. ‘But then it helped to have an enemy who wore a uniform.’

  Thanks to the comforts of company, I manage an hour or two’s broken sleep. I awake to hear Cleggie on the phone. He’s being as quiet as he can, trying not to wake me up, and he seems to be talking to the police. He wants them at the hotel to review the CCTV footage as soon as possible. He’s telling them that both of us, me in particular, are a bit shaken by what happened last night and would prefer to be on our way as soon as possible. It’s true, I think, closing my eyes again.

  Two detectives turn up shortly after breakfast. They confer with the manager and then invite us to join them in his office. He’s loading last night’s recording into a laptop. He fires up the DVD, lowers the blinds, and angles the screen so we can all take a look.

  Cleggie has given him an approximate time, around ten p.m.

  ‘Not late, then?’ The taller of the two detectives seems surprised.

  ‘Not at all. You’d think they’d do the decent thing and jump us in the middle of the night.’

  ‘You’re telling me they were waiting for you? That you’d become a target?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m putting it down to recreational kidnapping.’

  The phrase sparks an exchange of glances between the two detectives. I try to catch Cleggie’s eye. Not too clever, please.

  The manager is running through the footage. Not until 22:09 do we appear in the camera that covers the entrance from the street. I bend closer. Am I fascinated by this couple strolling along after an extremely pleasant evening in a local eatery? Yes, I am. But there’s a prickle of something else here, first apprehension, and then fear as we appear on the other screens and pause beside the Mercedes. I know exactly what’s coming next and I don’t want to be reminded. The angle is perfect. It’s very definitely us. I look away, watching the two detectives. One of them is making notes. Then comes the moment when the tall Somali materializes from the shadows. The machete and the gun are plainly visible.

  ‘Stop it there.’ One of the detectives wants to see this sequence again in slow motion.

  The manager obliges. Cleggie’s eyes are narrowed. He’s riveted by the unfolding action on the screen.

  The detective nods, asks for a third viewing, then turns to his colleague. He wants to know whether this small piece of urban theatre is opportunistic or not. Opportunistic, I gather, is code for a couple of black guys lingering with intent. The opposite, premeditation, means they’re waiting for little us.

  The detectives plainly can’t make up their minds but as the story develops it exactly confirms what Cleggie and I have said all along. Once the car has left the car park, the manager hits the stop button. I’m looking at the time read-out. The entire episode, which I remember as half a lifetime, took exactly three minutes and two seconds. I shake my head. Cleggie puts an arm round me. I’m trembling again.

  The manager tells the detectives to make themselves comfortable in his office for as long as they need. After he’s left, we all settle down. Cleggie offers an account of exactly what happened. The detective records it and then produces a handwritten version for Cleggie to sign. It’s a cumbersome process and it seems to take for ever.

  I do exactly the same, confirming everything Cleggie has said. I make no mention of anything beyond the events of last night and the questions I’d anticipated never happen. All the detective wants to know is whether or not we were robbed, and whether we’ve been happy with the service we’ve received at the hands of the police. When Cleggie says no to the first question and yes to the second, the detective produces a card from his wallet. I had difficulties making my statement and he knows the effort of memory has upset me. I glance at the card. Victim Support.

  ‘It’s a charity,’ he says. ‘They’ll sort you out.’

  A cab takes us back to the hospital. This time I insist that Cleggie accompanies me into the spinal unit. The sight of his black flying suit creates a minor stir among the staff and he settles down with the prettiest of the nurses while I pay Pavel a visit. This time he’s not asleep. I kiss him on the lips and warn him that this visit will be short.

  ‘Really?’ To my relief he doesn’t seem disappointed, or even surprised.

  I tell him, in full Technicolor, exactly what happened last night. He’s lying flat on his back and when I’ve finished he moves his head so we’re face-to-face.

  ‘Lucky,’ he murmurs. ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘It was beyond luck,’ I tell him. ‘In my little world, it was deliverance.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And now you want to go home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To H?’

  ‘To his castle, yes.’

  ‘And raise the drawbridge? Stir the boiling oil?’

  ‘All of that.’

  ‘But it has to be resolved, doesn’t it? There has to be an ending?’

  I nod. This is the old Pavel, the Pavel of the classic three-act narrative curve, the Pavel of denouement and closure and punters filing out past the popcorn machine, entranced by the movie they’ve just seen.

  ‘But this is real life,’ I tell him. ‘And believe me, that makes a difference.’

  He nods. He’s thinking. ‘The man you mentioned yesterday,’ he says at last.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘With the actress girlfriend and the big house.’

  ‘His name’s Franklin. Dominic Franklin.’

  ‘He’s rich?’

  ‘He must be.’

  ‘So what does he do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Then dig around. Because that’s where you’ll find the answer.’ He closes his eyes and nods, as if he’s talking to himself, which in a way I’m guessing he is. Then his eyes, as milky as ever, flutter open again.

  ‘Come back when it’s over,’ he says. ‘Promise me?’

  Another cab takes us to the airport. I feel guilty about leaving Pavel so soon, but I know I have little choice. Glasgow is where bad things happen. We have to get out. At the airport, we skirt passenger departures and head for the VIP private aviation terminal. As we slow for the turn, I can see Cleggie’s pert little airplane parked among a line of executive jets. In the back of the cab, I’m doing my best to give him a neck massage. Mercifully, I’ve been spared whiplash but the sense of dread, of something very bad about to happen, hasn’t left me.

  We’re airborne within minutes. I’ve done my best to spot two black figures waiting for us on the tarmac when we walk out in the thin sunshine but all I can see is a fattish white man with a clipboard. Now, routing south over the outer sprawl of Glasgow, I settle down for the journey. No stowaways. No sudden presence behind me. Cleggie’s checked.

  We get to our cruising height. Safe, at least for now, I close my eyes. When Cleggie offers to lower the visor on my side of the cockpit I shake my head. The sun is lovely on my face. The muted whine of the engines is almost hypnotic. Within seconds, I’m asleep.

  Over an hour later I feel the gentlest pressure on my thigh. It’s Cleggie. He wants to show me something. ‘There,’ he says, pointing out of my window.

  ‘Where?’ I’m shielding my eyes against the glare of the sun.

  ‘Down there. Trees? A lake? The big house?’


  He drops the wing and suddenly I’m looking at the spread I recognize from Google Earth. It’s not entirely clear how much of this land belongs to Mr Franklin but the estate looks enormous. Fields of what might be corn lap the house on two sides.

  ‘Four hundred acres,’ Cleggie says. ‘Including the farm next door.’

  I nod, remembering Pavel’s question. ‘So where did he get that kind of money?’ I ask.

  ‘Property development. At least that’s what he tells us.’

  ‘And the real story? In your opinion?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Except you’d never trust the guy. You want a closer look? Since we’re here?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he tightens the turn and pushes the control stick forward. My stomach comes up to meet my throat as the tiniest details in the landscape suddenly acquire an alarming size. Very low, we pull out of the dive as he circles the house below. There’s a formal garden to the front of the property and, if there were fish in the ornamental pond, I’m sure we’d be able to count them.

  On the second lap, I watch a figure emerge from the main entrance and stand in the sunshine at the top of the steps. He’s wearing tan chinos and a pastel blue shirt. He has a mane of blond hair that may well be dyed and he flattens it against the tug of the wind as he looks up at us. A big face, the colour of the chinos. If I could lip read I fancy he’s telling us – in Cleggie’s phrase – to Foxtrot Oscar.

  ‘Foxtrot Oscar?’ I enquire.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  FORTY-TWO

  I’m back from the airfield at Dunkeswell. Cleggie has motored me to Flixcombe and pocketed a thick envelope of bank notes from a very grateful H before giving me the warmest hug and promising another outing whenever I fancy it. I watch him drive away and then step into the house. H says he’s glad to see me in one piece but, as I’d anticipated, has absolutely no doubts about what has to happen next. Thank God he’s had the presence of mind to summon Tony Morse back from Pompey. Another council of war, I think. That’s what this kitchen was built for.

  The object of our collective attention is Dominic Franklin. I come clean about my conversations with The Machine and his doting admirer, and I tell H that we owe Mateo a very large drink. Without him and his Vodafone friend I’d never have connected Baptiste and Franklin.

  Tony Morse scribbles Franklin’s name on a scrap of paper and disappears to make some calls. I’ve just told H the latest about Pavel. To my surprise, he seems genuinely upset.

  ‘What’s left for the guy?’ he asks.

  ‘Us,’ I say. ‘Clem. Malo. Franklin. What happened up in Glasgow. The whole drugs thing. What’s happening everywhere.’

  ‘But what can he do?’

  ‘He can write about it. Turn it into a script. Do his best to amuse you.’

  This possibility appears to have passed H by. Although he’s patrolled the thin line between fact and widescreen fiction all his working life it hasn’t occurred to him that something so fresh, so immediate, so personal could turn the key to the showbiz door and let him into a whole new world.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Not me, him. He’s serious.’

  ‘He can really do the business on all this?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  H studies his hands a moment, deep in thought, and then he looks up.

  ‘How bad was it up there?’

  ‘In Glasgow? With the Somalis?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It was terrible. It was beyond words. We … I … owe Cleggie everything.’

  At this point, Tony returns. He has a young graduate from the university working as an intern at his office and he says she’s a genius at financial analysis. She knows exactly where to go to for detailed company information and has a natural talent for connecting the key dots. Now she has a name, Dominic Franklin, we simply wait.

  H wants to know how long all this might take.

  Tony glances at his watch. ‘She’ll have a rough draft by close of play. The full Monty might take a little longer.’

  H nods. Once again, he’s listened to Tony and stayed his hand. Best to get our ducks in a row before we do anything rash. Only now does it occur to me to ask about Malo.

  ‘He’s gone,’ H says.

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘I’ve sent him abroad again. For all our sakes. And to be fair to the boy, he volunteered.’

  ‘For what?’

  H holds my gaze. Then he extends a meaty hand and covers mine.

  ‘You’ve had a shit couple of days,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to know.’

  But I do. I’m bearing scars now, and they’re far from healed. I’ve been through an experience I wouldn’t wish on anybody, not even H, and the thought of Malo ending up in the hands of the men with the machetes scares me witless. There has to be a better way, I tell H. I’ve had enough of being out of the loop.

  H nods. He has that expression on his face that tells me he’s only half-listening.

  ‘You won’t get hurt,’ he insists, ‘and neither will the boy. We’ve got this thing under control.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Mateo.’

  ‘So how does that work?’

  H won’t tell me. He wants to know more about Cleggie.

  ‘He was wonderful,’ I say. I tell him about the emergency flare he let off in the car. For the first time this evening, H has a grin on his face.

  ‘He did that? Nicked it out of the boot? Hid it?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ he says. ‘You’re right. Proper fucking job he’s done. Moolah well spent.’

  ‘So how much did you pay him?’

  ‘A lot. Enough. Right peg? Right hole? Bloke like Arrows, you can’t go wrong.’

  Tony and I exchange glances. In H’s teeming brain everyone has a nickname. Arrows, I think. Richly apposite.

  I spend the rest of the day up in my bedroom. Now, I tell myself, is the moment I must try and chase the demons away. Here in Flixcombe you’re safe. No one will hurt you. I resist the temptation to use the bolt on the door, get partly undressed, and slip under the covers. As I drift off to sleep I think I catch the far away bark of a shotgun. Andy, I think, out looking for something for tonight’s pot.

  It turns out I’m right. Half a day later, descending the stairs and padding barefoot into the kitchen, I find Jessie skinning two rabbits. A pheasant, already plucked, lies on a bloodied sheet of newsprint. H has obviously told her about Glasgow. Her sympathy feels unfeigned.

  ‘You’re right,’ I agree. ‘Total nightmare. You’re normal and happy and quite pissed one moment. The next, some lunatic has a gun in your face. Is this what we should all get used to? Or am I just unlucky?’

  Jessie rinses her hands in the sink. The water turns pink. ‘Just one bit of good news,’ she says.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The Machine? Our fit friend in the leisure centre? He’s gone. Haven’t seen him for a couple of days.’

  ‘And that car of his?’

  ‘That’s gone, too. No sign of it in the car park. I checked this morning.’

  I nod and settle at the kitchen table. When I first met Brodie and we had the conversation in his car, I remember mentioning Pavel. I’d just come back from Glasgow and the sight of him lying there in the spinal unit hadn’t left me for days. I think I’d even made a joke about The Machine taking care when he dived in. At the time this had seemed innocent enough but now I realize the implications. My phone conversation with his girlfriend Baptiste would have alarmed him. Ten minutes on Google and a call to the spinal unit would have been all it took. Better to have this crazy actress taken care of than risk her cosying up to the police.

  ‘Thank God he’s gone,’ I tell Jessie. ‘You can have your pool back now.’

  Tony joins us. He’s just been in the shower and he’s swapped his suit for designer jeans and a lovely cashmere sweater. He’s also been talking to his research assistant back at the office and he wants to shar
e the results from her first trawl of the internet and the key databases.

  ‘This stuff is complex,’ Tony warns us. He’s obviously been making notes during his phone conversation and he slips on a pair of half-moon glasses, peering at line after line of what look like company names.

  Cleggie was right. Dominic Franklin, it appears, has made a great deal of money in property development. Sometimes, says Tony, he buys land himself, acquires planning permission and then oversees the physical build through a series of construction companies which he owns. Some of these projects are residential; others are on land zoned for commercial development. In other instances, he sells the planning permission to other developers and pockets the often huge windfall gain. Either way, Franklin’s various enterprises are in rude health.

  ‘You’re telling us he’s minted?’ This from H.

  ‘I’m telling you he’s rich.’

  ‘How rich?’

  Tony’s looking slightly pained. He tallies Franklin’s assets. They include Beaufort House, a Knightsbridge townhouse overlooking Hyde Park, a newish duplex apartment beside the river in Exeter, a finca in the mountains of Andalucia, a five-bedroom house with Mediterranean views in Monaco, plus an ocean-going yacht in the nearby marina. Monaco, incidentally, is where Mrs Franklin has opted to live. Tax wise it makes perfect sense, he says, but we think there might be one or two other reasons. Franklin hates having his hands tied. This is a man who loves options.

  I nod. The lovely Baptiste, I think.

  ‘This stuff is kosher?’ H wants to know.

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ Tony assures him. ‘Franklin plays the shell game. Most of his physical assets and we’re guessing most of his income is remitted overseas. It’ll take Gabrielle a while to sort out the details but she thinks we’re talking the Caymans, St Kitts and Nevis, Gibraltar, and Jersey. Getting inside these trusts and trying to work out the beneficial owner can take you a lifetime, which is why they exist. Mr Franklin is no friend of the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘So where did your girl get the list of assets?’

  ‘This stuff’s open source. Mainly the Economist and the Financial Times. Franklin has a reputation for guile as well as greed. The man’s a player, and that commands a degree of respect.’