Missing Dad

by J Ryan

  ‘Didn’t he use email?’

  ‘It would have been intercepted. Ironic, isn’t it? The only secure way was for him to post a hand-written letter while he was on leave, hoping that he wasn’t being tailed.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Night, sweetheart.’ She takes my face gently in her hands and lightly kisses the top of my head, then her dressing gown rustles through the door and she’s gone.

  The ink on the letter is a faded black, but I can still read the strong, dramatic brush strokes of my father’s handwriting. I reckon, if he’d been able to email this letter, he’d have used Broadway. Fats climbs cautiously onto my lap, and I rest my hand on his soft coat as I read.

  Chérie

  I miss you and the boys desperately, and hope that you are all well. I am in a place which you and I visited on our honeymoon – tu te rappelles a certain casino? I am here with a colleague taking some leave from the demands of investigating my current target, with whom I have succeeded in getting myself hired as bodyguard. How I wish I could come home for a few days to see you all, but sadly that is impossible as I would inevitably be followed. My new employer is as suspicious as she is dangerous.

  This is a dark place where I work. Life is held cheap, and it makes me angry to see how callously these powerful men and women dispose of those who are no longer of any use to them. But I remain hopeful that I and my trusted colleagues around the world are doing a job that even the SAS, my erstwhile employer, could not. We are so deeply embedded with the enemy that they see us as their own. Building that trust is part of our job, so that they come to divulge more and more information. And when the time is right, we make our move to bring them down.

  Cherie, you must not worry about my safety. I know what I am about, and I have the support of my magnificent colleagues whom I trust with my life. Our motto is that of the legendary musketeers – ‘Tous pour un, un pour tous’. This is a worthy enterprise that we are engaged in and one day, when I am back home at last and can tell the whole story, I want you and the boys to be as proud of me as I am of you all.

  Tell our splendid boys that their father thinks of them always, and give them a huge hug from me. Quant à toi, ma belle Nina, je t’embrasse comme toujours.

  Ton

  Julius

  Fats nudges the letter with his nose as I sit with it in my hands, motionless. The voice of the man who wrote it is so like the voice that whispered in my head, out there on the M5, that it’s uncanny. Carefully, I fold the letter around Dad’s photo and place them in my drawer. I know there will be many times when I’ll need to look at them again. But at least now I have something more to find comfort in. It must have cost Mum a lot to part with this keepsake.

  As I close the drawer, tiredness hits me like a tsunami. My uniform feels glued to me as I peel it off. It’s like shedding a skin. Wriggling under my duvet, I’m not sure if I want to turn off the light. Will there be more gun shots, as soon as I close my eyes? Then I think, well it wouldn’t bother Commander Julius Grayling. Fats purrs loudly in my ear, and puts a big soft paw on my face. I reach out my hand, click off the bedside lamp, and sleep without the shadow of a dream. Only that peaceful rumbling in my head.

  ‘Detective Inspector Wellington said we’re all to carry on as normal. Not let this take over our lives. Just keep an eye open.’ Mum puts a cup of coffee in front of me as we sit at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Her hair looks all fluffed out, like she’s had a shower and dried it carefully. Grandad’s sorted the shaving situation, so now both sides of his face look symmetrical, including the two sticking plasters.

  It’s a Sunday, thankfully. I’d lost all track of time. We all slept in until midday, and my stomach’s gurgling happily after its reunion with Mum’s bacon and eggs. I flick cautious glances at her and Grandad. ‘Is it OK if I go out, then?’

  Jack shovels baked beans on toast into his mouth and mumbles, ‘Watch out for the shooters!’

  Mum pauses as she refills the kettle. ‘WHAT did you say, Jack?’

  ‘Scooters… Joe’s been on the internet, watching out for a scooter. Haven’t you, Joe?’

  ‘Yeah…’ I take a swig of coffee, and glare at Jack.

  ‘Where are you off to, Joe?’ Grandad spreads butter onto his toast and reaches for the marmalade, his eyes catching mine almost accidentally.

  ‘Just a meet with Becks in Stroud. We thought we’d take in a film, then go for a pizza?’

  He fishes in his pocket and pushes a couple of notes towards me. ‘Have it on us. But mind how you go.’

  ‘Cheers, Grandad.’ I can’t meet his eyes, and my face is burning as I close the front door behind me. I think, ‘I worry so much, about you worrying about me.’ Then the bus trundles round the corner, and I sprint to catch it. Looking down from the top deck, I’m amazed at how small and pretty the streets of Stroud are, after the wide roads of Bristol with their huge office blocks. Maybe Becks and I will just go and see a film after all, then catch up over a pizza.

  She meets me at the bus station. Her mane of red hair is pulled sleekly back into some kind of tuft with beads in it. ‘God, Joe, you look awful.’

  ‘Thanks. You look great.’

  ‘No, I mean… you’ve got these big bags under your eyes, and you must have dropped at least two kilos. Come on – BK.’ She grabs my hand.

  ‘Too pricey. But there’s some great burger deals going at the new cafe by the station.’

  ‘By the station…’ The green eyes look at me, quad core brain on the case.

  Twenty minutes later, she stares at my empty plate while I check out the menu. ‘You didn’t tell me you’ve only just had breakfast. You can’t possibly eat another one – you’ll be ILL!’

  ‘Watch me.’

  ‘No thanks!’

  ‘Sure you don’t want another?’

  She takes the menu off me. ‘I could maybe just manage a choc sundae.’

  As I join the queue, I notice the big, black-haired guy at the front of it, and my stomach does a flip. He’s got sticking out ears, and he’s in a dark coat. My heart starts to thump, and I strain to hear his voice as he gives the cashier his order. Then, the woman next to him nudges his arm. She points at a poster on the wall, with a mega whoppa, gut-busting, cholesterol-boosting meal deal. He turns to look, and it’s not Big Head. But by the time I get back to Becks, my appetite’s blown to pieces. I just stare at the burger.

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Eyes too big, that’s all.’

  ‘Told you.’ Becks digs deep into the choc sundae, then pauses, the loaded spoon in mid-air, her eyes thoughtful. ‘D’you think they’ll get him?’

  ‘Who – Bertolini or Monsieur?’

  ‘Bertolini?’

  I look around for the dude with sticking out ears. He must have left the cafe. But I still whisper. ‘I think Alfredo Bertolini is Big Head’s real name.’

  ‘And he was the one who was shooting at you?’ The spoon-load disappears into Becks’ mouth.

  ‘Not so loud! I don’t know. I couldn’t see the face behind the gun. And Dave said the XKR was empty when they found it.’

  ‘But it was Big Head who sent you on that run. It had to be him, didn’t it? He didn’t want you and that woman to get to the trial.’

  ‘That was what it looked like.’

  ‘What are you saying, Joe?’

  ‘I’m saying I just don’t know who’s the boss. It could have been Monsieur who gave the orders for that pick up.’

  Becks’ spoon probes into the sundae for bits of chocolate. ‘Monsieur doesn’t seem… dangerous… does he?’

  ‘DIW must think Monsieur’s dangerous. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent in armed cops to raid the offices as soon as he got your call.’

  She looks up from the sundae, and I get 1000 watts of green eyes. ‘
What do YOU think, Joe? About Monsieur?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Becks. Not anymore. I’m sure he knew what was in the boot. And he didn’t seem surprised that someone had taken a shot at me that night. He just didn’t look too happy about it.’

  She says softly, ‘The boss was well OK at first, wasn’t he? It was your dream job.’

  ‘Dream job for a loser.’

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and concentrate! Do you really think it could have been Monsieur who sent that hitman after you? And planted the gunman outside your house?’

  ‘I don’t want to think so. But I have to know.’

  ‘OK. And that’s why we’re eating here, isn’t it? Next to the station?’

  The train bowls in, we find an empty carriage, and Becks curls up comfortably on the seat opposite. It’s a bit annoying that she doesn’t look the tiniest bit surprised; she could earn a stack as a mind reader.

  ‘You think Monsieur is still in the building, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling…’

  ‘So, why don’t you tell the police, and let them find him?’

  ‘I don’t want them to find him. Not yet, anyway. I HAVE to ask him…’

  ‘If he’s the boss who ordered the shootings? D’you think he’d tell you? He’s got half the police on the planet after him – he must have other things on his mind than a cosy chat with you.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Becks, don’t you see? If he’s not the boss, he could end up in prison for stuff that’s nothing to do with him.’

  ‘Nothing to do with? You were driving his car all over the country with bootloads of Class A!’

  ‘That doesn’t mean it was him giving the orders.’

  Becks pushes a dark red curl behind her ear, like she does when she’s in the middle of an Eng Lit essay. ‘Are you saying you think this Tortellini…’

  ‘Bertolini.’

  ‘Canelloni, whatever. You think he’s the real boss?’

  ‘I… well…’ I fish in my pocket for my pack of Revels. A small black stick like an iPod comes out with the chocs, and falls on the carriage floor.

  Becks retrieves it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The remote for the basement carpark. I found it when I was getting out of my uniform last night.’

  She takes the pack of Revels, pours herself a handful before chucking it back to me and says, through a mouthful of chocolate, ‘Sweet.’

  Chapter 12

  The Slave Trail

  Blue lights are flashing all around the main reception of the Fine Wines tower block when we arrive. We retreat into an alley, and take the back route to the basement entrance, keeping close to the wall. The sliding doors are closed. There’s an armed cop standing right outside.

  Becks whispers, ‘Stay out of sight!’ She breaks into a run and dashes up to him. ‘Please! You’ve got to DO something!’ I have to admire the half-sob in her voice.

  He swings round, his hand going to his holster. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I was just coming out of the multi-storey… that one over there… when I saw a man, hiding under the stairs. He had a GUN!’

  He shouts into his radio. ‘Code nine zero! The multi-storey off Baldwin Street!’

  ‘Shall I show you where he was?’

  ‘You stay right here!’ He sprints off, and disappears round the corner. I take a quick glance around, and hit the remote. The doors hiss open, we dash through, and I close them quickly.

  ‘I can’t see a thing!’

  ‘This way.’ My hands feeling along the damp stone, I move forwards through the cave, straining to see in the half-light.

  Becks’ voice bounces off the cave walls. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Down.’ I find the lift, but the door’s closed, and there’s no buttons for up or down or anywhere.

  Becks runs her hands over the rock. ‘Maybe it has some kind of sensor.’ She leaps up and down on the stone floor, windmills whizzing around again. ‘C’mon, Joe! Catch its attention!’ So we do aerobics in this cave, and nothing happens. ‘Maybe it’s voice recognition.’ She says, in a deep voice that’s nothing like Monsieur’s or Big Head’s, ‘OPEN!’ Lift doesn’t want any of it.

  Then, I have an improbable idea. ‘Perhaps it’s French. OUVREZ!’

  The door slides silently open, and we go in. In the dim light, we can see the button for sous-sol, the one for the ground floor, a black button and a red one with no labels. ‘Pick a colour, Becks.’

  ‘I don’t do black.’ The door closes behind us. We’re going down. After maybe five seconds we stop, and walk out into a cave beneath the cave that’s below the sous-sol. There’s a wooden door in front of us, set into walls of solid rock. It looks centuries old; arched, like in a mediaeval building, with an iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s snarling face. Becks’ eyes sparkle in the shadows. ‘Trick or treat?’

  Clunk! The lift shuts behind us. Like it’s not under my control at all, my hand reaches out for the lion’s face. Before I can touch it, the door’s opening.

  ‘Come in quickly, both of you!’

  We enter a luxurious cavern; expensive rugs, fine wood furniture, and paintings of Provence on the stone walls. No chandeliers this time, just wall-mounted lamps. Three doors open into other areas, looks like bedroom suites, bathroom, kitchen. There’s another door, at the far end.

  Monsieur waves us over to a sofa, opposite a desk with a PC on it that’s squawking about an email that’s arrived. He looks as cool as ever in the Armani suit, silver hair gleaming in the lamplight. But there’s no half-smile this time. ‘You are both risking your lives coming here. You have less than one minute to tell me why.’

  He sits down at the desk, so we sit on the sofa. I don’t know what to say. My brain’s going, ‘Fifty-eight, fifty-seven… ,’ all over again.

  Monsieur’s grey eyes look at me steadily. ‘You have a right to know who you have really been working for since you joined L’Étoile Fine Wines, Joe. Is that what is in your mind?’

  I nod. Forty three, forty two…

  His voice sounds as grave as it did that night in the carpark, when he showed me the bullet hole in the Bentley. ‘It is some years since I gave orders of any significance in this organisation, Joe. It was not my decision to hire you as my chauffeur. And not my instructions that have put your life in such terrible danger, on two occasions.’

  ‘Bertolini?’

  WHUMP! The explosion sounds like it’s just over our heads. Becks and I jump a mile high, but Monsieur doesn’t move a muscle. ‘It is time for you to leave, my friends.’

  ‘What… what’s happening?’

  ‘There is no time to explain, Mademoiselle. You must go, now.’

  WHUMP! The walls seem to shudder, and the lights flicker. One of the pictures of Provence crashes onto the stone floor, a small stream of rocky dust flowing out of the wall where it was hanging.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get out of here too, Monsieur?’

  ‘I intend to leave, but only once you have both departed.’

  Far above us, there’s a quiet rumbling beginning, like a volcano starting to ooze trickles of molten lava before it goes up. Monsieur walks calmly to the door, and opens it for us. He takes Becks’ hand. ‘Aurevoir, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Aurevoir, Monsieur.’ Becks shakes his hand, green eyes connecting briefly with his grey ones. ‘Take care!’ She moves out of the door towards the lift.

  He grasps my hand with those long fingers, in a firm shake. ‘Aurevoir, Joe. Tu as été un chauffeur magnifique pour moi.’ Then his arms go round me in an embrace, like I’m a long-lost son. ‘I owe you my life, Joe.’

  I can understand the French. But I have no idea about the English. All I can do is stammer out the question I’ve wanted to ask him for so long. ‘Monsie
ur… do you know my father?’

  A grey cloud of dust floats between me and Monsieur as he releases me. ‘Your father is Commander Julius Grayling, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Were you friends?’

  Even through the growing thunder above, I can hear his sadness. ‘Once, I worked with your father, Joe. But then everything changed. And now, you two must save your precious young lives.’ His voice is urgent. ‘Go!’ He pushes me towards the door.

  Becks grabs my hand. ‘C’mon, Joe!’

  WHUMP! The ground shakes, and a shower of gravelly dust rains down onto the stone floor in front of the lift. Becks says sternly to the lift, ‘Ouvrez!’ The door slides open. Monsieur is watching us, willing us to leave. I’m glued to the spot.

  ‘Come ON, Joe!’ Becks drags me into the lift.

  ‘We can’t just…’

  She whispers, ‘We’re not! But it has to look like it!’ As the door slides shut, she looks around, up and down.

  WHUMP! The lift shudders. Number four. ‘God, I hate loud noises! There has to be a camera somewhere – otherwise how come Monsieur was expecting us?’

  ‘Can’t see one in here. Must’ve been outside the door somewhere.’

  ‘He has to be certain that we’ve gone, otherwise he won’t leave.’

  ‘So – how long do we give it?’

  Becks doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the tiny curls of smoke creeping in under the lift door. ‘Ouvrez!’

  We approach the snarling lion cautiously. ‘It’s bound to be locked. What do we do then?’ But the door swings slowly open with just a push, and we go back into Monsieur’s underground home. There’s no sign of him. The rumbling overhead is slowly getting louder. The air is vibrating around us. Another picture smashes onto the floor.

  ‘He’s left the computer on.’ Becks clicks on the mouse to bring up the file directory. There are hundreds of them, all with names in some kind of code.