The shot, when it came, cannoned into Clayton’s chest. As he thumped backwards over the chair and hit the wall with the flattening sound of a carcass of meat, he thought someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. The second shot nailed him to the floor. The blue ceiling crowded darkly in on his vision, his head fell to one side and Rajiv Ghandi’s portrait was the final image he took with him into the vast black beyond.
17
10.30 P.M., MONDAY 12TH MARCH 2012
London
‘What did he make of it?’ asked Boxer.
Conference call: DCS Peter Makepeace and Martin Fox in Pavis operations room, Charles Boxer from the house in Aubrey Walk. They were talking about the DVD of the mock execution, which Fox had shown to the MI5 psychologist that Pavis used to assess new recruits.
‘Professional, not amateur,’ said Fox. ‘Devastating shock tactic in order to prepare hostage for more intrusive grilling, or the family for a heavy demand. He believes that the shooter was military trained, just in the way he held himself and his weapon, which was a Sig Sauer P220. He’s undecided about their nature: criminal or terrorist. That will become clear only with a demand. If they are terrorists, there’s also the possibility that they’re being coy about demands because they don’t want to unleash the Counter Terrorism Command, which would certainly turn the heat up.’
‘And what do the two of you think?’
‘It looks criminal to me, but with a highly trained group used to military-style assignments, with powerful research and psychological backing, looking to squeeze the maximum out of a wealthy man,’ said Fox. ‘They don’t seem to be in a hurry, but they’re ramping up the violence with this extreme demonstration in the DVD. I think the teasing will stop and we’ll get a big money demand in the end.’
‘Has someone been sent to investigate the pizza delivery boy?’
‘George Papadopoulos is dealing with that,’ said Makepeace.
‘And you, sir? How do you feel about the kidnappers?’
‘My major concern, as we close in on one hundred days to go before the Olympics’ opening ceremony, is a terrorist attack,’ said Makepeace. ‘My analysis tends to come with that bias. There is nothing we’ve seen so far from these people that overtly indicates that they have terrorist intentions. I am uneasy about the apparent level of training. But, then again, if you’re looking for a big pay-off, then this may be a necessary level of investment and professionalism. I’m unhappy at their insistence that this is not about money. I’m as concerned as D’Cruz is about the “demonstration of sincerity”, because I don’t know what it means. I’m worried that, despite their declared intention only to talk to Isabel Marks, they might confuse the issue by starting direct talks with Frank D’Cruz, who is their ultimate target. Having made their emotional point through his ex-wife, they’re going to get down to the real business with him and exclude us. If they’re terrorists, they’ll know about you as a consultant and they’ll probably assume our involvement and they won’t want to trigger a major counter terrorism operation. What’s Frank D’Cruz said about it all?’
This is where it started, thought Boxer, to lie for Frank . . . or not.
‘I’ve had a theoretical conversation with him about the possibility of the kidnappers being terrorists.’
‘So he does suspect their involvement?’ said Makepeace.
‘That means he’s not unaware that in his past he has been involved with people who’ve gone on to develop terrorist links,’ said Boxer, who gave them a quick recap of D’Cruz’s involvement in the gold smuggling business. ‘He’s also not unaware that, given his wealth and “plugged in” status, he could be in a position to help them, which he insists he doesn’t.’
‘All that could give the “demonstration of sincerity” a terrorist complexion,’ said Makepeace. ‘Has he got any theories about that?’
‘The impression he gave me was that this is pressure being applied to him to make him more compliant. The nature of this compliance is unknown. To me, if it’s got any terrorist connection at all, it feels like something in development, rather than the next step towards an imminent attack.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Makepeace.
‘Don’t like what?’ said Fox. ‘I thought we were still in theory here.’
‘Theory based on fundamentals, like D’Cruz’s involvement with people who’ve got terrorist links.’
‘I’ve done some work in Pakistan,’ said Boxer. ‘Nothing is straightforward in that country. Government, business, politics, religion and terrorism have a way of blending together in surprising ways. You might think you’re doing business with a retired army officer but, in fact, he may have tribal connections that demand his attention in ways that we would construe as criminal. None of this appears on their business cards. You have to work it out for yourself.’
‘If you’re so inclined,’ said Makepeace brutally.
‘There is that,’ said Boxer. ‘Taking on a steelworks during an economic downturn might make you less inclined to be investigative. Most businessmen want to find ways to sell, rather than reasons not to.’
‘Is he operating at a comfortable level of ignorance, or a self-serving level of turning a blind eye?’ said Makepeace.
‘Can’t help you there.’
‘The real question is: how do we treat this?’ said Fox. ‘Criminal or terrorist?’
‘D’Cruz would rather you kept an open mind while he gathers more information,’ said Boxer. ‘Unleashing counter terrorism could spook the kidnappers and result in the death of his daughter. We still haven’t had a definite terrorist threat.’
‘You, DCS Makepeace?’
‘I don’t think we should throw counter terrorism at it yet,’ he said. ‘I think we pass this information on to MI5. We’ve been told they’ve got a file on him. And see what they make of it.’
‘Martin?’
‘That doesn’t jeopardise the safety of the girl and it potentially broadens our knowledge of both friend and foe,’ said Fox.
‘Who’s the friend?’ asked Boxer.
They laughed themselves to a quick silence.
Mercy was thinking about Isabel. She liked her, but she was scared by her, too. For the first time in twenty years, she’d met a woman who could take Charlie from her. She’d never feared any of the others. Even the supermodel types with legs that went on forever.
Charlie was the only person in her life who’d ever made her feel safe. And now he was going to give his undivided attention elsewhere. Her insecurity shivered through her like the cold waves of a viral attack as she saw herself on the brink of losing everything. Her daughter hated her and the only man she’d ever loved – and yes, still loved – had fallen for someone who was more than her equal.
And that was the other thing: Isabel was everything she wasn’t. Or was it just that Isabel had the ability to show what she never could?
She had a vision of herself as a lonely person, which gave her a desperate need to put things right with her daughter. She didn’t call Esme to see if this was all right and it was close to eleven at night when she pulled up outside the old Consumption Hospital on Mount Vernon. She rang the buzzer, stood in front of the video camera.
‘Jesus, Mercy, is that you?’ said Esme through the intercom.
‘I need to see Amy.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Will you let me in, please, Esme?’
Esme buzzed her in. She went up to the first floor. Esme was waiting and smoking outside her flat.
‘What’s all this about, Mercy?’
‘I want to see my daughter, that’s all.’
‘It’s late.’
‘I’ve been working and she won’t be asleep yet.’
‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,’ said Esme. ‘She’s still in a rage at you.’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ said Mercy. ‘I want to see her.’
‘Look, I can see you’re upset, Mercy,’ said Esme. ‘Is this really the best time to
be doing this?’
‘I’ve just seen something terrible in my work and I don’t want . . . I want to . . . I need to see . . .’
‘Yes, OK, it’s all right, Mercy. Let’s go in. Have a cup of coffee.’
Esme took her into the kitchen, sat her down. Mercy was craning her neck to see the room where she knew Amy would be sleeping. Esme put a coffee down on the table in front of Mercy’s clenched hands. Mercy leaned over and rested her forehead on her fists as her body was wracked with shuddering sobs. She leaned back, tears streaming down her face.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m losing it.’
Esme was transfixed, had never seen Mercy in such a state.
Mercy got up suddenly, wiped her face and walked across the living room into Amy’s bedroom. The girl was sitting on her duvet in her pyjamas with an MP3 player plugged in. She glanced up, yanked the buds out of her ears and a look of such scowling meanness crossed her face that Mercy reared back.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
And Mercy didn’t know. She didn’t know what she wanted. Except for it to be all right. But not how to make it so.
‘I just . . .’ she started.
‘What?’
‘I just wanted to tell you how much I love you.’
‘Now you’re all at it,’ said Amy, mocking.
Mercy turned, left the room, straight past the smoking Esme and out of the flat.
‘Are you sure you’re not a poof?’ asked Skin, standing in the middle of the room with its new blinds drawn, thumb hooked into one pocket, and a can of Stella hanging from his hand.
‘You mean, just because I’m doing the hoovering?’ said Dan, shunting Skin’s foot so he lifted it, and then the other.
‘There’s that, and all the fancy ready-cooked meals you’ve bought, new sheets on the bed, a new blanket, lah-vely blinds and you’ve spent half an hour cleaning the crapper and putting a new bog seat on. The other fucker’s keeping her stripped down to her undies on a bare mattress with hardly any food and pissing into a tin bucket. And here we are in the Colville Estate Hilton with room service.’
‘Hyatt,’ said Dan. ‘For fuck’s sake, the Grand Hyatt.’
Skin laughed wheezily into his Stella. ‘It’s cutting into my profit margin,’ he said.
‘For a start, it’s coming out of the money we didn’t give to the cabbie; second, we’re living here, too; and are you really going to give a shit about a couple of hundred quids’ worth of stuff when you’re sitting on a million?’
‘We’re not sitting on it yet,’ said Skin. ‘And if this fucks up, we’re down the rent, your seafood linguine times ten, whatever the fuck the blinds and bog seat cost and the hoover.’
‘If this fucks up, we’ll be finding out if there’s a God or not,’ said Dan. ‘Anyway, the hoover’s yours after the event. Whatever happens. It’s a deal.’
‘Don’t use them,’ said Skin grumpily.
‘You put this end over your knob and it’s great.’
‘Never been that desperate.’
‘Right. I’ve seen you fighting the girls off with a pitchfork,’ said Dan.
‘What do you know?’
‘The shaved head and the tat probably don’t help. What was the big idea behind that fashion statement?’
‘I was called Gabriel at school.’
‘Gabriel?’
‘The angel,’ said Skin. ‘I had blond curly hair.’
‘Sweet,’ said Dan. ‘Did you get the part in the nativity play, too?’
‘Fuck off, Nurse,’ said Skin, eyes gone dead.
‘And the tat?’
‘Then they called me Baby-face.’
‘Can’t win, can you?’
‘The tat shut those fuckers up,’ said Skin. ‘And I stabbed a teacher in the leg.’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Dan, thinking: that’s enough history.
‘Just gone quarter past midnight.’
‘We’re on at one.’
‘Everything ready?’ asked Skin. ‘Restraints? You were going on about restraints as if, you know, you were into them.’
‘Didn’t want to get her back here and find we can’t even tie her to the bed,’ said Dan. ‘Look like amateurs on our first night.’
‘You got your knock-out juice?’
Dan took out the syringe from its box, flicked it so the liquid shook.
‘Weapons?’
They took out their guns, racked the slides, showed each other they were loaded. They headed out to the van.
‘You remember to put that carpet in the back and some cushions?’ asked Skin.
‘Now who’s looking after her welfare?’
‘Once she’s in our hands, she’s worth money. I don’t want her knocking about like a piece of old furniture.’
Dan opened the back, showed him. They got in the front, looked at each other.
‘What could possibly go wrong?’ said Dan.
Skin looked up into his head as if performing an enormous calculation.
‘All right,’ said Dan, starting the engine. ‘No need to go into it.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Skin, foot up on the dashboard, ciggies out.
They headed south through the Rotherhithe Tunnel, then east following the curve of the Thames. They came into Deptford and some abandoned buildings around Convoys Wharf.
‘Talk me through it one more time,’ said Dan. ‘Make sure we know what we’re doing.’
‘Do everything as normal. Park in the same place. Go in through the same entrance. Have a chat and a laugh with the previous shift. Check in with Jordan and his mate. Take up our positions. Me inside. You out. Everything as we’ve always done. The only difference is that I won’t close the inner door to the refrigeration unit.
‘I won’t make a move in the first half hour so you can relax. Only after 1.30 will anything happen. You do nothing until you hear from me. Then you come in with the roll of carpet. We hood up. We go into the room and you sedate the girl. We roll her up in the carpet. We take as much of Jordan’s set-up as we can. You go out and bring the van into the warehouse like you did when we first delivered her. We put her in with any equipment we’ve lifted. I drive the van out. You close up. We head back to the Colville Estate Hyatt. Couldn’t be simpler.’
‘You ever got anything out of Jordan and his mate?’ asked Dan.
‘Like what?’
‘Who the fuck they are? What they’re doing with the girl? Why the mock execution?’
‘That was too fucking much,’ said Skin. ‘That Irish fucker, I could tell he was enjoying it. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, or any side for that matter.’
‘What if the Irish guy is backing up Jordan tonight?’
‘We don’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to work it,’ said Skin. ‘He sits there cradling his gun like it’s a newborn baby. Reecey is all right. He thinks I’m thick, but that’s fine by me.’
‘Do you hear any of what Jordan says to the girl?’
‘Nothing. He speaks very quietly into a microphone and all her replies come through his headphones. The only time I’ve heard anything is when I’ve been in the room with her when she wants to pee or for that fucking business yesterday. And from that I can tell you all Jordan wants to do is break her down.’
‘That should make it easier for you to deal with them then.’
‘Did I tell you Reecey’s armed?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Didn’t I?’ said Skin. ‘I wonder why.’
‘Come and talk to me when you’ve worked the weekend shift in A&E in a London hospital.’
‘I know you can do blood and gore, Nurse, but this is different,’ said Skin. ‘I know Reecey carries because he’s shown me, just as he’s shown the other shift. He’s letting us know he’s no pushover if we start getting ideas. Yeah, exactly, now you’re understanding it. He doesn’t trust the situation he’s in. He’s trained, and in more ways than one.’
‘Why are you telling me t
his just before we go in there?’
‘Just so you know it’s not going to be a piece of piss,’ said Skin.
‘Is Jordan armed?’
‘Don’t think so. Can’t tell.’
‘Your shoulder all right?’ asked Dan, wanting to think about something else.
‘It’s fine and it’s my left arm, not my shooting arm.’
Silence. All the new problems stacked up high in Dan’s mind.
‘Don’t worry, I get on with Reecey,’ said Skin. ‘He showed me the laser device on his gun. So when the red dot falls on you, Nurse, you know when to run.’
‘Thanks for the advice. I’m not sure I’ll have time to register when the red fucking dot falls on me.’
‘Look, Nurse, I’m the one in the front line, not you,’ said Skin. ‘Just try to keep calm. If I don’t call you in by twenty-five to two, you can run like fuck.’
‘With the red dot falling on my fucking back.’
‘At least you won’t see it coming,’ said Skin, chuckling.
He tossed his cigarette butt out of the window and something cold settled in the pit of Dan’s stomach.
‘Tell me about your father,’ said the voice. ‘How did your relationship with him develop in this new world? You left England under a cloud. What happened in Mumbai? Tell me from the top.’
‘One thing I noticed about conversations with my father: we never talked about the past. His or mine. In England, my friends’ parents quite often talked about the past, you know, in a nostalgic way. That was something else I hadn’t quite grasped at the time. They were, by comparison to the Indians I met on arrival, complacent. It was as if they’d done it all and were coasting into a life where they would do less and less and benefit more and more. They saw the future through their children. Whereas my father, and all those around him, were relentlessly moving things forward, looking to the future, imagining this new world they were in the process of creating. It was exciting. It was liberating. You didn’t find any Indians sitting around reminiscing about the village and homespun. It was all about the latest shopping mall or the new cinema complex. So the past was out, which was fine by me.’