by Emmy Ellis
“Jesus. He knows her?”
“Yeah. Since they were kids, apparently. Anyway, she’s told him that the software is evil.”
Langham laughed. “No more evil than she was, I’ll bet.”
Oliver shrugged. “Colin reckons she’s changed. That he was surprised at what she’d done in life, but now she’s gone back to how she was when he knew her. I’m trying not to get too involved in that side of it. Star-crossed lovers and all that. A love denied. Not my thing, is it.”
“No. And waiting isn’t my thing. I’m getting pissed off now.”
The wait didn’t turn out to be much longer. Villier arrived full of self-importance, as Langham had suspected she would. As a sergeant, she’d been trying hard to move up the ranks, but being a bolshie woman had seemed to prevent her career advancement. Maybe tonight she’d prove she could cope in what appeared to be a weird situation. Langham didn’t want anything to do with it.
“Right,” Villier said. “So you’re saying we might need extra help out at the house?”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “It’s not your usual type of killing. I keep seeing a foreign country in my head, deserts and whatnot, and the feeling is strong that the kind of thing used to kill those people isn’t something the general public know about. Covert weapons use, that sort of thing. Stuff governments keep quiet about. And one of the victims, a man named Colin, keeps saying his boss is someone in politics.”
“Oh fuck.” Villier chewed the inside of her cheek, stared behind them to where the mansion was. “So this investigation may well be taken off of us anyway then.”
“I’d say so,” Oliver said. “There are things going on that they won’t want us knowing about.”
“Yep, police involvement will be closed down,” Langham said.
Villier grimaced. “I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I,” Langham said, “but you’ll come to realise that a lot of things are hushed up. Whether you like it or not, you need to do as you’re told, keep your mouth shut, and just accept that the case isn’t anything to concern yourself with once you’re advised to step back. The fact that Hiscock and Mondon are involved, though… That’s a surprise. They usually kill for hire, with guns. Still, if it means they’ll be apprehended—finally—then that’s a result in itself.”
“Well.” Villier gestured to an officer sitting in her patrol vehicle. “I need to get this car moved over, get it out of the way. And you two had best go. Suppose you’d be better off turning round and using an alternative route.”
“Yep.” And Langham was bloody glad to be doing that, too.
Chapter Seventeen
“What the fucking hell are you two playing at?” Sid blasted down the road, gripping the steering wheel in his meaty hands. “First you ask me to sort it so a second man gets offed—which, by the way, is fine and dandy and done—but then you ask for a passport in a new name and want it at short notice. That isn’t something I can manage within the hour, you know that. I mean, really?”
Jackson winced at the speed Sid was going. “If you don’t slow down, we’re going to get pulled over. I told you that bloody copper saw me. He’ll have called it in—called the description of this van in.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sid waved one hand. “Black vans are popular. Less popular than white, I’ll give you that, but popular all the same. We could be anybody. Besides, it was the only one I had handy. All the others are out. And I’m well aware of that copper and what he’ll have done—fucking stupid of you to have let him see you if you ask me—but I need to get us away from the scene pretty sharpish, don’t I. Fuck me sideways, I know you’re willing to pay handsomely, Mr Whiteling, and pardon my French, but some kind of warning would have been nice. I was about to go to bed.”
“It’s not his fault,” Jackson said.
Jackson jabbed Sid in the ribs. Randall sat on Jackson’s other side, and Jackson wondered now whether it had been a wise move for them to all sit in the front. Perhaps he and Randall should have climbed into the back. Sid, up front alone, would have aroused less suspicion. After all, he was just some overweight bloke, a man who never got a second glance. But Jackson, with his bald nut, and Randall with all that black hair? The police would spot them in no time and put two and two together.
“Stop the van,” Jackson said.
“What?” Sid shook his head. “No bloody way. Not until we’re out of range and where we need to be. And pulling over now isn’t a good idea, look.”
Blue lights swirled ahead. Jackson’s guts rolled. The lights belonged to a fire engine, going by the height of them. That was the second one he’d seen. Shit, would the computer be sufficiently burnt already? Jackson stared at Randall.
“I have the hard drive,” Randall said.
“I see.”
“I’ll destroy it elsewhere.”
The fire engine barrelled past, the speed of it rocking the van. The sudden blare of its siren, unnecessary given that they were in the countryside in the middle of the night, had Jackson unnerved. He didn’t like feeling so out of sorts, so on the verge of being caught. Never had he experienced this in all his time of working for Sid.
Sid turned onto a narrow track, and they continued their journey at a slower speed. Feeling it was less likely they were going to be pulled over, Jackson relaxed, allowing his body to sink into the seat.
“Listen,” Sid said, “and listen good. There’s a place you can stay while the passport is being sorted. I also need you, Mr Whiteling, to allow me online access to your bank so I can get you a new account, one that no one will find, if you catch my drift. Debit cards also need to be made that match the new account and the name you’ll be going by after tonight. This is a complete break, understand? No going back. No contacting anyone. It wouldn’t be so bad if I knew this wasn’t going to come back on me in some way, but it might. I’m going to be questioned as to why I was probably spotted picking you up on a country road in the middle of nowhere.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, the money Mr Whiteling will be paying can buy many things, including an alibi from the usual tart who covers my arse from time to time, but that’s not the point. Never been caught for anything in my life, but this might be the one time where I get hauled behind bars. It’s not on.”
“But it’s what you do,” Jackson said. “The only difference between Mr Whiteling and another client is that he asked you to come and get us. Why didn’t you send Gail? She would have done it.”
“She was busy on another job—they all are. I was the only one left.”
“And greed is why you said yes to helping us out,” Jackson said. “Don’t make out you’re doing this begrudgingly or that we forced you. Money is always your motive, and even if you thought what you were doing would be dangerous, you’d do it anyway if it meant upping your bank balance.”
Sid laughed. “Fucking hell, am I sitting on Dr Phil’s sofa or what?”
Jackson didn’t bother speaking further. He’d said his piece, and that was the end of it.
What appeared to be a farmhouse without any lights on came into view. Set off the road, it was surrounded by trees, ensuring the property was well hidden. Sid turned off the track and onto a driveway, gaining speed as if the desire to get to the place had overtaken him. Once outside the property, Sid parked then cut the engine. He got out. Walked to the front door. Knocked. Waited.
“What the hell’s he doing?” Randall asked.
“This must be the place he mentioned.”
Sid disappeared inside the house, swallowed by the darkness. He reappeared and beckoned for them to join him. They got out of the van. Inside the cottage with the door closed, Jackson wandered blindly down a dark hallway until they reached a door. Sid opened it, and light spilled out, showcasing a splash of red wall with white wainscoting. They filed inside; the windows had blackout material covering them. A man stood in front of one, a white backdrop on a stand beside him, a chair in front of that. Jackson studied him—in his forties, greying at the temples, a
moustache that belonged in nineteen twenty-five. He wasn’t a threat.
“You’ll need to cut your hair off,” the man said, nodding at Randall. “Still, small price to pay for a bit of freedom, eh? Come on then, take a pew.”
Randall did as he was told.
“That’ll do nicely.” The bloke collected a camera on a tripod from the corner and put it in front of Randall. “Keep still. And don’t scowl. That hair…” He grabbed a cordless set of clippers. “Like I said, it needs to come off.”
The buzzing of the clippers went on for ages then stopped. Randall appeared so different. Jackson wouldn’t have known it was him if it wasn’t for those piercing eyes.
Photos were taken of Randall, then the photographer walked over to a computer in the corner. He plugged the camera into it. “You may as well go and get some sleep. Rooms are upstairs. The passport won’t be ready for a while yet. Got any name preference?”
Randall shook his head. “No. Best you choose it.”
“Fine,” he said. “On you go then.”
Jackson stared at Sid, silently asking if it was okay that they stayed here. This hadn’t been fully discussed, and he wasn’t sure if he was completely happy with it.
“Dick’s all right, aren’t you, Dick?” Sid said. “Always has the windows blacked out so it seems like the place is abandoned. Got a brilliant alarm system, and, would you bloody believe it, there’s an underground getaway wotsit. You know, one of them tunnel things.”
Jackson felt a little better.
“I need those bank details,” Sid said to Randall. “And don’t worry, I won’t fiddle you out of any money that I’m not due.”
Randall fished his wallet from his pocket then handed over his bank card, giving him a code to log in online.
“That’s the ticket,” Sid said. “I’ll pick you up in the morning or whenever the passport is ready and your flight has been booked.”
Upstairs, Jackson chose a room at the front so he could nose outside if any vehicles came—providing he peeled back the blackout material that was attached by Velcro. Jackson looked around. Simple IKEA-like furnishings. Most definitely a guest room used by people just like him.
He sat on the end of the bed.
Everything would turn out all right, wouldn’t it?
If we don’t get caught.
“Fuck it. I’m sodding off an’ all.” He legged it back downstairs and approached the bloke. “I need a passport.”
The fella laughed. “Fuck me. Hang on. Let me just find a wig to cover your bonce.”
Chapter Eighteen
Abroad at last. Who’d have thought it, eh?
Bleary-eyed, Langham stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. It was different from the one back home. For one, it was lightly speckled with rust spots, and two, the light was so severe it seemed to bounce off the white tiles, into the mirror then back out at him. It wouldn’t be so bad if he had a hangover so he could blame the pain in his eyes from the brightness on that. But since it was just because he was tired, as usual… He’d remedy that by napping on the beach in an hour or so.
Spain was just what they needed. Turquoise ocean, white sands.
This morning was the start of their holiday at last—thank bloody God—but Langham had been unable to sleep properly last night. Although he’d sunk a few beers in an attempt to help him sleep, as usual he’d let his hunches interfere with his well-being. On the plane, he could have sworn he’d seen a man who resembled Jackson Hiscock, except it couldn’t have been. That bloke had hair, a beard, and the man he’d been with had a military cut, not a long style. Langham had caught their attention on purpose by walking past and nudging the armrest with his knee on the way to the toilet, but not one ounce of recognition had flickered on their faces. He’d told himself he’d been wrong but…
I’m not convinced.
He left the bathroom, slightly more awake now he’d brushed his teeth, and joined Oliver in the kitchen area of the open-plan space. This apartment was deceptive. From the outside it looked small, yet once inside it was spacious. He could imagine living abroad permanently, although when it came down to it, he doubted he’d be able to leave the city of his birth and give up his job.
Oliver had prepared fruit from the complimentary bowl that had awaited them when they’d arrived. Mango, pineapple, and guava by the look of it. Langham took a seat on a red plastic stool at the breakfast bar, and Oliver joined him, placing cups of hot green tea on the worktop then handing Langham a fork.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” Oliver said. “It’s another world. Like the city and our life there doesn’t exist. It isn’t until you get away that you see the difference. Feel the difference. And the spirits, Christ, they’re so polite.”
The spirits. Would they ever leave Oliver alone? Langham doubted it, and Oliver wouldn’t be Oliver if he didn’t carry them around with him twenty-four-seven. Caring about them, trying to help them fully pass over.
“How do you mean, polite?” Langham popped a square of guava in his mouth.
“Well, they’re not pushy,” Oliver said. “And when I tell them I’m on holiday, they back off.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Langham laughed. “We might well get a bit of peace after all.”
“We will if you stop thinking about Jackson Hiscock and that man.”
Langham closed his eyes briefly. Was it that obvious? Was he that transparent? “Christ, sorry.”
“It’s fine. Listen, if I tell you something, will you promise not to go off on one?”
“Go off on one? I wouldn’t do that to you, man.” At least he didn’t think he would.
“I know. Figure of speech. I know how you’ve pledged to uphold the law and whatever, but if there was something I knew and I didn’t say, and you found out I didn’t say, you’d be narked, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably.”
“And I wasn’t going to say anything but I feel I should.”
Langham’s gut contracted. This didn’t sound good at all. “Depends what it is.”
“It’s something to do with knowing something,” Oliver said. “And if I don’t tell you, tell the police, then I’m just as bad as a criminal, but…” He gnawed lightly at his bottom lip. Stared out of the window for a few seconds, then turned his head so he looked at Langham again. “Okay. Right. That was Hiscock on the plane. There. I’ve said it. Done. Now you can do what you will with the information.”
Langham took in a deep breath then pushed it out through pursed lips. “I knew it. Those bloody eyes of his…” But what did he want to do about it? “What did they do? In the mansion, I mean.”
“Hiscock shot Colin in self-defence—Colin had drawn a gun on him first—but he didn’t kill him. Neither did the man he was with. A machine killed Colin. Software, whatever. But Hiscock is here in disguise.” Oliver chuckled. “And I’d guess it killed Hiscock wearing a wig in this heat when we landed.”
“I’ll bet it fucking did. I have to call it in, you know—I’ll text Fairbrother and let him deal with it. But if I see him here, where we are, if they didn’t go off to another resort, then I’ll tell the police here. I don’t care if he didn’t kill that Colin bloke, he has killed others. I just haven’t been able to prove it or had sufficient grounds to arrest him, question him.”
“They’re not here,” Oliver said. “When we landed, they got a bus elsewhere.”
“Well, then. That solves it. Time to enjoy this holiday.” Langham sighed.
Crime could just go and do one. He’d had enough of it.
For now.
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