It was a long shot. Jesus, it was a long shot, but it was potentially the only way he could save his own life. He wrote a very quick text, pressed Send and stood up, replacing the mobile as casually as possible as he flushed the toilet, praying he hadn’t just sentenced his son to death.
5
Everyone except his old man called him Scope. They always had. He liked the name. Thought it suited him, being simple and to the point. Once upon a time, he’d been a career soldier with a wife and daughter. Now he was a drifter, doing odd jobs here and there, and his wife and daughter were dead. For the last eight months he’d been renting a cottage on the western edge of the New Forest, working as a painter and decorator. Life had been quiet and, if he was honest with himself, pretty dull.
And now it looked like all that was about to change. He put down the axe he’d been using to chop wood and stared at the phone, reading the text for a second, then third, time. It was from his former brother-in-law, Tim Horton, and it read like something out of a thriller:
Am in terrible trouble. Max kidnapped. Being blackmailed. No police. Please come to house. Park fifty yards away out of sight then text me on 07627 533901. Don’t come in. They have cameras. They are watching. This is no joke. Please help!!
Tim was a high-flying, public-school-educated politician who’d married Scope’s wife Michelle’s sister, Diane, and the two men had never seen eye-to-eye. Scope had always felt – with plenty of justification – that Tim had looked down on him, even though he’d always tried to hide it behind his smooth, easy patter. But the facts spoke for themselves. Since Michelle’s funeral, close to five years ago now, Scope had only seen Diane and Max once and hadn’t clapped eyes on Tim at all.
But now it seemed they were in serious trouble, although it was odd that someone would target the Hortons for a kidnapping. They had money, but not huge amounts, and there were plenty of people out there richer. Scope knew, though, that the text wasn’t going to be a practical joke. Tim wasn’t that kind of guy, and anyone who’d pinched his phone wouldn’t know his relationship to Scope anyway. This was genuine.
Even so, he didn’t owe Tim anything. Right now he owed nothing to anyone. He didn’t have to get involved.
But he was always going to. He remembered Max as a very young child. He’d been driving past the village where the Hortons lived once, a long time back, and had stopped by to visit on the off-chance they were in. He’d always liked Diane. She was something of a social climber, but her heart was in the right place and she could be fun when the mood took her. She’d been there with Max when he’d turned up, and he’d stopped for a coffee and played with the boy. Max had been a sweet-looking kid – barely two years old then – with a very loud laugh.
Scope liked kids. He hated to think of them suffering, and Max Horton was still his nephew.
Replacing the phone in his pocket, he headed back towards the house, knowing he had a long drive ahead and not much time to do it in.
6
The silence in the room was so intense Tim Horton felt as if he could almost touch it. Diane had been crying silently for what seemed like a long while, but she’d stopped now. Neither of them had left the room since Tim had returned from the toilet close to three hours back, and they’d hardly spoken. As far as he was concerned, there was very little to say. Tim had been thinking about dying. He’d never really appreciated how lucky he’d been in life: a beautiful family, plenty of money, and a career that held what he’d always assumed was real power. Now he stood to lose all of it, and there was nothing he – Tim Horton, handsome, confident government minister – could do about it. He was totally reliant on someone else – a man he didn’t even like, and who probably liked him even less – to save his life, and if he failed, then tomorrow would be the last day that he ever saw. It was an utterly terrifying prospect, one he still found almost impossible to comprehend, and he told himself that if he somehow got through this, he’d change his life, devote more time to others, including his beloved son, and try to repair the relationship with Diane.
On the table his phone vibrated. He’d received a text. Leaning over as nonchalantly as possible, he checked the screen.
It was Scope, saying that he was parked down the road close to the pub.
‘Who is it?’ asked Diane, watching him with something akin to suspicion in her eyes, as if she didn’t trust him to go through with this.
‘Jenny,’ he said, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible. ‘She wants to know if I need to see her before the prehearing meeting tomorrow.’ He texted ‘Out in ten’ and replaced the phone on the table, conscious that he could be getting a call at any moment from the kidnapper, demanding that he show the text to the camera, which would effectively destroy everything.
He sat back in the chair, praying he hadn’t overplayed his hand.
Diane was still staring at him.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I know this must be so hard for you, I really do …’
‘Do you? Do you have any idea what it’s like to know you’re going to die in the next twenty-four hours and there’s nothing – absolutely fucking nothing – that you can do about it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. Because if anything happens to Max – if he dies – then that’s it for me. I’ll die too, because there is no way on earth I want to live without him.’ Tim sighed. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I know we’re both under pressure.’
‘Please don’t do anything stupid, Tim. Like involve the police or anything.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ he lied. ‘Max is my son too. I want him to live just as much as you do. Even if it costs me …’ His words trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to finish them aloud.
Diane leaned across the table and squeezed his hand. Her touch felt warm and their eyes met. ‘I love you,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘I know I haven’t said that for a long time, but, you know, whatever happens, it’s true.’
‘I love you too.’ But he wondered how she’d feel if she knew he was betraying her.
The room fell silent again and Tim waited, counting down the minutes, still clutching his wife’s hand, wondering what kind of inhuman bastard could sit watching this scene remotely and not feel some kind of pity for the people involved.
After what felt like a long enough interval, he stood up. ‘I need the toilet again. I feel sick.’
Diane looked at him suspiciously once more, and Tim wondered what the hell she thought she was playing at, doing the kidnapper’s job for him.
‘Wouldn’t you feel sick if you knew you were going to die?’ he demanded, before stalking out of the room.
The moment he was inside the toilet, he opened the window into the back garden and squeezed himself through it, toppling hands first onto the patio. As he got to his feet and started across the garden, keeping as close to the fence as possible, he knew he was taking a huge risk, but gambled that, though the kidnappers almost certainly had sensors on the doors, they wouldn’t have put them on the toilet window. Of course he could have been wrong, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He climbed over the back fence and jogged down the road in the direction of the pub, feeling a strange sense of liberation.
7
Scope sat in darkness in the car, wondering what the hell he was getting himself involved in. He was concerned at the risk he was taking, but intrigued too. He missed the danger of his old, longago life in the army, and the possibility of some kind of action – in whatever form it took – was a welcome prospect after months of painting walls and brooding.
He’d kept his eye out driving past the Horton house in case there’d been anyone else hanging about watching the place, but hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, so had parked under a tree next to an imposing Edwardian property further down the road. Wedged behind the driver’s seat was his overnight bag. As well as clothes, it contained among other things a prosthetic make-up kit, lock picks, a
knife and a number of miniature tracking devices – tools of a past trade that until tonight he didn’t think anyone else knew about. Now he wasn’t so sure.
In his rear-view mirror, he could see a dark figure – medium height, slight to medium build – jogging purposefully in his direction.
Tim Horton stopped by the window, saw Scope and got inside the car, the fear etched hard into his otherwise boyish features. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said breathlessly, putting out a hand. ‘I haven’t got much time.’
‘Tell me what’s going on,’ said Scope, shaking it quickly.
‘We got a call this afternoon. Max has been kidnapped. We have no idea by whom exactly, but I think there’s more than one. They killed the nanny and left her body behind.’ He paused. ‘I’ve seen it. They cut her throat.’
Scope nodded slowly, taking in this development. ‘What do they want?’
Tim exhaled with an audible moan, his whole body stiff with tension. ‘They want me to kill myself. My life for Max’s.’
‘Jesus! Who’s got a motive for wanting you dead that badly?’
‘I’ve been thinking non-stop for the last four hours and I think I might have an idea who’s behind it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Tomorrow I’m one of the MPs on the Culture, Media and Sport select-committee hearing. The subject is match-fixing in football games. This is a huge worldwide problem, Scope. There are a number of Asian betting syndicates who we believe are bribing officials and players to fix the results of various matches, both in this country and abroad. It’s a much bigger problem than most people realize and the amount of money involved is phenomenal. We’re talking billions of dollars. At the hearing tomorrow we’re interviewing a very well-connected football agent who’s currently under police protection at a secret location. Very few people know about this, but we’ve been told to expect some major revelations about the extent of match-fixing in this country – including Premier League games. What I’m saying is that there are people with a huge amount of power and money who won’t want him to get the chance to talk.’
‘But what’s this got to do with you sacrificing your life for Max’s?’
‘The main kidnapper – the man I’m talking to – hasn’t given me any details of what I have to do exactly, but he let slip that I’m going to have to do it at the same time as the committee hearing. I think they want me to do something dramatic that brings the hearing to a very rapid end. And maybe something that also neutralizes the sports agent as a threat, but right now I have no idea what it is.’
Scope sighed. It was pretty obvious to him what they wanted Tim to do, but he didn’t say anything. ‘What’s the security like at these hearings? I seem to remember some guy getting into one and chucking a custard pie at Rupert Murdoch.’
Tim grunted. ‘It’s not good. You have to pass through a metal detector but you’re rarely body-searched, and people are in and out of the Commons all the time. If you’re well organized, as I believe these people are, then you’d be able to bypass it easily enough.’ He paused and looked at his watch. ‘Listen, I haven’t got much time. They’ve got cameras in the house, watching us. I had to say I was going to be sick, to leave the room. They’ll expect me back very soon.’
‘You need to go to the police, Tim. Call them in now. They’ll know how to handle this.’
Tim shook his head vehemently. ‘No way. Not the police. They’re too damn slow, and there are too many things that could go wrong. These betting syndicates are run by organized criminals. They’ve got ears everywhere.’
‘Then you’re going to have to help me out here, because I’m one man on my own, and I’m no detective, either.’
‘But you know how to find people, don’t you? I know about the men who sold drugs to Mary Ann.’
Scope bristled at the mention of his daughter, and the fact that Tim knew something about what had happened afterwards. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘Look,’ Tim continued. ‘I’ve never said a word to anyone about it, but I know that the man who sold the heroin that killed Mary Ann was found dead, and that the man who sold him the drugs ended up with a bullet in the head as well. I’ve kept that information to myself for years and I always will do, but it’s the reason I called you and not the police. You’re prepared to get things done.’
Scope didn’t say anything for a few seconds. It was true he did get things done. And he wasn’t afraid to kill, either, when circumstances warranted it. It angered him that Tim knew that he’d gone after the men who he held responsible for his daughter’s drugfuelled death, aged only eighteen, killing them one by one, and had chosen to mention it only now. ‘Whatever you might think, I can’t find Max if I don’t have a clue where to look for him. And I don’t. I’m not a miracle worker, and I’m not a vigilante, either.’
‘I’ve got a lead to go on. This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’ve been having an affair for the past two months.’
Scope wasn’t surprised, and doubted it was the first time, either, but he didn’t comment.
‘The girl’s name’s Orla. I met her during a House of Commons tour for members of the public. She was a striking girl and she made it quite clear that she was interested in me. We managed to exchange numbers at the end of the tour, and I’ve been seeing her ever since. Believe it or not, I was with her today.’
‘I believe it.’
‘I was a fool. I thought she genuinely liked me, but now I’m sure she’s something to do with this.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘The killers have definitely got cameras in the house, so they’d have needed to bypass the alarm system. I took her back home once for a night, when Max and Diane were away. I didn’t want to, but she insisted. Said it would show some commitment.’ He shook his head angrily. ‘Christ, I should have known something was up. She was always asking questions about the family, about our comings and goings. At the time I just thought she was curious, but in hindsight she must have been gathering information.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘She never wanted to go back to her place, but I insisted, so I’ve got her address and I’ve got her home number. I’m going to text it to you now. Plus a photo. She never liked having her photo taken – which should have got my suspicions up – but I lifted one from her phone anyway.’ He pulled out his own phone and started pressing buttons. ‘I want you to pay her a visit.’
Scope grunted. He wasn’t going to make it easy for his former brother-in-law. ‘And then what? Beat a confession out of her?’
Tim fixed him with a desperate look. ‘Do anything you have to do. Not for me. I’m realistic enough to know you’ve never liked me much, and I don’t blame you. I’ve always been a pompous arsehole around you. But for Diane. She and Michelle were very close. And do it for Max, too. Please. He’s only seven years old and they’ve got him strapped to a bed in some filthy, dark room. They’ll kill him, Scope, without your help. I know they will …’
It was shameless emotional blackmail, but Scope let it go. He sighed. ‘I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘We haven’t got much time.’
‘I’ll start work right now, and I’ll contact you by text when I can. If you get any more information, make sure you contact me.’
Tim nodded, pressing another button on the phone. ‘Thank you, Scope. I owe you for this. If all goes well …’
‘If all goes well, you’ll forget me in an instant. Look, I don’t want your gratitude. Now get back to Diane before anyone wonders where you are.’
Scope watched as Tim ran up the quiet, tree-lined street, past all the big, rich people’s houses in the direction of his own, before disappearing from view. He checked his phone. Tim had sent him an address in north London, a good hour away, along with a photo of a woman in her mid-to late twenties with straight peroxide-blonde hair and a knowing expression in her big blue eyes. Putting the phone down, he turned the c
ar round and pulled away.
It was already 8.30 p.m. and it looked as though it was going to be a long night.
8
The girl, identified by Tim Horton as Orla Reilly, didn’t show up anywhere on the Net when Scope googled her name. There were plenty of Orla Reillys on Facebook and LinkedIn, and all those other places where individuals advertised their presence to anyone who cared to look for them, but none who matched the photo. This didn’t necessarily mean anything, of course, but it roused Scope’s suspicions.
The address he’d been given for her was a flat in one of a row of tall, slightly rundown 1960s townhouses across a main road from an estate of even more rundown tower blocks, somewhere on the border of Stonebridge and Harlesden. Traffic was light, but there was nowhere to stop on the road, so Scope continued past, seeing lights on every floor inside the house he wanted. He found a parking spot two roads down and got out of the car, memorizing the location. The night was cold and it had started to rain steadily, keeping people off the streets, which suited Scope well enough. Slipping on a pair of gloves, he pulled up the collar on his jacket and started walking.
From the width of the house, he guessed there was only one flat per floor. Orla lived in Flat B, which was unlikely to be at ground level. It was a pity he couldn’t ask Tim, but that was the problem he had now. He was operating alone, and with very little information. He’d already decided not to try to get into Orla’s flat by ringing the bell. There was no way she’d let him in at this time of night, and it risked alerting the kidnappers to his presence. His plan was to break in, search the place for clues if she was out, question her if she was in. Which led to his second problem. How to make her talk, then keep her from contacting anyone once he’d got the information he needed – if, indeed, she had it in the first place.
He shook his head. The whole thing was a mess, and one that could very easily come back and bite him on the arse. He felt a flicker of doubt about what he was doing, then pictured Max as a two-year-old with Diane, a laughing, doting mother and his wife’s sister, who’d genuinely seemed pleased to see Scope when he’d turned up on their doorstep all those years ago. Whichever way he cared to look at it, they were still family. If he could help them, he would.
Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories Page 3