He climbed the steps at the other side of the cellar, keeping an eye on the monitor downstairs. The men were still in the same positions. Quietly, Abbott opened the cellar door and stepped out, staying in the shadows. He raised the Glock.
The two men at the card table were first to go. The barman was reaching for his machete, but he looked up. He saw Abbott. He saw the face of the man who put a bullet in him.
***
It wasn’t long before Abbott was leading the three kids out of the front door, then to the van. Some ten minutes after that, they were pulling up outside the flats where the Polish couple lived, and Abbott, having done his best to wipe the camo paint from his face and look as normal as possible, took the kid upstairs.
It was the father who opened the door, perhaps expecting a customer. But when he saw his little boy, he dropped to his knees and took him in an embrace so enveloping Abbott worried that he might do the kid a mischief. At the same time, the husband was calling over a shoulder, and the mother appeared, her eyes going from Abbott to her little boy and in the next moment she joined her husband on his knees, hugging the child, fussing over him, all three of them speaking quickly in Polish.
Abbott wasn’t sure what the kid said, but in the next moment, the father had risen to his feet and seized his hand to shake it. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said, tripping over his words, pumping Abbott’s hand. ‘I will never be able to thank you enough.’
And later, when Abbott and his team had dropped the kids off outside a police station, instructing them to go inside and tell their story, and then left to dump the van and take themselves back to the Welcome Break, finally falling exhausted into bed, it was that ‘thank you’ that Abbott thought about just before his eyes closed for the night.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER 43
Inside RAF Chicksands – the HQ of the British Army’s Intelligence Corps – was Cuckoo’s office, and inside the office was Cuckoo, or Alan Roberts as most people knew him, who right now was staring intently at a computer monitor but not really seeing what was on the screen. Looking but not seeing. Waiting, in fact, for a knock at the door.
There came a knock at the door.
‘Sir? You wanted to see me, sir?’
The guy’s name was Johnny. A member of Chicksands’ human resources department. Cuckoo had never knowingly clapped eyes on Johnny until this very moment, his only contact with human resources having been with the department head when making new appointments, such was Cuckoo’s exalted position in the operation. Now, however, he directed the HR guy – age? What? Mid-thirties? – to take a seat and let the silence between them settle and marinate, regarding Johnny, who looked back nervously.
‘Is this a human resources matter, sir?’ enquired Johnny meekly.
‘Not really,’ Cuckoo shook his head. ‘This is a matter more, well . . .’ He looked away. ‘For the moment, let’s just say this is a matter that should stay between you and I. Something to do with extracurricular activity.’
‘Sir?’
Cuckoo leaned forward. ‘You’ve been nosing around on the network.’
‘Have I, sir?’
‘Indeed. Your terminal has been used for searches on the system. Searches conducted when you, and you alone, were using it. They were unauthorised searches and you made them in an attempt to find military intelligence on a high-ranking civilian family.’ He paused, enjoying the queasy look that had taken Johnny’s face hostage. ‘Now, why would you want to be doing that?’
‘I don’t think I understand, sir,’ stuttered Johnny.
Abbott would not have recognised Cuckoo now – Cuckoo, the man who roared, ‘Do not lie to me, son. You’re not at fucking school here. I’m not playing games. I want to know why you were making those searches.’
Johnny withered. ‘I was making them on behalf of somebody else, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘I’d rather not say, sir.’
Cuckoo did a bit more shouting, but this time, although he cringed away slightly, Johnny didn’t completely crumble. Almost, but not quite. He took a large gulp of air, straightening his shoulders as though to give himself strength. ‘Respectfully, sir, I will need to speak to my supervisor regarding your request.’
This, thought Cuckoo sourly, was what you got for trying to turn the thumbscrews on a member of the human resources department. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I would expect nothing less. But I want to see you back here this time tomorrow – with an answer. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
CHAPTER 44
Abbott had said goodbye to the lads at the Welcome Break. He’d assured them that McGregor would be transferring the money into their nominated offshore accounts, and then, before they left, said one more thing: would they be interested in a second mission at some point in the near future, the date yet to be decided? A rescue mission.
‘Who will we be rescuing?’ Tom Brace had asked.
‘Me,’ Abbott had told them, thinking that their money would come out of the cash that Lady Norton was to pay him for the death match. If they all came out of it alive, and provided she continued to hold up her end of the bargain, then he was good for it.
Now Abbott was back in his room at the Travelodge, looking at a 700-millilitre bottle of vodka on his desk and talking to his AV, which was calling to him with a louder voice and even greater urgency than it had in some time, his poor neglected reward centres shrieking at him: come on, you did a good job. You deserve it. You deserve a drink. Just one.
But no. Because while the operation had indeed been a success, in the sense that Doyle was dead, most of his lieutenants were dead, his operation was at an end and, most importantly, the trafficked children released, it was only the beginning, the tip of the iceberg. There was much more to come. More to do.
Perhaps he’d have a drink when it was all over.
Perhaps.
And in the meantime, you, shut the hell up.
As his AV fell silent, not beaten just temporarily quelled, he turned his attention to the CD, pushing it into his laptop to watch it.
There were dozens and dozens of movie files on the CD. He picked one at random. Double-clicked. The image that greeted him was of an empty room, a dirty mattress on the floor. And even though Abbott’s exposure to scenes of abuse was thankfully rare – he had done far more rescuing than he had ever done witnessing – he knew what was coming next, and he steeled himself for it, finding himself forming strange hopes. Please let it be a grown adult. Not a kid. Please, not a kid.
His heart sank when the door opened, and a woman led a child into the room. She held the boy’s hand like a mother would, or a protective older sister, and with a smile she directed the child to the bed. Her lips were moving, the film silent – thank God for that, at least – no doubt bidding him to take a seat, for that’s what he did. He was just a little kid, no more than eleven years old, that age where you can’t hide your emotions even if you try, and right now what Abbott saw on the kid’s face was rank fear. Heartbreaking fear.
Abbott tipped back his head, taking his eyes from the screen as he thought of the kids they’d saved last night. He wondered how many of them had gone through their own version of this particular scenario. He thought of The Freemasons Arms and how he’d left it standing for the simple reason that he wanted the cops to find evidence of abuse there, hoping that one of the kids would lead them to it.
Right now, though, he fervently wished he had burned it down to the ground.
He looked back at the screen. The woman had returned, smiling reassuringly at the boy, holding out a can of Fanta. Again, her lips were moving, trying to put his mind at rest, no doubt.
And then Abbott gasped, because for the first time he saw her face properly, and she was a lot younger than the woman he had met in Richmond, but it was still unmistakeably her.
It was Juliet Norton. Lady Norton.
Had he ever doubted that she was in it up to her eyeballs? Not really. But that was
one thing. It was quite another to be confronted with the evidence, to see with his own eyes that any involvement she had was far from peripheral; that she did, as they say, get her hands dirty.
Worse was to come. The door opened and two men entered. One of them was a man he had last seen reduced to his constituent parts in a meat-grinding machine, Raymond Doyle, wearing a dressing gown and a smile, wiping his nose.
Behind him came another man that it took Abbott a second or so to recognise, until – of course – it was Charles Norton. Would he have been Sir Charles Norton then? Difficult to tell. The footage had to be around ten years old. Abbott’s next thought was to wonder who had set up the camera. And then he saw Ray Doyle’s eyes flick up, as though checking for it, which of course made perfect sense. Even if Norton had been plain old Charles back then, he was no doubt on the way up and Doyle had seen a means of making sure that his own fortunes were linked to Norton’s ascent. Chances are he had never needed to use his insurance. Norton’s loyalty had ensured that he had continued to live in the manner to which he had become accustomed. Possibly Doyle would have been reaching inside that safe soon, had Juliet not employed Abbott to take pre-emptive action on her behalf. She wanted Doyle out of the picture for the reasons she had told him at Richmond, but also because of what he knew about her and her husband.
What she hadn’t told Abbott was that if his brother Chris had lived and been delivered into the hands of Doyle then he might well have suffered the same fate as . . .
The kid in the video.
Norton and Doyle had both removed their robes. Both had gone to their hands and knees on the mattress, approaching the boy, who cowered away as Juliet Norton stood back with her arms folded across her chest, her lips moving, saying what, Abbott had no idea, but whatever it was, it did nothing to put the kid at ease, because his emotions were written all over his face, a little boy who should have been loved and cared for and treated to days out and marshmallows in hot chocolate by loving parents. Who instead . . .
Abbott watched what happened next. Not all of it. Enough. Until he could take no more. And when he’d finished, he sat for a while, only just managing to control the anger and hate, the sheer vindictive energy within himself. He didn’t need to watch the other files. He knew what they contained.
And then he called Cuckoo.
‘Hello, mate,’ he said, when Cuckoo answered, his friend’s voice a reminder that a better world was out there.
‘Abbott, you’re still alive.’
‘Apparently.’ He updated Cuckoo, telling him about the previous night’s operation.
‘I saw the fire on the news,’ whistled Cuckoo. ‘I had a funny feeling that it all had something to do with you.’
To Abbott it was already ancient history. ‘Listen. I’ve got evidence that can put Juliet Norton away.’
‘Right,’ said Cuckoo carefully. ‘What kind of evidence are we talking about?’
‘I’m talking about films of Juliet Norton, her husband and Ray Doyle abusing children. Dozens, maybe hundreds of children.’
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ said Cuckoo, when Abbott had finished.
‘It means we have the evidence we need,’ replied Abbott.
‘Sure, but more than that, it means you can pull out.’
‘Pull out of what?’
‘You don’t need to participate in their bloody game, that’s what I mean,’ insisted Cuckoo.
‘Does it? It fingers Juliet, but that’s all.’
‘Well, maybe she’s the only one who’s guilty?’
‘Guilty of what?’
‘What do you think? Child abuse.’
‘They’re all dirty, mate. Maybe they’re not abusing kids. But they’re still all part of the game, aren’t they?’
‘And that means they deserve to die?’
Abbott stayed silent.
‘Either way, but you don’t need to risk your life going into the game. Not now you have this. Take down Juliet this way. Hunt down the surviving members of the family individually. Creep into their houses late at night, put bullets in their heads. Honestly, if that’s what you want, I won’t lose any sleep over it. Just don’t play their game.’
Abbott mulled it over. Cuckoo was correct. Perhaps there was a part of him prepared to go along with the idea because he wanted the risk and got off on the danger and knew that it kept him away from the bottle. And yet any upsides were surely outweighed by the risks. Even with the insurance policy of Ward, Brace and Miller, there were still far too many variables. There would be no IA. No DA. Maybe going up against the Nortons that way fulfilled a deep need in him. Maybe it was also a dumb thing to do.
Two things could be true at the same time.
‘OK,’ he said to Cuckoo after a long pause, ‘what then? What instead?’
‘You make a copy of the CD, and you send one of them to me.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘I blow the gaff.’
‘Wait a minute, the last time we spoke, you told me that there were internal flags on the files. We already know that the Nortons have influences far and wide. Why won’t they just use that power to keep a lid on it?’
‘Because if you or someone else tried to blow the gaff, then sure, that would happen. But if I do it? Let’s just say that in the same way that I know how to circumvent their flags on the system, so I know how to sidestep the fingers of influence.’
‘Reminds me. You were going to find out who’d been nosing around.’
‘To cut a long story short, some bloke called Johnny from human resources was the one who triggered the flag, but he was making enquiries on behalf of somebody else.’
‘When do we find out who?’
‘Good question. He’s due in my office in about ten minutes.
Watch this space.’
‘OK, in the meantime, we’ll do it your way. I’ll get you the disc and I’ll make myself scarce.’
‘And going after the Nortons individually?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Abbott, who was already beginning to feel a little flat, his eyes going to that bottle of vodka as his feeling of sweet purpose slowly dissolved. ‘We’ll see.’
Abbott finished the call then left his room, found a member of staff, and cadged a Jiffy bag from her. Back in his room, he slipped the CD inside the envelope and ordered a courier, telling them that the bike was going to Bedfordshire and that he’d provide the specific address to the rider.
The phone rang. Cuckoo again. ‘Johnny from human resources came back. He was doing a favour for a mate at GCHQ.’
‘Right,’ said Abbott. ‘Which mate? What’s his name?’
‘Hold your horses. I’m getting there. It’s just a random drone at GCHQ. I’ve already spoken to him, and it turns out that I’m not the first person wanting to know who’s been asking after the Nortons. He’s had a visit from MI5, and he told them what he told me.’
‘Which was?’
‘That he was making enquiries on behalf of a lawyer by the name of Teresa Oakley.’
‘Shit,’ said Abbott, and ended the call.
CHAPTER 45
Cuckoo wasn’t to know, of course, but Tess’s given name was Teresa – Teresa Lacey. Her married name, however, was Oakley.
Right away, Abbott dialled her.
No reply.
Another call was coming through. ‘Hi, I’m your courier. I’m outside.’ Abbott stood, picked up his Jiffy bag and made his way to reception, trying Tess again at the same time, preoccupied as he handed over his package to the courier.
‘Cheers, mate,’ said the courier, his voice muffled by the helmet he wore. He turned and left reception, past the vending machines they had there, out into the car park, where Abbott could see his bike was parked. Again, he tried Tess. Again, there was no reply. Straight to voicemail. ‘Hello, you have reached the voicemail of . . .’
‘Come on, Tess. Come on . . .’ he was muttering to himself. At the same time, he realised that he had forgotten t
o provide the courier with the full address. Looking out into the car park, it seemed that the courier had come to the same conclusion at the same time. Seeing Abbott still in reception he hailed him and began to trot back towards the building.
Behind him, two Range Rovers glided into the car park.
A warning bell in Abbott’s brain went off as from the Range Rovers stepped several men wearing black cargo pants and T-shirts, polo shirts and sunglasses even though they were not needed. Abbott watched as they swarmed over the courier. He saw a Sig Sauer produced. Suppressed, of course, the sign that these guys meant business. And if there was any doubt in his mind, then the next gun he saw sealed the deal. A CZ 75B, the Czech-made pistol that was famed for its reliability and accuracy. Posers didn’t bother with it; it was one for the professionals. In the next second, the courier was being clubbed to the ground, the Jiffy bag was snatched, and in Abbott’s ear he heard, ‘You have reached the voicemail of . . .’
The men had all drawn their weapons. They were advancing to the hotel entrance. Abbott swung and saw that the receptionist had appeared. Their eyes met and he saw the betrayal in her face. He’d pushed his luck staying here in the first place, let alone remaining here after the Kemptown job. Now it looked like they’d come to make him pay.
But this wasn’t Doyle’s men, he knew. This was worse. This was Juliet Norton’s people.
And that was much, much worse.
CHAPTER 46
With an afternoon appointment on her schedule, Tess had left the office and was on her way to her car, which was parked beneath her building. She’d been thinking how she might engineer it so that however long the appointment ended up being, it would take her to the end of the working day. She fancied an early one tonight. Perhaps get home sooner than 8pm for once, maybe even have dinner with Phil and the kids. The thought buoyed her as she came down the grey-painted steps at the back of the building to the car park entrance, where she plugged in the code and pushed open the door.
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