Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3)

Home > Other > Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3) > Page 12
Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3) Page 12

by Stephen Edger


  Woodford laughed uncomfortably, feeling his jaw for any damage. ‘They do…that guy was unhappy that I proved he was cheating on his wife.’

  ‘You should be careful which clients you take on,’ Dylan commented.

  He laughed slightly again, ‘It’s a fair point. He probably wouldn’t have reacted so badly if his wife wasn’t now divorcing him. But, if you keep the company of other men behind your wife’s back, what do you expect?’

  ‘You caught him with another man? Jesus! No wonder he was kicking the shit out of you.’

  Woodford reached into the desk drawer again and pulled out a half empty bottle of tequila. ‘Can you pass me a glass?’ he asked, pointing at a door to Dylan’s left.

  Dylan opened the door, to reveal a small toilet and basin. A single glass was sat on the sink. He handed it over and Woodford filled the glass with tequila and drank it down in one.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, placing the glass back on the table and re-filling it. ‘Thanks for coming to my aid. Is there a reason you’re here?’

  ‘I was told you might be able to help me find someone.’

  ‘You’re British? You decided to take my advice and lose that lame accent of yours. Smart move. What would be even smarter would be to get out of this part of town. Was last night’s lesson not enough for you?’

  ‘I had to come back. I was supposed to meet my girlfriend and our daughter at Las Iguanas last night but she never showed. I need to know if she’s made it here and, if so, whether she’s still around or if something has happened to her.’

  Woodford took a sip from his drink. ‘So, to get this straight, your girlfriend is missing and you want to hire me to find her?’

  ‘That’s right. Why do you sound so cynical?’

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘I just need to be clear. You’re not the first tourist who’s hired me to pretend to look for a recently deceased partner. It makes the police reports look better if the concerned client has gone to the expense of hiring someone to search for the missing person. I don’t mind if you have killed her, I just need to know how much effort to put into the search.’

  ‘She’s not dead! At least, I don’t think she is. She’s missing, that’s all. I didn’t kill her.’

  Woodford watched him for a moment as if trying to sense whether it was a lie. ‘Okay, do you have a picture of her?’

  ‘I do,’ Dylan said, passing him the creased photograph.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ Woodford commented, before passing over a small clipboard holding a form. ‘I charge two thousand pesos per day. I need you to fill in one of these forms with as much information about her as you have. I need to know her height, weight, state of mind when you last saw her, any favourite places she has or friends who might be protecting her, that kind of thing.’

  ‘You’re going to help me find her? What changed?’

  ‘What can I say? You helped me; it’d be mighty rude of me not to return the favour.’

  Dylan accepted the clipboard and began scribbling answers to the questions. ‘She doesn’t have any friends or favourite places here. We were living in London until a month ago.’

  ‘The more detail you can give me, the better chance I’ll have of locating her. I need to take the first two days’ payments up front.’

  Dylan finished filling in the form and handed the clipboard back, along with the money. ‘Why did you tell me you were a reporter when we met last night?’

  ‘I said I used to be a reporter. That was a lifetime ago. I lost my job and settled down here. I know the area well and it just seemed a good business to go into. The rent is reasonable on this place and I earn enough to keep the tequila flowing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a private investigator?’

  Woodford shrugged. ‘You looked like trouble.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Well, you still look like trouble but I need the money to repair this place, so I’ll take a chance on you. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’ll head back to Avenida de Revolución and wander around until I find a hotel.’

  ‘You should go to the Hotel España. It’s easy on the cash flow, has free Wi-Fi and is in a much safer part of town.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself.’

  Woodford handed him a business card. ‘Just go there, okay? I know the owner. Mention my name and he’ll give you the best rate he has. Trust me.’

  ‘What about Maria? I need to go back to Las Iguanas and check if she’s shown up yet.’

  ‘Leave that to me, okay? I know the staff and they’ll be more inclined to help someone they know than a stranger who’s already been in one fight there. I’ll take them a copy of the photograph and get them to call me if she shows up. Okay? You look exhausted. Go to the hotel, take a rest and freshen up. I’ll call you later with an update.’

  Dylan nodded his head and left the office. Descending the three flights of stairs, he wondered what Woodford might find. His gut was telling him that Maria and Elena were still alive. What troubled him most was that they were in desperate need of his help.

  19

  The Hotel España was as central to Avenida de Revolución as any hotel could be. With local leather and jewellery shops neighbouring it, and a fish restaurant and café across the street, it was a lot more welcoming than Las Iguanas. The manager of the hotel wasn’t available but the girl behind reception promised she would speak to him about Woodford’s special rate when he arrived. Dylan had been surprised that a room had been available given its proximity to the various bars, restaurants and nightspots the road offered. That the hotel advertised it had fully carpeted rooms told him everything he needed to know about the area. That said, Woodford had been right, it was a nice place, with air conditioning, a comfortable double bed and clean bathroom. The girl had charged him eight hundred pesos for the night, which was about thirty five pounds sterling, which he really couldn’t argue with. The room didn’t have a mini bar, the television looked like an antique and there was no swimming pool, but none of that mattered right now. He’d managed to purchase a six pack of beer from a drug store next to the café and had rested on the bed while sipping from the bottles. After the fourth beer, he’d fallen into a deep sleep, only to be woken by his phone ringing.

  ‘Yeah?’ he had said groggily, uncertain where he was.

  ‘It’s Woodford. You okay? You sound awful.’

  ‘I was asleep,’ he’d yawned. ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘Listen to me carefully: I can’t talk on the phone. I need you to meet me in an hour. We’ll talk then.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where are you staying? The España?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Great. There’s a café across the street. Meet me there at three thirty. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ he had said, eager to know what the old man could have discovered so quickly. Maybe he’d had a phone call from the staff at Las Iguanas.

  Dylan had showered quickly, his first in a week, and put on the clothes he had bought that morning with Aaron. Then he had sat and waited, glancing at the display on his phone from time to time, willing the minutes to pass quicker. At one point he had even considered leaving the hotel and heading to Las Iguanas himself, but he knew he had to remain patient.

  At three twenty-five he had headed for the café, which was advertising an all-you-can-eat buffet. His empty stomach encouraged him to take advantage of the offer, but he resisted. The urgency in Woodford’s voice earlier made him feel like they wouldn’t be at the café for long. He had ordered coffee when the waitress had arrived at his table. She had returned with a mug and filled it from a pot. He had opted for a table by the window so that he could watch for Woodford’s arrival. There was still no sign of him at three thirty-five so Dylan had phoned him. It had rung and rung before voicemail had intercepted the call. He hadn’t left a message.

  It was now three forty, and he was beg
inning to worry about why Woodford had still not arrived. His imagination played through possible scenarios:

  What if he found her but now they’ve both been caught? What if they were on their way here and were involved in a traffic accident? What if the goons from earlier had caught up with Woodford and beaten him again?

  He knew he was being melodramatic, and it was just as likely that Woodford had fallen into a drunken sleep and forgotten the time. Even so, not knowing only fuelled his inner fears.

  He was about to leave, and head back to Woodford’s office, when three state police cars pulled up outside of the café. He saw them as clear as day, and although his first instinct had been to run, he had no idea whether the café even had an alternative exit. He had calmly stood up and begun walking towards the toilets, hoping they were here for someone other than him. Three of the six officers entered the café, their guns drawn and began looking at the customers, hunting; hunting for him. The most advanced officer spotted him first and immediately trained his weapon, barking something Dylan didn’t understand. This caught the attention of the other two, who raised their weapons and trained them on the retreating target. They moved around to flank him. The first officer barked something again.

  ‘No hablo español,’ Dylan shouted back, raising his hands instinctively.

  ‘On the ground,’ the officer growled back. ‘Hands on your head.’

  Dylan complied, determined not to give them any reason to shoot him. The first officer kept his gun pointed at Dylan whilst the other two secured Dylan’s wrists with a pair of tight cuffs.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Dylan pleaded to anyone who would listen.

  ‘Charles Adams,’ the officer began. ‘I am Tijuana State Police Captain David Reyes. You are under arrest for the murder of British Consulate Harold Dickinson and his driver George. You are also wanted for questioning in relation to the death of Tijuana State Police Officer Marquez.’

  ‘Wait, wait, I’m not Charles Adams. My name’s Dylan Taylor. I am a British citizen.’

  The Captain reached into Dylan’s back pocket and pulled out his passport. He flipped it open to the rear page. ‘Your passport says you are Charles Adams.’

  ‘It’s not real. My passport is false. Listen to me: do I sound like I’m from California?’

  ‘Anyone can fake an accent, señor.’

  ‘I’m not faking it. Come on, check my fingerprints. Please, my name is not Charles Adams. I didn’t kill Dickinson or his driver. It was Marquez!’

  ‘You can explain all that to the District Attorney when you see him later. I would advise you not to make any statements until you have spoken with your Embassy.’

  ‘My embassy, no you’re not listening to me. I didn’t do anything wrong. This is a big mistake.’

  The captain nodded for Dylan to be raised back to his feet. The cuffs bit into his skin.

  ‘In this country, señor, you are guilty until you can prove your innocence. We are a civil law country. You will get the chance to explain what happened when you speak to the District Attorney. If he doesn’t believe your story, he will send you before a judge for trial.’

  ‘Please? You’ve got to listen to me. Marquez was the one who shot Dickinson and the driver. Then he abducted me and Aaron and crashed the car. We didn’t kill him.’

  The captain laughed. ‘Mr Cross has made a statement saying he was not in the car with you and Dickinson.’

  ‘But…’ Dylan couldn’t finish his statement before he was dragged from the café and pushed into the rear seat of the waiting patrol car. The captain climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘You need to speak to Woodford,’ Dylan pleaded when the engine started. ‘He’s a private investigator. He’ll tell you who I am.’

  ‘Woodford? It was Woodford who told us where we could find you. He phoned the station an hour ago to tell us you were the man we have been looking for.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand. Woodford? He wouldn’t…’ Dylan trailed off.

  The patrol car headed down Avenida de Revolución for two hundred and fifty metres, before turning right onto Benito Juárez Y/o Segunda and then left onto Via Rapida Ponienta. Dylan watched out of his window as one street merged with another.

  ‘We’re going to the airport?’ he asked when he noticed a sign. ‘What’s at the airport?’

  The captain ignored the question. Ten minutes later they were pulling into an airfield, fenced off from the main road. A small private jet was stationary about fifty metres from where they were parked.

  ‘What is this? Where are we? Why aren’t you taking me to see the District Attorney? This isn’t right!’ He tried to turn his wrists to see if the cuffs had any give, but they bit down harder. The captain opened Dylan’s door and pulled him from the car, despite Dylan’s best efforts to kick out. The captain dragged him across the sandy floor, closer to the jet.

  ‘Please? Dylan pleaded, as the jet’s door began to open and the steps lowered. ‘I have money. Strapped to my legs. You can have it all. Please? You can’t do this! I’m innocent.’

  The captain ignored the pleas and watched the jet. A man in his late fifties emerged from the jet, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black tie. His hair was white and wavy, and despite his age, was pretty full. He began to descend the stairs and approached them slowly.

  ‘Mr Taylor, it’s nice to finally meet you,’ he said smiling. ‘I work for a man who is very keen to get you back to England.’

  ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’

  ‘I’m sure you can guess who I represent. Don’t worry, the jet is fully fuelled for our eleven hour flight back to London. I’ve taken care of everything.’

  Dylan felt a sharp pain in his neck as a syringe was jabbed into it from behind. He felt something being squeezed in and then the needle was removed.

  ‘That’s just a little something to help you sleep on board, and to make sure you don’t give me any trouble. If you’ll excuse me, I just need to call my client and let him know you’ve arrived safely.’

  The man with the white hair moved away from them and pulled a phone from his pocket. As he turned, Dylan saw the man had a large green shamrock tattooed on the back of his neck.

  ‘Good news, sir,’ the man said into the phone. ‘I have Dylan Taylor. We should arrive in London at eleven your time…well, thank you, sir, it’s kind of you to say…yes, there is one more thing; now that we have Taylor, what do you want me to do with that whore of a girlfriend of his? My contact says she is becoming difficult…that’s fine, sir, I’ll tell my contact to kill them both: the whore and her daughter.’

  ‘No!’ Dylan erupted, but as he tried to break free of the captain’s grip, he felt his legs go beneath him, and he fell to his knees. As he tried to fight the enveloping numbness, he felt his upper body go limp.

  ‘Get him on board,’ was the last thing Dylan heard the man with the shamrock tattoo say before he passed out.

  WEDNESDAY 03 DECEMBER

  20

  NEWCASTLE, UK

  07:30 (G.M.T.)

  White rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, stifling a yawn in the process. He winced as he arched his neck. He knew he had left his shoes and socks somewhere near the sofa he was lying on, but it was impossible to see the outline of any objects. He swung his legs around, the ache in his back causing him to wince once again. Why he had decided that sleeping on the sofa was a better idea than the floor, was beyond him this early in the morning.

  His foot touched something solid and he knew immediately that the errant shoes had been found. He slipped them on and moved forward, arms straight ahead as he hoped he would find the wall with a light switch before he encountered any other potential obstacles. Something caught his right hip causing him to sidestep quickly. He moved forward again and felt the welcome texture of wallpaper. He began to sweep his hands around, certain that the light switch had been on this wall. His fingers found the plastic and he flicked it on. The bulb stuttered to life, r
evealing the ironing board that had jolted his hip. His suit jacket was hanging over the board and, on picking it up, he found his tie shoved into an inner pocket. He slipped it over his neck and pushed his arms into the jacket. He knew he’d left his overcoat somewhere, but it didn’t appear to be in this room. Tiptoeing out of the small room, he found his coat hanging from a peg near the front door.

  ‘Were you not gonna say goodbye?’ a woman’s voice said behind him.

  Sweet, sweet Maggie.

  ‘You can take the hooker out of Belfast, but…’ he began, winking at her.

  ‘You’re lucky I don’t punch your lights out, you cheeky git,’ she replied, smiling warmly.

  ‘Listen, I’m really grateful you could put me up last night, Maggie.’

  ‘I didn’t have much of a choice did I?’

  ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Aye, my hospital shift starts in an hour.’

  ‘You’re still a nurse then?’

  ‘I told you that last night. We spoke for an hour before you passed out on my sofa. Do you really not remember?’

  He shrugged apologetically. ‘I’d had a couple before I arrived, like.’

  ‘What else is new?’ she pulled the robe tighter around her middle. ‘You want a coffee before you go?’

  ‘Thanks but no, I’ve got somewhere I really need to be.’

  ‘No rest for the wicked, right?’

  ‘Aye, something like that.’

  ‘Are you going to be okay, Tony? You were really packing them away last night. You were three sheets to the wind when you came knocking on my door. It won’t have gone unnoticed, you know.’

  ‘I hope he does know I’m back in town.’

  ‘With the ruckus you were making, I’m sure he probably does. What’s your goal? Why are you back?’

  ‘I missed you, Maggie.’

  ‘Bull shit! You only came here because none of your other girlfriends would put up with your shit. Why are you really here? I thought you were settled down south now?’

 

‹ Prev