‘Shit!’
The cupboard containing his safe was open. He leaned down to look inside.
The safe was open too.
Jammer felt his heart thud in fear. The money was gone – over sixty grand. And most of it wasn’t his. How the fuck was he going to repay it?
But the money’s absence was not what filled him with the most terror. The iPad was also gone. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he whispered, dropping to his knees. He clawed through the safe’s remaining contents, hoping the tablet would magically reappear. It didn’t. ‘Fuuuuck . . .’
He pulled himself back up. The landline’s handset was on the kitchen counter. He thumbed through its few contacts. The one he wanted was listed simply as ‘Uncle’.
Scrub that – it wasn’t a call he wanted to make. But it was one he had to make. Delaying would only make matters worse. Sweating, he pushed the button.
The man who answered wasn’t the one he had to talk to. Only a select few people had his direct line. Even though he was related, Jammer was not one of them. ‘I need to talk to Mr Bato,’ he said, trying to sound calm. ‘It’s Jammer. It’s very urgent.’
The reply chilled him to the marrow. ‘He’s been waiting to hear from you.’
Seconds passed, Jammer’s nervousness rising. Then finally he heard a new voice. Deep, languid – dangerous. ‘Yes?’
‘Uncle Valon, it’s Jahmir. Jahmir Haxhi.’ He used their family connection in the desperate hope it would gain him some leniency. ‘I just got back from hospital.’
‘I heard you had been hurt.’ No sympathy in the words. The older man’s English was perfect, but he still had his native accent. ‘Your friends Konstantin and Joseph as well. Why did you not call me before now?’
‘I couldn’t. The guy who put me in hospital stole my phone.’
‘Have there been problems with the police?’
Jammer hesitated. His encounter with the psychopathic cop had been agonising. But he and his bitch partner hadn’t seemed interested in him, only his attacker . . . ‘I told them I’d been mugged,’ he said. ‘Said I didn’t see who did it. They didn’t ask anything about my business.’
‘But there is a problem, yes? I can hear it in your voice. Do you have something to tell me, Jahmir?’
A deep breath, then: ‘Yes. I . . . kept all my business records on an iPad. It was in my safe. But . . .’
‘Go on.’ The two words were laden with menace.
‘But someone’s been in my flat. They broke into the safe. And they’ve got it. They’ve got the iPad. And all my – our – money.’
A long silence. Jammer almost hoped the line had gone dead. But eventually Bato spoke again. ‘You kept records on a computer.’ Not a question; a criticism, an accusation. ‘And now it is gone.’
‘It’s secure,’ Jammer said frantically. ‘Only I can get into it.’
‘I imagine you thought the same about your safe. If the police were to obtain it . . . what would happen?’
‘It would be . . . bad,’ he admitted, aware how grossly he was understating. ‘All my deals are in there, for the past year. Contact names, phone numbers.’
‘My name?’
‘No, of course not! I would never use your name. I’m not stupid.’
‘But could the police follow the trail to find my name?’
‘I wouldn’t grass,’ Jammer said, pleading. ‘I’d never tell them about you.’
‘That is not what I asked, Jahmir. Could they find my name?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. Maybe if they did a full investigation. But they wouldn’t do that, would they? I’m a nobody!’
‘A nobody living in a luxury flat with no apparent source of income. No, I am sure they would not consider you worth investigating.’ There was no humour behind Bato’s sarcasm, only cold anger. ‘This is very serious, Jahmir. I am . . . disappointed.’
Jammer felt as if his bowels were about to release. People who ‘disappointed’ Valon Bato would generally not do so again. Ever. Shaking, he forced out a reply. ‘It – it’s not my fault.’
‘No?’
‘There’s this guy, the one who broke my leg. He must have broken into my safe. He was staying with someone living in one of your flats. He decided to play hero over a cuckoo who was giving me shit.’ A look down at his immobilised ankle. ‘Things escalated from there.’
‘I would say they did.’ Bato drew in an aggravated breath. ‘Come to my house, Jahmir. Tell me everything that has happened – everything you know about this man.’ His tone somehow became even more threatening. ‘I will take care of this myself.’
Maxwell put down his phone. ‘Well,’ he said, addressing the others in the safe house. ‘That was a hell of a development.’
‘What did the boss say?’ asked Parker.
‘He said Alex Reeve turned up at his villa in France.’
Eyes widened. ‘What?’ said Blake. ‘How the hell did he find him?’
Maxwell ignored the question. ‘He killed the boss’s bodyguards. Two of ours – Operatives 53 and 57.’ More shock from his team. ‘He was with a woman. They escaped in presumably her car; after it was wrecked, they stole the boss’s car. It was found in a town called Apt by the French police.’
‘When did this happen?’ asked Flynn.
‘Late this morning, our time.’
‘So what did Reeve want with the boss?’ said Locke. ‘Not to kill him, obviously.’
‘From the sound of it,’ Maxwell told him, ‘he wanted to plead his innocence.’
Stone snorted mockingly. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘The boss certainly wasn’t convinced. He kept Alex talking until the Operatives showed up.’
‘They weren’t with him?’ said Parker.
‘They were in a hotel nearby. Alex booby-trapped the road to the villa somehow. The boss didn’t go into detail. But we do have some details, which we need to follow up. The woman’s car was registered here in London. To a Constantia Jones.’
Stone and Flynn exchanged looks. ‘Jesus,’ the latter muttered. ‘She’s the nurse – the one who was looking after Reeve.’
‘And he convinced her to go to France with him?’ said Stone. ‘Fucking hell. Maybe he’s better at chatting up women than I thought.’
Parker opened his laptop. ‘I’ll check the Border Force records. There can’t be many Constantia Joneses.’ He started to type. ‘We might find out what name Reeve’s travelling under. If we do, we can flag him for arrest when he comes back.’
‘If he comes back,’ said Blake.
Flynn turned to Maxwell. ‘Is the boss okay?’
He nodded. ‘Shaken, understandably. But he’s not hurt. He’s furious, though. Wants to know how the hell Reeve got to him.’
‘A good question,’ said Locke, eyeing his superior. ‘We don’t even know his name, never mind how to reach him.’
‘However it happened, we know where Alex just was,’ Maxwell said firmly. ‘Let’s find him.’
‘I’ve got something.’ Parker said urgently. ‘Constantia Jones went through Eurotunnel customs at Folkestone early on Sunday morning. Travelling in a Citroën Saxo—’
‘That’s the car that was found,’ Maxwell confirmed.
‘—with a man, Philip Brownlow.’
‘Brownlow’s Connie’s downstairs neighbour,’ said Flynn.
‘That’s what he was hiding when we talked to him,’ Stone growled. ‘He’d given Reeve his fucking passport.’
‘He must have done an amazing disguise job. They don’t look anything alike.’
‘Alex was always good at that,’ Maxwell reminded her. ‘And the Channel Tunnel car shuttle is the weakest link for passport checks.’ He looked at the screen. ‘Okay, so we know what passport he’s using. Maybe he’s got another identity for the return, but I’d be surprised. If he’s reso
rting to borrowing from a neighbour, he must be desperate. I’ll notify the Border Force. They can flag Constantia Jones and Philip Brownlow at all ports of entry. When they come back into the country,’ he smiled coldly, ‘we’ll have them.’
CHAPTER 43
A knock on the door jolted Jaz Prince from a half-sleep. Hallie dozed on her lap as the television burbled banalities. She held in an obscenity, carefully lifting the baby. ‘Who is it?’ she called. It had to be Connie or Mr Brownlow; the front door buzzer hadn’t sounded.
No answer. She went to the door. ‘Hello?’
‘May I speak to you, Miss Prince?’ A man’s voice, with an odd accent.
‘Who is it?’
‘Your landlord.’
Was this because of the fight the other day? ‘Just a sec.’ She put the chain on the door, then opened it a crack.
A man in his fifties stood outside. Quite tall, broad-chested, silver hair swept to one side. His face was hard and deeply lined, mouth downturned and cheeks sunken. Intense blue eyes stared unblinkingly back at her. He wore an expensive dark suit. His black leather shoes were polished and spotless. ‘Hi,’ she said, still wary. ‘What is it?’
The man tilted his head to see through the gap. ‘Oh. Your baby is asleep. I am sorry to disturb you.’ He looked to one side and nodded slightly.
‘That’s okay,’ said Jaz, thinking he was about to leave. ‘If you want to come back—’
Another man stepped into view – and kicked the door open.
The chain ripped from the wood. She stumbled back with a scream. Hallie woke, crying. The second man came in. He was even bigger than the landlord, clothing tight on an over-muscled frame. ‘Over there,’ he said, jabbing a fat finger. His accent was pure east London. Jaz fearfully retreated.
The landlord followed him inside. A tut at the damaged door, then he moved clear. Three more men entered behind him. To Jaz’s shock, the first was Brownlow, looking scared. Pushing him was another hulking young man, this one with a beard.
The final person was someone else she recognised. Jammer struggled through the doorway on crutches. ‘Hi again,’ he said, with a malevolent smile. ‘Didn’t think you’d see me so soon, did you?’
‘I’m surprised to see you at all,’ she said, trying to sound defiant. ‘Get out of my flat!’
‘This is my flat,’ said the landlord calmly. The bearded man shoved Brownlow alongside her. His boss regarded them both with his icy stare.
‘What do you want?’ asked Brownlow, breathing heavily.
‘My name is Valon Bato,’ said the landlord. ‘I am involved in many businesses; property is just one. I am very successful, very rich. I feel . . . secure.’ A meaningful glance at the broken chain. ‘Your friend – Alex, I believe?’ Jaz nodded involuntarily. ‘He is threatening that security. He has taken something that belongs to my nephew.’ He indicated Jammer. ‘I want it returned. I also want to meet your friend Alex. In person.’
Hallie was still crying, Jaz struggling to calm her. Brownlow spoke up instead. ‘I don’t know where he is. He came round for a few minutes on Saturday, then left. I told the police the same thing.’
Bato’s stone face twitched slightly. ‘The police?’
‘They were looking for Alex too.’
‘I see.’ He turned to Jammer. ‘Did they come to you as well?’
Sweat glistened on the younger man’s face. ‘They, uh – yeah. At the hospital. But they didn’t ask about you! They were only interested in this guy Alex. They were fucking insane!’ he added, outrage overpowering fear. ‘They held me down and twisted my broken leg – they tortured me!’
Bato was surprised. ‘Excessive, even for the Metropolitan Police.’
‘They really wanted to find this guy.’
‘So do I. And I would like to find him first.’ His gaze came back to Jaz and Brownlow. ‘I will ask again. Where is this man?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Jaz. ‘I last saw him when he beat up Jammer and his friends.’ Jammer glared at her.
‘And you?’ he asked Brownlow.
‘Like I said, I saw him briefly on Saturday,’ said the nervous man. ‘I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Hmm.’ Bato pursed his lips as if deep in thought. Then: ‘I shall tell you something. My becoming involved personally in a matter such as this is rare. My time is very valuable. So when it is wasted . . . I become angry. Those who know me,’ his eyes flicked to Jammer, ‘know this is a dangerous thing.’
The way Jammer blanched warned that he was not bluffing. Brownlow took a half-step forward, positioning himself before mother and baby. ‘Look, we’re not wasting your time. We really don’t know where he is.’
‘They’re covering for him because he helped them!’ snapped Jammer. ‘They must know.’
‘We don’t!’ Jaz protested over Hallie’s cries.
Brownlow advanced on Bato again, this time a full step. He took a breath, chest swelling. Despite his fear, he also felt a courage he had long thought lost. Alex Reeve had helped him; he would do the same in return. ‘Look, we can’t help you,’ he said. ‘Please, leave us alone. You’re scaring the baby.’
Bato regarded Hallie. ‘We can’t have that, can we? Not with such a pretty baby. Okay. We will leave.’
He turned towards the door. Jammer shot him a disbelieving look. ‘You’re just going?’
‘Are you arguing with me, Jahmir?’
The young man shrank back. ‘No, course not.’
‘Good.’ Bato exchanged muted words in Albanian with his minders. He then gestured for Jammer to leave. Still incredulous, Jammer clattered out. Bato followed, the two hulks falling in behind him. One put a hand in his pocket. Brownlow half-turned, giving Jaz a relieved look—
The big man pulled his hand back out. Wrapped around his fingers was a set of brass knuckles. He marched back at Brownlow before the other man could react. His fist came up – and he drove a metal-hardened punch into Brownlow’s kidneys.
Brownlow fell with a strained shriek. Jaz screamed, jumping back and clutching Hallie tightly. The bodyguard bent lower and smashed his fist into Brownlow’s face. Two punches, three. Blood sprayed with each blow. The other minder joined in, delivering merciless kicks. A steel-edged heel stamped down on the squirming man’s hand. Bones snapped. ‘Oh God, oh my God!’ Jaz wailed. ‘Stop it, stop! You’ll kill him!’
‘If I wanted him killed,’ said Bato calmly, ‘he would already be dead.’ A click of his fingers, and the brutal assault instantly ceased.
Tears streamed down Jaz’s cheeks as she looked at Brownlow. His face was barely recognisable, covered in blood, flesh torn. A wet gurgle came from his mouth as he struggled to breathe.
Bato moved closer and took hold of her chin. He forced her head upwards until their eyes met. ‘If you talk to the police, I will have you killed. All of you. Your baby as well.’ Jaz’s legs quivered, and she almost fell. ‘Now. Tell me. Where is this man? Who is this man?’
She could barely get the words out in her terror. ‘He – his name – Alex. Alex Reeve. He’s – a friend of Connie’s. I don’t know anything more. Please, please, I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. Please don’t hurt my baby. Please.’
Bato’s stare drilled into her soul for endless seconds. ‘I believe you,’ he finally said. He withdrew, nudging Brownlow with his foot. ‘You. Talk. Where is Alex Reeve? Answer, or they will beat you again.’
‘No, no,’ Brownlow wheezed, blood running from his mouth. ‘I don’t know where he is, I don’t know. But – my passport. He took my passport. He must have gone abroad.’
Bato frowned. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. I don’t know!’
The frown deepened. Bato stepped back. Brownlow cringed. ‘I believe you too,’ the landlord said at last. A gesture, and his bodyguards retreated. He took out his phon
e and made a call. ‘Inspector? This is Valon Bato. Yes, good evening. Listen, there has been a . . . home invasion at one of my properties. A man is badly hurt. Can you please call for an ambulance? No, I thought it best to call you first. I am sure you will want to handle the investigation.’ He looked back at Jaz with a thin, lizard-like smile. ‘After all, we are friends.’ He gave the address, then hung up.
Jaz stared at him in appalled realisation. ‘Someone in the police works for you.’
‘A mutually beneficial relationship,’ he replied. ‘The advantages of wealth.’ He spoke to his bodyguards in Albanian. They hustled out. ‘You go too,’ he added to Jammer. The young man gave Jaz and Brownlow a gloating look, then limped away.
‘I shall wait here.’ Bato sat on the sofa. Another reptilian smile. ‘To look after my tenants until the police and the ambulance arrive. Please. Sit.’ He patted the space beside him. ‘I insist.’ With fearful reluctance, Jaz sat down, holding Hallie as far from him as she could. ‘Now, you understand that I am a man who means what he says, yes?’ He waited for Jaz and Brownlow to nod. ‘So you will not do anything . . . silly. Do I have your promise?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Jaz whispered, lost.
‘And you, Mr Brownlow?’
‘I . . . won’t say a word,’ the battered man replied. ‘I promise.’
‘Good.’ He stretched out, filling his space. Jaz recoiled. ‘Then if you see or hear from Alex Reeve, or Connie? You will tell me at once.’
CHAPTER 44
Reeve had left the warmth of Provence far behind. The northern French port of Cherbourg was grey and damp. It was as if its proximity to Britain’s miserable weather had infected it. Gulls squalled in the slate morning sky, mournful horns bleating in the harbour. It was not a town presenting any obvious delights to visitors.
But it was his last step on the journey home.
He had bought a ferry ticket with no difficulty. Foot passengers making spur-of-the-moment trips across the Channel were not rare. Of more concern was the French border check. His disguise kit had been in Connie’s car. A visit to a twenty-four-hour supermarket near the port provided a limited replacement. He ensconced himself in a toilet cubicle at the ferry terminal. Using a hand mirror, he did his best to replicate Brownlow’s appearance. The results this time were less impressive. He would have to rely on bluff and institutional weariness to get through.
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