Hill quickly cast his eyes over the TV monitors, seeing the same thing repeated over and over—DJs and revelers bouncing to a beat lost to the soundproofed control room. He knew that looking for individual faces in the sea of ravers without some direction was a pointless task. As he had on the train, Hill put his faith in the fact that the thieves would slip up, but this time Hill would not be denied his prize.
Connected to the internet, Hill now opened up his phone’s web browser and began to dig the thieves out from hiding with the one connection he had—the name of Matthew Barrett, and his service as a Royal Marine.
It was only moments before Hill had his first result. It was a BBC News article from 2008, listing Barrett as being awarded the Military Cross for his actions in Iraq the previous year. Further searches led to local news websites, where Barrett was lauded as a hero for saving the life of his hometown friend Tony Scowcroft, who’d been crippled in an explosion.
Now Hill had a second name, and he entered it into the search engine.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, seeing a long list of results. All of them were fund-raising campaigns aimed at getting Tony the medical support he needed not only to recover, but to survive—his body was intact, but Tony was brain-damaged, seemingly beyond repair.
Scanning through the web pages, Hill saw that the latest plea had been posted on justgiving.com only three months ago, and aimed to raise the $2 million it would take for Tony to be accepted into a groundbreaking medical trial in America. If successful, it would give the man back his life.
But the campaign had raised barely $50,000.
“Bollocks,” Hill breathed, sitting back in his chair, because the reason behind the diamond heist had become abundantly clear, and the consequence of the thieves failing caused his stomach to turn.
“If I catch them, he’s dead,” he whispered, and dropped his head into his hands.
Chapter 24
Depositing the leftovers of their takeaway meal into an alleyway bin, Scowcroft pressed Barrett for information on the buyer’s location.
“He’s told you twice already, Alex,” Charlotte cut in, her patience thin, but Barrett calmed her with a look and gestured to his smartphone.
“It says on here that it’s a high-end club about a mile away, mate,” he told Scowcroft.
“What’s high-end?”
“It means it’s expensive,” Charlotte answered. “It means we can’t go in there dressed like this.” She gestured at their neon faces, jeans, and sneakers.
“Well, the bags are gone, and we’re all out of clothes, so how the hell are we going to get into a place like that?”
“I’ll look and see if there’s a twenty-four-hour store,” Charlotte proposed, taking out her phone. “Are we expected at this guy’s table?” she asked Barrett, who shrugged. “It would help getting in if we are,” Charlotte told him.
“You seem to know a lot about this kind of club,” Scowcroft muttered, knowing that Blackpool’s drinking and club culture was anything but high-end.
“I did have a life before your brother,” Charlotte replied without thinking, instantly regretting her words. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Fuck you,” Scowcroft said, his voice flat and cold.
“I…” Charlotte tried to backtrack, but Scowcroft’s eyes simmered with anger, and she knew it would be useless. Instead she concentrated on her phone.
“Here,” she pointed, her voice a shadow of its usual strength. “We can get the clothes from there.”
Barrett knew Charlotte’s words hadn’t been meant literally, but even he was subdued at the implication in them.
“OK,” he finally uttered.
Charlotte moved to put her phone away, but an alert flashed onto its screen with a loud ping.
“It’s the BBC News update,” she told them as she opened the app. And then she wished she hadn’t.
Because Barrett’s face was spread across her screen.
Chapter 25
In the police control center’s CCTV room, Detective Inspector Hill’s guts churned as he watched over the monitors.
“Are you hungry?” Sergeant Corsten asked, noticing Hill’s hand on his stomach.
Hill told him he wasn’t and moved the hand away. In truth he was sick. Sick at the implications that his own success would have on a man who’d been crippled and brain-damaged while serving his country.
He rubbed at his eyes and tried to visualize a future where his decisions would concern buying a new piece of gym equipment, and not the life-and-death struggle of a brave man.
The detective’s phone buzzed, and he saw the message from Vaughn: “BBC just ran Barrett’s picture.”
Hill opened the BBC News app, seeing that the newly released story was one of the top trending items on the site. He scanned the short article, which simply stated that Matthew Barrett, a former Royal Marine, was wanted in connection with a violent crime, and that his nose was badly broken. Above the text, the proud photograph from Barrett’s military record sat alongside the grainy image from London’s Underground.
The article was light on detail, but that was how Hill had wanted it. The news report was the beater that would flush Barrett and his friends into the open, he was sure of it.
“Look at this.” Hill heard Corsten address him on the second attempt, the Dutchman pointing a finger towards the room’s CCTV screens.
Hill stood and let out a deep breath to clear his mind.
“Here,” Corsten jabbed with his index finger. “And here.”
Hill followed the finger and saw what the eagle-eyed Dutchman had seen.
Something wasn’t right in the colorful pictures of ravers. Two men—no, three—were combing their way through one of the stage’s crowds, their thick shoulders and shaven heads marking them out as obviously as a tractor cutting through a field of hay.
“They are not there for the party,” Corsten observed, and Hill found himself nodding in agreement.
“You mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked.
“Of course.” The Dutchman smiled, knowing that Hill would not be coming back.
Chapter 26
Barrett looked into the faces of Scowcroft and Charlotte. Their wide eyes reminded him of his battle-shocked comrades in Iraq.
“You can’t go,” Scowcroft finally murmured.
“Of course I can.” His mentor smiled. “I’m not charging an enemy machine gun, mate, I’m just going to draw the police away from you two. Just remember, the buyer doesn’t know you, or your names. You may have to win him over. Show him the news article. Here, give me one of your phones.”
Charlotte handed him hers, and Barrett flipped the phone’s camera so that the screen showed himself and his two sullen accomplices. “These two are with me, mate. You don’t need to know who they are, and they don’t know who you are. Deal with them. Out.”
“Pete’s not his real name?” Scowcroft mumbled.
“No real names.” Barrett shook his head.
“Where will you go?” Charlotte asked, beginning to accept the inevitable.
“Your meet with the buyer is at the top end of the city center. It’s mostly waterways to the east, so I’ll go south or west. I’ll find a way of letting them see me, but keep enough cover that they can’t catch me.”
“Baz,” Scowcroft pleaded, “you’ll go to prison.”
A genuine smile broke across the veteran’s features. He couldn’t tell his partners how his mind had been imprisoned and tormented since the moment he’d seen Tony’s mangled body by an Iraqi roadside. He couldn’t tell them that the four walls of a cell would be heaven to him, if only he knew that his best friend was restored.
“Since they kicked me out of the Marines, I’ve been living in shitholes worse than I ever did in Iraq,” he told them instead. “I’ll have a roof over my head, and food. I’ll even have a gym.” Barrett smiled.
“We can’t let you go,” Scowcroft insisted.
“Don’t worry about it, Alex. I�
��ll probably even run into some of the old unit inside. God knows they’re in and out of the system enough. Just think of it as me being back in the barracks at Taunton, but no marching, and no pay.”
“You’re a knob,” Scowcroft managed, trying to put on a brave face.
“Here.” Barrett pushed something into the young man’s hand.
“Your diamonds?” Scowcroft said, shocked.
“I didn’t swallow them. I got spooked on the train. I thought it would come to this, eventually. My good looks make me stand out too much.”
“Stop trying to make jokes and give me a hug, Matthew,” Charlotte told him suddenly, pulling her friend into a tight embrace.
At the display of affection, Scowcroft swallowed the ice-like lump in his throat. No Scowcroft was known for voicing their emotions, as Barrett and Charlotte well knew, but the young man tried his best.
“Baz,” he began, “I’m not a soldier, but I’d take a bullet for you. I know you’re Tony’s brother as much as I am.”
Barrett simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he put out his hand. Scowcroft took it, his grip like a vise.
There was only one thing left to say.
“Good luck,” Scowcroft told him.
And Barrett walked away. When he had put some space between himself and his two friends, he tossed his cap down onto the pavement and lifted his face up to Amsterdam’s camera-filled streets.
Chapter 27
Hill stepped out of the police control center, but was stopped instantly by a commanding voice.
“Detective Inspector Hill!” He turned to see Sergeant Corsten approaching. With a sinking feeling, Hill considered that he’d misjudged the man.
He hadn’t.
“Here’s my number,” Corsten told him, handing over a piece of paper.
Hill’s eyebrows rose in question.
“My priority is the safety of the people here,” Corsten explained. “Including you, and whoever it is you’re looking for. Who those men are looking for,” he guessed with a veteran officer’s insight.
Hill paused before his next move. He could see no reason why the Dutchman would set him up to fail, or to fall foul of the local police force, and so he took his phone from his pocket and entered the number, texting Corsten a link to the BBC News article and Barrett’s pictures.
“I need to find this man, and take him quietly home before somebody gets hurt,” Hill told him.
“Is he a threat?”
Hill shook his head without needing to think. All the evidence suggested that Barrett was a brave and selfless man. His actions may have been illegal, but they were noble.
“The people looking for him are,” he added.
Corsten gave a curt nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the control center. Hill saw the ebbing tide of ravers coming to and from the stage, and followed his ears in the direction of the driving bass.
“Trance stage?” Hill shouted. A blank-faced steward pointed lazily ahead.
Hill pushed on through the crowd, and was funneled into a circus-sized tent, his senses overloaded as soon as he set foot within. Lasers and lights criss-crossed the air above the hands of a thousand joyous clubbers.
At the far end of the tent stood the main stage, where the image of a leather-jacket-clad DJ was cast up onto a huge array of screens.
“Amsterdam!” the DJ’s British voice came across the twenty-foot speaker stacks. “Make some fucking noise!” The crowd replied with a roar that fought to drown out the drop of a pounding bassline.
Hill held his position at the rear of the tent and cast his eyes over the mass of bodies ahead of him. The thousands of moving limbs and the flashing light made it almost impossible to make out detail, and he wondered how he would find his target.
He pulled out his phone, and texted Corsten: Anything?
The reply was instant: No sign of your man. I see you.
Hill quickly texted back: What about the men looking in the crowd? Where are they?
This time there was a slight delay, and Hill ground his teeth as he waited impatiently, praying that the men had not slipped away. Push down the left-hand side as you face the DJ. Thirty meters. Big guy on the edge there. Alone. Not dancing. Seems to be watching.
Hill kept his phone in his hands and followed the instructions, spotting the man when he was ten meters away. Hill could see that he was a formidable build, muscular and bearded. The man seemed to be taking no interest in the music, only the crowd.
He remembered the bearded man in the police control center and texted: You sure he’s not one of yours? Special forces?
There was a pause, where Corsten must have checked with the soldier, then: Not ours.
Hill didn’t move any closer, but kept the man in his sight. The detective was certain that Slate would have more men scouring the event. Having been burned once by the thieves, Slate’s men would surely call in reinforcements before springing their attack, and so Hill would watch this man, and let him lead the way.
“I wanna see every one of your hands up!” the DJ called, the crowd cheering themselves as their fingers reached for the sweeping lasers.
And not wanting to give himself away to Slate’s henchmen, Hill threw his own hands up with them.
Chapter 28
Barrett stopped beside a canal to get his bearings. Taking stock of his surroundings, and seeing that the locals outweighed the few ravers, he decided that he had found himself in the no-man’s-land between stages of the Dance Event.
The ex-Commando knew that his part in the heist was drawing to an end, but Barrett intended pulling the police into as long a chase as possible. Out here on the quiet streets, hemmed in by canals and tightly packed properties, he was a sitting duck.
He walked up to a Scandinavian-looking couple worn out from a day of drugs and dancing. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
“Sure,” the man replied enthusiastically.
“Are there any stages around here?” Barrett asked.
“Right down the street, man. The trance stage. It’s banging!”
“Thanks. What time does it finish?”
“Like, six?” the man guessed.
Barrett thanked him as he went on his way and began formulating a simple plan—he would lead the police to the stage and lose himself in the crowd. Should he evade them until dawn, he would slip out with the masses and attempt to take public transport to Belgium. If the police picked him up via their CCTV network—and Barrett hoped they would—then the press of bodies at the stage would give him the best chance for prolonging the chase.
He found the trance stage easily enough and entered to see a British DJ jumping up and down on top of the booth, exhorting the crowd to new levels of energy.
Seeing the smoke and flashing lights, Barrett was sure the crowd would make a maze in which the police would have to follow, but before he could let himself be swallowed by its depths, he turned his head up to the gloom of the canvas and hoped the police were watching.
Someone was.
Barrett saw him coming from his left, his soldier’s instinct registering the man traveling at an angle that was opposed to the other ravers, who pushed as one towards the DJ at the head of the tent.
Barrett swore, plunging into the crowd and wishing he had more time. He pushed and weaved his way into the densest section of the dance floor, any chance of keeping track of his pursuers lost amongst the raised hands and writhing bodies.
Then, as if a giant switch had been thrown, all light and music was cut away, the stage cast into a pitch-darkness that was pierced only by the whistles and shouts of the crowd.
“Do you want more?” the DJ’s voice echoed in the blackness.
The crowd roared that they did. Barrett prayed silently that his eyesight would adjust quickly to the dark.
“Do you want more?” the DJ screamed again, and the crowd matched his intensity.
“Then let’s fucking go!” the DJ boomed, and the bass pounded through Barrett’s
chest, the lights coming up like a solar flare.
And in that flash of light, Barrett saw that his pursuers were almost on top of him.
As the music blared and the DJ hosed the crowd with champagne, Barrett pushed and shoved his way forwards, finally hitting the railing at the front of the stage. He thought to leap it but saw a line of security between himself and the DJ booth, so he followed it to his left, bumping and bouncing off the ravers. The drunk clubbers berated him, the drugged ones ignored him, but Barrett had no time to think about either and he finally came loose of the bodies in the giant tent’s corner.
And there he saw a fire exit.
Barrett ran for it, ignoring the steward who called on him to stop, and barreled out into the cold October air. He kept running, and heard more calls behind him—the police were on his heels.
The veteran turned right, seeing an assembly of artist and production trailers at the rear of the domed stage. What he didn’t see were the thick cables running to and from them, and as Barrett chanced to look back over his shoulder, it was these that ended his flight.
He tumbled to the tarmac, feeling the skin scrape from his cheek and elbows. After a split second the agony of his already ruined nose began anew, but Barrett had no time to reflect on his pain.
Rough hands gripped him by the throat.
He was caught.
Chapter 29
A subdued Scowcroft and Charlotte walked out of the twenty-four-hour store, a bagful of fresh clothing in each of their hands.
“We need somewhere to change,” the young man said. “There’s Portaloos around the raves. We can ditch our old stuff in them too.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I need light and a mirror for my makeup,” she told him, and caught the young man’s look of frustration. “It’s a high-end club, Alex. If we’re going to fit in, I need to look the part.”
Kill or Be Killed Page 13