The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘No. Don’t be ridiculous. My connection with Karen Phelps has only ever been professional. Cheryl Stoneham asked for my help and I’ve done my level best to give it.’

  ‘In which case, as a former police officer, knowing she was in breach of her licence – I mean, running around with a bloody gun! – you should’ve informed the authorities before any of this happened.’

  He was right of course and she felt wretched. ‘I know that.’

  ‘But instead you went to see Steve and told him a pack of lies. And I helped you! I bloody helped you. I tell you, I can hardly get my head round this.’ Now he had full possession of the moral high ground there was no mistaking the hint of triumphalism in his voice.

  ‘I didn’t lie to Steve. I told him she wasn’t a danger to the public. Which is true.’

  ‘Four people are dead, Nicci. A house has been torched, putting two more in hospital. And all this could’ve been avoided.’

  Nicci wanted to argue. It wasn’t that simple; he hadn’t been there and he didn’t know Karen Phelps.

  ‘Now she’s disappeared and we don’t even know—’

  Clicking her phone off she hurled it at the sofa. She refused to listen to any more of his rant. It bounced and fell on the floor. She ignored it. Whatever recriminations he’d flung at her, they were trivial compared to the burden of guilt she was loading on herself. If the Kemals had got hold of Karen it was because she’d made a mistake. And her brain skittered back to a similar situation when her poor judgement had led to a colleague ending up in the hands of Joey Phelps. DC Mal Bradley had been beaten to death, and that still haunted her. Flopping down on the sofa she put her face in her hands and wept.

  31

  Curled up on the back seat of Darius Johnson’s taxi, his jacket wrapped around her, Kaz Phelps watched the dark country lanes slip by. They’d left the A127 and were cutting northwards past Herongate. She’d recognized the occasional landmark until the road disappeared into black tunnels of overarching trees that formed part of Warley Woods. She felt as though she were disappearing into the safety of a subterranean forest. The darkness embraced her and she wasn’t scared.

  As the shock of her ordeal subsided she became aware of the pain in her torn and bleeding feet. Hard running across gravel and concrete had lacerated the soles, leaving them raw and bloody. But she’d escaped. She’d outrun that vicious bastard, Sadik Kemal, not to mention his sidekick. As the adrenaline high had begun to ebb, her body had started to shake. She buried her face in the fleecy lining of the jacket. It had a vaguely male miasma overlaid with the sharp scent of eau de cologne.

  Darius drove. He occasionally glanced over his shoulder to check she was okay. They didn’t speak. He’d been there, understood the danger she was in and he had acted. There seemed no need for Kaz to provide him with any explanation. He’d simply told her that he had a place where she could hide. And she’d accepted his word. She wondered vaguely if she should be suspicious of his motives, but she lacked the energy. Lulled by the steady rumble of the diesel engine, she fell asleep.

  Occasional splashes of street lighting rippled through the interior of the cab but exhaustion had engulfed her and she didn’t stir. Her brain was in playback mode and she was reliving the chase. But in her dream, Sadik’s face soon morphed into another, even meaner individual who seemed to be wagging an accusing finger. Was it her cousin, Sean? The gun was in her hand and she knew she had to shoot, and she wanted to shoot. But the trigger was so tight. She squeezed as hard as she could but it wouldn’t budge. And he started to laugh at her.

  The taxi slowed and swung into a gateway. Darius got out and the clunk of the door woke Kaz. She sat up and watched Darius opening a wide, five-bar gate. He climbed back into his seat and turned to smile at her.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Place belongs to a friend of mine.’

  The taxi rolled slowly forward along a short gravel drive. The house was long and low, with a high-pitched, red-tiled roof and gabled windows. Originally an old farmhouse, it was flanked by outbuildings and a wooden barn. A security light came on as the taxi pulled up. Kaz didn’t know the place but she recognized where she was: this was the rural Essex of City money, horses with paddocks and posh multimillion-pound conversions.

  The front door opened and a man and woman stood framed in the warmth and welcome of the interior. Kaz couldn’t really see their faces; she was half-naked and bleeding and suddenly felt very self-conscious.

  As Darius opened the door for her, the man trotted down the steps. He was beaming from ear to ear. He looked familiar but her brain struggled to place him.

  ‘Kaz!’ He held out his arms. ‘We was at the crematorium, all waiting like a bunch of lemons. Poor old Joe, what a shock, eh?’

  Peering at him, Kaz took in the close-cropped blond hair, the broad shoulders. He reminded her so much of her brother. But then she realized, it should be the other way round. She stared in disbelief.

  ‘Paul?’

  He slapped his rock-hard abdomen. ‘I know, I’m getting a bit flabby. But ten years is a long time, babes.’

  Babes. Joey had always called her babes. But, as with so many things, he’d only been copying Paul. Five years older, Paul Ackroyd had been a mentor and friend to the teenage Joey. And for nine all too brief months, when she was sixteen, Kaz Phelps had been madly in love with him.

  32

  Rivlin scanned the ward but the staff nurse who’d taken his fancy had gone. The sister on night duty was short and stout, her bleached hair drawn back in a tight bun. He forced himself to focus on what she was saying.

  ‘Two chaps from hospital security came to transfer her to a private room. I think she saw them and ran. She’s a criminal, I gather.’

  Rivlin frowned. ‘And these two men, they were definitely hospital security?’

  ‘Of course. They all wear a uniform.’

  ‘Lanyards round their necks with proper ID?’

  The sister glared at him but her eyes flickered. Rivlin concluded from this and her defensive tone that she hadn’t checked. ‘They said they were acting under police instructions, transferring her to the private wing. I had no reason to doubt them.’

  ‘I’m sure she wasn’t the easiest patient. You were probably glad to get shot of her.’

  The sister bristled. ‘I only came on at eight. She wasn’t a problem as far as I was concerned.’

  Rivlin studied the round chubby face; she looked weary and stressed. She had a long shift ahead of her, several wards to cover, and it wasn’t even midnight yet. He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Thank you, Sister. You’ve been very helpful.’

  He wasn’t lying. She had been helpful. What she’d told him was that, if this was the Kemals, they were resourceful and organized. Sending two men to kidnap Karen Phelps was a bold act. They’d already tried to kill her but now they wanted to take her. Factoring in the new information that Nicci Armstrong had given him, it looked like they had a serious grudge. Which was all to the good. Drug dealers at their level were almost impossible to catch. Their business plan was watertight; only the foot soldiers were ever exposed. But when things got personal like this it was a game-changer.

  When he’d first got the call from the hospital it had sent Rivlin into a spin. He’d assured Stoneham that Phelps was protected. Now, as he strode down the corridor, he realized that this unexpected turn of events could also be the breakthrough they needed. It all depended on how he played it and if he could convince Stoneham of that fact. The Met had been targeting the Kemals for years and got nowhere. Essex wasn’t their turf. They were off-piste, but only because they were after Karen Phelps.

  By the time he got back to the security office the uniforms had completed their search of the hospital. Phelps was nowhere to be found. A couple of his DCs had arrived and, having connected up their laptops, were busily downloading the footage from the hospital’s security cameras.

  Rivlin turned his attention to the S
omali security guard who was sitting in the corner, looking tense. Earlier in the evening they’d exchanged a few words when Rivlin had popped in to ask them to keep a special eye on Karen Phelps.

  Perching on the edge of the desk, Rivlin leant over and fixed the young Somali with a piercing look. ‘You going to tell me what’s going on, Jaafi?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘Yeah you do.’

  Staring into his lap, Jaafi twisted the narrow leather thong on his wrist. He looked completely wretched.

  The cop patted his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate. What did they ask you to do? Get them uniforms?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘They tell you to say that?’

  ‘I’m a good man. I work hard. Extra shifts whenever the boss ask me. I make no trouble.’

  Rivlin leant back, folding his arms. He knew the story, it was commonplace: a desperate journey from a war-torn, lawless place. They were about the same age. There but for the grace . . . ‘I bet it was bloody horrible getting here, wasn’t it?’

  The ebony eyes met his. ‘Three months in detention but I get asylum. I got papers, I’m not illegal.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to mess things up for you.’ Rivlin sighed. ‘I got no interest in that. So what do you say we help each other out, eh?’

  Jaafi wiped the back of his fist across his nose. He’d had to make a lot of tricky decisions in his life, weighing up the risks. And he’d been very lucky, so far. ‘Six thousand dollar I owe them.’

  ‘The traffickers?’

  ‘Turks. You say no to them, you fucked.’

  ‘I can believe that.’ Rivlin smiled, encouraging him to go on.

  ‘They come with a white van.’

  ‘Transit van?’

  Jaafi nodded. ‘Two men and a driver. They want uniforms so they can take this woman away. They say she’s bad, she dishonour them.’

  ‘Did they get her?’

  ‘I don’t know. They tell me, stay in the office.’

  ‘Well done, mate.’ Rivlin squeezed his shoulder. ‘Okay, one of my officers is going to show you some pictures – mugshots. You need to tell us if you recognize any of the men.’

  ‘You don’t send me back to detention?’

  ‘You’re just a witness. You were intimidated. And you told me the truth. That’s how we do things here.’

  A solitary tear rolled down the Somali’s cheek. He brushed it away.

  The DC scrolling through the security footage turned her head towards Rivlin. ‘Take a look at this, boss. The taxi rank in front of the hospital.’

  Rivlin came to look over her shoulder as she rewound and replayed.

  On the screen, a figure appeared round the corner running wildly towards the camera. Behind her, a white transit appeared. The runner ducked sideways and disappeared between the cabs. The van cruised towards the front of A&E. The DC froze the frame and selected a different clip.

  ‘From the time code, this follows directly on. The van drove round the front of the hospital, it didn’t stop. I think they missed her.’

  ‘Check it again, we need to be sure.’

  As the DC rewound the footage, Rivlin paced. There was a confidence, an audacity even, about this kidnap attempt. Dishonour, that was the word they’d used to the security guard. He turned to the other DC. ‘Have you got those surveillance shots the Met sent?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’ The DC opened up a file on his iPad and handed it to Rivlin. The DI swiped through a series of photos. The first few were distance shots, taken on the street. Then he got to a close-up outside a restaurant.

  Holding the iPad up in front of Jaafi, Rivlin’s tone was deliberately casual. ‘Recognize him?’

  There was no hesitation. ‘He was the boss. He threaten me.’

  ‘Sure?’

  The young Somali nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Rivlin’s spirits soared. Sadik Kemal had come for Phelps in person. A crack in the impenetrable facade had opened up.

  The first DC swivelled her chair. ‘I’ve tracked the van until it left the hospital site. No stops, no one got in or out. I think she escaped.’

  Rivlin smiled to himself. He was glad Karen Phelps had got away. Not least because that would help him square things with Stoneham. But if Sadik Kemal continued to pursue Phelps, it was game on. Nicci Armstrong had been right: Phelps was the bait to draw the Kemals out. By exposing themselves in this way, they were finally offering the police an opportunity to nail them. And Tom Rivlin was the officer in pole position to do it.

  33

  They’d wrapped Kaz in a soft feather-and-down duvet and sat her on the sofa. A woman – was she Paul’s partner? – had brought a bowl of warm salted water and was bathing her feet. Kaz struggled to focus. The woman’s hair was dark and lustrous, her touch gentle as she used her hand to scoop up the water and sluice it over Kaz’s lacerated feet.

  Somewhere off to the right, Paul handed Darius a beer and they chinked bottles. ‘Well done, mate.’ He perched on the arm of the sofa and smiled down at Kaz. ‘I was hoping to see you at the funeral. Quite a few of the old crew turned out. No one knew you’d changed the venue.’

  Kaz gazed up at him. Paul Ackroyd. She could hardly believe it. Everything seemed to have slowed to a dreamlike pace, then her head started to spin.

  His voice became disembodied. ‘Understandable. Filth were all over the place, taking photos. Bloody cheek of it. They got no respect.’ He seemed very far away.

  Kaz leaned back on the sofa; she’d been shivering but now she felt hot, impossibly hot and feverish. As she tried to push the duvet off herself she felt the woman’s cool hand on her brow. They were speaking to her but she couldn’t make out the words. Closing her eyes, she knew she was going, but she couldn’t stop herself from falling into a dead faint.

  She surfaced briefly as she was lifted. Paul was strong, a big solid man like her brother. He carried her with ease. When he laid her down she felt the welcome chill of crisp sheets. Words drifted into her consciousness: the voice was female, with an accent. ‘You safe now . . . You sleep.’

  And she slept. A dreamless slumber. She finally awoke to slivers of daylight rippling through the gap between the heavy drapes and the wall. Was it early morning? It was impossible to tell. As she tried to sit up, pain shot from her hamstrings to her lower back. She’d pulled a muscle or two.

  The room was sizeable with pale walls and a half-open door leading to an en suite bathroom. The ceiling beams belonged to the original farmhouse but the floor was smoothly sanded, the furnishings sleek and modern. Kaz eased back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The soles of her feet were sore but she managed to hobble across the room to the bathroom. Settling on the loo, she took her time having a pee. Her brain was still foggy and she was trying to identify the fragrance emanating from the scent sticks above the washbasin when she heard the outer door of the room open.

  Emerging from the en suite she came face to face with the woman, who was carrying a tray.

  Almost as tall as Kaz, the dark hair pulled back, she gave her guest a warm smile. ‘I brought some breakfast, if you fancy it. I’m Rafaella, Paul’s wife.’ Paul had a wife? Well, after ten years, why wouldn’t he? Kaz watched her set the tray down on the bedside table. And there was no denying it, she was gorgeous.

  ‘Thank you.’ Kaz felt awkward and broken. Her head was swirling with questions but she didn’t know where to begin.

  Rafaella seemed to sense this. ‘You must feel very confused.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Paul, he’s so impatient. He wants to talk to you, but I tell him, no, let the poor girl sleep.’ Her English was good but with a heavy accent. Spanish or Italian, maybe? She gave Kaz a sad smile. ‘I really liked Joey, y’know. He was fun.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I was working in the bar when him and Paul first come to Ibiza.’ She pronounced Ibiza like a Spaniard.

  Kaz sat on the bed. The years she’d
spent in prison had cut a big chunk out of her life. Joey had taken over the firm after her father’s stroke, but she knew very little of how he’d accomplished that. ‘I never even knew they were in touch, Joey and Paul.’

  Rafaella moved over to the window and indicated the curtains. ‘You mind?’

  Kaz shook her head. Rafaella drew back one of the curtains and sunshine flooded the room.

  ‘Take some coffee, eat. Plenty of time to catch up.’ She gave Kaz another smile and left, closing the door gently behind her.

  The breakfast tray was like the room, elegant and immaculately arranged. But the aroma from the cafetière threw Kaz back into memories of her Russian friends. Yevgeny and Irina had both loved good coffee. Staying with them in the weeks before Joey’s funeral, they had sat in the sunlit kitchen in Berkshire drinking endless cups. But now Yevgeny was dead and Irina had gone to ground. Kaz felt their loss like a lead weight in her belly. But she would find Irina. Now she knew who was responsible for the shootings, there was no need for Irina to hide.

  Getting to her feet again, she made her way over to the window. Her body ached, her feet were sensitive but the more she moved the easier it became. She found herself gazing out over a vista of undulating farmland. Fields of stubble from the recent harvest, divided by neat hedgerows, rising to a small copse of trees on the far hill. Several other properties were visible in the distance, substantial houses with land. Whatever else Paul Ackroyd had been up to in recent years he’d made some serious money.

  Returning to the bed she poured coffee into the large bone china breakfast cup. There was a jug of warm frothed milk, croissants, butter and jam, and a white linen napkin. She propped herself up on the mountain of pillows and started to eat.

  The croissant was delicious. She found she was hungry. As she brushed the crumbs from her fingers with the starched napkin she heard footsteps in the hall, a man’s voice and a child’s giggle, followed by a tap on the door.