The former gang boss blinked hard, started hurling a high-pitched string of invective into the room, and redoubled his efforts to break free of the ropes. TM ranted and raved so much it took Kaine a second or two to put a name to the enraged, blood-engorged face.
Tied to a chair in a room behind the Hub, in an abandoned school less than twenty minutes’ march from where a disabled old man had died, raged Darwin Moore—Glenmore Davits’ grandson and the current heir to absolutely nothing.
Chapter 43
Monday 20th February – Barcode
Walthamstow, NE London
03:12.
Near silence.
Echoing, aching silence. No, not quite silence.
Dripping water, running through drains, along gullies, down drainpipes.
Shit, something was wrong. Something were missing.
What?
Calm. Still. No wind, no rain.
Fuck.
Barcode tore open his eyes, rubbed some life into the dead thing that was his face where he’d pressed it against the ice-cold glass of the car’s window. Something had woken him. What?
Shit, it had stopped raining!
When?
Time. Fuck’s sake, what’s the time?
The digital green numbers on the dashboard stood out bright but blurred. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. The digits sharpened into focus. 03:13.
Jesus. Thank fuck for that!
Early. Still early.
He’d only been asleep a few minutes.
Barcode raked his fingers over his head, scratching some blood flow into his scalp.
Wake up, asshole. Wake the fuck up.
He hit the buttons to wind down the front windows, sucked in the cold air, coughed, breathed deep again. Fuck. Now he needed a piss. Couldn’t wait no more or he’d wet hisself.
Handle. Where’s the fucking handle?
His scrabbling fingers found the plastic lever and pulled. The door opened, screeching loud in the quiet darkness. He shivered.
Bloody freezing out here.
He took five steps into the deep shadow of a brick wall, lowered his fly, and shot a jet of steaming piss through a set of railings into a weed-covered front yard.
The relief of emptying an overfull bladder was fuckin’ great, close to orgasmic. Still spraying like a horse, he craned his neck to take in the view of the school, making sure not to turn so much as to dribble over his fancy new trainers.
Every window on the ground floor were lit up bright as though the building were ready to welcome him as the all-conquering hero. Whoever had broken in overnight had fucked up. At a guess, they’d be feeding the fishes in the river before daylight.
Finally drained, he shook off the residue, tucked his monster back into its den, and worked the zip. How embarrassing would it be for the returning hero to arrive in the Hub with his fly at half-mast?
The school’s front door creaked open, and the motion-sensitive overhead light powered on. Why didn’t TM order one of the juniors to oil the fucking hinges?
Two men stumbled out, bundled up against the cold. The first one, Delinquent, stepped under the light and spied up and down the road. Looked like someone had taken a blade to the poor fucker’s face. A total blood-soaked mess.
Delinquent turned and nodded to the second one, Alphonse, who stood with his right arm in a sling.
What the fuck?
Together, they returned to the doorway and came back out with Robbie suspended between them, only using one leg. The fucker’s jaw looked all wrong, swollen and screwed off to one side. Broken. Robbie was even more of a mess than Delinquent.
What the fuck happened?
The Parksiders, or whoever had broken in, must’ve put up a hell of a fight to have fucked up them three so bad.
Barcode grinned. He’d missed one hell of a rumble. Bloody good job, too. He didn’t mind a ruckus or two, but he preferred choosing the time, the place, and the opposition.
Briefly, he considered crossing the street and offering the injured Goons a hand, but stuff that. He’d been told to stay away until five o’clock, and that’s exactly what he planned to do.
Barcode was a good soldier. A good soldier who only fought when it suited him. He settled back into the deep shadows and watched the fucked-up threesome dance, shuffle, and groan along the street until they reached Alphonse’s shiny, black Beemer. He pointed the key fob, the locks clunked open, and they poured a screaming Robbie into the back.
Barcode chuckled the whole time.
Better’n the telly.
Alphonse, the least mangled of the three, slid behind the wheel, and struggled to work the key into the ignition with his wrong hand. Took him three attempts before he could fire up the engine. On the far side of the car, Delinquent only just managed to heave himself into the front passenger’s seat and slam the door before Alphonse drove off in a squeal of burning rubber. The advantage of automatic transmission for the one-armed driver.
The Beemer turned sharp left into Galton Street, rode the kerb, bounced back onto the tarmac, and disappeared behind a row of houses.
Alphonse treated that car better’n his latest squeeze. Riding the kerb like that would have fucked up his rims and hurt him worse than whatever he done to his arm.
Hope it’s broken, you arrogant French fuck.
Still smiling, Barcode rubbed his hands together for warmth, pulled the zip on his jacket right up to his throat, and checked his watch. A little after three fifteen.
Still got plenty of time.
He slid behind the Renault’s steering wheel and waited.
Waiting weren’t no problem. Barcode were good at waiting.
Chapter 44
Monday 20th February – Lara Orchard
Cambourne Cross Hospital, London
03:22.
With the mobile phone clamped to her ear and the call still going straight to messenger, Lara skipped down the stairs, using the bannister’s handrail for support. The absolute last thing she needed was to trip and fall. What would happen to Ryan then?
On the ground floor at last, she burst through the doors and rushed into the main admissions area, where she slowed to avoid raising suspicion.
“Dr Griffin!” Dr Hamilton called from behind her.
Lara ignored him and continued past the reception area, heading for the main exit doors and the taxi rank.
“Oh, Dr Griffin. Might I have a quick—”
She hesitated before turning, balancing the worry for Ryan with the need to maintain their cover.
“Dr Hamilton, sorry. Didn’t hear you. It’s been a rather tiring day.”
The young medic offered her a tired smile. “Tell me about it, Doctor.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not as such, but I … wondered if you were available for a quick consult. I have a rather difficult case you might be able to assist with.” He leaned slightly towards her, eyebrows lifted as though waiting for a response.
Lara glanced at her watch. If she dismissed the request out of hand alarm bells would ring. “I’m terribly sorry, Dr Hamilton, but my husband suffers from the occasional bout of vasovagal syncope. I’m afraid he’s taken a bit of a tumble. Hit his head again. An emergency. You understand?”
The young doctor’s expression turned serious. He nodded. “I understand, Dr Griffin. Perhaps we can discuss my patient when you get back?”
Lara gave him the most maternal smile she could muster. “Of course, Doctor. Of course. But, if you’ll excuse me?”
Without waiting for his reply, Lara turned and headed for the exit, forcing herself not to break into an unprofessional trot. The young medic had cost her valuable time over a case probably no more tricky than an ulcerating sore.
Outside, the weather had closed in again and sleet mixed with heavy rain pulsed down from a black sky, smashing into the pavement and bouncing high.
Darn it.
Her coat. She’d left it in the upstairs waiting room. No time to go back for it
. She’d have to put up with a soaking.
Keeping as close to the protection of the hospital walls a possible, she hurried to the taxi rank, dodging the incoming patients and jumping the deepening puddles.
By the time she reached the first of three cabs in the rank, Lara was already soaked to the skin and shivering. The cab driver took one look at her impersonation of a drowning rat and shook his head. He hit a button on his dash, and the clunk of locking doors sounded over the noise of the rain drumming on his car roof.
She slapped his window with her open hand. He jumped and turned to face her, anger burning in his piggy eyes. She made a “wind down your window” gesture. He yawned, shook his head again, and flicked a hand at her in dismissal.
“Lunch break,” he drawled.
Selfish idiot.
Lara moved along the line. The second cabbie, an Indian man with a full beard but no moustache, lowered his window.
“Where to?”
“Palmerston Road, Walthamstow.”
He shook his head. “No take young lady there this time of night. It dangerous place.”
Oh, for pity’s sake.
“It’s urgent. I need to get there right now.”
The rain beat into her shoulders and her hair hung in straggles around her ears.
“No. Bad place. I no take you.”
“This is ridiculous!”
She reached into her “matronly Mrs Griffin” handbag, tugged out her purse, and selected a note from the side pocket.
“Will you take me for fifty pounds?”
The ugly beard twitched. The cabbie’s eyes flicked from Lara to the note and back again. Greed won out over reluctance. He nodded and flicked a switch on the dash to unlock the rear door. Lara dived into the back, delighted to be out of the weather, if only for the few minutes it would take the driver to reach Walthamstow.
She leaned forwards and handed the note to the driver “Here’s twenty. You’ll get the other thirty when we reach Palmerston Road. Ten more if we’re there inside ten minutes.”
The cabbie palmed the twenty into the inner pocket of his jacket, gunned his engine, and pulled out of his spot like a racing driver who didn’t want to be booked for speeding—excruciatingly slowly.
Lara shrugged out of her sodden jacket, draped it across the spare seat, and pulled a packet of tissues from her bag. She dabbed ineffectually at her face and neck, but the tissues soon became a sopping mass of pulp in her hand. She lowered the steamed-up window a couple of centimetres and dropped the wedge of sodden paper into the night. The cabbie looked at her in the rear-view mirror.
“Biodegradable. It won’t pollute the environment,” she said in her defence.
Unlike this gas-guzzling Mercedes. What’s wrong with electric?
“No, Miss. I understand. You want proper cloth? Look behind.”
On the parcel shelf, Lara found a green box marked “Biodegradable Cloths”, which confirmed the cabbie’s environmental credentials, at least in part.
She took out a couple, dried her face, neck, and hands, and pulled a fresh cloth through her hair. Apart from the damp blouse that clung to her skin in all the wrong places, she felt better.
The driver’s gaze flicked rapidly between the road ahead and the image in his rear-view which, to him, must have been the preferred option. Her disguise had mutated from “drowned rat” to “entrant in a wet t-shirt contest”.
Men. One track minds.
“In boot I have umbrella-brolly,” he said, eyes back on the road since she’d crossed her arms.
“Yes?”
“You buy? Twenty pounds?”
Lara counted the dwindling number of notes in her purse—one twenty and four tens. Assuming they reached Palmerston Road inside the allotted time, she had enough cash. It would leave her flat broke, but what did that matter?
“Agreed.”
“We have deal. I love London.”
The driver added some pressure to the throttle and turned left at a green light. He filtered into the empty bus and taxi lane and their speed increased to well above marching pace.
“Can you hurry, please?”
“I keep to speed limit, Miss. Driving is my profession. We reach destination soon. Which end you want? North or south.”
She had no idea.
“I’m heading for Palmerston School.”
He pulled his foot off the throttle and the cab slowed. “No, no. Not good. Bad place. Tribe hang out there. Very dangerous. Really, Miss. I tell you.”
They’d slowed to a near-stop. Behind them a horn blared illegally, and a white van sped past them, flashing his headlights. “My husband is …”
Darn it. How could she explain anything to a bargain-hungry hack who had such poor English.
“Okay, never mind. Drop me off at the end of”—she racked her brain to remember the street names—“Brooke Street. I’ll walk from there.”
“You buy umbrella-brolly?”
Lara sighed heavily. “Yes. I’ll buy the flipping brolly, but please hurry.”
The driver picked up speed again, made a right onto Walthamstow High Street, and a left down Lower Street, passing a darkened Denny’s Diner—the first time she’d actually seen the café closed. Two turns later, the cab rolled to a stop two hundred metres beyond Glenmore Davits’ house.
The ride had taken less than nine minutes although, to Lara, it had seemed closer to an hour.
The cabbie twisted in his seat, showed her the wide gap between his two front teeth in a smile, and held out his hand.
“Here in plenty time, as agreed. You pay forty pounds now, please. And twenty for umbrella-brolly?”
She pressed the money into his calloused hand and it retracted between the gap in the front seats faster than the hand in a novelty moneybox.
“The brolly?” she asked, one leg already out into the weather.
“I open boot from here. You be careful, yes?”
Lara slid out into the rain and raced around to the back. She levered the boot lid fully open and found a furled up black umbrella, just as the driver promised. She also found a light-grey raincoat and something else she couldn’t resist helping herself to—an L-shaped wheel brace.
The brace was heavy and cumbersome, but she had no idea what she’d face at the school and it was better than nothing.
Apart from everything else, she’d paid well over the going rate for an excruciatingly slow, nine-minute taxi ride, and the odds on the man having a puncture and needing to remove his wheel nuts were pretty low. She slipped one end of the brace between her belt and trouser leg, and allowed the right angle on the tyre lever to act like a catch, hiding it and the raincoat as best she could with the “umbrella-brolly”. She slammed the boot and rushed towards Palmerston Road, struggling to open the brolly on the move.
Behind her, the cabbie flashed his headlights, executed a U-turn, and trundled away.
Finally alone, Lara broke into a jog. She discarded the useless brolly, which was more of a hinderance than a help, and pulled on the raincoat. The colour didn’t offer much in the way of camouflage, but at least it would keep the worst of the rain off for a while, and she could remove it if and when necessary.
She hurried along the empty street, gently steaming inside her oversized waterproof covering.
How long had it been since Damian gave her the information? Thirty minutes? Forty?
Lara increased speed, her flat shoes pounding the pavement, splashing though puddles regardless. The wind grew in force, howling around her exposed head. The chill, wet air burned her lungs and tugged at her clothes. She shot past the alley where she’d bested the thug, Barcode.
How long ago that seemed.
All the long months Ryan had spent drilling military fieldcraft into her reluctant brain remained, but she ignored it in her frenzy to warn him. The need to spend time on reconnaissance and planning could go to hell. Ryan needed her help and she wouldn’t let him down.
Lara raced on, turning right into Green L
ane. She darted across the road, closing on Boothe Avenue.
Close now, she was close. Two more turns and she’d be there.
Still at a full gallop, but breathing hard, she closed on the end of the Avenue, and slowed when she neared the junction with Palmerston Road.
Oh God. What on earth was she going to find at the school?
Chapter 45
Monday 20th February – TM Unmasked
Walthamstow, NE London
03:25.
“You!” Kaine said.
After the life he’d led, he didn’t think much would be able to surprise him anymore, but this?
“Yeah, me, you fucking—”
Freeman smacked Darwin’s ear with a cupped hand. It rang loud in the quiet room. “Language, Darwin. I’ve had my fill of swearing this evening, thank you very much.”
“Fuck you, arsehole!” Darwin screamed and received a another cuffed ear for his troubles. “Let me loose and I’ll kill you both with my bare hands.”
“Hear that, Sean?”
“Yes, I heard it. What do you reckon, bluster or a real threat?”
Kaine lifted a shoulder and dropped it again. “No idea. Untie him, let’s find out.”
“You sure?”
Kaine set his glass on the coaster, used the arms of the chair to help lever himself up, and stood in front of the desk. Fatigue had set in as the aftermath of the fight began to take its toll and the cut over his eye started to sting.
“Certain. Let him go and let’s see what he’s made of.”
“I frisked him earlier. He doesn’t have a weapon.”
“Oh dear. That’s hardly fair. Here, give him this.”
Kaine pulled the butterfly knife he’d taken from Coulthard, and rotated and flicked it open in much the same, flashy way the Frenchman had done before hurting his hand, only faster, slicker. With a rapid flick of the fingers, he reversed the grip, leaned forwards, and stabbed the blade deep into the desk’s faux leather insert. He released the knife and the handle halves flopped down, thumping into the leather.
“That’s a little dramatic,” Freeman said, shaking his head in rebuke. “Good job this table’s a reproduction, not a genuine antique.”
Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5) Page 35