Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2)

by Paddy Magrane

  He thought of the journey Zahra had made through the same waters. From what he’d read, there was a window of opportunity for immigrants in the warmer months to make their way, most often from Libya, to Italy. But even kinder weather did not guarantee safety. They were travelling in overcrowded, flimsy and often faulty vessels, with limited supplies and pilots who rarely had anything other than profit on their minds. Thousands drowned every year. The lucky ones were those who limped, dehydrated and malnourished, into Lampedusa, or who were rescued by coastguard, naval or NGO vessels.

  There was another groan from the ship, followed by a clang of a door being slammed. Moments later the sliding door of the cabin opened and his three fellow passengers returned.

  ‘We’ve arrived in Messina, Sam,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Buono,’ managed Sam.

  There was movement suddenly as the three of them began shoving belongings back into the mouths of rucksacks. The boat’s horn sounded.

  Sam lay still on his bunk. There was no space to move while this was going on and besides, the train wouldn’t leave without him.

  The groaning increased, a noise that was joined by the sound of announcements in Italian and English urging passengers to return to the train. The horn sounded again.

  He could feel the motion of the boat more keenly now, sensed it turning in the water. And then the anchor being dropped, its chain clanging and rattling as it plunged beneath the oil-streaked surface of the harbour’s water.

  There was a shift in the light. The woman had opened the curtains fully and Sam peered down the train. The bow door was slowly opening. A locomotive would be waiting on the quay, ready to couple with the carriages and pull them on to Sicilian soil. Sam felt his stomach flutter with nerves. One way or another, this was the end of the journey.

  Twenty minutes later, the carriage shunted. There was a brief pause, then the train began to ease out of the boat’s insides on to a quayside slick with water. Dense, menacing clouds pregnant with more rain moved with speed across the sky. Sunlight briefly broke through, lighting up small pockets on the harbour before plunging them back into the gloom. A harbour guard clad in a dark wind-breaker and heavy boots, cap pulled tightly down over his face, guided vehicles spilling out of another ferry. In the distance were two more boats; beyond them a long loop of road running along the waterfront, a ribbon of white and red car lights stretching into the distance. A regular day beginning in Messina.

  *

  At Catania, he and his fellow passengers parted ways and Sam bought a ticket for Pozzani on a train that was leaving at midday. He sat on a bench in the station by a newsstand and ate a baguette stuffed with ham and tomatoes, washed down with a double-shot espresso. He felt like a wreck. He’d barely slept for days. Even now, the chances of drifting off were slim – the fire burning in his chest and stomach would surely prevent that – but to lie his head on a pillow and his body on a half-decent mattress seemed, at that moment, to be the most desirable thing imaginable.

  The train arrived in Pozzani shortly after 4pm, the journey he thought would take an hour prolonged by endless stops at tiny provincial stations. A landscape of rocky hills and fields of vines cut back for the winter sat under the same brooding sky. Heavy rain broke out intermittently, reducing visibility to a matter of feet. An old man in a grey tweed jacket and coppola slept opposite him for the whole journey.

  Sam reckoned that the most likely location for the town’s hotels was the front. He consulted a map on a notice board outside the station, then set off. He walked for five minutes down a broad avenue before reaching the sea.

  There was a line of palm trees bending in the wind and, just beyond, the sea wall. Sam could hear waves crashing angrily on the beach and the lone cry of a seagull. In the distance, a dark silhouette loomed over the seafront. It was, Sam realised, the solid, square-looking citadel he’d seen on the internet, a fortress designed to repel invaders.

  The sea front was curved like a bow and, as Sam reached its proudest point, he saw the sea-facing wall of the citadel. A tremor ran through him. It was crowned with a sign lit up by dozens of light bulbs. Benvenuti a Pozzani.

  He stopped and stared at it. He thought of how the sign might appear to someone out to sea, reflected on the surface of the water, like the street lights in Rome had appeared on the Tiber. Had the sight of this been the memory that broke to the surface in Zahra’s mind? And if she had seen that sign out to sea, she was tantalisingly close to land. So what had happened?

  He plodded on, conscious of his aching need to find a place to bed down. His guess was right. The front was home to the town’s hotels and pensiones, but as he walked wearily along its length, occasionally exploring side streets when he saw a sign hanging from a building, he began to realise that Pozzani had shut up shop for the winter.

  The light was fading fast, streetlights and a handful of shops guiding his path. When he was almost despairing of finding anywhere to stay, he reached the junction of another narrow street off the front. A little distance down, lit up like a beacon, was a sign for the Hotel del Mare. He felt his spirits lift.

  A short walk brought him to the hotel’s entrance. Through a glass panel in the front door, he could see a corridor, a reception desk lit by a single table lamp, and a staircase rising to the first floor. He tried the door, but it was locked. He pressed the bell. A moment later, as Sam was beginning to give up hope, a short old woman wearing black appeared at the end of the corridor. Sam raised a hand wearily. The old lady shuffled in slippers down the hall, unlocked the door and ushered him in.

  ‘Momento,’ she said, raising both palms to emphasise her point, before she moved back down the hall and disappeared through an open door. Somewhere in the distance a television was on, the sound of lines being hammily delivered in sing-song Italian, followed by canned laughter. Sam imagined standing beneath a hot shower, finally washing the sweat and River Tiber grime off his body.

  Minutes later a man in his fifties, the same short rotund frame as the old woman, came out of the doorway.

  ‘You want a room?’ he said.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Well, you have the hotel almost to yourself,’ he replied, smiling.

  ‘Any room will do.’

  ‘I can give you a room on the second floor. The balcony has a partial view of the sea. But maybe you won’t be standing outside much in this weather!’ He laughed and Sam attempted to laugh along with him.

  ‘Where’s your baggage?’

  ‘The airline lost it,’ said Sam.

  ‘Madonna,’ the man said, lifting and dropping his balled fists in a gesture that conveyed annoyance and disbelief in equal measure.

  He moved behind the desk and asked Sam for his passport. Sam pulled his now buckled passport out and placed it in front of the man.

  The hotelier opened it and let out a short chuckle.

  ‘Inglese,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing. The third today.’

  Sam felt like he’d been given an electric shock. There were, possibly, other reasons why a pair of English travellers might be staying in Pozzani in the depths of winter. But he could think of only one.

  And then another thought struck him. Just as he’d heard one of his pursuers speak on the stairs by the river in Rome, they could have easily heard Zahra’s parting words. In which case, they’d have known his next move had he survived the water.

  Sam’s mouth was dry when he next spoke and he had to swallow hard before he could get the words out. ‘Is one of the men staying here called Harry?’

  The man at the desk pulled back as if struck by an invisible hand. ‘Incredible! You know him.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sam’s voice was barely audible, fear reducing it to a whisper. It was possible that a different Englishman called Harry was staying at the hotel, but Sam knew that was simply wishful thinking.

  ‘Harry Tapper,’ continued the hotelier, ‘and a big guy called…’ he flicked through the register in front of him, ‘Patrick Wallace.’
r />   Sam just found the courage to ask the next question. ‘Are they in?’

  ‘They got here an hour ago,’ the man said, beaming, as if he’d personally facilitated a wonderful reunion of old friends. ‘They’re on the same floor as you.’

  There was a pause, a moment when Sam railed against what he knew he had to do. Then he snatched his passport and ran for the door.

  Chapter 44

  Pozzani, Sicily

  ‘I’m in Sicily,’ said Tapper.

  There was silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Pozzani. Does that name ring a bell?’

  ‘I cannot talk about this now.’

  ‘I think you need to.’

  Tapper was sitting on his hotel bed, an old, spongey mattress sagging under his weight. The room was plain, save a faded print of the sea front and, close to the basin in the opposite corner, a wardrobe and a framed photograph of Pope Francis.

  ‘It’s not a good time.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Tapper, voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Perhaps I should have scheduled this call.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, spell it out.’

  ‘Zahra Idris’s psychotherapist left London and made contact with her in Amsterdam. We found them but they fled to Rome. They may now be heading here.’

  ‘May?’

  ‘If they’re alive.’

  There was silence. Then: ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Some sign that we are in this together.’

  ‘Believe me. I never stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Good. Because if this goes south, I am not taking sole responsibility.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Tapper.

  He opened the door. It was Wallace, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Tapper was struck by his old cellmate’s powerful chest and shoulders. He found himself distracted, suddenly lost in a memory that made him feel giddy.

  ‘Got to go,’ said Tapper, ending the call. He steadied himself with a hand on the doorframe.

  ‘I just went down to reception to get a towel,’ said Wallace. ‘And guess what the owner told me?’

  ‘Keddie?’

  Wallace nodded. ‘He said a man just tried to book into the hotel. He told him he had other English guests. When he mentioned our names, the man legged it.’

  ‘He told him our names?’ Tapper felt his insides chill. ‘We’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘The owner saw his passport.’

  Tapper swallowed. ‘This ends now.’

  Minutes later, they were passing through reception. The hotelier poked his head out as they passed. ‘Try Al Barrocco for dinner. There’s not much else open.’

  Tapper waved a hand in response but kept moving.

  Outside, the wind had picked up, bringing with it a cold, salty taste that Tapper felt on his lips. ‘You go into town, I’ll check the front and side streets. Ring if you spot him.’

  They parted ways. Tapper moved off and was on the front moments later. It was now dark. Picking up his pace, he moved left first, scanning down each of the side streets in turn, before retracing his steps and peering down the other roads that fed the sea front. By the time he reached the end, the only people he’d passed were two lanky youths and a pair of old women in thick coats being buffeted by the wind.

  He suspected that if Keddie wasn’t now running from Pozzani, he would sleep rough in the town. Even if there was another hotel open, he doubted whether the shrink would book in. He was a sitting duck if he did.

  Tapper’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

  ‘I can see him. About a hundred metres ahead of me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  There was a pause. ‘Via Andromeda.’

  Tapper touched the map app on his phone and, after briefly studying the town’s layout and the position of Via Andromeda, broke into a jog in Wallace’s direction.

  Chapter 45

  Pozzani, Sicily

  Sam had sprinted from the hotel but now slowed, exhaustion and despair sapping the last remaining energy from his body. It was over. It had to be. They were in Pozzani. Two men who never gave up. While he was alone and all but finished.

  What had he expected? To discover Zahra waiting for him at the hotel? Her memory miraculously restored? Her secrets laid bare and Eleanor’s attacker brought to justice before she, equally miraculously, emerged from a coma?

  The wind picked up again, cold air clawing at his back. There was a promise of rain in the air, another drenching of his already damp and grimy clothes. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a closed butchers. Eyes hooded, face unshaven, oversized clothes hanging from him. He looked like a lunatic, a homeless madman. Inside the shop, slabs of meat were laid out in a cooler unit. Sam shuddered.

  It was then he caught a glimpse of the larger man out of the corner of his right eye. He was some distance off, with his back turned as he looked up the same street in the opposite direction. In a shot, Sam pulled himself into the entrance of the butchers, hiding in the shadows but still able to keep the man in his sights. It was him, Sam was certain. He had the same lumbering gait and hooded face.

  A minute passed. The man moved off in the other direction. Sam exhaled.

  He slowly emerged from the shop’s entrance and began inching down the street, keeping tight to the buildings. Apart from a handful of shops, the streets were dominated by houses and apartments. Some were old, with tiled roofs, exteriors of stone or peeling plaster, shuttered windows and iron-work balconies. Others were modern buildings made of concrete. Lights were on inside. Bodies moved past windows, families gathering for an evening meal.

  But just ahead on the opposite side of the road was a darker building. As Sam got closer, he realised it was unfinished, a carcass of unplastered blockwork and open doorways and windows. He might be able to hide there, keep an eye on his pursuers, then escape at first light.

  It wasn’t a plan, but then he didn’t have the brain power to construct one in his head. He looked down the street again. The big man seemed to have paused and was standing with his back to Sam. Now was his chance. With his heart in his mouth, Sam darted across the road and through the open doorway of the building.

  He stepped in a puddle of water, felt the wet penetrate his trainers. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, he saw a crude stairwell in a corner of the room. Perhaps he’d have a better vantage point up there. Some warning if his pursuers were getting close.

  He climbed the rough stairs carefully, steps emerging from the gloom as he rose up. On the next floor it was just as dark, and Sam felt his way along a wall to try to find a corner to hide in. He heard a creature, most probably a rat or mouse, scuttle across the dry, dusty floor away from him. Somewhere on the floor below, a cat meowed.

  His foot hit a hard lump and he felt with his hands in front of him. It was a pile of unused concrete blocks, about waist high. He continued probing with his fingers and discovered it was about six feet in length. Somewhere to hide behind. But for now, he wanted to be near the balcony, keeping an eye on the street below. The exhaustion was a distant memory. All he felt now was his heart, sprinting in his chest.

  *

  Wallace had watched as Sam crossed the road then disappeared. If he was trying to hide in that building, then he’d just signed his own death warrant. Tapper arrived on the scene minutes later, slightly out of breath.

  ‘He’s in the dark building there,’ said Wallace, pointing up the street.

  ‘Check the rear, Pat,’ said Tapper, ‘see if there’s an escape route. If so, one of us needs to be positioned there if he tries to make a run.’

  They split up, Tapper staying put while Wallace checked the back of the building.

  Minutes later, Wallace returned.

  ‘There’s a high wall. No way out. The only exit point is the front door.’

  ‘He’s trapped,’ said Tapper, feeling the same rush of fear and unsettling pleasure he’d experienced at
the Tiber.

  ‘I’ll go in first,’ said Wallace. ‘You stay by the door, just in case he gets away from me. But he won’t.’

  Tapper was reassured by Wallace’s brute confidence. The chances were, Keddie was about to be extinguished. As a pair of detainees at Ipswich – two feral psychopaths who’d made Tapper’s early days at the young offenders’ institution a particularly brutal experience – had discovered, when Pat Wallace swung one of his meaty fists, you didn’t get up.

  They moved slowly up the street, keeping close to the houses.

  *

  Inside the building, Sam watched with utter horror as the two men gathered at the end of the street. He tried to calm his mounting terror. Perhaps they were just plotting the next stage of their search. When they split, he exhaled and felt the relief flood through him. But then he realised the lean man wasn’t going anywhere. What the fuck was he hanging around for? Then his worst fears were confirmed. The larger figure returned and they started up the street in his direction.

  He’d screwed up. Been spotted. How the hell had that happened? He was sure the large man hadn’t been watching.

  Sam moved back from the balcony and into the shadows of the room. It began raining. A light patter that soon turned into a downpour. He found his hiding place in the dark and crouched down behind the wall. Sweat covered his body, which was now coiled tightly. He reached out to the wall, tried to move one of the bricks and quickly realised that lifting it would require two hands. As a weapon to strike out with, it was no use. He needed to find something lighter. He had a sudden fleeting image of David and Goliath.

  All he could hear now was the rain driving down on every surface. The roof above, the street outside. The only other sound, a car speeding by, tyres hitting a puddle, the splash of water.

  There were other people around. This place wasn’t a ghost town. Could he have screamed out for help? Not now. No one would have heard him above the din of the rain. It was the perfect blanket under which to stifle the noise of a murder.