by Dc Alden
Roy swallowed hard.
‘It can’t be done, Sammy. You’re talking about Heathrow airport, armed coppers, CCTV, metal detectors—’
‘I told you before, you need to bypass all that shit. Derek’s a wanted man. Can’t have him waltzing through customs.’ One of Sammy’s phones warbled softly. He scooped it up, ended the call.
‘I can’t just hold a door open and let him in. He’d need a kosher ID card, a security swipe. Those doors are monitored.’
‘That’s your problem. You’ve already screwed things up by failing to mention the dealer and now I’ve got an uber-paranoid Derek on my case twenty-four seven. I can’t have the aggravation, Roy. Just get it done.’
Roy could see it now, the two of them walking through the terminal, the Scot wheeling a large suitcase behind him, the drum of boots, the barked orders to freeze—
‘All due respect, Sammy, I don’t think you understand the security involved. Why can’t you get him out another way? A seaport, a private airfield or something. Why Heathrow?’
‘It’s all about who you know,’ Sammy explained. ‘For example, I know you, my man on the inside. Derek knows a man in Dubai, one who’s got bent officials on his payroll and will help him disappear. You’re right, we could get him out a dozen other ways, but the more checks he goes through the more chance he stands of getting caught. Derek wants to get to Dubai in one easy hop, not wander around Europe like a fucking student on a gap year.’
‘But even if I got him airside, how will he get on a plane? He’ll need a passport, a valid boarding pass and ticket—’
‘That’s being taken care of.’
‘If he’s got a clean passport he could go through check-in like everyone else.’
‘He can’t. He’s taking cash with him, a lot of it, plus some other bits and pieces. Anyway, none of that is your concern. You’ve got the credentials, a backstage pass to the whole fucking terminal. All you need to worry about is getting him to the gate.’
Roy’s skin prickled with fear. His face felt paler than the sour-faced Fusilier hanging behind Sammy’s head. ‘Please don’t make me do this, Sammy. I don’t want to go to jail—’
Sammy slammed his hand on the desk. ‘Stop your fucking whining. I know a mob over in Feltham making a fortune ripping off cargo out of Heathrow, so don’t tell me that place is like Fort Knox. It’s wide open.’
‘Why don’t you use them?’ Roy pleaded.
Sammy shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, you really do go out of your way to avoid responsibility, don’t you? To answer your question, those Feltham boys are Indians, all good lads, but Derek wouldn’t trust them and quite frankly neither would I. So, now I know your piece-of-shit neighbour is dealing, it’s time to move the plan up a gear.’
‘Can’t you just lean on him? Dwayne, I mean.’
Sammy shook his head. ‘Kids don’t listen these days, especially the blacks. Right, Tank?’
‘Right,’ she echoed behind Roy.
‘It’s a cultural thing. They revel in all that American gang bullshit, guns and hoes, get rich or die trying. Getting nicked is a lifestyle choice for those idiots, so no, I won’t be having words with your mate Dwayne. Here.’ He rapped a long, thin paper tube on the desk and handed it Roy. ‘These are architectural plans of Terminal Three, including all the airside spaces. Derek’s a stickler for detail. It’ll give him something to focus on.’
Sammy picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Roy sat rooted to his chair, weighing the drawing in his hands. When he spoke his mouth was so dry he had to force the words out. ‘Listen, Sammy, I want to help, really, but I just don’t think it’s possible.’
Sammy finished off his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He took a long slug of mineral water and screwed the cap back on.
‘I know what you mean, Roy, but it’s not about you anymore. I know your ex hates your guts—the kid would too if he had a brain instead of a walnut—but they’re the only family you’ve got left. I’m guessing you’ve still got a soft spot for them, am I right?’
Sammy flipped a photograph across the desk. It was a colour ten by eight of Vicky and Max, a recent one, mother and son sat at a table eating lunch in a busy shopping mall. Vicky was toying with her phone while Max was absorbed in a colouring book, a fat crayon grasped in his chubby fist, sandwich cartons and balled up napkins on the table between them.
‘That’s a nice shot,’ Sammy observed. ‘Just the two of them, enjoying a bit of lunch. Take a good look.’
Roy frowned, studied the photograph again. He saw Tank seated behind them, sucking on the straw of a soft drink, her soulless eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He dropped the photo back on the desk as if it were burning his fingers.
‘Need I say more?’ Sammy snatched at the photo, his suntanned face darkening. ‘I’ll take her life apart, piece by piece. That job of hers at the West London Herald? Gone. Maxi’s posh school, the one you don’t pay for? I’ll make sure the kid gets turfed out. And the Yank boyfriend, the banker? Once I’m finished he’ll drop Vicky like she was a crack addict with AIDS.’ Sammy raised an eyebrow. ‘What, you think I wouldn’t know? Silly boy. Bottom line is, you fuck things up and your family’s lives go down the toilet. And trust me, I’ll make sure that Vicky knows it’s your hand pulling the chain.’
Sammy leaned back in his chair and swung his feet up onto the desk, expensive brown loafers and no socks.
Roy was rooted to his seat, frozen by the weight of Sammy’s threats. He tried to open his mouth to speak but failed.
‘What is this, Madame Tussauds? Get the fuck out.’
Roy flinched as Tank pulled him out of the chair. She walked him downstairs. Roy was oblivious to the music, the clamour of the club. Outside on the pavement he gulped the sharp night air like a beached fish. He saw Tank lean into a taxi window, hold the back door open, gesture to Roy with a scowl. Roy climbed in, a fifty-pound note thrust into one hand, the drawings in the other.
He stared out of the window as the cab motored back along the A3 towards Kingston, seeing nothing other than the desperation of his situation. This was karma, plain and simple. He’d cursed Vicky for her ambition, Max for his physical and emotional detachment. Now, because of Roy, their lives were threatened. And they were good lives too, decent, shaped by patience, love and hard work, the very traits that Roy had lacked or discarded, his inadequacies masked by the futile quest for his brother.
If Roy failed and Sammy made good on his threats then Vicky’s life would come apart. And she would know why, her final judgement of Roy complete, the sentence eternal. In his mind’s eye he could see Jimmy shaking his head.
Jesus, Roy, what a mess.
Roy squeezed his eyes closed to blot out the image of his brother’s mocking smile. ‘Leave me alone,’ he whispered. ‘You’re dead.’
The cab driver glanced in the rear view mirror. ‘You say something, mate?’
Roy shook his head. It was the first time he’d said it aloud, and he felt ashamed. He reached for the drawing, twisted the thin tube in his hands. If he couldn’t go back then he had to move forward. He needed Derek gone, the debt to Sammy repaid, before Vicky and Max could be free. Maybe then Roy could start his life over again.
And when he did it would be far away from the Fitzroy, from Kingston, and from everything he knew.
Chapter Ten
Josh drummed his fingers on the conference table, trying and failing to calm his mounting frustration. Alone in the basement war room he decided to give vent to it, cursing loudly and swatting a pile of reports onto the rubber-tiled floor.
A week had passed and the trail had run cold. Beeton had burned up the secure line, berating Josh as if he were some slack-jawed cherry, threatening to pull him if he couldn’t get the job done. Josh had assured him he could, that Frank would be located soon, but Josh’s words had sounded hollow. His early confidence had waned, in the mission, in his own ability. Sleep evaded him.
Frank Marshall was a ghost.
/> The deep background check had turned up nothing. The Chiswick CCTV had been treble-checked, so unless aliens had abducted Frank, he must’ve boarded a bus. They had some partials pulled off routes that ended in places called Hounslow, Kingston and Ealing, but the stills were inconclusive; nondescript clothing, a pale sliver of a cheek here, a shadowy face there. And if Frank had picked a bus here the cameras were screwed, well, that was needle and haystack territory. If that was the case Josh was fucked.
He studied the partials again, four of them, pinned to the giant board that covered an entire wall of the war room. His eye kept returning to one in particular, a grainy image of an individual tucked into a corner seat on a bus. He wore dark clothing, his face hidden by a large black woman in front of him for much of the journey, or buried in a newspaper for the rest. The footage was poor quality, the camera hood scratched and smeared by kids with keys and knives and fat felt marker pens. It could be anybody, but Josh kept coming back to it anyway. In the past he would have trusted his instincts, but with Beeton breathing down his neck he had to be sure. Wild goose chases were not advisable.
Josh ducked under the table and scooped up the mess of his frustration. Villiers loomed in the doorway.
‘We might have something.’ The Brit held up a sheaf of paper.
Josh clambered to his feet. ‘What’s that?’
‘An incident report, suspected gang fight in Twickenham a couple of days ago. There were several casualties.’
‘So?’
‘It was one against six. The six came off worst.’
Josh snatched the report from Villiers’ hand. The casualties had suffered a variety of wounds, lacerations and broken bones, but nothing life threatening. A surgical strike.
‘Witnesses?’
‘One.’ Villiers handed him another sheet of paper. ‘That’s her statement.’
Josh skimmed it. His heart beat fast.
‘Show me exactly where this happened.’
Villiers pointed to a spot on the wall map. ‘Right here. A thirty-minute drive, give or take.’
Josh traced the nearby bus route overlay. It wasn’t far from the scene of the brawl. ‘Tell the guys to saddle up. Meet me in the parking lot in five.’
He crossed the corridor to the command suite. Eyes and Ears were there, crabbing around on wheeled chairs in front of a dizzying array of communications and surveillance systems that stretched the length of the basement. He slapped the incident report down on a table.
‘This just came in. Feed key words into SENTRY, get them red flagged.’
‘Already done. We’re also patched in to law enforcement comms and local municipal CCTV.’
‘Is the short wave up?’
‘Affirmative. Encrypted handsets are in their chargers by the basement door.’
‘Good work, guys.’
Josh turned on his heel. Five minutes later Villiers was steering one of the Audis along the Fulham Road. Behind Josh, two of his contractors rode shotgun, Glock automatics beneath their jackets. The other two Audis followed behind, staggered in traffic. Beyond the windshield it was a clear day, sunny and fresh. It felt good to be doing something.
Villiers was almost right; it took just over thirty minutes to get to Twickenham. The housing project was a collection of scruffy dwellings and dead-end streets, with peeling paint and trash cans that spewed crap across the pavements. Police tape twirled in the wind across one street. A patrol car loitered nearby. Josh radioed the other Audis to keep their distance. Villiers pulled into the kerb. He got out, had a brief conversation with the police officer, then climbed back inside the Audi.
‘Forensics are almost done and inquiries have reached a dead end. They’re keen to notch it up to gang violence.’
Josh nodded. ‘Let’s go see our witness.’
He climbed out, ordering the contractors to stay put. The property stood out from its neighbours. New windows, swept pathway, a few tubs of flowers arranged around a neatly tiled front garden. Villiers went to the door and flapped the letterbox. The door opened on a chain, a round black face peering around the gap.
‘Yes?’
Villiers held up his warrant card. ‘Mrs Kalu? Can we can have a word?’
She scraped the chain back and invited them in. Josh took a look around. Everything was clean and citrus fresh, the small living room decorated with black leather furniture. On the walls, African masks carved in wood competed for space with several photographs of beaming young men and women in colourful tribal clothes. Another framed picture of two young boys in green blazers stood in pride of place on a sideboard. She offered them tea. They declined.
‘We’d like to discuss what you saw the other day,’ Villiers said.
‘I made a statement.’
‘Did you know any of the kids that were hurt?’
The woman nodded. ‘One of them. He lives with his mother a few doors down. Always hanging around with some other boys. Always trouble.’ She almost whispered those last words, as if they could be heard through the walls.
‘You work at home, is that right?’
‘Yes. I’m a bookkeeper.’
Josh looked around. ‘Where do you work? Upstairs?’
The woman stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘You’re American.’
‘This case may have international implications,’ Villiers explained.
‘Is that why you’re here? Because the man they attacked was American too?’
Josh’s heart beat a little faster. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I heard him speak. A churchgoer.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am?’
‘Come. Follow me.’
She led the way up the stairs, her huge bottom swaying in front of them, puffing loudly as she reached the landing. A small bedroom had been converted into an office, with a desk beneath the window. A dated computer and printer squatted on top. There was a grey metal filing cabinet against one wall and another small table piled high with folders and spread sheets.
‘It gets a bit stuffy in here, with the computer, so every now and then I open the window.’
Josh peered through the blinds, over the Kalus’ well-kept garden to the cul-de-sac behind the houses.
‘I heard the cars first, racing down the street. There was a lot of shouting. They had that poor man surrounded, like an animal. It happened very fast after that.’
‘What did he say?’ Josh wanted to know.
‘He warned them, told them they would get hurt, but they seemed determined to harm him. I was very scared. After it was over he spoke to one of the injured ones. I heard him say something about evil, about the Lord. Then he hurt him again.’
Josh smiled. That was Frank, for sure. He reached inside his jacket for the photograph, Frank passing through Terminal Three at Heathrow. ‘Is this the man you saw?’
Mrs Kalu traced a finger across the image. ‘Yes, that’s him. His hair is much darker, but it’s definitely him. Is he a bad man?’
‘The worst,’ Josh confirmed.
‘My God, what has he done?’
‘Unspeakable things—’ Josh noticed a dog-eared photograph of the Kalu boys in shorts and T-shirts stuck on the computer screen. ‘—mostly to children.’
‘Which way did he go?’ asked Villiers.
The woman jabbed the air with her finger. ‘Like I told the other policeman, he went down the alleyway, at the end of the street. That’s the last I saw of him. Running like the wind.’
‘Where does that lead?’
‘Another street. There’s nothing much between here and the river, just houses. If you want to get to the shops or the buses you have to go the other way.’
‘The river?’ Josh echoed.
‘Yes. Over that way.’ She pointed again.
Josh smiled. ‘Thanks. You’ve been a great help.’
He took the stairs two at a time. The hunt was on again and Josh felt the thrill of the chase. He had a shot now, something to aim at, and suddenly that obscure partial on
the wall of the war room made sense. It was Frank. He made a call to the house in Chelsea, fired his orders down the line—concentrate on Partial Two, find out where he got off the bus then trace his movements via CCTV.
Villiers got behind the wheel of the Audi and they circled the block until they found the alleyway. It didn’t take them long to find the footbridge over the river. Josh and Villiers got out and crossed to the towpath on the opposite bank. It was quiet, Josh noted. The towpath was empty in both directions, bordered by a thin strip of woodland. At night this place would be very dark and very deserted. Frank would’ve scoped this route out for sure.
‘You reckon he came this way?’ Villiers asked.
‘No CCTV cameras between here and the site of the brawl, good access across the river, low foot traffic. Almost certainly.’
Villiers pointed to a cluster of lights in the distance. ‘That’s Richmond up there. An American tourist would fit right in. Lots of hotels and guesthouses, good transport links to the city. Heathrow too.’
‘If he was here he would’ve skipped town by now. Check all the local cameras. And do your thing with the hotels, find out where Frank stayed. We need to get inside his head, work through the problems a man like him would face in staying off grid. I need scenarios and options and I need them fast.’
‘Got it.’ Villiers was already speed-dialling a number on his phone.
‘Pick me up in town.’
Josh needed to think, so he started walking towards the distant bridge at Richmond. At least he had something to report to Beeton now. He checked his watch as he neared the bridge; almost six o’clock. It was getting dark and lights glowed from buildings overlooking the river.
The town centre was busy with shoppers and commuters. Traffic crawled. Streetlights popped on. Josh backed into the shadow of shop doorway. He watched the crowds, trying to locate Frank, knowing it was futile. The man would be long gone by now, destination unknown, but Josh had a feeling he wouldn’t be far away. Frank had come to Richmond for a reason. He had business across the river in Twickenham, maybe somewhere else close by. He would order a thorough evaluation of the area; sensitive installations, key personnel, addresses, phone numbers. There had to be a link somewhere.