A small box opened. Just two names. The shrink’s he already knew. The other was a solicitor, Thomas Fitzgerald.
He played with the mouse for a moment longer, mulling his next move. If he was right, Keddie already knew. And there was nothing stopping her telling Fitzgerald, too.
He slid the mouse back towards the guard, then glanced at his watch.
‘Damn,’ he said to the governor. ‘There is something I need to get back to London for. So sorry to mess you around.’
*
‘I cancelled your appointment, Sir Harry,’ said Jenny, as they made their way across the car park. ‘We could have stayed.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Tapper, knowing that his PA would not pry. She was used to managing both his diary and occasional mood changes.
Jenny fell silent and Tapper began thinking again. Idris was a no-one. A terrified, vulnerable asylum seeker. In an ideal world, he’d sabotage her claim and send the bitch packing to wherever she came from. But he couldn’t possibly show interest in one immigrant’s case, and certainly not without arousing suspicion.
So what did that leave him with?
And then it hit him. He needed to ensure that she understood she could not speak about this any more. So even if she had already told her shrink, solicitor and God knows who else, she would not mention it again, and any further investigation into her story died there and then.
This effectively meant threatening her. And how did he achieve that without compromising himself?
Ahead, a black Mercedes was waiting for them, the engine purring.
Accompanied by a brief heave of nausea, Tapper had the answer. It was discomforting, to say the least. He hadn’t even had a parking ticket since his spell in Ipswich Young Offenders. But then, he countered, this was hardly the crime of the century. Just a short and sweet solution. One that Zahra Idris would, if she had a grain of sense, understand fully.
It was time to contact an old friend.
They reached the car. Tapper held a finger up to Jenny, indicating that he wanted a moment. As Jenny climbed in, he walked to the rear of the vehicle. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he searched the contacts, then tapped on a name.
The phone rang. A man’s voice answered.
‘Pat,’ said Tapper, ‘it’s Harry. We need to talk.’
Chapter 5
Basildon railway station, Essex
Sam huddled with the other passengers in a small waiting room at the station, no one saying a word as they stood as close to the one electric heater as they could without touching.
A ferocious winter had the UK in its grip, which meant that being outdoors, even for a short time, was a deeply unpleasant experience. The latest forecast suggested a heavy downfall of snow in the coming days.
Sam caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. A head poking out of the upturned collar of his pea coat. Short hair turning silver and a jaw that needed a shave. He sorely regretted not wearing a hat.
A train flew past. The journey was normally a good place to write up Zahra’s notes. But today Sam couldn’t shake off the image of her stricken face. He’d never seen her like this before. On the one hand, the recognition was a good sign. Memories might be returning. But this particular recollection was clearly terrifying.
Until now, her memory loss had been no hindrance to therapy. There was plenty to talk through besides that brief lost period – life living under a repressive regime in Eritrea, where Zahra had been imprisoned twice for speaking up against the government. The hell of her journey through Africa – crawling through trenches into Ethiopia, hiding from government gangs in basements in Khartoum, passing out from thirst in the stifling rear of a truck crossing the Sahara.
Besides, Sam had been told by his supervisor that Zahra’s retrograde amnesia was in all likelihood induced by a head injury – she’d described ‘waking’ in Catania with a splitting headache, a crust of dried blood to the back of her head – which made psychotherapy all but redundant. Had the amnesia been the result of emotional trauma, Sam knew of interventions that might have helped. But in this instance, time and rest were the only possible treatments.
Now, if Zahra was right about that man, the lost period was significant.
What had she said? An evil man in a suit. It sounded crazy. Perhaps the pressures were getting to her. Given what most immigrants had gone through, mental illness was always a possibility. Either way, he was sure of one thing. Zahra needed protecting.
He inched out of the waiting room into the cold, pulled his phone from a pocket and called his supervisor at Creech Hill. It went straight to voicemail.
‘Linda, it’s Sam. I’m worried about Zahra. She’s seen someone at the centre – a white man in a suit, about my height, with grey hair. I’ll give you more background when we next meet, but in a nutshell, Zahra is convinced the man is a threat to her. She even used the word “evil”. Can you ask the guards to keep an eye on her?’
Sam ended the call. The tannoy was announcing the arrival of his train. He’d soon be in the warmth of his home. There was dinner with Eleanor to look forward to.
But even as he thought of the evening ahead, he couldn’t shake the image of Zahra’s terrified face.
Chapter 6
Basildon, Essex – 11pm
Tapper pulled tight the cashmere scarf around his neck. A wind that seemed to have blown direct from Siberia was whipping through the basement of the multi-storey car park. He stamped his hand-made shoes, desperate to generate some heat.
He hated the cold. It reminded him of his father’s pitiful existence. How he’d stood, chilled to the core, selling fruit and veg from a stall in Romford Market. As a teenager, Harry Tapper had vowed to live a life as far removed from the man as was humanly possible.
Most people would have acknowledged that Tapper had achieved just that. Thanks to the substantial security empire he’d founded, he pocketed over £1 million a year, and that was before all the dividends. He had properties in London, New York, Cape Town and the Cotswolds. There was also a 50-metre superyacht.
And yet here he was in a car park in the middle of the night trying to ensure that the empire he’d so carefully built did not get reduced to rubble.
‘Harry.’
Tapper turned. Dressed in a bomber jacket and tight jeans, Pat Wallace stood before him. Wallace had always been powerfully built, but since leaving the army, much of it had turned to fat. The years had been unkind in other respects. They were both in their early fifties, but in contrast to Tapper’s clear skin and abundant hair, Wallace’s head was shaved, his once-handsome face now creased and lined. Above the collar of his jacket were the remains of a tattoo, now a grey-blue blur.
‘I probably shouldn’t call you that,’ said Wallace with a nervous smile. ‘You being the CEO and me a humble guard at Creech Hill.’
‘It’s fine, Pat,’ replied Tapper.
‘You look well.’
‘So do you.’
Wallace emitted a sad little chuckle.
‘So,’ he said, ‘if this is an Ipswich Young Offenders reunion, where are the others?’
Wallace was no fool. The clandestine nature of the meeting suggested an exchange that was not to be witnessed – or recorded.
‘I’m in a bind, Pat. I need to ask a big favour.’
‘Name it,’ said Wallace.
Tapper had a fleeting glimpse of the cell he and Wallace had shared all those years ago in Ipswich. He often thought of that time as a comforting period, when his daily concerns were a lot simpler – certainly compared with now.
Faced with the prospect of actually asking the favour, Tapper felt his jaw clench.
‘I want you to chat to a detainee at Creech Hill. Tell her not to talk.’
Wallace’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘About what?’
‘What she saw. She’ll know what you’re referring to.’
Wallace stared at Tapper, doubt written all over his face.
‘I need this thing very badly, Pat. You
have skills. Stealth being one of them.’
Tapper was referring to Wallace’s spell as a burglar, which he’d fallen into after leaving Ipswich. He had a real flair for it, but one evening he broke into a house and was confronted by the owner, clutching a wrench. The man hit Wallace with the tool, but Wallace managed to disarm him. He then attacked him so violently, the man nearly died. He was sent down for eight years.
Wallace slapped his belly. ‘I’m not so stealthy these days, Harry.’ He frowned. ‘Christ, you know I’d do anything for you, but this could get me in a whole pile of shit.’
Released in his late twenties, Wallace was determined to go straight. He joined the army, saw action in the Gulf, which Tapper suspected was a useful outlet for the violence that was never far from the surface. But after cuts to the armed forces, he found himself unemployed. Despite his time in the army, people were reluctant to take on an ex-con. So he came to Tapper for help, and his old cellmate, who owed Wallace a debt of gratitude that dated back to Ipswich, gladly secured him a job at Creech Hill.
‘I really need this, Pat. The woman has something on me.’
Wallace’s face grappled with doubt. He seemed about to ask a question, then changed his mind.
‘It’s going to be tough getting into the women’s wing.’
‘You know the place. Its rhythms. You’ll find a way.’
‘And what if I get caught?’
Tapper, anticipating Wallace’s reluctance to get involved in anything that might jeopardise his job, dipped a leather-gloved hand into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope in which he’d placed £1,000 in cash. He handed it to Wallace.
‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, Pat.’
Wallace tore the envelope open with a fat finger, staring numbly at the cash.
‘There’s a grand in there,’ said Tapper.
‘Christ, Harry,’ said Wallace, apparently moved. ‘Thank you,’ he said, stuffing the envelope inside his bomber jacket. ‘So when do you want me to do this?
‘Tomorrow, if possible.’
‘That doesn’t give me any time to prepare.’
‘It’s rather urgent.’
‘What’s the name of this woman?’
Tapper heard a rustling noise behind him and turned, spooked. A plastic shopping bag was flying across the concrete floor of the basement, caught up in the wind. He breathed deeply, then turned back to Wallace.
‘Zahra Idris,’ he said.
Having said the woman’s name out loud, Tapper felt a rush of fear and paranoia, as if a poison had been injected directly into his veins.
‘Let me know how it goes,’ said Tapper.
Wallace nodded again.
‘And thank you, Pat.’
They shook, Wallace’s hand strong and cold. Tapper caught a stench of body odour at war with cheap aftershave – a smell that was both acrid and strangely comforting.
It was odd, thought Tapper, that he felt more at ease with Pat Wallace than he ever did with the people Yvonne invited round.
Wallace turned on his heel. Tapper watched the hulking figure retreat across the car park, aware that his former cellmate was, in effect, his only hope.
Chapter 7
Creech Hill Immigration Detention Centre
As one of Creech Hill’s longer-serving detainees, Zahra had seen room-mates come and go. Her current one was a Pakistani girl, who was due to be deported in a matter of days. Zahra spoke Tigrinya, Arabic and English. The Pakistani girl spoke only Urdu. So they nodded and smiled at each other, miming anything that needed clarification.
The girl was a devout Moslem, who prayed the obligatory five times a day, starting with Fajr dawn prayers. Although her mobile phone alarm, which went off at around 5.45am, always woke Zahra, the girl tip-toed around the room like a mouse, exiting in near silence, turning the key in the lock with the lightest of touches.
But this morning Zahra could not get back to sleep. The man’s face appeared before her in the darkness, as it had repeatedly in the night. She felt a shudder of horror run through her, and longed to know why he caused such a reaction.
A few minutes later, she heard the key turn. For some reason, the girl was back early. Perhaps she’d forgotten something. The door eased open and a shaft of light from the corridor sliced into the room.
Zahra froze. It was not the girl. The silhouette framed by the open door was a man. A huge figure with broad shoulders. Zahra sat up in bed, pulling the duvet up around her, feeling naked despite the t-shirt she wore.
She’d heard of this happening. The male guards who sneaked into the women’s wing. One had been caught masturbating while watching a girl shower. Another had forced himself on a young Somali girl who was due for deportation the next day. Nothing had happened to that guard. Was this him? She felt her skin prickle with fear.
The man moved into the room, but did not close the door. Zahra pressed back against the wall behind her. She looked for a weapon of some sort. Anything to beat him away with. There was a book by the bedside table, a small metal table lamp. She reached down with her left hand, unplugged the lamp, then grabbed its shaft.
He stopped by the bed, sat down, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of her hand on the lamp. The springs creaked under his weight. In the dark, his face was in deep shadow, his features hidden. But she could smell him. The light changed fractionally and Zahra noticed another figure at the doorway. Someone was keeping watch.
‘I’ve come to give you a message,’ the man said.
He was so close Zahra caught a whiff of his stale, early morning breath, too. Her hand tightened around the lamp’s shaft.
The figure at the door spoke. ‘Need to get a move on.’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘There’s a gang heading this way.’
The man looked in the door’s direction, distracted for a second. Zahra lashed out with the lamp, striking him on the side of the head.
The man cried out in pain. ‘Bitch!’
He reacted with a speed that belied his weight, twisting on the bed and grabbing Zahra’s biceps with both hands, pinning her against the wall.
Zahra screamed out. ‘Help! Help!’
There was a noise from the corridor. A sound of voices raised.
‘We’ve got trouble,’ said the woman at the door.
The man hissed his next words, his bitter breath hot against her face. ‘You need to keep your mouth shut, bitch. Understand?’
Zahra, though physically paralysed and all too aware of the damage a man his size could inflict, felt the blood rush to her face. ‘Get your hands off me!’ she screamed.
The door was pushed open wide, light from the corridor pouring in. There were other figures there. The Moslem girls back from prayers, taking in the scene before them.
‘Understand?’ the man repeated.
The woman at the door – now visible in her guard’s uniform of white shirt and black trousers – was pushed aside and Zahra’s room-mate and four others barged in. The Pakistani girl began barking at the man in Urdu. The man unclasped Zahra, stood to his full height, hoping to intimidate. But Zahra’s room-mate, with deportation so close, clearly felt she had nothing to lose. Her voice grew louder. The others were joining in, ranting angrily.
‘Girls!’ shouted the female guard, who’d moved into the room, ‘we all need to calm down here.’
The women turned to the guard, momentarily distracted. The man spotted an opportunity and tried to slip out the door into the corridor.
‘Where are you going?’ Zahra shouted, leaping out of bed and pulling on a pair of jogging bottoms.
The girls immediately turned on him, blocking his path. They circled the man, jabbing at his chest with their fingers, voices hurling abuse in languages she was sure he wouldn’t understand.
Finally he cracked, slamming a mighty slab of hand into the Pakistani girl’s face. She dropped to the floor like a discarded toy. The man and his female sidekick rushed out of the door and to the left. Zahra helped the women p
ull the Pakistani girl, whose nose was now bleeding, from the floor. The assault had done nothing to shut her up. She was raging at the top of her voice and, having steadied herself, led the group, Zahra included, in pursuit of the guards. They were not going to get away with this.
Women had emerged from their rooms in the corridor. The Moslem girls shouted down the hall. Whatever was said was enough to rally a further handful of women.
Ahead, the female guard was fumbling with a key in a lock, the man at her side. Finally she opened a door and the two of them disappeared inside. But there was no time to lock it behind them. Zahra and the women were there in seconds.
They emerged into a large laundry area. A bank of washing machines was ranged along one wall, while industrial presses and dryers lined the other side. The two guards had raced to the far end of the room, but Zahra could tell something was wrong. The woman was trying to open the door with a key but it wouldn’t budge. The man was now pounding on it with his fist.
The girls began moving down the room, a collective anger – at past humiliations and abuse from guards, at the injustice of their situation – growing with every step. With a matter of metres between them, the man grabbed at a laundry cart on wheels and pushed it at the women. The cart, weighed down with sheets but shoved with all the man’s strength, came flying at them like some enormous missile. Zahra and the others just managed to scatter in time, leaving the cart to crash into a washing machine, the glass window at the front shattering.
The man then grabbed a large plastic container from a shelf and hurled it at them. There was a cry as it hit the Pakistani girl on the head, splitting on impact. She began screaming and clawing frantically at her eyes and cheeks. The liquid was burning her face.
In seconds, another bottle came flying in their direction. This one exploded on the floor, where most of the liquid from the first bottle had pooled.
They were exposed, in danger, and Zahra and a group of others rushed to take shelter behind the laundry cart. As they huddled down, she caught sight of two women leading the Pakistani girl back towards the corridor. Zahra could hear the sound of the man’s fist hammering on the door, and the girl’s wailing.
Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2) Page 2