Capital Punishment

by Robert Wilson

  The night was silent, the river black.

  He made his way back to the casino, feeling solid again, the hole in his centre collapsed to a pinpoint.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Makepeace, the head of Specialist Crime Directorate 7, which contained the Met’s Kidnap Unit, sat at the top of the stairs, listening to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and becoming more unimpressed by the moment.

  ‘So what you’re telling me, sir, is that, despite being the Met’s best performing department with a 99.5% recovery record, we’ve got to let the highest profile case we’ve had in the last five years go private,’ said Makepeace, quietly savage with fury. ‘All these years we’ve been handling ugly little crimes with Yardies, Albanians, Chinese and the like, and now, when the big number comes along, we’ve got to hand it over to some tosser with a fancy office in Mayfair.’

  ‘I know,’ said the Commissioner, sympathising, ‘all they have is a single client from whom they’re trying to make a buck, while we have the safety of eight million people to consider. It’s just politics, Peter.’

  ‘And that’s another point, isn’t it, sir? What if they’re terrorists, these kidnappers? We have defined procedures; what do Pavis Risk Management have? Probably just a bonus structure.’

  ‘They won’t be performing without supervision,’ said the Commissioner. ‘We’re not giving them free rein.’

  ‘And what’s their experience in running a London-based kidnap?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘All these guys are experts in Colombia and Pakistan, but what do they know about London? We’ve got all the informers—’

  ‘The kidnap consultant they want to use, like most of these private security company guys, is ex-army. He fought in the first Gulf War with the Staffords,’ said the Commissioner, glancing down his notes, cutting through the fury, edging towards the compromise now, ‘but afterwards he joined the Met as a homicide detective.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Charles Boxer.’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I didn’t know the PSC he freelanced for was called Pavis,’ said Makepeace. ‘His ex-partner works for me in SCD7. Her name is Mercy Danquah. She’s Ghanaian. They had a daughter together but split up straight away.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘No, no, very well. They’re still good friends,’ said Makepeace. ‘He left his salaried job with GRM the year before last because he was out of the country all the time. The daughter was becoming a bit of a problem, you know, like all teenagers. Mercy was taking the brunt, so he quit.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘It’s possible. I could live with Mercy being a co-consultant,’ said Makepeace. ‘I’d still like to have someone else in there to do some groundwork. And we’d want access to Pavis’s operations desk.’

  ‘In a supervisory role?’

  ‘In an ideal world I’d like to run it.’

  ‘And if they’re not amenable to that?’

  ‘We’d like to be consulted on all operational matters with the right to veto,’ said Makepeace. ‘And if we suspect any terrorist connection, we take over the whole show.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

  Boxer looked from his mobile screen to the two kings and two fours in his hand, weighed it: Martin Fox with a job possibility or the potential for a full house.

  ‘I’m going to have to take this,’ he said, folding.

  He left the room, stood in the granite-tiled corridor between two uplighters.

  ‘Martin. How’s it going?’

  ‘Hello, Charlie. Where are you?’

  ‘Tierra del Fuego.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Fox. ‘I can tell I didn’t wake you up. Is it windy?’

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve got a job for me.’

  ‘I do, but the initial meeting is over here, not Argentina.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A girl’s been kidnapped in London. The client asked for you by name.’

  ‘How did he know me?’

  ‘You only find that out face to face.’

  ‘I’m in Lisbon.’

  ‘I know. I just tracked you,’ said Fox. ‘It didn’t sound like Patagonia in the background. Business or pleasure?’

  ‘In London, you said.’

  ‘Are you interested?’ asked Fox.

  ‘When’s the meeting?’

  ‘Two this afternoon in the Ritz.’

  ‘My flight’s not until this evening.’

  ‘I’ll book you an earlier one, business class.’

  ‘London?’ said Boxer, not letting that detail get away from him. ‘What about the Met?’

  ‘We’re entering into a collaborative arrangement with them.’

  ‘And now comes the small print,’ said Boxer. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You have to work with them. I have to work with them. The client mustn’t know.’

  ‘He’s important then?’

  ‘Ministers of the realm are involved.’

  ‘Who am I going to have to work with from the Met?’

  ‘Mercy is going to be your co-consultant.’

  ‘And how’s that going to work?’

  ‘I haven’t got all the details yet,’ said Fox. ‘That was all the special risks underwriter at Lloyd’s was prepared to tell me.’

  Silence, while Boxer thought it through.

  ‘I’ll double your daily rate, given the circs.’

  ‘Now you’re making me suspicious.’

  ‘There’s more work for Pavis where this comes from.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to keep my hand in somehow,’ said Boxer finally. ‘And you’ll owe me one.’

  ‘Will I?’ said Fox.

  5

  6.45 A.M., SUNDAY 11TH MARCH 2012

  location unknown

  Alyshia lay on her back, still with the velvet underside of the sleeping mask pressing against her cheekbones. Her eyes were open and desperate to see something other than the swirling colours that zero visual stimulation sent to her retina.

  The house rules had not been difficult to understand. Privileges had to be earned by answering questions and would be withdrawn for minor infringements such as doing anything without permission. Refusal to answer questions would be punished by being cuffed to the bed in increasingly more uncomfortable positions. Any assault on staff would incur corporal punishment. Any attempt to leave the room would be considered an escape and punishable by sexual violation.

  ‘Rape?’ said Alyshia. ‘So you wouldn’t kill me?’

  ‘No point. There’s considerable investment tied up in your detention,’ said the voice. ‘And don’t think it’s a soft option. If you try to escape, you’ll be gang-banged by thugs. So, not only will you fail, but you’ll be scarred for life. Don’t even think about it, Alyshia. Just concentrate on giving us what we want and improving your quality of life.’

  The sleeping mask was making her claustrophobic. Not in the way that the closed cab in the dark garage had made her panic, but more anxious than she’d like to feel. She needed a horizon. She had always avoided situations that might put her out of sight of land. She also did not like the abstract, preferred the figurative. In her state of sensory deprivation, these were the fragments of truth about herself that she was facing up to. But there were other fears, of a more personal nature, that would normally have remained subliminal but were beginning to nudge at the surface of her consciousness. This was why she wanted to see. Darkness encouraged doubt. Light would give her balance. But she didn’t want to show them that darkness was a weakness. She was forcing herself to endure this state for as long as possible to show them that being blindfolded was no problem.

  The formulation of this minor strategy gave her some small strength. She raised her knees, crossed one leg over the other and set her foot nodding as if she was connected to her iPod. She would not ask anything of them, but rather force them
to come to her as often as possible and this would give her the opportunity to negotiate.

  Her brain calmed down. She could concentrate. She sifted through memories for unlikely things that might help her. The rare afternoons of cable TV, watching survival stories. People in impossibly extreme situations and how they coped. Survivors all talked about giving themselves things to do and think about, so that they didn’t get overwhelmed by the direness of their circumstances. They focused on immediate problems, like making their rations last. What did she have? What was the equivalent of making her rations last?

  She needed something more active than the passive strategy of waiting for them to ask her questions. There might be long hours of boredom to get through. Prioritise your needs. That’s good. A top ten of what would improve her current situation. Number one was obvious: removal of the sleeping mask. Number two: wash. Feeling clean had always been important to her, especially when she had been in Mumbai. Number three: how about a JCB digger? What sort of question would you have to answer to get one of those? Something really, phenomenally intimate about her father. Yes, well, she knew a few things that nobody else knew about her father.

  ‘You’re smiling, Alyshia.’

  She shouldn’t have smiled. That was bad. Must have been the thought of the JCB.

  ‘I was just imagining myself elsewhere,’ she said. ‘I have to keep myself amused.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘On a beach in Goa.’

  ‘With anybody?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘A friend like Duane?’

  Silence. How did he know about Duane? Nobody knew about Duane.

  ‘Who’s Duane?’ she asked, but she knew the beat had blown it.

  ‘Try again, Alyshia.’

  She uncrossed her legs, planted her feet to steady herself. All the strength she’d just built up dissipated. These people knew her.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about Duane, no.’

  ‘He’ll be sad about that, but Curtis won’t. Curtis will be happy, even if you weren’t thinking about Curtis.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Curtis?’

  ‘I haven’t, no. We don’t do that sort of thing,’ said the voice. ‘Did you know that Curtis had an unfortunate accident the other day?’

  ‘No,’ she said, concerned. ‘You didn’t hurt him, did you?’

  ‘No. You did,’ said the voice. ‘He saw you with Duane. Young guys like that find it hard to take. They get jealous. You might think it’s all fair in love and war—’

  ‘And kidnapping.’

  ‘Good one, Alyshia. You’re one tough cookie. But then again, secretive people are tough. Knowing things that others don’t gives you strength. Your father’s the same.’

  ‘Nobody gets ahead by letting others know what they’re thinking.’

  ‘Did Frank tell you that?’

  ‘My father always used to say: “If you’re straight with people, they’ll take every opportunity to block you”.’

  ‘That includes Frank’s most loyal employees.’

  ‘Are you one of his ex-employees?’

  ‘It’s probably better that you don’t know who I am,’ said the voice. ‘That way, you stay alive.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten about the return on your investment.’

  ‘There’s no return if I’m in jail. The moment I think, or even suspect, the game’s up, you’re finished, Alyshia,’ said the voice. ‘Your father took off from Mumbai some hours ago. He’ll be in London soon. We want to call him with a welcome gift, to show him that you’re alive and well. You should find it easier to give us something on your father than your mother.’

  The voice was right there. Her mother had nothing to hide: vo-vó-voom was the level of her family secrets. Her father was different. The trick was to select the secret that would be least damaging. But she also wanted to protect the personal things. The names they had for each other when it was just them in the room and they were talking, father to daughter. Why should these people know the sort of thing that not even her mother knew?

  ‘My father gives a lot of interviews. He used to be an actor. Whenever they asked him his favourite book, he would always give an Indian author’s name, because he said it was important to be patriotic. But really his favourite book of all time is The Great Gatsby.’

  ‘A very interesting character, Alyshia,’ said the voice. ‘I’m not surprised. Your father has always had tremendous powers of reinvention. So much so that nobody could ever possibly know him.’

  The flight from Lisbon landed late at Heathrow, around 11.30 a.m. Immigration was packed. While he was waiting, Boxer thought about working with Mercy. It had never happened before, although they had compared notes on cases. Despite their separation, they were still very close, and not just good friends, more like siblings. They knew each other better than lovers, which was probably why it hadn’t worked out on that front. But he did love her. More than anyone he’d met before or since. He felt nobody else saw what he saw in Mercy. Where strangers saw a tall, slim, erect, utterly driven cop, he saw the long limbs, the high cheekbones, the almond-shaped eyes and the rare but dazzling smile that showed the deeply buried sweetness of the heart within. He knew they would work well together, because they had that most indestructible of human connections: trust.

  He called her, thinking if she’d been given this job, she’d have left the course she was on and would now be at home with Amy. He needed to start repairing the damage.

  ‘Is that my new colleague?’ said Mercy, irony on full.

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’ said Boxer. ‘They told you anything yet?’

  ‘Not much. I’m getting a full briefing later today. All I know is that you’re the lead and I’m the supporting actress,’ she said.

  ‘You think this’ll work?’

  ‘Between you and me? Sure,’ said Mercy. ‘As for the rest, once Whitehall’s involved, the Home Sec and all that, who knows? We’re pawns, while the kings and queens do their little dance. How did you get the job?’

  ‘Martin Fox said the client asked for me by name.’

  ‘So who recommended you?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘You should find out. It might tell us something if you were put up by someone like Simon Deacon, for instance.’

  ‘Simon?’ said Boxer, incredulous. ‘MI6 don’t go around recommending people and certainly not people like me.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Look, just let me talk to Amy quickly.’

  ‘Yeah, very funny.’

  ‘Come on, Mercy, don’t mess me around. We parted on a bum note and I want to start patching . . .’

  He ran out to silence as things started dawning.

  ‘What do you mean by “parted”, Charlie?’ said Mercy. ‘She’s with you.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘I gave her her passport so that she could go to Lisbon with you.’

  ‘She called me, said she had to revise for her exams and was going to stay at Karen’s,’ said Boxer. ‘And that she’d spoken to you about it.’

  ‘She told me she was going to hang at Karen’s and then meet you at Heathrow for the flight at seven,’ said Mercy. ‘I even managed to call her at about six and I heard airport noise in the background. She said you’d gone to the loo.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘I’m serious, Charlie, when I spoke to her there was airport noise and she did have her passport with her. You don’t think she’s . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Boxer. ‘I think she’s capable of anything. I mean, she had the nerve to take your call. Christ, the girl’s got balls.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Mercy, furious and galvanised. ‘I’ll find her and when I do, I’ll handcuff her to the bloody radiator. She’ll wish she’d never—’

  ‘Clapped eyes on Merciless Danquah,’ said Boxer. ‘You know what gets me? How easily she plays us. We’re the professional lie detectors. I mean, are all seventeen-year-o
ld girls like this?’

  ‘So I’m told,’ said Mercy.

  Frank D’Cruz’s flight had been delayed so Martin Fox and Charles Boxer didn’t turn up at the Ritz until four-thirty in the afternoon. A young Indian man let them into the Berkley suite, poured tea and provided a tiered tray of biscuits and cakes. He told them D’Cruz was on his way and left them to it. Martin Fox stood straight-backed at the window, looking out over the black and leafless trees of Green Park towards Constitution Hill, as if performing some military inspection.

  ‘So who recommended me for this job?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘The client didn’t say,’ said Fox, turning into the room.

  ‘It wouldn’t be Simon Deacon, would it?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Fox. ‘I haven’t seen Simon Deacon since the test match against India at Lord’s last July. Haven’t even seen him at the Special Forces Club. Is he all right?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ said Boxer. ‘He’s just very busy with security in the run up to the Olympics. You know he’s on the Asia desk?’

  ‘Ah, right, I see the connection now,’ said Fox. ‘You’ll have to ask Frank D’Cruz. It was the Lloyd’s man who said he’d asked for you by name.’

  Fox ran his hands through his sandy hair before shoving them into his pockets. He gave Boxer some background on Frank D’Cruz, his Bollywood past and Konkan Hills Securities, D’Cruz’s holding company. He walked around the sofas as he talked, keeping an eye on Boxer from all angles. There was definitely something different about the man since he’d left GRM a couple of years ago; nothing dramatic, more a matter of perception. Fox wondered if others saw it. Boxer was watchful, patient and grasped all the detail he was giving him, all of which was normal in a consultant of his calibre. It was just that now those qualities seemed to be married to a man with the eyes of a sniper, rather than someone who was merely determined to understand a new situation.

  Frank D’Cruz came in and immediately his charisma filled the room. He ignored Fox and went straight to Boxer, shook his hand and looked into his eyes. Boxer returned the intended intrusion and, after some long seconds, D’Cruz parted from him, feeling that he’d got the right man.