by Chris Ryan
She was leaning on her stick, and the stairlift was visible just behind her.
‘Fifty-five. Seven. Three.’
Mr Ashe’s eyes shot towards the radio and he silently berated himself for not having turned it off and so not hearing the stairlift ascend. He stood up, just as the boy, who was in full view of the old lady at the door, started to make desperate, inarticulate sounds from beneath the tape that covered his lips.
‘Mr Ashe . . .’ stammered Bethan. Her watery eyes darted between the boy and her lodger. ‘I . . . I don’t understand . . .’
Mr Ashe remained calm. There was, he knew, nothing to be gained from panicking. Ignoring the boy’s helpless noises, he stepped towards the doorway, put his hands on Bethan’s shoulders, and encouraged her to turn round.
‘But Mr Ashe . . . that . . . that poor boy.’
‘There is no boy, Mrs Jones. You’re getting confused.’
He closed the door behind them.
‘But I saw . . .’
‘Sit down, Mrs Jones. I’m sure you’d like a nice cup of hot Ribena.’
‘The knocking, Mr Ashe. Was that . . . ’ she asked as she eased herself onto the stairlift.
‘You don’t need to worry about the knocking any more, Mrs Jones. Let me help you down.’
He pressed the control and the stairlift started to descend, then he followed.
‘Mr Ashe!’ cried Bethan. ‘I’m not strapped in. Mr Ashe! Please stop the chair.’
He did as he was asked.
The old lady was flustered. She looked back up at the open door of the bedroom, from which the boy’s muted cries were still audible, but her hands were fumbling for the strap without which she clearly felt so nervous.
‘Let me help you,’ Mr Ashe said.
Perhaps it was something in his voice that startled her. She stared as though she was looking at him through new eyes. ‘There is a boy in your room,’ she whispered. ‘You think I’m confused, but I’m not. I . . . I can still hear him.’
He bent down and seized her around the waist. She started to whimper and shake her head. She was tiresome, he thought to himself, but not a complete fool because she seemed to know what was coming.
Mr Ashe spoke very softly, his lips just a couple of inches from her ear. This time, however, his precise English had fallen away, to be replaced by the harsh, guttural accent of his native Arabic. ‘You should never forget, old lady,’ he whispered, cruelty dripping from his lips, ‘to strap yourself in.’
He did it in one movement: a sudden, brutal tug that lifted her up from her seat and knocked her down the stairs. She made a feeble attempt to grab hold of him as she fell, but there was not enough strength in those frail, knotted hands. She tumbled backwards and slid to the bottom of the stairs, her decrepit spine sledging over the edges of the treads. There was a sickening crack as she hit the hallway floor and Mr Ashe could tell, from the thirty-degree angle at which her head was pointing from her body, that her neck had broken with the impact.
There was silence. Even the boy had stopped his pathetic noise. Perhaps he had guessed what had just happened. Perhaps he thought the same fate awaited him.
Mr Ashe left her body where it was. He didn’t know how long it would be before anybody found it, but he did know how few visitors Mrs Jones had. She would probably be putrid and maggoty by the time she was discovered. But by then Mr Ashe would be long gone. His tasks would be complete. It was a relief to know that soon he would never have to visit this remote, disgusting house again. It would just be a fading memory to him, much as Mrs Jones, crooked and broken at the bottom of the stairs, was already.
‘What do you mean, it’s not there any more?’
‘Which bit don’t you understand? I watched it once, I tried to watch it a second time, it had been taken down.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘I mean . . .’
‘I know what you mean, Eva. You mean, was it really there in the first place? Did I dream it up? The answer’s no.’
Joe was staring out of the grimy second-floor window of a tacky bed-and-breakfast place on Dagenham Heathway. An ambulance had screamed by three minutes earlier, and now two police cars, in quick succession, were heading towards Hussein Al-Samara’s flat. Eva had protested at the idea of lying low so close to the terrified family of their now-defunct lead, but Joe had overruled her. The owners of places like this, with their damp-ridden walls and cash transactions, were unlikely to ask too many questions of their guests. Besides, Joe hadn’t known where else to go.
There was a faint drizzle, but not enough to clear the pavements of pedestrians, or to encourage the busker, who had set up shop by the post office across the road and had been singing ‘Yesterday’, to pack up his guitar and go home. A bus trundled past with an advertisement for package holidays in Sharm el-Sheikh plastered to the side.
Eva, who was sitting on the edge of the lumpy double bed, looked terrible. Her mousy hair was tangled and greasy, her brown eyes sunken and shady, her lips cracked. Joe was well aware of the haunted expression with which she was looking at him. It wasn’t just the violence he’d inflicted on Al-Samara, or the cold, ruthless way he’d stormed out of there without even a word of apology. It was more than that. He could tell she was wondering if the boy she thought she’d known so well when they were young really was a killer after all. He hadn’t denied, when she confronted him, that he’d taken out the Arab in Barfield, but he’d refused to answer the questions that followed. How had he done it? Why had he done it? How many other men had he killed in his life? These were questions he would never willingly respond to, no matter who was asking. And in any case, he knew Eva wasn’t equipped to deal with the answer.
‘If they’ve got Conor,’ she said, ‘you have to go to the police.’
Joe threw her a dark look over his shoulder and went back to checking out the street below. Eva didn’t pursue that line any further.
‘How did he tamper with the fingerprint records?’ she asked, her voice wavering.
Joe didn’t answer, but the question had already occurred to him. Breaking into the prison service system was hard. Whoever he was dealing with had resources – the kind of resources that were hard to come by unless you worked with or for one of the authorities. He knew he’d be hearing from Ashe again. And, when that happened, he would do whatever it took to get Conor back and avenge Caitlin’s murder. And if that meant adding another body to his unspoken tally of the dead, so be it.
‘Maybe it’s got nothing to do with what you saw?’ Eva said.
‘Maybe.’
‘I mean, it’s not so strange, is it? Two body bags? Perhaps they shot someone by mistake, and—’
‘If they do,’ Joe interrupted, ‘they don’t airlift them out unless they’ve been told to in advance.’ He said it with a note of finality. The truth was, he didn’t give a shit about compounds or body bags or US special forces. All he cared about was finding his son.
Eva took the hint. Almost half an hour passed in silence. There were no more sirens outside.
Then Joe turned to look at Eva. ‘You don’t have to stay with me,’ he said.
She stared at him. ‘I wish that was true,’ she whispered, and she looked down at the brown carpet.
Joe nodded, more to himself than to her. ‘I need to check my email again,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Eva stood up, attempted a smile, and made for the door.
‘Eva?’
She looked back.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She smiled awkwardly, and left the room.
If the owner of the B&B – a sweaty Greek Cypriot with a forest of hair sprouting from the top of his shirt – thought it was odd that they’d only stayed there an hour, he didn’t let on. It was that kind of place. Once outside, Joe scanned the immediate vicinity. The busker was now singing ‘Streets of London’, but his voice was mostly drowned out by the busy traffic. Joe examined the man’s face: late forties, greying beard. He didn’t think anybody could b
e following him, but busking was a good cover and he mentally recorded that face in case he saw it again. He checked for police vehicles – nothing – then scanned left and right for any sign of surveillance. All he saw was mums with prams and old ladies with headscarves and shopping trolleys, and twenty metres to his right a group of three charity muggers accosting people as they passed.
‘Let’s go,’ he breathed.
He took Eva by the hand. If anyone was looking for him personally, he would be more unobtrusive as one half of a couple. As they walked north up Dagenham Heathway he thought he sensed Eva squeezing his hand ever so slightly. He didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.
The busker’s voice faded away, to be replaced by the sound of a drunk couple arguing. The male, mid-twenties, pockmarked, ruddy face, the female hollow-cheeked and with a shaved head. Noted.
Fifty metres from the B&B, they passed a Currys. The shop was devoid of customers and three assistants were hanging around the till. Along the far wall was a bank of televisions, and the three aisles between that back wall and the entrance were filled with laptops and other electronics.
‘In here,’ Joe said. He let go of Eva’s hand and headed for the laptop closest to the entrance.
It didn’t take more than about ten seconds for one of the assistants to swoop – a young man with wispy facial hair that needed its first shave. ‘You OK, boss?’
Joe jabbed a finger at the laptop. ‘Listen, mate, do you mind if I have a quick go on this? I’m thinking of getting one.’
‘Good deal on that one, boss. Ends today . . .’
‘Is it online?’
‘Course it is, boss.’ He lingered.
‘I’ll give you a shout if I need anything, mate.’
The assistant took a couple of steps backwards. ‘Course, boss. You just do . . . you know . . . whatever . . .’
But Joe was already navigating towards his Hotmail page. He logged on. He felt his heart stop. A new email was waiting for him. The world around him dissolved into a fog.
He clicked it open.
There was no link this time. No movie to watch, no images to horrify him. Just three sequences of numbers:
110511
0600
51.848612, -5.1223103
He stared at it, vaguely aware that Eva had joined him at the screen.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
He didn’t immediately answer.
‘Joe, what is it?’
‘Instructions,’ he said quietly.
‘I don’t understand.’
He pointed at the first sequence. ‘Tomorrow’s date,’ he said. ‘May 11. Time, 0600 hours.’
‘But what about the last numbers?’
‘Coordinates,’ he said. ‘Latitude and longitude.’
‘But . . . where?’
Joe navigated to Google Maps, but even as he did so, he was thinking out loud, remembering the details of the YouTube video that was no more. The sea, and the darkness of the sky despite the fact that it had been taken after sunrise. ‘The west coast,’ he said. ‘Somewhere remote.’ As he spoke, he tapped in the grid reference. Five seconds later he had zoomed in to a beach on the Pembrokeshire coast. The satellite image was indistinct.
‘Joe . . .’
‘That’s where he is,’ he murmured.
Eva tugged on his sleeve. ‘Joe . . . look!’
He dragged his attention from the laptop. Eva was pointing at the TVs along the back wall. There were about twenty of them, of different sizes and quality, but they all showed the same image.
Him.
Joe’s eyes flickered towards the three assistants. They had convened around the till again, and did not appear to have noticed what was on television. The image changed, to be replaced by a female news reporter standing outside the front gates of Barfield.
Calmly but quickly, Joe examined the map in front of him, scanning the surrounding area: the beach, a cliff behind, a single road leading there and a solitary house about a klick inland. His eyes narrowed as he examined that house.
‘Joe . . .’ Eva sounded desperate.
The nearest village: Thornbridge.
‘Joe!’
He logged out of his account, then ushered her quickly out of the shop before any of the assistants tried to accost them. ‘West Wales,’ he said.
‘But—’
‘We need to get there.’
Eva stopped walking, and as Joe turned to look at her, she grabbed his hands and held them tightly. Fiercely. Joe glanced at her watch. Midday. He had eighteen hours. ‘Listen to me, Joe,’ she said. ‘We can’t do this alone. We’ve got to tell someone what’s happening. We need to get help. I know people. I can speak to them . . .’
An old lady trundled along the pavement in an electric mobility vehicle. Her head turned as she passed. Had she recognized him? Or was it just that they were arguing?
‘No,’ he hissed.
‘We have to.’
‘Eva, even you’re not sure this isn’t in my head. Even you’re wondering if I made it all up. Hey, I could have done. Abbottabad. Caitlin. The whole fucking thing. What if I really am out of my mind? What if I really am a psycho?’
Eva frowned and shook her head.
‘You know me,’ Joe insisted. ‘But who the hell else could I go to that won’t just shove me back in a cell and throw away the key?’
Eva had no answer. She just bit her bottom lip. ‘What if it’s a trap?’
‘He killed my wife. He took my son,’ Joe replied. Pulling himself away from her grasp, he continued walking along the pavement. He could feel her tearful eyes burning into his back. And he’d only gone ten metres when he heard her footsteps running along behind him, and felt her tugging at his sleeve once more.
‘But what if it’s a trap?’ she repeated.
Joe gave her a hard stare. ‘Of course it’s a fucking trap,’ he said. ‘Come on, we’ve got a lot to do.’
SEVENTEEN
1300 hours.
There were easier ways than this to get your hands on a weapon, Joe thought to himself. There were contacts he could call. Favours he could pull in. But they involved showing his face. This, he decided, was the better option.
The tower block was the same grey colour as the sky. It was fifteen storeys high, and the side facing him had apartments two abreast, each with a balcony whose front was a dirty orange colour. A covered lobby jutted about five metres out from the block, and inside a bleak, dark, concrete-clad area led to stairs on the left and right.
Joe stood twenty metres from the entrance, on the edge of a small playground where three children clambered over a pyramid-shaped frame, while their mums sat on an adjacent bench, smoking, chatting and ignoring their kids. He was leaning against a lamppost beneath a sign indicating that this was an Alcohol Restricted Area. There was a car park between him and the entrance, about half full of clapped-out old vehicles, three of which had broken windows. A red mail van was just driving away. Joe had watched the postman hurry back to it having made his delivery, evidently keen to be somewhere else.
This was one of the high-rises that had been visible the previous night from their vantage point on the bandstand. He’d been born and brought up in this area. Lady Margaret Road was just a ten-minute walk in an easterly direction, and he had a suspicion that his mother, if she was still alive, lived in one of these blocks. But he wasn’t here to visit family, and he hadn’t chosen this particular block at random. He’d chosen it because it was, as it always had been, the shittiest, most run-down, godforsaken spot in the whole of west London. If you weren’t a waster or a junkie or a dealer when you first moved here, you would be pretty soon. No other type of person lived here. And even if he hadn’t known the reputation of this block that the locals referred to as ‘Heroin Heights’, he’d have recognized the signs anyway: half the curtains drawn even though it was the middle of the day, several broken windows and all but three of the balconies stuffed full of debris – o
ld mattresses, white goods, you name it. It was a real shithole, largely untouched by the police because they’d given up and it kept all the dregs in one place.
He had spotted the two kids immediately, and recognized them for what they were. One was black, one mixed race. Both were blinged up and wearing reversed baseball caps. They were standing on the north-eastern corner of the block, about ten metres from the entrance. Parked in front of them, two wheels on the pavement, was a black Range Rover with all the trimmings: tinted glass, alloys, the works. The driver’s door, which was on the pavement side, was open and it was thumping out heavy gangster rap. There had to be sixty grand’s worth of car there. Joe didn’t get the impression these boys had saved up their paper-round money to buy it.
He continued to watch them from a distance. There was something about spending time in a war zone that made cunts like this all the more repellent. Ship them from Heroin Heights to the poppy fields of Helmand and they’d lose their attitude shortly before they lost their lives.
Five minutes passed. A thin woman with acne and piercings on her nose sidled up to them and handed the mixed-race kid what Joe assumed was a banknote. The dealer then turned his back on the woman, who shuffled off round the corner and out of sight. No doubt she’d be taking delivery of her purchase elsewhere.
Joe walked across the car park in the direction of the two dealers. They stared coolly at him as he approached. When he reached the Range Rover and slammed the door so the volume of the music faded by half, they stepped up, their faces instantly more aggressive. They were obviously used to people treating them with respect. Joe leaned nonchalantly against the car – it was vibrating with the music – and took in all the information he needed in a single glance. Apart from the colour of their skin, these two were identikit: baggy jeans revealing their boxer shorts, Puffa jackets, white trainers, chunky gold bracelets, maybe seventeen years of age. They stuck out their chins, but he saw the way their eyes flashed sideways at each other. They weren’t quite as confident as they liked to make out. The mixed-race kid casually moved his right hand to his back pocket. Joe figured he had a knife. The black boy was digging his nails into his palm.