by BRM Stewart
As we moved off, I tried to sit up was pushed flat again, my head and upper body behind the driver’s seat and pressing against the legs of the man who held me.
I stopped trying to struggle. God, my body ached. I listened. The car was moving fast, turning corners, accelerating and braking. After a few minutes I had no idea where we were.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, my voice thinner and more scared than I’d meant it to be.
A hand cuffed me across the side of my head, and there were a few words in a language I didn’t understand. A sense of terror settled in me.
Chapter 30
Glasgow
Mark Grosvenor climbed out of the taxi outside the Crowne Plaza hotel, paid the driver, and made his way through the smokers and into the bar area. He ordered himself a scotch and water, and took a seat while he steeled himself for what was to come, and thought through his plan, his pitch.
Upstairs in her room, Charlene sat in the chair between the bed and the window, looking out at the lights of the car park, the river, the science centre and its tower on the other side, the old paddle steamer tied up. She regretted the second bottle of wine: it made it hard to think. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, folded and unfolded her arms, stood up and paced the room then sat down again.
Her mobile rang. ‘He’s left,’ she said, and listened. ‘On his way home. Just do it’.
She dialled. ‘What’s the latest?’
She heard the sound of Amanda Pitt moving away from noise and discussion, whispering into the phone. ‘I told you not to call me again.’ Then an intake of breath. ‘I’ve told you. It’s out of my hands. I’ve no strategic command with the Talbot case any more, I can’t do anything. All Talbot’s business interests, including Charlie’s, are frozen. If I’m not careful I could come under suspicion.’
‘Have you any idea where Sandy Lomond is?’
‘We think he might be in Spain somewhere, but he’s lying low – no mobile activity. Look, I need to go. Sorry – I can’t help any more. Please don’t call me again.’ And she disconnected the call.
Charlene sat motionless once more, continuing her scan of the skyline out of the hotel window, her thoughts unclear. Could she really handle Gheorghe on her own as a business partner, without Sandy behind her?
When the room phone rang, she jolted out of her thoughts and reached across the bed to answer it. ‘Yes?’
The deep New York accent growled. ‘I think you know who this is, Charlene. We need to talk. I’m coming up.’
She put the receiver down and stood up, waiting patiently for the knock at the door, again regretting the wine, and breathing deeply to try to push away the effects: god, she needed to be thinking clearly. She kept the chain on as she opened the door and looked at the face of the man with the white hair and the bushy white beard – not what she had expected. He held up his ID for her to see, and she nodded and opened the door.
‘Drink?’
‘Only if you’re having one yourself. Scotch and water, thanks.’
‘I’ve only got gin,’ she said, splashing it into the glasses – a very large one for him, a very small one for herself – and adding tonic and the last of the rapidly melting ice from the machine outside her door. She went back to her seat with her glass and crossed her legs, looking at the American as she sipped her drink. He was old, limping, but there was an authority and intelligence about him, a presence, and something in her found all that attractive, which surprised her.
Grosvenor sat on the chair by the desk. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘So, Charlene. How you doin’?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She kept her voice controlled.
‘No you’re not. Your plan – though I confess I’m not perfectly sure what that plan was – is a bust. You need to re-group, Charlene. Re-think your strategy. I can help you.’
She forced a small laugh. ‘I don’t need your help.’
He looked at her and gave a moment’s pause. ‘I think you do, and you’d be wise to recognise that.’ They sipped their drinks, and then he turned to put his glass down on the desk, and pulled his chair closer to her, holding her gaze. ‘Tell me about those years, Charlene. When you found out about your real father and mother, when you discovered you were Ken Talbot’s legacy through his useless womanising son. How did it make you feel?’
She looked straight at him, her lips tight, her body tense, her hand gripping her glass.
‘Will I tell you what I think?’ He wheeled his chair back a bit, found his glass again, crossed his legs. ‘First of all you wanted a share of the money – you deserved it, didn’t you? Your adoptive parents didn’t have all that much, though they got by real fine. But you thought of what big money could give you. And Ken Talbot was happy to cough up, to get rid of you – he had no love for his son’s bastard – probably didn’t feel any obligation at all; you’re likely one of many. But it wasn’t enough, was it? Did you go to Sandy Lomond? Did you work your charms on him and get him to tell you more of how Talbot’s operation worked, what B&D was really all about? Or was it somebody else in the company? Or someone else – ‘ he was examining her expression, searching for a clue – ‘someone in the police maybe?’ There it was: the tightening of the jaw, holding his gaze just a little too much. It didn’t matter whom, so long as he knew – and suddenly his imagination made a leap as he remembered the long running police operation against organised crime in Glasgow and the key role held by Amanda Pitt: shoot, had she…
‘So,’ he went on, reigning in his imagination, ‘you went back to the buffet. You managed to persuade Lomond that you could be the new Charlie Talbot, and that tickled him – did he even tell Ken Talbot? But straightforward protection and smuggling and prostitution and money laundering wasn’t for you: you needed something more, something cleverer, something with an edge. And when you found out about the cybercrime at B&D, that appealed to you. You didn’t have much knowledge and hardly any skills, but you could beguile almost any man.’ He tried the long shot: ‘Or woman,’ and saw the jaw tightening again. ‘So you put your good looks, your prefect figure, and that enigmatic expression to work. Lomond gave you some contacts and ideas, a bit of muscle for protection, and you started up on your own. But it didn’t quite work out, did it? The guy in Portugal got murdered, thus depriving you of a flow of cash and intelligence.’ He sipped some gin and waved the glass at her. ‘You just join right on in any time you feel like it.’
She sipped her own drink, her body visibly tense, telling him he was right.
‘So you tried again – you found a guy, Gheorghe Angelescu, who had split from his Russian pals, was trying to set up a cybercrime network from Romania. Where did you get that from, Charlene? Did Sandy Lomond make contact for you?’
Charlene swallowed.
‘Both times, Portugal and Romania, you needed just a little bit of expert help, so Lomond sent you Martin McGregor. Poor Martin, always ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ He saw Charlene glance at her watch. ‘I hope you don’t mean him any harm, Charlene.’
‘I’ve never meant to hurt Martin.’
‘What then?’
She shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘Look, I could see that Gheorghe was thinking about tidying everything up once he had what he wanted. He raped and murdered the translator, and then tried to make it look like Tudor had done it and then shot himself. He had always planned to kill the prostitute, putting suspicion on Martin – Gheorghe could buy off the police and do what he wanted with Martin after that. I got Martin out of Romania – don’t forget that.’
‘Was Martin immune to your charms, Charlene? Was that what made you pissed?’
‘Of course not. I manipulated him, like the rest.’ She pursed her lips, annoyed that he had made her say that.
Grosvenor gave a laugh. Once again he put down his glass and moved the chair towards her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands held out. ‘So what can you do now, Charlene? Your grandfather�
��s empire is collapsing, his money is tied up - most will be confiscated by the state anyway; if you ever see a penny of it, that’ll be years down the line. You going back to Romania, take your chances there? Alone? With killers like Gheorghe? No backup? It’s cold and lonely out there, Charlene. You’re one self-contained lady, some might say you’re a cold and heartless bitch – that’s understandable: nobody gave you anything, you had to take it all.’
She had finished her drink, and now she looked into the empty glass.
‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’
She looked up and gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Martin suggested I could work with you.’
He spread his arms. ‘Is that so crazy? What do you want, Charlene? Money? Power? Excitement?’
She crossed her legs the other way, sitting back on her chair, putting her glass on the windowsill, half-looking away.
‘Let me make you a proposition,’ Grosvenor said. ‘We’ll let you go, back to Gheorghe but working for us. Or…’
She turned to look at him as he sat back with a half smile. ‘Or what?’
His mobile rang. He checked the display and then answered it. She made out the urgency at the other end, but not the words themselves. Grosvenor’s voice was calm. ‘That makes it interesting,’ he said, and raised his eyes at Charlene. She saw anger in them, for the first time, and she felt physically afraid.
Chapter 31
Near Glasgow
We stopped driving after a time, and the engine was switched off. I could hear the silence outside; when I managed to turn my head slightly, I could see that there were no streetlights.
The car door at my feet was opened and I was dragged out, the man who’d been sitting in the back pushing me with his feet. I lay on stony, muddy ground, my arms and legs stiff, and turned onto my back, while the two men stood and looked around.
There were farm buildings not far away. In the other direction I could see the lights of the city reflected in the clouds. I reckoned I was somewhere to the north of the city, but had no idea exactly where. It was cold but not raining.
One of the men gave a kick at my ankle – nothing particularly vicious – and connected with the bone; I swore and clutched at it. He then kicked me in the side, harder this time, trying to hurt me. I swore again.
A mobile phone rang and the kicker lifted it to his ear and walked away a little. ‘We have him,’ he said, the voice heavily accented – East European I guessed, just like the Romanians. And my feeling was that that was exactly who it was: the Romanian gangsters, tidying up the loose ends, taking revenge.
‘What you want? We hurt him? We kick fuck out of him? We bury him here?’
I shivered. Oh fuck, I thought. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
‘OK.’ He put his phone away and came across towards me, and without any warning or ceremony kicked me in the side of the head,
I rolled away, my head throbbing, my eyes tight shut but still seeing blazing lights and swirling patterns. I got to my knees, clutching at my head, and then felt a double kick in the ribs and I rolled onto my side, huddled, trying to escape. Then another kick to the head, and one in my kidneys.
Oh fuck, I thought.
‘Don’t,’ I managed to gasp. ‘I have money. Don’t.’
The sequence of kicks was repeated, head and kidneys, and they paused again while I rolled on the ground, sobbing in agony, trying to cover my head, curl up tight, tears rolling down my cheeks. Then there was a long pause while I maybe lost consciousness, when the kicking seemed to stop.
I heard the phone rang again, and I heard the footsteps walk away as I came to my senses. I moaned, tried to gather my strength. I’d never felt so much physical pain. At this point I wanted to die.
While one man spoke on the phone, the other one repeated the sequence of kicks and started once more before there was a sharp shout from the other in a foreign language and he stopped.
I was face down now, pressed against the cold damp earth and the stones. I could feel the strength ebbing from my body, along with the will to live. I’m sorry, I found myself thinking; I’m sorry, Helen, for the wrong I did you and the lies I told you; I’m sorry, Nicola, for the life we’re not going to have. For a moment I wished I believed in heaven: how nice it would have been to think I was going to join Fiona, at last.
The two men shouted something at each other. Nearby there was the sound of a car engine, revving hard, getting louder. I turned onto my back and tried to get up onto one elbow. Headlights suddenly appeared round a corner and were coming up the hill towards us. The men started shouting at each other again. I heard their footsteps scrabbling on the loose ground, the car door opening, and then something stamped on my right wrist and I the diesel engine starting and two car doors slamming shut as I gave a scream of pain. I just had enough sense and strength to roll to one side onto long wet grass, hearing and feeling the car tyres an inch from my face, before I felt my body shut down and everything went silent. I dreamed of a car crash, hands lifting me from it, soothing me, soft reassuring voices, the pain burning.
I’m sorry, I said. I’m so sorry.
*
Charlene was shaking as she spoke on the mobile: ‘Call it off. Leave him – the police are on their way. Don’t kill him – I need him.’ She stood staring out of the window, still shaking as she gulped at another gin.
*
Colin Strachan laughed as he reached into the fridge for a beer. ‘You?’
Elaine shook her head and yawned. ‘I’m going to bed – read my book.’ She reached to hug and kiss him. ‘Don’t be too late.’
‘I won’t.’
She went through to the bedroom, and he heard her undressing – it still gave him a thrill, watching her or even just listening. He sat on the sofa with his laptop, and woke it up, sipping the cold lager and listening to the sounds of the night.
As he scanned his emails, he suddenly shivered. There was one from a property company in Glasgow, which he remembered was one of B&D’s clients. Oh no, he thought. No no no. After all this time.
The email simply gave a mobile phone number, with the 49 country code. Colin drank more beer before dialling.
The slightly accented voice answered. ‘Hello, Mr Colin Strachan.’
Colin swallowed. ‘I got your email. You wanted me to call.’
‘Ah yes. I wanted your advice.’
The beer bottle was freezing cold in Colin’s fingers, but he gripped it tightly. ‘Advice on what?’
‘Your colleague Martin McGregor.’
Colin shook his head. The fine meal, the wine and the gins, the company down at the marina, the musicians playing… all of that faded, leaving him with the cold fear. ‘What about him?’
‘Is it correct that he is now running your end of our operation?’
‘Ah – yes. I retired a few years ago.’
‘Yes, of course. You are living in Spain now.’
Colin swallowed.
‘You did not think to tell us about your change of circumstances, your change of management.’
‘I didn’t think it mattered. It didn’t affect anything.’ He tried to keep his tone light, like there was nothing to fear.
‘Perhaps not. But we know little of this Martin McGregor.’
Colin tried to think how they had discovered about Martin: what had happened in Glasgow? He had thought Martin might try to escape, but it looked like he hadn’t done that at all. So what was going on? He cleared his throat. ‘Martin’s been running that end of the operation for a few years now. Have you any reason to believe there is a problem?’
‘He went out of contact for a few weeks, without telling us.’
Colin tried to think about that. ‘Perhaps it was an unexpected holiday.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Anyway, what can I tell you? You haven’t had a problem with Martin for years, so why the worry now? Is there any other reason you should be worried?’
‘So we should trust him.’
‘I can’t see
any reason why not.’ What had Martin been up to? Had he made his escape but been caught by the police…? He pushed that thought away.
There was a silence. ‘Very well.’ And the call ended.
Colin put the phone on the sofa beside him. Elaine shouted through from the bed: ‘Who was on the phone, darling?’
‘Just an old colleague. Nothing important.’ He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
*
The man at the other end of the call dialled a mobile. ‘Stop the attack. We will trust Martin McGregor for now. But be careful.’
He opened the phone and pulled out the SIM card, and broke it in two, and then took out the battery, which he tossed into a drawer, and finally threw the rest of the cheap phone into the wood-burning stove, and watched it thoughtfully.
Chapter 32
Glasgow
I opened my eyes and tried to sit up, but felt extraordinarily weak and detached from reality. ‘Fiona?’ I shouted, and then realised that was wrong. ‘Helen?’ I looked around – it was my bedroom at home, I was in bed with my chest encased in bandages, and a cast on my right wrist – and then I closed my eyes and fell back on the pillows. Elizabeth?
‘Hello?’ I shouted. Somebody had put me to bed, so someone had to be there – surely. ‘Hello?’ I began to panic that I had been left alone to fend for myself. ‘Hello?’ My throat was sore and dry.
My head was hurting, and as the memories dribbled back it began to hurt more; I reached to feel the bandages. The attack outside the flat, that I had thought was a mugging; the car journey, the beating, the car driving off, the other car arriving. The voices, soothing, the ambulance, the scratch on the back of my hand and then sleep, a deep deep sleep that I had never known before. Waking up in the hospital, the nurse gradually bringing me round and stopping me from wrenching the mask off my face in a panic, then a porter wheeling me to another room, a woman’s face that I recognised but couldn’t remember now, a young man blabbering on about bruised ribs and a broken wrist – mine? – a policeman asking questions, and then sleep, sleep.