by Rod Reynolds
Stringer turned to go.
‘Keep in mind what I said, Michael. You’re under my patronage now, as are the people close to you. It’s vital you understand what that means.’
Stringer looked at him, getting it. A threat proffered as an arm around the shoulder. A razorblade dressed in a suit.
CHAPTER 54
Lydia jumped up when she heard the keys turning in the lock.
The door cracked open, crunching as it caught on the security chain. ‘Let me in.’
Michael’s voice. She peered through the opening to see he was alone and slipped the chain off. ‘Where did you go?’
‘To speak to Dalton’s boss.’ He passed her, went into the front room. ‘Any problems?’
She followed him and stopped in the middle of the floor. ‘How can you ask me that like I’m cat-sitting or something? I’m climbing the walls here.’
He turned and fixed her with his eyes. ‘It’s almost over.’
‘Over how?’
He poured a glass of water and went to check the bedroom, finding it shut. ‘You closed the door?’
‘I couldn’t look at him anymore.’
‘Did you check on him?’
‘A while back.’
Michael opened the bedroom, Dalton slumped in the corner tied to a radiator pipe. He looked up at them. ‘I need a piss.’
Lydia spun around and walked away, her hands pressed to her mouth. He’d asked for twelve hours before she called the cops and she’d taken him at his word. But nine hours in, here she was playing prison guard to a man lashed to a radiator. Not just illegal but immoral. Michael – this man she barely knew – off cooking up a deal with Dalton’s boss. His sister’s words from the night before ringing in her ears – ‘I know how your mind works’ – fearful he’d put money over his family’s safety. No telling what he was capable of when it came to strangers.
Something she couldn’t be part of.
She took her phone out and stood by the window, staring at the screen, traffic snarled up in a queue of buses coming out of Finsbury Park station down the road. She checked over her shoulder to be sure Michael was still in the bedroom, then started typing.
CHAPTER 55
The clock said fourteen minutes to midnight.
The industrial estate was on the outskirts of Borehamwood, close to the junction of the M1 and M25. Stringer understood why they’d chosen it for the handover – good links, fast access in and out.
A slip road took them in. Commercial premises lined one side of it, a rutted car park for each one on the other, their entrances marked by goalpost-style gates that seemed redundant when there wasn’t a car in sight. Half the units were abandoned, all of them dilapidated; only the signs on the front of the going concerns differentiated them from the rest – a tile warehouse, a self-store place, an insurance outfit. All of them were shuttered for the night. There were white security lights beaming at their forecourts, but the car parks were dark.
Stringer guided Lydia to the third one along. He was on the back seat, next to Dalton. She’d avoided making eye contact with him in the mirror the whole drive.
Dalton straightened in his seat as the car slowed. ‘When are you going to tell me what you want?’
Stringer ignored him, scanning the far end of the slip road.
Lydia turned her head. ‘What now?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Couple of minutes.’
Dalton looked from one to the other. Then he brought his hands up, still tied, and jammed them into the headrest in front. ‘You’ve made your point; tell me what you fucking want.’
Stringer looked at him. ‘You’re done.’
‘No, you’re fucking yourself over. Listen to me, Suslov’s lying to you, I know the real story and I’ll cut a deal with you.’
‘I don’t need anything from you.’
‘If you give me up, Suslov will kill me.’
‘You made your choices.’
‘No. Fucking no; be smart.’ Dalton turned in his seat and bent towards him, grabbing Stringer’s shoulder. ‘Money. I can get you paid properly – not the shit Suslov’s got you dancing for. Real money.’
Stringer shrugged him off. ‘Earlier today Sir Oliver Kent gave me a hundred grand. That kind of money?’
Dalton froze, his mouth slack, a line of saliva stretched from one lip to the other.
‘Who were the two men on the Tan hit?’ Stringer said.
Dalton righted himself slowly, hollow eyes turning to look out the back window. ‘He sold me out?’
‘You must’ve seen it coming. Kent doesn’t need you anymore.’ Stringer clicked his fingers to get his attention. ‘Who did the job?’
Dalton was shaking his head. ‘Sergei and Oleg, I don’t even fucking know. They flew them in from Kiev or somewhere. They were on the first flight out again the next morning.’
‘Where’s the body?’
‘They’re ex-special forces.’ He shook his head, resigned. ‘It’s long gone.’
‘Where?’
‘As if I’d ask them that.’
Stringer felt Lydia’s eyes burning into the side of his face now. ‘And you provided them with transport. Pointing the finger at Suslov in the process.’
‘I’m not saying another fucking word until you get me out of here.’
‘What happened to the witness, Dalton?’
‘I don’t know. I swear I didn’t know anything about it until you showed up with the video. They must’ve got her.’
Another car came off the motorway in the distance, turning on to the slip road, its headlights tracking slowly towards them.
It pulled into the same car park and made a wide loop around to stop twenty feet away, lighting them up.
Dalton stared over at it. ‘Who’s this?’
Lydia reached back and grabbed him. ‘What about Tammy Hodgson? Who killed her?’
‘They did,’ Dalton said, desperate. ‘She got too close.’ He squirmed away from her grip. ‘I had no idea they were gonna come after her. Or you.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘There’s more, just get me away from here. Suslov takes his orders from the Russians…’
‘It’s too late for that.’ Stringer opened his door and got out.
Dalton started bucking and shouting, the sound spilling out through Lydia’s open window.
As he passed it, she reached for his sleeve. ‘Michael…’
He looked down at her.
‘This is wrong.’
‘Trust me.’
She jammed her head against the wheel, screwing her eyes shut. Then she lifted it again and jumped out of the car and came around in front of him. ‘Whatever he did, we can’t just hand him over to be killed. The police should be dealing with this.’ He tried to go around her and she moved in front of him again. ‘You promised me.’
The passenger door of the other car opened and her gaze snapped to the man that got out – tall and well built, a black Superdry jacket accentuating his bulk.
Stringer put his hand on the roof and leaned close to her. ‘Trust me.’
He started walking towards the other car.
The man in the Superdry jacket had come around to the front to meet him, his legs strafed by his own headlights. Davey. Years since he’d seen him, his body thicker and his hair thinner, eyes deeper set, harder than he remembered.
‘So you were serious?’
Stringer nodded. He handed over a Ziploc bag with Dalton’s gun in it. ‘He’s in the back seat.’
‘I can hear.’ Davey turned the bag over in his hands, examining the weapon as he said it.
‘He waved that in my sister’s face, and her little one.’
‘And you’re still willing to give him up?’
‘He can give you the others.’
He stared at him.
‘What?’
Davey shrugged. ‘You hear things over the years is all.’
‘About?’
‘About you. What you’re doing now.’
; ‘What does that mean?’
‘Thought maybe you’d be settling your own scores these days.’
‘I am.’
A thud came from Stringer’s car and they both looked over. It was rocking slightly, Dalton panicking, trying to boot the door open from the inside. Davey signalled to his partner to go and collect him. He looked at Stringer again. ‘And he’s good for murder?’
‘Accessory at least. You’ll have to talk to him about the extent of his involvement, but he provided the killers with transport.’
‘He’s talked then?’
‘Some. He’s holding some stuff back to use, but he’ll give it up for protective custody.’
‘And the threat to his life?’
‘Is genuine. I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah, okay.’ He looked past Stringer, watching the other officer cross the tarmac. ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘No one.’
‘Mike?’
‘No one. She was never here.’
‘You’re asking a lot.’
‘I’m giving a lot.’
‘We’ll see.’ Davey shot him a look as he said it. ‘Is this some kind of recompense then?’
‘For what?’
‘Not a word in six years, Mike. Now you call me out of the blue.’
‘So?’
‘I thought maybe you’d had time to reflect. Guilty conscience eating at you.’
‘I’m trying to save his life, that’s all.’
‘You don’t ever think about the old days?’
He shook his head. ‘Not like that. I followed the orders I was given.’
Davey put his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘And the rest.’
Stringer took a step back. ‘You can’t be a bit undercover. I did the job I was asked.’
‘Don’t give me that. We’re not talking about breaking a few rules in the line of duty. You fucking crossed over.’
‘I didn’t come here for this.’ He turned and started back to the car.
Davey called after him. ‘And what’ve you done since you left the force? A blag artist for the high and mighty?’
Lydia had her phone to her ear as he approached, talking fast, but she took it away when he came close. She stared at him, eyes like a spooked animal. He went past her to the back door, Davey’s partner trying to coax Dalton out. He was lying on his back in a heap of sweat and spittle where he’d been trying to boot the door open. He bolted up when Stringer appeared. ‘I don’t know about the witness but you want the rest, there’s shit you can’t even imagine—’
‘Just get out.’
Suddenly there were more headlights coming fast down the slip road. Stringer whipped around and saw another set coming from the other end.
Davey’s partner had clocked them too. ‘What’s this?’
Stringer let his gaze linger a second more, then he slammed Dalton’s door shut and yanked Lydia’s open for her. ‘Get in the car.’
She looked at him, not moving.
‘Come on.’
The silver paintwork came into view just as they put their lights on, washing everything in flickering blue. Three cars; two stopped to block the car park entrance, the third pulling up behind them. Uniforms spilled out, and two men in suits – one Asian, one white.
‘POLICE. Everyone away from the vehicles right now.’
He saw Lydia glance back at him once as she ran towards them.
CHAPTER 56
One Week Later
Lydia flicked through the Standard while she waited.
The message had made her feel ill when it first came up on her phone; it made her confront feelings that were still raw and visceral; easier to just box them off in her head. But by the time she steeled herself to read it a second time, she realised the tone was different to the ones that had preceded it, and the language too. That was when she allowed for the possibility it could be genuine.
She’d messaged the sender back, asking them to prove they really were Paulina Dobriska, and within a minute she received a selfie that was unmistakably her. After that, they’d talked over FaceTime twice before she finally agreed to meet in person. She did it the right way this time: a crowded cafe on Oxford Street in the middle of the lunchtime rush. The chair opposite her was the only free one in the place, and she had to bat off interest in it every few seconds, spreading the newspaper to make the table look less inviting.
Lydia turned the page and found what she was looking for. She wasn’t expecting a splash to mark Sir Oliver Kent’s death, but two columns on page twelve seemed stingy. The article covered the basics and not much else, noting that the respected businessman and former councillor and London Assembly member had been found dead at his home at the age of sixty-three. The police had made a statement that there were no indications of foul play, but the coroner was investigating to determine the exact cause of death.
It was code for suicide. The journos she’d spoken to behind the scenes said he’d taken an overdose of prescription pills. He had left a note, but the contents were still a matter of speculation.
She looked up when the door opened, Paulina Dobriska edging in sheepishly, scanning around for a stranger’s face she’d only seen on an iPhone. Lydia got up to wave her over. When she came close, Lydia felt tears filming over her eyes and tried to blink them away, a last ditch at salvaging some veneer of professionalism.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’
Stringer knocked on the door and stood back so he’d be visible through the spyhole.
The street looked a little less grubby in the daylight, a window box holding purple flowers lending a splash of colour to the front of the house. He heard music from inside, electronic beats he didn’t recognise, in competition with the sound of at least one radio coming from a window upstairs.
Angie Cross opened the door and smiled when she saw him. ‘Alright. What’re you doing here?’
‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘You wanna come in?’
He shook his head gently. ‘I can’t stay.’ He took the slip of paper from his pocket and gave it to her. ‘This is an offshore account with a hundred grand in it. It’s yours.’
She stared at the account details and passcodes, glancing at him with a half-smile as if it was a joke. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘No. I can help you bring it back into the country.’
‘Who’s this from?’
‘Someone who won’t miss it.’
‘Anyone would miss that much money. Is it yours?’
He shook his head. ‘No one knows you have it, except me. You earned it.’
She looked up, her mouth ajar.
He ran his hand over his stubble and glanced to the side. ‘Look, there’s something else. When we met, the way things were for you…’
‘With Malcolm?’ – the insurance big shot who’d beaten her half to death.
‘Yeah. When you said no police…’ Grasping for the right words – Lydia’s condemnation had sowed doubt that’d taken root. ‘The way we settled it – I don’t know that was right.’
‘What are you…?’
‘If you want to press charges, I’ll back you all the way.’
‘I don’t get…’ She closed her eyes, shaking her head as if she was trying to clear it. ‘What’s that got to do with this?’
‘Like I said, you earned it. Taking this doesn’t stop you going to the police. It’s between us.’
She stared at the slip a second longer. Then she handed it back to him. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘I made my choices, I’ll live with them. Not with this.’
He took a half-step back. ‘Slow down a minute. Why don’t you take some time…’
She lifted her eyes to meet his, the look of disbelief slowly ebbing. ‘No, honestly. I don’t want to sound like a bitch. I appreciate it and all, but…’ She cracked a nervous smile. ‘I need to stand on my own two feet. This is
someone else’s.’
‘You can. This is just…’
He searched her face, seeing a resoluteness behind her words. He thought about how she’d gone wrong before, how men handing her money brought about nothing but dependency, and then he got it. The understanding passed unspoken, her smile getting broader, and he found himself matching it.
She punched him in the chest playfully. ‘Anyway, you can’t get rid of me that easily.’
CHAPTER 57
Stephen took his jacket off and sat down on the bed. Lydia closed the door and stood with her back to it.
She’d come home to a pile of post on the doormat and an empty bedroom next to hers. Chloe had called to break the news, and she couldn’t blame her; no one wants to live with a flatmate who tells you out of the blue it’s not safe to go home. Without someone to share the rent, though, it probably meant she’d have to move; another item to add to the list of things that needed sorting, a list that could be shortened to one entry: my life.
‘So? How did it go with Paulina?’
Lydia smiled, remembering the meeting. ‘Really good. She’s been through it, though.’
‘Did she go into detail?’
She nodded. ‘She was terrified. Like, absolutely terrified. She posted the video everywhere she could as soon as she took it because she thought they were going to kill her. Her way of trying to tell what’d happened, if she didn’t make it. But then she dropped her phone when she was trying to get away and she freaked out.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Her first thought was that she always had a tab open for Amazon, so they’d have her address right there if they found it. The only family she’s got is a cousin in Manchester, so she took a load of cash out and went to hide at his place.’
‘Why didn’t she tell anyone?’
‘No one to tell. She’s got friends in town but her family are in Poland. And she had no phone – all her contacts were in it.’
‘What about the police?’
‘She called Crimestoppers, anonymously, but she was too afraid to go in person. She thought they wouldn’t believe her.’