Marked for Death

by Tony Kent

  Michael made up for the unintentional fast. Tempura prawns to start. Followed by a twelve-ounce Hereford rib-eye with fries, grilled tomato, mushrooms and peas. Plus side-orders. Mac and cheese. A half-rack of barbecue ribs. A feast fit for a man who was thirty-six hours late for dinner.

  A bottle of Argentinian Malbec had been intended to go with the meal. It now sat on the lounge table, opened but unfinished. Abandoned to a combination of exhaustion and carb overload. Next to the bottle was a small pile of empty plates.

  And the mobile phone that had woken Michael from his much-needed sleep.

  Michael pushed himself up onto his elbows and tried to shake off the grogginess. He tried to think who could be calling him in the middle of the night until suddenly his mind focused, banishing every trace of sleep in its wake.

  Sarah.

  He threw the light sheet from his body and leapt from the bed. Within moments he was in the suite’s lounge, just feet from his illuminated mobile phone. Two more steps and he would reach it. But still he was too late.

  The ringtone stopped as soon as the phone came into sight. The screen, though, remained lit. Michael picked up the handset and read it. Four missed calls. All from the same number.

  Jenny?

  It was not the name Michael was expecting to see. He looked at his watch, confused. Why on earth had she tried to call him four times in a row at 2 a.m.?

  The mixture of relief and concern was a strange one. Jenny could not be calling about Sarah. Michael knew that, but still something was wrong.

  He pressed to return the call and it was answered almost immediately.

  Michael waited for Draper to speak but there was no sound.

  ‘Jenny?’

  Michael felt his heart rate rising again when Draper did not respond. The knot in his stomach returned.

  ‘Jenny? Are you OK?’

  Michael’s concern was increasing. Fast.

  ‘Listen, Jenny, whatever—’

  ‘I see you haven’t lost your accent, Michael.’ The voice that interrupted him was one that, until last night, he had never expected to hear again. Emotionless and clinical. Michael recognised it in an instant, knowing in that moment that it could mean only one thing.

  ‘You son of a bitch,’ Michael swore loudly. ‘If you hurt her—’

  ‘If I hurt her it will be entirely your fault, Michael. Just like all the others.’ The voice was no louder. It carried no urgency. The words just a statement of fact. ‘And if you don’t want that to happen you’ll do exactly as I say. Understood?’

  Michael hesitated. Long enough to think through his options. Long enough to know he had none.

  When he answered his voice was flat. Defeated.

  ‘Tell me.’

  SEVENTY

  3.45 a.m.

  It had been a long two hours.

  Michael sat at the wheel of an Audi A3. A smaller car than he was used to. One of thousands of Car Club vehicles parked across London. This one was ordinarily parked on St John’s Street, just a stone’s throw from Michael’s hotel. But right now it was forty miles from its base.

  The darkness was absolute. A combination of the night and of the setting.

  The village of Brookwood was over a mile away. The nearest major town – Guildford – six miles further. Michael was about as far from artificial light as was possible in twenty-first-century England. Natural light was minimal, too, thanks to the overhanging trees of the Surrey countryside.

  Michael glanced at the Audi’s digital clock. The only illumination visible with the car’s battery turned off.

  Still 3.45 a.m.

  The time matched Michael’s watch exactly. Both told him the same thing.

  He was fifteen minutes early.

  The adrenaline that had gripped Michael in his hotel suite was gone. It would return, Michael was sure. What he was about to face made that inevitable. But for now he had just his nervous energy. His anticipation. His fear.

  Brookfield Cemetery was around half a mile from where the Audi was parked. A three-minute drive at night, thanks to the dark country roads. That left Michael with twelve minutes to do what he had to do. To make the necessary arrangements. It was too long. The timing had to be right.

  Michael fixed his eyes on his Omega Seamaster wristwatch and focused as the luminous second-hand swept smoothly around the watch’s face. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Nine minutes, Michael thought. Good enough.

  Michael’s iPhone was logged into the Audi’s hands-free system via Bluetooth. He had paired them before setting off. Temporarily dormant, the phone reconnected with the car’s electronic brain as soon as Michael turned the key. A single click left the engine off while switching on the electric power.

  The central console came alive, displaying a list of options. Michael quickly accessed his address book and found the entry he was seeking.

  Joe Dempsey.

  Michael tapped the name and waited.

  The connection was not instant. Partly because Michael was in the middle of nowhere and partly because it was a long-distance call. Michael rarely knew where he would find his friend, but he knew it would not be nearby. Dempsey was based in New York, but right now he could be could be anywhere in the world.

  Finally the ringtone began to chime in his ear. An intermittent single tone. Confirmation that Dempsey was overseas.

  Shit. Come on, Joe. Answer the phone, Michael pleaded silently as the phone continued to ring: four, five, six, he counted.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Michael caught his breath as the seventh tone was interrupted. Unsure if it would be a person or a voicemail.

  ‘Mike?’ Joe Dempsey’s voice sounded concerned. He would have noted the UK time, Michael knew. ‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’

  ‘Joe, I need your help.’ Michael tried to keep his voice calm. To keep it steady. It was no easy task. ‘I’m in trouble.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ll get to that. First I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘What, Mike?’

  ‘I need you to promise that if anything happens to me, you’ll take care of Sarah and Anne. You’ll protect them.’

  Michael could not disguise the shaking in his voice.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? What’s going on?’

  ‘Promise me, Joe. Please.’

  ‘You know you don’t have to ask that. They’re family. You all are.’ The concern in Dempsey’s voice was undisguised. ‘Now you tell me what the hell’s going on so I can help you.’

  ‘You can’t help with this one, Joe. I’ve got to do it alone.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dempsey did not sound impressed. ‘Do what alone?’

  Michael took a deep breath.

  ‘There’s a guy. A guy I defended a long, long time ago. Karl Hirst, he’s called. He’s been released and now he’s come for me. He’s come for everyone in his case.’

  ‘What do you mean he’s come for you? Come for you how?’

  ‘He’s killing people. He’s killed the judge from the case. The cop. And Derek. He killed Derek.’

  ‘You mean the big guy? Your barrister friend?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Michael, unsurprised that Dempsey had placed Derek so swiftly. ‘The bastard killed him. Crucified him.’

  ‘Crucified? Like the judge that was killed. The one in the news? Longman, wasn’t it? He was the judge from your trial?’

  ‘Yeah. Hirst got to him too. And to the cop who brought him in.’

  Dempsey hesitated again, but when he spoke his reaction was unemotional. Professional. Exactly as Michael would expect.

  ‘What about the police?’ Dempsey finally asked. ‘What have they done?’

  ‘Everything they can,’ Michael replied. ‘And they’ve got Sarah and Anne in protective custody. But he’s still coming. And now he’s got two people – two women – and he’s going to kill them if I don’t meet him tonight. Alone.’

  ‘Are you seriou
s?’ Michael heard a change in Dempsey’s tone. A nervous realisation. Something he had never heard before. ‘Tell me you’re not meeting him, Michael. Tell me you’re not going alone.’

  ‘I don’t have a choice. Either I do that or they both die. And if that happens he’ll come for me anyway.’

  ‘What the hell does that matter? Call the police. Call anyone. Don’t go and—’

  ‘I’ve no choice.’ Michael raised his voice to interrupt. ‘This bastard knows my every move. I don’t know how, but if I risk bringing anyone . . . I can’t risk it, in case he knows.’

  ‘Michael, I—’

  ‘I can’t risk it, Joe.’ Michael cut across Dempsey’s plea. ‘People have already died. A lot of people. And it’s because of me. All of it. Because of something I did. I can’t let any more die. It’s been too many already. Far too many. I have to stop this.’

  Michael’s last words hung in the air. When Dempsey finally spoke his usual calm had returned.

  ‘Tell me where you are and wait there. I can send help. Proper help. My kind of help. This Hirst guy will never know they’re there. I promise you.’

  ‘I can’t wait. There isn’t enough time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Michael glanced at the dashboard clock. It was now three minutes until he had to begin driving. Exactly as he had planned. Michael had known that Dempsey would try to interfere. That he would not take no for an answer. Michael could not risk that. It was why he had waited before making the call.

  Two minutes.

  Close enough, Michael thought.

  ‘I mean I have to meet him now. In five minutes.’

  ‘Michael, are you sure—’

  ‘Just listen to me now,’ Michael interrupted. ‘Please, just listen. I’m meeting Hirst in Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey. Remember that: Brookwood Cemetery. I have to be there at 4 a.m., my time. And I’m doing it. No one else is dying because of me.’

  ‘But—’

  Michael ignored the interruption and continued.

  ‘What I need you to do is contact Detective Chief Inspector Joelle Levy of Scotland Yard’s Major Investigation Team. Tell her where I am. Tell her to get her people here as soon as possible. Because if she gets here soon enough she might find Hirst.’

  ‘But you’re not waiting.’

  ‘No. If I turn up with the police, then he’ll kill the girls. If I’m there alone then they have a fighting chance, because he’ll have to kill me first.’

  ‘How much of a fighting chance?’ Dempsey was as blunt as Michael expected. ‘Can you take this guy?’

  ‘Who the hell knows,’ Michael replied. ‘That’s why I’m calling you. Because if I don’t get through this and if Hirst gets away, I need you to protect Sarah.’

  ‘Mike—’

  ‘Promise me, Joe. Please.’

  Dempsey hesitated one last time before answering.

  ‘I promise. And I promise something else, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I promise that if you don’t kill this son of a bitch tonight, I’ll kill him for you.’

  Michael smiled.

  ‘I know that,’ he replied. ‘I know you will.’

  ‘And Mike?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do me a favour, would you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Save me the trouble.’

  SEVENTY-ONE

  It was not common for Joelle Levy to be at her desk at 4 a.m. But it was not unheard of, either. Even during investigations that had not taken such a personal turn.

  Levy had taken Michael’s advice and had driven from Smithfield Market to her home in Highgate. It seemed like weeks since she had last spent time with her son. Who knew when they would get the chance again? And so Claire Gordon had been relieved of her babysitting duties for a few hours and had gone upstairs to catch up on some sleep, while Levy and Richard had spent the evening together. Fuelled by a pizza, a tub of ice cream and a movie on Amazon Prime.

  It was an emotional pit stop that had left Levy reinvigorated.

  Shortly after midnight, Richard had fallen asleep on the sofa. Being careful not to wake him, Levy had carried him to his bedroom and placed him in the bed next to his sleeping babysitter.

  Refreshed by the rare few hours of rest and the quality time with her son, Levy had then washed, dressed and made her way back to Scotland Yard by 2 a.m.

  Two hours had passed since then. Two hours Levy had not wasted.

  Steven Hale’s long journey to Manchester had taken the most direct route. A journey of that length meant motorways. In turn, motorways meant the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system. The little-known camera network that could trace any vehicle as it travelled throughout the UK.

  Levy had made the request in the afternoon. For all system ‘hits’ made by Hale’s own number plate. She had also asked for the ‘hits’ from all other vehicles in the twenty seconds that followed Hale’s.

  A vast amount of information. And the only real lead Levy now had.

  The material had landed on her desk while she was still at home: 648 ‘hits’ on Hale’s plate. Tracing his BMW as it travelled from London to Salford. Alongside those ‘hits’ were tens of thousands more, made by car after car that passed some of the same ANPR cameras within twenty seconds of Hale.

  But Levy wasn’t looking for a vehicle that passed some of the same cameras. She was looking for the vehicle that passed them all.

  It had taken almost two hours already.

  It was a vast amount of information to go through. Levy had meticulously listed all of the plates registered at the first ANPR camera Hale had passed. Then she had moved onto the second, deleting any entry on the camera-one list that did not pass camera two. Then the same for the third camera. Then the same for the fourth.

  By the time Levy’s telephone rang at 4 a.m., she was nearing camera five hundred. Her list of other vehicles was now just six plates long.

  Levy glanced at her watch. It was early to receive a call.

  She picked up the phone and put it to her ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is this Joelle Levy?’

  The voice was authoritative. It demanded attention.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name is Joe Dempsey. I’m with the International Security Bureau at the United Nations and I need to speak to you about Michael Devlin.’

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Michael looked at his watch.

  4.15 a.m.

  He had arrived at Brookwood Cemetery at exactly 4 a.m. Both his Omega and the Audi’s digital clock agreed the time. If both were wrong it would be by less than a minute. A margin of error Karl Hirst had to allow.

  Hirst’s instructions had gone no further than Michael’s arrival. 4 a.m. at the cemetery. Nothing more than that. Michael had obeyed them to the letter and had waited at the gated entrance for ten minutes. In the pitch black of night.

  A lamb to the slaughter.

  But the slaughter had not come. Nothing had. And so Michael had had no choice but to follow his instincts and to enter the cemetery itself.

  Brookwood Cemetery was huge. Over five hundred acres, it was the biggest in the UK and one of the biggest in Europe. Michael knew that now, thanks to a quick Google search.

  It was an easy place to get lost. Even in daylight.

  And an easy place to get killed.

  Michael had been walking for five minutes, but he had no idea where to. He had just stuck to the path, following its twists and its turns.

  The darkness was less intense within the grounds. It was an open space, allowing the moon and starlight to do their work. They made a difference; Michael still needed to concentrate to stay on the gravel walkway, but at least it was semi-visible.

  He kept moving. Deeper and deeper into the cemetery. Further and further from the road. From the slightest possibility of a passing car. From any sound but the sound of himself. Of his footsteps. Of his heartbeat.

  Michael could not stop his mind from
racing as he strode onwards. Every step brought new possibilities. New fears.

  Hirst could be anywhere. Behind any of the headstones that Michael could make out in the darkness. Or obscured by any of the larger mausoleums silhouetted in the distance. Wherever Hirst was, he was safe. He was hidden.

  Michael was not.

  Michael was very aware that he was exposed on the path, the only part of the cemetery that offered no cover. It gave Hirst every advantage. He could take Michael – from a distance – whenever he pleased. With no need to dirty his hands. Michael knew that. And knew he was still breathing for only one reason.

  Hirst was enjoying his game.

  Michael looked down at his watch. Ten more minutes had passed. Ten minutes of aimless walking. Ten minutes of tortured anticipation. Ten minutes of Hirst’s pleasure.

  Enough’s enough, Michael thought, unwilling to give Hirst a moment’s more satisfaction. Let’s just get this done.

  He came to a halt. Without the sound of his footsteps, his heartbeat sounded much louder in his ear. It was rapidly increasing in speed. He could feel the rush of adrenaline starting again.

  ‘HIRST!’ Michael’s voice broke the silence like a siren. ‘STOP HIDING, HIRST! YOU WANT ME, I’M HERE!’

  Michael fell quiet. Listened. As intently as he could.

  He did not know what he expected to hear. A response, perhaps? The sound of footsteps on grass? Of a bullet being chambered? Michael could not say. All he knew was what he did not expect to hear.

  ‘HELP! HELP US!’

  The words were faint but they were clear. Whoever screamed them was a distance away. Too far to make out a sex. But that did not matter. It meant that someone was alive.

  It meant that there was hope.

  Michael closed his eyes to block out distractions. To triangulate his position. The voice called out again. It sounded like it came from the right.

  Michael did not hesitate for a moment. He began to run.

  The direction of the voice took Michael off the path. Onto unsteady ground and unseen grave after unseen grave. They slowed his progress, causing him to stumble time and again and to collide with statues. With headstones. Still Michael pushed on, ignoring his pained lungs and his rampant heart. He concentrated only on the screams.