‘I’m Sean Egan,’ I told the reflection. ‘I was an undercover police officer. I worked for an outfit called CO10 in the Met. My boss was a man called Robin someone or other, but we all knew him as Captain Bob. He was an arsehole but he was good at his job.’
I stopped and smiled. My life was coming back to me, and fast now. Who knew what I’d find out about myself? It might not all be good, but it was so much better than living with no history and no identity. And somehow I knew things would be all right. I was a good man. I cared about people. I believed in justice.
I repeated those words to my reflection before heading back to my bed and my visions.
I didn’t wake again until close to ten o’clock. The remainder of my sleep had been a restless series of visions but as I lay there in bed trying to piece them together, I found that I couldn’t get things in order. Everything was still a jumble, and certain aspects of my life – particularly childhood, and my time as an undercover cop – were a lot more vivid than others. I could still remember nothing about the time I’d met Tina, or the supposed rape I’d committed, and my time in prison afterwards.
It was strange, though, because I remained convinced that I had a sister called Jane, even though she didn’t appear in any of my dreams, and hadn’t been mentioned in any of the material I’d read up on myself. In fact, rationally I knew she didn’t exist, and that the woman who’d claimed to be her had been an impostor, but it didn’t matter because, at a certain, very deep level, I believed I had a sister, and this certainty seemed to trump everything else.
It made me think about Dr Bronson and our hypnotherapy sessions back in the house in Wales. Had he implanted false memories in me? Was that even possible?
I needed to talk to him, and urgently, because I had a feeling he could unlock a lot of my more recent memories if he was put under enough pressure. I was pretty sure Tina could find him. She’d given me another mobile number to reach her on plus her office number. I didn’t have a mobile of my own any more but there was a hotel phone on the bedside table. I called Tina’s numbers but she wasn’t answering either, so I left messages on both, suggesting she think about tracking Bronson down, then clambered out of bed, feeling stiff from all the exertions of the previous thirty-six hours.
The room was small and box-like with a horrific floral carpet and thinly painted concrete walls, but at least it was clean. I pulled the curtains, opened the window, and looked out. My hotel was a cheap modern building that was already beginning to look tired, with a three-quarters-full car park out front. It was set on a main road with a retail park, consisting of a line of hangar-like warehouses, directly opposite. There was a fair amount of traffic about but surprisingly few pedestrians, even though it was a bright sunny day.
I stood there for a while watching the world go by, trying to work out what decisions I’d made to get myself into this position – a convicted felon all alone in the world, with enemies at every turn and only one potential friend, a woman who didn’t even trust me. I couldn’t believe I’d turned to the dark side. It just didn’t fit with the view I had of myself.
‘I’m a good man,’ I whispered, repeating it again and again.
And then, almost as if my words were an ancient magic spell, I was effortlessly transported back to my first undercover role.
Twenty-four
Dylan Mackay lived in an apartment on the second floor of a Georgian townhouse on one of the less pretty roads just off the A4 in Kensington. But even with the slightly dilapidated state of the buildings and the smell of cooking coming from the cheap restaurants at either end of the street, it was still the kind of place only the well-off could afford to inhabit.
There was an up-to-date video entry system just inside the porch, and Tina pressed the button marked 3. It had just turned eleven and she was banking on Dylan being up and about. Otherwise she was going to have to find a suitable spot on the street and wait until he appeared.
A good minute passed before a man’s voice came over the intercom. ‘Yeah?’ it demanded.
‘Mr Mackay?’ said Tina, looking up to the camera. ‘DC Ann Wright, Westminster CID. I’d like to speak to you for a few moments if I may.’
She held up a fake warrant card she’d bought over the internet. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was designed to stand up to basic scrutiny, especially through a camera lens. The only problem, of course, would be if Mackay recognized Tina from the media – something that had happened to Tina more than once before.
But he didn’t. ‘What about?’ he asked with a combination of belligerence and tiredness that reminded Tina of the tone her brother had adopted when he was an irritating teenager.
‘I’d prefer not to discuss it over the intercom. Can you let me in please?’ She kept her gaze firmly on the camera, allowing herself to pout just a little bit. She was dressed smartly in a trouser suit, with the top two buttons of her shirt undone, having figured that she might as well use all the weapons in her armoury to gain entrance.
It worked too. Mackay grunted something unintelligible but a second later, Tina was through the door.
‘Bad move, Dylan,’ she said to herself as she mounted the staircase, taking her time as she prepared herself for the interrogation ahead.
‘So what is it you want?’ said Mackay as he answered the door and with clear reluctance opened it further to let Tina inside.
It gave straight into a spacious lounge that was so white it made her want to squint.
‘If it’s the neighbours complaining again about the music, then they’re bullshitting,’ he continued. ‘I haven’t had people here in weeks.’ He sat down heavily on a long white sofa that dominated the centre of the room and stared at Tina with undisguised impatience.
He was good-looking, but in a non-sexual way that was almost camp. He reminded her both in tone and appearance of one of the characters from Made in Chelsea. Tina preferred more rugged men, and there was no way you’d call Mackay that. He was medium height and medium build, with a boy band haircut that had been hastily pushed into shape with too much gel, and wore jeans and a linen shirt that was open to reveal a tanned, waxed chest. His feet were bare and it didn’t look like he’d been up for that long.
Tina remained standing, looking down at him. ‘It’s not about the neighbours,’ she said. ‘It’s about two missing girls, Lauren Donaldson and Jennifer Jones.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, shaking his head.
But he wasn’t a good liar and she knew he did.
‘Yes you do.’ She reached into the inside pocket of her suit jacket and produced the two photos Sheryl Warner had emailed her. She took a step forward so she was standing right over him and held them out.
He gave them a cursory glance and shook his head again. ‘Never seen them before in my life. Who told you I knew who they were?’
Tina ignored the question. ‘I think you do know them, Mr Mackay. In fact, you encouraged them into prostitution. And now they’re both missing. Which doesn’t reflect very well on you at all.’
Suddenly Mackay was on his feet, furiously staring her down. ‘Listen, back right off. You want to start throwing round accusations then I want my lawyer present. And I want your badge number as well. I’m not having you talking to me like that.’
Tina returned his stare. ‘So you don’t care what might have happened to those two girls?’
‘I told you, I don’t even know who they are. Who’s been talking to you, eh? Because they’re lying. Now get out. And if you want to talk to me, you do it through my lawyer. Capeesh?’
Tina didn’t move. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I don’t give a fuck whether you do or not. Now, are you going to leave or am I going to have to call your boss?’
‘I don’t have a boss. I’m not a police officer, Dylan.’
Mackay snorted. ‘Then who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m working for Lauren Donaldson’s father. One way or another, I’m going to
find her. And you’re going to help me.’
‘No I’m not, you stupid bitch. Now get out of here before I beat your arse.’
Tina could see the rage building in Mackay. It was obvious he was contemplating trying to remove her forcibly from his apartment. In her three-inch heels she was roughly the same height as him, but he had more bulk. Although not that much more. Tina had been half expecting this kind of reaction, and she was ready for it. What she was less ready for was the rage that was also building in her.
‘I know people who could really fuck you up, bitch,’ continued Mackay in his irritatingly upper-class tones. ‘You want that, do you?’
‘Don’t threaten me, Dylan.’
That was when he finally broke, grabbing Tina by the arm and starting to push her back towards the door.
Her reaction was instinctive and immediate. She swung round, moving in close, and drove a knee into his groin.
He gasped in pain, staggering backwards. He was now completely defenceless, so there was no excuse for what happened next. Tina grabbed him by his linen shirt with one hand and punched him in the face with the other, before getting a leg behind his and tripping him up. He fell backwards on to the tiled floor, landing heavily, and Tina placed a foot on his neck, holding him down.
The sudden burst of violence excited her. There was no denying it. This arsehole had treated her like dirt, deliberately holding back on information she knew he had on Lauren and her friend Jen, two girls who were missing, very possibly dead. For a long time as a police officer she’d been forced to uphold the law even when it meant treating suspects with kid gloves in the face of their blatant disrespect. In her old life she’d have been forced to put up with Mackay’s denials and insults. No longer. Now her newfound power felt liberating.
She took out her mobile and put it to camera setting. ‘Smile, Dylan,’ she said sweetly, taking a shot of him lying humiliated on the floor, his face screwed up in pain. She replaced the phone and removed the shoe from his neck. ‘I bet you’ve got drugs in here as well, haven’t you? You look like the classic small-time dealer to me. The sort of guy who thinks he’s really tough.’ She crossed the room and pulled out the drawers on a cabinet next to the door to the kitchen, rifling through them until she found a battered tobacco tin. She opened it up and saw that it contained twenty or so single-gram wraps of what was almost certainly coke. ‘Naughty, naughty. Look what I’ve found.’ She strode back over and dropped the contents over Mackay, who was still lying on the floor, unwilling or unable to get up. ‘You see, I’ve got contacts too, Dylan. A lot better ones than you. And if you don’t tell me the truth I’m going to let them know about your little stash.’
‘Listen,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She stamped on his groin, and this time he let out a shriek of pure agony.
‘Oh God,’ he wailed, rolling over on to his side like a child, tears forming in his eyes.
Suddenly, Tina felt a pang of absolute disgust with herself. Jesus, what was she doing? She put a hand to her mouth and took a step back. She was deliberately and systematically assaulting a man she’d never met before, and inflicting real damage. She tried to think about Alan Donaldson, a broken man trying to find his estranged daughter before the cancer took him. She was doing this for him. Finding answers from a spoilt rich kid – a pimp and a drug dealer – who was being obstructive. And this was the only way.
But the justification felt hollow in her mind. She was better than this.
‘God, you’ve really, really hurt me,’ he whispered, the tears pouring freely down his face.
‘And I’ll keep hurting you until you tell me the truth,’ she said, knowing that having started this, she couldn’t stop now.
The information. It was all about the information.
‘You hired Lauren Donaldson and Jen Jones out as prostitutes, didn’t you?’
‘No I didn’t. I swear it.’
‘Bullshit.’ She loomed over him and raised her heeled foot again, hoping she wouldn’t have to hurt him any more, but knowing she would if she had to.
‘No, please …’
He raised a hand weakly, and she kicked it away.
‘Answer honestly, because you know what? I can ruin you. I’ll have cops on your back; I’ll let everyone know you’re a pimp; I’ll post photos of you with my shoe in your face all over the place; I’ll come back here and beat your arse. I’ll make you wish you were dead. Do you understand?’ She raised her foot again.
‘Don’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting involved in here.’
‘I know I don’t. You need to tell me. Now.’
‘I can’t.’
He knew something. But he was clearly more afraid of the consequences of imparting the information than he was of her.
She could have stopped there. Should have done. But she was close to a breakthrough, and right then she had to have it.
He started to move beneath her foot, slowly gaining confidence. ‘Listen, if you go now, I won’t say a—’
She kicked him hard in the ribs, then, as he doubled up in pain, took a step back and made a great play of donning a pair of surgical gloves before grabbing an empty wine glass from the coffee table and smashing it against the corner.
Dylan cried out and tried to roll away but Tina was on him in an instant, pinning his arms down with her knees. Her inner voice screamed at her to stop what she was doing but she ignored it, temporarily lost in the power of the moment, continuing to justify her actions to herself.
The fear in his eyes was clear and vivid. It made her feel sick but she kept her expression hard and indifferent. ‘I don’t think you’re taking me seriously, Dylan, and that’s a bad, bad move.’
‘I am, I am!’
‘I wonder how you’d look with a nice long scar across your face from ear to ear.’ She held the jagged tip of the glass barely an inch from his face and drew a leisurely outline from the corner of his lip to his left eye. ‘Shall we find out?’
‘No! Please, please …’
‘Then talk. You hired Lauren Donaldson and Jen Jones out as prostitutes, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ he blurted out. ‘I hired Lauren out a few times to guys, but I only hired Jen out once.’
‘Did you ever hire them out together?’
He hesitated.
‘Don’t even think about lying,’ she snarled, bringing her face close to his. She was scaring herself now so God alone knew what she was doing to him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Once.’
‘And was that the last time you saw them?’
Hesitation.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was this?’
‘Months ago. Back in the spring.’
Only one more question now.
‘Who did you hire them to?’
Sweat was dripping down Dylan’s forehead. He looked absolutely terrified. Like a little boy. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he whispered. ‘Please don’t make me.’
She couldn’t let herself weaken. ‘Tell me.’
‘No.’ He was weeping silently now, too scared to do anything but await his fate.
Tina felt her resolve weakening as the enormity of what she was doing hit her. There was no way she could continue this. ‘I’m going to give you one more chance,’ she said, but her heart was no longer in it, and that showed in her voice.
Dylan continued to weep. She’d broken him. It was a horrible feeling.
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘In my jeans pocket.’
Still holding the glass close to his face, she rummaged inside until she found it, then slowly clambered off him. She put the glass on the table and pocketed the phone. ‘I’m taking this,’ she told him. ‘And if you say a word about this to anyone, I’ll break you. Do you understand?’
He nodded, and rolled on to his side so that he was facin
g away from her, like a scolded child, all the fight gone out of him. She was certain he wouldn’t report her conduct to anyone in authority. He wouldn’t want any inconvenient questions about what he knew about the disappearance of two young women. Because he knew something very important, even if he wasn’t prepared to tell her what it was.
Tina left without another word and it was only when she was back inside her car, a ten-minute walk away, that she broke down, the tears coming in an intense flood. It was hard to come to terms with what she’d just done. She was a tough woman, far too used to violence. But even though she’d killed before, it had always been in the heat of the moment, and the men she’d killed had been killers themselves. What had happened with Dylan Mackay was different. He might have been an arrogant bastard but he was no killer. And Tina hadn’t hurt him in the heat of the moment either. Her violence, and the threats of it, had been methodical. She’d tortured him. There was no other way of describing it, and it shamed her to think that this was what she’d become. Because for a few minutes she’d been out of control in his flat, and it would be a lie to say that a big part of her hadn’t enjoyed the power she’d wielded over him, and the way she’d managed to drag out potentially key information about her case there was no way she’d have got using legitimate means. Because there was no question, she’d made a real breakthrough.
But at what cost? Her integrity? Certainly. Her sanity? Possibly. More worrying was the question that was burning through her tears.
How much further was she capable of sinking?
Twenty-five
It was one of the most relaxing mornings I’d had since … well, since I don’t know when.
The thing was, I felt free. I could do what I wanted when I wanted. Admittedly, I didn’t have much in the way of money – and what I did have, I owed to Tina – but for once I was my own man. It might have been only two days but already the months I’d spent at that isolated house in Wales felt like a lifetime ago. I’d been a prisoner then in all but name, fed a cocktail of drugs in order to keep me passive and helpless while Dr Bronson messed with my head as he tried to extract information I didn’t know I had.
The Final Minute Page 14