Bombproof

by Michael Robotham

  The air pressure changes slightly. A door has opened and someone is standing behind Sami. Puffa isn’t smiling any more. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out because a fist is squeezing his throat trying to narrow his neck size.

  Puffa is scrabbling on his toes, but he can’t get traction. Whoever has hold of his throat is ‘walking’ him outside. Meanwhile, Nadia has stopped looking for crack and is curled up in the corner, rocking gently, trying to make herself small.

  Sami calls out but the gag muffles his voice. He wants Nadia to untie him. They can get away. He bounces on the chair and almost topples backwards.

  Someone moves behind him and a voice whispers, pronouncing every syllable in a Scottish accent.

  ‘You’re taking a wee trip, Mr Macbeth. It’s not the same sort of trip as your sister. Don’t resist and you won’t get hurt.’

  Sami catches a whiff of the cologne and remembers smelling it before at Tony Murphy’s restaurant. Dessie Fraser was wearing aftershave. Maybe he was the one who bounced the bat off Sami’s head.

  Oddly enough Sami feels relieved. Safer. Drugsters like Puffa see monsters in their Rice Krispies. At least Dessie is a professional. If he’d wanted to kill Sami he’d be dead already, despatched, gonski.

  Sami takes a journey in a car boot. The darkness is oddly reassuring. He can feel the sides of the boot and smell the nylon carpet and spare wheel.

  Nadia would have hated a ride like this. She would have panicked at the darkness and the enclosed space.

  Even after thirteen years she still has nightmares. She hates wet nights. Swollen rivers. Drunk drivers. Narrow bridges. Nadia was in the front seat of the car. Sami in the back - just turned fifteen. Their father had been drinking at a casino in Brighton and had left them sleeping in the car. He woke them at 2.00 a.m., drunk, but determined to drive back to a cottage they were renting for the holidays.

  The car demolished a crash barrier on the approach to a bridge, landing upside down in the water. The windows were open. It sank within seconds.

  Douglas Macbeth was pinned by one leg behind the steering wheel, but he twisted his body so he could hold Nadia, pushing her face into the shrinking bubble of air. Sami tried to open the rear doors, but they were locked. Finally, he pulled one open. Grabbed Nadia. Scissored his legs to the surface.

  They fought the current as it dragged them away, unable to go back. Swallowing water. Spluttering. Sucking air.

  Sami no longer has nightmares about it; no longer has phantom phone calls from his father at three in the morning.

  Douglas Macbeth was a coward and Sami feared him the way children fear all cowards, because they prey on the weak and make excuses about why they do it.

  Some nights Douglas Macbeth would get so drunk that Sami would try to avoid him or give him one-word answers but his father would pull Sami onto his lap and tickle him mercilessly; tickle him until tears ran down his cheeks. Not tears of laughter. Douglas would use Sami’s giggles to mask the moment that he drove his thumbs deep beneath his son’s armpits, leaving bruises so deep they took a week to show and would always be hidden beneath his school uniform.

  When the current dragged Sami and Nadia away that night, sweeping them down the swollen river, Sami didn’t want to go back. He wanted to keep floating away. He wanted to forget he had a father.

  Nadia couldn’t forget. She clung to Sami for six hours before they were rescued. Clung to him on the way to the hospital. Wouldn’t let him leave her side, even when they cut off her clothes and stitched the gash on her hip.

  And for years after that she would crawl onto Sami’s bed at night and curl asleep at his feet like a tabby cat, with one hand reaching across the bedclothes, making sure that he was still there.

  The car stops. A roller door opens. Sami waits, listening. He doesn’t want the boot to open. He wants to stay in the dark.

  15

  Saturday morning, Ruiz gets out of the shower, turns on his mobile and listens to his messages. The last one is from Sami Macbeth, who sounds tired and worried. He’s still looking for his sister.

  Ruiz makes himself breakfast. Looks at the headlines. Listens to the message again. Nadia is eighteen - old enough to disappear, old enough to find herself. Maybe he should flick past this one and find something better to do.

  Only he can’t think of anything better. That’s one of the problems with being retired - he doesn’t get any holidays. Every day is the same. Leisure. Leisure. Leisure. All play and no work.

  He puts in a call to a prison psychologist and gets the skinny on Macbeth, who boasted a clean rap sheet until he got picked up for possession of stolen jewellery. He has a 150-point IQ, three A-levels and about as much common sense as a pork chop.

  Next Ruiz calls Fiona Taylor, an old pal from his days on vice. She began her career as a parking warden, putting tickets under wiper blades, and then spent ten years in uniform before they gave her sergeant’s stripes. Now she’s a Chief Inspector, which isn’t surprising given her talent, but a minor miracle in the Metropolitan Police Service where the glass ceiling is bulletproof.

  Blonde, muscular and unmarried, Fiona has the sort of aggressive posture that leads some men to think she’s gay. In reality she’s a challenge and well worth the effort, thinks Ruiz, who had a brief fling with her a decade ago before he hooked up with Miranda.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ she says warmly.

  ‘Not even in the departure lounge.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  They swap small talk about family and mutual friends. He asks about work. The less said the better.

  ‘What do you need?’ she asks, knowing he’s called for a reason.

  ‘I want to bounce a name off you. Toby Streak.’

  ‘I remember him. Why are you interested?’

  ‘A favour for a friend.’

  Fiona is typing on a keyboard. ‘He’s a pimp and dealer. I busted him ten years ago for statutory rape and he did a deal with the girl’s father.’

  ‘Paid him off?’

  ‘You might very well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment. ’ She’s doing her Francis Urquhart impersonation.

  Ruiz plays along. ‘What can you comment upon?’

  ‘Streak’s main angle is a lover-boy scam, finding fresh meat for the pornsters.’

  ‘Does he work for anyone in particular?’

  ‘Freelance mainly. He started as a DJ working raves in the mid-nineties. He used to pick out the prettiest girls dancing around the cowpats and invite them to Ibiza for the summer. They’d begin by wearing bikinis and dancing in cages at the clubs. Then came the modelling shots, the promises of recording deals, the screen auditions … you know the rest.’

  Ruiz asks about a last known address. Fiona checks the computer. Gives him the details of a flat off Abbey Road in St John’s Wood.

  Fiona is busy. She has to go.

  ‘One more thing,’ says Ruiz. ‘Tony Murphy - is he still in the market for girls?’

  ‘He still has a couple of clubs, but he doesn’t have to recruit. The girls come to him.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘His clientele are known to shower occasionally.’

  ‘He’s gone upmarket?’

  ‘Right to the top.’

  It’s midday Saturday. The sun is shining. Toby Streak will still be asleep. Ruiz quite fancies a trip to Abbey Road. He might walk the famous crossing and relive a Beatles moment; even go barefoot like Paul.

  Streak lives in a luxury block of flats with an intercom and security cameras. Business must be good. Ruiz tries the neighbours on the intercom and one of them buzzes him through the main door. He catches the lift to the fourth floor and hammers on the door until Toby stumbles from a bedroom and peers through a security peephole.

  Ruiz gives him a spiel about reading the gas meter. Flashes a library card. Works every time.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ says the voice behind the door.

  ‘I could come back Monday,
but you won’t have any gas by then. They’ll have turned it off. Your meter hasn’t been read for six months. Won’t take a second.’

  A deadbolt slides back. In the same instant Ruiz kicks the door open, hitting Streak in the head. Toby lets out a cry and falls to his knees, clutching his already bandaged nose. As he tries to scramble away on his hands and knees, Ruiz follows him down the hallway. Flicks a boot into his elbows. Toby falls on his face and Ruiz pins him to the floor, massaging his ear with his right heel.

  A girl peers from the bedroom. She’s young - maybe too young - wrapped in a sheet.

  ‘You Nadia Macbeth?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Put your clothes on. I’ll give you the cab fare home.’

  She looks at Toby. Ruiz leans a little harder on his head.

  ‘Go home, babe,’ he says, trying to act cool with his face pressed into the hall runner.

  The girl slips on a dress, wads up her underwear and shoes and steps over Streak, almost flying down the stairs.

  ‘I’m looking for Nadia Macbeth,’ says Ruiz.

  ‘You and everyone else,’ Toby sniffles. ‘Can I get up now?’ The plaster across his nose makes him sound like a cartoon character.

  Ruiz lifts his foot. Toby climbs to his feet and slumps into a chair, tentatively touching his nose.

  ‘If you’ve broken it again …’ He doesn’t finish the statement.

  ‘Who broke it the first time?’

  ‘That cunt Macbeth.’

  Ruiz glances around the flat. The décor is a cross between bachelor chic and a seventies brothel.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ he says, pulling up a chair.

  It’s not difficult to get the story out of Toby. He’s an expert at telling it now. Tony Murphy paid him a thousand quid to hook Nadia Macbeth in a lover-boy scam.

  ‘It wasn’t worth the fucking aggravation,’ says Toby, acting like a victim in all this.

  ‘Why did Murphy want her?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘But it had to be this particular girl?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You ever provided girls for Murphy before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why this time?’

  He shrugs. ‘He said it had to be done quick - in three days. Sweep her off her feet. Deliver her.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Place off the Whitechapel Road.’ He tilts his head back, trying to stop his nose bleeding. ‘You won’t tell Murphy I told you, will ya?’

  ‘That’s the least of your problems, Toby.’

  16

  ‘Sorry about the transport, son,’ says Tony Murphy, brushing dust off Sami’s shoulders. ‘It’s the best Dessie could come up with at short notice.’

  They’re standing in a concrete car park with numbered bays and reserved signs. Sami can hear a crowd cheering from somewhere outside. Maybe it’s a football match.

  Murphy’s face is full of chubby bonhomie. He’s playing the jolly fat man, dressed in a lightweight woollen suit with his pork pie hat at a jaunty angle.

  ‘You remember Dessie.’

  ‘He bounced a few things off me earlier,’ replies Sami, flexing his left shoulder, which still aches. The swelling above his eye feels like a golf ball beneath his skin and he can taste blood in his mouth. He fingers his front teeth, counting them.

  ‘He’s a very capable individual, Dessie. He managed to find your sister.’

  ‘He beat the crap out of me.’

  ‘On the contrary, he saved your life. Those drugsters can be very fucking dangerous. You were lucky Dessie was there.’

  Sami shakes his head in wonder. What sort of parallel universe has he been transported to?

  ‘Where’s Nadia?’

  ‘In safe hands.’

  Mr Murphy leads the way. Sami is to follow. A lift opens. It takes them upwards and they emerge into a carpeted room furnished with comfortable chairs facing a large picture window. A corporate box, but it’s not a football match. They’re at the dogs.

  A moment later a bell sounds and gates open. Half a dozen loose-limbed greyhounds scramble into full stride and hurtle around the first bend, chasing a fake rabbit. Accelerating down the straight, the dogs fight to stay upright on the corners as the crowd roars. Sami watches, mesmerised. This isn’t sport - it’s an arcane spectacle, like seeing lions fight elephants at the Colosseum.

  Murphy isn’t taking any notice. He’s on the phone arguing with his wife about where they should put the marquee. She must be throwing a party.

  Sami smells the food. Curries. Two tables on either side of the viewing window are lined with stainless steel tureens. Samosas, onion bhajis, chicken korma, beef vindaloo, butter chicken, pilau rice, chapatis and naan bread.

  Dessie is already tucking in. He must have worked up an appetite swinging that bat.

  The race has finished. The rabbit won. A dog came second. Extra Chum for him tonight.

  ‘Terrible thing crack,’ says Tony Murphy, offering Sami a plate. ‘It’s a cocaine derivative. Not physically addictive like heroin. Psychologically addictive. Once your mind has been there it wants to go back again and again.’

  Sami watches him spoon korma onto rice. ‘People get all paranoid when they come down. Twitchy. Scared. It’s so bad that some of them start taking heroin, which is the beginning of the end. Know what I’m saying? Once you’re needled up and rattling, you’re truly fucked.’

  He takes a mouthful of naan bread and takes a seat. Sami stares at his plate of food, no longer hungry.

  ‘I’ve never punted the stuff,’ says Murphy. ‘It’s not a moral thing with me, just too much aggravation getting webbed up in shit like that. I did try it once though and I can understand the attraction. Do a pipe and get a blowjob at the same time. You’ll believe you’re in heaven.’

  Sami weighs the fork in his hand. He wants to drive it through Murphy’s throat.

  ‘Are you a drug taker, son?’

  Sami shakes his head.

  ‘Very wise decision. It gives you an advantage. Power. You take your sister, Nadia. From what I hear that little moppet would suck off an Alsatian to get her next fix. It’s a shame.’

  Sami sees the red mist. He launches himself across the room but seems to stop in mid-air and crash to the floor. On his knees, Sami takes a boot in the stomach and a punch to the kidneys. A socket of pain races up his spine and explodes like fireworks in his head.

  Dessie grabs his collar. Sits him in a chair. Murphy takes another mouthful of chicken korma as though nothing has happened.

  ‘You’re not the complete package, son,’ he says, picking a grain of rice from his shirt. ‘Some parts are still missing.’

  Sami’s mouth is opening and closing like a guppy.

  ‘This plan of yours to retire, I don’t think it’s a good one. You can’t just walk away from the life you chose; the life that chose you. You’re too good at what you do, son.’

  Murphy loads his fork with Indian pickle and rice.

  ‘Young bloke like you should use his talent wisely. Make a decent score. Know what I’m saying?’

  Sami can breathe again. The pain is easing.

  ‘You got savvy, son. You know what savvy means?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You’re bright. You learn fast. You know your way around. Am I right?’

  Sami feels like he’s being led by the dick and there’s nothing he can do about it.

  ‘Let’s face it, son, you’re too young to retire. You’re in your prime. You’ve come of age. You got that hungry look in your eyes.’

  ‘That’s cause I haven’t eaten,’ explains Sami.

  ‘I’m speaking metaphorically, son. Work with me here.’

  Sami sucks on a wobbly tooth and feels perspiration prickle along the skin beneath his hairline. Mr Murphy is getting to the point.

  ‘That’s why you’re going to do this small favour for me. A single job and then you can walk away. And I promise you nobody is gonna
give you any grief. You’ll be out.’

  ‘What about Nadia?’

  ‘I’m going to look after your little sis. Get her straightened out. Clean.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘When the job is done.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘I want you to open a safe for me. It’s more of a strong room than a safe. Locks and metal bars. No funny combination whats-its. Someone of your experience will do it in his sleep. Blindfolded. One hand tied behind his back.’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ says Sami.

  Murphy stops chewing.

  ‘You saying you can’t open the safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why not?’

  At this point Sami knows he’s on shaky ground. He doesn’t have the first fucking clue how to open a strong room. He’s not a safecracker or a safe blower. ‘Sparkles’ is invented, a figment of people’s imagination.

  ‘What if I told you that I didn’t do the Hampstead job?’ he says.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I wasn’t there. It was a guy called Andy Palmer. Or maybe it was someone else. I was just sitting in a van.’

  Murphy laughs. ‘Pull the other leg, son, it plays “Land of Hope and Glory”.’ Then his face grows hard. He gives Sami the pointy finger. ‘Enough pissing about, son. You do this job and you have a future, simple as that.’

  ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s like riding a bike.’

  ‘No offence, Mr Murphy, but it’s nothing like riding a bike.’

  ‘I’m speaking figuratively, son.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sami looks at Dessie and back to Murphy. He can’t see a way out of this. He needs time to think. Time to come up with a plan.

  ‘What sort of strong room?’ he asks.

  ‘Big fucker.’

  ‘I need the make and model, the specs. I don’t try to open a safe unless I know everything about it - the type, location, tensile strength of the steel. Manufacturer. How old it is?’