by CJ Carver
‘What alerted you to Cedric’s return?’ he asked.
‘We heard from an unimpeachable source that Cedric had attended a public demonstration of Gabriel recently, and that he was touting the weapon on the illegal arms market, trying to drum up business by selling to the highest bidder. Intel gathered told us it wasn’t just military organisations lining up to buy Gabriel, but various terrorist groups as well.’ Bernard’s lips tightened briefly. ‘Gabriel isn’t a prototype any more. It’s a fully functioning weapon. Cedric has managed to gain access to the technology. The bidding was fierce, apparently.’ Bernard’s eyes rested on Dan’s. ‘Daesh won.’
Dan’s stomach twisted. ‘IS,’ he said
‘I prefer to call them Daesh.’ Bernard’s tone was hard. ‘I don’t want to confer any legitimacy on IS.’
Dan knew the group hated the word Daesh, which was similar to another Arabic word – das – which meant ‘to trample down’ or ‘crush’. The group had reportedly threatened to cut out the tongues of anyone who used it in public.
‘Imagine,’ Bernard said. ‘If Daesh get their hands on Gabriel. They will have the upper hand in any engagement. They will be able to expand their so-called caliphate almost effortlessly, and move anywhere in the world without being challenged. It’s a game-changer. We have to prevent Gabriel’s handover. Which, my source tells me, is the day after tomorrow. Tuesday. We don’t know exactly where, unfortunately, but we can be sure that Gabriel will leave the country on that day.’
The stakes couldn’t be much higher, Dan thought.
Bernard’s gaze intensified. ‘We need to know if Besnik is the broker between Cedric and Daesh. And if so, where the handover is to take place. If you go to Besnik pretending your memory is coming back, it’s my bet you’ll flush out Cedric. Then we’ll have him, and prevent the handover.’
‘You know where Besnik is?’
This time Bernard looked at him. ‘I know you have your own agenda here, but I need your absolute assurance that you won’t do anything stupid before you get the information we need.’
‘I’m not sure if I can promise anything,’ Dan said.
Bernard studied him for a few moments. ‘You’re all I’ve got Dan. Please don’t mess it up.’
Dan remained silent.
Bernard sighed. ‘I will trust you to do the right thing.’
Still Dan didn’t say anything.
‘You’ll need some leverage with Besnik,’ Bernard said. He passed Dan an envelope. ‘His ex-wife came to us over a year ago. You might find some of what she says useful.’
Dan pocketed the envelope.
‘Savannah and Ellis will take you. They’ve already been briefed.’
*
When Dan slid out of the booth with Bernard, he spotted Joe Talbot drinking a pint at the bar. He was talking to a dishevelled-looking man in his fifties.
‘That’s Philip Denton,’ Bernard said when he saw Dan looking. ‘An old colleague of mine. Brilliant mind. He set up DCA & Co. six years ago. I train up the best officers and then he pinches them.’ He chuckled without rancour. ‘Including Stella and Joe. Now, I shall join them for a drink,’ and at the same time his body language changed subtly, encouraging Dan to step away. ‘Savannah and Ellis will give you my contact details. Keep me informed as to how you get on, would you? An hourly update would be ideal.’
He’d been firmly and expertly dismissed. Bernard moved away but as Dan made for the door, Joe put down his pint and came across. He punched Dan lightly on the shoulder. ‘Can I buy you a drink? Then you can fill me in on what God has been filling your ears with.’
‘Sorry.’ Dan’s eyes went to Bernard who was watching them. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Next time.’ Joe glanced at Bernard before turning back to Dan. He studied him seriously for a moment. ‘Be careful, OK?’
‘Sure.’
As soon as he stepped outside, Ellis started the van and drove it over. Dan climbed inside.
‘How’d it go?’ Savannah looked at him in bright curiosity.
‘OK.’ What else was he supposed to say? If Bernard was to be believed, Savannah or Ellis could be Cedric. He added, ‘Thanks,’ not wanting to appear curt.
‘The boss just texted us. Told us to take you to Besnik.’
‘Address?’
She rattled off an address in Isleworth.
‘Thanks.’ He put his hand on the door handle. ‘I’ll take it from here.’
‘Hey, Dan.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘We’re here to help, OK?’
He looked at her. ‘I need to do this my own way, OK?’
She dropped her hand. ‘At least put our numbers into your phone. You never know when you might need us.’
He complied silently.
‘Ring us any time,’ Ellis added. His expression was sombre. ‘I’m serious, Dan. We may not know what’s going on, but that’s nothing new in our game. Just holler, OK?’
Dan gave a nod and climbed out of the van. Walked to Park Lane car park. In his car he opened the envelope Bernard had given him. Took out a USB stick and put it in the car’s music player. Then he drove to Isleworth.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Sunday 2 December, 2.15 p.m.
Tim Atherton’s consciousness crawled awake. He was lying in the corner of a windowless brick room. Vaguely he registered the concrete floor, bare walls with cracked and peeling paint. Two beams of light shone down from a pair of industrial-sized metal lamps hanging from the ceiling. To one side stood a table holding several items. He couldn’t see what they were. A plastic apron hung from the back of the door.
He struggled to his knees. His head was thick and muzzy, his mouth sour.
What was going on?
He remembered the man coming for him. The taser. The police calling him, urging him to go to a police station. Why hadn’t he listened to them from the start? Why had he insisted on going home? He ran a hand over his face. He was trembling.
The air in the room was fetid and reeking and his bile rose. The temperature was cool, but he could feel the sweat forming on his forehead, beginning to pool at the base of his spine. He clambered up. Put a hand on the wall to steady himself. The bricks felt tacky and he took his hand away, repulsed, and that was when he saw the blood.
Great dried pools of it on the floor. Splashes up the walls. Runnels of old blood poured into a drain. What looked suspiciously like old vomit lay in one corner. Dried piss was everywhere.
His stomach rolled, sending a wave of nausea over him.
He stumbled for the door. When he saw the plastic apron was blood-stained, splattered with yellow and brown gunk that he couldn’t identify, he gagged.
Trembling, terrified, he tried the door. Locked.
He looked back at the room. A ten-litre plastic jerrycan stood on the table. He went and opened the lid. It was full of water. He walked to the bucket set in one corner. Piss and faeces clung to the sides.
A moan started in his throat. Gradually it built until he began to scream. He leaped at the door and crashed his fists against it, shouting at the top of his voice.
Let me out!
But nobody came.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sunday 2 December, 2.45 p.m.
Lucy tucked up in a café, keeping warm while she collated a report for Mac. Now she had a legitimate excuse to be tied to the victims – she’d attended the same concert – she decided to come clean about the bipolar angle. The relief at not having to lie any more was indescribable and, suddenly, her appetite kicked in. She ordered a full English breakfast and was tucking into her second slice of fried bread when Mac rang.
He said, ‘Bella’s awake. She’s asking for you.’
For a moment she was so stunned, she was lost for words.
‘She woke up this morning,’ Mac went on. ‘I went and saw her but she won’t talk to anyone in authority except you. She was pretty hysterical about it. She says she doesn’t trust anyone else.’
Mentally, Lucy punched t
he air. Yes!
‘How soon can you get here?’ Mac asked.
Lucy put down her fork. Made a wild calculation. ‘Give me three hours.’
*
When Lucy arrived at the hospital she was wired on coffee and chocolate, not a great combination for conducting a calm interview with a newly awakened coma patient.
It was icy cold and already dark as she walked for the hospital entrance; dirty snow lay heaped at the bases of streetlights. Pulling up her collar, Lucy checked her messages to see she had one from her mother, nothing urgent, just telling her she’d bumped into one of Lucy’s old school friends at the pub. She started texting back.
She jumped when a man walked past her. She hadn’t heard him approaching. The police officer in her did a quick scan. Long coat (dark wool, expensive-looking), his shoes (polished leather, also expensive), dark hair slightly thinning on top, long face and dark eyes, brown leather gloves. He strode for the revolving door without glancing round.
She flinched again when her phone beeped, making her swear off caffeine for the rest of the day. It was only Mac, texting to say he was running late, and that she should start the interview without him, get the preliminaries over with. He’d be there within the next fifteen minutes.
Lucy entered Bella’s room to see the same greetings cards arranged on the windowsill. Same plastic jug of water on the table, same box of tissues and stuffed teddy bear on the bedside table. Everything was the same except that, instead of lying supine and motionless in the bed, Bella was sitting upright.
Her parents sat on chairs next to their daughter. Bella’s hair was freshly washed, falling in waves over her shoulders, her eyes vivid blue in a face as white as milk. Despite her pallor and hollow cheeks, she was still a pretty girl and although she had been deeply traumatised she greeted Lucy with surprising energy. ‘Hello, Lucy,’ she said. Her words were oddly muffled and she covered her mouth as she spoke.
Lucy’s stomach lurched sickeningly. She’d forgotten Bella had no teeth. The implants were due to come later.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Are you OK to talk? I know you’re probably exhausted, but we’ve got to act fast. You know he has another victim? Tim Atherton?’
Bella nodded. ‘Yes.’ She glanced at her parents. ‘I heard yesterday. They didn’t say his name, just that he’d abducted a young man. I thought it was my brother. I think that’s why I woke up. Because I wanted to help Patrick.’
‘Wow,’ said Lucy. ‘Talk about the power of the mind. That’s fantastic. I’m hoping you can help Tim by remembering every little detail of your attack. Everything about the man who took you.’ Lucy looked at Bella’s parents. ‘Would you mind giving us some time? My DI’s on his way over. I saw there was a coffee machine along the corridor . . .’
They took the hint. They both kissed their daughter, obviously reluctant to leave her, but unable to protest with another victim’s life at stake. Lucy settled in one of the chairs they’d vacated. Brought out her notebook. At that moment the door cracked open and when the man saw Lucy, he immediately said, ‘Sorry, wrong room,’ and vanished.
An invisible spider scurried across Lucy’s neck.
He wore a doctor’s coat but she recognised the long face and dark eyes. It was the same man who’d walked past her in the hospital car park, with the quiet footsteps.
‘Do you know that doctor?’ she asked Bella.
‘I didn’t see him.’ Bella looked startled. ‘Sorry.’
If it wasn’t for the warning scurry Lucy would have thought no more about the man, but something about his sudden withdrawal made her go to the door and look along the corridor. He was walking briskly away.
‘Excuse me!’ she called.
He didn’t look round. He increased his pace.
‘Hey!’ she called.
Still he didn’t turn.
Lucy broke into a run after him. The corridor streamed by, doors and pastel pictures and wheelchairs.
Oddly, the man didn’t seem to take any notice of her running, clattering behind him.
She was closing in, maybe twenty yards away.
And then he rounded the end of the corridor and disappeared.
Lucy tore to the corner, her shoes skidding on the floor as she veered after him, but when she got there, he was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY
‘We have to put a guard on her door,’ Lucy told Mac.
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
When Lucy had described the man to Bella, the girl’s skin had turned bone white. Although she hadn’t seen him, from Lucy’s description Bella was convinced it was the same man who’d kidnapped her.
‘I’ll get the police artist over,’ Mac said. ‘They’ll talk to Bella first, then you.’
Normally they’d try and use a CCTV picture but the system had been disabled, showing the killer was highly organised.
Mac passed her a styrofoam cup of tea. She held it in both hands as she sipped, still shaken that she’d looked the killer in the eye, still furious that she hadn’t caught the man. She’d raced down the corridor he’d taken, opening doors, looking left and right when another corridor appeared, running to the main exits, checking the fire escapes, but she hadn’t seen him again.
Police were swarming through and around the hospital but Lucy didn’t hold out much hope of them finding the killer. He’d had nearly seven minutes to flee the building. You could go a long way in that time.
‘He’s one of us.’ Lucy gazed outside, not seeing the fog or the street lights burning like shrouded glow-worms. ‘He has to be. Otherwise how did he know Bella was awake? The press don’t know yet, do they?’
‘No,’ Mac confirmed.
‘Why didn’t he attack me?’ she said. ‘I’m on the list. I don’t get it.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I got that close to him . . .’
Mac reached across and gripped her hand. His skin was warm and the delicious shock of it made her pause.
‘You scared him off,’ he told her quietly. ‘Good job, Constable.’
He held on to her hand tightly, as though he wanted to warm her. It felt great. Better than great, but she shouldn’t be holding hands with her DI, so she pulled free.
‘We have to talk to Bella,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
Bella had been moved to another part of the hospital, not just for her safety, but so forensics could check the door handle to her room in the faintest hope the Cargo Killer might have left a speck of DNA behind.
Bella was huddled in bed. A staff nurse sat at her side, talking softly.
‘Are you OK?’ Bella asked Lucy. Her eyes were anxious.
‘Absolutely OK, thanks. You?’
‘Th-thank you.’ Bella started to cry. ‘You saved my life. Again.’ When Lucy leaned down, Bella wrapped her arms around her neck. Lucy held the girl tightly as she cried. She could feel Mac’s eyes on her back as she comforted Bella, stroking the girl’s back gently and murmuring soothing noises into her hair. She waited until Bella regained some control before pulling back and peering into her face.
‘OK?’ Lucy asked.
‘OK,’ said Bella.
Lucy led the interview. To start with Bella was fearful, finding it hard to communicate the pain and terror she’d suffered, but as she talked her voice gained strength. To Lucy’s frustration, Bella couldn’t seem to add anything new to the picture they’d built of her abduction. They’d already guessed the killer had to be exceptionally persuasive and believable when approaching his victims, and he’d acted no differently with Bella when he’d pretended to be a friend of her parents.
‘He said Dad had had a car accident and that Mum had asked him to collect me and take me to the hospital. He said we’d met last year, at Mum and Dad’s. He knew the name of our dog, when my birthday was. I thought I kind of remembered him. He was so believable.’ Her face spasmed. ‘I can’t believe I fell for it.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself
,’ Lucy soothed her. ‘He’s obviously a master of deception.’
Bella said she had been tasered before she’d been given an injection which had knocked her out. She’d woken in a room with no windows. It had a concrete floor, bare walls with cracked and peeling paint. Two large metal lamps hung from the ceiling. There was a table, and on the back of the door hung a plastic apron.
‘I was only awake a couple of minutes,’ Bella said. She started to tremble. Fear rose.
Lucy held her hand. ‘You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you again. We won’t let him.’
Bella took a breath. She continued to tremble, but she’d taken control of her terror. She said, ‘I tried the door but there was no lock, not even a door handle. I was crying, hysterical, when he came in. He said he was sorry, that he hadn’t wanted to scare me. He injected me again. Knocked me out.’
Bella had next awoken in the container, thirsty, battered, broken and bleeding. She couldn’t remember anything in between. She couldn’t remember being tortured.
‘Nothing?’ Lucy was baffled.
‘No. Sorry.’
Lucy glanced at Mac. He raised his shoulders slightly, also confounded. Perhaps Bella had blanked out her actual torture? She’d been hiding in a coma for the past two weeks, possibly because she’d been unable to process what had happened, so a period of voluntary memory loss couldn’t be discounted. Or had her attacker anaesthetised her purposely? Beaten her while she was unconscious? But why? What sort of pathological situation was he acting out?
Lucy asked Bella for as many details of the room as she could remember. Sounds of traffic or aircraft, cooking smells, but she couldn’t give them anything except it felt damp and cold. A basement, thought Lucy.
Eventually Lucy moved on to the At Risk concert.
‘Tim Atherton went to the same performance,’ Lucy said.
‘Yeah,’ Bella sighed. ‘Normally I wouldn’t have gone, except it was a freebie, all expenses up to London paid for, a five-star hotel, cocktails, food, the lot.’
‘Who paid?’