by Diane Saxon
He had only himself to blame, of course. He’d rested on his laurels and by sheer dint of that had allowed the people who worked for him to rest on theirs. They’d ruined it.
Twenty-four hours ago, it hadn’t mattered. He’d not cared enough.
Things had changed. So rapidly he barely had time to take it all in.
He slipped through from one doorway into a long musky-scented corridor with dingy mustard walls and discarded the idea that he could take up residence in the place as it was. He’d whip it into shape though in no time at all. The smaller rooms could soon be converted into living accommodation for him. A bed, a bathroom, a kitchen.
He sneered as he bumped through to the next enormous room. One that had been set up properly, with several rows of tables outfitted with highly sophisticated equipment he’d recently purchased which had replaced over two dozen people. A reduction of workforce and risk. Equipment worth a small mountain of cocaine for which it had been purchased to cut with an accuracy no human hand could compete with.
He stopped just inside the doorway with fury building into a thick, dark oil. A two-million-pound operation and no one there to oversee it.
As an intruder, he should have been shot dead the moment he walked through the front hangar doors of the building. As the fucking owner, the least he’d expect is to be challenged, greeted, acknowledged. Instead, there wasn’t even a sign of a security guard, never mind the eight he believed were working around the clock. The place was deserted. Where the hell were the workers? It should be a buzz of activity, not a mortuary.
He glanced at the time on his Omega watch. The Constellation Co-Axial Master Chronometer his wife had paid the better part of twenty-five grand for on his birthday. As it was his credit card she’d used for the purchase, he couldn’t have been happier. With them all dead, nobody would be paying the bill.
He twisted his lips in a bitter smile and dropped his arm back down to his side. She’d never earned a penny of her own in her life, but she magnanimously splashed out all his money on gifts apparently from her. Irony. He’d bought the fucking over-priced watch himself.
Only 5:30 p.m., time enough for work to be done.
He fisted his hands and rested them on his hips, pressing down on the rage threatening to explode. A twenty-four-hour, £900,000-a-week-turnover business was his dream. Hardly one he’d see at this rate.
He circled around again. And froze at the slow creek of a door. If none of his men were apparent, just who the hell was sneaking around his building, his business?
He tilted his head to catch the soft shuffle of shoes heading his way along the corridor and palmed one of the small handguns he’d tucked in his pocket. If he’d known what he’d come across, he’d have brought more firepower from the boot of his car. Foolishly, he hadn’t imagined he’d need it. Another mistake he’d be sure not to repeat in the future. Now he had one again. He narrowed his eyes.
He snorted out a laugh. Someone was about to get a hell of a fright. He was back from the dead. Lazarus they could call him.
Phil Hart’s eyes shot wide as he appeared in the doorway, fear lurking in their watery depths. His voice stuttered out from between stiff lips. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Evidently, Phil.’ He allowed a slow easy smile to spread across his face, raised his eyebrows and let the smile slide away. ‘Is that why you sent everybody home?’
The scarlet flush over the man's pale skin confirmed his suspicions and he took satisfaction at the panic that flashed through Phil’s eyes while he passed his gun from one hand to the other, as efficient using either left or right when firing a weapon. He held the Taurus LBR revolver with casual deadliness, gratified at the dread it seemed to evoke in the other man.
‘I’d not heard from you. For over a week. Last time we spoke—’
‘Last time we spoke,’ he cut in, ‘I told you I needed to keep my head down, Phil, that the heat had turned up.’ He quirked one side of his mouth up in a crooked grin. He certainly had turned the heat up. Full on blaze.
Phil, the one he’d put his trust in, his right-hand man, gave a weak, pathetic shrug. ‘I thought this was all over.’
Vicious annoyance slapped through him. When had he ever given the impression it was over? He’d thought it himself for a short time, but he’d never revealed his thoughts to Phil. ‘What the hell made you believe that?’
The muted scuff of a footstep had him swinging his gun to point at a second man who stepped through the wide doorway.
This one didn’t show the same fear, his cool disdain undisturbed by the gun aimed at his heart. His air of arrogance a refreshing relief but also a warning that he could be an adversary in the game.
With no idea who he was, he studied the other man with cautious interest.
With the smooth coffee-coloured skin of mixed heritage, the stranger had inherited disconcertingly pale eyes. They glowed an unnatural green as his gaze flickered over to where yesterday’s delivery of blocks of cocaine hydrochloride powder were stacked across four pallets. Half would remain in the pure form, half would be processed into crack using the baking and talcum powder which was neatly stacked further along the room. The organisation of products with a street value in excess of £200,000 was a tribute to Phil’s abilities. Unfortunately, his panicked actions to shut up shop when the pressure was on were not.
Where had the pressure come from? Another operation? A drugs lord trying to muscle in on his success?
This new man wasn’t one of his, the one with balls of steel, the one he didn’t recognise, but from the slick, expensive dress sense and attitude, he believed he was somebody. Perhaps he was, or wanted to be, but he was in for a surprise if he thought he was going to be handed a fully functioning operation as easy as that. Perhaps he needed to witness just who the boss was.
With a deliberate turn of his head, he ignored the stranger, his mind sharp and clear as he addressed Phil. ‘I suggest you get your arse into gear and get my people back up and running within the next hour.’
‘But—’
He cut him off before Phil had barely opened his mouth. ‘There are no buts. If you wish to…’ He handed the gun back again to his right hand, raised his arm and took easy aim directly at the other man’s forehead. He sighed out an exaggerated breath. ‘…Live.’ This time he stretched a smile, flat and sharp, as he dipped his left hand into his pocket. With ease, he flicked the safety off his Walther 9mm PPK ambidextrous semi-auto pistol and withdrew it.
Guns were his passion, the desire to use every one of his collection a driving force he obsessed about night and day.
Lightweight, the 9mm fitted neatly into the palm of his hand. With no time to take an accurate aim, he raised his arm and shot one-handed. The bullet hit the stranger dead centre of his nose with a slight upward trajectory to blow blood, bone and grey matter out of the back of his head and splatter them into the narrow corridor and up the walls behind.
Surprise stayed etched on the stranger’s face long after he was dead, and his body slumped to the floor once the message reached it that it no longer had a brain.
Horror froze Phil in place with his hands raised, palms outward, with not so much as a breath moving.
Dark satisfaction winged its way through Gordon Lawrence. Aside from money, the one thing guaranteed to get the job done was fear.
‘I should kill you too.’ He pursed his lips as he considered his options with ice-cold detachment. He trained both guns on Phil with steady hands. He should kill Phil for selling him out to the stranger with barely a moment to mourn his supposed demise. With the swiftness of Phil’s move, he’d already put the wheels in motion for the takeover, that much was evident.
A takeover that would never happen.
He ran his tongue over his teeth as he considered the advantage of dispatching Phil.
The man could potentially be worth more alive than dead. He’d run the place into the ground, but he knew everything, everyone. It was the route of least effort to use
Phil again to get it back on board. Keep the man in place, let him prove himself. Until his usefulness was spent, and dependent on his response.
With a long, even breath he kept his voice a low gravelly threat. ‘Like I said, do your job, Phil. Get everyone back to work with immediate effect.’
Phil raised his hand and pinched the top of his nose as he closed his eyes. ‘I'm not sure I can get them back. Not immediately.’ He opened his eyes, his gaze searching for compassion.
He wasn’t about to get any. ‘Then I might as well shoot you now.’
Dread filled the other man’s eyes. A man who feared him was far more useful than a man who thought him a fool.
‘It may take me a little while, but I’ll do it.’
Amused at the tremor in Phil’s voice, Gordon let a satisfied smile spread over his face.
Cowardly little shit. Once he had everything running smooth again, Phil would be the next to die. Not one minute too soon. ‘Excellent. Your priority is to get my security back in here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He circled his gun around for effect. ‘From now on, I’ll be living here. Get someone reliable in to make the offices liveable.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And, in the meantime,’ a sneer curled Gordon Lawrence’s lip, ‘You can clear up that mess.’ With a flick of his gun, he indicated the crumpled body in the doorway and laughed as Phil almost genuflected, his breath puffing out in panic-stricken bursts.
‘Yes, sir.’
19
Sunday 19 April 1815 hours
Amazed at what effect a long, hot bath to rid herself of the overpowering scent of the fire that clung to her could have, Jenna let out a sigh. It had helped to slip into freshly laundered bedding, courtesy of Fliss, who’d taken pity on her having to work her day off. The five-hour nap had gone a long way to restoring her too. She’d still need an early night to prepare her for the long days she imagined ahead of her, starting tomorrow. But tomorrow would keep.
Surprisingly refreshed, Jenna stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror while she smoothed on her moisturiser.
Her lips curved upward. Even if it did nothing, it gave her a sense that she was making an effort. She squirted a tiny amount of foundation on the tips of her fingers and applied a thin layer. Barely worth the effort, but it gave her skin a flawless finish, just as advertised.
With a quick flick of a brush, Jenna applied a little bronzer to her cheekbones, then leaned into the mirror as she swept a mascara wand over eyelashes that were already thick and black, lengthening them so her eyes darkened and sparkled with life.
She glanced over her shoulder into her bedroom. Her heart gave a hitch at the sight of the little dog curled in a tight ball on her bed. Poor little thing.
Fleur, it said on the minute name tag, barely even visible under the plethora of diamantes encrusted on the collar. They’d almost requested forensics to decipher it, but Donna took a photograph on her iPhone and expanded it until they could read the name.
Jenna finished rinsing her hands and then towelled them dry.
Donna couldn’t be persuaded to hang onto Fleur until they could locate a family member. Skinned rabbit, she’d called her. Jenna tried to convince herself she’d had no choice in the matter, but she could have called the dog warden, or left her with the front counter. Instead, the little dog had melted her heart and she’d brought her home. It wasn’t unusual for an officer to take in a stray while they waited for the owners to contact the station. It was less stressful. Fleur would not have suited kennels and it would not have suited Jenna to let the sweetheart go.
Jenna made her way into the bedroom and lowered herself gently onto the bed so she didn’t disturb Fleur.
Domino had been decidedly unimpressed with their visitor. After a sniff all over, he’d looked at Jenna as though she’d lost her mind. Skinned rabbit may also have been his opinion.
For her own comfort and pleasure, she ran the back of her fingers down the curved length of Fleur’s back and the dog rolled over to expose her furless fawn belly. Softer than silk. As the dog cracked open one eye to gaze up at her, Jenna’s heart clenched with sympathy and she made up her mind. Fleur was not a dog to be left alone. She’d accompany Adrian and Jenna to dinner.
20
Sunday 19 April 2015 hours
The painful clench of her stomach woke her, the burn almost as bad as the fire in her side.
Tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, Poppy raised her head and squinted into the dimming light inside the barn.
The contents of the carrier bags lay strewn across the floor from where she’d staggered in earlier and dropped onto the bales of straw just before she blacked out.
She flopped her right arm out, her knuckles grazing against a can of Coke. She needed it. Needed energy, even though her stomach still rebelled.
Poppy grasped the can and propped herself up on her right elbow, whimpering all the time as she popped the lid.
The fizz almost choked her as she guzzled it down. Sugar and energy her most pressing need.
She flopped back onto the straw, gasping for breath. No idea what time it was, she blinked in the murkiness of the barn. Pale shafts of golden light still filtered through. The last dregs of daylight. It still had to be Sunday. She surely can’t have passed out for more than a few hours.
Letting out a grunt, she pushed up again and stared around at the scattered tins. Beans would have to do. Better than ravioli. As she looked at the tin, her stomach rebelled. She wasn’t the biggest fan in the first place, but the thought of cold, slimy pasta sliding its way down her throat made her throat clench. She hadn’t been thinking straight when she snatched it out of the cupboard, the main priority had been not to take more than one of anything so Ethel wouldn’t notice.
She reached out and groaned, as her fingers skimmed the tin so it rolled further away.
Frustrated with the pain and the effort, she sat up and leaned over with one hand clutching her side as though it could keep the throbbing pain at bay. Nothing but sleep did that, and even that was fitful.
Light-headed she suspected more from hunger than pain, she forced herself to grasp the tin and shook it. Peeling back the ring pull, she reached for the spoon and scooped out the beans into her mouth. More ravenous than she’d realised, she shovelled it in, gulping it down as though it was her last meal. She should have grabbed some bread, but Ethel would have known and then the police would be all over the place.
She pushed more into her mouth, barely chewing as she swallowed it down. It may well be her last meal.
Poppy scraped the tin clean and then looked around, her stomach still protesting its need for sustenance. After all, she’d not eaten since the night before.
As she reached for the pineapple, her side burnt. She looked around for the packets of paracetamol and ibuprofen. Her mum had made her promise never to take them more often than it stated on the packet, even if she had wracking period pains.
No period could compete with the pain she was in and she didn’t give a flying fuck how long ago she’d last taken the painkillers. She needed them and she needed them now.
She flipped them into her hand. Two white tablets, the ones she always had difficulty swallowing as they tended to stick to the back of her tongue, and the coated ibuprofen which slid down easily. She rarely took them. Mum said they thinned the blood and made you bleed more when you were having a period. It was probably a pile of crap, and she didn’t care.
Poppy sat cross-legged, popped the lid on the pineapple, threw the tablets into her mouth and washed them down with the pineapple juice. She scooped the cubes of refreshing pineapple into her mouth until every one of them was gone.
Annoyed with herself for not bringing more food, she let the empty tin roll from her fingers and lay back in the straw to stare at the wide, rounded roof of the old Dutch barn. A miniature version, Mr Crawford had told the twins. Miniature it may be, but it was big enough to hide in amongst the bales of hay
and straw.
Unused for years, the dust puffed up in plumes every time she moved.
Relieved she’d cleaned her wound in the kitchen, Poppy heaved a sigh as her eyelids drifted shut.
She touched her fingers to her phone and considered switching it on. Who was there to ring? Who could she ever trust with her darkest secret?
She needed to think.
She needed to make decisions.
But, right now, she needed to sleep.
21
Monday 20 April 0510 hours
‘Hey, triple shot. To take out?’ He knew her so well. It was the same guy she saw every day at the same time. She preferred an early start to the day. He was always there. Solid, reliable. Much to her delight, he remembered her order before she could ask.
Shaun, his name badge declared.
‘Hi. Yeah, that’s good.’ Voice still smoky with early morning lack of use, Jenna responded to the young barista’s welcoming grin with one of her own instead of the raw-eyed stare she really wanted to give him.
She’d had a good run at sleep but hadn’t yet shaken off the tiredness. Shift work got at her that way. It was the lack of routine.
She kicked up the sides of her mouth and sent him her best effort.
His dark eyes danced as he punched her order into the till and leaned closer, all flirt and mischief. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ He jiggled his eyebrows at her and coaxed another grin from her. She took comfort in it, and a little pleasure in the harmless flirtation that passed between them. She’d never consider it serious, nor did he. A man ten years her junior, interested and cheeky enough. It usually got her day off to a good start.
Jenna raised her left hand and passed over the tuna melt panini. ‘Just this please.’