The Revenge Trail

by AA Abbott

  Chapter 36.

  Marty

  “Wake up, Marty.”

  Enjoying a dream in which he appeared to have hair on his head and an unlimited supply of beer, Marty resisted the call. Finally, he felt his shoulders shake. “S’earthquake,” he mumbled.

  “Wake up.” Angela’s manicured hands caressed his shoulders. She was wearing a baby doll nightie, in a sky-blue hue that reflected her eyes. Daylight, blurred by net curtains, lent her skin a soft glow.

  The unfamiliar room, restful in creams and blues, swam into focus. He remembered they were staying in London, in the prestigious hotel where Amy’s father would be married later. “What’s the hurry, bab?” he asked.

  “The hotel stops serving breakfast at ten thirty.”

  “What?” Marty shook off his languor and sat up. “I’ve paid for it. I want a full English, with extra smoked salmon, champagne and unicorn’s tears for the amount they’re charging.”

  “I thought you would,” Angela said. “You’ve got an hour.”

  “No chance, then,” Marty said. “It’ll take you that long to do your make-up.”

  Angela played it with a straight bat. “It’s just a light touch for me,” she said. “A smidge of tinted moisturiser and five minutes for facial exercises.” She demonstrated by slapping her chin and gurning in front of him.

  His phone rang. Angela waved, disappearing to the ensuite bathroom with a well-stocked bag of toiletries.

  “What news, Ray?” Marty was becoming increasingly used to calls from his bank manager.

  “You’ve asked me to process an excise duty payment. I can’t do it, Marty. You’ll breach the overdraft limit.”

  Marty almost felt the last of his hair fall out. This shouldn’t be happening. He managed the bank account carefully. One of his customers must have been late paying him. He didn’t have time to investigate, but he couldn’t afford to tangle with the taxman. “HMRC will close us down if that transfer doesn’t go through, Ray. How about increasing the limit? My cashflow problems are temporary.”

  “This temporary problem has lasted for more than half a year. I’m sorry, I can’t stretch the limit further without taking a charge on your house.”

  Marty sighed, glad Angela wasn’t listening. “All right. If I email you now to confirm that, will you release the payment? We can sort out the paperwork later.”

  They reached agreement as Angela returned, skin glowing and hair freshly curled.

  “Ready to tackle your hangover, Marty?”

  “If only I had one, bab.” He grinned, remembering the previous evening. “I prefer a pint to a vodka shot, but it seems I’m on my own. The journalists loved Starshine.”

  “Kat knows her stuff, doesn’t she?” Angela said. “Vodka-making is in her blood.”

  “Sadly, that’s not all,” Marty said.

  “You’ve got to stop viewing her in such a bad light,” Angela said. “She’s part of the family now.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Marty grumbled. “I don’t need to like it.” With the baby, Kat was tied to his son forever. She would be woven into the fabric of Tim’s life long after she’d bled him dry and moved on to a more attractive prospect.

  Chapter 37.

  Vince

  Vince’s phone rang. He hoped it would be Shaun or Scott. The smile died on his lips as he saw Ben’s number.

  “Are you with Dad?” Ben asked.

  “No,” Vince said. “He made it to Scottie’s last night, but it’s been radio silence this morning.”

  “The police woke me up at 4am to search my flat. Three of them. They only just left, although it was obvious Dad wasn’t here.”

  “How many empty pizza boxes did they move to work that out?”

  Ben ignored the slight. “You need to get him to Luton,” he said. “The flight’s good to go at six o’clock tonight. I booked the jet over the dark web. It can’t be traced to me.”

  Nothing could, Vince thought bitterly: not the mobile phone Ben was using, the money that was greasing open palms, and now the private jet hire. If it all went pear-shaped, he could guess who the lawmen would be chasing. Shaun Halloran’s elder son would walk away, his halo intact.

  “Passenger name is Trevor Finsbury,” Ben added. “That’s the passport you’ve got for him, right?”

  “Scott’s got it,” Vince said. “I’ll call him again. They’re probably still in bed. It was a late one.”

  Once he’d said a less than genial goodbye to Ben, Vince began trying to rouse Scott again. Phone calls, texts and WhatsApp failed to bear fruit. He rang Jerry, who was back home in Ilford, unenthralled to be woken up, and didn’t have a clue what Scott and Shaun were doing.

  They’d agreed it was Vince’s job to arrange transport to Luton Airport, and he did so by hiring a minicab from an outfit in Seven Sisters, far enough from his flat that he’d never used it before. He would have preferred to rent a van, but that required too many fake documents.

  Walking to Seven Sisters down the High Road, past the jumble of kebab joints, bookmakers, phone shops and vaping parlours, he was struck by anxiety. Apart from the unease caused by Scott’s lack of contact, he was carrying more cash than usual. His wallet held several hundred pounds to defray expenses, and there was a wad of euros in Shaun’s suitcase. Vince had ready fists and a couple of knives about his person, but he missed the Glock 17 that he’d lent to Scott.

  At the minicab office, they were happy to send a car to Luton via Broxbourne, as long as Vince paid in advance. They quoted three hundred pounds. He haggled the price down to two hundred and twenty, suspecting they would think it odd if he didn’t try.

  “It’d be cheaper for you on the train, bro,” the driver cheerfully observed as Vince sat beside him in the car, an old Honda.

  “I don’t like trains,” Vince said. It wasn’t true, but all modes of public transport were bristling with cameras. Although he’d packed a wig and moustache, he couldn’t be sure Shaun would agree to wear them.

  The cab lurched from one traffic jam to the next. Vince started counting the sets of lights. He stopped at twenty. The train would have been quicker. It was a scenic journey, though, with plenty of green space even before they left London behind. The trees were just beginning to come into leaf. Vince stared silently out of the window, resisting the amiable young driver’s attempts to chat. The youth was straight, in his early twenties, a Londoner of Greek Cypriot extraction living in Wood Green and studying part-time for an IT degree. This much Vince ascertained without either having any interest in or encouraging the lad to speak about his life. Like the forest pond’s water, the stream of words washed over him. Eventually it ceased.

  Without asking, the lad switched on the radio. Vince enjoyed the blaring dance music at first, but then came the news bulletin. Thirty seconds later, Vince heard police were seeking Shaun Halloran, a convicted murderer on the run. An alleged friend of the prisoner, a woman called Tracy, was quoted as saying that he was very ill and she feared he’d been kidnapped by rival gangsters. Vince had no idea who she was. He didn’t wait for more, but said rather sharply that he had to use his phone, and could the noise be reduced, please?

  Once they were through Enfield and into the countryside, roads were less clogged but the journey still wasn’t fast enough. Vince alternately drummed his fingers with impatience, and jabbed at his phone in a vain attempt to reach Scott. Perhaps he was panicking for nothing. The police were still searching, weren’t they? Nevertheless, Vince’s disquiet grew as the minutes ticked by without word from Scott.

  They couldn’t afford to bungle this. Shaun inspired loyalty because he was a diamond to his friends, but equally, no one would wish to be on the wrong side of him. Rumours abounded, such that only a fool would believe the murder for which he’d been sent to Belmarsh was the single one he’d committed. His revenge when crossed might be neither swift nor subtle, but it would materialise as surely as the sun rose in the east.

  Quite apart from the fear inspired by Shau
n, Vince wanted to succeed for Jon. The younger Halloran had said Vince was the only one for him: there was no one else inside, even. Vince dreamed and hoped it was true. They’d be speaking tonight, and he wanted to tell Jon that it was mission accomplished, and Shaun was on his way to the sun.

  His tension increased as the car slipped off the A10, through Broxbourne’s newish housing estates, and towards the older part of the village. The church came into view, and Scott’s cottage not long after it.

  There were two squad cars on the drive.

  “This is the place, yeah?” the young driver asked, slowing to a halt across the road. He turned to face Vince, suspicion written on his chunky features.

  “No,” Vince said. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me back to London.” He could see a policeman standing next to one of the cars, starting to look interested.

  “Wise move, bro,” the driver said, heading further down the road and adjusting his satnav as he did so.

  Silence cloaked the air. Luckily for both of them, the youth had too much sense to ask questions.

  Vince texted Ben. The filth had caught Shaun. How much would they learn from Scott? His nightmare was happening.

  Chapter 38.

  Shaun

  Shaun parked in a side street close to the Victoria Embankment. Grand white stone terraces, their facades adorned with balconies and curly carvings, lined both sides of the road. He huffed, supposing these were mostly government buildings, funded by taxpayers. He counted himself among their number, despite his best efforts to avoid paying any kind of levy to the government.

  There were plenty of parking spaces, no doubt because of the signs that announced parking was permit-only. A quick glance at his windscreen told Shaun that Pat didn’t have a permit. That, like the London congestion charge now due on Pat’s Mercedes for entering the capital’s centre, was someone else’s problem. At worst, the Merc would be towed away, with Pat inside the boot.

  It wasn’t yet midday. Shaun had been busy since he hijacked the car. He’d acquired and donned dark glasses, before buying a length of rope, a cheap mobile phone on a pay-as-you-go tariff, cigarettes, a lighter and a burger with fries. The new phone had been charged in the car. Smoking furiously, he’d found a quiet spot to stop and bind his captive properly, Scott’s fruit knife proving its worth in cutting the rope.

  The wad of cash in Pat’s wallet had been enough to pay for the goods. Pat’s credit and debit cards remained untouched, while his iPhone had been used only for web searches. It took mere minutes to find out where delectable Dee was tying the knot.

  The purchases, and the journey, were more time-consuming than Shaun would have liked. He could have taken a faster route, orbiting north London on the M25 motorway, before heading south to Woodford on the zippy M11. Woodford and nearby Wanstead were very familiar to him, and he knew exactly where to buy everything he needed. Unfortunately, the risk of recognition was too great. He was well-known in the eastern fringes of London. Instead, he had to content himself with the Great Cambridge Road and a large Enfield retail park. At least he’d enjoyed taking the wheel of a Merc again. The car behaved like an old friend, its leather driving seat fitting him like a glove.

  Now, he sat in the car by the opulent hotel where Dee was to be married, indulging in another cigarette. Raindrops thrummed on the windscreen as grey clouds passed overhead. Shaun picked up the cheap, untraceable phone, and called Ben.

  “It’s me, son.”

  “Dad?” There was disbelief in Ben’s voice. “Where are you?”

  “Finishing some business,” Shaun said.

  “I thought…” Ben’s voice shook. “Vince told me the cops got you. This isn’t your single phone call, is it?”

  “I wouldn’t waste it on you if it was,” Shaun said brutally. There were lawyers a lot more use than his unworldly son. His tone softened. Ben wasn’t totally clueless. He was making good money playing video games, and spending it to help his father. “The filth came calling, but I got away. I’ve just got a little job to do, and then I’ll be free to fly like a bird. Is the plane sorted?”

  Ben breathed in sharply. “It’s a private jet. The flight leaves Luton at six tonight. Where are you?”

  Shaun ignored the question. “I can be there.”

  “You need a passport,” Ben said. “Scott was supposed to give it to you. Has he?”

  Shaun released a volley of curses. “No, I don’t have it,” he said. “Only a driving licence in the name of Patrick Mulligan.”

  “Does it look like you, Dad?” Ben asked.

  Shaun examined it. Although a poor-quality photograph, Pat’s mousy hair and blunt jaw were apparent. Anyone would notice the lack of resemblance. “No,” he said.

  “Vince and his friends will have to arrange a passport,” Ben said. “We’ll text you once that’s done. Then we’ll have to give it to you. It would help to know where you are.”

  “Text me with a meeting-place,” Shaun said. “I’ve got wheels.”

  Although Ben replied, the answer didn’t register at all. From the corner of his eye, Shaun saw a young blonde step elegantly out of a taxi, red stilettos lengthening her shapely legs. She was dressed for the changeable weather in a leopard-print coat cinched at the waist. The hood was pulled back to reveal red flowers in her hair, and a face that had haunted him for too long.

  “Got to go, son,” Shaun said. “I should have killed Kat before, and I’m not missing a second chance.”

  Chapter 39.

  Vince

  “He got away,” Ben said.

  “Hallelujah,” Vince said. Relief surged through him.

  “He hasn’t got a passport,” Ben said. “You’ll have to get him another one. I’ll rearrange the jet hire, but I need a name as soon as possible, okay?”

  “I’m on it,” Vince said. “It’ll cost you.” Jerry could persuade a friend to lose a passport. “Where’s your dad?”

  “I don’t know, but I want to find out.” Ben’s voice was grim.

  “Don’t we all.”

  “He’s going to kill that girl, Kat,” Ben said.

  “It’s nothing to do with us.” Vince neither cared, nor blamed Shaun for disposing of an enemy. It was what you did to make others think twice before discarding your friendship.

  “He’s putting the whole operation at risk,” Ben said, sounding like a secret service agent.

  “His choice,” Vince said, pretending an indifference he didn’t feel. The hairs on his spine prickled. Ben was right, albeit Vince suspected his motives. He remembered Ben chatting to Kat at the bar in Shoreditch. What had Ben said, that he only dated girls who played video games? That was so obvious a lie that Vince wished he’d challenged it. Straight men were incredibly predictable: Kat was the type they all fancied. In fact, that was why Shaun had employed her in the first place.

  “How can I track him down?” Ben asked.

  “Listen, Ben,” Vince said, “You’re the eSports star and king of hackers. If you can’t do it, no one can.”

  Chapter 40.

  Shaun

  At his empire’s zenith, flush with the proceeds of drugs and prostitution rackets, Shaun had frequented clubs and casinos in the West End. Their entrances were brash, with bright lights, buffed-up metal and marble steps beckoning to delights within. This hotel was nothing like that. Although a grand white building similar to others in the street, its doorway was modest, flanked by clipped box trees. There were no liveried flunkeys or even bouncers outside. Shaun wondered if this was the right place. Perhaps he’d hallucinated the image of Kat striding confidently through the door. There had been other times when he was convinced he’d seen her, hadn’t there? He recalled a television programme about vodka, and his encounter with Nurse Megan.

  Dee had invited Kat to her wedding, though, and the all-knowing Google said the ceremony was taking place here. Shaun took a deep breath, entering the door alcove.

  As soon as he did so, his fears were dispelled. A short man of Mediterranean app
earance and middle years, smart in tails and top hat, appeared from the side to open the door for him. “Good morning, Sir.”

  “I’m here for a wedding,” Shaun said, relieved that Pat’s Marks and Spencer suit had lent him respectability despite a couple of days’ stubble.

  “It’s not until two o’clock,” the doorman said. “There’s a girl inside who can help you. Ask the concierge.”

  Inside, the lobby was a large white oblong space with an ornately carved ceiling. One end was occupied by the polished wooden desks of the receptionists and concierge, and the other by red velvet sofas where businessmen did deals over coffee.

  The concierge directed Shaun to speak to a young woman sitting on a crimson velvet chair. Petite, wearing a red trouser suit, her black hair in a neat bun, she rose to greet him immediately. “Hi, I’m Emily,” she said, beaming and shaking his hand. Her fingers felt smooth and cool. “And you are?”

  “Marshall Jenner,” Shaun said, betting that Emily would be clueless about Marshall’s appearance. Even if she’d heard of Marshall, the ex-MP’s notoriety wouldn’t make him persona non grata; he was an invited guest, a friend of the groom, according to Dee’s comments on breakfast television.

  Emily’s smile didn’t falter. She tapped at an iPad. “Welcome to the celebrations,” she said, “and commendably early too. In fact, drinks aren’t set up in the room yet, so feel free to have a coffee in the lobby or a drink at the bar.”

  “Well, actually,” Shaun said, “I have a message for one of the other guests, Kat White.” He made an effort to speak with a plum in his mouth, as he remembered Marshall doing when they had shared a cell. ”I saw her arrive earlier, but just missed talking to her, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, she’s with the bride,” Emily said. “I can ask a colleague to find her and deliver the message for you, if you like.”