Siobhan and Eddy waited outside. “What do you reckon, Boss?”
“McLaughlin’s far too wily to make the mistake Anthony Lees made. They’ll concoct a story about why he went there on Monday.”
“What about the guns?”
“They didn’t use them so unless we find them, we might struggle.” They were still no nearer finding Philip but if McLaughlin had him, Siobhan doubted his men would do anything to the lad without his say-so. The longer she detained him here the better their chances of finding Philip alive. Unless he’d already given the order… No, she couldn’t think that.
They returned to the interview and as she’d predicted, Farmer read a statement explaining that McLaughlin had called on the house to speak to Philip about his nephew’s disappearance but the occupants attacked him.
“Which one of them? Mrs Mason, who’s a foot shorter and half your client’s weight, or her husband, who’s in a wheelchair?”
McLaughlin reddened but didn’t speak.
“Do you want to press charges against the Masons?” she asked, barely controlling her anger.
“Considering the distress the family is suffering, my client doesn’t want to press charges. Furthermore, he doesn’t understand why you’re not linking the disappearance of Philip to the savage murder of his nephew. It’s obvious someone is targeting these young men—”
“Thank you Mr Farmer. I don’t need advice on how to do my job.” She poured water into a plastic cup and sipped it. “Mr McLaughlin, now your memory has improved, do you want to reconsider your earlier answer?”
“No comment.”
Siobhan continued questioning him, hoping to receive the message saying they’d found Philip, until Farmer stepped in again. “Inspector, my client has answered your questions. In the meantime you have no reason to hold him.”
“Mr Farmer, I appreciate it’s early.” She smiled at him. “My rank is Chief Inspector and we’re not holding Mr McLaughlin. He’s here of his own volition.”
Farmer flushed. “You threatened him with violence.”
“Me?” She gestured at her slim frame before regarding McLaughlin’s hulking figure. “He’s free to make an official complaint.”
McLaughlin shook his head before standing. “If you’re not holding me, then why the fuck am I still sat here?”
“I’ll make a note you’re refusing to cooperate. Sergeant Arkwright will show you out. Don’t leave the city without informing us.” She waited until they reached the door. “By the way, Customs and Excise will want to speak to you about the contraband we discovered in your storeroom.” McLaughlin’s expression almost made up for the frustration of not having enough to arrest him with.
Eddy showed them out and returned. “What do you reckon?”
“I’m sure we can persuade the Masons to bring charges for Monday night’s incident. I don’t think he’ll intimidate them. But I get the feeling that if he’s got Philip, he has no intention of giving him up.”
Byron gripped the door handle as Adam drove away from the building at speed. Yet another of the addresses they’d got from Lynton had been a waste of time. The first, a betting shop in a small shopping parade was empty, and much too small. This, the second, was a derelict pub, and he suspected Lynton had been having another joke at his expense.
He checked the list and gave directions as he read the map. He needed to think about what would happen when they found Philip. McLaughlin’s men would be armed and would, most likely, outnumber them.
Adam shared the same thoughts. “Can Cyrus supply weapons?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to risk it. We’d be in enough shit if we got caught with firearms but there’s also a chance they might be dirty…”
“Do you know anyone else?”
“Not anyone nearby.”
“So it’s the crowbars then.”
Byron hoped they’d get close enough to be able to use them. “Crowbars, and the element of surprise.”
They checked out three more of the addresses Lynton had provided and as Byron ticked them off the list, a sense of déjà vu overcame him. They arrived at the last place on the list, an industrial estate with a site map at the front entrance. McLaughlin’s unit sat at the end of one of the arms of the Y-shaped estate. Although they’d started before five in the morning, time had moved on and streetlights flickered off. Most of the units had lights on. Not holding out much hope, he directed Adam.
The two-storey office block, tucked out of sight of the rest of the units, sat in darkness and had roller-shutters over each ground floor opening. Although it the most promising of the places they’d seen, doubt tempered Byron’s excitement. They split up and circled the building on foot, meeting each other along the back wall.
“Anything?” Byron said.
“Someone’s left a window open on the other side.”
Byron followed Adam, who pointed to a narrow opening above a larger one on the first floor. A sliver of a gap showed at the bottom of the frame.
“Good spot. You reckon you can get through it?”
“No chance, but if I can reach down and open the main window…”
Byron checked round the front. Someone had parked a car half on the pavement but they’d gone. Paint peeled off the alarm box on the front of the building and a stencilled sign warned intruders to keep away. Byron hadn’t heard of the company providing the security and assumed it was a small local outfit.
A wheeled dumpster and a stack of wooden pallets leant against the back wall. By piling them on the lid, they made a platform for Adam to work from. Byron boosted him up and stood back, keeping a lookout.
Adam got his fingers into the gap and prised the window open. He reached his arm inside but his head wouldn’t fit. After a minute of struggling, he pulled his arm out. “I can’t quite reach it, but I haven’t got your gibbon-like arms...” He flexed his knees making the platform sway. “Mind you, this might not take your weight.”
“Cheeky pup — come on then.” Byron made a stirrup with his hands.
“Hey! Come down off there!” An older man wearing shapeless blue overalls stood at the corner of the building brandishing a radio.
Byron helped Adam to the ground and offered his most professional smile. “I’m glad you’ve turned up.”
The man had the handset to his mouth but surprise made him stop.
“We’re looking for my nephew. He’s a bit wayward and likes to hide in empty buildings. We thought he might be in there.”
“He shouldn’t be breaking into places.”
“That’s what I keep telling him, but you know what kids are like these days.” Byron held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness.
“So is he in there?” The man lifted his radio.
“I couldn’t see — it opens onto a landing,” Adam said. “Can we have a look?”
“Right, oh, bloody hell… I don’t have any keys — we don’t normally do this building. They’ve got their own people. Bloody cowboys.” He made a face. “We’re just doing it for a few days.” He walked up to the bin and studied the window. “Did you open that?”
“It was already open — that’s why we thought my nephew was in there,” Byron said.
The man ran a hand through thinning hair, dislodging flakes of dandruff. “I’ll have to get someone out to lock it. You can see if your lad’s in there when they get here.”
Forty minutes later a hard-faced woman drove a Mercedes saloon up to the front door and got out with a bunch of keys. Byron opened the car door, making Adam jerk awake.
“Key holder here?” he asked, his voice slurred.
“Stay here, mate. I’ll go in.”
Adam shook himself awake and opened his door. “Let’s get this done.”
Byron followed, his legs heavy. He related his story to the woman.
The woman shielded the alarm panel with her body as she punched in the numbers. “You two go upstairs and we’ll do the ground floor.” She indicated the security guard.
A flight of stairs he’d normally take without thinking left Byron exhausted and they split up at the top. Apart from a bin with a hole in it and a broken telephone, Byron found nothing. Then, a piercing scream from downstairs filled his body with energy. He arrived at the head of the stairs ahead of Adam and they raced down. The sobbing woman stood in the corridor, the security guard comforting her. She pointed to a half-open door.
Byron reached inside and flicked the light switch. Nothing. Then, his heart racing, he stepped into the room. The stench of sewage and unwashed body pervaded the air. Light from the corridor illuminated a bundle by the far corner.
“You got a torch?” he shouted, not taking his gaze from the bundle. Was it big enough to be Philip?
The security guard’s lamp lit up a pile of filthy bedding. On the wall someone had written ‘EAT THE RICH’ using excrement.
The adrenaline energising Byron drained away and weariness made him dizzy. Had McLaughlin already killed Philip?
The disappointment of having to release McLaughlin and their failure to find Philip weighed on Siobhan.
“All right, Boss?” Eddy called from the doorway.
“Sorry, Eddy. Miles away.” She checked the time, eight already. “You need to get off home to your kiddies.”
He made a face. “They’ll be in bed. I just thought I’d give you this.” He placed a folder on her desk. “These are places we think McLaughlin owns, but we don’t have any proof.”
Could Philip be in one of these? “Thanks, I’ll look at it later.”
“Have you heard the latest?”
Eddy seemed to have a line to every piece of gossip in the force. “Grab a seat.”
“You know someone’s attacked two of McLaughlin’s men—”
“Don’t tell me we’ve got evidence linking him to either of them?”
“No such luck, but Stockport found a body in the boot of Steve Harris’s burnt-out car. They reckon it’s him — he’s in competition with McLaughlin and he’s been talking about taking him out over some dog he killed. Harris has two sons, real nasty pieces of work. McLaughlin will have his hands full if they suspect he’s killed their dad.”
CHAPTER 25
The army got bigger as they captured more recruits and their influence grew. In reaction, the government, supported by international forces, set up a special task force to hunt them.
The force struck hard. Mugisa and his band retreated across the border, an invisible, but effective barrier. They set up base in the new country where the government left them in peace, provided they confined their attacks to their homeland.
Mugisa led the remnants of the raiding party back from the latest attack. Encountering unexpected resistance, they left behind many dead and wounded, including the most senior officers. He gave the order to abandon their vehicles when the enemy helicopters located them and they crossed the border, exhausted. Their camp was still a day’s march away and they rested, hiding in the undergrowth.
Woken by the noise of combat, he opened his eyes and heard the confusion of sounds, shouts of rage, the clash of weapons and the screams of the wounded. He leapt up and reached for his Kalashnikov. A shout came from behind him and a figure charged out of the darkness.
After a good six hours’ sleep, Adam came downstairs to find Byron on the phone in the living room.
“…sure, Samuel. How are the girls coping?”
Adam made a pot of coffee, feeling guilty that he’d wanted Philip out of the house, and wishing the lad would walk in. Byron finished his call and came through to the kitchen.
“How you doing, mate?” Adam filled two mugs.
“Not great. Police won’t tell me anything — even Samuel’s not getting much information. Kieron’s not answering his phone and nobody seems to know anywhere else we could look for Philip.”
Adam sipped his coffee, distressed at seeing his friend so helpless. “I’ll ask Siobhan what they’ve found out.”
“Oh yeah? Siobhan, is it? And why would she tell you?”
“We met up last night.”
“Met up, as in ‘met up’?” Byron sounded incredulous.
Adam’s cheeks grew hot.
Byron’s laugh rumbled round the kitchen. He shook his head. “Bugger me. She’s one scary lady — nice looking, but scary.” Byron became serious. “You realise, if she’s seen my statement, she’ll know Philip stayed at your place, and I don’t think she’ll be too impressed. Sorry, mate. It was my idea to take him there.”
“Don’t worry about it. I knew what I was doing.” Rather than ring her, Adam decided he should go to see her and put things straight. She was as likely to put the phone down as speak to him. He finished his drink and, telling Byron he wouldn’t be long, he set off. Someone had left the main door to her block of flats open and, closing it behind him, he started making his way to her flat. Before he reached it, he heard a scream. Adrenaline surged through his blood and he leapt up the stairs.
The thud of a heavy blow and wood splintering spurred him on. As he rounded the top landing, he froze for an instant. Philip stood outside Siobhan’s door, attacking it with a machete but as the young man spun to face him he realised it was not Philip, but Mugisa, eyes fierce.
Adam advanced and Mugisa yanked the knife out of the door. He swung it at Adam, who leapt back. The blade missed him by centimetres, then crunched into the bannister, burying itself into the timber.
Adam charged as Mugisa pulled at it. Instead of focussing on the stuck weapon, the youth kicked Adam, knocking him onto the landing. By the time he recovered, Mugisa had extracted the blade and disappeared down the corridor. Adam followed, seeing him leap through a fire exit.
Once sure he’d gone, Adam ran back to the flat. The machete had splintered the top right door panel, but he’d not got through.
“Siobhan, it’s Adam.” He listened — the thought she might be injured was making him nauseous.
Locks clicked, and she stood in the door, ashen. “Has he gone?”
“Yes, you okay?”
She held herself together. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Relief flooded through him and he wanted to hold her but wasn’t sure how she’d react.
“Do you want to come in? I’ve called my lot.”
He entered and she locked the door. Bits of splintered timber lay in the hall, white paint clinging to them. In the lounge she poured two glasses of brandy and picked one up. Her hand shook, spilling some, then she began sobbing.
Adam put his arms round her, and she clung to him. After a while, her trembling ceased, and she eased away from him. “Thank you.” She gestured at her face. “I’d better do something before the troops turn up.” She disappeared into the bathroom.
Adam sipped his brandy which burnt his throat. He placed the glass on the table next to a folder. It contained Polaroid’s of buildings clipped to sheets of paper. One looked familiar, a close-up showed a roller-shutter with a stencilled sign on it. He tried to remember when he’d seen it.
“Please put those down.” Siobhan stood in the doorway, make-up repaired.
“Are these McLaughlin’s?”
“Sorry, Adam. It’s nothing to do with you.” Restored and apparently annoyed with him, she scooped the papers into the folder before he could read the address.
After his failed attempt to get rid of the policewoman, a shaken Mugisa returned to the disused factory where he’d seen the men take Philip. His first attempt to get in failed when the second car returned and he’d spent the last day watching it, waiting for an opportunity to attack, but his enemies always had at least four men on guard. Now, instead of two cars, one sat outside. This was his chance to overpower the guards and finish Philip. He approached the front of the building, the machete tucked into the scabbard in his jacket, and waited for the security lights to come on. Nothing happened. He’d hoped to trigger the lights and get them to investigate. He waited, considering his options then drew the knife, strolled to their car and smashed the side window
. A shriek rent the air as the alarm sounded and the hazard lights flashed.
He strode to the entrance and, flattening himself against the wall, waited. As he listened, he gripped the handle of the machete. His hands tingled, the skin hyper-sensitive. The car alarm finished, and he listened for sounds of movement inside. Nothing. Had they fallen asleep? Having seen how unprofessional they’d been when capturing Philip, it didn’t surprise him.
He’d have to reactivate the alarm. Before he’d gone two steps, bolts scraped and the heavy front door crashed open. A figure ran out. Mugisa, caught by surprise, froze but the man rushed past him and faltered.
“Gary, put the lights on,” the man shouted, adding, “Oi, you little bastard, fuck off before I give you a good hiding.”
Mugisa lifted the machete and stepped forward. The man whirled round and, using the light spilling out of the open doorway, Mugisa slashed at his throat. The blade struck the junction between the man’s neck and collarbone. He didn’t even cry out before collapsing. He fell to his knees and toppled forward, a fountain of blood spraying the ground beneath him.
Mugisa stepped aside, breathing hard, and twisted the blade, freeing it from the wound. A shape moved across the light. A figure stood in the doorway and Mugisa ran at him, machete raised.
As he reached the opening, a row of bright lights came on, shining straight into his face. He screwed up his eyes and took a swing at the blurred shape in the doorway. The blade bit into the doorframe. The man cried out in alarm and the door slammed. Mugisa pulled the machete out of the wood and hurled himself at the door which shook but resisted his efforts.
Bright light bathed the car park and Mugisa ended his attack to contemplate his options. Frustration made his muscles quiver as he realised he couldn’t get at his quarry. And if he waited, reinforcements would arrive.
Philip woke in his cell, suddenly alert. Excited chatter came from upstairs and he guessed more people had arrived. Had something happened? The noise died down. They must have changed guards. How long had he been here? It felt like days but he had no idea. The pain from his kidneys had faded but flared up when he moved and he still passed blood. The stench from the bucket in the corner wafted towards him and he gagged. After a few moments he closed his eyes and dozed.
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