‘We’re going to release your boy in the next couple of hours. So just do what you’re told, and don’t try and trace this call, or do something stupid like last time, because I really will kill him.’
His mummy was crying down the phone now and Max wanted to tell her it was going to be okay, but then the horrible woman slammed down the phone and yanked him to his feet.
‘Right, you little bastard,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘You’re going to pay for that.’
24
Scope was parked up in the shadow of a warehouse five minutes west of the hospital, trying once again to think of a plan that might somehow save Max Horton’s life. But the truth was that he’d lost Bale, and now the kidnappers had no reason to keep Max alive. On the radio, they were reporting a constant stream about the blast in the committee-room meeting. There were few definite facts available, but one of them was that one of the MPs on the committee (already identified as Tim) had left his seat and made a dash for the exit just before there’d been two loud explosions. Reports were coming in of multiple casualties and at least one fatality, but the whole thing was still very sketchy. Scope was sure Tim hadn’t survived, though, and was even surer Max wouldn’t, now he was no longer needed.
He decided to drive to Bale’s house in the hope he might have gone back there, but before he did, he picked up his mobile and dialled the Hortons’ landline. Diane would probably still be there and it was essential that she now got the police involved. He’d give her Bale’s name and tell her about his involvement. It was a risky manoeuvre, but right now he couldn’t think of a viable alternative.
Diane answered on the second ring, her voice heavy with pain as she said hello.
‘Diane, it’s me, Scope.’
‘Jesus Christ, what have you done? Why did you get involved?’ Her words were spat out like bullets.
‘I’ve found out who’s in charge of the kidnappers but I’ve lost him,’ he said calmly. ‘You need to call the police and let them take over.’
‘I can’t talk to you. They’ve got cameras in here.’
‘They won’t be watching now. They haven’t got the resources.’
She let out a long moan. ‘I can’t involve the police. The kidnapper said she’d kill Max if I do. I’ve just spoken to her.’
Scope frowned. He hadn’t expected a woman to be involved. ‘She may well kill him anyway. You have to call the police.’
‘She sounded so evil, Scope. Max managed to get away and he phoned me just now. He said he’s somewhere in Turville. It’s a village near here. But she’s got him again now.’
‘And what did this woman tell you to do?’
‘Wait. She just said wait, and she’ll release Max in the next couple of hours.’
Scope thought fast. This didn’t sound right. ‘But they’ve already got what they want. Have you seen the news?’
‘No. I’ve been sat in this room. Is Tim … ?’ She left the sentence unfinished.
‘I think so. Listen, if you’ve got a location for Max, you’ve got to call the police. They can flood the area.’
‘No, it’s too big a village. And if the kidnappers get wind of it, they’ll definitely kill him.’
Scope took a deep breath. There was another way. ‘I know the car the chief kidnapper’s driving. I’ve got a feeling he could be going out to Turville too, especially if the woman told you to wait; and I’m only just behind him. I could locate the car and then …’
Diane was silent on the other end of the phone. He could hear her breaths coming in short, tight gasps.
‘We haven’t got much time, Diane.’
‘Do it,’ she said at last. ‘Find my son and get him out alive. Please.’
Scope ended the call, put the coordinates for Turville into the satnav and pulled out into the road, knowing he was going to have to drive like the wind to catch up with Frank Bale.
25
Celia took a last angry drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out on a plate in the kitchen. She was no longer bothered about leaving behind evidence of her stay here, not after what had just happened. She was still on a high after knifing the old lady, even though it could potentially cause her problems. Celia had been DNA-tested before, and though she hadn’t left much evidence of her presence at the nosy old bitch’s house, and had got her before she’d called the coppers, she couldn’t be sure that the bastards wouldn’t find something to tie her to the scene when they finally got round to searching the place. It was already midday, and she needed to get hold of the money she was owed and get away fast.
The problem was she didn’t trust the man coming to see her now. Celia was no fool. She knew she was better off to this guy Frank dead than alive, especially now that Phil was gone. But she still had a few aces up her sleeve. The brat, for one. He was currently locked in the walk-in store cupboard next to the kitchen, and was keeping quiet after the slaps Celia had given him on the way back here. There was something else too. An item she’d never had to use until now, but one that she’d always thought might come in useful some day.
As she went into the spare bedroom to retrieve it from her belongings, she heard the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway.
The man called Frank had arrived.
Frank Bale eased his soft bulk slowly from the Jaguar, resisting the urge to scratch at the fiery patch of eczema in his belly fold.
He looked round, taking a deep breath of fresh, clean air. Frank had always liked the countryside. It was peaceful and quiet, with none of the filth or human scum of the big city. One day, he’d retire to a pretty cottage in the woods like this. Not with the wife, though. In an ideal world he’d be well rid of her, probably off a cliff in some far-off place where the local cops didn’t ask too many questions, and then hopefully he’d be wealthy enough to attract a half-decent-looking Eastern European bird who wasn’t too fussy about what her old man looked like, and they’d live happily ever after.
A man can but dream, he thought as he knocked on the front door.
He had to wait a good thirty seconds before it was opened by a tall, hard-faced woman with a bony, almost malnourished face and very dark, flinty eyes that didn’t look like they missed much. This was Celia. She’d probably been pretty once, but too much hard living had sucked the youth right out of her and left something unpleasant and bitter in its place.
She gave him an icy stare and stepped back to let him in, without saying anything.
‘Where’s the kid?’ he asked, noticing she was already wearing her coat.
‘Where’s my money?’ she answered as he followed her down the hallway.
‘I don’t make a habit of carrying thirty grand in cash about, believe it or not.’
‘When were you planning on giving it to me?’ she demanded, turning round to face him as they entered the kitchen.
‘When all this is done, you come with me and we’ll collect the money together.’
She didn’t say anything, her eyes probing his.
Frank could tell she didn’t trust him. In her shoes, he wouldn’t have trusted him, either. But it meant he was going to have to be careful with her. ‘We need to go,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Get the kid.’
She nodded and unlocked a door next to the Aga before disappearing inside. When she emerged a couple of seconds later, she was holding seven-year-old Max Horton, who was still wearing his ridiculous, Billy Bunter-style prep-school uniform. The kid looked petrified, but that was no great surprise. Not only did Celia bear a strong resemblance to one of those wicked witches he’d doubtless heard about in bedtime stories, but she was also holding a bloodstained knife to his throat. When she looked at Frank, there was a malignant gleam in her eyes that made his balls tingle, and not in a good way.
‘I told you. I want my fucking money,’ she hissed. ‘Now give it to me or I cut the little brat’s throat and let him bleed out all over the place.’
The kid whimpered and Frank noticed his knees were shaking violently. ‘It’s all right,
son,’ Frank told him. ‘You’ll be going home soon.’ At the same time he drew the gun he’d used to kill Orla with from inside his jacket, hoping that the sight of it with the suppressor attached might encourage Celia to see the error of her ways. ‘I told you,’ he said, half raising the gun. ‘I don’t carry that sort of money.’
‘Well then, you’d better fucking find it, hadn’t you?’
‘I’m the one with the gun, darling.’
‘And I’m the one with the kid. I’m serious, Frank. I bet you were the one who rented out this place. Even if you’ve done it through a company, if they find this brat’s blood all over the floor, I bet they’ll be able to trace it back to you eventually. So, are you willing to take that risk? Because I reckon it’d be easier just to pay me.’
Frank reckoned it would be easier just to shoot her, but he held back. Luckily, he’d planned for this contingency. ‘All right, I’ll get your money. I actually did bring it, you’ll be pleased to know.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me that?’
‘Because I don’t like being threatened.’
‘So where is it?’
‘In the car. I’ll go out and get it. Then we leave here together, do what we need to do and part company.’
‘No, it don’t work like that, Frankie boy. You’re going to give me my money, all thirty grand of it, and then I’m walking. Because I’ve got to be honest, I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you, and when you’re the size you are, that ain’t very far at all. So bring the cash in, let’s count it and then we can all be on our way.’
Frank nodded. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’ He retreated backwards through the hallway, and only when he was at the front door did he finally replace the gun in his shoulder holster.
26
Turville was one of those picturesque English villages with thatched cottages, a pub and an old church, but Scope paid little heed to its beauty as he drove along the single road that ran through it, searching for Bale’s Jag. He’d driven down here like an absolute maniac, breaking pretty much every rule of the road, and was sure he couldn’t be that far behind him. He was also certain that Bale wouldn’t have rented a house in the actual village itself. The cottages were mainly terraced, and there wouldn’t have been enough privacy.
The village soon gave way to woodland on either side of the road, and Scope scoured it for turnings, the tension pounding through him like a drum. A child’s life was at stake. He could be dead already. Would almost certainly be dead within the next couple of hours. And then what? Scope knew he’d find it hard to live with himself. He’d tried to do everything on his own, but in the end it would always have been best to go to the police. They had the resources and technology to deal with this.
Through sheer willpower, he forced the doubt from his mind. He had to keep going.
A turning appeared to his left among the trees, two hundred yards beyond the last house in the village. Scope slowed down and saw there was a wooden sign sticking up on the adjacent bank with the names of two houses carved into it. He could just make out one of them poking out through the woodland, thirty yards up, and he pulled off the road and parked next to a tree, out of sight. Knowing he was going to have to eliminate these houses from his enquiries as soon as possible, he was straight out the car and running up the lane, keeping to the edge so that the sound of his approach was at a minimum.
There was an old Fiat in the driveway of the first house, so Scope continued on as the lane wound through more woodland until he saw a slightly dilapidated cottage appear in a break in the trees. Moving into the shadows of the tree line, he approached on the other side of the lane until the front of the cottage came into view.
The Jag was there, along with a Toyota Rav4. And so was the unmistakeable figure of Frank Bale. He was at the front door with his back to the road, a duffel bag in one hand, and as Scope watched he disappeared inside.
So this was it. The endgame. A minimum of two targets. Scope took a deep breath and slipped the .22 revolver, with its three bullets, from the waistband of his jeans.
‘Count it,’ said Frank, putting the bag down on the floor and taking the gun out again. Ten feet separated them. Celia held the kid in front of her like a human shield, the knife still tight against his throat.
‘Unzip it, then kick it over here and don’t get too close. Put the fucking gun away as well.’
Frank followed the first two instructions, but made no move to replace the gun in his jacket. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t trust you, either.’
She shoved a hand in the bag and pulled out a wad of used twenties, never taking her eyes off Frank.
‘Tell me something,’ said Frank. ‘Why’s there blood on that knife? What have you been doing?’
She paused long enough to set the alarm bells ringing in his head. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with you.’ She risked a glance at the notes in her hand, opening the wad to inspect one of the notes in the middle.
‘I do worry. That blood looks fresh. Whose is it, Celia?’
She scowled at him. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘The same way you know mine. Our good friend Phil, God rest his soul. I know lots about you.’
‘I was cutting meat.’
It was a lie. A crap one too. She’d done something bad. The problem was he needed to know what it was.
Celia put the wad down next to the bag and pulled out another one, her fingers rustling through the notes, the knife blade looking looser on the kid’s throat as her greed took over and she momentarily lost concentration.
Frank met the kid’s eyes, and he motioned for him to shove Celia’s arm aside and make a dash for it. But the kid was in shock. He wasn’t doing anything.
‘There are four more wads in there. Five grand each.’
‘There’d better be,’ she said, rummaging round inside the bag, the knife grip loosening once again.
Frank and the kid made eye contact again. Again Frank motioned. Again the kid didn’t move.
Seemingly satisfied that the money was all there, Celia nodded. ‘Okay, that looks about right.’ She picked up the two wads next to the bag and put them back in. As she did so, the knife drifted a couple of inches from the kid’s throat. Without warning, the kid knocked her arm to one side and ran over to Frank.
‘You little fuck!’ she screamed and tried to grab him. But she was too late. Frank had got hold of him now. He raised the gun.
Slowly, Celia got to her feet, the duffel bag in one hand, the knife in the other, looking a lot less confident than before. ‘Listen, there’s no need to make a mess in here. You can just let me by with the money, and that’ll be the end of it. Okay?’
‘How did you get the blood on your knife, Celia?’
‘She stabbed the old lady,’ the kid piped up.
Her face twisted into a snarl, and she went to take a step forward. ‘You lying little piece of shit.’
‘Stay where you are and shut the fuck up.’ Frank turned to the kid. ‘Which old lady?’
‘She lives next door. She tried to rescue me.’
‘And now she’s dead, right?’
‘Yes,’ the kid sobbed.
Frank sighed, caressing the kid’s shoulder. ‘Well, this is all a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ He gave Celia a cold stare.
Her eyes widened. ‘Look, don’t—’
‘You called me fat,’ said Frank. ‘I don’t like that. And you know what? I don’t like you, either.’
He shot her once in the chest, watching as she went down like a sack of potatoes, crashing into the wall before lying in a still heap on the cheap carpet.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ he told the kid, who was still crying loudly. ‘Now, can you just do me a little favour and take a few steps forward. We’re going to play a game.’
‘Don’t hurt me.’
Frank gave him a gentle shove. ‘I won’t. Don’t worry. Just a few steps forward.�
�
The kid took a couple of tentative steps in the direction of Celia’s body, craning back over his shoulder.
‘That’s good,’ said Frank. ‘Stop there. Now look in front of you, shut your eyes and count to ten.’
The kid drew a shaky breath; his knees were wobbling. ‘Why can’t I just go home? I want to see my mummy and daddy.’
‘We’re going to go home right after this.’ Frank raised the pistol so the end of the suppressor was three feet from the back of the kid’s head. He felt vaguely sick having to do this, and he had a feeling it was going to haunt his dreams for a long time to come, but knew he had no choice. He was going to have to make it look like Celia had shot the kid and then turned the gun on herself. ‘Shut those eyes for me, okay? And let’s start counting together.’ His finger tightened on the trigger. ‘One …’
27
Scope had come in the unlocked back door to the cottage, the gun in his hand, using the sound of the voices in the hallway to cover his approach. He’d heard the two shots when he was halfway across the kitchen floor, followed by the muffled conversation between a man and a child, who he guessed were Frank Bale and Max.
It was only when he got to the door that led into the hallway that he heard Bale tell Max to shut his eyes and they’d start counting together.
Scope’s view might have been blocked by the staircase, but he could guess what was about to happen. The problem was that Bale sounded as if he was a good fifteen feet away, and the .22 that Scope was holding was going to be inaccurate over distance, especially if he had no time to focus in on the target.
But he was going to have to do something. He had no choice.
‘One,’ said Bale.
Which was when Scope came out from behind the door, holding the revolver two-handed, finger poised on the trigger, yelling out to disorientate Bale. He had a split second to take in the scene: the body of the woman on the floor; Max standing halfway down the narrow hallway in his school uniform, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he waited for what he must have known was his death; and behind him, the hulking figure of Bale holding out the pistol, ready to fire, his face already registering the shock as he caught sight of Scope.
Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories Page 10