The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  Eddie was watching her and waiting. She knew he thought she was naive. And he was probably right. She wondered idly where all the certainties in her life had gone. How did things get so fucked up? How did she end up having casual sex with a man who was never going to fall for someone like her?

  She shrugged. ‘Okay, so tell me. Where did he go?’

  ‘According to the diary, he had a lunch appointment. But he ended up in a sandwich shop.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t go down there, hide behind the chiller cabinet and take photos.’

  Sarcasm washed over him. His piggy eyes twinkled.

  ‘It gets better. The sandwich shop was an ordinary branch of Pret on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge. Across the road from Vauxhall Cross.’

  ‘The MI6 building.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m thinking he met his old chum Colin McCain.’

  ‘But you said McCain’s MI5. That’s Thames House, the other side of the river on Millbank. Surely they’d meet over there?’

  ‘Not if they were hooking up with someone else. He was only in the sandwich shop three minutes. Comes out onto the bridge, phone disappears off the grid. Comes back on two hours later.’

  ‘He turned it off.’

  ‘Probably. But why? Looks like a security protocol to me.’

  Nicci stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘You saying he went inside?’

  ‘Could have.’

  ‘Just because he turned his phone off on Vauxhall Bridge doesn’t mean he was having a meeting with MI6.’

  ‘Then why go there?’

  ‘All sorts of reasons.’

  ‘Maybe he’s feeding them information.’

  ‘But hang on, Eddie. You need special security clearance to get in there. You wouldn’t have that if you were an informant. They’d come to you.’

  ‘Maybe Blake’s been recruited by the Secret Intelligence Service?’

  Nicci huffed. ‘Now you’re being completely ridiculous. You’ve spent too much time dreaming up lurid stories for the tabloids.’

  ‘We know something’s going down. How would you explain his behaviour?’

  ‘He’s a copper, it’s in his DNA. What you see is what you get. No way he’s playing at being some hole-in-the-wall spook.’

  ‘Then at the very least he’s helping them.’

  ‘Helping them do what?’

  Eddie grinned. ‘That’s what we need to figure out.’

  53

  Moving around, never standing in one spot for more than a couple of minutes, she kept the entrance to the ticket office under surveillance for a good half hour before the appointed time. Kaz Phelps was taking no chances.

  She’d spent a restless night in her king-sized hotel bed. Chain on the door plus a chair jammed under the handle; it had felt safe enough. All that had disturbed her were her dreams. The meeting with her cousin Glynis had set in motion a cascade of mad schemes from elaborate revenge scenarios to moving the whole family to Australia. But whatever she did next would depend on the man she was meeting. Kaz wasn’t even that convinced he’d turn up.

  By ten thirty the incoming stream of commuters at Liverpool Street station had started to thin. The concourse was still busy; gaggles of travellers with backpacks and suitcases were queuing for the Stansted Express. Kaz wondered why the lawyer had picked this as a rendezvous. Maybe he was coming in from Essex himself?

  As the station clock ticked forward to ten thirty-one, Kaz strolled casually forward and positioned herself directly outside the entrance to the ticket office. A cleaner with a cart was picking up litter and sweeping. People strode by, heading for the entrance to the underground. Kaz was on full alert, eyes rapidly scanning the sea of passers-by. She thought she had all possible avenues of approach covered and so jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand come to rest on her shoulder.

  Spinning round, she found herself face to face with a man of medium height. He was somehow older than she’d expected, mid-forties, a furrowed brow, a crew cut of salt-and-pepper grey hair and a dark blue Goretex anorak over his suit.

  ‘Morning. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.’ He offered a leather-gloved hand to shake. ‘Jonathan Sullivan.’

  ‘Karen Phelps.’

  ‘I thought we’d take a taxi.’

  Without a backward glance he headed for the escalator, expecting Kaz to follow. He carried a small backpack, a bit of a paunch round his middle, and didn’t seem particularly threatening. Walking briskly, he blended in with the City’s worker bees, just part of the swarm of anonymous run-of-the-mill employees who were scurrying to and fro.

  He held the door open for her and they jumped into a black cab on Bishopsgate. Sullivan gave the cabbie an address in Knightsbridge and settled back in his seat without further comment.

  Kaz scrutinized his profile as she waited for him to speak. A wet shave had left a tiny nick on his jawline; apart from that his appearance was pristine. He remained oblivious to her inspection and simply stared out of the window.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Turning, he seemed surprised she’d spoken. ‘Presumably you’ve got the key?’

  She nodded.

  ‘That’s where we’re going first.’

  She was none the wiser.

  The traffic was sluggish. It was a damp morning, overcast with a hint of October chill. The taxi driver chose a route along the Embankment then cut up to Sloane Square. Kaz gradually got used to her silent companion. There was no tension in his presence. He gazed out at the passing streets and displayed no impatience at the slow pace of the journey. She decided to play it his way, not that she had much choice.

  The cab finally pulled up in a side turning off Brompton Road. Having paid the driver, Sullivan crossed the street to a stone-clad building with a heavy oak door. A brass plaque beside it read: West London Safe Deposit Centre. He pressed the bell and the door clicked open.

  In contrast to the drab exterior, the foyer was bright and modern with an impersonal, corporate air. Sullivan handed Kaz a key card and she swiped through the entry barrier after him. There followed a short wait on a low-slung leather sofa until a security guard appeared and led them down a flight of stairs to the vaults. Having passed through a full-body scanner, Sullivan placed his index finger on the fingerprint reader and then tapped a ten-digit number into the keypad.

  He turned to Kaz. ‘If you decide to keep the box, they’ll need your print.’

  She nodded. The guard invited her to pass through the body scanner too. He then led them through a reinforced steel door into the strongroom, which was lined from floor to ceiling with banks of gunmetal-grey safety deposit boxes. Each box had a number and from that Kaz calculated there must be several hundred, all identical, each with two keyholes in the middle.

  The security guard walked along, running his eye over the numbers. He came to a halt at 139. Placing his key in the right-hand slot, he turned to Sullivan.

  Sullivan beckoned Kaz. ‘Now it’s your turn. Got the key?’

  Removing the key she’d found in Natalie’s envelope from her jeans pocket, Kaz inserted it in the left-hand slot. Surprisingly enough it fitted. Both keys were turned simultaneously and the long metal drawer slid out. The security guard carried it over to the table, set it down and retreated to the doorway.

  Kaz stared at the box. It was oblong, maybe a couple of feet long and a foot or so wide with a hinged lid on the top. She shot the lawyer an enquiring look. His face was inscrutable. He took several steps back, turned away and folded his hands in front of him.

  So this was what Joey had left them. Feeling slightly nervous, Kaz lifted the lid. The box was hardly six inches deep and contained three bubble-lined manila envelopes, A4 size and firmly wedged in place. More cash?

  She eased the top envelope out and peered cautiously inside. The security guard had positioned himself far enough away to give her privacy. Sullivan’s gaze was focused on the bank of boxes on the opposite wall.

  The envelope contained a sheaf of lega
l-looking documents. Kaz decided to take them away to read at her leisure. She placed the envelope on the table beside the box.

  The second envelope was, as she’d guessed, stuffed with vacuum-packed bundles of cash. The one she examined looked to be similar to the three packs she already had, each of which contained ten grand. She counted six packs in the envelope. It would probably be safer to leave them where they were, provided Sullivan supplied her with the necessary key card and codes to access the place on her own.

  The third envelope was stuck in the bottom of the box. It took some effort for her to prise it out. The contents felt hard and, as she extracted the package, Kaz was aware of a tightening in her stomach muscles. She guessed what it was even before she looked. Glancing inside confirmed it.

  Wrapped in clingfilm was the SIG P220 semi-automatic pistol; one of the most reliable handguns you can get – that’s how her brother had described it when he first gave it to her. She hadn’t wanted it, but he’d insisted. And it had sat in her kitchen drawer until her cousin had come calling and she’d shot him dead. This was the gun that had saved her. Her fingerprints were probably still on the grip or the trigger.

  Checking that Sullivan and the security guard were looking the other way, Kaz transferred the SIG, the suppressor and the cartridge clips into her shoulder bag. As she zipped it up, a long-forgotten feeling flooded through her. She felt energized and confident – but it was more than that. Now she had a weapon, a serious weapon that she knew how to use, and this gave her the protection she desperately needed. It also gave her power. When she’d got out of bed in her rented hotel room she’d been a lonely fugitive with only her wits to protect her. Now her status had changed. She was still on the run, but she’d turned into what the police might describe as armed and dangerous.

  54

  When her alarm had gone off at seven, Nicci Armstrong had ignored it and turned over. The previous evening she’d left several phone messages for Simon Blake and received no reply. Whatever the boss was up to he clearly had no intention of confiding in her. She felt slighted, having always believed that he trusted her. Obviously she was wrong.

  Finally she’d crawled out of bed at nine thirty, called SBA and told Alicia she had a migraine. Pulling a sickie was a minor act of rebellion; he probably wouldn’t even notice. She made herself a coffee and sat on the sofa in her pyjamas, trawling online for jobs in the security sector. It was a thoroughly depressing exercise.

  She was consoling herself with a long hot shower when she became aware of a knocking on the flat door. Neighbours and the postman were the only people who could get through the secure outer door and into the building. She decided to ignore it. It was probably the postman with a package for next door – they had a habit of shopping online and never being at home to receive their deliveries.

  But the knocking persisted. In the end, wrapped in a towel, dripping wet and ready with an angry rebuff, she opened the door to Tom Rivlin.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  He smiled awkwardly. ‘Your office said you were off sick, so I brought bagels.’ He held up a paper bag.

  ‘Oh.’ Hair slicked back, red-faced from the shower, she must look a fright. She felt exposed and self-conscious. What the hell did he want?

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She stepped back. He followed her into the hall; it was difficult to decide who was more embarrassed.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No, just pissed off with work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘I’m a good listener.’

  ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on while I get dressed?’

  Nicci retreated to the bedroom, dried herself off and put on some trackie bottoms and a T-shirt. By the time she emerged, Rivlin was toasting the bagels and making coffee.

  He grinned. ‘Did you get the flowers?’

  ‘Yeah. Though I’m not sure why you sent them.’

  ‘Bit OTT? I’m sorry.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you meant by them.’

  ‘What do flowers usually mean?’ He was standing with his hands on his hips, that cocky male stance. She wanted to be annoyed, not to have butterflies in her stomach. The possibility of touching him, of being touched by him, dominated her thoughts.

  Rocking from foot to foot helped her release some of her tension. ‘So what’s the latest? Sadik Kemal’s been released?’

  ‘He was stonewalling. But the NCA has got some intel from Europol on the Turkish mafia and potential drug routes into the UK. Theory is, the Kemals might be expecting a delivery. So the plan is to lull him into a false sense of security and keep him under tight surveillance.’

  ‘Didn’t they have him under surveillance on the day of the kidnap attempt?’ Nicci had to struggle to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  ‘Well, yeah, supposedly. But not a full team.’

  ‘What does Stoneham think?’

  ‘We’re going with it. No choice really. Short of a statement from Karen Phelps saying he tried to kidnap her, we haven’t got the evidence to hold him.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from her, if that’s why you’re here.’

  Rivlin shook his head wearily. ‘Is that what you think of me?’ He was giving her that gorgeous abashed smile, which annoyed her even more.

  ‘I don’t want to be used, Tom. It was a one-night stand, I get that.’

  ‘Is that what you want it to be?’

  The question seemed to hang in the air between them.

  She sighed. ‘Look, I need to dry my hair and go show my face in the office before the new boss sacks me.’

  Rivlin took a step towards her. ‘I don’t want to get you sacked. But I need an answer to one question before I go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have I been reading you all wrong? Do you really not want this?’

  Before she could say anything he put his arms round her and, drawing her gently and firmly towards him, leant forward and kissed her full on the mouth. The immediacy and intensity of his desire surged through her and took her breath away.

  His body was pressing against hers and she knew there was only one response: she kissed him back hungrily. They stumbled towards the sofa, collapsing onto it, and as she ripped at the buttons of his shirt, then the buckle of his trouser belt, he got his answer.

  55

  When they left the Safe Deposit Centre Sullivan suggested that they walked. He led Kaz through the side streets of Knightsbridge – he seemed to know where he was going – until they emerged on the main road close to the Albert Memorial. Throughout the morning a leaden sky had been threatening rain, but as they crossed the road and wandered into Kensington Gardens shafts of sunshine started to break through. The leaves were already turning russet and falling. They headed up a meandering path towards the Serpentine.

  Sullivan set the pace, a leisurely stroll. Kaz was thinking about the gun in her bag and wondering if he knew about it.

  Finally he spoke. ‘Well, I’m sure you have a lot of questions.’

  Kaz chuckled. ‘What is this? A security thing? Now we’re outside you can talk?’

  Her tone was combative but he didn’t seem offended.

  He simply smiled. ‘We needed to deal with the box first. That confirmed for me that you have your brother’s bona fides, and for you that I am indeed instructed by him.’

  ‘Bona fides? Does getting the envelope from my sister count?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you recognize me? From a photo?’

  ‘I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Shortly after you were released from prison, you came to the office to see Helen Warner.’

  He’d worked with Helen! Kaz’s brain ricocheted back to that first heady meeting with her former lawyer and lover. To be out, to be free, to be able to just go and call on Helen at work – she’d been walking on air that day. It really wasn’t so long ago, but now it felt like another life.

&
nbsp; ‘So you work for Crowley whatsit and Moore?’ They were her brother’s lawyers too.

  ‘Crowley Sheridan Moore. I used to.’

  ‘That’s how Joey knew you?’

  ‘I was in the tax department. Neville Moore, our managing partner, asked me to . . . er, well, to give your brother some advice of a general nature.’

  ‘I can’t believe Joey paid tax.’

  ‘My job was advising clients on how to minimize their tax burden. Within the constraints of the law. However, we had a number of clients with more specialized needs.’

  ‘You mean villains who needed money-laundering?’

  ‘I saw the opportunity to set up on my own, managing assets for a small portfolio of individual clients. Neville was supportive of the idea. It helped him keep things above board.’

  ‘Does your firm have a name?’

  ‘No. I work from home. I only take clients through very specific personal recommendation.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘South of Newmarket. We have a farm; my wife breeds horses.’

  ‘How do you get paid?’

  ‘Through a remuneration clause in the offshore trusts I set up and administer.’

  ‘If you control it all, why not just take the lot?’

  Sullivan laughed. His whole bearing changed and Kaz realized she was getting her first proper glimpse of the man she was dealing with. ‘That’s not what I do, Karen. Nor would it be in my best interest. I like my life. I do pretty well. I don’t want the police knocking at my door – or anyone else, for that matter.’

  ‘Okay, so where does that leave us?’

  Sullivan stopped and turned to face her, his expression becoming sombre. ‘This is the first time I’ve had a client die. But, given the nature of their . . . occupations, shall we say, it’s a contingency that’s been thought about. Obviously, Joey left no will as such. We certainly wouldn’t want to get involved with probate. But he did express his wishes in a letter. You’ll find a copy with the documents in your envelope.’