No Way Out: an edge of your seat crime thriller

by DC Brockwell

  Picking up two boxes, she carried them to the furnace room. When she opened the oven door she saw the remains of Kimiko’s blackened skull, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she removed the contents of the two boxes and threw them inside.

  On her way out, she pressed the button and heard the flames roar to life, burning the remaining evidence that Kimiko had ever been here.

  When she’d closed the furnace room and locked it, she walked to room three of C Wing and opened the door. Danny was chained to the ceiling and floor, his body held up only by his wrists, his head down. His body looked like one big bruise of varying colours, ranging from black to blue to yellow.

  After Kimiko had been taken care of, she’d instructed the guards to place Danny in this cell and beat him regularly. For two days he’d been subjected to hours of torture, a painful battering by a mixture of the five guards.

  “I know you can hear me, Danny,” she said icily, pulling his head up by his hair. “Was it worth it, huh? Did turning Kimiko against me bring you anything other than pain? Well, I’m here to tell you that I’ve not even begun yet… You’ll be begging me to kill you by the time I’m through, and even then I won’t let you die. Killing you would be too kind.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you won’t be getting that from me…”

  “Target turning left towards the farmhouse.” Steven was following Garvey’s Shogun along the country road.

  He slowed his car to a stop, parking a hundred metres away from the road leading to the Harrison farm, then he switched off the engine and sat back in his seat.

  He knew something suspicious was going on with the operation.

  William Rothstein was no longer being watched, and all resources were being reallocated to Lennox Garvey.

  The farmhouse, it seemed, was no longer a target.

  Ever since the Director General had been killed and the new DG had been sworn in, the whole operation had changed. Steven knew that Garvey wasn’t worth the effort they were putting in – what with bugging his car and house and putting twenty-four-hour audio and visual surveillance on him – so why were they doing it?

  Somehow, Rothstein had managed to worm his way out of an NCA investigation, and while Steven wasn’t saying Graham Holmes was corrupt exactly, it did seem suspect that as soon as he took over, the operation had changed.

  If Wells were still alive, he’d put money on the fact that they’d still be investigating Rothstein. According to a colleague, Holmes had told him that the change of target was a direct order from the Home Secretary.

  Steven didn’t buy it, and neither did his team.

  It was dark outside, and cold, so he switched the key slightly to allow the heater to come on. He was looking forward to the warmer weather coming, but it still seemed a long way off. The clock on the dashboard read: 20:55.

  The previous day he’d spent some time looking into changing agencies; he hadn’t applied to any vacancies, although he’d had a preliminary search to see what he might fancy. After all, the NCA was tainted in his view. He wouldn’t ever consider police work. There were other agencies he could look into. He’d seen some roles in immigration, and also revenue and customs, for instance, so if he saw a role he liked, he might apply for one of them. Then there were always private security firms he could try.

  According to HQ, the audio and visual surveillance hadn’t picked up on any criminal activities from Garvey, which was both irritating and understandable. The man was far too smart to discuss work at his home or in his car. Steven knew they would have to catch him with his hand in the jar, so to speak, or they’d need to find a witness willing to testify against him on past criminal deeds, and neither of those were very realistic…

  Peter Franks was alone in his study, sat at his desk in front of his PC with the radio on in the background. His wife was out with a friend – at a pub having dinner – and he’d already eaten his steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes, and vegetables.

  He was getting impatient waiting on Rothstein’s phone call; it was bad enough dealing with the man in the first place, but having to jump to his tune was even worse. He thought they should have gone with the original importer. Not the Commissioner, he was adamant that it had to be Rothstein. His boss had explained that they’d never been able to infiltrate his network before, and that was exactly the kind of person they needed as part of the project.

  When his mobile rang, he looked at the caller: Rothstein. He picked it up and answered, hoping it was finally time to set their plan in motion. “Will, I was just thinking about you,” Franks said, leaning back in his chair.

  “It’s happening tonight. Write down this address…”

  Franks did as instructed.

  “He’ll be there around midnight; when he returns, you know what to do.”

  “You’re going to owe me one. And what do we do with him once we have him?”

  “Process him as you would any other collar, and I’ll deal with it once he’s banged up, okay? You don’t need to do anything beyond arrest him. It’ll be a good day for your lot, I promise.”

  Franks hung up, smiling. The first of the high-profile arrests was coming their way – the project was about to start. He thought about the headlines, the publicity. It would, of course, be a joint effort between the appropriate Force and the NCA, but the media would eat it up.

  Once this was over, he would finalise the preliminary meeting of all those involved in the project, and they could get the logistics sorted out properly. He hoped they’d be able to start the project within a month, two tops.

  Looking at the address he’d scribbled – the location of a marina down south – he checked the force to see if the Police and Crime Commissioner, and hence, Chief Constable, was one of his or not. He smiled, realising it was. He picked up the phone and made the call, telling the Chief Constable to have uniforms near the area; they weren’t to be visible until the suspect returned.

  Once he’d terminated that call, he phoned Graham Holmes’ mobile. “Graham, it’s Peter. It’s happening tonight. Have you still got him under surveillance?”

  “Round the clock, like I told you before.”

  “Good, write this address down,” he added, telling Holmes and spelling certain words. “Have your officers nearby, but don’t spook him. We have to wait until he returns.”

  He hung up, satisfied.

  All his pieces were in motion. All he had to do now was sit back and wait…

  53

  Lennox walked through the bar, noticing there was a new carpet – it had that new carpet smell too. The lights were already on when he arrived, so he knew Beattie must still be around. He’d not seen her since their brief sexy encounter, and Lennox hoped it was her and not that dickhead husband of hers.

  As he walked up to the office he noticed that the door was open and the lights were on, and when he went inside, he saw Beattie sat on her chair, her back to him. “Hi, Bea,” he said, as normally as he could.

  When she turned in her chair, he noticed how amazing she looked in a white sleeveless blouse with plunging neckline and a pair of dark blue jeans. She looked stunning.

  “Hi!” she replied with a half-smile, her voice hoarse.

  He walked to the desk, placing the suitcase on the floor and his torch on the wooden surface. When he heard her sniff, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, her back still to him.

  “It’s good to see you; it’s been a while,” he said, trying to break the awkward silence.

  “You too,” she replied, her voice gruff.

  He walked over to her then, gently rubbing her bare shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

  When she turned to him, he could see her red puffy eyes, and her face crumpled as she gently sobbed. She put her arms around him and cuddled his waist.

  “Hey, hey, what’s up?”

  Beattie wouldn’t answer him; she just continued to gently sob.

  He waited for her to unwrap herself, to release him, and finally, she did.

 
; When she turned in her chair and sat facing the wall again, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Beattie shook her head.

  Lennox didn’t know what to do, what to say. He’d never seen her like this – he’d always thought she was a hard cold bitch – and seeing her look so vulnerable was a massive turn-on.

  He finally saw her as a human being, with feelings, and she looked so sweet, so innocent. Who’d have thought teary eyes could excite him?

  He watched Beattie shake her head, like she was shaking off the blues, willing them to go. Then she stood and turned to him.

  “Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee? Something stronger?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks. You look like you could use something stronger though.”

  She didn’t reply to his last comment; instead, she walked out of the office to make herself a drink. He sat down to start counting the fifties, and when she returned, she brought him a glass of whisky that she left on his desk, next to the pile of tens.

  “A little something to say sorry,” she said in a deflated voice. “I shouldn’t have cried in front of you; it was very unprofessional of me.”

  He looked up at her, frowning. Whatever it was, it was upsetting her.

  Lennox stared at her cleavage, at the top that left little to the imagination, and saw she was wearing a chain that dangled between her breasts, accentuating them. In addition to looking great, she smelt great too.

  Beattie leaned on him, putting her arm around his shoulder.

  “You don’t have to apologise, I don’t mind.” He looked up at her. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “No, it’s nothing, forget it happened.”

  “Okay, but I’m a good listener.” He raised his arm and rubbed her cheek.

  Their eyes locked.

  Then their lips met…

  “Is that him?” Nasreen handed the binoculars to Jankovics, who used her free hand to spy on the driver of the van that had stopped outside the warehouse. She’d tied the Hungarian woman’s other hand to the steering wheel with plastic cable ties.

  “No, that not him.” Jankovics handed back the binoculars.

  From their vantage point across the road, Nasreen had the perfect view of who came and went from the warehouse. For two days she’d been spying on the building, so it was fortunate that the business park they were in was largely deserted, probably why Conrad Gebhardt had chosen it to conduct business.

  By day the warehouse was a mailing house, a legitimate business with fifteen tax-paying employees enrolled on PAYE. By night, it was frequented by suspicious-looking white van drivers, none of whom had been Conrad Gebhardt, at least not according to Jankovics.

  Nasreen had asked Terrence to conduct a background check on the business, and he’d confirmed that the company was above board, had a Company’s House number, was VAT registered and that the CEO was a seemingly upstanding member of the community. However, subsequent searches of Alexander Rohr, the CEO, had led to further discoveries: he was the second cousin of Walter and Conrad Gebhardt. There was no evidence to suggest that he was involved with the Bavarian Brotherhood, but the fact he let suspicious men use his warehouse after hours told Nasreen a lot.

  “I hope he kill you.” Jankovics sulked.

  “Mmm hmm.” Nasreen watched the driver’s shadow in front of the well-lit door of the warehouse. “I’m sure you do. You’re just upset because I kicked your arse all over your flat.” She smiled at the memory as Jankovics muttered something in Hungarian under her breath.

  For two days Nasreen had had to endure Jankovics’ winning personality, and while she had wanted to punch her in the face on a number of occasions, she’d opted for making sarcastic quips at Jankovics’ expense instead. For the past two nights they’d stayed in a local Travelodge, with the Hungarian tied to the bedpost. The poor woman had had her hands tied to either a bedpost or the steering wheel ever since they’d left Jankovics’ flat.

  Nasreen watched the driver of the van as he turned off the warehouse lights and closed the metal shutter. He then opened the driver’s side door, stepped in, and reversed out of the forecourt.

  Nasreen was pretty sure she couldn’t be seen; she’d parked in an abandoned warehouse car park, which had some bushes for cover. She’d chosen the spot specifically because she could see what was going on over there, but anyone at the warehouse would have to look hard to see her.

  She was hungry. “You want one of these sandwiches?” she asked as she reached behind her and pulled out two cardboard sandwich containers from Waitrose. “Seafood or tuna mayo?” As soon as she’d asked, she heard Jankovics’ stomach rumble. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Nasreen said, with a smile. “Which one do you want?”

  “Seafood.”

  Ripping open the seafood sandwich box and pulling out one triangle half of the sandwich, Nasreen held it in front of Jankovics’ mouth and waited until she took a bite. Then she ripped open her tuna mayo sandwich box and took a bite of her own sandwich.

  In spite of how long she’d waited, however, Nasreen still felt she was close to finding Walter Gebhardt, and consequently Danny. She’d also had time to think about her situation.

  There was nothing she could do about the IOPC investigation; it was happening, and no amount of apologising or grovelling for forgiveness would prevent it from going ahead. She didn’t want her career to be over, but that looked more and more certain with every passing day. She’d wondered, while sat in the car, what she would do next? She couldn’t think about it too hard, not yet; she still had to find Danny and bring him home…

  54

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Lennox heard Beattie gasp.

  “Alan! It’s not what it looks like… I can explain!”

  That would teach him for having his back to the door. Fuck! He’d just been caught with his pants around his ankles, literally. Lennox bent down and pulled his jeans up, turning to find Alan’s angry red face marching towards him. He backed a pace until he reached the desk and couldn’t go any further.

  “You fucking arsehole!” Alan cried, pointing at him.

  He waited for Beattie to intervene; after all, he was her husband, her responsibility. He hadn’t just cheated on Alan, she had. Beattie was busy pulling her jeans up and trying to find her top.

  “I’m going to fuck you up for this!” Alan yelled.

  “Alan, wait, please let me explain,” pleaded Beattie, fully dressed and trying to pull her husband back.

  “Explain? Explain what, how you fucked the help? I’ve just seen how you did that, and on my fucking desk too, you bitch!”

  Lennox stood still. He didn’t want to incite the husband; his temper was wearing very thin. If Alan called him “the help” again, he’d nut the bastard, Beattie’s husband or not. He didn’t need this shit. He had to be careful though; Alan had Rothstein’s ear. Let Beattie sort her man out, he thought, putting on his T-shirt and jumper as he listened to her attempting to calm her husband down. It wasn’t working.

  “I can’t believe I blew Sammy and her mum off to come back and make sure you were all right, and I come home to this? To find you fucking a ni–”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lennox warned.

  “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to! You’re the one in the wrong here, not me. I’m not the one who’s just been fucked by…”

  “By what?” Lennox couldn’t help himself.

  He watched as Alan stopped, then he took two steps forwards. He was three inches taller than Alan, and broader. Alan looked like he was shitting himself. He’d seen it many times with arseholes like this – when he stood up and faced them, they shut up, fast. “Come on, Alan, what were you going to say?”

  He took another step forward until he was nose to nose with Beattie’s husband.

  With a sneer Alan replied, “Oh, fuck off back to your own country!”

  Alan spat in his face.

  Lennox saw red; his vision clou
ded, and he headbutted Alan’s nose, which exploded over his face. Before he knew it, Lennox had Alan on the floor, pummelling him with his fists.

  “Lennox, stop! Stop it!” Beattie’s desperate cries were wasted on him.

  He couldn’t hear her; he was so focused on punching Alan in the face.

  Having the upper hand, being on top, Lennox knocked out three of Alan’s teeth, broke his nose, and probably fractured his cheek too by the time he stopped hitting him.

  Lennox’s breath came in rasps.

  “I told you to stop hitting him, didn’t I? For fuck’s sake, Lennox, look at him! You’ve beaten him to a pulp!”

  Lennox looked down at Alan’s broken face. Had he just done that? His knuckles were red raw, bloody. Alan had deserved it though, he thought, as his breathing stabilised. “Fucking prick shouldn’t have said that,” he said, standing up.

  Beattie stooped, pressing her palm to Alan’s cheek before putting two fingers to his neck. Looking up at Lennox, she said, “I can’t feel a pulse.”

  “The fuck you say? I didn’t beat him that hard. He can’t be dead.”

  It didn’t register for a couple of seconds, but Lennox watched in shock as Alan’s arms came to life, his face becoming focused and enraged as he grabbed Beattie’s neck with both hands and strangled her. He’d never seen a man so determined before.

  He could hear Beattie fighting for breath.

  Panicking, he scanned the room, spotting a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall.

  He went to it, picked it up, and carried it to the middle of the office, where Beattie was turning purple. Grabbing the extinguisher by its sides, Lennox brought it crashing down on Alan’s head.

  The first blow cracked Alan’s skull, but somehow he still had hold of Beattie, so Lennox brought it down a second time.