Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5)

by Kerry J Donovan

  “You just made my day,” Darwin said through the laughter. “Can’t wait to tell the neighbours.” He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  Ryan shrugged and threw out one of his disarming smiles. Lara exhaled and allowed her shoulders to relax.

  A few moments later, Darwin’s laughter faded into a sigh.

  “Priceless,” he said. “Okay, enough of the frivolity. What do you have for me?”

  Again, Lara fished the wallet out of her shoulder bag and handed across the rather impressive-looking ID card, which had her title and name, and The 83 Trust emblazoned across the top. She’d designed the crest and the logo herself, and was more than pleased with the result. Every piece of information on the card was valid, from the address and contact numbers on the back, to the UK registered charity number on the front, below Lara’s photo.

  “As I said on the doorstep, Mr Moore, my name is Dr Elizabeth Griffin and, as you can see, I represent The 83 Trust. My husband, Bill, is here as my assistant and—clearly—my bodyguard.” She paused to give Ryan the chance to apologise again, but he just smiled and waited.

  “You mentioned financial matters and a letter you sent to Pops … er, my grandfather?”

  “He didn’t tell you about it?”

  Darwin pursed his lips. “No. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks before he … passed. Don’t always have the time to visit. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. I … miss the old bloke.”

  Lara nodded in empathy. Ryan cleared his throat.

  “What did it say in the letter?” Darwin asked.

  “It introduced The 83 Trust and outlined our aims and objectives.”

  “Which are?”

  Lara took a breath and launched into the well-rehearsed spiel, being economical with the details, but not with the truth.

  “The 83 Trust is an official charity set up under UK regulations with the specific aim of supporting the families of the unfortunate people who died when Flight BE1555 crashed into the North Sea last year.”

  Darwin thumped the arm of his chair with the side of his fist. “It didn’t crash. It was shot down by that madman, Ryan Kaine. The evil bastard killed my mother!”

  Ryan’s lack of physical reaction gave nothing away, but Lara knew how much the young man’s words must have hurt.

  “There happens to be some confusion over the exact sequence of events, but—”

  “Ryan Kaine is scum. Pure and simple,” Darwin growled, making fists.

  Ryan closed his eyes momentarily before staring through the window again, the only outward sign of distress being a slightly increased blink rate.

  My poor darling.

  Lara skirted the tension and continued. “The letter also contained a banker’s draft to the value of nine thousand, nine hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “What?” It was Darwin’s turn to straighten in his chair.

  “That’s right, Mr Moore. The Trust sent your grandfather a banker’s draft for nearly ten thousand pounds.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Darwin slumped into the back of his chair and blew a silent whistle.

  “Sounds too good to be true and as Pops used to say, ‘If it sounds too good …’”

  “I can assure you, Mr Moore, everything is completely above board. We are registered with the Charities Commission and are totally scrupulous. You can go online, or call the Charities helpline to confirm our credentials. As we explained to your grandfather in our letter of introduction, the Trust was set up to help the families of the victims of that terrible event.”

  “What did Pops do with it? Did he cash it in?”

  “We have no idea, Mr Moore. The point of a bank draft is the drawer can’t tell if or when it is cashed, since the money already left the account. We only know that your grandfather, Mr Glenmore Davits, signed for the letter on”—she read from the letter, pretending not to have remembered the date—“Wednesday, the eleventh of January.”

  “Two days before he … passed.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You surely don’t think the money had anything to do with Pops’ death, do you?” Darwin’s expression showed utter distain. “That’s just ridicul—”

  “We’re not suggesting anything of the sort, Mr Moore.”

  “Pops was an old man. He fell. Hit his head. An accident. The police agreed. So did the Coroner.”

  “Mr Moore,” Ryan said, his deep voice silencing the young man, “all we’re here to do is make sure you are financially secure. That’s all. We have no other purpose. The police investigation is over and none of our concern.”

  “But the money. Might the police consider it a motive?”

  Lara met Ryan’s eye and he shook his head.

  “Mr Moore,” she said, “as my husband noted, we have nothing to do with the police or their investigations. If you choose to contact them with this new information, that is your right. We can provide you with copies of all the paperwork to give them, if you wish.”

  Darwin nodded slowly, taking the information aboard.

  “Okay, okay. Thank you. I’ll … think about it. Please do. I mean, please give me the papers.”

  Lara handed him the thin file. He glanced at the folder and placed it on the coffee table at the side of his chair.

  “So, there was no sign of your grandfather having cashed the draft?” Ryan asked.

  Darwin looked up at him, mouth open, eyebrows arched, and confusion and shock written large in his wide eyes.

  “Didn’t see anything in his bank account other than his pension payments and the usual standing orders, direct debits, and the like. I’m still waiting on probate, but don’t expect Pop’s estate to be worth much. Far as I know, he doesn’t have any life insurances. All I’ll end up with is this knackered old house.”

  “Have you been through his things?” Lara asked. “His papers, I mean. If you find it, the draft will still be valid. We only raised it a month or so ago.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve been through everything. There was no sign of a letter from the … what was it again?”

  “The 83 Trust.”

  “Strange name … ah, wait. I see. Eighty-three people died on that plane, including … including my mother.”

  In the corner, Ryan stared through the window, checking the street for signs of their unwanted friends.

  “That’s it, exactly, Mr Moore,” she confirmed.

  The young man’s shoulders rounded. He lowered a hand, twisted a knob on the side of the heater, and the middle bar slowly turned red. In the growing silence, the only sound in the room came from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece over the open and unlit fire, and the crinkling of the second bar on the heater. Although glowing bright and burning through untold units of electricity, the heat thrown out by the pitiful thing did little to drive the cold from the room.

  Ryan’s gazed flickered from the window to Darwin and back. He never seemed to relax. The pressure on him during his frequent missions must have been unbearable. Eventually, it would surely take its toll. When they’d finished in Walthamstow, she would force him to take a holiday. They both needed a real break together.

  Eventually, Darwin took a deep breath.

  “Darn it,” he said. “I could have used that money to help pay for the funeral, and … the renovations. Let alone my student debts.”

  Lara leaned forwards. “We might still be able to help, Mr Moore.”

  “Really?”

  “Eventually, we will be able to recover the money. All we need is a signed and notarised letter from you saying you never received it nor cashed it in. The Trust will handle the rest. We’ll also make other funds available to you in the interim.”

  “Bloody hell! You will?” This time, his eyes shone with relief and excitement.

  “Yes, Mr Moore. We will,” Lara said, managing a gentle smile. “There are funds enough to cover all eventualities. As I said, our contributors have been rather generous.”

  Ry
an cleared his throat gently. “Mr Moore, Darwin, do you drink tea or coffee? I think we could all do with a brew, don’t you?”

  The young man looked up at Ryan. “There are some teabags in the kitchen, but no coffee, and no milk nor sugar neither. I haven’t had the chance to shop. Only arrived late last night.”

  “It’s a little warmer in the kitchen, too, I imagine?”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he said. “If I told you I don’t feel the cold much, would you believe me?”

  “Not really,” Ryan said, smiling.

  Lara stood and squeezed the young man’s thin shoulder. “Darwin, you can afford to use the central heating now, I promise you. Where’s the thermostat?”

  Darwin shook his head. “The boiler broke down last winter. Damned heating hasn’t worked properly for years. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t visit Pops as often as I should have. College digs aren’t all that impressive, but at least the heating works.”

  Ryan dug a hand into his pocket and withdrew his mobile. “We’ll soon have it fixed. I’ll search for a local plumber. Can’t have one of our clients living in a freezing cold house, can we, Beth?”

  “No, Bill. Indeed, we can’t.”

  #

  With all the gas rings on the cooker burning and the electric oven set on full—despite Darwin’s initial reluctance—the small kitchen didn’t take long to climb from sub-arctic to sub-tropical. Ryan spent the subsequent few minutes regulating the burners to make the temperature bearable, and he soon had the place much more homely.

  Lara filled the kettle and Darwin pointed her to the tea caddy.

  “I prefer coffee,” he said, gloomily, “but ran out last week.”

  “You said you were out of milk, too?” Ryan asked and, when the young man nodded, he added, “We passed a shop on the way here. I’ll pop out and pick up a carton while you and Beth deal with the paperwork. Mind if I borrow your front door key?”

  “There’s a spare on a hook in the hall. Help yourself. Here”—Darwin dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out some loose change—“for the milk and stuff.”

  Ryan shook his head. “No need, Mr Moore. I think we can stand you some provisions. I’ll be right back. Beth, can I have a quick word, please?”

  Lara threw the switch on the kettle and followed Ryan from the room. Once in the hallway, he leaned close and whispered. “Won’t be long, love. Keep young Darwin occupied. I’ll lock the door behind me. Don’t open it to anyone else.”

  “Did you see anything through the window?”

  He nodded. “Couple of minutes after they toddled off, one of Barcode’s cronies returned. He tried to keep out of sight, but he’s not exactly the stealthiest creature I’ve ever seen.”

  “Which one, Dylan or Rhino?”

  Ryan smiled, leaned in, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Never miss anything, do you, love?” He lifted the keys from the hook placed at waist height for ease of access to a man in a wheelchair, and selected the Chubb key for the front door lock. “Our spy is the squat one with the ugly scar on his neck, Rhino.”

  Lara cupped his cheek with her hand and kissed him properly. “No point in telling you to take care, I suppose?”

  Ryan tutted in mock reproach. “Dear, dear. You know me, love. I always take care.”

  She sighed. “Yes, sure. Just don’t go looking for trouble, understand?”

  “Me? Never. I’m just going out for some milk and bickies.”

  He turned and left, locking the front door behind him. She ducked into the front room and stood back from the window to make sure no one from outside could see her.

  Ryan strode the five paces along the wheelchair ramp to the gate, opened it, and turned left, heading away from the shop they’d seen on the way from the hotel.

  The moment Ryan was out of sight, Rhino emerged from his ineffectual hiding space in the partial gloom of the alleyway and headed off in not-so-subtle pursuit.

  “Just going out for some milk and bickies?” Lara muttered to the empty room. “Always the joker, Ryan.”

  In resignation, she returned to the kitchen. Tea didn’t make itself and Darwin Moore seemed as though he needed the company of a friend.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday 18th February – Shopping

  Walthamstow, NE London

  Kaine spotted the scarred thug the second he broke cover. Either Rhino was the worst tail in the world, or he didn’t care about being seen. Most likely the former, although neither option mattered to Kaine, who took his time and almost sauntered along the pothole-infected and heavily cracked pavement.

  Within a few paces of leaving Darwin’s house, Kaine pulled out his mobile. Without allowing his attention to roam from his reconnaissance, and taking note of each house, garage, alley, and garden on Brooke Street, Kaine plugged in the earphones and hit a combination of keys to activate the secure line. Kaine had no idea what time zone Corky occupied, but he seemed to require little sleep and more often than not, answered Kaine’s call within seconds.

  As usual, the hacker was awake, if not exactly pleased to hear from him.

  “What does the Outlaw Ryan Kaine want with little old Corky this time?”

  “Hi Corky. I take it you’ve been nice and busy for the past thirty minutes or so?”

  “’Course, Mr K. As you know, Corky never rests. Updating the database as we speak. You’ll have access to the files in a couple of shakes.”

  “Find much on Barcode and the others?”

  Kaine shortened his stride and slowed. The reflection in a nearby bay window showed the scarred man on the other side of the street matching his pace, step for step. Kaine increased his stride length again, picking up speed, trying to keep Rhino off guard.

  A row of terraced houses ended in the patch of scrubland they’d identified the previous day as a kiddie’s playground. The grass hadn’t been cut in ages and brambles made access not far off impenetrable to anyone not under the influence of a narcotic. He turned right along Green Lane, walking past another row of two-storey terraces.

  “Not much out there, man. Barcode’s a small time thug, by the looks of it. Vicious piece of work, though. A few years ago, the Old Bill questioned him about the disappearance of a tattoo artist, but nothing came of it. Plenty of rumours but no actionable evidence. Right now, he’s a middle ranker in the Tribe. I uploaded what police intelligence has on them. Precious little worthy of the name ‘intelligence’, Corky might add.”

  Kaine stopped in the lee of a tall garden wall, and leaned one shoulder against it, facing the road. Poor Rhino didn’t have a clue how to react and simply dropped to one knee, pretending to tie a shoelace.

  “Mrs Griffin and I read your files last night. Excellent work, by the way.” It never hurt to heap praise on their little information goblin. “We’ll go through the updates when we have a moment. Meanwhile, what can you tell me about the one going by the name Rhino?”

  Corky’s chuckle rattled down the line. “Rhino’s small potatoes,” he said, the chortle slowly dying. “Muscle without much of a brain. Real name is Damian Baines. Twenty-two years old. Locked up for an eighteen-month stretch in Wandsworth prison. That’s where he picked up his scar. Apparently, the dozy bugger don’t know enough to tread careful around the neo-Nazis. Earned an early parole for good behaviour, would you believe? Father dead, mother lives in Brighton. His girlfriend, Ariel Danby, is thirty-five weeks pregnant with her first baby. She’s booked in for an ultrasound scan next week.

  “While Corky’s at it,” the hacker continued, “Rhino’s address and family details are in the files Corky just sent you in an email, and also added to the database.”

  “Thanks Corky. As usual, you’ve done a truly wonderful job.”

  Corky laughed again at Kaine’s praise. “Yeah, you damn right there, Mr Kaine. Corky’s a pure genius. Shedloads better than that second-rate French bird what ain’t around much these days. Any idea where she is, by the way?”

  “You can’t find her?”


  “Nah,” he answered and rushed to add, “Not that Corky’s been trying too hard, mind.”

  “In that case, she clearly doesn’t want to be found. Not that second-rate then, is she?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Touché, Mr K. You got old Corky there. Anyhow, next time you talk to her, tell her Corky said ‘hi’, yeah?”

  “Will do, Corky. Do I detect a little techie hero worship, or is it jealousy?”

  “Jealous? Corky? Not on your life, Mr K. Corky ain’t never jealous of nothing. Certainly not of a French bird what don’t do much.”

  Kaine smiled. “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”

  “Huh?”

  “Shakespeare, Corky. You may have heard of him.”

  How the little man had found the information, especially Ariel Danby’s medical details, so quickly was beyond Kaine. All he knew was the hacker volunteered his services and refused to take a penny piece for his troubles. Although, a man with Corky’s highly marketable, not to mention dubious, skills wouldn’t find it too difficult to earn an honest—or a dishonest—crust, he chose to help Kaine gratis. And for his part, Kaine was more than happy to utilise Corky’s undoubted talents, especially since their alternative, Sabrina, who’d set up their secure system in the first place, wasn’t always available to help. Currently, the Frenchwoman was working undercover for her grandfather, who just happened to own France’s largest private arms manufacturer. She’d been “off air” for months and most certainly had plenty on her plate.

  Kaine marvelled at the way the two hackers sparked off each other, often battling to dig deeper, react faster, and provide better information than the other.

  Since being dubbed a terrorist and a murderer, Kaine had plenty of reason to appreciate the support of so many brave individuals. None more so that the little bearded information collector.

  “You’ll keep digging?”

  “’Course, Mr K. What you gonna do?”

  “I promised Darwin I’d contact a local plumber. Now seems to be as good a time as any.”

  “Righto, Mr K. Tra.”