A Chance Encounter

by Rae Shaw

  ‘I fudge the truth,’ Jackson acknowledged. ‘She acts as if it’s money that necessitates the bodyguards and the other measures I put in place. She could work it out, I know, but her instinct for now is to protect herself, and the kids, so she doesn’t. You know, the things they want to do to her have nothing to do with money. They want her to suffer.’

  ‘This Deliverer, is it one person?’

  ‘There’s one man behind the worst gang. We don't know his nationality. We know little of what he looks like – rumour has it his face is scarred. He uses this alias and versions of it. His online persona might be utilised by a network of handlers who seek out vulnerable people. So it's a representation for a particular purpose, but Chris and his team have unearthed enough evidence to prove this one man has a personal interest in seeing me and Hettie destroyed because of Opportunitas. I won't shut it down. I won't be defeated. Too many rely on the safe houses and support.’

  The impact of the foundation’s work had forced a new tactic – follow the money. Julianna moved the timeline to nearly three years ago. ‘He laundered his money using Henderson’s help. Mark uncovered the scam at Haydocks and assets were frozen. What Mark doesn't know is that his father killed the cousin of Redningsmann.’

  ‘If it is him, my nemesis, the Deliverer, Ellen is walking into a trap. He’s been waiting years, knowing what Bill did but leaving him in prison to rot. Mark’s crusade was about the money, and that really hit hard, so he decides to act. It’s about punishing Mark, and Bill, and the best way is to sell his sister into sexual slavery.’

  A wave of shivers stung Julianna’s skin. It all hung together if the final piece was Ellen’s entrapment. ‘It works if Ellen told them Mark’s behind the breakup of Haydocks and revealed herself as his sister.’

  ‘How that came to happen...’

  Mark had shown so little concern. Ellen chatted with this guy for such a long time, in secret. How clever. And patient. Why wonder Mark hadn’t been worried by Ellen’s news. The evening traffic finally thinned out, and Jackson, sensing the alarm in Julianna’s voice, picked up speed.

  ‘This man doesn’t rush,’ he said. ‘He’s the ringmaster of a long-playing circus game. But I think it’s reaching its final stage for Mark. Let’s hope Ellen is simply going on a dig in Ireland and your nervous antennae is twitching unnecessarily.’

  Julianna’s instincts had been off-kilter for some time. She would like it to be way off for Ellen’s sake; the girl wasn’t even the original target; that was Mark.

  ‘You wanted me to get involved with Mark so I could protect him and keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Yes. I used you and I've no regrets. I set this all in motion, Julianna. I created this monster and his hatred for me. The police, other charities, local councils, we all work together. My money provides safe houses and repatriates the most vulnerable. Haydocks was used to control where the money went, the way it was laundered. I bet he's regretting using Henderson.’

  ‘You said Mark needs to find out the truth, piece things together. But why? Why wait for Mark to find things out? I think, to be blunt, sir, you've played a game with him for too long.’

  ‘That wasn't my intention. I assumed Mark would be the target for vengeance, which is why I erased Haydocks from his record, kept the police away, and brought Mark to where I could keep an eye on him. My headquarters is well protected by security systems, Daneswan wasn’t. And Mark has you. Don't you think that helps him? What Mark has yet to realise is where his father fits in.... was joining Haydocks done with his dad’s blessing or… We're here.’

  She squeezed her handbag: a heavy leather one that weighed a ton. She had chosen it on purpose. ‘He'll find out soon, won't he?’

  ‘Yes, I'm dropping you off. See if you can find her. Ring for back up if you need it. If she's here, bring her to Mark's place. Watch your back. I'm going over to speak to Mark, break the news to him that his sister is the likely target. What's his address?’

  She told him and he entered it into the GPS. She spoke, ‘Please, don't... he's easily upset.’

  Jackson's pupils were dark pinpricks in a sea of blue. ‘I intend to upset him. He needs to start asking the right questions, not about his father's guilt, which is a distraction, but about why his father became that man, an assassin. He's evaded the truth for years. As for Ellen, she's his younger sister, and you know what I feel about family. It's everything to me.’ He released the door lock and she climbed out. The wheels spun and he was gone.

  ~ * ~

  The name next to listing for flat 3A was E. Devera. Had Chris given her the wrong address? She buzzed and waited, but there was no answer. She tried again. The other the occupants of the building were listed with their flat numbers and individual doorbells. One stood out: Jed Redder, 4A, the flat above Ellen's.

  That lump in her throat returned. Redder was another translation of the Deliverer. She instinctively pressed the buzzer for 4A.

  ‘Yes?’ the voice crackled. ‘Who's there?’

  ‘I'm trying to find Ellen Devera in the bedsit below you. Do you know her? It's important.’ She waited, her nose to the glass of the door. If somebody came out, she would whiz by them and in.

  Nobody came.

  ‘Who are you?’ the disembodied voice asked.

  ‘My name is Julianna Baptiste. I'm a friend of her brother, Mark.’ It was a gamble. He would either ignore her or let curiosity win.

  The main door released. ‘Come up.’

  The door to 4A was already open and the first thing she saw was the wall opposite, which was covered in posters of bikers. Bikers with long hair and tattoos, and plenty of black leather, macho poses, and some bare chests too. She tensed, remembering what Sophia had said about the Deliverer using bikers to recruit.

  The man stood in the kitchen, his hand resting on a motorcycle helmet. He wore a black leather jacket. The apartment was a tip.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  Julianna stayed by the door, on the threshold, half in. She kept her escape route open.

  ‘Jed Redder?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I'm Nicky. Jed's my half-brother. He used this flat until a year ago.’

  How to spot a liar? By their eyes. ‘The name tab says it's Jed Redder's.’

  A flutter of his eyelashes, but he stayed with her gaze, matching it. ‘Call me lazy, I haven't changed it.’

  ‘You're Ellen's friend?’

  ‘That's me.’ He wasn't smiling. ‘And you're Mark's?’ He put both hands on the helmet. A posturing threat or to steady his hands?

  ‘Do you know where’s she gone? Shopping? Visiting a friend?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  A touch of sarcasm. He slouched a fraction, too. Gaining confidence? Julianna wasn't sure.

  ‘Because Mark needs to see her.’

  Amongst the abandoned clothes and beer cans were dumb bells. It explained his bulk. Plenty of brawn, but not beyond her abilities.

  ‘I haven't seen her all week. I've been out of town.’ A weak shrug. Now he was uncomfortable, agitated. Was he colluding with somebody?

  The black helmet reflected the spotlight above it. She shifted her handbag off her shoulder. ‘You like bikes?’ There were magazines strewn across the coffee table and another helmet on the sofa.

  ‘I like bikers.’ The shadows under his eyes lengthened as he leaned forward. ‘What's it to you. You said you want to find Ellen.’

  ‘How did you two meet?’ She stepped over the threshold of the doorframe, giving her arms room to move, her legs kick space.

  ‘Nosey, aren't we?’ he said with a sneer. ‘She never mentioned your name.’

  Because Mark had never told Ellen.

  ‘So you don't know where she is?’ Time was precious now. She wasn't in the driver's seat waiting to be told what to do. She had to act, make decisions. The knots in her stomach contorted painfully. If this was her chance to prove herself, she couldn't have picked a crazier situation. The man who looked like he could
steam roller his way over her could be the man behind Ellen's disappearance. He could be one of those who used the deliverer alias to tempt girls into a trap. Had he befriended her, moved in above her flat and slowly, insidiously tricked her?

  He lifted the helmet. Beneath it was a sheet of paper. ‘I know where she's gone. So I'm wondering why her brother doesn't. Because he should know. He should care very much where she's gone. Don't you think?’ Fiery anger lit up his eyes.

  ‘Shit,’ Julianna muttered. She was too late. Ellen had left. But at least she would get to beat the crap out of the man who set her up.

  The door to the bathroom opened. Walking towards her and adjusting the zipper of his leather pants was another man, just as brawny as Nicky. ‘Nic?’ The newcomer lifted two bushy eyebrows. ‘Who's the chick?’

  Now, she had to take on two men. The odds weren't great.

  24

  Mark

  Mark sprawled, spider legged, on the settee with a newly opened bottle of beer in his hand – his third that evening. Surrounding him were numerous handwritten notes on prison paper and the shredder he had borrowed from the office. If he’d had a fireplace he would have burnt them. Letter after letter, promising Mark so much and delivering so little. The anger expelled in each ribbon spewing out of the machine was satisfying. He shoved the slithers into a waste bin.

  Bill had portrayed his mundane life in intricate detail. He had lashed out at the inedible food, the inadequate fitness facilities and described his fleeting attempts at improving them. There was the comings and goings of his cell mates, the constant threat of violence and the conspicuous drug taking. Mark had no sympathy for those things, because Bill had chosen that way of life before he had even gone to prison. The letters were a pointless diary of an inconsequential life.

  Turning page after page of his father’s spiky handwriting, which gifted him with new hindsight, he realised that Bill had said nothing about his crime, in particular the appeal. The absence of pleas of innocence were obvious. He had been conned and the person to blame wasn't Ellen – she had never read her father’s letters. He wished he hadn’t said those things to her. He hadn’t even accompanied her to the airport to say goodbye. The more he replayed their furious conversation, the greater the remorse, and the more he drank.

  The buzz of the doorbell barely cut into his dulled mind, but Jackson's voice bellowing out of the speaker did. ‘Mark, open the fucking door or else you’re fired.’

  Mark shoved aside the pile of letters and staggered to the security panel. He released the downstairs entrance door and unlocked his own. A few seconds later, Jackson appeared, nostrils flared and unusually breathless. He slammed the door shut behind him and circled the space between the kitchen and lounge.

  ‘Where’s Ellen?’ Without a suit and tie, Jackson had lost his executive edge. His usually coiffured hair was flattened with rain, his eyes sculptured by tired lines and depth – Jackson had acquired a different energy. The urgency with which he bounded into the apartment continued as he paced, frowning at the bottles and the shredder. No apology was given for his abrupt arrival.

  Mark, in his bewilderment, blustered. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Your sister. Where is she?’ An agitated Jackson was unsightly, an affront to his boss persona. Mark's anxiety escalated.

  ‘Gone to Ireland. Like she said she would. A flight this evening from Heathrow. And it's her choice. I told her to go if she wants to.’ He slumped down on the sofa and reclaimed his beer bottle. Jackson kicked the shredder to one side and loomed over the indignant Mark.

  ‘Listen, Mark. Sober up. Who has Ellen gone to meet?’

  He wiped the top of the bottle with his sleeve and lifted it to his lips. Why the urgency and why did it matter to Jackson?

  ‘Who? I don't know. Some bloke she met online. She's been chatting to him for years.’ Lovers, perhaps, who knew? It happened that way and why would he put a stop to it when she had shown no interest in his friends or the opportunities he had presented to her.

  Jackson's hand shot out and snatched the bottle out of Mark's hand. For a second he looked as if he might smash it down. Instead he dumped it on the coffee table. ‘Think. A name. Something.’

  ‘Freddie.’ He hadn't paid that much attention. ‘Stupid name, not the slightest bit Irish. Freddie Zuss. Zustaller.’

  Jackson dragged his fingers through hair, the colour drained from his face. ‘Shit, shit!’

  The spectacle of his fraught boss circling the room, cursing, was almost too much for Mark’s churning stomach. He swallowed, hard, and, with burning throat, stumbled over his words. ‘Wh- what have I done?’ He had done something terrible, whether he intended to or not, and whatever it was went beyond the argument he'd had with Ellen.

  ‘Zustaller is an alias. The name means Deliverer in German.’

  ‘I haven't heard of it.’

  ‘You've heard of Redningsmann. A Norwegian name. It means the same thing.’

  Haydocks! Everything in his life came back to that one decision. He had been sober and confident when he had made it. A different man. Idealistic, too, his morals governed by a need to distance himself from his father. He stirred from the nest of empty beer bottles and crumpled letters and slowly rose to his feet.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said succinctly. ‘What do you know?’

  Jackson's expression was pained. ‘I didn't know for certain, not until Sophia finished up the appeal case for your father. I hoped... I hoped I was wrong. I'm sorry, Mark. The man your father murdered was an associate, a relative of Freddie Zustaller, who for years has run a trafficking ring. Zustaller sent his cousin to negotiate a deal in Manchester. Your father killed that man and in turn was arrested, probably betrayed by somebody in his own crew as a result of the aftermath. Zustaller went into hiding, but he protected his money. He gave it to Henderson. He let Haydocks manage it.’

  ‘No.’ Mark gasped. ‘No, God, no.’

  ‘If it’s Zustaller she met online, this is his revenge. He wants to punish you in the only way he knows. He will have her met by strangers and quickly drugged. They will feed her drugs until she’s addicted, then sell her to the highest bidder. She will disappear into the ghastly underbelly of our lovely civilised world and within a year she will be probably be dead.’ Jackson grabbed Mark's arm to steady him. ‘Sit. It's not too late. If she's only just gone. We can catch up with her. She must have told you where she was going.’

  He blinked the tears away before they could fall. ‘We argued. She told me things about Mum and Dad I didn't know—’

  ‘We don't have time to go over your misgivings. An address, her mobile number?’

  He choked on the laughter. The irony of an accountant who could remember reams of spreadsheets but rarely bothered with phone numbers. Why, when there were apps to do it for you!

  ‘I never bothered to memorise it – she mainly called me. It's listed on my phone's contacts. Except, my mobile is broken. I smashed it.’

  ‘You've not written it down? Backed it up? Jesus, Mark, you’re an idiot. What about your mother; would she know?’

  ‘No, I'm pretty sure Ellen's number comes up as private and she changes it regularly to keep Mum off her back.’ Mark sprang to his feet. ‘She wrote an address down on a piece of paper, the address in Ireland. I threw it in the bin.’ He dashed to the kitchen and emptied the contents onto the floor.

  He spread out food cartons, half-eaten chips, biscuits wrappers and apple cores. The smell tortured his delicate nostrils; a warning sign of an impending assault, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He inhaled deeply through his mouth. Amongst the litter were coffee grounds and split liquids, which had blended into a brown soup. He rummaged through the detritus of his life, scattering it across the tiles.

  ‘It has to be here somewhere....’ He spotted the scrap of paper and fished it out. ‘No!’

  Jackson snatched the note out of Mark's hand. ‘I can see the name. It is Freddie Zustaller, but the address is covered in
stains.’ He held it up to the light.

  ‘Can you read it?’

  ‘No. The ink is smudged.’ Jackson sighed. ‘We'll have to try another lead. Let's hope—’

  He’d given a spare key to Ellen. He had also given one to Julianna. When the key turned in the lock, he prayed it was his sister and that she had changed her mind and realised how foolish it was for her to go all the way to Ireland to do the things she loved when she could do them here, where somebody could watch over her. The door swung open. Mark, on his knees, surrounded by rubbish, held his breath.

  It was Julianna. Her wet hair was matted onto her face, her cheeks flushed red, her body buried inside an oversized black leather jacket with studs down the arms. She panted, leant on her knees, struggling to catch her breath. Behind her was a thickset man in illustrated leathers carrying two motorcycle helmets. He, too, was breathing heavily and spraying raindrops.

  ‘Is this the brother?’ the brick-shaped man asked, pointing at Jackson.

  ‘No. That's my boss,’ she said.

  ‘Then, this is Ellen's brother.’ The biker pushed past Julianna and scrutinised Mark.

  ‘That's him.’

  Julianna's face was flushed with the heat of exertion, but there was also a peculiar blue tinge around her lips. She looked frozen stiff, as if a coil of steel was compressed inside her, ready to explode. The man next to her matched Jackson for height. Haynes rocked back on his heels. Being in control was the essence of his authority, but since Jackson had arrived at the flat, his highhanded presence had gradually eroded. Now he stood, perplexed, and indecisive. Mark battered aside the threat of humiliating tears; this chaos was all his own fault.