The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘Viktor, you know the situation. I need you to explain to her how important this is. To all of us.’

  There was a hollow silence, followed by a metallic click. Had he hung up or had the connection simply dropped out?

  A few seconds passed, then the Russian came back on the line. ‘And how are the boys?’

  ‘Fine.’ His two teenage sons were practically grown-up. Boarding school had been their choice. He texted them a couple of times a week and occasionally got a reply. His youngest child, five-year-old Phoebe, was currently in Scotland being cared for by Paige’s parents. The thought of her brought a lump to Hollister’s throat. He missed his little daughter, even though she’d been a mistake, the result of a drunken holiday shag. Paige, having omitted to mention she’d come off the pill, had used the pregnancy to get him back onside after an earlier bust-up.

  ‘And little Phoebe?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. But listen, Viktor—’

  ‘Robert, there is only so much I can do. You have to talk to Paige yourself.’

  ‘Things haven’t quite worked out as you planned, so now you’re hanging me out to dry too, is that it?’ Hollister regretted this as soon as he’d said it. The only reason he could afford that bitch Merrow’s fees was because Pudovkin was picking up the tab for that as well. He shoved his fist in his mouth and bit down on the knuckle to stop himself from saying more.

  He heard the Russian sigh. ‘Now is not the time to discuss this. We’ll have lunch. We’ll talk.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘One of my PAs will call you.’

  Hollister took a breath and reined in his temper. Much as he hated the situation he needed the rich fucker and he couldn’t afford to let his rage rule him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound impatient. I know you’re a busy man.’

  ‘I am never too busy for my friends. Patience is hard, Robert, I understand this. But your current difficulties will be resolved. Have a little faith.’

  As soon as he’d ended the call, Hollister had opened a fresh bottle of whisky. The clinic treating Paige was in Gloucestershire. The train was out of the question; if he was going to tackle her himself he’d need a chauffeured car. He could go at the weekend. Scrolling through the contacts on his phone he found the number of the hire company. Having to make these practical arrangements himself was another irksome reminder of everything he’d lost. He’d talked to some snotty cow who’d informed him they had nothing available until Tuesday. He wanted to scream: Do you fucking know who I am! But she undoubtedly did: he was someone who’d been relegated to the D list.

  Still he was determined not to be downhearted. The meeting with the lawyer had brought him hope. Politics was an excellent training ground for life’s disappointments. It had taught him how to roll with the punches, get up and fight back. And what Merrow had given him was the means to do that. So he filled his glass, ordered in a takeaway and spent the evening gazing vacantly out at the softly illuminated ironwork of the Victorian suspension bridge whilst keeping an eye on the political shenanigans – who was briefing against who – on social media.

  It was some time after midnight when he saw pictures of the fire. The blaze had been filmed by a neighbour and uploaded. The building was crackling away merrily and part of the roof collapsed in a thunderous whoosh of flames, sparks leaping high into the night sky.

  Hollister poured himself another drink and watched. It was mesmerizing, the elemental power of the fire. The footage was already trending on Twitter before anyone posted the location. But information began to filter through. It was Essex apparently, a substantial house several miles from Billericay. Then a local blogger broke the news that the house belonged to the family of the dead gangster Joey Phelps and the whole thing went viral.

  Staring at the screen of his iPad, Hollister’s expression turned from disbelief to total delight. Joey Phelps was the psychopath brother of the bitch who’d suckered him, the miserable slag who’d set him up, leading to his arrest. When they’d first discovered who was involved – her and a bunch of sleazy private investigators – Pudovkin had urged restraint. But he’d also promised to sort things out. Have a little faith. That’s what he’d said on the phone. Now it was all starting to make sense to Hollister.

  Phelps was the gangster who’d tried to assassinate Pudovkin. Could it have actually been some kind of stupid revenge attack for Warner? There was no way the Russian would let that go. He was a dangerous bastard and no mistake. Didn’t these moronic lowlifes realize that? Well, they did now. Pudovkin had simply been biding his time. And it was perfect. Was the bitch in the house when Pudovkin’s people set the fire? Hollister hoped so. He imagined her roasting in the flames.

  Chuckling to himself, he raised his glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to you, Karen Phelps. Now you really can go fuck yourself!’

  17

  Was it the blood rushing to her head or the fresh air that revived her? It felt as though she was upside down, or the top half of her was. Head, shoulders, arms were all hanging down and swaying. Then she could see the ground, the rough gravel drive below her. And people and flashing lights. The searing heat was receding. Her legs were being firmly held. She was being carried. The fireman got to the bottom of the ladder and gently eased her off his shoulder into waiting arms. She was lifted onto a stretcher.

  Kaz started to cough then retched. Someone was holding her hand, a paramedic, though she could hardly see him, her eyes were so sore. ‘Just let it come up, love. Spit out whatever you can.’

  He put a supporting arm under her shoulder and raised her up so she could lean over the side of the stretcher trolley. She wanted to puke but her throat felt so raw and constricted. Every breath, every swallow was painful. She spat and a small trickle of sticky black saliva snaked down her chin. The paramedic wiped it away.

  ‘I’m going to give you some oxygen. That’ll help.’

  Kaz struggled to speak but no sound emerged. She tried to cough again, managing only a hoarse rasp. The paramedic leant forward to listen. Her head was thumping but she willed herself to focus. ‘My mum . . . my mum—’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ve already got her out. She’s on her way to hospital. Was there anyone else in the house?’

  Kaz shook her head and sank back on the stretcher. The paramedic fitted a mask over her face and she felt the cool, cleansing oxygen flowing up her nose and down into her grateful lungs.

  She didn’t recall much about the ambulance ride to hospital. All she was aware of was an excruciating headache. But she was alive. For the second time in two days she’d cheated death.

  In A&E many hands bustled around her. She heard soothing words, felt the prick of a needle in her arm as they inserted a cannula. They cut off her blackened T-shirt and knickers, listened to her chest, looked down her throat, wiped her body down from top to toe. She didn’t complain; she bore the pain of these intrusions stoically. Finally, the poking and prodding ceased. Dressed in a clean hospital gown, with a nebulizer fitted over her nose and mouth, she was transferred to a ward.

  When she awoke again bright sunshine was seeping through the chinks in the blinds and she had a raging thirst. A nurse gave her water, which she drank through a straw. It was the most refreshing drink she’d ever had. But they insisted she put the nebulizer back on; it was delivering the medication that she needed. They only removed it again to feed her porridge, which tasted surprisingly good. Kaz took the spoon and managed to finish the bowl by herself.

  Sitting up, she saw she was in a bay of eight beds, occupied mostly by older women, who were variously dozing and breakfasting. The woman in the next bed was in her fifties, her bleached hair forming a messy halo over dark roots. She gave Kaz a broad smile.

  ‘How you feeling, lovey?’

  The words, the familiar Essex accent, the bad dye-job, made Kaz immediately think of Ellie. What had happened to her mother? Where was she? Here in the hospital, in another ward?

  Finding the buzzer hanging from a length of flex at the side of t
he bed, Kaz summoned the nurse. But they could tell her nothing. With the mask of the nebulizer back on her face, she was instructed to rest.

  Lying back on the pillows Kaz did a mental inventory of her condition. Her head still ached but not as badly as before. It had shifted from acute to bearable. Her breathing had eased considerably, throat and chest were quite sore, but again, it was bearable. The nebulizer was doing its job. She had a burn on her right hand, which had been dressed, and the rest of her skin felt tight and quite tender, as if she’d been out in the sun. Running a hand through her hair, she found it rough and brittle. Considering she’d been rescued, unconscious, from a burning building, she concluded that she’d been extremely lucky.

  But how had the house caught fire in the first place? Somehow it just didn’t feel like a random accident. She needed some answers but there was no one to ask. The medical staff were going about their business, her neighbours in the bay were chatting, one of them offered to lend her a magazine. She didn’t want to read about beauty tips or the love life of some soap star, she wanted information.

  Impatiently pulling back the covers, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite a slight giddiness, she managed to stand up. Wobbly at first, she made her way slowly to the toilet. Looking at herself in the mirror she got a shock. Her face was quite red but shiny with some spray-on balm. Her hair was frizzled and a little singed at the front. A flash of memory returned: the wall of blistering heat that hit her when she’d opened the bedroom door.

  She managed to pee, then exited the bathroom and headed for the nurses’ station. A smiling charge nurse waylaid her. ‘You all right, love?’

  ‘I need to talk to someone about what happened.’ Her voice was croaky but it worked.

  ‘You’re Karen, aren’t you? I believe you’ve got visitors. Arrived a couple of minutes ago.’

  He took her gently by the elbow and shepherded her back towards her bed. Glynis Phelps was standing at the end of it with an anxious frown on her face. ‘Oh, Kaz!’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘My God, look at you. I just found out. We come straight down here. Are you all right?’

  ‘Surviving. You seen Mum?’

  ‘I asked about her. They said she’s been transferred to the Burns Unit at Chelmsford.’

  Glynis stepped forward and enveloped her in a cautious hug. It was only then that Kaz realized she was not alone. A young woman was standing slightly apart; she’d been gazing out of the window. As she turned back Kaz recognized her sister, Natalie. And Natalie was holding a child, a toddler about eighteen months old.

  Kaz peered at them. She couldn’t believe it. How long had it been? ‘Nat?’

  Natalie gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral.’

  ‘Bloody good job you didn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard what happened.’

  Natalie seemed nervous; she couldn’t hold her sister’s gaze. She transferred the baby onto her other hip. ‘I was gonna come. Then the sitter let me down at the last minute. I should introduce you. This is Finlay. Finlay, meet your Auntie Kaz.’

  Kaz smiled at the child but her brain was reeling. The last time she’d seen her sister was nearly two years before at another funeral: their father’s. Natalie had been in rehab back then, a nervous junkie on the fragile road to recovery. And there had certainly been no sign of any pregnancy.

  The little boy was a restless bundle of energy fidgeting in his mother’s arms. But for a moment he turned and met Kaz’s eye. His hair was white blonde, his face angelic with two piercing blue eyes. Kaz simply stared: that family resemblance, he reminded her so much of Joey at the same age. And she realized that, in spite of all the grief he’d caused her, she missed her brother desperately. His death had left a void in her that could never be filled. Anger dissolved into desolate sorrow and the tears began to flow. She couldn’t stop them.

  Glynis gathered Kaz gently in her arms. ‘It’s all right, lovey. It’s the shock. You’ve had a terrible experience. It’s just the shock.’

  18

  Nicci Armstrong strolled into the office shortly before ten. She felt justified; by the time Heather Blake had turned up to retrieve her drunken husband, it had been pretty late. There was no sign of him this morning. His office door stood open. Nicci greeted Alicia on reception, headed for the coffee station and poured herself a mug.

  She’d received two missed calls, a voicemail and a text from Tom Rivlin, all of which she was ignoring. The voicemail, sent the previous evening, sounded awkward; eating humble pie wasn’t his style. Still it amused her to hear him try. And it served him right. If she didn’t reply then the next call, she calculated, would be from Cheryl Stoneham. That one she would answer, giving some vague excuse about how busy she’d been. But the point would’ve been made. They’d have got the message.

  As she approached the investigations section she noticed that Eddie Lunt was at his desk and Pascale was peering over his shoulder. They were watching a clip on YouTube. It looked like a fire.

  Eddie immediately swivelled his chair. ‘Think you might wanna see this, boss.’

  Nicci dumped her bag on the adjacent desk. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Big blaze at this place in Billericay last night. Turns out it belongs to your mate Karen Phelps’s mum.’

  ‘What? Shit! Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Two rescued. No other casualties.’

  Was that where she’d gone after the police released her? Nicci had some vague memory of the Phelps’s family home in Essex; she couldn’t remember its exact location. But after her testimony against Joey and the subsequent rift with her family, would Karen have gone back there? Surely not.

  Eddie clicked on Twitter. ‘This lot are going bananas. That shoot-out at Joey Phelps’s funeral, then this hardly a day later – bit of a coincidence. Speculation is it’s a gang war. Cops are keeping schtum.’

  Nicci’s head was in a spin. The Kemals! She’d tried to warn Karen, but her calls had been ignored, just as she’d been ignoring Rivlin’s. She grabbed her bag, pulled out her phone and brought up Tom Rivlin’s last text. It had been sent at seven a.m. She’d only skimmed it before, but now she read it: Developments this end. Really need to talk to you. Tom.

  ‘Shit!’

  She clicked on his number and called it. After a single ring it went to voicemail. Putting her hands on her hips she shook her head and cursed her own stupidity. Karen should’ve been warned about the Kemals. Nicci had been given the information but she’d failed to pass it on. She was too preoccupied with playing cat and mouse with Tom Rivlin and too concerned with how the police were treating her. Pascale and Eddie were looking at her expectantly. She wanted to scream in sheer frustration.

  Pascale came to her rescue. ‘Want me to check the local A&E, see if I can find her?’

  ‘Yeah, good idea.’

  She turned to Eddie and was about to speak when Alicia came hurrying over. ‘Nicci, we’ve got a bit of a situation.’

  ‘What kind of situation?’ She couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice.

  ‘Simon has a ten o’clock. And there’s no sign of him. They’re here and they don’t look too happy.’

  ‘Well, apologize. Tell them he’s sick, there’s been an emergency. We’ll have to reschedule.’

  ‘It’s a new client. And he’s really important. Some sort of sheikh, I think.’ Alicia shrugged apologetically.

  Nicci glanced towards the reception area. A tall young man was pacing restlessly and checking his phone, another was standing nearby, hands folded in front of him. He was stocky and looked like the minder.

  ‘What the hell am I suppose to do about it?’

  ‘Well, you’re sort of Simon’s number two, aren’t you? And now Hugo’s gone . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she gave Nicci a hopeful look.

  Eddie Lunt got up from his desk, hitched his trousers over his considerable paunch and smiled. ‘Tell you what, boss, why don’t I go down to Billericay and find out what’s going on. I kno
w a couple of news boys on Radio Essex, I can get the low-down on this fire while you sort out his nibs.’

  Nicci glanced at Eddie. She didn’t expect him to be helpful and it always seemed to take her by surprise when he was.

  He gave her his pixie grin. ‘Not like I’ve got anything better to do, is it? And if this place goes tits up we’re all out of a job anyway.’

  Nicci nodded, although the pointedness of his last remark was irritating. He was right of course. They couldn’t afford to alienate a new client.

  She turned to Alicia. ‘What is it? A security job?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Alicia handed her a file.

  Opening it, Nicci found a note written in Simon’s neat, almost feminine handwriting. Turki bin Qassim? Presumably that was the client’s name.

  Eddie scooped his leather jacket from his chair and headed out. ‘I’ll keep you posted, boss.’

  Nicci frowned. ‘You sure he’s a sheikh? What do I call him?’

  Alicia shrugged again.

  Walking across the office to the reception area, Nicci opted for a neutral approach. She held out her hand.

  ‘I’m Nicci Armstrong. I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting. Unfortunately, Mr Blake is unwell.’

  He was young – hardly more than mid-twenties was Nicci’s guess – a spare frame with a sculpted Van Dyke beard, dark open-necked shirt and an immaculate grey suit. Accepting the handshake, he inclined his head. ‘Turki bin Qassim bin Faleh Al Thani.’ He had the languid confidence of a man accustomed to privilege.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, your, erm, royal highness—’

  His features broke into an amused grin. ‘Mr Qassim is fine, Ms Armstrong. I don’t stand on ceremony. As an Al Thani I am of course distantly related to the Emir of Qatar, but then there are several thousand of us.’

  Nicci gave him an appraising look. He had the swagger and style of a male model with the dark curly hair expertly coiffed into precisely the right amount of disarray. His English was perfect, the accent mid-Atlantic. It was her first real encounter with one of Blake’s HNWIs but if the company was to survive she needed to get used to it.