by Dal Maclean
He stood up and headed for the door. “DI Foster!” Hansen sounded as desperate as she ever got. He ignored her.
He’d surged through the front door of her building and reached the car before he realized James was behind him.
“What now?” James asked. His calm was unshakeable. And unlike Hansen, he was trusting Will.
Will switched on the engine but he didn’t move the car. He pressed a button on his phone instead.
“Pixie,” he said, as the dialing tone sounded on the car speaker.
He’d already left a message on her phone on the way to Hansen’s to ask for her help. Because he’d pretty much known Hansen would put Nick’s interests first.
The call picked up and with it instantly, the sound of typing.
“I cannot believe,” Pixie griped. “You seriously expect me to find someone under a government anonymity order in a few minutes.”
James looked at Will wide-eyed. But Will didn’t have time to explain Pixie. He said, “You have to.”
“That makes it so much easier,” Pixie returned.
“They didn’t allow any pictures in coverage of David Burchill’s sentencing last summer,” Will said. “And Nick Haining wasn’t mentioned as anything other than the husband of a victim.”
“You think he kept that name?”
“He had a successful career profile under that identity. He kept Nick Haining’s assets. Maybe he planned to start again when things calmed down.”
There was a frenzy of rapid typing, Pixie’s long nails clicking against the keyboard.
Will’s guts were a squirming knot. “Please Pix.”
“I’m trying!” The frantic typing never seemed to pause or slow. “Searching flagged entry to the UK from . . . where was it . . . France? That takes time. I’m assuming he wouldn’t use a hotel with a kidnap victim. So I’m looking at recent rentals in London. You really think he’d come back here with the same identity?”
“Yes,” Will said shortly. “You have no idea how arrogant he is.”
The typing stopped. Pixie’s sigh sounded loudly over the speaker. “No ‘Nicholas Haining’ rented anything in London the past year. Should I try other big cities?”
Desperation was turning Will’s guts to water. Would Nick have taken Tom out of London? Fuck, what was he doing to him? Then memory snapped into place. “Fuck! Not Nicholas,” he snapped. “Dominic.”
Keys clicked frantically again. “Nothing under that either.”
Will’s breath was shaking and he couldn’t control it. He had nowhere left to look. No way to find Tom.
“You said he’s arrogant,” Pixie said, considering. Again the sound of keys clicking. She made a harsh sound of satisfaction. “Yeah. God don’ like ugly.”
“What?” Will pleaded.
“I extended the search back ten years. Dominic Haining bought a flat in Durham Terrace, Notting Hill in 2015. No change of ownership since then.”
Will stared at the speaker. “He still owns his old flat.”
“Doesn’t mean he lives there though,” James warned. But Will had already pulled the car out onto the road and his foot was on the accelerator.
“Thank you Pix! I owe you dinner.”
“You owe me much more than that honey.” She cut the call.
“I don’t get it,” James sounded bemused. “Why wouldn’t he change his name again? Why wouldn’t he move?”
The car sped along Horseferry Road through Westminster, away from the river.
“Because,” Will said with certainty. “He thinks he’s invincible. That the universe will give him anything he wants. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool narcissist.”
The word was oddly painful. Vicious memories of the previous summer thudding home, like bullets. Himself and Tom verbally slashing and stabbing at each other.
“I suppose it’s clever,” James conceded. “After all that happened, who’d think of looking for him in the same place?”
“Us.”
“If you’re right.”
“I’m right,” Will said. Because he had to be.
The last time Will had arrived at Durham Terrace, he’d been on the run from the police, the prime suspect for multiple murder. The last time he’d left it, he’d been in an ambulance. And both times, Tom’s safety had been his driving imperative. Just as it was now.
He found an easy parking space behind a white transit van, across the road from Nick’s old flat and cut the car engine. He and James sat together in the ticking silence.
Will’s chest was tight, as if filling his lungs properly would be impossible. “I’d like you to wait here,” he said. “Call it in if it goes wrong.” He turned his head to look at James, who regarded him without expression. Will had come to learn that usually meant trouble. “I’ve already directly disobeyed a superior officer. And I’m about to breach a government anonymity order. With luck.”
James’s expression didn’t change. “So let’s go for the hat trick and arrest him.”
Will gave a surprised snort of amusement. “You’re meant to be the one who follows the rules. Don’t fuck a glorious career for me Jamie. Think!”
James tipped his head to one side. The morning sun shining through the front car window turned his hair and skin to gold.
“Going in alone allowed Nick and his sister to get the jump on you last time. And you may have forgotten, but we’re secretly trying to expose either the Commissioner or his Deputy.” James gave a bland smile. “I’d say the rules are off.” He opened the car door and got out, and after a startled second, Will followed.
They stood side by side in the road between the car and the transit, and looked around.
Will took in the elegance of the narrow street; the fresh yellow glow of spring sunshine lighting the tall windows of its white stone and brown brick buildings. It looked unchanged—well-heeled, expensive, serene—but to Will, Durham Terrace felt only ominous.
“So how were you planning this?” James asked. His gaze narrowed slightly. “You were going to kick the door in, assault Haining and carry Tom out, weren’t you?”
“No,” Will snapped because, yes, that had been more or less the scenario running through his head. All he could think of was reaching Tom, making sure he was safe.
James sighed. “If it is his flat, I’ll detain him. You focus on finding Tom.”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it again. Who could bench a white knight anyway?
A woman was walking along the pavement opposite them, the neatly spaced trees casting shadows just dark enough to veil her features as she passed beneath them. She seemed to be the only other person on the street. Will remembered sitting on one of the low white walls which shielded tidy sparse gardens, being tended to by paramedics as Tom was swept off in an ambulance, blue lights flashing, siren gaining volume and desperation as it sped away.
Will waited a few moments until the woman was out-of-sight.
He looked up at the first floor of Nick’s flat. The window Tom had shattered fighting for his life, had been replaced.
Will had never wanted to see this place again and yet—here he was. As unnerved and afraid as the day he left it.
He and James crossed the road and took the steps from the pavement to stand beneath a columned portico, the familiar glossy black door in front of him. Will’s mouth tasted sharp and sick. If Tom had been brought back here, it would be literally his worst nightmare come to life.
James nodded toward the bell plate. “Haining’s name isn’t on there.”
Will leaned in and pressed the button for the first-floor flat. His stomach ground with nerves.
There was no answer. He rang again hard, and again, and again. Again. Desperately, again.
“Will—” James began.
“Please stop that,” an irritated voice crackled from the speakerphone. James glanced to him in question. Will nodded. James grinned his spectacular grin and Will smiled wildly back.
So much for fucking France, he thought with vicious triu
mph.
“Nick Haining?” James asked the speaker grill.
“Can I help you?” the voice asked. It sounded wary.
“I’m Detective Inspector James Henderson. I’d like a quick word, Mr. Haining.”
There was a long silence.
“About what?”
The speaker cut out.
“Try one of the other flats,” Will urged. But before James could oblige, the door of the building cracked open.
“Let me see your ID.” The same voice. Nick’s voice. Will’s heart was beating hard against his ribs.
James held his warrant card to the gap and after a moment, the door opened wider.
Nick Haining—David Burchill—stood in the doorway, barefooted. He hadn’t changed much in the previous ten months, except that he looked uncharacteristically less than perfect. His usually immaculately combed hair was ruffled and he wore crumpled trousers and an open shirt that displayed his tanned, well-muscled chest. He looked as if he’d thrown on these things quickly. As if he’d just climbed out of bed.
Will’s stomach heaved.
Then Nick noticed him, standing a foot to the left of James, and his expression changed. But he didn’t look alarmed. He looked pitying.
“Oh.” Nick sighed. “I haven’t kidnapped him, Will. We’ve been seeing each other for months.”
For a second it sounded believable. As if Nick believed it himself.
“Where is he?” Will demanded. He was very glad it sounded menacing.
“He doesn’t want to see you,” Nick retorted. His handsome features fixed in a grimace of empathy that relaxed into concern. “Look . . . he took something. Earlier. To cheer himself up. I didn’t try to stop him. He’s a bit out of it. Will . . . he’s wanted to end things with you for a long time. You must have seen that.” He was so convincing. So credible. “I understand what he needs. I can cope with him. That’s why he came back to me, when he realized he’d got things wrong. He didn’t want to hurt you, but you pushed him too far. We both know how he gets when he’s cornered. I really am sorry you had to find out this way. I honestly am.”
Will’s eyes held his dark blue gaze for long seconds, mesmerized by the sympathetic kindness there. Nick looked if anything, mortified—forced to deliver a secondhand brush-off.
Christ.
How could Will have forgotten how plausible he was?
Will didn’t have a warrant. But since he suspected a serious crime, he didn’t give a fuck.
He lunged forward, shoving Nick against the open front door, then he took the stairs two at a time, to the first floor.
Nick’s flat door was open. The entryway was a horribly familiar hall with a door to the left of Will, standing slightly ajar. Will pushed it open.
The sitting room was unchanged from the last time he’d been here, waiting his turn to die. Sunshine poured in from two large windows, lighting the long open-plan room. There were still two fireplaces. Two boxy taupe sofas. It still smelled of lavender. But the familiar details barely registered. Will’s attention fixed immediately on a bizarre purple chair facing the door.
Tom sat in it.
His eyes were closed and he was naked, his cock lying half tumescent on his thigh, wet and shiny. Will took a loud breath through his mouth, almost a sob.
Tom’s eyes opened. There was no doubt he was high. Will was going to be sick on the floor. Will thought he saw a moment . . . a flash of cynical understanding, and then Tom said, “Go. Away.” Will stared at him with dumb misery. “Go!” It looked as if all of Tom’s willpower was bent to keeping his eyes open.
It reminded Will suddenly of the last time they’d been in this room, as Tom made himself keep talking, keep moving, to try to save Will and then himself. The day Nick’s sister had given him enough sedative to knock anyone less stubborn than Tom Gray, flat.
“Tom?” Will crouched down in front of him and touched his shoulder. His skin felt cold and clammy. “I’m going to get you out of here.” Tom shook his head, as if he was trying to dislodge something. His eyes fell shut. “Tom?”
It took too long for the loud thump-thump of too many boots on the carpeted stairs to penetrate Will’s desperation. He turned his head, still in his awkward crouch. The thumping stopped.
James stood in the lounge doorway, staring, pale and alarmed, toward the flat’s front door. Beside him, Nick was looking at the same thing, expression caught somewhere between fear and—Will recognized with sinking dismay—expectation.
The flat door slammed shut. Will stood as James edged into the room, Nick backing in with him. And then, Will could see the reason for their apprehension.
Three heavily built figures stood in the doorway. Black balaclavas masked their faces. The tallest figure stood in front, wearing a heavy khaki combat jacket, gloved hands held easily by his sides. The leader, obviously. The two figures at his back, both wore black anoraks and held handguns with silencers attached. Ruger LCPs, Will thought with a vague sense of useless satisfaction. His SCO19 training in weaponry. Fuck all use now. One of the men had a large roll of heavy black plastic tucked under his arm.
An unreal feeling of shock had washed over him. He didn’t even feel especially afraid. His thoughts felt like sludge . . . slow and heavy.
Tom had been bait, Will’s Achilles’s heel. Nick had known Will would come for him just as he’d done before. He hadn’t changed the basic plan. Only this time, Will had dragged James to disaster with him.
James backed up further into the room, until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Will, shielding Tom. James darted a glance behind him down at the purple chair and his expression turned to alarm. “Is he—”
“He’s fine,” Nick snapped, almost offended.
He’d stayed near the doorway but he ducked his head, as if he didn’t want to look at the three intruders. Then again, they didn’t seem the kind of pliable accomplices Nick normally used to do his dirty work.
The smallest of the gunmen stood close to Nick, keeping guard over the still open door but the other two moved further into the room. The man in the black anorak kept a bead on James with his handgun as he edged up to him. The man in the combat jacket swaggered to Will.
“This is gonna be a pleasure,” he drawled. His voice was harsh. Will thought he sounded like a stereotypical thug from a TV crime show. Like he’d been practicing.
The fact that the men had bothered to hide their faces though, suggested that they may intend to leave bystanders alive. Will didn’t kid himself that he and James would be among them. But since the intruders hardly needed to hide from Nick, maybe there was hope for Tom.
Will was amazed he was still capable of reasoning that far.
The man in the combat jacket stopped in front of him, close enough for Will to see the glee in his eyes through the twin holes in the black cloth. He was grinning behind the mask. He pulled something from his jacket pocket and held it up for Will to see.
The evil white blade snapped free like a defiant middle finger. Then the man pulled off his right glove and settled the knife in his bare hand.
“I wanna feel this one,” he said. He held the knife up to Will’s throat. Will, reflexively caught his wrist.
“Uh uh.” The man in the combat jacket gave a sharp shake of his head, and like a dog, trained to a gesture, the gunman standing beside James shoved the muzzle of his gun under James’s left ear. “No resistance,” the man with the switchblade said. “Or he gets a bullet through his ‘ead right now.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw James’s face remained expressionless. Will forced himself to drop his arms. To leave his throat bare for the knife.
“Both of you, turn round.”
Will and James looked at each other and slowly obeyed, turning away from the door to face the shelving unit against the back wall of the room. Will’s eyes skittered over books and bronze statues. DVDs. A TV. He couldn’t decide what he wanted to look at.
Tom slept on, directly in front of them. Thank fuck he wasn�
��t going to see this.
The third, smallest man darted in front of them and began to unroll the heavy black plastic sheeting in front of them. And Will knew what it was. Their shroud. Keeping Nick’s floor clean of guilty blood.
The man barked, “On your knees.”
Will saw no point in cooperating any further. James seemed to have the same thought, because he didn’t move either.
“I said—On. Your. Knees!” The razor edge of a blade pressed behind Will’s ear. A hand grabbed a fistful of hair on the top of his head. He could smell the man’s cologne; the stale coffee on his breath.
“You think you can get away with killing cops?” James demanded. He sounded almost derisory.
“Already ‘ave,” the man said. He yanked Will’s head back by his hair, his neck exposed and straining. “You bleed an’ die like anyone else. In fact, I’ve been watchin’ them beheadin’ videos. Lookin’ forward to ‘avin’ a go. Maybe . . . make a little film of my own. Plastic’ll take the mess.”
Will wondered where Nick was now. He’d never been good at facing up to the bloody reality of the things he coaxed people to do to please him. Was he really up for watching a double execution in his living room? Or had he closed his eyes?
“Suit yourself.” The man in the combat jacket sniffed. “When you kneel, ‘s ‘arder to see the piss runnin’ down your legs.”
And then the kindness of shock ripped away. This was actually going to happen. Nick’s revenge.
Will could feel the flat press of the metal against his skin, but now it held his own body heat as if it was already a part of him. His heart pounded like a machine against his ribs. His guts were ready to turn to water.
Of all the ways to go, a cut throat . . . choking for air on his own blood. The guy had said . . . a beheading. Christ.
He tensed, ready to kick back at the man’s shins because at least he wouldn’t be fucking cooperating.
Then a quiet voice said, “Eddie!”
The blade jerked. Will felt a sharp, exquisite sting, numbness, then pain. Blood tickled his skin on his neck.