by C J Carver
‘Zebra’s arsehole,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry,’ I said again. I closed my eyes. I hadn’t had a proper hangover in years. Now I knew why. I felt truly dreadful. It really wasn’t worth it.
‘What’s going on, Nick?’ Etienne turned off the TV and came and squatted opposite me, expression intent.
I looked into his eyes, as blue as the sea, and felt so ill, so tired, I could sleep for a thousand years.
‘I killed a man.’ I closed my eyes.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I killed a man called Arun Choudhuri. He used to be a caretaker for the Mayfair Group.’ I spoke in a monotone, and as I spoke, pictures paraded themselves across my eyelids. Pretty smiling Helen Flynn being threatened, my satchel being snatched, Barry Gilder and his DI buddy interviewing me, Arun Choudhuri’s throat a gaping wound. The words poured out of me in great gushes and stops, unthinking, unrehearsed and uncoordinated, like a bottle of water upended.
Eventually I ground to a halt.
‘Dear God, Nick. You’re talking about George Abbott? The underworld boss?’
I opened my eyes to Etienne’s appalled expression. I hadn’t been able to keep the Saint out of it, since he was pivotal to what was going on. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ I said, a bit late in the day. ‘It might threaten your life.’
‘You’re saying Robert was dealing with Abbott?’ He leaned forward.
‘Yes.’
‘You know, it makes sense.’ Etienne nodded. ‘The people who came to me are nasty types, just like him. They break bones and heads. They’re part of a narcotics gang working out of Ibiza. They want their money. Did I not mention that when I called you?’
‘How much money?’ I pushed myself upright and staggered into the kitchen area for another glass of water.
‘One million.’
‘One million, what? Albanian leks?’
‘Pounds.’
I nearly dropped my glass. ‘Holy crap.’
‘Now you see why I have to find him. These men, they gave Robert thirty-four kilos of MDMA to deliver, and he screwed them over.’
I felt my legs soften and had to clutch the kitchen worktop to stay upright. My insides turned greasy. I licked my lips.
‘Why did these men come to you?’ I croaked.
He looked away.
‘Etienne. I have to know.’ Despite my thumping great headache and nausea, my tone was fierce. ‘I don’t care if it tarnishes your impeccable reputation. You’ve got to tell me.’
He took a breath. ‘Robert said he wanted to make extra money. I knew a man who knew another man. It was he who introduced Robert to this Spanish gang.’
‘His name?’
‘I never knew it. I didn’t want to know, okay? Your brother took this gang’s drugs from Ibiza to England. He was supposed to return with the money, but he didn’t. The drugs and the money disappeared with him.’
‘Which gang? Does it have a name?’
‘La Familia de Sangre.’
‘The Family of Blood?’
‘They’re one of the biggest gangs in Spain. They have a strict allegiance. It takes two years to be fully initiated but once you’re in, there’s no turning back.’
I could hear Susie’s voice and see Mark Felton’s bland pale face as though I was back in the Regency Café.
Rob had massive sailing experience. I’m thinking this could have been his inauguration into the organisation. Doing a drug run. Or maybe carrying money.
Mark Felton’s voice. It would be a good way of inserting him into the thick of it. Gain everyone’s trust.
‘Etienne,’ I said. ‘What I tell you now, is to be kept one hundred per cent confidential between us. Nobody must know. Nobody must find out. No matter what. It’s extremely serious and extremely dangerous.’
Etienne’s eyes widened. ‘Go on, Nick.’
I poured another glass of water. Looked straight at him. ‘Rob was working for MI5.’
The Frenchman stared at me. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Rob was an MI5 agent. You know, the British security service responsible for protecting the country.’
Etienne continued to stare at me. Then he said, ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No.’ I started to shake my head but stopped when it felt as though my brain might implode. ‘He was working for them for maybe a year before he disappeared.’
‘No way,’ Etienne responded. He scrambled to his feet. ‘This isn’t possible. Not Robert!’ He flung up his hands. ‘You know how he was. He could no more be a spy than… than…’ He trailed off and then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Robert, a spy! Good God! This is the most incredible, ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!’
I didn’t say anything. Simply stood there and looked at him.
Gradually, his humour evaporated. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘You actually know this to be true?’
‘I’ve met his ex-case officer.’
Etienne sat down suddenly, as though he was a puppet who’d had his strings cut. His mouth opened and closed. He was gaping like a fish and his skin colour had paled. ‘Fucking hell. Fucking fucking hell.’
I didn’t say anything. I knew how he felt, because I’d gone through exactly the same shock and disbelief. Leaving him to assimilate this new information, I opened the fridge, wanting to eat something, preferably sweet and fatty, but couldn’t find the energy to make anything, so I turned to our tiny grocery cupboard and dug out one of the Mars bars that we kept as snacks to take on the boat.
By the time I finished it, Etienne’s face had regained its colour and he was pacing our miniscule sitting area.
‘You say he was working for MI5 for perhaps a year?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do they have to say about where he went? What happened?’
‘They won’t tell me. It’s classified.’
‘Fuck that.’ He stopped pacing and came and stood in front of me. His eyes held an electrical storm of fury. ‘Don’t they realise the danger they’ve put me in? The men who came to me, they’ll cut off my balls and make me eat them if they think I have introduced a spy into their organisation. Fucking hell, Nick! Who has the money? Do they have it? If so, they have to give it to me so I can give it to La Familia and get them off my fucking back.’
Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to happen but I didn’t say so. I didn’t want him to get any angrier so I said, ‘I’ll ask them, okay? But I can’t promise anything. They’re as tight as ticks and the entire operation appears to be classified. I was incredibly lucky to meet Rob’s old boss, but I don’t think he’ll want to see me again.’
‘What’s his name?’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry. I can’t tell you.’
‘What’s his fucking name!’
If I gave Etienne Mark Felton’s name Susie would never speak to me again, so I held my ground. ‘I can’t say.’
‘How did you find out about him?’
‘Rob told me,’ I lied. ‘Ages ago. He wanted one of the family to know who he worked for.’
And how I wished it had been true. It would have made things so much easier if I had known, and I could have told him how proud I was of him. But right now, I’d lost all understanding or compassion since Arun Choudhuri’s murder and if Rob turned up that minute, I’d be hard pushed not to punch him square in the face.
‘Fuck.’ Etienne spun round, his hands clutching his head. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m never going to find Robert, am I? Never!’
Chapter 39
While Etienne paced and ranted some more, I opened a couple of envelopes. One from a medical insurance company wanting to sign us up so they could fleece us into our old age, the other a programme of what was on at the Chichester Festival Theatre which I put to one side for Susie. I preferred the movies, but she was a complete theatre buff, fascinated by the actor’s performances and how they could play a character so unlike themselves so convinci
ngly.
When Etienne calmed, I said, ‘What boat did he sail in? With the drugs?’
‘It was the gang’s boat. They want that back also. It was a nice little boat, twenty-five foot, six berths. Worth fifty grand or so. Your brother fucked off with that too. You see what a mess this is?’
‘What was its name?’
‘Jovita.’
‘You’ve tried to find it?’
‘I’ve asked around, but it’s twelve years ago, Nick. He could have sold it, sailed it to the Caribbean for all I know. The chances of finding it now are zero.’
I mulled things over, vaguely noticing that the Mars bar was doing a reasonably good job of settling my stomach. I ate another, and mulled some more. ‘Etienne… now I’ve spoken to you, I’m wondering if Rob isn’t in some kind of witness protection.’
That brought him up cold. ‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘The fuck. When I get my hands on him I’ll throttle him. I really will.’
‘You’ll have to get in line.’
He gave a long sigh. Ran his hands over his head. ‘I’m sorry, Nick. This must be terrible for you.’
I gave a half-hearted nod and opened the last envelope. This one was A4, quite bulky, addressed in blue felt pen to me, Nick Ashdown. Puzzled, I pulled out a handful of photographs. A paperclip attached them together with a handwritten note in the same blue felt pen.
NOW YOU KNOW THE TRUTH BEHIND WHAT HAPPENED TO TONY.
There were six pictures. They were all in full colour. It took my sluggish hungover brain a few seconds to assimilate what my eyes were seeing. ‘Oh my God.’ I put them down on the worktop. I had to swallow several times to prevent the nausea from rising.
‘What is it?’ Etienne said, and before I could snatch them back he’d picked them up. ‘What the…’ He flipped through them. Looked at me. ‘What the fuck is this?’
I couldn’t answer. My hands were cold. I was having trouble breathing.
‘Are they for real?’ Etienne asked.
‘Yes,’ I managed. ‘I’m pretty sure they are.’
He stared at them. ‘Fuck.’ He put them carefully on the worktop. Stared some more.
Trying to be objective, not think about what I was actually seeing, I looked at them again. Each picture was of a murder scene, taken from varying angles. The victims were in an office. A man and a woman. Both had been shot in the chest. Both had had their faces bludgeoned. Tony Abbott’s face was recognisable but the woman’s was a pulped and bloody mess. It was the young woman I’d seen on the CCTV tape dressed in a plain white shirt with the sleeves pushed up, figure-hugging skirt, stilettos. Sexy but professional. She still wore her skirt, tights and shoes but otherwise, she was naked. She had a black leather studded collar around her neck, nipple clamps on her breasts. A gimp PVC mask with zips forming the eyeholes and a zip where the mouth should be, lay next to her left hand.
Tony wore a leather full body harness. He was spread-eagled on the floor, each wrist handcuffed to the legs of his desk. He’d been ball-gagged. A long whip lay to one side, along with a pair of wet-look gloves and a roll of black bondage tape. There was a Polaroid camera too, and a couple of pictures lay on the floor along with the woman’s shirt.
The blood stood out shockingly against their pale skins. A bright vivid red. The photographs had been taken fairly soon after they’d been killed, I guessed. But then I saw a great smear of blood against the wall. Where had that come from?
‘What’s this, Nick?’ Etienne asked. His voice was hoarse.
In answer, I went and fetched the CCTV tape from the cupboard, and put it into the machine.
‘This was also given to us,’ I told him. I didn’t have to compare the handwriting between the two notes. I already knew they were identical. Whoever had slipped into our house to leave the CCTV footage that day had also sent the photographs of the murder scene.
We watched the recording in silence but when it showed Rob running from the building, tearing after the middle-aged woman, gun in hand, Etienne erupted. ‘He killed them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Merde.’ He was scrubbing his face with his hands. ‘I cannot believe this. Robert takes down a terrorist in a restaurant, is a hero, and then I see this… my old friend. Did I know him?’ He turned to me. ‘Did you?’
I couldn’t answer. I had no idea.
‘This is all so fucked up!’ He flung his hands in the air. ‘What do I tell La Familia? I cannot tell them he was a spy. I cannot say he seems to have killed two people. Merde. I should never have come.’
I watched him get to his feet. He looked down at me. ‘I think I shall go now.’
I clambered upright. Opened my mouth to say something, I wasn’t sure what, but I didn’t want him to leave. Perhaps I was hoping he might help me, become an ally in my search for Rob, but Etienne didn’t want to hang around.
‘This is the Saint’s son that Robert has killed,’ he said. ‘I want nothing to do with this. I shall return to Spain. I will tell La Familia I found nothing.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Which is true when you think of it.’
I spent the rest of the day nursing my hangover and on Sunday, when I awoke to a clear bright day with a brisk westerly, I went for a sail. Sailing has always helped clear my head and for a while, I seriously thought that I was going to drop the whole idea of finding Rob, but I was in too deep, the questions burning too furiously, and when I returned to Bosham Harbour, mooring Talisman back onto her buoy, I knew what I had to do.
Chapter 40
I caught the same train Susie usually took to London on Monday morning – the six twenty – and was in Richmond in time to grab a cappuccino before the offices of Missing People unlocked their doors.
Finally, people drifted inside. Black, white, Asian, men and women of all colours and ages. A truly mixed bag of employees. Or were they volunteers? I had no idea. I finished my coffee. Crossed the road and walked inside. Lots of posters on the walls, some plants, the smell of coffee and donuts. A young woman greeted me. She reminded me of Helen Flynn at the Mayfair Group with her friendly open smile.
I brought out the two photographs I’d enlarged and cropped. They showed the sexy but professional young woman who’d been murdered with Tony. ‘I’d like to see if she was reported missing,’ I said. ‘On, or around, Friday the twenty-third of August.’
Her face immediately turned sympathetic. ‘Of course.’
‘The only trouble is,’ I went on, ‘I’m talking August twelve years ago.’
‘I see.’ She nodded as though this happened every day. ‘What’s her name?’
‘This is where it gets strange, because I don’t know.’
She blinked several times.
‘But you might have her image on record?’ I gestured at the posters, the photographs of men and women of all ages. MISSING. SEEN HIM? SEEN HER? CAN YOU HELP?
‘I’m sorry,’ she responded, tapping my photos with her fingers. ‘But I have to be a little honest here. These photographs, well, they’re terribly blurred. I’m not sure if we would be able to find a match. Do you have anything that shows her face better?’
I’d done my best enhancing the pictures from the CCTV tape, but she was right. My expression must have turned gloomy because she said, ‘Can I ask you something? If you don’t know her name… can I ask your relationship to her?’
‘I might have some information about her,’ I prevaricated. ‘Which might help her family. If she was reported missing.’
‘I see.’ She was frowning as she rose from behind her desk. She gestured at my photographs. ‘Would you mind if I borrowed these for a moment?’
‘Sure.’
She vanished for three minutes, no more, and returned with a short compact-bodied woman. Freckles, a bright interested face. Another warm smile.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Ginny.’
‘Hi,’ I said. I didn’t give my name.
She gave a nod, as though acknowledging the fact and accepting it. She passed back
my photographs. ‘Kirsty says you’re after information about this young woman.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry I don’t have her name. My friend refused to give it to me. I want to know if she went missing when he thinks she did.’
She surveyed me. It wasn’t an unfriendly look. More curious. ‘We’ve had far stranger requests, believe me. Was she reported missing to the police?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t contacted them?’
‘It’s complicated.’
She sighed. ‘In order for me to help you, I really need you to report her missing to the police. Then I can check our involvement is appropriate.’
‘What if I don’t go to the police?’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Couldn’t you have a look at your records?’ My tone turned pleading. ‘See if someone resembling her was reported missing around that time? That’s all. I don’t need any other information. Nothing at all.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head, genuinely apologetic. ‘We have a very good relationship with the police and I wouldn’t want it jeopardised. I know a sympathetic sergeant at our local station though. It’s only in Kew Road. I could ring her for you? Set up an appointment?’
‘You’re very kind.’ I gave a smile but it was forced. ‘I’ll think about it.’
I picked up the photographs and walked outside. I was glad they didn’t have my name. I wondered if they’d report my visit, but what would they say? A man wanted to know if a woman with no name had gone missing twelve years ago?
As I walked to North Sheen Station, I rang Susie. We hadn’t spoken since I’d left her flat and although we’d texted, I wanted to talk to her about Etienne’s visit. Her phone went to voicemail. I left a message. An airliner roared above, heading for Heathrow. I looked up to see the sun was making a feeble effort to break through the cloud but I couldn’t see the aeroplane. I bought another coffee and drank it while I waited for the train.
I was at Victoria Station when Susie rang me back.
