by Tom Bale
tragedy, if something serious was going on over there.
Of course, Joe could tell them who he was. As a former detective
sergeant his word might carry slightly more weight. That was, until
they made the inevitable inquiries and learned more about his career
history.
Putting his head above the parapet now would have all sorts of
consequences, none of them positive.
Whichever way he looked at it, Joe was on his own.
Twenty-Six
They assembled in Dreamscape’s grand hall: Liam, Priya, Turner,
Eldon and Manderson. Allotti had unloaded and activated the mobile
phone jammer, a four-hundred-watt unit capable of blocking signals
within a half-mile radius. Then he took the Explorer and drove to the
landline junction box, which was situated on the roadside just north
of the Nasenko house.
Standing on the stairs, Liam ran through the details one more
time.
'In this phase, we concentrate on securing each property. That
means accounting for everyone. You make a quick but careful search
of the house and grounds. Collect up any mobile phones to give to
Allotti. Priya and Turner stay to guard their respective prisoners, while
Eldon and Manderson join me to take Nasenko. Okay?’
There were nods, grunts. An exaggerated yawn from Turner.
'Remember, no unnecessary force. Just what it takes to subdue
them.’ Liam waited out the inevitable sarcasm. 'And at this stage, you
remove nothing. Not cash, not jewellery: nothing. You leave the place
exactly as you find it until Eldon completes an inventory. Anyone
caught helping themselves . . .’ He looked at each of them in turn.
'The penalty will be severe. Understood?’
Liam’s radio vibrated against his hip. The sign he had been waiting
for.
He checked his watch. It was two minutes to eight. 'Okay. Phones are out. Let’s do it.’
Joe edged back up to the lip of the ridge and crawled along until he
found a shallow groove in the path. He slipped off his trainers and
tied the laces together, then looped them round his neck. His knife,
keys and coins would survive the journey, but he wasn’t so sure about
his mobile phone. As a precaution he removed the battery and put it
in a different pocket.
On the bridge the two men were walking towards each other. They
converged on the far side of the van and were hidden from view. That
was Joe’s cue to move.
He descended the shingle bank, conscious of the noise of the stones
crunching underfoot and the low sun throwing out long shadows. He
made it to the shore within seconds and slipped into the water, not
even pausing to see if he’d been spotted.
The sea was cold enough to make him gasp. Once soaked, his shirt
and jeans began to drag against him. He wondered if he should have
ditched them, even if it would take some explaining when he got across.
He focused on a point on the island’s eastern flank, perhaps three
quarters of a mile away. For about half that distance he would be
plainly visible from the bridge. By employing a gentle breast stroke
he hoped to minimise the disturbance to the surface of the water.
He swam, knowing that he had little choice but to do this. Besides
the need to confront Valentin, besides his concerns for the island’s
residents, there was another reason why Joe couldn’t just turn away
from Terror’s Reach.
Almost everything he possessed was on that island. His passports,
his credit cards and cash, and most precious of all, the photographs
of his daughters. Those pictures were all he had left; the only remaining
link to his past life. No matter what was going on here, or what might
happen in the future, he had to get them back.
The fire had been a disappointment. Oliver was sadly out of practice.
The porn magazine just blackened and shrivelled to nothing.
His father’s jacket melted in places, but otherwise refused to burn.
And the brandy fumes made him want to retch.
Probably for the best, though. The abortive blaze was fizzling out
when Oliver realised he should have shut off the smoke alarm. The
house was equipped with an elaborate fire detection system, but when
he typed in the code to deactivate it, a message flashed up on the display: INCORRECT.
Oliver swore softly. His father must have changed the code, no
doubt a reaction to Rachel’s extended stay in New York. It confirmed
a long-held suspicion that his sister was employed to keep an eye on
him. He wasn’t trusted to live here alone.
Bored, he’d roamed the house for a while. He even considered
whether he ought to phone for a car and go to Oxford after all. He’d
be a few hours late, and would have to dream up a convincing reason
for retracting his earlier excuse, but it wasn’t impossible.
Except that, on reflection, it seemed like too much effort. Easier
to stay where he was. Easier to stay and watch.
For sustenance, Oliver took a bottle of Coke and a bag of tortilla
chips up to the attic room. After cautiously checking the view, he
decided he could risk another stint on the telescope. He studied what
he could see of Dreamscape’s grounds, then concentrated on the upper
windows, but saw nothing of interest.
He drank some Coke, grazed on the tortilla chips, and waited. The
idea of sneaking next door retained a nagging appeal, like an itch
when you’re too tired to move.
Maybe later. After dark.
And then, in an act of wondrous fate, she appeared right in front
of him. Back at the same window as before, where she knew without
question that he could see her.
It was a masterful performance. She was teasing, seductive, brilliantly
entertaining. She would drift languorously in and out of view,
disrobing slowly, item by item. Sometimes she turned her back on
him, as when she tackled the clasp of her bra, bending and leaning
as it dropped away and a glimpse of heavy breast swayed into sight.
And it was all for Oliver’s benefit.
The tension was maddening, and glorious. She wanted him. There
was no other explanation.
Or was there?
The idea was like a shard of ice driven through his skull. That this could
be an elaborate prank: something you’d encounter on a cheap reality
TV show. If so, it could only be his father who had masterminded it.
Oliver let out a sob and flung himself to the floor. Hastily rearranging
his clothes, he curled into a tight ball and peeked out at a
world turned alien and hostile. He stared for long minutes at the
ceiling, seeking out the dark traitorous eye of a camera.
Eventually the panic receded. He climbed to his feet and conducted
a fingertip search of the room. He found nothing. He used the telescope
to inspect Dreamscape’s side elevation. That too was free of
hidden cameras.
Not a practical joke, then.
The relief was extraordinary, and it was celebrated with a burst of
sound. The intercom.
He stumbled down the stairs, as jerky on his feet as a newborn foal.
Elation fou
ght with a desperate lingering fear. It could still be a hoax.
It could still be some cruel game of his father’s.
But when he looked at the monitor, a cry escaped him. A cry of
sheer unadulterated joy.
It was the woman. She had come back to him.
This time he couldn’t ignore her. The question of self-denial never
entered his head.
He pressed the button to open the gates.
At first Joe kept his head low, his eyeline barely above the surface of
the water. The priority was to avoid being noticed by the men on the
bridge; navigating a precise route could wait till he was closer to the
island.
After a minute he looked towards the Reach to get his bearings. It
wasn’t there.
He experienced a moment of pure bewilderment. Instinctively he
kicked his legs, pushing his head further out of the water. Instead of
being straight ahead, the island was a couple of hundred yards to his
right. He’d drifted way off course in a matter of seconds.
Not drifted. He was being carried by the currents. Normally he swam
from the island’s southern shore, so he’d forgotten about the treacherous
current that ran through the narrow channel between the mainland and
the northern tip of the island.
A gentle breaststroke was no longer an option. To have any chance
of getting through the channel he would have to swim a fast, powerful
crawl, increasing the risk that the men guarding the bridge would spot
him.
Joe had been a good swimmer since childhood, and had always
preferred the sea to swimming pools. Now he had to rely on his
strength and technique to make it across. With every kick of his legs,
every sweep of his arms, he could feel the current working against
him, dragging him away from the island. He was moving sideways
almost as quickly as he moved forward. Only by swimming at full
strength, with no let-up, could he hope to make it across.
Joe shut out all sensation and focused purely on the reasons he was
doing this. For Cassie. For Angela Weaver. For his daughters.
Twenty-Seven
The gate opened. On the monitor, Oliver watched the beautiful Asian
woman move past the camera. She was wearing some kind of utilitarian
black outfit; not particularly revealing. Perhaps she’d had to dress
demurely to avoid arousing the suspicions of the men in the house
with her.
Oliver swallowed, his mouth as dry as sawdust. He moved towards
the front door, knowing he could still change his mind.
But his hand seemed to act independently of his brain, deftly
unlocking the door. There was no going back now. The important
thing was that he should keep control of his feelings, as well as his
actions. He made a vow: No inappropriate behaviour.
By the time he opened the door the woman had crossed the driveway
with startling haste. In the flesh, she was a magnificent sight, even
clad in what looked like workmen’s overalls. Curious, he thought. A
fetish of some kind?
'Hello,’ she said. Her voice was deeper than he expected, with a
certain husky promise. You’re Oliver, aren’t you? Oliver Felton?’
He nodded. He couldn’t speak.
She held out her hand. 'My name’s Priya. It’s a thrill to meet you.’
Oliver swallowed again. The word thrill rattled around his head
like a ball bearing in a pinball machine.
You too,’ he managed. He reached out and took the woman’s hand,
aware that his own was damp and trembling. The moment of contact
would reveal just how grossly unsophisticated he was. He imagined
her pulling free and turning away, revolted by his touch.
But she didn’t. She held him in a firm grip and stepped closer,
looking deep into his eyes. The scent of her body made his head swim.
Her lips came together and formed what he felt sure were the beginnings
of a kiss.
Their first kiss. Soft and tender, or hard and hungry. Either way, it
would be a spectacular milestone. The first woman he hadn’t bought
outright.
But Priya didn’t kiss him.
She punched him in the stomach.
Angela Weaver almost missed the sound of the doorbell. Brel was
loping around the back garden, barking at the gulls as they swooped
low over the house: a game she would swear both parties played for
the sheer pleasure of it.
Besides, callers were few and far between on the Reach. Those who
did come here usually announced their arrival well in advance, often
phoning for directions in a mild panic as they negotiated the narrow
winding road through the nature reserve. Surely an island with such
fabulous homes couldn’t be so far from anywhere?
There was another explanation for the lack of visitors, of course.
She knew all too well that neither she nor Donald made for enthralling
company these days. No one in their right mind wanted to risk the
possible contagion of the House of Sorrow and Fury.
It wasn’t until the cheerful trilling of the bell died out that Angela
properly responded to the sound. She had just finished washing up from
dinner – they had a dishwasher but rarely accumulated enough dirty
crockery to justify using it – when Donald called from the living room.
'Who on earth can that be?’
You could always answer it and find out, she thought, an uncharitable
response that later she would regret.
She dried her hands on a tea towel and hurried to the front door.
Through the frosted-glass panel she could see the outline of a man’s
head and upper body.
As she opened the door she heard movement in the next room:
that would be Donald making himself decent. He was a martyr to
trapped wind, and after a meal had an irritating tendency to sit with
his trousers undone, massaging his lower abdomen.
Angela opened the door and gave a start. What she saw defied logic.
For a moment it seemed as though the man had remained a silhouette
rather than becoming three-dimensional. Then she identified a
pair of narrow, rheumy eyes and understood he was wearing a full
face mask.
There was a cry from the living room: Donald must have gone to
the window. He was shouting at her to shut the door, but even while
she struggled to process the message another masked figure darted
into view, pushing past her and into the house.
Angela turned, making an ineffectual bid to stop him. She heard
a scrabbling on the tiled kitchen floor as Brel raced towards them. He
reached the hall, snarling with a ferocity that made him unrecognisable.
Before he could attack, the man lifted his arm, revealing an ugly
black pistol with a silencer. He fired twice, and Angela’s beloved
Labrador collapsed with an audible and very human-sounding groan.
For a full second no one moved. No one spoke.
Then Donald was in the doorway, his face bloodless and contorted
with shock. The gunman shifted, training the weapon on him. Donald
glanced at it, tried to say something, but all that emerged was a cry
of incoherent rage. Angela saw a madness light up his eyes, a madness
fuelled by two years of bitter, unrelenting grief at the death of their
son.
The gunman growled a warning, but Donald didn’t hear it. Didn’t
hear it or didn’t care. He threw himself forward and swung a fist at
the man. Angela screamed, but the other intruder grabbed her by the
throat, pinning her to the spot.
'Stupid fucker . . .’ The gunman batted away Donald’s first blow,
but he kept coming, baring his teeth, swinging his fists like a drunken
barroom brawler. He wasn’t going to back down, no matter what sort
of threats they made. He was way beyond reason, way beyond self
preservation.
The gunman fired at point-blank range. One bullet, straight into
Donald’s heart. The furious light in his eyes still blazed as his legs
gave way and he collapsed, his brain not yet comprehending that it
was over. All the pain and loss and sorrow, finally ended.
Priya worked out with an almost religious fervour. Boxing was a major
part of her fitness regime. She was proud of the power she could
impart, and the extent to which it took her opponents by surprise.
Oliver Felton didn’t stand a chance. A stranger to exercise, he was
tall and lanky, with a mop of curly brown hair and pale blotchy skin.
He probably weighed a little more than Priya, but had a fraction of
her muscle tone.
She watched the lust on his face fade and die like an overpriced
firework. When the punch landed he staggered back and fell, crying
out as the impact jarred his coccyx. He was wearing expensive but
unfashionable jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, buttoned tightly
at the wrists and throat. She realised why when she felt the air conditioning
working at full blast, cold enough to make her flinch.
Priya glanced round. Eldon was through the gate and sprinting
across the drive. He had his ski mask on, and he was holding a Glock
pistol at his side. That made her nervous. Eldon was about as much
a shooter as Oliver was a fighter.
He reached the front door and slowed, panting noisily through the
mask. Earlier he’d queried why she wasn’t using hers.
'No point,’ she’d said. 'We have history.’
Now he took in Oliver Felton, sitting dumbstruck and almost tearful
on the floor, and regarded her with admiration.
'Wow. I thought we’d have to get past all sorts of alarms and stuff.’
'No. Just him.’ She looked to Oliver for confirmation. Anyone else