Sam glanced at Ed, the breakthrough glance of hundreds of investigations, the here-we-go-glance, the detectives’ heroin hit.
‘Curtis we need to go inside and talk about this. Get it on tape.’
A nod.
‘We need you to take your time and describe everything you saw.’
Curtis stared at the ground and mumbled. ‘You can watch it.’
The walk through the town centre for a pint was Adam’s idea, one for the road. Julius agreed but said Hans was expecting him, so one it would be.
Ahead of them, two masked gorillas holding pints of lager staggered in the busy street, another stag party on a bender. Julius put his hand in his pocket when he felt his mobile vibrate and glanced at the screen.
Don’t be too long. Hans.
Julius, head bowed, read the message and smiled. That man even had to use correct grammar in text speech.
‘Alright gents?’ one of the gorillas slurred.
‘Fine mate,’ Adam answered.
Julius was slipping the phone back in his pocket when a rubber mask was rammed onto his head and strong arms manhandled him towards a Ford Transit parked at the kerbside.
Men were singing a loud and tuneless version of ‘who’s getting married in the morning’, the noise blocking out the groan as the van’s back doors were flung open, flakes of rust from the unoiled hinges dropping onto the road. His arms and legs were pinned tight, restraints were snapped around his wrists, and he was thrown into the air. Whatever he landed on wasn’t concrete but it was hard.
‘Fuck!’ he shouted.
An engine started and the transit shuddered into life.
‘Adam!’ Julius shouted. ‘Adam. Are you there?’
The doors slammed.
‘What the fuck’s happening?’ Adam’s voice sounded panicked but close. ‘Is this down to you? Some sort of initiation ceremony?’
‘I’m fucking sure it’s not,’ Julius screamed.
The van moved; no wheel spins, no harsh acceleration.
‘Hey,’ Julius shouted.
No one answered.
‘Kick the panels Adam,’ Julius said, lashing out with his heels. ‘Scream for help. Somebody will hear us and call the police.’
Adam kicked at nothing and when he spoke he sounded resigned more than frightened.
‘Julius calm down,’ he said. ‘What’s the point? Nobody’s calling the police. Anyone watching would just think we were part of the stag party. It’s a joke. This lot’ll get bored and drop us off somewhere. So long as they haven’t set out to get you.’
Julius went quiet and still.
‘Nobody’s out to get me, but this van’s travelling. We’re on a fast road here.’
He rolled onto his back to take the weight off his arms. ‘What the fuck is all this about?’
‘You tell me,’ Adam said.
They lay in silence, the journey lasting no more than ten minutes before the van stopped and the doors were opened.
The mask was ripped off Julius’ head, his eyes struggling to focus, another figure on the floor of the van next to him, wrists cuffed and a gorilla mask on his head.
Two gorillas stood at the back doors. ‘Phone,’ one of them demanded. ‘Where is it?’
‘Trouser pocket,’ Julius said, still on his back.
Should I have lied?
They each grabbed an ankle and dragged him towards them. One of the masked men checked his pockets and took the phone. ‘Code?’
‘One-nine-seven-eight. Look can we go now? You’ve had your fun.’
‘Get out.’
Julius did what he was told, dropping his legs over the edge and jumping the short distance to the ground.
‘What about my hands?’
‘They’re fine for now.’
Chapter Thirteen
They were back in the same interview room but this time Sam and Ed weren’t in a hurry and both of them sat down instead of standing in the doorway.
‘You okay doing this Curtis?’ Sam said.
Curtis nodded.
‘Curtis we’ll talk after this, talk about professional help, that sort of thing. You don’t need to carry this around with you by yourself. Remember you did nothing wrong all those years ago.’
Another nod from Curtis.
He pressed play on his screen, put the phone on the desk and spun it around so that the two detectives opposite could watch. A white van was already parked in front of the garage, a tall man, the driver, walking to the back doors. Jayne Culley had described a man with a straight back and a military demeanour and this guy fit the bill. There would be no joy identifying the face. The mask, like something from the old Spitting Image puppet show, would see to that. The doors were opened, two other masked figures jumped out and there was Jeremy Scott, hands tied behind his back. Scott dropped to the floor and whilst the footage was soundless, he was talking until the driver punched him in the face and the others dragged him facedown into the garage.
‘Did you record any more Curtis?’ Sam asked, looking at him.
He shook his head. ‘Too scared. I could hear screaming and I saw them all walk out.’
‘Then what happened?’ Sam said.
‘The masks were off by then,’ Curtis told them. ‘They put them in one of those things strikers on the picket lines light to keep warm, you know like a dustbin on fire.’
‘A brazier?’ Ed said.
‘I don’t know the proper name,’ Curtis shrugged. ‘Then they took off the boiler suits and burnt them as well.’
‘Can you remember what they looked like?’ Ed pressed him.
‘Not really and I don’t want to.’
Curtis started clawing at the back of his right hand like a demented cat scratching a piece of carpet.
‘I saw what they did to him and he fucking deserved it but no way the same thing’s happening to me.’
His hand suddenly stopped.
‘And anyway,’ Curtis almost smiled. ‘Why would I want to help you catch the people who killed that bastard? I only showed you what happened so you couldn’t fit me up for it.’
‘Curtis I don’t want to accuse you of withholding information,’ Sam said. ‘I really don’t.’
‘I can’t get accused of anything because I have a bad memory,’ he shot back. ‘So I remember the driver was tall, the others were medium and when they took their masks and overalls off I was too frightened to look at them.’
‘What about your bad memory this morning?’ Ed said. ‘Why didn’t you show me the film then?’
Curtis glared. ‘I just wanted to get out, get myself sorted.’
Sam stood up and walked out of the room. Ed followed.
‘Look we’re all tired,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘We’ve got more than we had before we picked him up. ‘
Ed leaned against the dirty magnolia wall.
‘You know, years ago these would have been painted regularly, but not now,’ he ran his hand lightly over a stain. ‘Private Finance Initiatives saw to that. Costs a fortune just to change a light bulb now. Paint a wall? Cheaper to use Michelangelo.’
Sam face was weary but she smiled.
‘At times I have no idea how your mind works,’ she said, meaning it. ‘We’ve just had a huge breakthrough and you’re moaning about PFIs and paint.’
‘It’s called sleep deprivation,’ Ed smiled back. ‘It’s gone nine and we’ve been here since two this morning. I’m probably hallucinating.’
John Elgin knew his heart-throb days were over, but he still had a way with women; at least he did by the time he was on his fifth pint and the girl he was talking to was willing to have sex for money.
After last night’s disaster in Pussycats he should have walked away. His inner voice was screaming ‘beer in, brains out’ but he never moved.
She was medium height, early twenties, ink-black hair cut in a bob; bright red lipstick mesmerising when she spoke, all brown eyes and white teeth when she listened.
He asked the us
ual and got the same back. She called herself Tara, had a boyfriend but it was nothing serious, went to university to do history but dropped out when she got homesick. Elgin guessed some of it might even be true.
He ordered another Peroni and bought her a gin and tonic. He paid on his card then instantly regretted it. More ammunition for his wife when she demanded to see the statement.
Harry tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Listen, I’m just popping out to give our Dean a hand with something. Won’t take too long.’
He handed Elgin a key. ‘For the flat. It’s empty. Feel free. If the key’s not behind the bar when I get back I’ll know you’re still up there. Take as long as you like.’
‘That’s good of him,’ Tara said, as Harry strode to the front door. ‘I’ll just pop to the loo.’
Elgin turned his head, put the fresh pint to his lips, and gazed at her slim legs perform a solo waltz between the little round tables. He knew he should leave, just walk out there and then, but black leather mini-skirts and stilettos always seemed to vaporise the what-he-should-do warnings.
He gulped the lager, put his foot on the brass rail, and waited. He’d deal with any fallout later.
Elgin watched the toilet door swing open and watched her walk towards him, fresh lipstick lighting a smile straight from a toothpaste advert. His eyes travelled down her body as she got closer, his thoughts moving on rapidly from dental hygiene and make-up.
Outside he ushered her to the external door, glanced behind him as he slid the long key in the lock, and pushed the handle down when it clicked open. He stepped over the threshold, pulling Tara inside, and locked the door behind them. He made sure he was watching as she climbed the stairs.
A huge wall-mounted TV dominated the sitting room. On the coffee table was a laptop, its screen split into four separate views - the car park, the till behind the bar, and the front and rear of the big open plan bar.
Elgin sat on the red leather settee and stared at the screen. Tara flopped next to him and rubbed the inside of his thigh. He eased her hand away, sat forward, and stared at the image on the top left, a 7 Series BMW with189 GBH as a personalised plate. GBH. Billy Skinner’s car, the prick. But who was in the front seats? And why were they here?
Elgin wanted to zoom in but didn’t know how and was worried he would lose the picture altogether.
‘What is it?’ Tara asked him but he said nothing, just stared at the screen.
A moment later he watched the car doors open. The driver was too tall for short-arse Skinner. His psycho eldest son? Maybe. The driver walked to the boot, opened it, and looked inside.
Elgin scrolled through his contacts. He didn’t have Harry’s mobile.
‘Should we go out?’ Tara sat forward.
‘And do what exactly?’ Elgin snapped. ‘Just sit tight.’
His eyes flicked across the laptop’s split screen. There was nothing unusual on any of the other cameras.
Where were Harry and Dean?
A second man joined the driver at the boot. Elgin was convinced now the driver was Mat Skinner. The two men bent forward, reached inside, and when they straightened each held what looked like a pick-axe handle in their right hands, dangling by their leg.
They speed-marched across the car park and pushed open the door to the bar.
‘That’s Mat Skinner,’ Tara said. ‘Fucking creep.’
Elgin’s eyes darted to the two inside cameras.
Mat was through the door first, the pick-axe in both hands and raised above his head. Elgin watched the screen as men and women scrambled to get out of the way. Mat strode behind the bar, while the other man stood guard by the door; nobody was leaving and nobody was coming in. The barmaid cowered in the corner but knew better than to argue or phone for help.
Elgin didn’t need sound. His imagination heard the glass exploding as Mat swung the pick-axe repeatedly at the bottles, glass flying everywhere as the stock was wiped out in a series of savage blows, the pick-axe moving at a speed a baseball pro would have admired.
Less than two minutes later Mat Skinner marched out, his accomplice following.
Elgin switched his gaze back to the car park camera and watched them throw their pick-axe handles into the boot and drive off.
His eyes flicked back to the now deserted bar. A bomb scare couldn’t have cleared the place as fast. The barmaid had her mobile in her hand.
‘Now what?’ Tara said.
‘Give it ten minutes.’ Elgin told her. ‘If Harry’s not back, we’re out of here…and how do you know Mat Skinner so well?’
Hans opened his gleaming black gloss front door. He was expecting Julius. What he got was a punch in the mouth by a full-size gorilla.
Falling backwards over the hall table, he was aware of hands spinning him around and shoving him downwards. His stomach and face crashed into the Victorian ceramic floor tiles and a knee dropped onto his back. His arms were grabbed and cuffed. Dragged to his feet, breathless, nose dripping with blood, two gorillas grabbed his collar and dragged him backwards out of the house, his heels scraping along the floor.
No more than thirty seconds after he opened the door, Hans van Dijk was hauled into the back of a van where a gorilla dropped onto his chest.
He had no idea what was happening. If he had signed up in a moment of madness to sample Special Forces training at the sharp end it might have made some sense. It was too violent to be some sort of prank and too slick for a parent acting the vigilante.
‘What the hell?’ he shouted.
Another punch to the face was followed by a local accent that sounded like it had been practising pure aggression for years. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
He lay in silence, concentrating on keeping his bladder intact and his churning bowels at bay. Ten minutes later he was bundled into a large disused building, a factory of some sort.
Julius was hanging upside down, his feet bound by rope tied to a metal girder.
‘Hans,’ he screamed, ‘Hans, help.’
He started to swing like Harry Houdini trying to escape from a straitjacket.
‘What do they want?’ Hans shouted. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
He was pushed to the floor, feet bound in thick hemp rope and then yanked skyward towards the beam.
A gorilla approached.
‘The boys are safe now,’ the voice was cold. ‘No more five-a-side games, not with you lot anyway.’
Hans van Dijk could feel the blood rushing to his head, Julius still struggling close by.
Behind them they heard a voice, jovial and light.
‘Alright lads? How’s it going?’
They kicked their legs against the rope and shook their shoulders, breathing hard as they twisted themselves in vain to see who had asked the question.
They both thought they recognised the voice. Their brains just couldn’t process it.
Chapter Fourteen
It was almost 9.30pm as Sam pulled onto her drive, locked the Audi and walked into the house.
What a day.
The lights and the heating were on but that was down to electric timers not a human touch.
She asked Alexa, her Amazon Echo friend that had been delivered a week ago, to play the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. It was an album that she and Tristram often played through the cockpit speakers when they chartered a yacht.
Too tired to eat, too tired to sleep, she went to the wine chiller and picked out a bottle of white: Chateau Montelena, a Californian Chardonnay.
She had first come across it when she watched the movie Bottle Shock starring Alan Rickman and now it was a favourite. The wine had been victorious in the 1976 Judgement of Paris, beating some famous Burgundian Chardonnays in a blind tasting.
She took off her shoes, put her coat over the door, and popped the cork, pouring generously into a large Riedel glass. Then she sat at the kitchen island and burst into tears.
Her head dropped, her forehead clammy against the cool of the granite, and her sobs drowned out Brian Wilson�
��s finest hour. Salty tears ran into the corner of her mouth, reminding her of the sea, of blue skies and snapping sails, of Tristram suntanned and smiling and alive.
Her stomach tightened, her cheeks tingled.
Get a grip Sam.
She lifted her head and looked around. Everything perfect, nothing out of place, everywhere as smart and stylish as a show-house but without a soul. She sipped the wine, a hint of ripe lemon on her tongue.
This should be her sanctuary. It shouldn’t be somewhere she dreaded, a dead space that gave her nothing that mattered.
‘Alexa, play Mr. Candyman by Sammy Davis Junior.’
The Beach Boys had been a bad choice. God might or might not know what she was doing without Tristram. Sam knew all too well.
‘Fucking yachts,’ she said to herself.
She downed the wine and poured some more.
Was this it now? Years of loneliness stretching out in front of her? Nothing more than the latest gizmo for company. She rubbed her eyes.
Sam Parker. Another lonely Jayne Culley in waiting but please God without the dementia.
John Elgin walked into the now empty bar, the barmaid mopping at a mixture of broken glass and liquid. ‘Did you get hold of Harry?’
‘I tried his mobile and Dean’s,’ she said without pausing the swishing motion of the mop. ‘Both went straight to voicemail.’
Tara was leaning against the bar. Elgin noticed she was as far away from the door as possible. Sensible girl.
‘Was anything said?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ the barmaid told him. ‘That crazy bastard just walked in and started smashing everything up. Never said a word. Harry’s going to go ballistic.’
She walked downstairs into the cellar, returned with a bottle of gin and a couple of tonics. She found three unbroken spirit glasses on the tables, abandoned by customers in their rush to leave, washed them and poured three large measures.
Tara downed hers in one and slid the glass back towards the barmaid.
‘Did you know them?’ Elgin asked.
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