Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

by Karla Forbes

  “No,” Hubner said scathingly, “I know you British like to do everything on the cheap, but I’m sure the authorities draw the line at equipping their operatives with the contents of a kitchen drawer. Whoever she was, she was just an amateur.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “If she wasn’t the law, who was she?”

  Hubner lit a cigarette and sat for a moment, drawing the nicotine deeply into his lungs. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it seemed sensible to get out of there.”

  “The man on the boat,” Wilson stated flatly.

  Hubner turned to him, his expression faintly amused. “His disguise was good, because he had me fooled.”

  “No,” Wilson said irritably, “I mean it has to be something to do with him.”

  “You’re obsessed with this man,” Hubner snapped. “There’s no way he can find us. We’ve covered our tracks too well.”

  “You insisted he was dead and he turned out to be alive,” Wilson countered. “Perhaps you’re wrong about this as well.”

  Hubner sucked nicotine through tight lips. “I’m not wrong.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Wilson asked, sullenly. “You said yourself she was an amateur. I can’t think of any other reason why she would be trying to break into the van.” He jabbed a finger towards Fox. “This is your fault. All you had to do was be polite and smile, and those men would never have suspected that anything was wrong.”

  Hubner watched a tendril of smoke as it drifted towards the ceiling. “I understand your anger, Dave, but it would have made no difference. The moment they saw the scuba diving gear, they were dead. I wasn’t prepared to take the chance on them being able to identify us later on.”

  “Bit late for that,” Wilson muttered sullenly.

  Hubner’s head snapped around. “What do you mean?”

  “Ask Malcolm,” Wilson sneered.

  Hubner turned towards Fox. “What’s Dave talking about?”

  Fox threw Wilson a murderous look. “He’s probably referring to the fact that I touched Feltham’s missus.”

  “Touched?” Hubner repeated, his expression dangerous.

  “He raped her,” Wilson said, avoiding Fox’s eyes.

  Hubner turned back to Fox. “Is this true?” he demanded.

  “Yeah, it’s true,” Fox said defensively. “It was only the once. Have you got a problem with that?”

  Hubner became very still. He sat for a while regarding Fox, then stubbed out his cigarette. When he stood up Fox glared belligerently back, challenging him to do his worst.

  Hubner walked towards him, then stopped. When his fist shot out, the cracking sound of knuckle on jaw made even Wilson wince. Fox ricocheted off the wall and crumpled into a heap on the floor. Immediately he began scrabbling to his feet, his own fists clenched, but the sight of Hubner towering over him made him stay where he was, nursing his jaw with a mutinous expression on his face.

  “You’re a fool,” Hubner told him coldly. He walked away and helped himself to another cigarette from the packet.

  The silence stretched between the three men.

  “We need to limit the damage,” Hubner said, lighting the cigarette in a cupped hand.

  “I don’t see how we can,” Wilson said sourly, reluctant to see Fox escape full retribution.

  Hubner tossed the match aside. “The police will be staking out the Airport, expecting us to fly out from there. If they find Malcolm’s car parked at Ashford International, it will confuse them. They’ll be wondering if we’ve already left the country. They’ll be unsure, not knowing where to concentrate their efforts. They won’t have a clue what the hell is going on, and if we’re lucky, they’ll be unable to react in time when we surprise them.”

  “But we’ll be down to just the one vehicle,” Fox protested.

  Hubner turned to him coldly, his expression stating, without words, that Fox had forfeited the right to an opinion.

  Fox shrank under the scrutiny.

  “Do it tonight,” Hubner told Wilson, as though Fox hadn’t spoken. “Go together in separate vehicles, park the car and come back in the van.” He reached behind him for the ignition keys and threw them at Fox. “Get going. If we wait any longer it might be too late. Any sign of the police, turn straight around again and make sure you’re not followed back here.”

  Fox sullenly retrieved the keys from the floor and hurried out. Wilson hung back until he was out of earshot.

  “You let him off lightly,” he complained. He knew he was sounding churlish, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “We still need him,” Hubner pointed out.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But nothing,” Hubner interrupted. “He still has a part to play, and I won’t allow anger to get in the way of the success of this operation.”

  “He’s a liability,” Wilson wheedled. “By now they’ll know who he is, and when they search his house they’ll find our fingerprints everywhere.”

  Hubner took a deep lungful of nicotine. “It’s bad, I agree, but at least we’re aware of the situation. We must be more vigilant than ever.” He tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. The action was measured and controlled. When he looked up, his face was devoid of expression. “The minute he has served his purpose, I will take great pleasure in killing him.”

  ***

  As the van and the BMW pulled out of the caravan park, neither man noticed the small unexceptional-looking car parked in the shadows. Neither did Nick notice them. He had finally fallen asleep on the back seat, his muscles wracked with shivering, and a cold sweat on his forehead. The food he had bought lay uneaten on the front passenger seat, the opened packet of paracetamol beside it. The last thought that had crept into his head before sleep had finally claimed him was that he was rarely ill, so why the hell had his body chosen to let him down at this most inconvenient moment?

  When, hours later, he woke with a start, the thin sun was streaming into his eyes and the white van was standing alone. He stretched and peered drowsily around him, and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. The crick in his neck reminded him. He dragged himself out of the car on legs that had turned to jelly, and stumbled to the nearest tree to empty his bladder. Five minutes later he was walking into the reception office to book a caravan.

  It was a dingy building, with peeling décor and an air of neglect. Dust from every surface danced in the beam of sunlight that shone through the cracked window. The Receptionist was young, but her expression was jaded. She eyed him warily.

  “How do you intend to pay?” she demanded, taking a noticeable step back.

  Nick brandished his wallet, inwardly cringing. It was a new experience for him to be treated as though his normal habitat was a shop doorway. Usually, his confident manner, expensive appearance and platinum cards dispelled the doubts of even the most hardened sceptic.

  She reluctantly took the money from him with the tips of her fingers, and handed him a key.

  “Is Number 47 free?” he asked hopefully.

  The Receptionist rolled her eyes and made a big point of checking a board that was heavy with keys. She seemed mildly disgruntled to find that Caravan Number 47 was still available. She slipped it off the hook but closed her hand over it as Nick reached out to take it. “Why Number 47?” she asked suspiciously.

  Nick no longer had the energy to exercise his imagination. “It’s my lucky number,” he said wearily.

  “Lucky number? I’d consider changing it if I were you.” She dropped the key into his outstretched hand and clamped her mouth closed, the conversation at an end.

  Chastened, Nick hurried off to let himself into his temporary home. Usually women flashed their eyes at him with interest, so he wondered just how bad he looked. When he let himself into the caravan and saw himself in a mirror, he came to the conclusion that she had been lenient. He should have been shown the door.

  His unshaven chin and general dishevelment was the least of his problems. He had
taken on a haggard and edgy appearance, made worse by a pallid complexion and dark shadows under his eyes. His mouth had grown hard and his expression guarded. On top of that, he was reasonably sure that he didn’t smell too good. Sprinting out of the house without a wash the previous day and spending the night sleeping in the car had done nothing for his personal charms. He rummaged through the supplies that he had bought after his trip to the cash machine, retrieved toothpaste and soap, and headed for the shower.

  When he emerged, twenty minutes later, he was feeling more presentable in spite of the fact that his meagre supplies didn’t run to a change of clothes. He gave a rueful grin, surprised at how quickly he was adapting to a life on the run. His thoughts turned to food. He still wasn’t hungry, but his empty stomach was growling and he grudgingly conceded that the sensible thing to do was try to eat. He dropped two slices of bread in the toaster, flicked on the television and boiled a kettle of water for coffee.

  Positioning himself near the window so that he could watch for signs of activity outside, he sipped black coffee and nibbled dry toast without enthusiasm. The van stood alone; the caravan seemed deserted. He berated himself for his earlier lack of vigilance, but consoled himself with the thought that even though the BMW was gone, the van was still there. The trail might be moribund, but it wasn’t actually dead.

  With a start he remembered Annelies and reached for her mobile. He assumed that by now she was back home in Brighton, but for peace of mind, he needed to hear her confirm that. As he flicked through the menu for her home number, he was only vaguely aware of the news being read on the television. It was only when he heard his own name that his head snapped up, and he stared at the screen with disbelief. The image of himself laughing back at the camera was clean-shaven and confident, radiating health and vitality. He remembered it being taken. He and Esther had been on holiday in the Maldives, and she had snapped him as he was setting off into the sea with a surfboard under his arm. She had always liked the photograph, and had given it pride of place on her bedside cabinet.

  If he had harboured any doubts that their marriage was really over, they would have been utterly dispelled by the fact that she had chosen this particular photograph to hand to the police. Nick gaped with disbelief, his toast frozen half way to his mouth. He was barely aware of what the newsreader was saying. Slowly, like a man emerging from a deep sleep, the words began to penetrate his shocked brain.

  The police have released details of a man they are keen to talk to regarding a murder that took place nearly two weeks ago. His name is Nicholas Sullivan; he is thirty-four years of age, five foot eleven tall and of slim build. He was last seen in the Sussex area, but police have reason to believe that he might be staying somewhere in Kent.

  The photograph shown here is believed to be up to date, but police are keen to stress that Sullivan might have taken steps to change his appearance. Anyone who thinks they have seen this man should contact the police either by phoning their nearest station or calling the emergency services.

  The newsreader moved on to other topics. Like an automaton, Nick laid the mobile phone aside and walked over to the television set. He switched it off and took several faltering steps backwards until he came up against the sofa and sat down heavily.

  “That’s just marvellous,” he said aloud. “What the hell am I going to do now?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mark Anson called the meeting to order. There were three other men present besides himself: his immediate superior (an older man named Jenkins, whose trim waistline and expensive grooming made the most of his silver hair and well-worn features), Curtis (a younger version of Anson, ordinary and anonymous), and Chief Inspector McKay from SO12.

  “The position so far,” Anson said, addressing the assembled group, “is this. Sarah Feltham was raped by Malcolm Fox, making it almost certain that he is one of the men behind the plutonium threat.”

  “Why ‘almost certain’?” Curtis asked.

  Anson addressed his answer to everyone. “We can’t rule out the possibility that Fox just happened to be in a situation where he could rape Mrs Feltham without actually being a party to the plot, but it’s unlikely.” He pushed away from the table, walked across to a flip chart, and wrote the name FOX in the middle of a blank page. “More certain is the fact that, assuming Fox is our man, he isn’t working alone. The note refers to the plural, and this whole enterprise is too much for one man to pull off single-handedly.” He drew two straight lines leading away from Fox’s name. “A witness places Fox in the company of two men in a broken-down boat nearly two weeks ago. According to this witness, he and his friend offered their assistance, and as a result the friend was murdered.”

  “The witness being Nicholas Sullivan,” McKay explained, “originally the main suspect for the murder, who has subsequently gone on the run.”

  “So,” Anson said, drawing two question marks against the lines, “the next question we have to answer is: who are these men? Several hours ago, we raided Fox’s house in Croydon. As we expected it was empty, and if the build-up of post was anything to go by, it had been for several days. SOCO were able to take four distinct sets of prints. One obviously was Malcolm Fox himself, and two of the others have been identified as belonging to two men he was in prison with: David Wilson and Gerhard Hubner. So, we have our culprits. All we have to do now is find them and persuade them to tell us where the plutonium is.”

  A thoughtful silence followed this announcement.

  “We can’t go public with this,” Jenkins said, taking over the narrative. “If these three men realise that we know who they are, they’ll go underground and we’ll never find them in time.”

  “Won’t they assume that anyway?” McKay asked. “Fox raped the woman, remember.”

  “True,” Jensen agreed, “but he might not have shared that unsavoury piece of information with the others. At this stage we shouldn’t be doing anything that might alert them to something they don’t already know.”

  “So what’s the plan?” McKay asked. “The clock’s against us. If we haven’t found them by tomorrow, it’s going to be too late.

  “We’ll use Sullivan,” Anson said confidently. “If we find him, we find them. We have every reason to believe that he knows where they are. First of all he showed up in Fox’s house and phoned a warning through to Kent Police, which unfortunately wasn’t acted upon. After that he disappeared for a while, but then turned up yesterday evening at Clacket Lane Services, paying for petrol with his credit card.”

  “Do we know it was definitely him?” McKay asked. “Could someone have stolen his cards?”

  “No, it was him all right,” Anson confirmed. “We’ve examined CCTV footage. Later that night, he used a cash machine in Ramsgate to take money from his account.” He waited for the others to grasp the significance of what he was saying.

  McKay leaned forward, his interest quickening. “Bloody hell, Ramsgate’s just five miles down the road from Kent International Airport.”

  “Exactly,” Anson said. “We might not know where these three men are, but I’d put money on the fact that Sullivan does. It seems he went on the run for one reason: to hunt them down. With luck, he succeeded.” Anson wrote the name SULLIVAN on the flip chart, circled it with a flourish, and drew a heavy line back towards FOX. “Sullivan is our link to Fox, Wilson and Hubner.”

  “What are we doing to find him?” Jensen asked.

  “All of the news channels are showing his photograph and description. It was too late for this morning’s papers, but it will be picked up by the evening editions. And of course there will be full press coverage tomorrow.”

  “Anything so far?” McKay asked.

  “Not yet,” Anson admitted. “Don’t forget this man doesn’t want to be found. He’s been giving the police the slip for several days now. He’s not likely to walk into the nearest police station and hand himself in. We know that he was originally being helped by a woman called Annelies Burgen. She’s subsequently
turned up in hospital, having been involved in a serious road accident.”

  “We don’t know exactly what happened,” McKay interjected. “She came round briefly, but before she could explain what had happened she suffered a relapse. It’s not looking good; there’s no way we can rely on her being able to help. However, it’s safe to assume that he’s using her car. She didn’t leave it at home and she was on foot when she was hit, but so far it hasn’t turned up anywhere. We’ve circulated the details, so it’s only a matter of time before we bring him in. He’s not going to get very far driving a car that every traffic cop in the country is looking out for, and with his face plastered over every newspaper and television screen.”

  Curtis swallowed, reluctant to be the one to point out the obvious. “He’s managed to evade the authorities so far,” he said. “If his luck holds, we might not find him in time. As we all know, the clock is ticking.”

  Anson returned to the table. “True, but up to now we haven’t been throwing everything we’ve got into finding him.” Anson leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his neck, his attitude relaxed. “Another thing to consider is that his circumstances might have changed.”

  “In what way?” McKay asked, speaking for everyone.

  “As I said, there were four sets of fingerprints in Fox’s house. We were able to identify three. We’re assuming that the fourth set belonged to Sullivan, who hasn’t got a police record. We found a clear set on the telephone from where he called the police. We found the same fingerprints on a bowl in the kitchen. This bowl had a thick residue of plutonium around the inside, and someone – we assume it was Sullivan – had scraped a quantity of the plutonium away.”

  “The implication being?” Jenkins asked.

  “We also found blood,” Anson told the group. “If it was Sullivan’s blood, he must have had a cut on his hand. And if that’s the case, the plutonium might have got into his system.”

  “Shit!” McKay spat. “Are we looking for a corpse?”