Untouchable

by Ava Marsh

‘You know because Elisa sent them to you.’

  He swallows. ‘No, I …’ His words die in his throat.

  ‘And instead of coughing up the paltry fifteen grand she asked for, you went to your mates. And our lovely friend winds up dead.’

  ‘She was a nasty little whore,’ he says, finding his voice.

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? I’d say we make our money a great deal more honestly than you.’

  ‘What, by spreading your legs? Blackmailing people?’

  ‘Sex for money is a legal transaction – at least in this country. Which is more than can be said for some of your deals.’

  I look him up and down, from his eyes to his cock and back again. ‘Let’s face it, Harry, in a straw poll of public opinion, I reckon your profession would be somewhat less popular than mine.’

  He glowers at me, but doesn’t speak.

  ‘For the record, I don’t condone blackmail. There’s no doubt what Elisa did was wrong, but it’s not like you’ve stayed within the confines of the law, is it? That little thing you have going with Alex Lennart and Edward Hardy, for instance. If that comes to light you’ll definitely find yourself out of a job. And behind bars.’

  Harry’s mouth moves into his habitual sneer, its effect somewhat diminished by the tears still drying on his cheeks.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  I smile at him. ‘Actually I’d prefer to see your sorry arse rot in a cell, Harry. You and your nasty little chums. But I’ll settle for the money.’

  He clears his throat. ‘I haven’t got that kind of cash just lying around.’

  ‘I realize that. Borrow it if you have to. After all, it’s only … what … half a year’s bonus for you? And that’s not even counting what you make on the side.’

  I shift the gun into my other hand, its weight beginning to make my arm ache.

  ‘So I’m giving you one day. I’ve left you detailed instructions of what to do. If by this time tomorrow you haven’t done exactly what I said, I’m sending these pictures to every interested party I can think of.’ I count them off on my fingers. ‘Your wife. Your boss. The head of that exclusive public school you send your kids to. The editors of all the national newspapers. I reckon that’ll do for starters.’

  His face contorts with rage. ‘You wouldn’t fucking dare.’

  ‘Really?’ I glare back at him. ‘You sure about that? After what just happened?’

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ he mutters, but it’s more of a grumble now than a threat.

  ‘Yes,’ I say mildly. ‘I’m sure I am. But don’t underestimate me, Harry. I’ve taken precautions. If anything happens to me – anything at all, even something that might look like an accident – I’ve made sure that these will be sent out to everyone on that list. And the police. So don’t imagine for one second that the solution you and your friends chose for Elisa is an option for me. Or Janine.’

  I walk round to the head of the bed and hold the gun up to his temple. ‘Believe me, Harry, I’d welcome the chance to blow you right out of the water. Even from the mortuary block.’

  He stares at me. All the fight gone now from his eyes.

  ‘Understood,’ he says. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  I pull on the jeans and jumper I brought with me. Pack up my things. Harry lies on the bed, watching.

  ‘You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’ he asks in a panicky voice as I put on my coat. I smile. Sling the bag over my shoulder and pick up the gun. Keeping it trained on him, I go round and release each handcuff.

  He sits up, rubbing the weals around his wrists.

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ I repeat. ‘Understood?’

  He nods.

  I walk towards the door and turn. He’s crouched on the side of the bed, bent over, head in his hands.

  ‘Oh, and Harry …’

  He raises his face. His eyes are red and he looks ill, defeated. I lower the gun, certain now he’s got the message.

  ‘… just one last thing. A heads-up for your mate Hardy. Tell him I don’t appreciate visits from his unofficial henchmen – even if they do pay my fees.’

  I close the door of the apartment behind me and pause for a minute, leaning on the wall, my legs suddenly unsteady.

  So far, so good, I think, but knowing there’s worse to come. And this time there’s nothing I can do except wait.

  46

  Tuesday, 14 April

  The bell to my flat rings at ten to three, right as I’m sending the last of the emails. I run down and sign for the package, then climb back upstairs, clutching it to my chest. I double lock the door behind me before ripping it open.

  A single ticket. Exactly as instructed.

  I examine it briefly, then shove it in the pocket of my jeans. Stuff all the things I need into my rucksack and pull on my coat.

  Outside the weather has turned windy and overcast, the sky a shade of whitish-grey that casts an unflattering light over everything. People’s faces look drawn and pale. Resigned.

  It’s warmer down in the underground. I crush myself into a crowded tube destined for Waterloo, join the throng exiting to the mainline station. My pulse begins to quicken as I rise up on the escalator into the main concourse, uncertain what I’m going to find when I emerge.

  Will they have someone waiting?

  Hurrying over to the announcement board, I pretend to search for a train as I survey the entrance to the luggage service. There doesn’t seem to be anybody hanging around. But then there wouldn’t – not if they’re doing their job properly.

  Not too late to call it quits, says a voice in my head. You’ve had your fun. You’ve done your bit for Amanda.

  I take a deep breath and walk up to the counter. I hand over the ticket to a middle-aged man who barely acknowledges me. Just glances at it, then disappears through a door behind him.

  A minute later he returns with the parcel. Covered in grey plastic, it’s much bulkier than I imagined, and for a moment I think I won’t get it into my rucksack. I transfer some things into my handbag, try to squeeze it in.

  It fits. Just. The zips refuse to quite meet at the top, but it’ll hold. I take another deep breath, ignoring the anxious thump of my heart. Resist the urge to check around me.

  Look calm, I tell myself, aware of all the security cameras in the station. Look casual. Unconcerned.

  There’s a Smiths near the main exit. I buy a couple of magazines and ask for a large carrier bag. The cashier hands me one without comment and I make my way to the toilets. Picking a loo with a baby-changing tray, I check there are no cameras overhead.

  I work fast, mindful of the attendant lurking on the other side of the door. Remove the parcel and place it on the tray. Grab the scissors, the bubble wrap, brown paper and tape from my handbag, alert for the sound of approaching footsteps. I can’t hear anything unusual. A mother scolding a child. Two women discussing whether or not to get a taxi up to Oxford Street.

  I close my eyes for a few seconds, then cut open the parcel. Stare, mesmerized, at the fat bundles of £50 notes. Even in a cash economy like mine, this much money is a sobering sight. I pick one up and rifle the corners, the way you would a pack of cards.

  It certainly feels … and smells real. Papery and fresh. Potent.

  I do a quick count. Twenty bundles, each containing £25,000.

  All there.

  I gaze at them for a few last seconds before dividing them up. Four for Anna. Four for Kristen. Two for Janine. The remaining quarter of a million I split exactly in half, removing five notes from each. I wrap the separate piles carefully, first in bubble-wrap, then brown paper and parcel tape, writing out each address in capitals.

  A knock on the door. My heart leaps. ‘You OK in there, Miss?’

  ‘Fine,’ I stammer, turning and flushing the loo. After a moment whoever it was walks away. I stuff the tape and scissors and remains of the paper into the carrier bag, along with the magazine, dropping it into the rubbish bin on the way out.


  Twenty to five. I fidget as I wait in line for a taxi. I’m barely going to make it.

  Ahead of me a trio of businessmen are discussing an upcoming meeting. One glances at me briefly then his eyes slide away. Nothing about me warrants a second look. I’ve made sure of that. I’m clean-faced, not even a dash of mascara. My hair is pulled back into a clip and I’m wearing my drabbest clothes.

  The last thing I need today is attention.

  The businessmen disappear into the bowels of a black cab. Half a minute later another draws up beside me. The driver leans across to speak to me. ‘Where to, love?’

  I give him the address in Tower Hill and climb in. We inch into the rush-hour traffic. We’ve scarcely managed two hundred yards before we’re forced to a standstill.

  ‘Know any quicker routes?’ I ask the cabbie, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

  He thinks for a few seconds. ‘We could try Southwark Bridge.’

  He pulls out into the centre of the lane and waits for somebody to let him in, then drags the cab round into a U-turn and heads up Stamford Street. I sit with my hands clenched into fists.

  We have to make it. I’m not going to get another chance.

  Fifteen minutes later we pull up outside the depot. I shove a twenty-pound note from my purse at the driver and wave away his offer of change. Run up to the office and let myself in.

  It’s 4.55 by the clock above the desk. I’m just in time.

  A clerk appears from behind a back door. ‘Too late,’ he says. ‘Can’t do deliveries after five.’

  ‘It’s five to,’ I object, nodding at the clock.

  He doesn’t even bother to glance at it. ‘That one’s slow.’

  ‘Please.’ I say, wishing now I’d bothered with some slap.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He starts to retreat into the back room. ‘Hang on.’ I pull one of the fifty-pound notes out of my pocket and slide it across the counter. He looks at it, then up at my face, trying to suss out whether I’m joking.

  I nod. Push it further in his direction.

  ‘OK,’ he says, making the money disappear. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  It takes him ten minutes to calculate the cost of sending all five parcels by courier. I pay in cash, inventing a bogus name and address for their forms. Write ‘Personal Effects’ in the bit where it asks what’s being delivered.

  I send Kristen’s parcel to her parents’ house in Scotland. Anna and Janine’s to their respective flats. The one for the rape crisis centre I address to the head office in Charing Cross. The other goes to a charity: ‘The Alison Tennant Trust’.

  No explanations, and no indications as to my real identity. I have no idea how these parcels will be received, of course, but figure an anonymous donation may be more likely to stick.

  Back outside, in the open air, the pressure in my chest begins to subside. I find I can breathe more easily. I stroll along Lower Thames Street, feeling lighter. A weight literally lifted.

  I head towards London Bridge, thinking I’ll walk home. By the steps, a little way under the arches, I spot the man. He’s huddled beneath the ironwork, a bed of cardboard and several ratty-looking blankets draped over his overcoat. I go up and give him the rucksack, and the rest of five hundred quid I kept by for expenses.

  The homeless man blinks at me in astonishment. ‘You sure?’ His voice rough, unused.

  ‘Completely.’

  His mouth widens into a grimy-toothed grin as he raises a hand. ‘You’re a fucking angel,’ he calls as I walk away.

  I climb the steps to the footbridge. Halfway across, my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and check the screen.

  ‘Number withheld.’ But I know who it is.

  I hesitate, looking over at the grey and white vista of London spread out before me. Let it ring, once … twice … three times.

  Then press the button to accept the call.

  47

  Wednesday, 15 April

  I don’t bother with the gun. There’s no point. This time, there’ll be nothing to be gained by surprise.

  This time he’ll be well prepared.

  I arrive early, five minutes before midnight. Wait by the gardens down on the river. The weather has turned wet again, rain gusting against my umbrella, which fails to keep the water off my legs. I can’t see anyone around at all. Just cars sliding past, the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac.

  I huddle under a holly tree, feeling my damp jeans begin to stick uncomfortably against my skin. Check my watch again. Midnight. Maybe he’s had a change of heart, I think. Maybe he’s got something more effective in mind.

  A black Range Rover glides towards me, slowing as it passes. A face at the window. I watch the car turn at the lights. A few minutes later two men round the corner, walking in my direction. It’s hard to see them clearly in the streetlights. Dark clothing, suits under raincoats. One carrying something in his right hand. A briefcase?

  My heart reacts. Fuck. I must have been insane agreeing to this meeting. I’m a sitting duck out here. An easy target.

  Get a grip, I tell myself. They won’t take a risk like that. Not now. They’ve way too much to lose.

  The men are just a few yards away now. One looks up at me enquiringly, his mouth a half-smile, his hands obscured in the pockets of his jacket.

  I tense, wondering whether to run for it. But it’s too late. They’re too close. All I can do is wait for whatever is going to happen.

  They walk right past.

  I’m nearly drenched by the time the car draws up alongside me. A sleek black Mercedes. Tinted windows. Obviously.

  The one on the passenger side slides down noiselessly. Alex Lennart leans over.

  ‘Get in.’

  He opens the door. I hesitate, peer in at the back seats. Nothing except a suit and a briefcase.

  ‘There’s no one,’ he says. ‘Like I promised.’

  The window shuts and I climb into the leather seat. It’s warm already – must have some kind of internal heating. Sophie Hunger croons ‘Let Me Go’ from the speakers, rich and silky and sensuous.

  Lennart regards me steadily. ‘Good to see you again, Stella. Or can I call you Grace now?’

  I don’t bother to respond. He looks at me a moment longer, then pulls off the cycle lane and sets off along Millbank.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says. ‘Flight was delayed.’

  I nod. Shift in my seat, my legs still cold and uncomfortable.

  ‘This song reminds me of you.’ Lennart flicks a finger towards the sound system.

  I don’t react. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, as we hug the river eastwards.

  ‘Just somewhere we can talk.’

  He clicks off the music and we drive in silence, no sound except the rhythmic swish of windscreen wipers sweeping across our field of vision. Like a metronome, beating time as we cruise through the deserted streets.

  We turn on to the A13. ‘That was quite a stunt you pulled with old Harry,’ Lennart says. ‘I was impressed.’

  I don’t reply, sensing talk will get me nowhere. And truthfully, I’m not sure I even trust myself to speak.

  ‘I assume you saw the news today?’ he continues, undaunted, glancing at me briefly before fixing his eyes back on the road.

  Hardy’s resignation from the defence ministry. It wasn’t headline news, but had received a fair amount of coverage. Or rather speculation. Several of the papers linked his sudden departure to his testimony at the select committee.

  ‘Back benches for the rest of his term,’ Lennart remarks. ‘Then I expect the party will drop him at the next election, when the media’s no longer paying attention. Thanks to those photos you sent the chief whip. Government minister partying with a dead call girl – seems even the Tories draw a line at that.’

  I stay mute. We’re leaving London now, heading towards Barking and Dagenham. High rises and squat warehousing. Signs for the Dartford Tunnel. I resist the urge to ask again where we’re going.

&nbs
p; ‘So I’m guessing Ted and Harry weren’t the only clients Amanda was blackmailing?’

  ‘No.’

  Lennart smiles, acknowledging the fact I’ve broken my silence. ‘So where’s all the money then? I’ll bet she accumulated quite a bit.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s sitting in a bank account somewhere. I can’t touch it. No one can.’

  Lennart overtakes an Audi and accelerates up the outside lane. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘I imagine they can afford it.’

  I check the speedometer. We’re doing nearly a ton. In the rain. On a dual carriageway. Is he driving like this to scare me? I gaze out my window at the blur of lights and buildings. What will he do if we’re pulled over by the police?

  Nothing, I suspect. Let them book him, knowing the charges will be buried under paperwork.

  We peel off the A13, curve right around the roundabout and head back towards Barking. What the hell? I stare out the window, trying to get my bearings. A minute later we take another right. And another.

  Christ. Perhaps I should have brought the gun, I think, as Lennart turns into the car park of some kind of nature reserve and kills the ignition. After a minute or so the lights go out and the engine ticks in the darkness, cooling fast in the night air. I peer out the window but can’t see any other cars.

  A lurch in my stomach as I realize we’re completely alone.

  Lennart takes his hands off the wheel, leans back in his seat. Exhales heavily.

  ‘So, nice work, Grace. I like your sense of poetic justice. Deprive the politician of his career and the banker his money. But what are you going to do about me, that’s what I’ve been wondering. Execute me with one of my own weapons?’

  I look away as he turns to face me, eyes squinting with amusement. ‘Trouble is I’m not married. No children. Strictly, I’m not employed by anyone, and I’ve hardly an impeccable reputation to lose.’ He sighs. ‘In my line of work, mud doesn’t stick; you’re up to your neck in it anyway.’

  I run my tongue around my teeth and swallow. My mouth feels painfully dry. I can feel Lennart’s scrutiny like a prickle on the surface of my skin.