She thought about it. The Wraith was dead, but this wouldn’t stop Alastair Sheridan: he’d only find another killer at a later date to silence her. Until he was in prison or dead, she wasn’t entirely safe. ‘I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to get hold of Ray. And I can’t guarantee that he’ll do what you want either.’
‘I know that. But will you try?’
‘Can you get the NCA off my back, and stop them from charging me with aiding an offender? And don’t give me any of that bullshit about not interfering in the legal process, because I know you can do it.’
Bannister sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Then so will I,’ said Tina. ‘But I’ll tell you this: if you try to betray either Ray or me, I’ll make certain you live to regret it.’
52
Night had fallen when I finally made it into Paris.
The drive there had been long because I’d been forced to avoid the toll roads in case the camera picked up the rental car which, as the man on the phone had told me, needed changing fast. That man, I was now sure, was the Home Office minister George Bannister, Alastair Sheridan’s close political colleague. I’d been following Sheridan’s progress with a mixture of cynicism and alarm during my time in prison, and consequently had seen and heard plenty of Bannister.
Why Bannister was helping me was anyone’s guess but he clearly was, because if it hadn’t been for his call, I’d have been in custody or dead now. I also felt bad for the Brennans. Somehow the police had linked me to them, which meant they’d be trawling through all their records, and it wouldn’t be hard for them to put a case together for assisting an offender.
According to the car’s satnav, I was about a mile north of the Gare du Nord train station in one of the less salubrious areas of the city. Pulling up in a back street, I parked in the shadow of a graffiti-strewn train viaduct and removed the satnav, but kept the keys in the ignition to make it more attractive for any passing thief, then got out and started walking south.
I used to love walking. It was my means of relaxation, a chance to clear the head or to mull through a case while breathing in fresh air and exploring the world. Walking represented freedom. It was why I’d missed it so much in prison. And it was why it felt so good walking now. It was dark, and it was a shitty area, and those few people who were about stared menacingly, but I didn’t care about any of that. I’d faced enough in my life to know not to be scared by street thugs, and because they couldn’t sense fear, they left me alone.
The last time I’d been in Paris was seven years ago, with a woman called Jo for a long weekend in May.
Paris in the spring. It fulfilled all the clichés. The sun was shining, the food was superb, Edith Piaf played in the jazz cafés on the Left Bank close to Notre-Dame, and I recall it being one of the best weekends of my life, although to be fair there haven’t been a huge number to choose from. Jo was the only other woman I’ve ever loved aside from Tina. We’d met after she’d come into our offices to demonstrate a new facial recognition software package, and I’d fallen for her pretty much on sight. We’d moved in together, along with her twin seven-year-old daughters Chloe and Louise, got engaged, then married. Everything had been great. We really were one big happy family and I’d genuinely thought we’d be together for ever.
In the end it had been two years, and it had finished abruptly when Jo found out that I’d taken the law into my own hands and broken into the home of a criminal whom I’d then beaten unconscious. It had been a stupid, insane thing to do, and once again my deep-seated anger at the perceived injustices of the world had got the better of me. The criminal in question, a violent thug called Kevin Wallcott, had definitely deserved what I’d done to him. He’d crippled a child for life while chasing someone else in his Range Rover during a road rage incident, and had somehow got off with a sentence of barely a year. He’d then carried on offending, even ramming another car in a similar road rage incident. The guy had needed to be taught a lesson. I’d done that.
But Jo hadn’t seen it that way. She’d told me she didn’t trust me round the children if I was capable of that degree of violence and had asked me to move out immediately. That was what had hurt the most. The fact that she thought I’d ever lay a finger on her daughters whom I’d doted on like they were my own.
And that had been that. The healthiest relationship of my life, my one chance of redemption and a life of peace, and I’d thrown it all away.
If I could go back in time, would I change things? Would I shake my head and curse Kevin Wallcott but then simply let it go, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t paid enough for his crimes?
Jesus, yes. I’d never have touched him. I’d have done anything to get my old life back.
But it was way too late for that now. Because now here I was, a wanted man. I’d almost been killed twice in the last four days, almost been captured the same number of times. I’d shot four men, one in cold blood, and involved other people in my escape, and potentially put them right in the firing line as well. Some men crack under the pressure of being constantly on their guard while being flung from one violent and dangerous situation to another, while others become harder and stronger. They get used to this lifestyle, and begin to act on instinct, and without fear. Soldiers fighting on front lines in wars are typical examples; they develop a fatalistic cloak of protection. For the first time, I was conscious that this was happening to me. I was exhausted. I was certain I was headed towards my doom. But I was no longer scared.
The Boulevard de Magenta, which runs south of the Gare du Nord towards the River Seine and the tourist district, is a street of cheap fast-food takeaways, dodgy-looking phone shops, and not a tourist in sight. Even at this late hour quite a few of the places were still open, and I stopped at one of the phone shops and bought a relatively cheap Huawei with a pre-loaded sim card from a man who was clearly only interested in my money, which suited me fine. I also stopped at a tabac shop where I was able to buy pepper spray and two knives, one spring-loaded, the other small with a three-inch blade to hang on a chain round my neck.
Now I needed somewhere to stay. Clearly I’d have preferred a hotel in a more upmarket area, but for those kinds of places you need credit cards, so on an adjoining street I found a suitably scabrous guesthouse, with peeling paintwork and the O missing on the illuminated sign. There were even a couple of shifty-looking kids hanging about outside smoking skunk so powerful-smelling that the next stop for them was probably the psychiatric ward. They watched me vaguely through the cloud of toxic smoke as if I was some strange apparition as I walked past them to the entrance, holding my breath.
I had to ring a bell to get inside and the front desk was fortified as if they were expecting an imminent military assault. The man behind the mesh, a short, fat fellow with a thick moustache who I guessed was the owner, gave me the kind of suspicious look that told me he wasn’t used to getting drop-in custom. There was a cheap portable TV on the wall next to him. It was showing the French news and I hoped that my escape wasn’t a story here because if my new mugshot started appearing I was in big trouble.
I told the guy I wanted a room for two nights in my schoolboy French, and he was slightly more fastidious than I’d been expecting because he checked my passport before giving me a key and taking €100 in payment, plus a further €50 as a damage deposit, all paid in cash.
The room definitely wasn’t worth the money. It was small, cramped and way too hot, with a view over to the back of the next building – a far cry from the boutique hotel opposite the Panthéon building in the Sorbonne where Jo and I had spent our weekend. But for now it suited my purpose.
I threw off the backpack and got on the bed, pulling out my new phone and using it to get on the internet and check the UK news.
The main headline was big, bold and shocking. Two police officers had been shot dead during the rescue of a kidnap victim in north London. A female suspect had also been shot dead, and two people arrested.
But it was when
I read further down the article that I became more concerned because I saw that there were unconfirmed reports that one of the dead officers was none other than Mike Bolt, and that Tina Boyd was also involved. Apparently, she’d been taken to hospital with unspecified injuries.
Christ. What had I got her into? I had to find out what was going on.
I logged into our joint email account and saw that there was already a message in the drafts section. I opened it up and started reading.
Ray. You need to call me. It’s urgent. I have a new number, 07727 918647. I am in hospital but have private room and should be able to talk.
It could have been a trick. If Tina was cooperating with the authorities, they could be using her to lure me in so they could track my phone.
But in the end I still trusted her, and I had to know she was all right. I looked at my watch. Just short of eleven p.m. UK time. I made the call.
She answered with a whisper: ‘Is that you?’
It felt good to hear her voice again. ‘Yeah, it’s me. I’ve just seen a report you were kidnapped and Mike Bolt was killed in the rescue bid.’
‘It’s true,’ she said quietly.
‘Jesus, Tina, I’m so sorry.’
‘The Kalamans snatched me. They brought in that bitch, the one you called The Wraith, to torture me into giving them your whereabouts. I didn’t tell them, before you ask.’
I felt sick. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘A little, but I’ll be out of here tomorrow.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know. I’m under police guard at the moment. They’re talking about moving me into witness protection, but I don’t think it’s going to come to that. I’m pretty sure the Kalamans won’t try and get me again. It’s not good for business.’
‘You’re still a threat to Sheridan.’
‘Listen, I got a visit from none other than George Bannister, the Home Office minister and Alastair’s supposed ally.’
‘That’s strange,’ I said. ‘I’m certain he was the person who phoned the Brennans’ French landline today and told me to get out just before the house was raided.’
‘He told me it was him when we spoke,’ said Tina. ‘He also told me where Sheridan is going to be this Friday, and that he’s going to be unprotected and vulnerable. The thing is, the location is just outside Sarajevo in Bosnia.’
‘Go on.’
‘Not now,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll put all the details in a draft in the account. It’s up to you what you do with it. Don’t feel obliged to go after him. I know it’s hard enough for you as it is.’
The thing was, I did feel obliged. It was hard not to, given all I’d put Tina through. But it was more than that. Alastair Sheridan had played a big part in ruining my life. Even if I did manage to create a new life somewhere else – and right now, that was a big if – I’d always be looking over my shoulder. And I’d always know that he would continue to ruin lives, just as he’d done all his adult life. Maybe I should have learned my lesson from what happened with Kevin Wallcott, but one of the few things I’m truly proud of is the fact that I’ve ended the careers and the lives of a lot of very bad people over the years. In that respect, I’ve made the world a slightly better place. Whenever I think about that – which is not often enough – it makes me feel good. And the world would be a much better place without Alastair Sheridan in it.
‘Are you still there?’ asked Tina.
I took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I’m still here.’
‘What are you going to do?’
This time I didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘I wish I could be there with you. We make a good team.’
‘Tina, you remember what I said in the car, just before we parted? I did mean it. Whatever happens, I’ll always love you.’
I heard her swallow hard. That’s the thing with emotional goodbyes. They’re so difficult to do.
I cut the call and lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying in vain to calm the turmoil swirling around in my head.
53
The only thing that could have put Alastair in a better mood that night was if Tina Boyd had also been killed in the shootout back in London, which he’d now found out had resulted in the death of that psychotic hitwoman The Wraith, thereby saving Alastair both money and grief. Even so, Boyd alone was no real problem and he’d definitely find a way to deal with her later. Subtly, of course. But he’d get her.
He got everyone in the end.
It had been a wonderful evening with the Buxton-Smythes, sitting out on the veranda overlooking the wine-dark Adriatic Sea dotted with tiny islands, so characteristic of this end of the Croatian coast, while the nannies dealt with the offspring. The food had been sublime, which is usually the way when money is no object, and Ginny Buxton-Smythe had looked especially ravishing in a simple but elegant white dress that showed off her tan, and four-inch black heels. More than once Alastair had caught her giving him sneaky glances out of the corner of her eye. Naughty bitch. Clearly Piers wasn’t giving her enough of the right attention.
But of course, Ginny was totally out of bounds. Alastair had a public reputation to keep up, and fucking his friend’s wife wasn’t going to do much to help it; and anyway, there was no way he’d be able to control himself with someone like Ginny. He would just have to be brutal. She needed a good, solid beating. She deserved it.
It had now been almost a year since he’d last given full vent to his urges. That had been in Bosnia when he and Cem had tortured, raped and killed a young hiker they’d bought to order from a local crime gang over the course of an entertaining three days. He felt a pang then when he thought of Cem. They’d had some fun together.
But life always has to move on, and move on Alastair already had. He’d been corresponding via email with a representative of the same gang they’d got the hiker from last year, about the possibility of procuring him another girl. Unlike Cem, who’d been able to take the edge off his urges simply through having rough sex with prostitutes, this had never worked for Alastair (although he’d obviously tried). He needed more. He needed, in truth, to kill. Because for him it was always about the power.
It was gone midnight now and he stood alone, hands resting on the veranda balustrade, looking out to sea. The Buxton-Smythes had left, and his wife and child were in bed, as was the nanny, a large Polish woman who was older than Alastair, whom Katherine had doubtless hired to make sure he avoided temptation. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warm breeze on his face, then felt the buzz of his unofficial phone – the one he religiously kept away from his wife – in the pocket of his Givenchy shorts.
Taking it out, he saw he had a WhatsApp message from an unidentified number. He knew exactly who it would be from though, and he was right.
We have something ready for you Friday. It does not need to be returned.
He smiled. Perfect.
The hunt was back on, and it would be held in honour of Cem Kalaman. It seemed a fitting tribute.
Part Six
* * *
54
I slept well that night, waking in my poky little hotel room at 8.15, feeling groggy but refreshed. The window was open and I’d kicked off the covers in the night but the room still felt hot.
It took me a couple of seconds to remember where I was and the situation I was in. Let’s face it, my future still wasn’t looking too bright, but at least I was free, and I was reminded of the words of an old army colleague of mine who’d lost a leg to an IED in Iraq, and then gone on to suffer two bouts of cancer afterwards, all by the age of forty-five. When I’d asked him once what was the best day of his life, he’d answered: ‘Today.’
Every day you’re above ground is a good day. I’d had that belief tested to extremes during my time in prison, and I hadn’t believed it. But I believed it now.
Having said that, my new day didn’t get off to a flying start. I had to remove a cockroach the size of a swollen thumb from the bath, and when I final
ly got the shower to work there was no hot water, and if the state of the shower head was anything to go by it was probably giving me Legionnaires’ disease as well.
Afterwards, I got dressed in my last spare set of clean clothes, then checked the email address Tina and I shared. As she’d promised, the drafts section contained details of when Alastair Sheridan would be in Sarajevo, what he was doing, and the location of the house a few miles outside, bought apparently through a shell company, where he’d be staying. He was arriving there on Friday and would be staying for the weekend before heading back to Dubrovnik by car, a drive of approximately four hours. This gave me plenty of time.
During his time in Bosnia he would have no official British police guard, but as a politician and businessman who’d invested heavily in the country both through his hedge fund and with his own money, he was well respected enough to have a police escort both ways. He was going alone, ostensibly to hike in the hills surrounding the city, but the house he was in was isolated and far from prying eyes, and Bosnia, I knew from my own experience in organized crime, was a haven for people smuggling. If you wanted something, whatever that something was, you could probably get it there. Tina also mentioned that a twenty-five-year-old hiker from Budapest, travelling alone, had gone missing less than five miles away in August the previous year.
I memorized the woman’s name, Lydia Molnar, and Googled her. She was a pretty auburn-haired girl with a big smile who’d initially come to Bosnia as part of a hiking group but, according to the most detailed report I read, had decided to stay on for a few days, having fallen in love with the natural beauty of the mountains and forests surrounding Sarajevo. I tried to find out whether Sheridan had been in the country at the time she’d disappeared, but couldn’t see anything online.
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