Bombproof

by Michael Robotham

  Looking around the room he spies the air-conditioning vent. Everyone always hides shit in the air-conditioning vent, he thinks, but maybe there’s a reason for that. He pulls off the panel and pushes the bags of cocaine, the money and the gun inside, before replacing the panel again.

  Kate knocks on the door.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  She presses a piece of paper into his hand. It’s her address in Barnes. ‘Don’t answer the phone. Don’t read my emails. Don’t look at the mess.’

  ‘When will you be home?’

  ‘Soon.’

  She kisses him on the lips. The kiss might not mean much in itself, but when she touches his cheek with her fingertip it’s as though she doesn’t want to let him go. Sami feels his heart turn to porridge.

  The lift carries him down and the doors open. Sami walks across the hotel foyer, trying to look like he’s a businessman on his way to an important meeting in the city.

  ‘Can I get you a cab, sir?’

  Sami nods.

  The doorman whistles.

  A black cab pulls up.

  Sami slips the doorman a fiver and slides into the back seat. He used to think that suits were like straitjackets but this one feels good, expensive, well-cut. Maybe clothes do maketh the man.

  49

  Vincent Ruiz steps outside the inner door of Wormwood Scrubs and discovers the weather has turned. Dark clouds are tumbling across the sky and rain threatens.

  He glances at the name and address in his battered notebook:

  Kate Tierney

  58 Brook Gardens

  Barnes

  It’s a long shot but Sami Macbeth doesn’t have many friends left. Right now he’s probably gone to ground but he can’t stay hidden forever. He’s going to need help.

  Ruiz ponders what happened last night. A hundred coppers were outside the restaurant, two helicopters hovered above it and a small army of reporters were camped less than a block away. Police searched every cupboard, every corner, every crawlspace, yet somehow Macbeth managed to slip away. He wasn’t in the restaurant. He wasn’t in the building. He wasn’t on the rooftop. The kid is fucking Houdini.

  Bob Piper is claiming police didn’t shoot the van driver, which is too outrageous a declaration to be a lie. Which means someone else wanted Macbeth dead and wanted it badly enough to risk taking a shot over the heads of a dozen firearms officers.

  This has nothing to do with terrorism. The notion is ridiculous. Macbeth was an unlikely jewel thief and an even less likely extremist.

  Reaching his car, Ruiz slides behind the wheel and calls Fiona Taylor.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘I have a meeting in five minutes.’ She sounds amused. ‘Your name came up in the morning briefing.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Bob Piper wants you investigated.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘He says you’ve been in contact with Sami Macbeth.’

  ‘The kid called me once. He’s looking for his sister.’

  ‘So you said. You might be getting a visit.’

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up. Listen, I’m interested in the bombing at the Old Bailey. What was the target?’

  ‘They blew up the evidence room.’

  ‘Anything taken?’

  ‘Eight kilos of cocaine. Cash. A semi-automatic pistol.’

  ‘How much cash?’

  ‘Just shy of fifty thousand pounds.’

  Ruiz considers the haul. It’s not big enough to warrant the risk.

  ‘Islamic terrorists don’t normally steal drugs.’

  ‘We got a call from an Al Qaeda splinter group claiming responsibility.’

  ‘How many other groups claimed it?’

  ‘Six at last count.’

  That’s the thing about would-be bombers and terror groups: hoax callers outnumber genuine ones and without a code word there’s no way of confirming their claims.

  Ruiz asks about the shooter.

  Fiona Taylor reads off the manifest: ‘A Beretta 93R machine pistol with a twenty round magazine and eighteen bullets in the clip.’

  ‘What was it doing in the strong room?’

  ‘It’s evidence in an attempted murder case. The perp fired a shot at police.’

  ‘Ray Garza’s kid.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Lucky guess.’

  Ruiz is trying to get his head around the coincidences. Ray Jnr turned up at Murphy’s garden party. The two must know each other. Maybe Ray Garza organised the robbery to get the boy off, although it’s not Garza’s style. He’d rather blackmail a judge or bribe a jury than rely on something as clumsy and outdated as blowing up a strong room.

  ‘What did ballistics say about the shooter?’

  ‘They haven’t tested it. Some sort of paperwork problem. It should have gone straight to the lab.’

  ‘What about the slug or a shell casing?’

  ‘Unrecovered.’

  Ruiz ponders this. ‘Without the cocaine and the shooter what happens to the case against Ray Jnr?’

  Fiona Taylor catches the inference in his question. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Ray Garza is behind this …’

  ‘I’m just trying to make sense of it,’ he replies unconvincingly. ‘Were there any witnesses?’

  ‘Dozens of them, but most of them were Garza’s mates. Things turned ugly when the police tried to arrest him. The officers had to call for back-up. They couldn’t secure the crime scene.’

  Fiona has to go. ‘Hey, one more thing, but you didn’t hear it from me: we just ID’d the dead guy on the Tube. His name was Dessie Fraser, a long time associate of Tony Murphy. You know him?’

  ‘By reputation,’ says Ruiz. ‘He liked writing his signature with a baseball bat.’

  ‘According to Murphy they had a falling out a few weeks back and Dessie went to work for someone else.’

  ‘Did he say who?’

  ‘Ray Garza.’

  50

  Sami bounces on Kate’s bed, checking out her mattress. It’s a nice place, a bit too girly and her flat-screen TV is on the small side but at least she hasn’t got stuffed toys on her bed.

  Half of Kate’s clothes are strewn over the dresser and an armchair while make-up and cosmetics fill every inch of the bathroom shelf and the edges of the sink. How many types of moisturiser does a woman need?

  Sami looks in the kitchen. You can tell a lot about a girl from the contents of her fridge. Is she a manic dieter, a binge eater, a gourmet cook or a take-out junkie? Kate’s fridge has bread, milk, an avocado, a bar of dark chocolate and half a dozen jars of Indian chutneys and pickles. Her freezer has a bottle of vodka and a packet of frozen yoghurt Popsicles. Sami could fall for a girl like this.

  He makes himself a coffee and puts his feet up. Ponders how long he should let Murphy stew before calling him again. He also tries to get his head around the shooting.

  What if Bob was telling the truth and the police didn’t shoot the van driver? Someone else must have been there; someone who wanted Sami dead.

  Tony Murphy has the wherewithal to hire a dozen hitmen - he probably has them on speed dial - but it takes more balls than a bingo caller to carry out a hit during a police siege.

  The buzzer sounds. Someone is at the door downstairs. Sami presses the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nobody answers. He asks again.

  A male voice replies. ‘You got a package.’

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Kate Tierney.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Listen, mate, I just deliver ’em, I don’t look inside ’em.’

  ‘Just leave it on the steps.’

  ‘Can’t do that, someone’s gotta sign.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Sami walks to the window of the lounge and opens the curtains. He can’t see a delivery van. Smells like fish.

  He goes to the window in the kitchen, which overlooks the rear
garden. The ground floor has an extension - a flat roof about ten feet below the window. He could lower himself down and then jump onto the grass.

  A part of him thinks he’s being paranoid. Another part of him says to trust nobody.

  Sami returns to the intercom. ‘Give me a minute, I got to get a shirt on.’

  He goes back at the kitchen window. Slides it upwards. Climbs over the sink and sits on the ledge. Spinning round, he lowers himself down until hanging by his fingertips. He drops the final four feet and crosses the flat roof at a run before leaping onto the lawn.

  There’s a Wendy house at the back fence, closed up for the winter. A paddling pool has been stuffed inside. That’s when Sami realises he isn’t alone in the yard. He tries to turn but someone crash-tackles him low and a second man goes high, forcing his face into the turf. His hands are pulled behind his back and bound together with a plastic cable-tie. Tape covers his mouth. A hood slips over his head.

  Sami is dragged to his knees. His head is wrenched back.

  ‘Can you hear me, Mr Macbeth?’

  Sami nods.

  ‘Stay calm and you won’t get hurt. Someone important wants a word with you.’

  Sami mumbles into the gag and then shouts as he feels his sleeve forced up and a needle slide into his arm. His mind swims and he swallows the darkness.

  51

  Ruiz stands outside the address in Barnes, listening to a South West train rattle towards Clapham Junction. The main door is open. He climbs the stairs.

  Kate Tierney’s flat is on the first floor. One of the timber panels on the door has been kicked out and lies splintered on the floor. The door is open. He steps inside.

  Kate Tierney is sitting on a low table at the centre of the lounge, amid the broken pieces of her life. A TV without a screen, a glass coffee table without glass, radiators ripped from walls, wallpaper in ragged strips, carpet and underlay peeled back, a mantelpiece torn from the fireplace, a sofa disembowelled …

  Water is spilling from the bathroom where the cistern has been torn from a porcelain plinth and dumped in the bathtub. Tiles are smashed. Shards of broken crockery and glass are scattered on the floor.

  Kate looks up at Ruiz. Her cheekbones are shining. She’s dressed in a black skirt, dark tights and a loose white blouse. Honey-coloured hair is plaited in a French braid down her back.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  She shakes her head. Her eyes swim with the knowledge that her life contains elements of loss and betrayal.

  ‘Where’s Sami?’

  ‘He’s not here. I just got home.’

  Ruiz punches a number on his mobile. Calls it in.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m a friend of Sami’s.’

  Kate blows her nose. Wipes it once, twice, three times. Bunches the soggy tissue in her fist.

  ‘Will they send me to prison for helping him? I know I should have called the police.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d leave Sami out of this. You were robbed. Keep it simple.’

  She nods.

  ‘Do you know who did this?’

  She shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t Sami.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘He spent last night with you?’

  She lowers her eyes to the Oriental rug, which has been sliced open. ‘Don’t tell my work. I’ll lose my job.’

  Water is leaking slowly across the floor. Ruiz finds the stopcock in the bathroom and turns it off.

  ‘Did anyone else know Sami was here?’

  Kate shakes her head.

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone - a girlfriend or a friend?’

  ‘No.’

  Kate takes a cigarette from a packet lying on the floor beside a broken drawer with no base. Her hand is shaking as she tries to flick the flywheel on the lighter. Ruiz does it for her. She holds the cigarette in her clenched fingers, making no attempt to smoke it. Water has reached her shoes.

  Ruiz takes it from her. Sits close.

  ‘Listen, Kate, I think you realise how much trouble Sami is in. People are looking for him - not just the police. People who want to hurt him. Did Sami tell you anything?’

  ‘Someone has his sister. Sami is trying to get her back.’

  ‘Did he mention any names?’

  ‘He called someone this morning. I can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Was it Tony Murphy?’

  ‘That’s him. Sami wanted to arrange a meeting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Ruiz glances around the flat. ‘Does Sami have something Murphy might want?’

  ‘He had a gun.’

  ‘What sort of gun?’

  ‘A black one.’

  It must be the Beretta from the Old Bailey strongroom, Ray Jnr’s gun.

  A police car has pulled up outside. Ruiz gives Kate his card.

  ‘If Sami calls I want you to give him this number. I can’t promise him anything, but if he tells me why he’s doing this, maybe I can help.’

  She takes the card in her hand, presses a soggy tissue against it.

  ‘How are you going to help him?’

  ‘I think Sami is caught up in something that is bigger than he is. He’s trying to get out but he just keeps getting in deeper.’

  The intercom sounds. Ruiz passes two constables on the stairs. Outside, he watches as another train rattles past towards Clapham Junction. Fallen leaves dance in its wake and a grey squirrel dashes up the nearest tree where it freezes, pretending to be a statue.

  This all comes back to the gun, thinks Ruiz. Murphy wanted it stolen, but why? He could be working for Ray Garza or trying to blackmail him or maybe they’re locked in some sort of turf war.

  Murphy was jacking cars to order when still in his teens, stealing off the streets of Dublin, Manchester and London, shipping them to Eastern Europe and North Africa. Garza was in a similar business, moving looted vehicles out of Iraq and Kuwait after the first Gulf War. Maybe they used the same distribution network or bribed the same customs officers and border guards.

  That’s where the similarity ends. Wealthy and well-connected, Garza has turned himself into an establishment figure, while Murphy will always be a gangster no matter how many garden parties he throws.

  In the meantime, Sami Macbeth has disappeared again - abducted violently and perhaps permanently. Maybe his luck finally ran out, thinks Ruiz, although he isn’t convinced. The kid is like Lazarus with a triple heart bypass.

  52

  Sami wakes in a bed almost as soft as the one at the Savoy. The curtains are open. Light spills across the bedspread, lighting up dust-motes that float just out of his reach.

  Sami looks down. He’s naked beneath a blue bathrobe cinched at his waist. Someone has taken his clothes. Getting out of bed, he opens a wardrobe and finds a selection of jeans with a 32-inch waist, along with cotton sweaters in different colours and an oilskin jacket with a fleece lining. Six shoeboxes are stacked on the floor containing Nike trainers, Italian loafers and Oxford brogues - all in Sami’s size.

  Spooky. He tries not to think about it.

  After getting dressed, he goes to the window and opens the curtains. Figures he must be at some sort of country house. The crushed marble driveway circles a fountain and follows a line of oak trees to a stone bridge. In the near distance he can see hedgerows, fields and the outline of farm buildings.

  Double doors open onto the balcony. Sami tries the handle. It opens. He steps outside. A movement catches his eye and he notices a woman riding a horse over jumps with painted poles resting between drums. She’s wearing jodhpurs, a short red jacket and riding hat. Her blonde hair bounces on her back as her buttocks rise and fall in the saddle.

  There is a knock on the door behind him. A maid enters. Her skin is so black it almost has a purple sheen.

/>   ‘Mr Garza wants you to join him in the library for afternoon tea.’

  Sami feels his scrotum tighten as his balls crawl upwards into his body, looking for somewhere safe to hide.

  As he laces up his trainers, he tries to think it through. If Ray Garza had wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Now people have seen him - the maid at least. She’s a witness. And surely Garza wouldn’t give him a choice of clothes if he was going to mess them up with bullet holes.

  Murphy must have called him and said Sami was being difficult about handing over the shooter and the drugs. That’s all right, thinks Sami. He just has to hold his ground. Insist on getting Nadia. There’s no option.

  Opening the bedroom door, he stands on a landing and looks down a marble staircase that is like something from Gone With the Wind before the fire. A chandelier the size of a Mini Cooper hangs above the entrance hall.

  Sami’s trainers squeak as he walks. He should have chosen the loafers.

  A different maid is polishing the foyer with a machine. ‘I’m looking for the library,’ says Sami.

  She points along a corridor and tells him to keep going as far as the ballroom and then turn right. After that it’s the fourth door, just past the billiard room and home theatre.

  Sami stops outside the door. Knocks. Waits. Enters. Nobody seems to be around, but a silver coffee pot is sitting on a tray with cups, saucers and paraphernalia.

  The room is lined with bookshelves that stretch to the ceiling. The upper ones are reachable via a staircase leading to a walkway that skirts three walls and is draped with heraldic flags and pendants.

  Ray Garza emerges from the patio outside, talking on a mobile phone and motioning Sami to take a seat. Garza must be about fifty, but looks good for his age. Tanned. Fit. Dressed in casual trousers, Gucci loafers and a cashmere sweater, he has the relaxed air of someone who knows the value of money because he has a mountain of it.

  He ends the call, looks at Sami, smiles. Teenage acne scars have cratered his cheeks and removed any chance of him being handsome.

  ‘Are you interested in politics, Mr Macbeth?’