No Way Out: an edge of your seat crime thriller

by DC Brockwell

  With a sigh, she closed the hatch and walked through to her office, where Alan was busy on his computer. He was wearing a pair of black jeans and a dark grey zip-up sweater over a white T-shirt.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with Danny,” she said as she sat down at her desk.

  “He can still earn, can’t he?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I’ll just dose him up.”

  “There you go,” Alan said, not really paying her any attention. “Problem solved.”

  Beattie felt like she had her old life back again. Alan was where he should be – here, where he belonged – and their relationship had improved no end. That being said, it didn’t stop her from thinking about Lennox.

  The previous night she’d met Samantha “Sammy” Browne for the first time. She’d asked Alan to invite her over for dinner, and the three of them had sat down and talked, eaten, drunk, and laughed. It had been a great night for them, and Beattie had found Sammy to be great company too. She was charming and funny, just what she needed from a stepdaughter. And Sammy was even prettier in person than in her photos.

  Despite feeling that her life was back to the way it used to be, Beattie still couldn’t get Lennox out of her head. She wanted to – she didn’t want to keep obsessing over him – but she couldn’t do anything to prevent it. She couldn’t forget that kiss, and she wanted more.

  “I’ve got to go out tomorrow, honey,” said Alan. “It’s Hannah’s birthday. She’s invited me to join her and Sammy for dinner. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Beattie did, not that she could show it. She’d spent more than enough time on her own already. In spite of this, she replied, “No, that’s fine. Are you coming back home after dinner?”

  “Yeah, should be about half eleven.”

  Beattie gave her blessing, then she turned back to her computer and the spreadsheet she was working on…

  Kimiko wheeled her trolley into Danny’s room and closed the door. He was in pain, twisting and writhing as much as his chains would allow, trying to get comfortable. Mrs Harrison hadn’t given him any pain relief.

  It had upset Kimiko, watching him run off like that. She’d tried to warn him that there was glass on the floor, that he wouldn’t get very far if he tried to flee. He’d sped off before she could get the words out. After it had all happened, she wondered why she hadn’t told him about the glass before, to prevent him from even trying. But how could she have known?

  Just before he’d run, he’d turned to her and said, “I love you, but I have to go now.” Had he truly meant it? Did he love her? She’d tried asking him, the previous day, but all he did now was stare up at the ceiling, a dull blankness in his eyes. He hadn’t spoken to her once since the incident, since the guards had beat him.

  She took out her sponge, dipped it in water, and gave him a sponge bath. She was very gentle, especially over his ribs, arms and legs, which had taken the worst of the beating. He continued to lie there, eyes up, staring at the ceiling. “Why you not talk to me?” she whispered, thinking Mrs Harrison was likely to be listening, watching.

  Nothing.

  He winced when she touched his knee, making Kimiko jump.

  “I sorry,” she said, bathing him with more care. “I must wash you.”

  “Help me,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  She stopped bathing him and looked into his eyes.

  He was watching her, only his eyes moving, while the rest of his face remained upright.

  “What did you say?” she whispered again, still bathing him.

  “Beattie will kill me soon,” came his quiet voice. “Please, help me.”

  Kimiko paused for a moment, thinking. She wanted to help him – she wanted to help all the bees and all the support staff in this horrid place – and she could, if she picked up that phone and called the police. If she wasn’t interrupted again. But that was easier said than done. “I cannot, Danny, I sorry,” she whispered. “Mrs Harrison kill me.”

  “Phone police, please.”

  There was a pleading look in his eyes, and Kimiko felt so guilty that she wasn’t strong enough to help him – to help all of them. The risk was too great. If she betrayed Mrs Harrison, she would be killed, and she wanted to live. Then again, what kind of life was she living here? She was as much a prisoner as the bees were. The dilemma made her brain hurt.

  Having finished washing him, she wheeled her trolley to the door and turned to look at him. “I sorry, Danny,” she whispered.

  As she wheeled the trolley back to the store cupboard, she walked past the office and saw Mr and Mrs Harrison kissing, like they’d done when she arrived here.

  Kimiko smiled at one of the guards outside the showers as she wheeled her trolley past him. She had some serious thinking to do. Should she risk her own life to help Danny? Did she love him? And if so, did she love him enough? She thought she might; the feelings she had whenever she saw him told her she did, but was she being foolish? Did he really love her? Would he risk his life to save her, if the situation were reversed?

  There was no denying that she had to leave this place. Mr and Mrs Harrison were evil people, who allowed unspeakable things to happen here. Kimiko, on the other hand, wasn’t a bad person. No, she was a good person.

  Being a good person, however, wasn’t enough.

  She wanted to be – had to be – a strong person…

  Steven was two cars behind Garvey, stuck at some traffic lights. He could see his target’s Shogun with its indicators blinking left.

  Since the Director General’s sudden death in a car accident, a lot had changed at HQ. The first thing that happened was that his team had been pulled off surveillance detail at the Harrison farm, which had frustrated him immensely. Steven knew something big was happening in that barn – and the vast majority of his colleagues believed so too. Now they might never know.

  The operation investigating William Rothstein seemed like it was crumbling, not because there was insufficient evidence – on the contrary, there was a mass of evidence – but because of other forces at work. If Steven didn’t know any better, he’d say that someone didn’t want Rothstein investigated.

  Steven hadn’t heard it himself; a colleague had informed him that the new Director General had said the target was Lennox Garvey. While it wasn’t official, Steven believed his colleague. The whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth; he knew that Rothstein deserved to be sent down. Now it looked like that wouldn’t happen.

  It was true, he had a personal reason for wanting to raid the farmhouse, and in particular, the barn. It was his find, and he had a vested interest in ascertaining what was going on in there. But more than that, he wanted to shut it down, to help stop whatever was going on there. That was what the NCA did: it stopped criminals from carrying out their foul deeds. And whatever was happening in the barn was big, he knew it. It wasn’t fair for the new DG to pull them off the surveillance detail. Something was going on.

  He followed Garvey as he turned left and then continued his pursuit. He was back to the dull task of tailing his target, which was disappointing. He might have been warmer in his car, but following Garvey wasn’t going to yield as much intel for the agency as photographing the visitors at the barn. He would rather be cold and hungry getting results, than warm and bored following a car around all day.

  He took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand. Getting angry at the situation wouldn’t alter the fact that the barn surveillance had been axed. Maybe Garvey would meet someone interesting, giving him something he could take to the top brass. He wasn’t all about personal glory, but – in his opinion – there was nothing wrong with wanting it. Everyone wanted to get noticed at work; it was perfectly natural.

  “Following target along Churchill Road,” he said into his microphone.

  The voice acknowledged his transmission.

  There was something about the new Director General that Steven didn’t trust. Graham Holmes was a weasel – a brown nose, through and
through. Steven had never met the man himself, yet he’d heard enough stories in his time to know he didn’t like him. He hadn’t met Michael Wells either, but he knew the deceased Director General had been a straight arrow – everyone said so.

  Steven had spoken to his wife about the whole situation, and although it was just talk at this stage – him letting off steam mainly – he’d told her he was thinking about applying to a different agency. He felt so strongly that the NCA would suffer under Graham Holmes’ leadership. And Steven wasn’t the only one; he’d spoken to three colleagues so far who’d said the same as him. Director General Graham Holmes was a tosser, plain and simple. Still, it was only talk at this stage. He would give it a few months under Holmes before even looking at vacancies in other law enforcement agencies.

  “Target’s approaching the Rothstein residence,” he said into his microphone.

  The team at HQ had pulled in over fifty of the barn visitors and spent hours upon hours interviewing each of them. Of those fifty plus interviewees, however, not one of them had given even a hint as to what was happening there. The cloak of silence was all encompassing, and it pissed him off something awful. He’d thought about requesting a transfer to HQ, to have a crack at getting one of them to talk himself, but the way everything was going, permission to transfer wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  Steven pulled up a little way down the road from the entrance to Rothstein’s home, in a place where he’d be able to see visitors as they came and went.

  He was in for a long boring shift…

  45

  Rothstein held out his hand. “Lenny, come on in.”

  Lennox shook Rothstein’s hand and sat down on the chair in front of his boss’s desk. He noticed how happy and carefree Rothstein looked, and he didn’t trust it. His boss was also looking very dapper in his three-piece tailored suit, in contrast to Lennox’s dark blue jeans, navy blue zip-up jumper, and black leather jacket.

  “It’s payday, my man,” said Rothstein, opening his top desk drawer and pulling out a wedge of cash wrapped in cellophane. “I know how much we agreed on, but I put a little extra in there, by way of showing you how grateful I am for what you did. Seventy-five Gs.”

  Lennox reached across the desk and accepted the money, placing the fat wedge of fifties in his rucksack. “Thanks, but you didn’t need to do t–”

  “Rubbish!” Rothstein exclaimed, interrupting him. “Of course I did; because of you, the farm is now officially out of the NCA’s sights and the overall investigation is slowly going to be grounded. Plus, now I have someone in the NCA looking out for my interests, so it’s a win-win all round. Let’s have a well-deserved drink, yeah?”

  Never one to pass up a free drink, Lennox stood and walked over to the office bar. Taking down two tumblers from the glass shelf, he was about to pour two large Macallan eighteen-year-old triple cask malts when Rothstein shook his head.

  “It’s time we pulled the big boy out,” he said, taking down the slender bottle of Macallan Reflexion Single Malt Whisky. “I’ve got to know what a nine-hundred-quid whisky tastes like, and this seems like the perfect time, don’t you think?”

  Lennox agreed, pouring two large shots in each glass and handing one to Rothstein.

  “To you, Lenny.” Rothstein smiled, holding up his glass in salute.

  Lennox watched Rothstein take his first sip.

  “Fuck me, that’s a good fucking whisky,” his boss said, savouring every drop. “Hints of vanilla, fresh apples, and apricots, if I’m not mistaken.”

  He was right; it was the tastiest whisky Lennox had ever sipped. At that price though, it needed to be tasty. Personally, he thought it was ridiculous paying that sort of money for a drink, even if it was for a special occasion.

  “Who the fuck am I trying to kid? I just read the label on the bottle when I bought it.” Rothstein laughed. “I can’t tell the difference between this and Bell’s – apart from the price.”

  Lennox continued to sip at his drink and chat with his boss until both glasses were almost empty, and although he was listening to Rothstein, Lennox wasn’t really hearing him; he was daydreaming about his boss’s daughter, which he knew was dangerous.

  “Anyway, enough of this bullshit.” Rothstein placed his empty glass on the bar. “Back to the business at hand.”

  Lennox sipped the last few drops of the delicious whisky, placing his empty glass on the bar next to Rothstein’s before walking over to the desk and sitting down in front of his boss again. Lennox thought he knew what this was about.

  “Due to family sickness, Yusef won’t be able to drive you this time,” Rothstein explained. “I’m trialling a new captain, and I’ll see how he goes, so you’ll need to bring him up to speed next week, okay?”

  This wasn’t good news. Yusef was the captain of the fishing trawler Lennox travelled on to pick up his uncle’s shipment. It had always been steered by Yusef. Lennox couldn’t remember a single occasion, in fact, when someone else had steered the trawler, and all of a sudden, something felt off. “Can we postpone picking it up until he’s recovered?”

  “I’m afraid not, Lenny. It’s okay, though – this new guy will be good for us. We can’t always rely on one person, can we? This way I can rotate boat captains, give one of them a rest while the other works. It’ll be good, trust me.”

  Lennox’s uncle had always said, “Don’t trust anyone who says ‘trust me’,” and while he wouldn’t exactly say he trusted Rothstein, his boss had never done anything to make him distrust him either. Even so, something about the switch of captains didn’t sit right. “In that case, I want my own people on board with me when I make the pickup.”

  “However you want to play it,” Rothstein yielded. “It’s your gig.”

  Lennox had three friends he called on from time to time. They were what the English would call “Yardies”, and they had all worked for his uncle when they’d lived in Jamaica. Barkley, Bembe, and Khenan were his best friends here in this shithole of a country, and they helped remind him of his own country, his home.

  Whenever they got together, Lennox felt as though there was nothing they couldn’t do; they were untouchable when they were in a group. He was closest to Barkley, having spent his childhood growing up with him – after his parents had been shot dead and he’d gone to live with his uncle. Bembe and Khenan were best friends, but the four of them together were solid.

  “It’s like you don’t trust me… or something, Lenny.” Rothstein sounded hurt.

  “It’s not that… It’s just that in all my time here–”

  “Yusef’s always steered the boat. I know, I know. It can’t be helped. His wife’s been taken really ill.” Rothstein shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do. I mean, I can’t cure her cancer, can I? Though I wish I could; I’d be rolling in it.”

  “Okay, I’ll call my brothers in to give me a hand. It’s not a problem.”

  “Good. That’s sorted then. A week today.”

  Lennox studied Rothstein for a second, and thought he seemed genuine. Fuck it! It was probably just him being paranoid. So far, Rothstein had been good to him. He’d even passed the real test when he’d been asked to join the Assistant Commissioner’s conspiracy. If he’d heard Rothstein accept the invitation, it would be a whole different story. So, instead, he tried to push his misgivings to the back of his mind.

  “We’re back in business, Lenny.” Rothstein held out his hand, signalling that the meeting was over. “Smile – it’s a good thing.”

  Lennox smiled half-heartedly…

  46

  “Sorry to bother you, Bea, but my van’s stuck in the slush,” said a voice from behind her. “Don’t suppose I could use your guards for a push, could I?”

  Beattie turned around to find her last client of the day stood in the doorway. She had been serviced by the New Bee, Thomas, and she certainly looked happy enough. “Of course you can,” Beattie replied, getting up and walking over to her.

  Mrs Reid was a fifty-six-year-old
cleaner by trade, though she looked about sixty-five in Beattie’s opinion, with wispy dyed red hair and wrinkles belying her age. Although she looked older than her years, she was fit from cleaning homes full-time. She also walked dogs for money in her spare time. She certainly was a strange one, Mrs Reid; by all accounts, she wasn’t the normal demographic for Beattie’s business. The majority of her clients were hardened career criminals, who came here to relax and have sex with her bees. Mrs Reid wasn’t, but her husband was in prison for armed robbery, and he’d told his wife to get in touch with Beattie.

  “So, how was my New Bee? Was he to your liking?” Beattie asked politely as she walked out of the office with her client.

  Mrs Reid replied that she was entirely satisfied with Thomas’ performance and would give him an eight out of ten; the only reason it wasn’t higher, she said, was because he was tied up, and she liked fingers and tongues. Beattie assured Mrs Reid that Thomas would be out of his restraints by her next visit.

  Out in the corridor, Beattie went along each room on both sides, making sure all the doors were locked. When she came to Danny’s room, the door was still open, and she could see Kimiko finishing her cleaning duties. Danny stared up at the ceiling. “Kimiko,” Beattie said, “please can you make sure you lock this door when you’re finished? We’re all going upstairs to help push Mrs Reid’s van out of the slush, okay?”

  She heard Kimiko say, “Yes, Bea,” and then carried on walking along, continuing to check all the other doors were locked.

  All five of her guards – minus Walter, who was still out trying to find her a New Bee – were stood around the bar, enjoying a drink and a laugh in their own languages.