The Choice: An absolutely gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down

by Jake Cross

She saw him looking at her hands, which were in her lap. For the first time since she attacked Brad, she lifted them and peered at her nails. Blood was encrusted underneath and on the tips of her fingers.

  ‘Maybe the Ghastly Gnash, too?’

  She was still looking at her nails, and remembering. Not the act of clawing at the man’s eyes in the dark train carriage, though. Years earlier, when Ron had shown her the technique. Part joke, given the name of the move, but deadly serious otherwise. Someone had tried to abduct her right out of the hairdresser’s and only the early return of her bodyguard had prevented it. After that, Ron taught her self-defence but not your typical kind. No karate moves or jiu-jitsu submissions because, in Ron’s world, those things didn’t work. In his world, attackers had knives and guns. So, he showed her how to fire a gun. But for the times when a man was close, grabbing her, and a gun was of no use? She was shown how to rake out a man’s eyes and bite out a man’s throat. Not things she would have ever wanted to be shown, of course, but Ron had insisted. She had prayed it would all be a waste of time.

  ‘I wasn’t kidnapped,’ she said. ‘It was—’

  ‘It was something else,’ he finished. ‘Enough said. Do you need medical care, and do you need food?’

  ‘Something else, yes. But what? Why wasn’t it enough to…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence as her eyes welled up. She wiped them, then fingered the side of that hand. The paw print tattoo, bringing her some comfort. Danny didn’t need to hear the remainder of her unfinished sentence to know what she meant. Why wasn’t it enough for these people to do what they had done? Why did they want to harm her, too?

  ‘You’re a witness,’ he said. ‘That’s why. They don’t want you talking to the police. Soon, hopefully, what you can tell the police won’t matter because they’ll already know.’

  She nodded, understanding his message: once she was no longer a threat neither would they be. But that didn’t comfort her right now, with Ron freshly gone and the danger imminent.

  He tried to change the subject by asking again if she needed medical aid or food.

  But she ignored the question. ‘I heard one of them speak. We were at a bridge, hiding. My head was cloudy… I’d just found out about Ron… but I thought… thought I might have heard the voice before. Do you think this is why they want me?’

  ‘Sounds likely. Where did you hear his voice previously?’

  She shook her head. ‘Maybe I was getting confused. I was in shock.’

  She searched his face for something. Recognition. Worry. Understanding. Something that would tell her he knew who might have done this. Because he knew who Ron’s enemies were. Had been, she corrected herself, and felt the tears threatening again. But there was nothing in his face except puzzlement, and she figured that was probably good. Somehow.

  ‘I need clothes,’ she said.

  ‘I brought you some. And painkillers. And toiletries.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt a little calmer now.

  Danny looked at her, waiting for her to tell him why the killers had targeted Ron. But she had no idea and her silence soon prompted him to veer the conversation.

  ‘You didn’t go to number ten. Craig went there to see.’

  ‘I didn’t trust the safe house,’ she said. ‘In case they tortured the information out of Ron. He always said we only should go there together. And I didn’t know who the police would visit.’

  ‘As far as I’ve heard, nobody went to number ten. The camera recorded nothing. The police have been pulling everyone in. Nobody’s saying a thing, of course, including about who did this. They’ve got some ideas, but nobody knew all of Ron’s enemies except Ron. And one other person.’ He looked at her, and she understood.

  Three months before, just after the clock struck midnight. Two days before he got arrested for serious fraud. A candlelit dinner and a swap of New Year resolutions. For her: no more smoking, which she’d achieved, and no more betting on the dogs, which she hadn’t. For Ron: no more secrets. She had made a joke (go on, then, tell me how many little Rons are out there?), but hadn’t been prepared for what happened next. He had outlined every crime he’d planned, taken part in, was responsible for.

  Including murder.

  She had listened in stunned silence as her husband exposed dark chasms in a soul that she thought she had well mapped. Four people whose deaths she suspected he was involved with. Three that she had believed were wrongly attributed to him and his gang. And three men that Ron had personally killed with his own hands. Some wives might have fled, but her shock and abhorrence had been overwhelmed by his honesty, and, somehow, she had forgiven him. He promised there would be no more killings. And, to her knowledge, there hadn’t been.

  ‘I don’t know who could have killed my husband,’ she said in response to his unasked question. Even though Ron had confided in her, she was none the wiser.

  ‘Okay,’ Danny replied. But he didn’t sound that convinced, and his next sentence seemed designed to prompt her: ‘Doesn’t matter because Ron’s boys are out there cracking heads to find out.’

  ‘I don’t want that. If my name without his has any sway, you should tell them to stop. What’s done is done. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt. It won’t rewind time and change last night. You didn’t tell them about me, did you?’

  She had told him to keep her contacting him a secret.

  ‘I’m long out of the loop, remember. Nobody knows anything. And I’m also in the dark about everything. But I could do with knowing one thing: what’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m going to go to the police. I want to talk to Mr Gold first and have him arrange everything. But first, I need your help. To help Karl.’

  ‘The man who helped you?’

  She had only briefly mentioned Karl on the phone and didn’t want to say much more about him just yet. ‘He got me out of trouble and I owe him. I need you to help me. Have you heard of St Dunstan’s Church?’

  Sixty-Two

  Mick

  It turned out the old guy was a former cop after all. Mid-Anglia Constabulary, 1970–1973. Turned down for detective status, and seemed sour about it. It was as if he was trying to show his skills, proving his worth as a detective, at seventy years of age.

  His home was overloaded but neat, as if he were both a hoarder and a clean freak at the same time. A billion vinyl records were set against the wall, so the detectives had to move in single file into the living room. The TV was an old CRT with built-in VHS player on a stand beneath a shelf bearing three ancient rugby trophies and an old black-and-white photo of a woman. Seeing the shelf, and the photo, Mick started to relax a little as a plan formed.

  ‘Can I have a glass of water?’ he asked.

  He directed his men to take the sofa in front of the TV, even though they wanted to stand. When his water arrived, he placed it on the shelf, and then he sat between his colleagues, their knees touching.

  Mick checked the time. Shit. He was due at the church in just forty minutes. He couldn’t be late. This thing needed speeding up.

  ‘What you’re about to see,’ the old chap said as he fiddled with a remote control for the TV, ‘is video footage from two different times. I will start the video at 6.44 p.m. yesterday evening.’ They let him talk because he wanted to. He probably didn’t get many big moments in his life.

  The footage was bad, which was good. Shadows were too deep, blacks too black, white parts from the setting sun too bright. But all three detectives, experienced in watching bullshit CCTV footage, barely noticed. Nobody expected a hi-def close-up of a perpetrator’s face.

  And they also knew they wouldn’t get it. The camera was at one end of the row of lock-ups, and the garage was at the other. At 6.44, a car entered the scene from the direction of the main road, its lights off. Too dark to make out, but from the shape it looked like a small hatchback.

  ‘Renault Clio,’ Cooper said. ‘Curve to the back of rear side window.’

  The car stopped, sideways on to the c
amera, at the end of the path, just past the garages. Both right side doors opened.

  ‘No way. Look, four doors. And that window frame is flat at the bottom. Volkswagen Golf.’

  The car was stopped, but nobody got out.

  ‘Headlights are too small,’ Mick said. ‘Mazda 3.’

  He didn’t even know why he said it. It was, of course, a Mazda 3. Dave, the car buff, had stolen it a few days before. He cursed himself inwardly.

  ‘Three men,’ Gondal said. ‘Makes sense.’

  The driver was short, slim, and black. They got that from his neck, because all three wore ski masks and gloves. The other passenger and the guy who’d sat behind the driver were taller, both white, one of them with thick shoulders. Dark clothing for all three, nothing distinctive.

  ‘Jesus. This looks promising,’ Cooper said.

  ‘Mid-sized guy could be Smithfield,’ Gondal said.

  It was.

  The three men walked past the first garage, coming towards the camera. The black one went down into a squat, and seemed to pick something up off the ground.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Gondal asked. All three detectives were leaning forward.

  Cooper said: ‘Looks like he’s fou—’

  ‘—nd a penny.’

  ‘Stop messing about,’ Mick said. He grabbed the garage door and lifted. Slowly, because it creaked.

  ‘Find a penny, pick it up,’ Dave said, ‘and all day you’ll have good luck. Don’t you reckon we’ll need it?’

  ‘Get professional and you don’t need luck,’ Mick replied. The up-and-over metal door got halfway, then jammed. He couldn’t budge it. The door was bent a little across the middle and he understood why: it threatened to bend again now as he pulled, same way he deadlifted at the gym. He shook the door, which was loud, but it came free and screeched its way fully open.

  The Volvo lurked within, facing outwards. Untouched for a few days, as they’d expected because none of the garages was used. The three men slipped alongside it, to the back. Dave opened the rear door. Mick nodded at the tools and weapons inside. He hadn’t expected Dave to be able to get exactly what he’d asked for, but here it was, right before him. This was going to work, he realised. Revenge, so long in anticipation, was finally taking flesh.

  ‘Well done, Dave,’ he said. ‘You certainly know what you’re do—’

  ‘—ing in there?’ Cooper said, looking at Gondal.

  ‘How am I supposed to know what they're doing?’

  ‘Fast forward,’ Mick said. Onscreen, the three men had been inside the garage for over a minute. He was on the clock and didn’t have six minutes to waste watching a motionless screen. Because he remembered that they had spent seven minutes in the garage, checking the weapons.

  Cooper and Gondal yelled at the old guy to rewind the tape when, in double-speed, a car shot out of the garage.

  ‘That’s our stolen Volvo,’ Cooper said. ‘So this is them.’

  The killers. Cooper and Gondal got excited, and Mick had to pretend to do the same. But he was far from happy. He glanced at his water, up there on the shelf.

  The Volvo turned towards the camera, and the excited detectives leaned forward again, hoping for a close-up of the driver as he passed it. But then the Volvo stopped, and reversed past the parked Mazda, onto a patch of grass made to look like an inkblot by the video quality and high trees that blocked the setting sun.

  ‘All three already inside,’ Cooper said as the black guy got out of the Volvo and into the Mazda. He turned right, towards the camera, and then left, into the garage. Fast, neat. Clearly knew how to handle a vehicle.

  ‘I’ll see if Smithfield has any friends who resemble this guy,’ Gondal said.

  The black guy exited the garage and turned to close the door. Got it halfway, but then it moved no more. He tried rocking it, but didn’t have the power.

  Cooper said, ‘Looks like it’s jam—’

  ‘—med again.’

  Mick got out and approached. ‘Get back in the car, you little wimp,’ he said, joking. He was not unhappy right now. Not when things were progressing so well. He put his arms on the edge of the door, locked straight, and used all his weight and a rocking motion to try to free the stuck mechanism. He sensed Dave nearby, just watching.

  ‘Dave, piss off into the car.’

  Dave started walking back to the Volvo. ‘Got some oil. Might need to lubri—’

  ‘—cate the old throat,’ Mick said, and stood, and walked towards the TV. He grabbed his drink from the shelf, and took a big gulp. He picked up the photo.

  ‘Your wife died?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight years ago,’ the old guy replied. ‘How did you know?’

  The photo. A woman in her prime, probably round about the time the old guy met her, when they were both young, when love was fresh. ‘Hunch. Mine died three years ago, although she was my ex-wife by then. Split a year. The job, you see. Clichéd old thing, but the job really was my mistress and it wore her down. But it was amicable, and we still saw each other a lot because of our son. He stayed with me, and I got the house. So, I still sort of miss her some days. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  He could almost feel his colleagues’ discomfort at this rare show of emotion from their boss. He’d never talked about family since the accident, had banned his social life from being brought up at work. But they said nothing as he replaced the photo and the drink, and slowly walked backwards to his seat.

  On the screen, the big guy had stepped back from the garage door. He jumped forward with a powerful kick which freed the jam and shut the door. He stomped back to the Volvo. He got in. The Volvo’s headlights blazed on, whitewashing the screen. It turned right, onto the dirt road, and vanished. All told, nine minutes.

  ‘And so we move onto 21.41,’ the old guy said. The detectives weren’t listening, though. They chatted among themselves about what they had just seen, stopping only when the fast-forwarding video slowed again.

  Mick’s mind raced. This time he was absent, so had no clue what Dave and Brad had got up to. If one of them had done something that would fuck up everything, well, he was going to find out when it was too late to do anything about it.

  But everything was fine. The Volvo returned. It parked while the black guy opened the garage, with no major jamming problem this time. He drove the Mazda out, and the other guy drove the Volvo inside. The black guy entered, and neither returned for eight minutes, which, again, Mick instructed the old guy to fast forward through.

  ‘Must be when they’re spraying the chemical around,’ Gondal said.

  The two walked out, shut the garage door, and got into the Mazda. They vanished. The old guy shut off the video with a claim that he’d watched footage from the rest of the night but the men didn’t return.

  ‘You check up on other stolen cars around the same time,’ Mick said to Cooper as all three detectives stood. ‘I’ll take the tape to the station and get it copied for everyone, see if anyone else can spot something we missed.’

  He ordered Gondal and Cooper to remain at the garage and oversee the evidence gathering, and then he got the hell out of there.

  * * *

  En route to the meeting with Seabury, he broke the cassette in half, screwed up the tape and found a trash bin to dump it in. That had been a close call. If the detectives had seen the piece of footage Mick had blocked when he stood before the TV to drink the old guy’s foul water and spout some shit about his wife, what might they have made of it?

  The video showed Mick’s hands slip from the garage door as he pushed down hard. Elastic energy in the bending sheet of metal forced it upwards, back into position. The gravitational energy in Mick’s thick frame dragged his head downwards. He managed to turn his head, but the thundering connection mashed his ear. He had danced around for two seconds, cursing, clutching his ear, and then angrily kicked shut the garage door. And not so much from pain as embarrassment.

  Maybe the detectives wouldn’t have thought anything suspici
ous of Mick’s ear and the injury of the masked man on the screen. But it wasn’t worth the risk, and it was moot now anyway.

  So, he pushed it aside and cast his mind forward to the upcoming meeting.

  Sixty-Three

  Karl

  Karl had memorised the basic location of St Dunstan’s and was there twenty minutes before he was due to meet the detective. He parked 500 feet away on a side street. He expected the police to be on the lookout for guys sitting in parked cars, so he decided he would walk. First, he checked the back of the Caddy for something to wear, and was rewarded. A hi-vis jacket, which wasn’t the ideal outfit because he would stand out. But at least he would not stand out as Karl Seabury. There was also a backpack with a muddied football kit and boots inside. He took that with him, only because the police wouldn’t expect him to have a bag. The football boots, though, went onto his throbbing feet. Minus the screw-on studs, they looked like regular training shoes.

  He got back in the van and closed his eyes. He wondered where everyone was. Katie – was she at the church, just another 500 feet away, awaiting him with tearful eyes? Liz – was she with her friend yet, or maybe even already in custody? If the latter, how were they treating her? Like a victim who needed compassion, or as a possible suspect in the murder of her husband? He imagined a team of cops surrounding her, oblivious to her grief as they tried to extract information about her dead husband’s criminal empire.

  And the killers – out there, seeking him, closing in? Or had they fled with their tails between their legs?

  Karl took a deep breath, and got out of the van for what might be his last five minutes as a free man.

  ‘Pray when will that be, say the bells of Stepney’ was a line from a famous poem that mentioned St Dunstan and All Saints Church. But that was the last thing on his mind as he walked along Stepney Way, heading east. He saw the tall Anglican church past black gates beyond a mini-roundabout, 160 feet away, and slowed down to pause at a bus shelter. He couldn’t see much happening at the church, but his view of the grounds either side of the building was restricted. He took a breath and started walking, expecting a swarm of cop cars to target him at any second. Once he got to the roundabout, it would be too late to turn because he would be exposed.