by Peter Boland
Tannaz didn’t reply, her face in shock, stuck on pause.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”
This shook her out of her trance. “Wait,” said Tannaz. “We need to call the police, the ambulance.”
“And we will, but not here.”
She grabbed his arm. “You’re just going to leave him here?”
“That’s it, run away, Savage, like you always do.”
“Tannaz, if we’re here when the police show up, they’ll ask us lots of questions. Awkward questions. Why are you here? What are you doing in Southampton? Where are you staying? We’ll have to do lots of lying. Make stuff up. Despite what people think, the police aren’t stupid. They’ll think we’re an odd couple. A young computer hacker and an ex-captain in the SAS with a busted-up face in the middle of a forest where people are committing suicide. They won’t buy our story. Then we’ll be on their radar. It’ll be more hassle than it’s worth.”
Savage knelt down by the body and pulled out the guy’s wallet.
“Shame on you, Savage, stealing from a dead man.”
He slid out the guy’s driver’s licence. “Samuel Thwaite, from Doncaster.” He slotted it back in and pulled out another, a printed security-access card. “Worked in a place called Leadman’s Accountants, also in Doncaster.”
“How can you be so calm about all this? He’s just died right in front of us.”
“That’s because Savage is already dead inside. Run, Tannaz, run.”
“Believe me, I’m anything but calm,” said Savage. “What I’m saying is we can’t help this guy anymore. Have to suck it up and get on with it. I realise this is a shock to you; let’s go back to the hotel. Maybe it’d be a good thing if we take a break.”
Determination came back into Tannaz. “No, we carry on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, let’s get back to the van, and find this Joel Diplock character.”
Chapter 42
As they trudged back to the car park, the voice of Jeff faded. Putting distance between them and the suicidal man made him lose his potency. Although he had definitely rattled Savage. The voice had never been that loud before. Maybe Jeff was right about one thing. Being so close to a suicide gave him power and strength, which he fed off, growing fatter like a character in a Roald Dahl story.
When they were in the van and had put a few miles between themselves and Dead Maids, Tannaz pinged an anonymous email to the police, informing them of the suicide victim they’d found.
As Savage drove, Tannaz punched the keys of her laptop furiously.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find a connection between this Samuel Thwaite and Wellington. Everyone who’s wound up dead in that forest has had something to do with Simon Wellington.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all so far. Thwaite was born and bred in Doncaster. Lived there all his life. As far as I can tell he’s never even been to Southampton. Oh, crap.”
“What?”
“I’ve just found his Facebook page, his last post reads: ‘Have made up my mind. All the sadness will be over soon. I’m taking my final trip today.’”
“Can Facebook posts be faked?” asked Savage.
“Easily,” Tannaz replied. “Someone could have made it look like a suicide. But we saw him in the car park. No one was forcing him to kill himself.”
“There are other ways to coerce someone. Blackmail, threats to his family. Kill yourself or we’ll make your kids suffer. He had kids, we saw the car seats.”
“There are pictures on his Facebook page. Two girls. If Wellington had targeted him, I can’t see the connection.”
“Maybe that’s just it,” said Savage. “Maybe he had to change the pattern. Say he’s got a sadistic thing for making people hang themselves at Dead Maids, the next one needed to be random, nothing to do with him. So he shut his eyes and flicked through the phone book and picked this guy.”
“Or, it’s a genuine suicide. He heard about this place and came here to end it all like others before him, maybe it’s becoming the mecca for suicide, the UK’s version of the Sea of Trees.”
Savage groaned. “Is it possible that this is what Wellington wants to create, another Sea of Trees?”
“He’d have to be an absolute sick psychopath.”
“I thought that was abundantly clear already. Park it for now, a connection with Thwaite and Wellington may emerge. First we find this Joel Diplock. I need an address.”
“Already on it.”
Two minutes later, Tannaz said, “Turn the van around, we’re going the wrong way. Joel Diplock lives in Ringwood. About eighteen miles south-west of here.”
“Right you are.”
Savage pulled a massive, screeching U-turn in the middle of the forest and accelerated towards Ringwood.
“Can you hack his bank account?” asked Savage. “Look for anything irregular.”
Frighteningly fast, Tannaz was into Diplock’s personal account and read out a history of the guy’s purchases. “Gets paid monthly by bank transfer. Shops at Tesco. Subscription to Netflix. Subscription to Top Gear magazine. Member of a local gym. Goes to the pub Saturday night and Sunday lunchtime. Occasionally does paintball. Oh, his car insurance has gone up massively. Almost ten times as much.”
“When?”
“January.”
“That’s when Dave’s tree got felled. Why has his insurance gone up?”
“Let me see.” More typing. “Okay, I’m into his insurance. It’s because he went from a ten-year-old Honda Civic to a year-old Ford Ranger four-wheel-drive pickup.”
“I wonder where he got the money for that? Any tax rebates, Christmas bonuses, large sums of money being deposited in his accounts from loan companies or pay-outs?”
“No, nothing. Just his monthly salary.”
“So our man gets a big load of cash from somewhere and buys himself a new truck. Interesting. If in doubt, always follow the money. It never lies.”
Joel Diplock lived on a modest new estate on the outskirts of Ringwood. By the look of the place, it had been built in the early eighties when designers had learnt lessons from the mistakes of the seventies and had made pathetic attempts to soften the look of housing estates, by giving them pointless mock period features like dormer windows with false leading and minuscule white wooden porches. They weren’t fooling anyone. Like one of those posh burgers with all the trimmings that come in a brioche bun, it was still just a burger. And a housing estate with a bit of tat nailed onto it was still just a housing estate.
Joel Diplock was easy to find. His truck dwarfed the tiny driveway it sat on. Next to it on the small patch of grass that formed his front garden, a sparkling Husqvarna dirt bike was propped up on its kickstand, recently washed, presumably by the substantial pressure washer standing next to it. Heavy-metal music thumped out the truck’s car stereo, which the neighbours must have loved.
Savage parked up opposite the house. He and Tannaz both exited the van and casually walked over to Joel Diplock.
He was busying himself, making the Ford Ranger spotless, buffing it with a chamois leather. He was a big guy, broad shouldered, straight hair down to his shoulders that looked like it had been coloured to give it a surfie beach-blonde appearance. Beneath his lower lip he sported a soul-patch beard.
“Nice truck,” said Savage. “How much did that set you back?”
Nothing got a man’s attention like being paid a compliment about the vehicle he drove.
Joel turned and smiled proudly. “What this bad boy? Set me back just over nineteen grand.”
Savage blew out through his teeth in amazement.
“I’ll take you for spin in it if you want,” Joel said, ignoring Savage and talking directly to Tannaz. “It’s a hell of a buzz, of
f-roading in that beast.” He winked at her.
Tannaz began smoking a cigarette with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “I don’t like being outdoors. Don’t like pickup trucks either. They’re usually driven by redneck pricks with small brains and tiny dicks.”
Joel’s face dropped.
“So where’d you get nineteen grand to pay for your truck, Joel?” asked Savage.
“How do you know my name?”
Savage ignored the question and continued, “I’m guessing it was paid for in cash, and I’m sure you declared that money. I mean, it’d be difficult to hide it from the taxman, a big four-wheel-drive vehicle like that sitting in your driveway. You know that’s how the tax office catches most tax dodgers, when they suddenly get something expensive out of the blue—acquisition of an unexplained asset they call it—bit hard to cover that one up. So you must have declared the money, no one’s that stupid.”
Joel didn’t say anything.
“Oh no,” said Savage. “You are that stupid. You haven’t declared the money you earned have you? Oh dear, well, being conscientious citizens we’ll have to call the tax office.”
Joel’s worry turned to fear, then to anger. Brow furrowed, eyes pinched around the edges. He straightened up in an attempt to make himself look more intimidating. He threw his chamois leather on the floor in anger.
“You’ve lost your rag,” said Savage.
Tannaz laughed.
“I knew it,” said Savage. “She pretends not to like my jokes, but I know she loves them.”
Joel raised his fists, limbered up his shoulders. Ready to fight.
“Really?” said Savage. “You want to fight?”
“Damn straight,” said Joel. “You don’t come on my property and threaten me.”
Savage yawned. Two nights without sleep catching up on him. “Look, I’m too tired for fighting.”
“I’ll fight him,” said Tannaz. “I need the practice.”
“I’m not fighting a girl,” said Joel.
“You’re going to regret saying that,” said Tannaz, grinding her cigarette out on the driveway and squaring up to him.
“Listen, Joel,” said Savage. “We’ve had quite a traumatic day already. Seen some things we really didn’t want to see. So let’s make this easy. No need for fisticuffs. You wouldn’t win anyway. Just tell us who asked you to fell the tree in Dead Maids, and we won’t grass you up to the taxman. Or did you do it of your own volition?”
“I don’t know how you know my name or who you are. Like I said, no one comes on my property and threatens me.”
“Just tell us why you cut the tree down. No need for anyone to get hurt.”
“You’ll be the only ones getting hurt,” Joel replied.
“Tannaz?” said Savage. “Drop this fool.”
“I’m not fighting a chick,” said Joel. Then without warning, he swung a right hook at the side of Tannaz’s face. With her lightning speed, she dropped low, avoiding the blow, and gave him an uppercut to the groin. He doubled over instantly. A gasp of pain escaping from his mouth like a burst balloon. Then she grabbed him tightly by both ears and headbutted him, making blood run all down his face, turning his soul patch red.
Joel collapsed in a heap on his driveway, curling into a ball.
“You’re getting good at those headbutts,” Savage remarked, then he crouched beside Joel. “Okay, fella. Just breathe. Get some oxygen in your lungs. Pain will go soon.”
They gave Joel a few minutes. Eventually he sat up wiped his nose and sniffed back the blood.
“Better?” asked Savage.
He nodded.
“The Douglas fir in Dead Maids,” said Savage. “Why did you cut it down?”
Joel took a breath, then said, “Some guys came here a few months ago in a blue BMW, I think. Heavy-duty looking guys, dressed in black. One of them was bald with a Bluetooth.”
Definitely Wellington’s men.
“The guy with the Bluetooth, did he ask you to cut the tree down?”
“No, there was another guy with them. They were like his minders.”
“And what was he like?”
“Posh. Smartly dressed, suit and tie. Had brown wavy hair. Looked a little unsure of himself.”
“How do you mean?” asked Tannaz.
“Kind of depressed. Like he didn’t want to be there.”
A perfectly accurate description of Ben Wellington, thought Savage. “And he asked you to cut the tree down?” asked Savage.
“Yeah. First, I had to mark it with an X, like we used to do in the old days with a spray can.”
“When did they ask you to mark the tree?”
“December, just before Christmas. They gave me the exact co-ordinates in Dead Maids, a Douglas fir. Then I had to cut it down in January.”
“Did you ask why?”
“No, they wanted to pay me ten grand. Five up front and then five when the job was done. I wasn’t going to start getting nosey.”
“And when the body came out of the tree…”
Joel’s eyes turned icy with fear. “Listen, I had nothing to do with that. You gotta believe me. I didn’t know that body was up there, would never have done it if I did.”
“It’s okay, we believe you,” said Savage. “Look, we’re not after you, just the people who organised this.” Savage turned to Tannaz. “Okay we’ve got what we need.” He turned back to Joel. “No mention of our little visit, okay? Not to anyone, unless you want the taxman to come calling.”
Joel nodded eagerly.
Savage stood up and stretched out his hand to Joel. He took it and Savage hoisted him to his feet.
“One other thing,” said Joel.
“Yes?” Savage replied.
“Are you two an item?”
“No,” said Tannaz. “More of a partnership.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Why do you ask?” said Tannaz.
Joel went a tad shy, eyes down. “I was just wondering if you might want to go out some time.”
“Joel,” said Tannaz. “I just punched you in the groin and headbutted you to the ground.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grinned impishly, unsure how to form his next few words. “I guess, if I’m honest, I kind of liked it.”
Tannaz turned on her heel. “Bye, Joel.” Savage followed her.
Joel called after her, “If you change your mind you know where I am. I think you’re great. A badass Asian Wonder Woman.”
They got into the van and drove off.
“Hear that?” said Tannaz. “I’m a badass Asian Wonder Woman.”
“You know that’s your new nickname now,” said Savage. “Badass Asian Wonder Woman.”
Tannaz groaned, “No, I don’t want you calling me that. I’m changing the subject. What’s our next move?”
“I think we need some facetime with Ben Wellington, preferably without his minders around.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“I think this is a job for Badass Asian Wonder Woman.”
“I said don’t call me that.”
Chapter 43
Savage had a saying—routine makes you vulnerable. Doing the same thing day in, day out, repeating the same pattern every week makes you open to attack. House burglars use it to great effect, watching and learning a person’s weekly comings and goings then striking when they know there’s no chance of them being in. There was a famous British comedian who did a live show on TV in the eighties on a Saturday night. Twice in a row his flat got burgled while he was on TV, the robbers knowing he was on stage and not at home. Probably the first time a TV schedule had been used to pull off a theft.
In the case of Ben Wellington, it wasn’t about knowing his weekly routine so Savage could break into his house, it was watching him so he could get him alone.
Whenever he went out, his minders would go with him. Even on the weekends, his ever-present bodyguards would shadow him, making sure he’d come to no harm, although Savage suspected it wasn’t just about keeping him safe. More about ensuring he didn’t do anything stupid.
Savage and Tannaz observed his activities for the next two weeks. Following the Bentley at a discreet distance to get an idea of his every movement, every day of the week. The bodyguards never left him, they’d even park outside his house, keeping an eye on him at night. They’d change shift, of course, every five hours. 24/7 Ben Wellington was never alone, apart from Saturday morning.
At nine thirty a.m. on Saturdays, Ben Wellington would take his two girls swimming. Pretty as a summer’s day, they’d skip up to his car, blonde ponytails swishing from side to side, colourful rucksacks strapped to their backs. Ben would drive with one bodyguard in the passenger seat and three more following along behind in the navy-blue BMW. It seemed like a lot of security to take a man and his daughters swimming.
They’d park up, while Ben took his girls to the pool. The security detail stayed outside with the cars, leaning on bonnets, chatting and drinking coffee and sucking on vape machines. Bluetooth was not amongst them, but if he had been, Savage was sure he’d have reprimanded them for letting their mark out of sight.
Ben Wellington sat in the stands, close to the side of the pool watching his daughters jump in off the side, giving them little comments of encouragement. He seemed like a good father.
Savage slotted himself next to him. “Hello, Ben.”
Ben swung round, horror on his face.
“Relax,” said Savage. “I just want to talk. No funny business.”
“What do you want?”
“Just to talk. Oh, by the way, thanks for sending me into the lion’s den a few weeks ago. You said it was a bare-knuckle boxing match. I had to fight for my life.”
“Look, I’m really sorry. Really I am.”
“Apology accepted. The way I figure it, you owe me one.”
Ben went silent. Gazed at his girls splashing in the pool. Eventually he said, “What do you want?”