Spare Me the Truth: An explosive, high octane thriller (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  He turned his head to look at her. Twin shiny black pebbles, appraising. ‘But you would have been safer, with people around.’

  She already knew she was potentially in more danger by meeting him on her own, but it still didn’t stop the bolt of terror that shot through her. Had his client told him to kill her once she’d transferred the money?

  He didn’t seem to need a response. He turned back to his laptop and tapped his keyboard. A window opened. He typed in another password.

  ‘I don’t know if that makes you brave,’ he said, ‘or stupid.’

  Unsure how to respond, she kept quiet.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked. He sounded genuinely interested.

  ‘Both,’ she managed.

  He nodded. ‘You’re probably right.’

  More taps on his keyboard.

  Grace watched him, then gathered her courage. She said, ‘You never said why my mother owed your client this money.’

  He glanced at her as though deliberating whether to answer her or not. Then he said, ‘She sold my client a defective product. This product only partially worked during a recent demonstration, rendering it useless. My client wanted his money back.’

  ‘What product?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ He turned back to his computer. ‘If you wouldn’t mind transferring the money now.’

  As he’d said, it didn’t take long. When he was satisfied that the correct amount had gone into the correct account, he said, ‘Thank you,’ and shut down his computer. Just after he closed the lid, he paused and glanced at the window as though he’d heard something outside.

  He said, ‘Are you expecting someone?’

  ‘No.’ Grace licked her lips. ‘I promise. Nobody.’

  He went to the window. Drew back the curtain. ‘Well,’ he said. He sounded happily surprised. ‘Look who it is.’

  Grace was at the far side of the kitchen and couldn’t see but she desperately hoped Ross hadn’t decided to come down from London and surprise her. She started to panic. He’d gone to work but he might still be worried about her and decided to return and –

  ‘I shall answer the door,’ said Sirius decisively.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Monday 3 December, 10.35 a.m.

  Forcing herself to keep her speed down, Lucy managed to arrive at Ellisfield without setting off another speed camera. She’d initially driven to Grace’s surgery but apparently the doctor had gone home. The receptionist had made it clear that Grace was shirking until Lucy showed her warrant card, at which point the woman shut up.

  Now, Lucy tucked her car behind what she assumed was Grace’s hatchback. There was another car there, a big grey sedan, which she assumed belonged to the boyfriend.

  Lucy walked up Grace’s front path, made out of hand-cut stone and edged with lavender and herbs – thyme, sage and rosemary – all pruned back for winter. She knocked at the door. She wasn’t looking directly at the door when it opened, she was looking at the roses climbing the wall and wondering what kind of flowers to send to Bella’s funeral.

  ‘Lucy,’ he said.

  It was like being thrown against an electric fence. Her entire body fizzed. All the hairs over her skin stood upright.

  It was the man from the hospital. The same long face and dark eyes. The man who’d abducted and then murdered Bella.

  The Cargo Killer.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  At his side stood Grace, her eyes filled with fear.

  ‘If you run, I will catch you.’ He stepped back, forcing Grace to move with him as he opened the door wide. He had her wrist imprisoned in what looked like an iron grip.

  Lucy’s mind rioted cherry and crimson.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  He held out his other hand. ‘Give me your handbag.’

  Lucy didn’t move.

  ‘Be nice,’ he said, as though he was talking to a recalcitrant child. ‘I don’t want to harm the doctor. But I will have to if you don’t do as I say.’

  Every instinct told her not to give him her bag, which contained her warrant card, her phone, car keys and address.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. She was glad her voice was steady and didn’t betray how hard her heart was hammering.

  ‘I want you and Grace to sit on her sofa while I drive away. Grace and I have completed our business, so there is no reason for us to see one another again.’

  Grace’s eyes were fixed on Lucy, pleading, desperate. Please, do as he says.

  ‘Come, Lucy.’ He beckoned at her handbag. ‘I promise I won’t do you any harm.’

  ‘Like hell.’ She managed to produce some heat into her tone even though she was cold with terror. ‘You killed Bella. You killed all those people. Don’t tell me you won’t hurt us.’

  ‘I have no interest in hurting either of you. It is not in my remit.’

  Lucy stared. ‘What do you mean, not your remit?’

  A tiny smile curved his mouth.

  ‘That’s for you to work out.’

  ‘This is a job for you?’ she said.

  He gestured at her handbag again. ‘Please,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s your employer?’ she demanded. ‘Who pays you?’

  ‘If I told you that, I’d never work in the industry again. Now, look –’

  ‘Why did you torture and cuff them?’

  He studied her, as though he was considering whether to answer her or not. ‘Why do you think?’ He appeared genuinely curious.

  Her mind crackled and burned with showers of fireworks.

  ‘As a distraction,’ she said. ‘But if that were the case, wouldn’t you have ensured the victims were found? It was only by the remotest chance I found Bella, then Jamie.’

  ‘But you did find them, didn’t you?’ He surveyed her calmly.

  ‘You’re not saying you tortured them as some kind of back-up plan?’ Disbelief mingled with horror.

  He nodded, looking pleased, like a teacher with a clever pupil. ‘British ports are notoriously stringent and although I agree it would have been simpler not to torture and cuff them, I’m a cautious man and experience has taught me always to be one step ahead. It would have worked nicely without you, Lucy, but as it is, here you are and I have been found out.’

  ‘You tortured them while they were unconscious,’ she said in sudden realisation.

  ‘I saw no point in causing them unnecessary anguish.’

  ‘But Bella –’

  ‘An error.’ His mouth puckered slightly. ‘For which I am truly sorry.’

  A bird chittered briefly and his eyes snapped to the sound then straight back. ‘Now, look, I admire your courage and dogmatism but time is pressing. Please pass me your bag or I shall break the doctor’s wrist.’

  In two quick movements he’d gripped Grace’s right hand and lower arm.

  ‘Throw it to the ground,’ he said. He’d dropped any pretense of friendliness. ‘Or I will snap it. And when I’ve broken it I will break the other.’

  His grip tightened, putting strain on Grace’s joint.

  Grace’s skin turned waxy. She gave a moan.

  Lucy’s mouth turned as dry as cotton. She dropped her handbag to the ground.

  ‘Step back,’ he told Lucy.

  She did as he said.

  ‘And again.’

  When she was at what he obviously considered a safe distance, he swiftly picked up her bag. Then he turned and angled Grace inside her cottage, making her stand by the hall window.

  ‘Lucy,’ he said. ‘Come inside, please.’

  Lucy hesitated.

  He gripped Grace’s arm once again. ‘I will break it,’ he warned.

  Desperately playing for time, looking for an opportunity – she wasn’t sure what – but longing for a miracle like he tripped and knocked his head on the floor and she’d jump on him and tie him up . . .

  ‘Today,’ he snapped. ‘Not tomorrow.’

  Her inner self was screaming. Whatever you do d
on’t go in!

  Her mouth was dry, her heart thumping.

  She couldn’t see she had any other option.

  She spun round.

  And ran.

  She heard a grunt behind her. She’d surprised him. Good.

  Her feet flew over the ground. She arrowed straight for the shelter of beech trees at the end of the lawn.

  Fight him, Grace! Give me a chance!

  She kept her gaze on the trees. Focused on running. Her legs pummelling, her arms pumping, straining for every ounce of speed.

  She heard Grace scream, Lucy!

  Panic scalded her blood.

  She tried to run faster.

  But when she felt tight rings travelling up each leg and starting to concertina into her groin, she knew it was over.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Monday 3 December, 10.40 a.m.

  ‘Dan. Dan. For Chrissakes, wake up.’

  Dan groaned. Waves of pain washed along every nerve, making him feel dizzy and sick.

  ‘Come on. We can’t sit around all bloody day. Make an effort, would you?’

  Dan struggled to open an eye. It felt swollen and hot. He squinted to see a man squatting next to him. Joe Talbot.

  ‘Thank Christ.’ Joe ran a hand over his face. ‘I thought you were never going to come round. Look, we’ve got to get moving. We don’t have much time.’

  Dan rolled his head to look at the room. He had to work his mouth to gather enough saliva to speak. ‘Where’s the guy who was in here with me?’

  ‘What guy?’

  They’d obviously taken him away. Dan struggled to rise. Tried to fight down the nausea. ‘How did you get in?’

  Joe rose and went to the table. Came back with a plastic jerrycan of water.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Dan said. His thoughts were sluggish and sticky, like glue. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed you, OK? I was worried about you. And not without cause, either. You’re a mess.’

  Joe helped Dan drink then put the water back.

  ‘I know you’ll kill me when you hear,’ Joe said, ‘but I put a tracker on your car. I did it ages ago. I didn’t know who to trust and when Stella died I wanted to keep an eye on you. You were blundering around like a bloody buffalo, sending shockwaves through MI5 like you wouldn’t believe . . .’

  Dan took a clumsy inventory of his body. Tried to check to see if he had any broken bones or fractures. He found plenty of tender spots and a swelling the size and shape of a pigeon’s egg forming behind his right ear – painful but hopefully it wouldn’t kill him. His right eye was swollen almost completely shut and his lips were split.

  ‘It’s like the past has come back to bite us on the arse all over again,’ Joe said. ‘You getting in the shit with Besnik. I can’t believe you came here. What were you thinking?’

  When he’d ascertained he was at least superficially OK, Dan rolled over and began levering himself upright, pausing each time a wave of dizziness threatened to knock him down. Joe came and helped.

  ‘You OK to walk outside? Run if you have to?’

  Dan gave him a lopsided smile. ‘Just like old times, eh?’

  ‘Old times.’ Joe smiled in return but it was brief and filled with tension. He reached past his jacket and brought out a Walther P5 Compact pistol from a holster. Semi-automatic. A shell in the chamber, hammer cocked. Ready to go.

  Joe led the way while Dan hobbled behind.

  Along the basement corridor. Up a narrow staircase. Dan had to pause at the top, put a hand on the wall until a surge of nausea had passed.

  Pistol gripped in both hands, Joe walked through the room filled with shelves and clutter. Along the hall. Through the door and down two steps. Dan looked around. Couldn’t see anyone. Where were Besnik and his men?

  ‘OK?’ Joe asked. His voice was taut.

  ‘Yup.’

  They started walking for the Portakabin. Past the crushed motorcycle, the stack of broken skateboards and battered mobility scooter. When they neared the Portakabin, the dogs appeared. Trotted over, expressions curious. Dan tried not to tense, but it was hard when being followed by two creatures that weighed over two hundred pounds between them.

  They sniffed Dan. Then they sniffed Joe. They made little darts at Joe’s legs. Bumped him with their noses. A precursor to an attack?

  Then they were safely inside the Portakabin. His relief intensified when he saw it was empty.

  ‘Where’s Jacks?’ Dan asked. ‘The other guy?’

  Joe didn’t answer. He went to the door and opened it. Peered out. ‘My car’s over there.’ With his left hand he brought out a car key, beeped it open. ‘Go. I’ll cover you.’

  Dan was moving through the door when he heard a woman shout, ‘Joe! Stop!’

  Dan jerked his head round. Snapshots streamed before his eyes: Savannah crouched in the Portakabin doorway, aiming a pistol at Joe; Joe swinging his gun to aim it at her; Besnik and his men running across the yard for the Portakabin; the dogs running alongside, alert and expectant.

  ‘Joe, drop it!’ she yelled.

  Dan couldn’t tell who fired first.

  The shots were flat and sharp in the enclosed space.

  Crack! Crack!

  Savannah dived for the floor. Joe fired twice then spun and pushed Dan outside. ‘GO!’ he yelled.

  Dan ran across the street. Adrenaline cauterised every bruise, every wound. He felt no pain. He yanked open the passenger door and dived inside. Three more gunshots: then it fell quiet. No shouts. Nothing.

  Joe piled in beside him. Started the car, rammed it into gear and accelerated hard up the street.

  Dan looked over his shoulder to see Besnik and his goons erupt from the Portakabin and stop to stand in the road, staring after them.

  ‘Shit,’ said Joe. He was trembling. ‘That was close. She came out of nowhere. I didn’t even know she was there. Shit.’

  Dan didn’t say anything. His heart and stomach felt as though they’d been wrapped in barbed wire. Savannah, Savannah, Savannah. Her name echoed inside his head.

  ‘I’d better ring the DG,’ said Joe. ‘Tell him what happened.’

  Dan gazed outside, feeling numb.

  Joe dialled a number from his dashboard display. When Joe greeted Bernard, Dan could only hear one side of the conversation and belatedly saw that Joe wore an earpiece. ‘I just had to rescue Dan,’ Joe said. ‘Besnik had him in a cell in a basement, beaten to shit. Yeah, yeah. He’s here.’

  He looked at Dan to corroborate this. When Dan didn’t respond, he pressed a button on his steering wheel.

  ‘Dan?’ said Bernard. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I had a chat to Besnik. He didn’t like what I had to say so things got a bit heated.’

  ‘And Joe got you out?’

  ‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Savannah tried to stop him.’

  Silence.

  ‘Savannah?’ The DG’s voice was distant.

  ‘Yes.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Put me back to Joe,’ said Bernard briskly.

  Joe pressed the button once more. ‘Yeah . . . Yes, that’s right. Savannah. Yes, I know I don’t work for you . . . No, I didn’t tell you because you would have stopped me. Er . . .’ He flicked a look at Dan. ‘I tracked him. Yes, but . . .’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Yes, of course. Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.’ Finally, he hung up. ‘Jesus, you’d think he’d say thank you for once in his life. What the hell was Savannah doing there? Jesus Christ. What a fuck-up.’

  A wave of weakness crashed over Dan and he closed his eyes. Despite the pain riding his body, the waves of darkness lapping against his consciousness, something was niggling him. Something to do with the dogs. Their nudges. The thought rose like drifting seaweed in the ocean of his mind but then Joe spoke, and it vanished.

  ‘You need a doctor,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll take y
ou to A & E. And relax, OK? You’re safe now.’

  ‘I know a doctor,’ Dan said. ‘I’d rather see her than go to hospital.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Near Basingstoke.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Monday 3 December, 10.53 a.m.

  Lucy and Grace knelt together on the floor. They were in the hall and handcuffed to the radiator pipe.

  One small mercy: the Cargo Killer hadn’t broken Grace’s wrist.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lucy.

  ‘No, no.’ Grace’s mouth was trembling but she was making a valiant effort not to cry. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him. He was so strong.’

  After he’d handcuffed them, Sirius vanished through a doorway. Lucy could hear him moving around but couldn’t work out what he might be doing.

  She looked around for a phone but couldn’t see one. She was about to ask Grace when he reappeared with a big leather shoulder bag, which she assumed belonged to Grace. He pulled out the hall drawer and withdrew various sets of keys, put them in the bag. Then he picked up Lucy’s handbag and walked outside.

  The second he disappeared, Lucy plunged her free hand into her jeans pocket. Grabbed the handcuff key she’d swiped from Basingstoke Police Station. She was shaking so much it took two tries to release the cuffs but then they were free and she was springing to her feet.

  ‘Phone!’ she hissed.

  Grace scrambled up, looking around nervously. ‘He’s gone?’ Her face was a mixture of fear and hope.

  ‘Phone!’ Lucy almost screamed.

  Grace seemed to wake up. She vanished next door briefly. ‘He’s taken both handsets. He’s got my mobile too.’

  ‘Your car keys,’ Lucy said. ‘Do you have a spare set?’

  Grace looked blank.

  ‘I can’t let him get away,’ Lucy said urgently. ‘He’s the Cargo Killer, Grace! He’s killed five people! I need another set of keys!’

  Grace opened and closed her mouth. She seemed to be having trouble taking it all in.

  ‘KEYS!’

  Her shout galvanised Grace. She rushed away, got the spare set from the kitchen and shoved them at Lucy. ‘Here.’