by Peter Boland
Dink gently placed the drain cover next to the hole. “Wow,” said Savage. “That was easy.”
Dink smiled, happy to be helping. Savage rolled up his sleeves, lay down on the pavement, flat on his front. With his head and arms reaching down into the open drain, he fished about in the swirling murky water.
“You okay, Savage?” asked Tannaz.
“Never better,” came his echoey voice. “Dink, could you hold onto my feet? Have to reach a bit deeper.” Dink obliged, clamping his hands around Savage’s ankles.
Moments later Savage’s right hand came up out of the drain and dropped a filthy wet tube-like piece of dark metal onto the pavement. He reached in again and pulled out a thick rusty spring about the same length. Next to emerge from the drain was a slim rectangle of metal, blackened with dirty mud. Finally, Savage pulled his head and shoulders out of the storm drain, his face red where the blood had rushed to his head. In his hand he held the last piece of the puzzle, the handgrip and frame of the Baikal handgun he’d taken off the two heavyweight drug dealers months ago.
“Is that a gun?” asked Dink.
“Yes, parts of a gun, a very dirty gun.”
“Are you going to shoot someone?”
“No, we’re just going to scare a friend, Dink. Nothing to worry about. Could you put the drain cover back for me?”
Dink lifted the metal grille and slotted it back into place. Savage pulled a small hand towel from his pocket and wrapped up the pieces of the gun, then got to his feet. “Thank you, Dink. I couldn’t have done that without you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dink. “What are we doing now?”
“Well, me and Tannaz are going to clean this lot up and get out of here.”
“Can I come?” asked Dink.
“Best not,” said Savage. “When we’ve done this little thing we need to do, me and Tannaz will come back and visit you properly, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll make you some soup.”
“That would be perfect, Dink. We’ll look forward to it.”
Tannaz and Savage watched Dink shrink in the rearview mirror as he waved them goodbye. “He’s such a sweetheart,” said Tannaz.
“He is. You know, Wellington swindled him out of his mother’s house.”
“He did what?”
“Took his dead mother’s five-bedroom luxury house in Chilworth, made him swap it for that grotty little room he lives in.”
Tannaz’s voice dropped, became low and mean. “Now we’ve got the Baikal can I shoot Wellington in the head? Actually, forget that. Too good for him. I’ve got a better idea.”
Forty-five minutes later they had parked up at Dead Maids.
“Does it have to be here?” asked Tannaz.
“This is the most isolated part of the forest. I can’t think of anywhere better.” Savage climbed over the driver’s seat into the back of the van. He carefully unfurled the damp towel and laid it on the payload floor, revealing the grubby, dismantled handgun. From a holdall in the back, he took out an array of tools and liquids, including solvents, lubricants, abrasive materials, bore brushes, cleaning swabs and nylon brushes, and set to work restoring the Baikal back to life. He handed the slide of the gun to Tannaz, together with a can of WD40, a small bottle and a dry cloth. “Can you clean off any dirt with the WD40 and then apply a thin coat of rust remover?”
“Sure.”
They sat rubbing, scrubbing, cleaning, sanding and oiling until all parts of the Baikal shone like new. Savage fitted them back together, testing the slide several times, cleaning and reloading the bullets into the magazine.
“Right, just one more thing we need,” said Savage.
From the holdall he removed a thick cylinder, covered in lengths of black electrical tape, with two small holes either end.
“What’s that?” asked Tannaz.
“This is a homemade silencer. It’s pretty simple. One PVC pipe inside another. Sandwiched in the space between is builder’s expanding foam, with a plastic cap on either end to hold it all together. The small pipe has loads of holes drilled in it, so when the bullet passes through it, the heat and sound is absorbed by the builder’s foam, well, some of it. Not as good as a manufactured silencer, but good enough.”
He stuffed both the gun and the makeshift silencer into his jacket.
“Shall we give it a test drive?” he asked.
“This, I’d like to see,” said Tannaz grinning.
They left the VW van and trekked into Dead Maids, hopefully for the last time, seeking out the most isolated spot they could find. After an hour and a half of walking, Savage said, “This will do.” He found a tree stump and placed a tin can on it, walked back thirty paces, took out the Baikal, turned, aimed and fired.
The tin can pinged up into the air, the loud crack from the gun dislodging any birds in the vicinity from their perches. “Gun works fine,” said Savage, resetting his target. “Let’s see how it fares with the silencer.” He took thirty steps back, pulled the homemade silencer from his jacket and fitted it on the muzzle, took aim and fired. Rather than a crack, the gun made a dull, wet thud. A fraction of the volume of the first shot.
The tin can remained where it was, the shot disappearing into the ground next to the stump. “Okay,” said Savage. “Accuracy at a distance is a bit off. It’ll be fine for what we have in mind. Right. Let’s pay Simon Wellington an unexpected visit.”
Chapter 51
If someone were to design the quintessential English town, or what they thought the quintessential English town should look like, they’d probably end up with Esher in Surrey.
Nestled to the east of the River Mole and within easy commute to London, Esher was rich. Very rich. Wealthy and pretty, it was populated with nice people from nice backgrounds and nice families, everything about it was nice. The roads were leafy, wide and uncongested, travelled by cars no older than a year, mostly ship-sized SUVs and luxury sedans. Children were beautiful, healthy and happy, fed on a diet of organic couscous, olives and sourdough bread bought not from a supermarket, but delivered from a wonderful deli that had been recommended by a friend. Children grew up to be teenagers with good prospects who were groomed to take jobs in important positions who would then have more beautiful children, and so the cycle of wonderful privilege would continue. Homes ranged from the expensive to the ridiculously expensive—the massive price tag of even the most minuscule flat, a massive comfort to the residents of Esher, not so much for the investment potential. Mostly because it kept the riff-raff out.
All except one.
Simon Wellington.
On one of the most expensive roads in one of the most expensive areas of Esher, he’d bought a sprawling sixteen-bedroom mansion in an area called Claremont Park. Twelve-million-pounds’ worth of house set in four acres of landscaped lawns and woodlands. In fact, all the houses along this road were so big and in such vast plots that it was impossible for neighbour to glimpse neighbour.
The only evidence that there were houses along this road were the occasional driveways, disappearing off into some rural idyll. No houses were visible, they were set so far back behind electric gates and high, well-kept hedges and topiary. Privacy and seclusion cost money in this country. It was also precarious. In the half hour Savage had been parked up an access lane in the cab of a long-wheel-base, bland white van he’d borrowed from Harry Preston, he’d only seen one other car go past. It was the least busy road he’d ever seen, so much so that he felt like the world had ended and he was the last man on earth.
No passers-by meant no witnesses and no alarms raised. Conditions couldn’t be more perfect.
Tannaz was parked further down the road in a similar van, hidden from view behind a large holly bush.
They knew Wellington was a creature of habit. He still frequented the Cygnet Club, week in, week out. Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday he sat
in the back of his handsome Bentley Flying Spur and made the trip to London and back with Bluetooth and his driver, who Savage assumed was also a bodyguard, up front.
Not nearly enough protection, thought Savage. Further proof that he was overconfident. It was no wonder he was so self-assured. The guy had spent weeks in Tivoli Gardens alone without any security whatsoever in a highly hostile environment. He was either fearless or reckless. Savage guessed it was the former. Wellington thought he was untouchable; the extra security at the Cygnet Club when they tried to snatch his phone, just a one-off event. He’d needed more boots on the ground to take care of Tannaz and Savage, and make their bodies disappear. Well, that hadn’t gone to plan, and neither would his plans for today.
At three forty-five p.m., with OCD-like regularity Wellington was picked up from his London club, to avoid the rush hour, and would head back home. Fifty minutes later, the majestic Bentley would sweep along the tree-lined avenues of Esher and into his endless driveway.
Today was no different. Right on time, the luxury metallic-blue sedan glided past Savage’s position. He clocked Bluetooth in the passenger seat, Wellington in the back and another guy driving. He called Tannaz and said, “Showtime.” Then pulled out, following the Bentley at a distance.
Up ahead, Tannaz’s identical large white van emerged from its hiding place and came to a stop across the full width of the road, blocking the Bentley’s path. The driver had no choice but to slow to a standstill. Savage hit the accelerator, gunned the engine, closing the distance in a second or two, and rammed the back of the pristine sedan. Nothing like a good shunt in the rear to cause a bit of shock and disorientation. Slowed the mind of even the most professional and experienced bodyguards.
Savage leapt out of the cab, the Russian Baikal in his hand, improvised silencer fitted on the end.
Savage took aim and shot out the tyres on the left-hand side, just in case the driver tried something stupid, like a three-point turn or driving up onto the well-manicured verges to make a getaway. It also served as a warning to the men inside that he had a real gun and was prepared to use it. They’d certainly be armed, but after giving them a good bit of whiplash from ramming the car, he had the jump on them.
Savage tapped on the front passenger-side window with the butt of the gun, not to get Bluetooth’s attention, he’d already done that. It was a simple test to see if it was bulletproof. The gun made the usual clack-clack sound of normal glass. If it had been bulletproof it would have been dull, almost inaudible.
Bluetooth was rubbing his neck.
“Out!” shouted Savage. “Now!”
Bluetooth moved slowly, far too slowly for Savage’s liking. He was being a prick, buying time, stalling so he could plan a retaliation. Savage took a step back, aimed at the door, right where Bluetooth’s thigh would be, and fired. The door would have taken some of the sting out of the bullet’s velocity. Unlike most Hollywood movies that would have you believe car doors could protect someone from gunfire, the round had no trouble passing through the thin metal and plush interior panelling, and onwards, burying itself in Bluetooth’s leg. At that range, even with the silencer’s dodgy accuracy, he couldn’t miss.
Through the window, Savage could see and hear him screaming.
The driver got out, hands up. Savage recognised him from the club and kept his gun on him.
“Tannaz,” he said. “Take his keys, pat him down. Get his phone and any weapons. Get Wellington’s phone off him too.”
While she was doing that, Savage opened the passenger door and reached in to search Bluetooth. Savage pulled the guy’s phone from his jacket and a small Glock twenty-six handgun, holstered under his arm. Blood was pooling all over the nice leather seat. The guy was breathing hard, panicking, clutching his leg. “You shot me,” he gasped.
“Nothing gets past you does it?” Savage straightened up. “How are we doing Tannaz?”
Tannaz held up a phone and a small sidearm. Savage recognised it as a Walther PPK, favoured by James Bond. “You, 007,” said Savage to the driver. “Come round here.”
The guy hurried around the front of the car.
“Give your mate a hand, you’re both going in the boot.”
“We are?” he said.
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” said Savage. “I think I’ll let you go, you look like nice lads.”
“Really?”
“Course not. Get in the boot now!”
The guy lifted Bluetooth out of his seat, hooked an arm around his shoulders and helped him hobble round to the back of the mangled car. The bumper had crumpled and the light clusters had both smashed. The boot was dented but still serviceable. Tannaz clicked the button on the key fob, and it rose like magic.
“Both of you get in,” said Savage.
Bluetooth went first, resting his backside on the tailgate in an attempt to swing both legs in, taking far too long.
“Be quicker,” Savage commanded, “or I’ll shoot your other leg, then I’ll shoot your friend.”
The driver, clearly not wanting to get shot, grabbed both of Bluetooth’s legs and shoved them in. Bluetooth yelped in pain. The driver climbed in after him, the vast boot easily accommodating both of them. Tannaz clicked the button and the boot lid slowly descended, muffling the sound of Bluetooth’s agony.
Savage opened one of the rear doors. Wellington sat there calm and unworried.
“My phone will do you no good,” he said. “It’s highly encrypted and rigged to delete if anyone tampers with it, even someone as good as Miss Darvish.”
“Get out,” said Savage.
Wellington jutted out his chin in defiance. Probably the first time in decades anyone had told him what to do. He slid out of the car and straightened up his suit and adjusted his tie. “This is all very amateurish, Mr Savage. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“Yes. It’s just a good old-fashioned kidnapping. Now get in the back of the van.”
Chapter 52
Tannaz drove the damaged van, the one Savage had shunted the Bentley with, to a body shop in nearby Sunbury that would ask no questions. They’d booked in advance to get the front end fixed before they handed it back to Harry Preston. They’d informed him of their plan to grab a scumbag landlord who needed taking down a peg or two. Harry, who had been ripped off by several landlords who’d charged him ever-increasing rents for his business premises merely replied, “Knock yourself out.”
After dropping off the damaged van, Tannaz joined Savage in the passenger seat of the second van. He pulled off the body-shop forecourt and into traffic. They’d chosen Sunbury because it was where the M3 motorway began, taking them directly south-west.
Tannaz glanced over the seat at their passenger in the back, lying on the metal floor, his hands and feet zip-tied, and his mouth gagged.
“Comfy?” asked Tannaz.
Wellington said nothing. His enraged eyes said it all.
“You’re going to love the little game we’ve got lined up for you,” said Tannaz. “You like a good game, don’t you?”
Garbled words forced their way out through Wellington’s gag.
“We can probably take the gag off him now,” said Savage. “We’re on the motorway. No one will hear him.”
Tannaz climbed into the back and sat down beside Wellington, loosening the gag from his mouth. She put a bottle of water to his lips. He drank greedily.
“So you’re going to kill me,” Wellington gasped.
“No, whatever gave you that idea,” said Tannaz, mock outrage in her voice.
“I have friends. Important friends. Friends you wouldn’t want to mess with. Big, powerful people.”
“That’s what we’re counting on,” Tannaz added.
Wellington laughed, rather too spiritedly to be genuine. “Ah, so you’re going to hold me to ransom. You’re nothing but a pair of third-r
ate criminals.” He spat on the floor.
“Wrong again,” said Tannaz. “A ransom never even crossed our minds.”
“No, we’ve taken a leaf out of your book. Got creative,” said Savage.
“What are you going to do?” asked Wellington. A tinge of worry creeping into his voice.
“Well let’s see,” said Savage. “Where are we now, junction two of the M3, you’ve got until junction fourteen to work it out. That’s about fifty miles.”
“You’re taking me to Southampton.”
“Clever boy,” said Tannaz. “Oh, that reminds me,” she said, rifling through her pockets. She fished out a pound coin and handed it to Savage in the front. “Savage and I are having a bet.”
“What are you betting on?” asked Wellington.
“You,” said Savage. “We’ve each bet a pound on you.”
“What’s the bet?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” said Tannaz.
Before Wellington had a chance to digest this new information, Tannaz grabbed one of his zip-tied hands. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I need your thumb.”
Wellington struggled, assuming Tannaz was going to cut it off.
“Relax,” she said. With her free hand she reached into her jacket and pulled out Wellington’s phone and pressed his thumb against the home button so it would scan his print. She let go of him.
Wellington straightened up. Tried to assume a more dignified posture, which was pretty impossible with his hands tied, sitting on the floor in the back of a hired van. “Okay, so you’ve got into the phone’s home screen,” he said. “You won’t get any further without the encryption key. And if you try without it, everything on that phone is set to delete.”
“Yes, I know,” said Tannaz. “You keep telling me. Maybe you could just give me the key now, save me loads of bother.”
“Never,” Wellington replied.
“Well, maybe I’ll cut off your thumbs and see if that works.”
Wellington pressed his back against the wall, his frame shrinking slightly.