Capital Punishment

by Robert Wilson

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Dan. You are Dan? The nurse?’ said Isabel. ‘I’m so relieved my daughter is in the professional and caring hands of an NHS nurse.’

  Silence. The confidence trembled in his guts. He could feel its inclination to dissipate like a bad dose of diarrhoea. He clasped his right side with his left hand as if this might keep him psychologically together.

  ‘Did you get the money?’ he asked.

  ‘We haven’t been able to raise five million pounds, even with the extra time you’ve given us. I told you that was going to be difficult. My ex-husband thinks that would take another five working days to put that sort of cash together.’

  ‘What have you got now?’

  ‘So far we have eighty thousand pounds.’

  ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, but, you know . . . banks.’

  ‘That means you’re four million nine hundred and twenty thousand short.’

  ‘At the moment. We just need more time,’ said Isabel. ‘But I suppose you’re not in a position where you can wait, are you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I can do that might make the process move on a little quicker,’ said Dan, the pressure bringing out some nastiness in him. ‘Something that might encourage your ex-husband to be a little more demanding when he goes to see the manager of his extensive funds.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Give me your address.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to send you something.’

  She gave the address.

  ‘How are you going to send it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, the mail these days. We’re not going to get that before Thursday, and if you courier it, you’re going to expose yourself to all sorts of dangers.’

  Dan couldn’t get over how rock-solid she was. Nothing was getting through to her. He felt a tremendous desire to slap her down. Could just imagine her as the sort of person who’d come out of that stupid bakery with a fucking box of cake in her hands.

  ‘You don’t seem to be interested in what I’m going to send you to help you speed up this business of getting the money together to save your fucking daughter?’

  ‘I don’t need any motivation to speed up the process. Nor does my ex-husband,’ she said, gabbling with fear now, not wanting to know under any circumstances what he was going to send her. ‘It’s just that he doesn’t have liquid funds in the UK at the moment. He has to sell assets and he has to find buyers for them, which isn’t always easy. Once they’re sold, the money has to be transferred. That takes three working days in this country. When the funds are available, they have to be made into actual cash, the used twenties you’ve asked for, not just numbers on a computer screen. That means that Securicor vans have to go all over London picking up the money and bringing them to a central location. Each time the cash goes from one place to another, it has to be processed. That means counted and verified. That’s not going to happen before the weekend. So, you see, it’s not me dragging my feet. I want my daughter back more than anything else in the world. It’s just that the world of finance doesn’t move at the same speed as my maternal longings, or your needs.’

  ‘But,’ said Dan, enraged by her uninterruptible gibbering, ‘if I sent you her finger in the post, or I arranged for it to be dropped at your house, not her little finger, but the index finger of her right hand. I mean, it wouldn’t be an act of butchery. I know how to do these things. I’ve been a theatre nurse. I would give her a local anaesthetic, cut it off at the knuckle neatly and I’d cauterise the wound and give her antibiotics. Do you think that might just persuade your husband to go to his bank and say, I have to BORROW this fucking money NOW?’

  Dan cut the line. He had no idea if they had the ability to track him, but he wasn’t taking risks. Now he’d let her stew for a bit, calm himself down, too, and then see if he couldn’t squeeze a bit more out of her than eighty measly grand.

  ‘Listen to you,’ he said, out loud. ‘Eighty fucking grand. That’s better than the poxy shit you were getting for selling your prescription drugs. The hundred quid here and there that you did three years for in Wandsworth. Thank fuck for Bushmills.’

  He jumped to his feet with both arms raised as if he’d won something. There was nobody on the heath, only the ravens crashing through the darkening sky on their way to some rooky wood. His face was hot, even in the bitter wind, and his fingers fumbled numbly with the mobile as he changed the SIM card, chucked the old one in a bin nearby. He breathed back the stress, looking out over the city once more. The gold ingot on Canary Wharf had disappeared. Night was falling and it made him feel bolder. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and clenched his fist, punched the air as if he was delivering killer blows to someone who was already down.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ said Boxer. ‘Absolutely perfect. I’m proud of you.’

  Isabel said nothing. She was lying back on the sofa, totally spent. Her stomach muscles had gone into a strange spasm, as if her emotional state, with no vocal outlet, had chosen to erupt from her quivering guts.

  ‘I’m done,’ she said. ‘I’m completely wiped out.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’ve only just started. He’s going to call back. In minutes. I promise you. And you’re going to show him how strong you are. Again. No backing down. You can give him the next twenty grand if you want to. Just remember: he’s desperate. He might sound bold but we know the time pressure he’s under. I think he might be a little drunk, too. There was a thickness to his voice that wasn’t there before. Now sit up, Isabel.’

  She sat up straight, looked him in the eye.

  ‘Where is fucking Chico?’ she said murderously.

  ‘Exactly, that’s more like it. I’ll call him.’

  Boxer tried D’Cruz’s mobile: not available, left a message. He sent a text, too. WE NEED YOU HERE WITH THE MONEY NOW!

  Isabel sobbed quietly to herself, hands holding her forehead, occasionally blurting great hunks of emotion that came out as if she were choking on them. He held her by her shoulders at arms’ length.

  ‘There isn’t a chance in hell that he’ll carry out his threats. He’s built himself up to be bold and aggressive, but it is not in his nature.’

  ‘You said he’d killed somebody already. I saw the draft press release. They’ve both killed people.’

  ‘They’ve killed other criminals, under orders from Archibald Pike. You don’t know the circumstances. He might have felt he had to do it, and he would have been under pressure from Skin, who’s probably a different animal altogether,’ said Boxer. ‘There’s a big difference to dealing with a hostage. First of all, you want a hostage alive in order to get your money. Second, in looking after your hostage, as Dan has told us he’s been doing, you form a relationship, which means, third, carrying out your threats becomes more difficult and, anyway, takes time. You were brilliant to point out how he would expose himself by using a courier.’

  ‘That’s what you told me to say.’

  ‘But you said it. You brought it into your spiel as if it was yours and under extreme duress,’ said Boxer, releasing her shoulders, taking her hands in his. ‘You’re doing better than I could possibly have hoped.’

  ‘I should have listened to you.’

  ‘You did and you stepped up to the plate and delivered.’

  ‘I mean, you were right. Somebody else should be doing this. It’s too . . . too . . . visceral for me.’

  ‘But you are doing it and you’re going to finish it,’ said Boxer, looking into her eyes. ‘Remember, you’re acting a part. It’s a tough role, but you’ve found the resilience in yourself to carry it off. Take a grip of the iron bar of will in your middle and don’t let this little shit, Dan, get the upper hand.’

  The phone rang. Boxer gripped her hands to stop her from reaching out. He kissed them, let them go. She didn’t leap for the phone.

  ‘You can tell him about the other gangs and the police now if you feel y
ou have to.’

  She looked at the phone with practiced cool and let it ring twice more.

  ‘Hello, Dan,’ she said, staring into Boxer’s eyes.

  ‘I’m just limiting my call times in case you’re tracking me.’

  ‘We haven’t got that sort of equipment here.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ said Dan. ‘Your husband must have a triple A credit rating with any number of banks. All he has to do is go and see the manager and arrange for a temporary loan until he can sell whatever he has to sell. I’m sure someone who’s worth four and a half billion dollars has heard of that. I mean, I’m a penniless ex-nurse and I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘He just called after you rang off. He’s raised another twenty thousand and he’s on his way here with it,’ said Isabel. ‘That’s money he’s taken from current accounts and borrowed from friends in London and it’s the limit for what he can do tonight. I realise it’s difficult for you to give us more time considering the pressure you’re under.’

  ‘Who said I was under any pressure?’

  ‘I understand there are a lot of people looking for you at the moment. The East End gang you stole Alyshia from, and friends of the two men you shot in Grange Road. Somebody’s also told me that you should take a look at the evening news. If not the six o’clock on BBC, then the seven o’clock on Channel Four, or maybe Sky News, at any time. What I’m offering you is one hundred thousand pounds right now. You tell me the place and I’ll have a family friend deliver it to you. It could all be over in an hour or two if you’ll accept—’

  ‘Don’t worry about us, Mrs Marks. We’re very safe. Your daughter is in a place where nobody, not even the London rat population, could hear her scream. So don’t go concerning yourself that we might be found by anyone,’ said Dan.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, but he’d already gone.

  Boxer was relieved that Dan had hung up. He could feel Isabel edging towards cracking point. One more exchange and she might have fallen. Now she lay on her side, facing into the sofa, shoulders heaving. Boxer called Fox. The calls were being automatically transferred to the Ops room.

  ‘You sound tense,’ said Boxer. ‘I thought I was the one who was supposed to be tense.’

  ‘You’re not here,’ said Fox quietly.

  Boxer heard his breathing and footsteps as he moved away from other voices in the background.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  ‘DCS Makepeace has just done what he wanted to do from the outset. He’s taken over the kidnap. He says the circumstances have changed and that this is now a SCD7 operation. I’ve just had the Commissioner of the Met on the line to confirm it to me. They still want you involved, but you’re no longer the official consultant on this case.’

  ‘Even though we’re in the endgame here?’ said Boxer. ‘You’ve heard the latest exchanges?’

  ‘Even though.’

  ‘And you won’t be able to use Mercy as Isabel doesn’t know she’s with the police, so the DCS will have to brief a completely new consultant from scratch.’

  ‘They’re doing it as we speak.’

  ‘What’s the protocol for this?’ said Boxer. ‘I mean, do I tell Isabel Marks? Do I just walk away? DCS Makepeace better give me some guidelines.’

  ‘He will, Charlie,’ said Fox. ‘But how do you feel about playing second fiddle?’

  ‘I’ll do it for Isabel Marks’ sake. I’m not going to leave a client in the lurch like that. I’ll do whatever’s asked of me,’ said Boxer. ‘How she’ll take it is a different matter. I haven’t just been the consultant here, as you know. I’ve been everything.’

  ‘Well, perhaps she could appoint you as her Crisis Management Committee,’ said Fox. ‘That might resolve things very nicely.’

  23

  4.30 P.M., TUESDAY 13TH MARCH 2012

  The Pride of Indus, Green Street, London E7

  ‘What we have to do,’ said Saleem Cheema, ‘and this is from the highest level from our brothers in Pakistan, is find where the kidnappers of Alyshia D’Cruz are holding her.’

  He sat back in the ensuing silence and sipped sweet tea flavoured with cardamom. He was in his late twenties, slim, wearing a cream crocheted cap and stroking a wispy beard.

  He’d called this council meeting in the workshop at the back of the Pride of Indus restaurant. The room was spotless. White paper overalls hung on coat hangers on a rail, electronic laboratory scales were lined up on one of the work surfaces, boxes of plastic bags were stacked in the corner. On the shelves were jars of white powders, labelled: caffeine, chloroquine, paracetamol and phenolphthalein. This was where two hundred kilos of heroin was cut, mixed, weighed, bagged and sent out to dealers all over the East End of London every month.

  The council was not an organised group, neither was it part of, nor did it have any affiliation to, any underground jihadist cell, although all the members were supportive of al-Qaeda’s aims. They saw heroin dealing as a way of undermining the Christian West and delivering funds to deserving causes back in Pakistan and to the poverty-stricken farmers of Afghanistan. None of them had been trained in any military activity, although this did not mean they were strangers to violence or weapons. Two of them had shot people, but this had been out of necessity to protect their patch against the local white gangs, who carried names like Beckton Man Dem or the JC Boyz, and not out of any religious fervour.

  ‘That’s it?’ said one of the young men. ‘You want us to find these kidnappers, in a city of eight million people, with just the victim’s name?’

  ‘Who’s to say they’re in London?’ asked another.

  ‘The population of Greater London, including the suburbs, is probably more like twelve million.’

  ‘But who’s to say they’re in London?’

  ‘I am just telling you the instructions we’ve received from our Muslim brothers in Pakistan,’ said Cheema. ‘This is urgent. It is our duty, even with so little information, to find these people. I want ideas. That means positive thinking.’

  There was a precise series of knocks at the door. Cheema jerked his head back and one of the junior members left the table to let in the latecomer, who took his seat. His neighbour briefed him while the others sat in silence.

  ‘I think I can help you with that,’ said the latecomer, who was a quiet, shy man with a squarish head, hair shaved up the back and sides with the top gelled into sharp spikes. He was in his early twenties and his name was Hakim Tarar.

  All heads turned to Tarar, who rarely said anything in these meetings.

  ‘Tell us, Hakim. Nobody else has had any ideas.’

  ‘As you know, I live in Bethnal and train as a boxer at the Repton Boys Club,’ said Tarar. ‘My sparring partner is a local boy, English. He was telling me the latest in the changing room after our workout. Bethnal Green and Stepney are being turned upside down because a couple of gangs are looking for two men who’ve stolen a girl.’

  ‘Which gangs?’

  ‘White gangs. Old style. Nobody we know.’

  ‘Stolen a girl?’

  ‘What does that mean? Is this a sex thing?’

  ‘He wasn’t sure. He thought it was something to do with a shooting, or a kidnap. He didn’t have the story quite straight, but there was the police in it, as well,’ said Tarar. ‘And there’s been a lot of plain clothes guys around. It’s true: I’ve seen them. I thought it was a drug sweep, but they’re all after the same two guys.’

  ‘This shooting? Is that the one they’re all talking about in Grange Road?’ asked one of the other members. ‘They were talking about that on the radio.’

  ‘Have we got any names?’ asked Cheema.

  ‘The only name I’ve got is of one of the gang leaders,’ said Tarar. ‘Someone called Joe Shearing, who does a lot of work at the Repton Boys Club. I know him because he brought some kids over from Pakistan after the floods in 2010.’

  ‘Get back to your sparring partner, or maybe Joe Shearing himself, if you know him well enough,’ said Cheema. ‘
Get some names. Let’s listen to all the local and national news. If the police are involved, they might go countrywide asking for information. We need photos, we need addresses. And fast. Anybody gets any information, I don’t want you to talk about it on your mobiles, even your throwaway ones. You send me a text with this week’s code and I’ll make sure I am by my landline at home. Everything else stops until we’ve found this girl.’

  Dan was in the back room of the Flask pub in Hampstead for the six o’clock news. He was pursuing his successful strategy of Bushmills and Young’s and sitting in one of the quieter back rooms. The news passed without incident.

  ‘Bullshitters,’ he said to himself. ‘Fucking bullshitters.’

  A meanness tempered inside him at the thought that they were stringing him along. They had the money, maybe not five million, but a fuck sight more than a hundred grand. The address she’d given him was in Kensington. Let the rich bitch sweat. That’s what he was going to tell Skin.

  His knees creaked as he got up from the table. His whole body ached from having been out in the cold on the heath that afternoon. The beer and whisky had done something to his muscles, and had left his brain feeling slapped about. He came out of Flask Walk, turned down the high street away from the tube station. Thought he remembered an Indian down the hill where he could get something to eat. He glanced into upmarket clothes shops, peopled by women for whom money didn’t seem to be a consideration.

  The Shahbagh Tandoori was more his level. He ordered some chicken, rice and a vegetable curry with a pint of lager. He wasn’t quite admitting it to himself but he was enjoying this freedom. There was a large part of him that didn’t want to go back to Skin and Alyshia in the Colville Hyatt.

  After a long pee in the Shahbagh toilet, he came out into the same icy wind blowing up Rosslyn Hill. He drifted down towards Belsize Park tube, even though it was a longer walk, but it would take him past the Royal Free Hospital. He even entertained the notion of going in there, looking up some old mates, take them out for a drink, tell them about his new life, of killing and kidnap.