No Way Out: an edge of your seat crime thriller

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No Way Out: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 28

by DC Brockwell


  She slowed to a stop, pulled up the handbrake, and switched off the engine. It had taken her longer than she’d thought to get here. She’d had to stop at a service station to fill up the tank and get something to eat, the traffic had been horrendous, and she’d taken a wrong turn earlier. Her dashboard clock told her it was 15:03.

  There was no turning back, she thought, reaching across for her bag and pulling out the Remington. She held it in her lap while she thought about her next course of action. Beneath the trees it was getting dark, and she would have to wait until then before going inside, which was fine – she had to do a bit of surveillance first anyway.

  Stepping out of her car, Nasreen went to the boot to retrieve her flashlight and binoculars; walking along the dirt track was going to be dark. Gebhardt had informed her that the bunker’s customers came and went at all times of the day, but were largely gone by eight, so she’d need to stick to the treeline for cover.

  After locking the car, she crossed the road, sticking to the embankment until she came to the turning. She wondered if she was being stupid – careless – by going it alone, but she couldn’t go to Adams, not when she was suspended and still investigating Danny’s disappearance. No, this was her only course of action.

  As she walked along the track, she pulled out her pistol and held it by her side. After five minutes of walking along the track, she heard a car approaching, then saw its lights through the trees. With haste, she climbed up the bank and hid amongst the trees and bushes while the car passed, confident she hadn’t been seen.

  Having walked a little further, Nasreen finally reached the gates to the farm, and up ahead she could see the farmhouse with a smaller house situated next to it. There were five cars parked out the front.

  She turned right at the gate, following the perimeter fencing until it turned left, then she continued until she had a good view of the house and barn behind it.

  She crouched and observed through her binoculars.

  After a while she saw a woman coming out of the barn, though with how dark it was getting it was difficult to make out any facial features. Two men in black trousers and white shirts under their coats followed the woman. Could that be Beatrice Harrison? Nasreen put the woman in her late thirties – early forties maybe – and she certainly looked in control, confident.

  Shivering, Nasreen put the binoculars down, cupped her hands, and breathed hot air into her palms. She wished she’d dressed for this. It was too late for those kinds of thoughts.

  Picking up the binoculars again, she continued to observe…

  “Officer Dyer, get back here!” Graham Holmes ordered.

  Steven continued walking; there was no way he was going to let twenty-five innocent people die in that bunker. He’d spent quarter of an hour arguing with Holmes about raiding the Harrison farm, and he didn’t want to waste any more time.

  He couldn’t understand, knowing what they did now, why Holmes and the Assistant Commissioner didn’t order a raid immediately. They’d said they’d requested a search warrant, but he didn’t believe them. There was something very suspect going on with Holmes and the Commissioner, and while he didn’t know what it was, he knew it had something to do with this whole situation.

  As he rushed through the police station, he noticed the NCA officers and uniformed officers alike moving out of his way. Maybe it was his purposeful stride, or maybe they had overheard him arguing with their seniors.

  Outside, he got in his car, checked his Glock, and sped off; he had to get to the farm as quickly as he could. If the seniors had actually requested a search warrant and were going to raid the farm, he wanted to get there before them. He wasn’t going to have someone else raid the bunker; he’d found it, and he wanted to be part of the team to arrest the Harrisons – and Rothstein.

  “Officer Dyer, this is Control,” came the voice in his ear. “Director General Holmes has requested that you return to the station immediately. Please acknowledge.”

  He pulled the microphone lead out and threw his earpiece behind him onto the back seat. He had a two-hour drive ahead of him and he didn’t want to spend it arguing with the control room…

  Peter Franks closed the door of the empty interview room behind him. He pulled his burner from his pocket and dialled.

  “Yeah,” came Rothstein’s voice.

  “You absolute bastard!”

  “Hey, hey, what the fuck kind of way is that to start a conversation?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Will, we know what’s going on under that barn now, you fucking sick maniac. Garvey’s just spilled his guts securing a nice little deal.”

  “What the fuck? Why are you even interviewing him? I gave him to you on a silver thirty-two-fucking-kilo platter. All you were supposed to do was book him and send him through to nick. Why the fuck did you question him?”

  “Um, there’s a little legal term called due process, but don’t worry, I wouldn’t expect you to understand that we have certain ways of doing things.”

  “This isn’t what we agreed to, Peter! Jesus fucking Christ, this could fuck everything right up. How much has he said?”

  “A lot. You’ve been doing this for sixteen years? All those innocent people you’ve had locked up down there, all those fucking dead…” He had to stop himself. There was a rage inside him that he needed to expel.

  “Oh, fuck you, Peter. I’m not going to let you judge me, you hypocrite. Those people aren’t innocent; they sell their bodies for money, for fuck’s sake. Anyway, I’m not justifying myself to you, you bent piece of shit.”

  “Fuck you! What we’re doing is going to help a lot of people; it will actually save lives. What you’re doing is abducting prostitutes, forcing them to have sex with people until they can’t anymore, and then butchering them, you fucking psycho.”

  There was a long pause.

  Franks tried breathing deeply a couple of times. “Why the fuck did you set Garvey up anyway? Why not just kill him? It seems you’re pretty good at that.”

  “Because, you idiot, I’m going to get blowback from his uncle either way, but if he gets pinched and sent to prison, and someone shanks him while he’s in there, his uncle can’t blame me for it, can he? If he just went missing, his uncle would send some heavies over and I can do without that.”

  Franks considered Rothstein’s reply. He had a point.

  There was another long pause.

  “Look, this is getting us nowhere fast,” Rothstein said finally. “What’s your next move, Peter, huh? What’re you going to do? You coming after me? Because if you do, you’d better bring a fucking army. And when push comes to shove, you should know that if I go down, you’re coming down with me.”

  “Don’t threaten me, scumbag! When we invited you to participate in this project, we didn’t know you were a complete psychopath. I mean, we had our suspicions you were importing, but we had no fucking idea you were doing this. As far as I’m concerned, our deal is nullified.”

  “No, no, Peter! You don’t get to decide that for me; the project goes ahead as planned. It’s up to you to find a way out of this, and if you say no, just remember I’ve got the fucking recording of you coming to me with your little plan.”

  Franks sighed. That God damn recording. Rothstein was right; he had no choice but to attempt to brush this under the carpet. But how the hell was he going to do that? He paced back and forth, going over his own footsteps time and again.

  Taking another deep breath, he said, “All right, let’s calm down, shall we?” What the hell was he going to do? He had to think. “Right, you’ve got an NCA officer on his way to your farm as we speak. I’ll get Holmes to call him off – that’ll give me some time to think things through.”

  “Hey, I don’t give a flying fuck what you do,” Rothstein said, calmer. “This is your ballgame, do whatever you have to. But if an NCA officer comes anywhere near my farm, he’s going to wish he hadn’t. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Franks s
aid before hanging up, adding, “Prick!” when the line had been severed.

  Shit! He had some real thinking to do, but first he had to pressure Holmes into making sure that Officer Dyer didn’t breach the farm. And then Franks had to deliver the bad news to his boss. He wasn’t looking forward to that, not one little bit…

  61

  Beattie couldn’t believe how much pain Danny could tolerate.

  Hung by his wrists, his body battered and bruised and his head down, she watched as he opened his one good eye, the other so swollen flesh covered it.

  She walked around him, observing the bruising. His ribs were a bluish grey, his back was covered in bruising and deep red welts from where the guards had burnt him with cigarettes, and his lovely face was swollen and contorted. He’d lost five teeth.

  “I see you’re still with us then?”

  She gripped his hair and pulled his head up so she could look at him directly without crouching. There was nothing she wanted more than to see him die – except, of course, to cause him pain, both physically and mentally.

  Since Kimiko’s death, he would be hearing her screams, over and over again, haunting him. He’d defiled Kimiko, and turned Beattie’s beautiful support worker against her, and now he was paying the price. “You’ve exceeded my expectations, Danny,” she said as his eye rolled back. “I thought you’d be dead by now. But don’t worry, it won’t be long; the guards will be in shortly… and I’ve given them instructions to end it today.”

  As soon as she’d finished speaking, she heard him try to speak.

  It came out low and muffled.

  Not being able to understand, she put her ear closer to his mouth.

  “F-fuck… y-you,” came his garbled response.

  “Fuck me? Fuck me?” A deep rage filled her as she slapped him with both her forehand and backhand. With his head slumped, she grabbed his hair again, lifting his head up and punching his cheek with her free hand. It felt so good to take her pain out on him – and she had so much pain.

  Her mobile phone chimed, and taking a deep breath, she pulled it out of her jeans pocket and answered it, still watching Danny. “Hi, Dad,” she said as nonchalantly as she could.

  “We’ve got problems, Bea,” came her daddy’s voice. “An NCA officer is on his way over to you. I’m trying to fix it, but it will be a good idea to prepare. Get the guards to fetch the arsenal.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Lenny’s been arrested. He’s given up everything in exchange for a deal. They know about the bunker, they know about the abductions and how we get rid of your bees… They know everything!”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah, right, shit. We might have reached our end game, like we talked about. I’m still trying to sort it out – so we’re not there yet – but get the guards to arm themselves, just in case.”

  “Wait, why haven’t they raided us already?”

  “It’s a long story, and I haven’t got time to go through it with you now, but don’t worry: I have things in the pipeline that will prevent the police from raiding us.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Look, sweetie, I already told you, I don’t have time to go through it. Where’s Alan? I need to speak with him.”

  Beattie’s heart started thudding. “I, er, don’t know. He went out last night and hasn’t come home yet.”

  “Jesus Christ! He’s never around when I need him. Get him to call me when he graces you with his presence, will you? Oh, and Bea, I’ll be in touch if it’s time for the end game, okay? And when it is, be sure to press that button when I say.”

  “Of course, Daddy, just like we talked about.”

  She hung up and stared at the floor for a moment.

  Holy shit! If things weren’t bad enough already, now she had to worry about the police and the National Crime Agency raiding the farm. With more rage filling her, she punched Danny’s face, hard. “This is all your doing, you bastard!”

  She didn’t have time to continue pummelling him, although she wanted to. Her knuckles hurt anyway. She left room three of C Wing and walked through the corridor to the bar, where some guards were stood having a drink.

  As calmly as she could, she asked them to go into the house and fetch the pistols…

  As Steven approached the lay-by, he noticed there was a car parked where he used to park his. Fortunately, the lay-by was large enough for two cars, so he carefully pulled in behind the Ford Focus and switched off his engine. It wasn’t quite dark – by the time he reached his old surveillance spot, it would be. It was 18:10 by his watch, and according to his timepiece, he had about six minutes until sunset.

  He walked around to the rear of his car, opened the boot, and took out his flashlight. Before he crossed the road, he checked his Glock and holstered it on his hip. Once he’d crossed the road he walked along until he came to the narrow dirt track.

  Switching on his torch, he started walking the half-mile to the gates of the farm.

  If he had a normal job – an office or factory job – he’d be tucking into a lovely Sunday roast about now, he thought, as he followed the torchlight along the muddy frozen path, his breath visible in the white light. Or maybe he’d be at his local enjoying a pint before dinner.

  After ten minutes, he found himself at the gates to the farm. He turned right, following the perimeter fence to the end, and then turned left, heading towards his usual surveillance spot…

  62

  Nasreen watched through her binoculars as a silhouette walked out of the barn and headed towards the house. She hadn’t seen any activity for over half an hour, until now.

  The woman – who’d walked out of the barn earlier – had walked back in, so if it was Beatrice Harrison, she was still in the bunker. Nasreen hadn’t seen Walter Gebhardt yet, but in the darkness she wasn’t able to make out any facial features through the binoculars.

  Deep down, she knew she was in the right place; Danny was here.

  She had to decide her next move.

  She thought she’d counted five men – whom she’d taken to be guards – but there was no way to be sure of the number, given her distance from the barn and how dark it was. With odds of five to one – her being the one – she had to be extra vigilant and make the right choice; she couldn’t go in there, gun blazing. That wouldn’t help anyone.

  Suddenly she heard rustling to her left, the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention.

  Putting the binoculars down, she picked up her pistol and torch, then looked into the blackness, hoping she was imagining someone there.

  When a twig snapped, she raised her gun and shone the torch in the direction of the sound. “Identify yourself!” she said in a shouted whisper. “I’m armed, I will shoot you. Identify yourself!”

  “Jesus Christ! Put that gun down and get that torch out of my face,” snapped a man, his face turned away from the glare of the torch and his palm out, trying to deflect the bright light. “I’m Steven Dyer, NCA. Turn that torch off before they see us.”

  “Show me your warrant card,” Nasreen insisted, the torch still in his face.

  She waited for him to reach into his jacket and pull out his identification, then she shone the torch on the wallet and saw that he did indeed work for the NCA. Her nerves started to calm once she realised she wasn’t in imminent danger. “Sorry!” she said, between deep breaths. “I thought you might be one of the guards.”

  “That’s all right. I’d have done the same thing.”

  Feeling a lot calmer, Nasreen went back to her original position, gun and torch on the mud in front of her, her eyes staring through the binoculars.

  “You’ve seen my ID,” said the uninvited guest crouching next to her. “Who are you?”

  Nasreen turned to face him. “Sorry, I’m Detective Constable Nasreen Maqsood,” she said, telling him which force she worked for.

  “And you expect me to take your word for it, do you? Where’s your warrant card?”

  She d
idn’t have time for this. “Me? I don’t have one. I’m on suspension.” There was no reason for her to justify herself to this NCA officer, so she didn’t; she went back to watching the barn through her binoculars.

  “Okay, so you’re a suspended detective,” the annoying man clarified. “Why is that?”

  “For shooting a suspect who asked too many questions.”

  “That’d do it, I guess. Can I ask why you’re here – without you shooting me? I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “I was suspended for investigating the disappearance of a friend in my spare time.” Nasreen sighed. “My friend was abducted over a month ago, but my bosses gave the investigation just five days before they shelved it for more important cases. I carried on the investigation in my own time, and it got me suspended. But it also brought me here.”

  “And where’s here? What I mean is, how much do you know about this place?”

  He really was getting on her last nerve. “I probably know more than you do actually.”

  “Doubtful, but I’ll play along.”

  “My friend, Danny, was abducted by a man called Walter Gebhardt, who lives here at this farm. Underneath that barn there’s an old World War Two bunker that Beatrice Harrison and her husband have converted into a kind of brothel-cum-torture house. That’s where they’ve got Danny, down there in that bunker.”

  “Along with twenty-four more hostages. This is so much bigger than the disappearance of your boyfriend, detective.”

  “It’s Nasreen. Call me Nasreen, or Nas,” she said, hating the formality of titles. “And I know how big this is – my source told me how many they have down there. I’m not stupid.”

  “Hey, I don’t think you’re stupid, Nas, I just need you to know what you’re getting yourself into. This farm is owned by William Rothstein, have you heard of him?”

 

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