Target

by Simon Kernick

  'I can't leave it.'

  'Then I ain't gonna help you, mate. Sorry, but that's the way it is.' He shrugged his immense shoulders, as if to say there was nothing more he could do.

  I felt terrible. I'd been a fool to expect him to help me. I thought about threatening to knock the book on the head unless he changed his mind but dismissed the idea immediately. I needed it as much as he did; and anyway, right then, the book seemed totally irrelevant.

  I drank the last of my beer down in one, savouring its coldness.

  'Do you want another?' he asked.

  I did. Desperately. I really needed just to unwind, and the chair felt extremely comfortable. I could feel the indignation draining out of me. 'Yeah, please. And can I ask you a favour? I need a place to stay for a few days. To give me some time to lie low and think. Can you put me up here?'

  'All right, but on one condition: you don't try and hunt for that girl while you're under this roof. Like I told you, I don't want to get involved.'

  He fixed me with the kind of stare that dared you to defy him. I had a feeling not many people did, and I was no exception. I said that I wouldn't, and he headed back into the kitchen for more Peronis.

  I knew I wouldn't be able to keep the promise, though. The events of the last two days might have frightened the shit out of me but I was still determined to locate Jenny and get her to safety. My life had changed. I'd changed. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to be risking my life to help a girl I hardly knew, but now that I was doing it, there was no way I was going to give up. And for the first time, sitting there in Maxwell's house, I actually felt good about that.

  But tonight...Tonight I was going to have to put my quest to one side. I was tired. I needed to rest.

  When Maxwell came back with the drinks, I was already yawning. He told me I looked shagged out, and I didn't disagree. I drank the second beer fast while he spun one of his more amusing yarns about his days as a gangster. I wasn't really listening though, and when he offered me a third, I declined. 'I just need to close my eyes for a minute,' I said, feeling an overwhelming tiredness.

  I remember him saying 'No problem', and something about having some chicken soup when I woke up, and I also remember him watching me closely as I drifted off, which I thought was a bit odd. Then sleep came and relieved me, at least temporarily, of all the burdens of the world.

  Thirty-three

  They'd driven much of the way in silence. Two men who'd been colleagues for almost six years, who'd had their ups and downs but who also, when it came down to it, were prepared to risk their careers and their necks for each other.

  Bolt was conscious of the fact that Mo had done more of the risking over the years, that he'd covered for Bolt in some tricky situations, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone else in the car with him as they went to see if the woman who'd been found dead near Tina Boyd's abandoned car was in fact Tina herself. There'd been no identification on the body when it was found with gunshot wounds to the face by a dog walker two hours earlier, and the only description Bolt and Mo had was that it was a dark-haired woman in her thirties. But it was one that fitted Tina, and Bolt wasn't the type to believe in coincidences. In the car he'd fought to keep an open mind and not jump to conclusions, but it was a battle he'd steadily lost.

  He'd remembered the first time he met Tina, in a dive of a pub in Highgate one wet Saturday night. He and Mo had gone there to get some information from her about a case they were working on. It wasn't long after her boyfriend had died, and Bolt remembered how tired and vulnerable she'd looked, and how he'd had an immediate desire to take her in his arms and protect her. It was a feeling that had never really gone away during all the time he'd known her.

  The victim's body was still at the crime scene when Bolt parked his Jaguar at the edge of the police cordon. Darkness was descending fast now, but the quiet stretch of wooded B-road just south of the village of Bramfield was a hive of activity. Two police patrol cars with their lights flashing blocked the road, a uniformed cop eating a baguette in one of them; a dozen other police vehicles and an ambulance were lined up on either side of the road. A plastic tent had been erected just inside the tree line, and a few yards behind it a red Nissan Micra that Bolt recognized as Tina's was parked up on the verge.

  Bolt and Mo showed their ID to the uniform, who managed to finish chewing his baguette long enough to point them to a van where they could put on the plastic coveralls all officers were obliged to wear when entering crime scenes. Once they were kitted up, they slipped under the scene-of-crime tape and walked along a specially marked path lined with more tape in the direction of the tent.

  Bolt was aware that his breathing had increased. He'd always feared death, right from childhood, because he'd never been able to believe – and God knows he'd tried – that there was anything beyond it. Unfortunately, because of his job, he'd had to see far more of it than most people, and almost always when the end had come violently. The sight of their empty faces was something he'd never got used to, and the prospect of seeing someone he knew and cared about lying there was much worse.

  'I can do this if you want, boss,' said Mo quietly, turning his way.

  Months earlier, when they'd been sharing one too many beers at a pub near SOCA's Vauxhall HQ, Bolt had told Mo about the night he made a pass at Tina, and about his feelings for her. It wasn't the sort of thing he usually shared; he preferred to keep matters of the heart to himself. But the drink had done what drink always does and loosened his tongue, and, with Tina having only recently departed from SOCA, he'd been at something of a low ebb. Mo hadn't approved, Bolt knew that, but he'd been sympathetic to his boss's plight, as he was now.

  Bolt looked at Mo, saw the concern in his friend's eyes. He appreciated the offer but knew it was essential he didn't show weakness. 'No, it's all right,' he said. 'I'll be fine.'

  One of the white-overalled officers peeled away from the throng and came over to them. 'Mo Khan?' The questioner was a woman in her mid thirties with an attractive, friendly face that didn't look like it needed much encouragement to break into a smile. Beneath the transparent hood she was wearing her hair, tied back, was a fiery red.

  'That's me. And this is my boss, SG3 Mike Bolt.'

  'I'm DCI Miller, the SIO on this case,' she said as the three of them shook hands. 'Thanks for coming. She's over here. The body was discovered by a dog walker approximately two and a half hours ago,' she continued as Mo and Bolt followed her to the tent. 'No real attempt to conceal the body.' She opened the flap and stood to one side. 'It looks like she was shot several times in the face and then just left where she fell.'

  Bolt didn't flinch but his expression was granite as he stepped inside, barely conscious of Mo and DCI Miller filing in behind and standing either side of him.

  She lay there alone, flat on her back in a halo of coagulating blood, arms neatly by her side, eyes closed. There were two small black holes in her face: one just below her mouth, the other high up on her cheek, like a large, out-of-place beauty spot. She looked asleep, peaceful, as if all the trials and tribulations of this world had been lifted from her shoulders. Which of course they had.

  Bolt took a deep breath and turned to DCI Miller. 'It's not her,' he said.

  Thirty-four

  I'm going to kill you.

  The afternoon had turned out to be the most terrifying of Tina Boyd's life. For what must have been close to an hour she'd driven her car at gunpoint along the North Circular Road, and finally out of London on the A10 heading north. During that time the man had spent much of his time asking her questions, often touching and stroking her as he spoke. Sometimes his tone was conversational. He would ask her about her background, her likes and dislikes, her work as a police officer. Other times his tone became cruel and he'd ask her quietly, playfully, what lengths she would go to in order to live, and whether she believed in life after death.

  It was clear he was enjoying tormenting her, but she'd refused to play along, answering
him defiantly (she'd do what it took to stay alive and, yes, she did believe in an afterlife), yet at the same time giving him enough information to keep him interested, and even asking questions of her own, although on these he tended to be evasive. Still, she was proud of herself for remaining calm, even when they'd left the noise and traffic of the A10 behind and moved on to quieter, more isolated roads. Even when he'd ordered her to drive off one of these quieter roads and down a deserted wooded lane.

  It was only when he'd told her to stop the car and taken the keys from her that the fear really hit home. Tina's legs had buckled slightly as she was ordered on to the grass verge. This was it. The moment of truth.

  You've seen his face! screamed a voice inside her head. He's going to kill you!

  But she hadn't panicked. Instead, she'd turned to face him, knowing that it was harder for even the most brutal killer to shoot someone in cold blood that way, forcing herself to ignore the obvious fact that she was dealing with a sociopath.

  He'd raised the gun so it was pointed at her chest and they'd looked at each other for a long, lingering moment.

  And then he'd smiled, and said, 'Empty your pockets, and take off your watch.'

  She'd done as she'd been told, pulling out her wallet and house keys. At his command, she'd thrown them into the bushes.

  He'd come forward and given her a quick one-handed pat-down to check there was nothing left behind, then opened the boot and pushed her inside, slamming it behind her.

  Despite being cramped and uncomfortable, for the first time Tina had felt a real surge of hope. He intended to keep her alive, for the moment at least, and this gave her a chance.

  He'd also made a mistake: he'd missed the set of picks in the back pocket of her jeans, and failed to tie her hands. She'd immediately reached round, pulled them out and shoved them into her sock where they would be even harder to locate. She knew she was taking a big risk, concealing them and risking her tormentor's wrath later, but this was a time for big risks.

  The car hadn't moved, and the engine had remained off for a long time. Tina had begun to wonder if he'd simply abandoned her. Then, finally, she'd heard another car pull up next to her. She'd banged on the metal of the boot with her fist and yelled out as loudly as she could, excited at the prospect she might be freed. But when the boot opened she'd been greeted with the sight of the man with the gun again.

  Without speaking, he'd pulled her out. She'd asked him what was going on but he'd told her to shut up, then shoved her roughly into the boot of the new car, a dark-coloured saloon. She'd had to push a couple of bags of grocery shopping aside before she could squeeze in, which had made her wonder where he'd got the car from. A few minutes later they were on the move again.

  What was clear to Tina as she was driven along road after winding road was that the man who'd taken her was not only a sociopath but an extremely intelligent one who appeared to appreciate the tools available to the police for tracking down kidnap victims – hence his decision to get rid of her phone and her car. This was bad news, not only for her but also for Jenny Brakspear, because she was certain that this man was involved in her abduction too.

  But what she couldn't understand was why he was choosing to let her live. 'Just be thankful he is, girl,' she'd whispered to herself, wondering at the same time why she'd allowed herself to end up in this position. Her desire to go it alone and bend the rules was, she'd always believed, borne out of a need to see justice done, yet there was more to it than that. There was also something self-destructive about the impulse, as if she were driven by a need to court danger, even in the knowledge that eventually she'd come unstuck.

  However, now that her life truly was on the line, she realized, almost with a sense of surprise, that she desperately wanted to live. To try to return to the happier days that had been absent for far too long. Lying there frightened and hunched uncomfortably against the bags of shopping, she told herself that if she got through this she'd kick the booze – that monkey had been on her back for far too long now – and maybe even quit the force altogether and go off travelling somewhere new. South America, or southern Africa.

  After what seemed an age the car slowed and made a sharp turning, then after a further hundred yards or so she heard the sound of gravel crunching under the wheels before it finally came to a halt. They'd already stopped a while back for about ten minutes, but this time she instinctively knew that this was their final destination.

  She heard footsteps on the gravel and the sound of muffled voices, then the boot was flung open and the man with the gun shouted at her to shut her eyes, threatening death if she disobeyed.

  There was no danger of that. She squeezed them shut like a young kid playing hide and seek as a hood was pulled roughly over her head. She was then led along the gravel by two men, each holding an arm, and dragging her, so she had to move fast. She was taken through several doors, then up some stairs and through yet another door, before finally being pushed roughly into a chair.

  In silence they handcuffed her wrists behind the chair and strapped her to its back from stomach to neck with a roll of masking tape. She couldn't move an inch, and her hope began to evaporate. She still had the set of picks in her sock but there was no way of getting to them now.

  The man with the gun told his colleague to leave, and there was a throaty edge to his voice as he spoke. Then he pulled off Tina's hood. His lips cracked into a smile, a look of undisguised lust in the big staring eyes, and she felt her heart sink. She knew then that this bastard had been telling the truth when he said he was going to kill her.

  But it was clear that he wanted to have some fun first.

  Thirty-five

  When they were back in the Jaguar, having finished at the crime scene and having briefed DCI Miller about their hunt for Tina Boyd, Mike Bolt let out a long, deep sigh. 'I tell you, Mo, sometimes this job really gets to me.'

  'It gets to all of us, boss. You know that.' Mo turned, and Bolt could see the lines of tension on his face. This had been tough for him, too.

  'You know, I haven't seen her in more than a year, but if it had been her I think I would have fallen apart. I never knew she'd had that much of an effect on me.'

  'But it wasn't Tina, was it? Which is a good sign. That's the way you've got to look at it, boss. Accentuate the positive. Keep the faith.'

  'But where the hell is she?' said Bolt, staring out of the window at the trees.

  The fact was, they'd run out of leads. The Land Cruiser Tina had photographed earlier had disappeared off the ANPR's radar, having last been spotted thirty miles away in Essex, and now Tina had disappeared too. All that remained was an anonymous woman shot dead in what appeared to be a professional hit. One that bore Hook's hallmarks – and Bolt could guess his motive: to hijack the victim's car and make it as hard as possible for him to be followed. As always, he seemed to be one step ahead.

  'We're not going to stop searching for her,' said Mo eventually, his voice weary. 'Of course we're not. But I don't think there's much more we can do tonight.'

  Bolt nodded. Mo was right. There really wasn't much else they could do. An alert had been put out to all the UK's police forces and now it was simply a matter of waiting. Without another word, he started the engine and pulled away.

  But they'd barely been driving five minutes when Bolt's mobile started ringing.

  'Who is it?' asked Mo, as he picked up the handset and examined the screen.

  Bolt frowned. 'An old informant of mine. Strictly small time. His name's Maxwell.'

  Thirty-six

  When I woke up, I didn't have a clue where I was. Then I saw the empty armchair opposite me and the coffee table with the half-full ashtray and the Peroni bottles beside it, and I remembered I was at Maxwell's place.

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The lights were on in the sitting room and the curtains were pulled but I could tell it was dark outside. I looked at my watch. Twenty past ten. I'd been out for an hour at least, probably longer. I got to my feet. T
he door to the kitchen was closed, but I could hear Maxwell in there. I needed a drink of water, then I needed to get to bed.

  But I only took one step before the door opened and I realized with a single jolt of sheer terror that it wasn't Maxwell in the kitchen at all.

  'Hello again,' said the Irishman, coming into the room, a gun with silencer raised in front of him. He was dressed in a black boiler suit and black boots, the saucer eyes cold and angry.

  My stomach churned, and my legs felt like they were going to go from under me. All my optimistic thoughts of carrying on until I found Jenny, of defying the men I was up against – so attractive when I'd been sitting in the comfort of Maxwell's cottage with a large beer in my hand – turned immediately to dust, and I was once again what I'd always been: a terrified man out of my depth.

  I didn't even think about running. There was no point. I was trapped. I tried to think of something to say, something that might stop him from doing what I knew he was about to do, but nothing came out.

  'Didn't you believe me when I said I'd kill you if you carried on with your foolishness?' asked the Irishman, his harsh accent tinged with incredulity that I could be so stupid.

  And the thing was, he was right. I had been stupid, utterly stupid, ever to have got involved. In that moment, I cursed Jenny Brakspear. And I cursed Maxwell too. I couldn't believe he had betrayed me like this. I knew he'd not been the most morally upright guy in the world, but I'd trusted him.

  'Now it's time to pay for what you've done,' he said, grabbing my arm in a tight grip and pushing me back into the kitchen with the butt of the gun.

  I could smell the chicken soup as I was shoved through the door. I saw Maxwell in there with the second kidnapper, the big lumbering guy with the shaven head. Both men had their backs to me, and even in my fear I felt a burst of rage. 'What's the matter, Maxwell? Can't you bear to face me, you treacherous bastard?'