Revenge

by James Patterson

The way Susie Drake nodded, combined with a look of complete understanding, sent a shudder of momentary jealousy running through Lucy that she damped down quickly, changing the subject. ‘And lucky for you he’s on your side. He’s asked me to come here. He thinks that you might be a target.’

  Susie blanched. ‘Really? A target for what?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you it was Chechen gangsters?’

  Susie stared at her for a moment as her mouth tried to form words – words like ‘how?’ and ‘what?’ and ‘why?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t have many more details than that. But when Shelley rings me up and tells me to find you – I didn’t even know which spa you were at, by the way – I know it’s got to be pretty serious, so here I am.’

  ‘This is Guy, isn’t it? He’s got us into trouble?’

  ‘Again, this is stuff for later. We have to get going.’

  ‘Then step outside, let me get changed. I can see you in reception.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Lucy and turned to leave.

  As she stepped through the door she almost bumped into the woman from reception, who stood with a spa representative. The rep stopped her tour mid-flow, excusing herself to speak to Lucy. ‘I gather you were ensuring that our disabled facilities are up to scratch?’ she asked, with the same polite but mildly suspicious smile worn by her colleague.

  ‘And they are,’ said Lucy, ‘I’m very impressed indeed. You can be sure that my friend and I will be submitting our applications soon.’

  ‘Well, I very much look forward to receiving them,’ smiled the rep.

  Lucy turned to the sofa woman. ‘You’re going to love it,’ she beamed. ‘The pool is absolutely to die for.’

  ‘Great, I love what I’ve seen so far, at least,’ said the woman. When she turned, Lucy noticed there was something odd about her right arm. It hung at a strange angle so that it looked as though she were carrying something underneath it, even though she wasn’t. Lucy looked from the arm to the woman again. The sunglasses gave nothing away. The mouth was set. Her hair was well cut but the gold hoop earrings she wore were a little downmarket.

  Their eyes met, and something unreadable passed between them, a moment that was broken when Lucy smiled and turned away. As she walked around the corner, she heard the rep start up again, like a recording that had been temporarily paused: ‘Excellent. Now, if you’d like to step this way, I shall show you our changing facilities …’

  Lucy returned to front of house and took a seat in reception, having repeated her glowing report to the greeter and told a story about bumping into a friend in the changing room. ‘We’ve arranged to go for a coffee together,’ she said. ‘Would it be okay if I wait here?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the greeter and smiled. The woman’s eyes flicked to the entranceway, and when Lucy turned her head she saw that a dark Range Rover had arrived and was backing into a car park space.

  Nothing suspicious about that, she thought. Just a Range Rover. Millions of them around.

  CHAPTER 38

  HARDENED COPS HAD lost their lunch. Scene of crime units had been summoned. Uniformed officers looked pale and drawn as they busied themselves setting up a perimeter and trying not to look at the savaged corpse in the BMW.

  In the meantime, Detective Inspector Phillips had arrived. He and Drake were acquainted; the two of them had talked during the Emma investigation, while Shelley, of course, had spoken to DI Phillips on the day of the aborted brainstorming session. That initial contact won them a little more courtesy than they otherwise might have expected, and so far Phillips had treated them all as though they were civilians in receipt of a terrible shock, their friend and colleague Adrian Johnson brutally murdered, and in turn they’d done their best to play up to it, but the pretence wouldn’t last for ever. Phillips was already beginning to lose patience.

  ‘You had nothing to do with torching the unit last night. That’s what you’re telling me?’ His question was aimed at all four men.

  ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about, mate,’ replied Shelley.

  ‘If it’s quite all right with you, lad, I’ll wait until my lawyer arrives,’ said Drake, who as far as Shelley knew hadn’t even called his lawyer.

  They sat on stools at the centre island in the kitchen. Gurney had made coffee. ‘Here’s what I think, officer,’ offered Bennett, with a face commendably devoid of expression. ‘Whoever did this believes that Mr Drake was somehow responsible for last night’s fire, and they killed our friend in retribution.’

  Phillips shook his head at the insult to his intelligence, not even bothering to respond. ‘Wait there,’ he said. A uniform had appeared in the doorway and Phillips walked over to him, keeping an eye on the quartet at the kitchen island who in turn watched him as he bent to hear his officer’s news and then returned and retook his place at the island. ‘Somebody claiming to be a neighbour reported men with guns, which is why we sent the armed response. Which of your neighbours has a Russian accent, Mr Drake?’

  ‘Well, I’m quite sure I don’t know all my neighbours, lad,’ said Drake. ‘You’ll have to do a door-to-door, would be my recommendation.’

  ‘Well, yes, we might well have to do that,’ said Phillips, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the countertop. ‘But you know what I think? I think that if we did do a door-to-door then it would turn up the fact that none of your neighbours have Russian accents.

  ‘Right, I’m getting sick of this. You.’ He pointed a finger at Shelley. ‘I want a word with you alone.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Drake, rising at the same time as Shelley, indignant. ‘This is my house.’

  ‘This is my crime scene,’ said DI Phillips, ‘and I want a word with a witness. You would have no vested interest in interfering with that, would you, sir? I mean, I’m not misjudging you, am I?’

  Reluctantly, Drake sat down. Shelley followed Phillips out of the kitchen and into the entrance hall.

  ‘Chechen Mafia,’ said Detective Inspector Phillips simply. ‘Wait.’ He held up a finger. ‘Don’t give me any bullshit. Because I’m the one who tells Claridge what he tells you, do you understand?’

  ‘You can ask Claridge,’ said Shelley. ‘He called me only an hour ago.’

  ‘That’s the first you heard of Chechen Mafia.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shelley.

  ‘Doesn’t mean to say you’re in the clear for last night,’ said Phillips. ‘Perhaps you’re just a bunch of fuckwits who decided to take on the Mafia by mistake. A bunch of fuckwits who hit the wrong building. Are you? Are you those fuckwits?’

  Shelley looked past his shoulder and into the kitchen, where Bennett, Gurney and Drake still sat, unable to hear what was going on but watching all the same.

  Are we? thought Shelley. Are we really that stupid?

  He looked at Gurney. Bennett. Drake.

  Are we really that stupid?

  He wondered how Lucy was getting on.

  CHAPTER 39

  SO, THAT WAS Lucy Shelley, thought Susie Drake, motionless on the changing room’s polished-ash bench in the wake of the other woman’s departure. The famous Lucy Shelley.

  And then, with a shudder of something that was partly regret and partly desire, she remembered the kiss, a thank-you-for-your-help-today kiss that had become something greater – when, for the briefest moment, David almost hadn’t pulled away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said at the same time as she was saying the same thing. They’d both reddened. Both surprised and yet not surprised that their sort-of flirtation had been allowed to flower despite the stable base of her rock-solid marriage and his forth-coming one.

  And that had been it. One time only.

  Still, though. She’d thought about it. She’d lain awake at night thinking about it, thanking God that neither Emma nor Guy, or anybody else for that matter, had blundered into the kitchen and seen them. Thanking God that it had not developed.

  Thinking about it developing.

  How did he feel? S
he’d never asked him. They had never discussed the kiss; they’d pretended it never happened. It didn’t matter, though, because although nothing was said, the knowledge still existed between them. It was just … there.

  Then had come the kidnapping attempt, and he’d announced he was leaving.

  She’d been to see him. ‘I lost concentration,’ he told her. He held her gaze and they both knew what he meant, and why. They both knew that his position with the family had been compromised.

  ‘You saved our lives,’ she told him, just as she knew Emma had.

  ‘I was lucky,’ he replied. ‘But in my job, you don’t rely on luck. It’s about planning and forethought. Anticipation. That’s what I lost. I’ve been distracted.’

  ‘What about if I don’t want you to go?’ she heard herself say.

  ‘It’s better that I go,’ he insisted. ‘It’s better all round if I go.’

  She hated herself for what she said next: ‘Even if it means letting Emma down?’

  ‘I’ve already let Emma down,’ he said. ‘Emma. You. Lucy.’

  And that was the only time he had, directly or indirectly, referred to what happened between them. The only time either of them had.

  So to see – to actually meet – Lucy Shelley. No surprise, her heart was thudding heavily in her chest. Her palms were wet, nothing to do with the pool. Should she have felt anything? she wondered. Should she read any significance into the fact that David had sent Lucy here?

  No, don’t be ridiculous, Susie. The only thing to read into Lucy being here was that the situation was serious. That’s all there was to it. Now was the time to stop daydreaming about a brief, stolen kiss that happened over a decade ago and time to start getting dressed and doing as Lucy said: getting the hell out of there.

  Just then the door to the changing room opened and in came one of the smartly dressed spa staff, a really nice woman who Susie recognised as Judith – she gave great massages.

  Behind Judith came a well-dressed woman who wore a pair of dark sunglasses – incongruous, even for Hampstead. Judith was telling her about the benefits of membership, nay, the joys of membership, and the woman was smiling and nodding as though hanging on every word. Even so, Susie got the distinct impression that the woman was less interested in Judith and more interested in her.

  Susie stood up, smiling at the two women, and moved over to her locker. She wished she was wearing her contact lenses or spectacles; she always found it difficult to operate the combination locks in the dim light. That was the price you paid for luxury, she supposed. You got ambient lighting complemented by whale noises, but you couldn’t see a thing.

  She opened the locker, retrieved her clothes and turned to where Judith was still rabbiting on about the spa’s benefits, the woman continuing to nod appreciatively. Again, Susie felt that behind her shades, the woman’s eyes were on her.

  And now she started to wonder. Was it just coincidence? Was it her mind, or her eyesight, playing tricks? But she had the notion that she knew this woman from somewhere.

  Yes, she did. It was like one of those moments when you saw somebody out of context. A waiter you associated with one restaurant suddenly turning up in another. A friendly shop assistant spotted in the street. Something so familiar about her.

  But what?

  Someone off the telly, perhaps? Or maybe it was just nothing, plain and simple.

  Susie getting jumpy. Blame it on Lucy Shelley and her we really have to go business.

  Yes, that’s all it is, thought Susie as she let herself into a cubicle, acutely aware that Lucy would be waiting for her in reception.

  In her bag was her phone. She fished it out and tried Guy, but there was no answer.

  CHAPTER 40

  A FEW MOMENTS later Susie had pulled on leggings, a top and a zip-up hoodie, and laced up her trainers. Judith and the sunglasses woman had disappeared to another area of the changing facilities, but now they returned, Judith still doing the sales pitch.

  Susie smiled as she let herself out of the cubicle.

  For the first time, she noticed there was something wrong with the woman’s right arm, which hung in a slightly unusual way. She looked at the woman, trying to be discreet, but then again half hoping their eyes would meet and it would click, how they knew one another.

  No such luck. The woman had turned – pointedly? Susie wasn’t sure – and Susie was in danger of looking like a stalker if she hung around gawping for much longer. Then again, they were in a spa, all women together. What hurt could it do to ask?

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, butting in, ‘but do I know you?’

  And then it was as though the woman had been playing a role, the part of ‘customer being shown around a health spa’, and just for a second her mask slipped, like an actor who accidentally looks into the camera, and she faltered, she definitely faltered. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ pressed Susie. ‘You’re not from around Ascot way, are you?’

  Judith stood by, hands clasped, no doubt delighted that the connection was being made.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the woman, but a steel had crept into her voice, a defensiveness that if anything made Susie even more determined to get to the bottom of this recognition thing that was going on, and so for a moment the two of them simply stared at one another with an intensity that caused Judith to clear her throat uncomfortably until, with a lurch of horror, Susie realised that she did know the woman. Oh yes, she knew her all right. They went way back.

  Her mouth dropped open. And it must have been written all over her face, because the woman reached into her handbag.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Susie Drake.

  CHAPTER 41

  IN RECEPTION, LUCY wondered what was taking Susie so long. Come on, come on, she urged mentally, keeping up a game of polite-smile tennis with the greeter. At last she saw the light behind the door to the treatment suites change, the door open, and then Susie appeared.

  Lucy was about to stand when she was stopped by the look on Susie’s face. She was pensive, almost terrified. Behind her came the health spa rep. She, too, was ashen-faced.

  And behind both of them came the sofa woman from reception. She still wore her sunglasses. Only this time she carried her handbag in front of her in a slightly awkward fashion. Like you might if you held a hidden gun.

  In between bouts of smile-tennis with the greeter, Susie had been leafing through a copy of Vogue – in Italian, of course – and now she pretended to be more interested in the magazine than the strange procession making its way through reception.

  She threw a surreptitious glance at Susie, who narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly, but enough to confirm Lucy’s suspicions. The greeter watched quizzically, a half-smile drifting about her lips, not sure whether to say anything or not.

  As the three women passed through reception with not a word exchanged, Lucy looked beyond them into the car park where two men had been lounging on the Range Rover. The men pulled themselves to their feet, ready, at the same time as the door swooshed expensively shut behind the three women.

  Lucy stood. ‘Call the police,’ she said to the greeter.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said the woman.

  ‘Call the police, tell them that a kidnap attempt is in progress,’ repeated Lucy. She was no longer pretending to be posh. Instead she drew her gun, eliciting a gasp from the greeter, and placed it inside the copy of Vogue, out of sight. The door swooshed open, admitting her to the car park.

  Oh God, she thought. Oh, Christ. So badly outnumbered it wasn’t true.

  She stitched on her widest, brightest, most innocent and happy-to-help smile as she crossed the car park, trotting up behind the three women. One of the Range Rover guys had seen her and was frowning but he must have assumed she was just a distraction, nothing to worry about, and he didn’t reach for a gun or try to challenge her.

  There were only two things she had in her favour, she realised grimly: surprise and the fact that they’d
underestimate her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she called after the group. ‘Excuse me, I think you’ve forgotten your magazine.’

  Sofa woman told the other two, ‘Keep going,’ and then turned for the magazine. ‘Thank you, I’ll take it.’

  And still she held her handbag in front of her, and Lucy knew full well the handbag would contain her gun. What’s more, there was something in this woman’s eyes that told Lucy she’d know how to use that gun. This was it. There was no option now but attack.

  Abruptly she sped up. At the same time, she discarded the magazine, showing her SIG.

  The purpose was to surprise her opponent, and it worked, for in the space of a heartbeat the woman went from thinking of Lucy as a temporary irritant to knowing she was a real threat, but it was just the delay that Lucy needed.

  She launched her offensive on the run, using all of her forward momentum, bending, feeling the torque in her body as she pulled back her right arm and swung, using the grip of the SIG like a knuckle duster and making contact with the sweet spot just below the woman’s jaw. The kidnapper’s sunglasses flew from her face as she staggered back and fell, releasing her bag and out of the fight for the time being at least.

  Lucy heard a scream and from the corner of her eye saw the woman from the spa running back towards the safety of the building. Galvanised, the men beyond her went for their guns. One of them reached for Susie Drake and began to drag her to the car. The other, making his way over to where the sofa woman was trying to pull herself to her feet, produced a Russian Makarov, barrel swinging Lucy’s way.

  In the old days they’d called it ‘crack and thump’. A round travels faster than sound so you’d hear the crack of the bullet followed by the thump of it leaving the barrel. Lucy heard it now, and the fact that she heard it meant that she hadn’t been hit. She jinked across and out of the cone of fire just as she heard the thunderclap of another weapon. A third guy. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Range Rover and she saw a Glock 18 judder as he pumped three quick rounds across the seats and out of the open passenger door. Glass behind shattered. Bullets ricocheted off concrete. Susie’s captor screamed in Russian for his trigger-happy pal to hold fire but his comrade had the light of murder in his eyes and he drew a fresh bead on Lucy.