That was the moment it had all started to go wrong for Alastair and Cem. A new murder investigation had been launched, the house in Wales where they’d been killing illegally trafficked young women for years had been discovered, and a witness who could testify about Alastair’s involvement in one of the murders had come forward. Thankfully, Cem had managed to get rid of Hugh Manning before he could give a statement to the police, but even so, the authorities had come far too close to Alastair for comfort.
Which was when he’d decided that the time was right to get rid of the last person who could link him to any of the murders.
12
The first thing I did when I got back to the apartment was check the phone Lane had given to me to see if I’d missed any calls.
I had. Two. Both from an unknown number. One at 11.38, the next at 11.49. These could only have been from Lane, and I’d broken rule number one by not answering either of them. I stared at the phone, wondering what her next move would be. I didn’t think she’d throw me to the wolves. Not yet. Not after investing so much in me. But if she had, it meant that armed police were probably on their way here right now.
I opened the French windows onto the roof terrace and poked my head outside. There was no one around. The temperature by now was in the late twenties, but the cloud cover made it feel even hotter. From where I stood I could see both far entrances to the square, and all was quiet. No one, it seemed, was coming just yet.
The phone in my hand rang. The same unknown number.
I retreated inside. ‘Yeah?’
It was Lane. ‘Where the hell were you?’ she demanded. ‘You were instructed not to leave the safehouse.’
‘I had to,’ I said. ‘I pulled a calf muscle doing some exercises and I needed some Ibuprofen. You didn’t supply any.’
The lie seemed to calm her somewhat. She might have forbidden me to leave this place but she didn’t want me injured. ‘How’s the calf now?’ she asked.
I told her it was settling down, then asked, ‘Any news on when our man might be turning up?’
‘Not yet, but you’ll hear as soon as I do. Do not leave the safehouse again. If you miss this chance, I will make sure the police have your current location as well as your brand-new passport photo. Don’t mess it up, Ray.’
She ended the call and I went into the kitchen and for lunch chose a plastic tub of instant seafood noodles from the selection of unappetizing long-life food. It actually tasted quite good, and I was just working out which tinned fruit to have for dessert when the burner phone Tina had given me started ringing.
‘I’ve got information about the car that took you to the safehouse,’ she said.
‘That was quick. Do I owe you any money?’
‘Call it a favour.’
‘I don’t know when I’m ever going to pay it back.’
‘Me neither,’ she said. ‘But that’s not why I did it. Anyway, the car began and ended its journey at some point within a few square miles of a speed camera on the Epping Road in Essex, close to a village called Toot Hill. If you know the shape of the house and the garden you were in you may be able to find it on Google Maps.’
‘Thanks, Tina. I really appreciate it.’
‘Why don’t you just leave, Ray? Run while you can. Don’t try to be a hero. You’ve done it before and look where it’s got you.’
‘I could say the same thing to you, Tina.’
There was a pause down the other end of the line. I could hear kids shouting in the background and the sound of traffic. She was outside somewhere.
‘Good luck, Ray. Whatever you choose to do.’
There was so much I wanted to say to her. That I missed her every day. That I loved her. That I wished it could all have been so different. But there was no point. Instead I just said thanks, took the postcode of the speed camera, and that was it. The conversation was over, and I was back on my own.
Using the data on the smartphone, I pulled up Google Maps, found the speed camera and homed in on the satellite images of a largely rural area of west Essex, about thirty miles north-east of central London, with a scattering of hamlets set in farmland.
It took me a good ten minutes but eventually I found it – a white, detached house set in the middle of a plot surrounded by high hedges and backing onto woodland. It was definitely the place, on its own at the end of a track with a handful of houses and a farm in a hamlet a couple of hundred metres away. A perfect spot if you didn’t want to attract attention.
I made a note of the coordinates and shut off the phone before I ran entirely out of data, and for the first time I seriously considered doing what Tina was suggesting. I had options. I could get hold of a car, drive up to where Lane and her friends had held me, and neutralize them. Then I’d collect my passport and make a break for France, where I could cash in some of my bitcoin, set up a new bank account, and fade from view. Hell, I didn’t even have to kill Lane. I could just run.
I don’t know if it was my promise to the Brennans to bring their daughter’s killers to justice; my instinct that Alastair Sheridan not only deserved to die but had to, in order to stop him becoming the most powerful person in the country; or simply pure revenge over his part in sending me to prison and destroying my life. Whatever it was, for the moment at least it made me stay put and, as the afternoon wore into the evening, I paced the stifling confines of the apartment, working out my next move, unable to settle. Unable, it seemed, to make a decision, as day turned into night, and the air began to cool as the predicted heavy showers approached from the west.
And then at 9.30 p.m., the decision was made for me when Lane’s burner phone rang again.
It was on the side in the kitchen, and as I picked up on the fourth ring, Lane’s voice came down the line, calm but tense.
‘The target is en route. Be ready to strike in twenty minutes.’
13
Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the darkness of the apartment dressed all in black, a pack containing my belongings on my back, and the pistol with suppressor already attached pushed into the back of my waistband. My breathing was steady and I was tense but not afraid. The gun gave me confidence. I’ve used one plenty of times before, which almost certainly put me at an advantage over anyone I was going to come up against tonight. And best of all, I had surprise on my side.
My only doubt was whether I’d be able to pull the trigger when it came to it. I’ve been a soldier, and I’ve been a police officer. But I’ve never been a contract killer. I’ve killed in cold blood once before but the evidence of my victim’s crimes was all around her, and she was revelling in it as I faced her down. I’d acted in anger then, and had felt physically sick afterwards. Did I regret it? I honestly don’t know, but the act itself ripped away a part of my humanity that I would never get back.
When I confronted Alastair Sheridan, it would be different. He wouldn’t be revelling in his crimes. He would be naked, probably helpless, almost certainly begging for his life.
Could I do it?
I shut my eyes and pictured Dana Brennan. Her mum had given me a photo of her, aged eleven, posing with her pet dog, taken about a year and a half before she was abducted and murdered by Sheridan and his friend, Cem Kalaman. I no longer had that photo. It had been taken from me, along with my wallet, when I’d been arrested, but I’d stared at it long enough to have Dana’s face etched on my memory.
I had to do it for her, and for the ghosts of all the other young women he’d destroyed.
I went through the open French windows and onto the roof, shutting them behind me. A welcome breeze caught me full in the face as I stood there looking out across the lights of the city, spreading as far as the eye could see. The night was just about as dark as it ever got in London at this time of year and an angry swirl of clouds was racing overhead.
I looked round. There was no one else out on any of the other roof terraces tonight, but a few doors down I could see the lights on in one of the apartments, and the French windows were
open. I walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the square, an oasis in the heart of the city, the one-way traffic system and speed bumps discouraging any cut-through drivers – and I could see why the wealthy would enjoy living behind its grand facades, although I suspected few of them actually did, preferring to leave them empty as investment vehicles for dirty money. I guess if you were going to open a high-end brothel anywhere, here wouldn’t be a bad spot since it was unlikely there’d be many people around to complain about it.
Whoever Lane’s insider was, he or she was bang on the money because, as I stood there, two black SUVs with blacked-out windows turned into the far side of the square and drove in convoy round the central gardens, coming to a halt outside one of the neighbouring buildings. I heard rather than saw them disgorge their occupants as they were outside my field of vision, but I knew who they were.
Being dressed in black was always going to make me conspicuous on a night like this, so I crouched down behind the waist-high wall that separated my terrace from the one next door and pulled on a black balaclava, counting down the seconds until it was time to move. I knew to give Sheridan five minutes from arrival to get into the room, but I’d already decided to give him ten. I wanted him vulnerable, and hopefully in flagrante, when I made my move.
I stared at my watch, emptying my head of all wasteful thoughts, concentrating on what I was about to do, slowing my breathing even as the adrenalin pumped through my system, remembering my long-ago army training.
And then, just like that, it was time.
I’d memorized the map of the building and knew that I had to cross five separate roof terraces to get to the entrance to the brothel’s penthouse area. The distance was thirty-five metres, and I made it in less than thirty seconds, keeping low so I couldn’t be seen by anyone down on the street.
A flight of steps led down to the heavy fire door and I descended slowly, placed my ear to the wood, and listened. Silence – but I was aware the area could be soundproofed. The nightmare for me was running into one of the girls before I located my target. It would be hard enough putting a bullet in Alastair Sheridan. There was no way I was going to put one in an innocent bystander.
I placed the key Lane had given me in the door and, as I did so, wondered how on earth she’d managed to get a key to this place. Still listening hard, I pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it carefully behind me.
I was in an empty hallway, decorated in a rich burgundy. My footfalls were muffled by the thick, expensive-looking carpet as I moved through it, remembering the plans Lane had given me. To my left was the jacuzzi room. The door was half open, and I poked my head inside. The raised, round jacuzzi took up most of the available floor space, and was full of foam-topped water bubbling silently. The interior was lit by strategically placed candles and smelled like the perfume section of an airport duty-free, and I guessed it had all been got ready for Alastair Sheridan to enjoy with the lady of his choice, if indeed she was still in a position to enjoy any of it. I wasn’t sure how it worked in this place. The way Lane had explained it, it sounded like it was the kind of establishment where the clients could be rough with the girls without them making a complaint. But I knew Sheridan would have to work very hard to keep his self-control and not get too carried away. I’d heard from an impeccable source that he’d killed a prostitute by mistake once while doing whatever it was he liked to do with them.
At the end of the hallway was a flight of stairs leading down to the next floor. Just before it, there were two doors, one on the left, one on the right. The left-hand one was the main bedroom where Sheridan would be. As I stopped outside, it struck me that the insider had almost pinpoint-perfect information of Sheridan’s movements, as well as his use of the prostitutes. It therefore had to be someone he’d trust absolutely, and with someone so careful of his reputation there could only be a handful of these, and they almost certainly wouldn’t include members of his security detail.
So who was it?
I was just about to put my ear to the door when I heard the sound of a door opening downstairs followed by footsteps, and people talking as they came up the stairs.
I opened the bathroom door opposite and took a quick glance in. Ambient chill music was playing from an unseen speaker, but the room was empty and I darted inside, closing the door behind me, and stood there in the darkness, the gun in my hand, hoping like hell no one decided to come in here and take a leak.
The voices grew louder, and their owners were now directly outside. I could hear a female and a male talking. The female had the louder voice, and there was a confidence to it, but I couldn’t make out what either of them were saying above the music.
The door across the hallway closed, and I heard more footfalls going back down the stairs, then nothing.
I waited in the darkness for a good five minutes until I was sure everyone was settled in, then opened the bathroom door and stepped back out into the hallway. There was no one out there but I could hear male voices talking quietly somewhere out of sight at the foot of the stairs. These would be Alastair Sheridan’s security. For all I knew they could be serving police officers, and I really didn’t want to shoot a cop. I was going to have to be very silent and very quick.
I put my ear to the bedroom door. I could hear the faint sound of a woman crying out in pain, and a man’s voice calling her a bitch and ordering her to shut up. She cried out again, a scream this time, and I immediately pushed the door.
It was locked.
I was going to have to forget the silent part.
I took a step backwards, ready to launch a kick, but stopped when I heard a commotion at the foot of the stairs and a woman’s voice saying to someone angrily ‘Let me up there, I need to sort this out’, followed immediately by hurried footsteps coming up the stairs.
I darted back inside the bathroom but this time I kept the door ajar a couple of inches, watching as a tall, Amazonian-looking woman with multiple intricate tattoos in a black sleeveless dress appeared. She knocked hard on the door opposite and it was opened by a sobbing woman I couldn’t see.
‘Get back in there,’ the madam told her angrily. ‘Do what you’re paid to do.’
I opened the door another couple of inches as the madam disappeared inside, leaving the door on the latch. I could hear her simultaneously haranguing the girl and apologizing to Sheridan.
I came out of the bathroom, looking towards the staircase just to check that Sheridan’s security weren’t standing there (they weren’t, and if they had been I’d probably have put bullets in them anyway for tolerating what was going on here), and walked straight into the bedroom, gun outstretched.
The madam had the girl, who was naked, by the hair and was giving her an angry talking-to while a half-naked man stood on the other side of a huge bed that probably slept half a dozen, holding a riding crop limply in his hand, looking surprised that his seduction technique wasn’t paying off.
And that was my first big problem.
Because the man wasn’t Alastair Sheridan. It was his partner in crime, Cem Kalaman. And in that moment, two things crossed my mind.
One: I’d been set up. Two: Kalaman had been too.
The last time I’d seen him in the flesh was when he’d turned up at my apartment with a group of his thugs fifteen months earlier. Then he’d been a swaggering presence – the all-powerful crime lord. Now he was just a middle-aged sad case with a potbelly, a flaccid cock, and a face that was a mix of righteous outrage and real fear, but with the fear clearly winning. He dropped the crop and threw his hands in the air, a small, almost feminine gasp escaping his mouth as he realized that his time was up.
I raised the gun, knowing that I would have no problem ending this pervert’s life, but as I took a step forward and pulled the trigger, I saw out of the corner of my eye the madam lunging at me as she screamed for help.
I swung round, not wanting to shoot her if I could help it. She grabbed my gun arm and yanked it to one side, still com
ing at me. I reacted fast, driving an elbow into her face as she got in range, and stopping her in her tracks. But she was still hanging on to my gun arm. I wrenched it free and pulled her into a headlock, just as the bedroom door flew open and one of Kalaman’s security people appeared in the doorway, armed with a pistol. He saw me and immediately opened fire, the gun making a loud and very distinct retort. I was already firing back – three shots in all, two of which hit him in the upper body, sending him sprawling. At the same time, the madam cried out and went limp in my arms and I realized she’d been hit.
I eased her to the floor, still keeping my eye on the door. I was certain there were at least two bodyguards with Kalaman, potentially more. And if one was armed, the others would be too. Nobody was helping the other guy though, who’d half fallen through the bathroom door and was now lying on his side trying to move, his shirt bloodied.
I took a quick look over my shoulder. I’d hit Kalaman with that first round and he was curled up in the foetal position, clutching his gut and moaning in pain, and for the moment posing no threat. Neither was the young girl, who was crouching unharmed in the corner, away from the shooting.
She gave me a terrified look, clearly thinking I was going to hurt her. I shook my head, hoping she’d get the message that she was safe from me. I was pretty sure the other bodyguard was waiting on the other side of the door for me to show myself, so I crept diagonally across the room, trying to get as good a view out into the hallway as possible without exposing myself to fire.
I could hear more footfalls and shouting coming from downstairs. My shots had been partially muffled by the suppressor, but the shot from the bodyguard would probably have been audible throughout the building. I needed to hurry.
But rushing something like this is a good way to end up dead.
Die Alone Page 8