by Dc Alden
‘And?’
‘We came up with nothing.’
Josh felt like hitting him again. ‘Thanks for the reminder.’
‘I did a little more digging, sir. I made a request to access TDL’s employee databases, focussing on Security Division records. They’re regularly groomed for security reasons so I had the tape backups retrieved from storage and—’
‘Just get to the point,’ Josh growled.
Ears held out the papers. ‘I got a hit on a zip code. A former military contractor of ours had a transfer facility set up from his TDL payroll account to a bank in the Kingston area. That’s not far from Richmond. I did some more digging; turns out the guy was assigned to Terra Petroleum in Iraq. A James Sullivan, deceased. Frank Marshall wrote the report into his death. It’s all there.’
Josh tore the pages from the man’s fingers. He scanned the text, his heart racing. Sullivan was a Brit, shot while trying to escape the Terra compound. Frank had ordered an investigation into a potential security breach. Holy fucking shit. It rang a bell rang somewhere inside Josh’s head, an incident that occurred while he was on leave Stateside. He checked the dates; Frank had gone AWOL a short time later. He devoured the pages. James Sullivan’s next-of-kin address sang to Josh like a chorus of angels.
‘Get Villiers down here now.’
Back in the war room Josh pulled up a map of southwest London on the big screen. He entered the zip code and zoomed in on a cluster of apartment blocks. Villiers marched in and stood beside him. He squinted at the map.
‘The Fitzroy Estate? What’s this about?’
‘Fresh intel. You know this area?’
‘Vaguely.’
Josh scribbled on a Post-it note. ‘Get surveillance up and running on that address. Do background checks too, occupants, financials, landline, Internet usage.’
‘You think Marshall’s there?’
‘It’s possible. Priority number one is to lock this Fitzroy place down and find out who and what’s going on inside that apartment. Get your guys moving.’
Villiers left the room. The next report Josh filed had to be the one announcing Frank’s death. Failing that, he was a dead man himself.
But part of Josh was intrigued. What business did Frank have with a dead Brit contractor? The guy had been shot and killed while gathering intelligence on Messina. Fast-forward three years and Frank is doing the same thing at Copse Hill. How were they connected? Was Frank a part of it? Is that why he was so fucked up back then?
Josh pondered it for a moment then decided he didn’t care. Whatever business Frank had with Sullivan it had to remain just that, a mystery. Hundreds of contractors had worked on Messina and associated programs over the years. Some had died, victims of accidents, firefights, health issues, so Sullivan’s premature death was not unusual. Except for the circumstances. Sullivan was spying. Frank was a spy. Josh had been tight with Frank for many years. Josh couldn’t—or wouldn’t—find Frank. Go figure.
The can of worms had to be buried deep. He had to locate Frank before the investigators arrived in the UK.
Then he had to kill him.
Fast.
Chapter Eighteen
When Roy got to Sammy’s nightclub the heavy black doors were closed.
He jammed his finger on the intercom button and left it there for a good ten seconds. A voice crackled from the speaker.
‘What?’
Roy peered into the camera lens. ‘I’m here to see Sammy.’
There was a short delay before one of the doors was yanked open. A man motioned him inside. He was rock band thin, with shoulder-length hair and a goatee beard. He wore a retro T-shirt with ‘The Who’ emblazoned across the front. Roy trailed behind him until they reached the stairwell at the back of the club.
‘You know where you’re going?’
Roy nodded.
He puffed upstairs and paused outside Sammy’s office, steeling himself for what was going to be a difficult confrontation. It swung open and Tank gestured him inside with a flick of her braided Mohican.
Sammy was in the far corner of the room, watering a palm with a brass can. He wore jeans and a yellow Ralph Lauren polo shirt, a chunky silver watch hanging like a bracelet around his wrist, no shoes on his feet. When he saw Roy he smiled.
‘There he is. I was wondering how long it’d take before you put it together.’
Tank motioned Roy to raise his arms and gave him a pat down.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ Sammy explained. ‘Emotions running high and all that.’
‘Where’s Max?’
‘He’s safe. For now.’
‘Please, Sammy, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Don’t I?’
Sammy’s tone signalled caution. Riling Derek had been a bad idea. Doing the same to Sammy would prove fatal. He kept his mouth shut as Sammy sat down behind his desk. He leafed through the morning post, inspecting each item as if he were a forensic scientist at a crime scene. Above Sammy’s head, the cold, indifferent eyes of the Fusilier met his own. Roy cleared his throat.
‘Please, Sammy. He’s six years old. He’s very fragile.’
Sammy ignored him. He inspected the contents of several envelopes before leaning back in his chair and eyeing Roy.
‘I had a visitor yesterday, here at the club. He made quite a scene at the door, shouting my name for everyone in a three-fucking-mile radius to hear. Guess who that mystery caller was?’
‘Listen, it wasn’t my—’
Sammy cupped a theatrical hand over his ear. ‘Not your fault? Is that what you were going to say?’
Roy felt the sweat beginning to form under his baseball cap. He whipped it off, cuffed his brow. ‘Derek trashed the flat, Sammy. He wrecked everything, smashed my TV, ripped up all my family pictures, bashed me up. Look at my face, for Christ’s sake. He even took a shit on the floor.’
‘He should’ve charged you for home improvements.’ Sammy shook his head slowly. ‘All you had to do was keep him sweet. Babysit him.’
‘I tried. I did everything you asked. I waited on him hand and foot. Look, I don’t want to get out of line here, Sammy. I know he’s your friend but…’ Roy lowered his voice, as if the man himself was somewhere nearby, watching, listening. ‘Well, the thing is, Derek’s lost it. I mean he’s gone proper nuts. When I tried to stop him walking out he attacked me with a lump of wood. I thought he was going to kill me, Sammy. He lost it because he couldn’t reach me on the phone. You know, the one that Yasin took.’
Roy dropped his eyes, fiddled with the cap in his hands. He’d broached the subject in the only way he knew how, working his story just so he could mention Yasin’s name. Sammy didn’t bat an eyelid. Instead he tossed a brown envelope across the desk.
‘The plan’s changed. Here.’
There was a brand new UK passport inside. Roy flicked to the picture and Derek’s clean-cut image stared back at him, his head and cheeks neatly shaved, clothed in a crisp white shirt and dark tie. A different person entirely.
‘Look, Sammy, I’ll help get Derek out, but I have to get Max back first. Vicky is beside herself with worry, and if I don’t get him back—’
‘You’ll what?’
Roy twisted his cap with sweaty palms. ‘He needs his mum, Sammy. He’ll be terrified, and Vicky’s not a patient person.’
‘Meaning?’
He hesitated, just for a moment. Then he said, ‘If I don’t leave here with Max she’s going to the police.’
He let the words hang there, praying Sammy would think twice.
Across the desk Sammy smiled and shook his head. ‘Now, now, Roy, you of all people should know that threatening me is a very stupid thing to do.’
‘I’m not, Sammy, I swear. All I’m saying is that Vicky’s headstrong. Max is her life.’
‘Well she needs to understand that talking to anyone could be extremely detrimental to her health. A phone call, that’s all it would take. Then one day she’ll come home and there’ll be
a couple of crack heads waiting for her. And they’ll go to work, Roy, big style. They’ll rape her first, that’s a given, every orifice violated. Then they’ll cut her, that lovely face of hers, then her tits, her legs. You know what crack heads are like, Roy, there’re enough of them on the Fitzroy. Animals, for the most part, and they’ll do anything for a rock. So try to imagine what they’ll do for fifty. Or a hundred. And after it’s all over, well, Vicky will be a mess. Physically of course, but more importantly she’ll be head-fucked for life. It’ll never let up either. Once she’s recovered from her ordeal she’ll be followed in the street, felt up on the Tube, spat at, dirty phone calls at home, at work, scumbags ringing her doorbell all hours of the day and night until one day it’ll all be too much for her and—well, I’m sure you get the picture.’
Sammy swivelled back and forth in his chair as he spoke. There was a glint in his eye, a brutal smile twisting the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying himself, Roy realised.
‘And as for that spastic kid of yours, well, I know someone up north who’ll take him off my hands for a few quid. The sort of bloke who gets a hard-on driving by playgrounds. The kid will disappear, Roy. You’ll never see him again, not until you get the call to identify his brutalised little corpse. That’s how it’ll go, if that slag wife of yours goes to the police.’
Roy stood rooted to floor, every vicious word, every horrific promise a slap to his face. He heard Tank sniggering behind him and wondered what sort of person would find any of that funny. He swallowed hard then spoke.
‘Vicky won’t say anything, I promise. Just let me take Max home. Please.’
Sammy swivelled to a stop. ‘Brace yourself for some bad news.’
Roy felt the blood drain from his face. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Calm down,’ Sammy grinned. ‘The kid’s fine. The thing is, I haven’t got him. Derek has.’
It took Roy a moment to digest what Sammy had just told him. ‘Derek?’
‘That’s right. Insurance, he said. Insisted I hand your boy over. For some reason he’s a bit concerned that you might not hold up your end of the bargain. Actually, the arrangement suits me. I didn’t want the kid drooling all over the Persian anyway.’
Roy heard Tank laugh again. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s holed up with some friends out near the airport, ready for his big getaway.’
‘Where?’
‘A travellers’ site in Iver.’
Roy’s stomach lurched. ‘A gypsy camp?’
‘Correct. A smart move as far as Derek’s concerned. No one likes gypsies. Everyone gives them a wide berth, including the law.’ A phone on Sammy’s desk warbled softly. He checked the display, muted the ring. ‘Derek knows ’em from way back. I know their top boy by reputation, a bloke called Jim Connor—Big Jim Connor, to give him his full title. Used to be a champion bare-knuckle fighter, ran a lot of nightclub doors in Berkshire. Huge fucker, wild too. And therein lies the problem.’
Sammy tapped a finger on his desk.
‘I can’t afford to have a disgruntled Derek knocking about with Connor for the next few days, getting liquored up and gobbing off about me and my business. The fact is, if Jim gets a sniff of opportunity the first place he’ll head for is here, and I can’t go to war with that lot, you understand me, Roy? So I told Derek that everything was ready. The plan’s on for tonight.’
Sammy’s words faded. All Roy could think of was Max, surrounded by strangers, becoming more withdrawn with each passing hour, desperate for his mother, for anyone who knew him and loved him. Maybe even Roy.
He glanced at his watch; almost eleven. Max had been gone for two hours already. ‘So what happens now?’
Sammy grinned. ‘Enthusiasm, I like it. You’ll pick Derek up tonight—’
‘Tonight? No, that’s—’
‘Shut your mouth. When you get to the camp, give Derek his passport and tell him that the ticket and boarding pass are waiting at Heathrow. Then you’ll take him to meet Tank at the Holiday Inn near Heathrow. It’s the one right on the M4 junction. When you get there, drop Derek off outside then drive to the furthest, darkest spot in the car park and wait. Derek will go to Tank’s room, take a shower, and change into fresh clothes…’
Roy’s head was starting to throb again, a dull ache at the back of his skull. Maybe he was hurt after all. He should probably go to the hospital, but that could wait. Max needed him. He heard Sammy’s voice, refocused.
‘Once Derek is presentable Tank will escort him to the car. Derek will sit in the front, next to you. You’ll start the engine, and when Derek fastens his seatbelt, that’ll be the signal.’
‘What signal?’
‘The signal for Tank to strangle our little friend to death. Once he’s departed this world Tank will tell you where you need to go. Questions?’
Roy stared at Sammy, expecting a laugh, a smile, anything to indicate it was a joke. But he knew it wasn’t.
‘You’re going to kill him?’
‘Like you said, Derek’s become a liability.’ Sammy kicked a bare foot onto the desk and scratched his sole. ‘I thought the midnight phone calls were a bit weird at first. Then it was every night, rambling for hours on end. After smashing your place up and reaching out to Connor and his crew, I’ve decided enough is enough. There’ll be no tearful farewell. No flying off into the sunset.’
Sammy swung his foot off the desk.
‘The fact is, Derek isn’t the man I once knew. Sooner or later that crazy fucker will get himself nicked, and when he does he’ll be staring down the barrel of a sentence that’ll probably see him off this earth. He won’t like that. He’ll do a deal, start talking. And I can’t have that, Roy. In any case, the ticket and boarding pass proved to be a bridge too far, even for a man of my means. Fucking Muslims, eh? Bottom line is, Derek’s got to go.’
Roy stood in stunned silence. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, he didn’t recognise the sound of his own voice. ‘You want me to take part in a murder?’
‘You’re just driving. Tank will do the wet work.’
‘I can’t do it.’
‘Course you can. You’ve done it before.’
Roy frowned, baffled by Sammy’s response.
‘Don’t be modest, Roy. Here, let me remind you.’
Sammy opened a drawer and produced a clear Ziploc bag. He held it up, like a goldfish won at a fairground. Roy stared at the blood-smeared plastic, at Jimmy’s infantry knife inside, his iPhone. ‘That’s your workmate’s claret all over that blade. Bit of your DNA too, I’d imagine. Derek found it when he first got there, stuffed under your mattress. Gave him a good laugh. He told me about it, so I thought I’d take it, just in case it came in handy one day. It certainly did the job on your mate. And your phone, full of pictures of the airport. Gonna be tough to explain all that away.’
‘You didn’t have to kill him.’
Sammy dropped the bag back into the desk drawer. ‘He was a threat.’
‘He had a family, kids—’
‘Boo-fucking-hoo. Besides, he was blackmailing you. The fuck do you care?’
Roy wilted into a chair. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Even Jesus won’t save you if you balls this up. Here.’ He tossed a key fob across the desk. ‘Your wheels for tonight. Pick it up from here. ID is in the glove box.’
Roy took the Post-it note from Sammy’s hand. ‘What about Max?’
‘You stay focused on Derek. I’ll text you the postcode of the gypsy site later, and some flight details. Derek’s bound to ask for that. You can sort the kid out tomorrow.’
Roy came off the chair. ‘Max won’t last the night. He’ll be traumatised already. I’m begging you, please, just tell them to let Max go with—’
‘Fuck your kid!’ Sammy barked. ‘You’ve never given a shit before. Now you want to be Father of the Year? You fucking hypocrite.’ Sammy’s face flushed red, the sinews of his neck like rope. ‘You fuck this up, Roy, any of it, and it’s over. For you, the
slag reporter, and the spastic. From now on you’re going to do exactly what I tell you, without question. Got it?’
Roy nodded.
‘Good. Get the fuck out.’
Roy headed for the door without another word. He was back on the street in less than a minute, grateful to be out in the fresh air. It did little to stem the panic building in his chest. How would he tell Vicky that Max was being held prisoner in a gypsy camp? That they wouldn’t get their little boy back for another twenty-four hours, maybe more? What he’d told Sammy was true; a trauma like this could send Max so deep he may never resurface.
Once he told Vicky, she would go to the police. That was a certainty.
Roy headed for the bus stop that would take him north over Putney Bridge. The clock was ticking. He needed to get home, change into his uniform, then get round to Vicky’s and break the news. From that point on they’d both be in uncharted territory, but the only thing that mattered now was Max.
He boarded a bus and took a seat upstairs as it rumbled over the bridge. He looked down at the choppy grey waters of the River Thames and considered his options. Sammy, Derek, Connor and his gypsies; he was no match for people like that, and he certainly couldn’t go to the police. That meant he had no options. He’d be locked into Sammy forever, the constant threat of buried bodies and bloodied knives hanging over his head. Maybe it’d be better if he was nicked, but Roy realised that the ordeal would simply continue in prison. He remembered the pictures Sammy had showed him, his unknown drinking companions, villains, ex-cons, whatever they were. In or out of prison, Sammy would find him, would send men like that after him.
He squeezed against the window as a rotund woman laden with shopping bags dropped into the seat next to him. Come the dawn he’d be tied to two murders. His life was floating in the toilet bowl with Sammy’s hand on the chain. Things couldn’t get any worse, but the strange thing was, Roy didn’t care.
All he could think of was little Max, held captive in a squalid gypsy camp, alone, terrified. Desperate.
Roy would gladly kill them all to get him back.
Chapter Nineteen