There was no sense of the outside world in this room. They had no idea who came into the parking area even, and had to rely on the doorman coming upstairs to tell them, because the intercom had broken down. Normally this wasn’t too much of a problem as there were always people around, either in the office or down in the warehouse, where there were cooking and washing facilities. However, everybody was out on the streets, on the hunt for Skin and Dan in Stepney and Bethnal Green.
It was past midday when Kevin’s mobile rang. He took the call, listened intently and hung up. Pike’s motion had been arrested, with tortilla chip laden with Tesco’s guacamole inches from his glistening lips.
‘We’re not looking for the van anymore,’ said Kevin. ‘Shearing’s lot have found a breaker’s yard in Bethnal who crushed it earlier this morning.’
‘Tricky,’ said Pike. ‘That might mean they’re still local, though. Better call around. Don’t want people wasting their time looking for the transit.’
As Kevin started texting the crew, a cream Toyota Hiace panel van turned off Jamaica Road and headed south, down St James Road and into the parking area in front of the two arches. Two men got out. The Irishman, McManus, was dressed in a denim jacket with a thick black rollneck sweater and blue jeans; the other, Dowd, was in a fleece-trimmed leather flying-jacket and black jeans. They were both wearing black ribbed woollen beanies pulled down over their forehead and ears. They’d come directly from the old refrigeration unit in the deserted warehouse on Convoy’s Wharf, where they’d seen the shattered glass panel and, despite the clean-up attempts, the remains of blood from their two comrades. They rang on the bell. The doorman took his time getting there and opened up, keeping the chain on.
‘We’ve got information about the girl,’ said McManus.
‘Which girl?’
‘The one Mr Pike is looking for.’
‘Wait.’
The doorman went upstairs, explained to Pike.
‘Who the fuck are they?’
‘Didn’t say.’
‘Did you ask?’ said Kevin.
‘Send them up,’ said Pike.
‘Hold it,’ said Kevin. ‘Let’s just find out who they are first. They could be fucking anybody.’
‘Ask them how they know we’re looking for a girl.’
The doorman went back down, opened the door the same crack to the two faces, hard and cold, eyes barely open, breath coming out in streams of white. He asked the question.
‘We used to work as porters in the hospital with Dan,’ said McManus. ‘We saw your people in the street asking about him; thought we’d come here and tell you what we know. For a return, of course.’
‘Like what sort of return?’
‘We can talk that through with Mr Pike.’
The doorman went back up. The two men outside listened to his footfall, memorised each trudging step, more infuriated the higher he got. The doorman relayed the dialogue.
‘Send them up,’ said Kevin, moving to the corner of the room, gun at his side.
The doorman went back down, unhooked the chain, pointed them up the stairs and turned to shut the door. Dowd hit him on the back of the head with a tight leather bag filled with ball-bearings, caught him by the collar before he fell into the door. McManus cupped the forehead with one hand and the back of his head with the other and twisted violently. There was a dull snap and they let him fall to the floor.
McManus started trudging up the stairs, imitating the doorman’s footfall. At the top, he saw the empty office and a door in the stud wall to his right. He had a gun in his right hand by now and, without missing a beat, he ducked to waist height and went through the door at pace, flinging himself on the floor, while Dowd moved across to the stud wall, also with his gun drawn.
A bullet came through the doorway at waist height and went through the arched window and into the grey beyond. McManus pointed his gun up from the floor and shot Kevin in the shoulder so that he dropped his gun. Dowd knelt, swivelled into the doorway and, holding the gun out with both hands, put a further two bullets into Kevin, who’d been thrown back into the corner. The first hit him in the cheekbone, the other in the lung.
Pike was unmissable. A cubic metre of target with ENGLAND emblazoned across it. In his moment of terrible fright, the tortilla chips went everywhere. Kevin slid to the floor and in the ringing silence, they could hear the blood bubbling in his lung and throat. McManus got to his feet, checked Kevin for life, found some and shot him again in the head with his silenced gun. Dowd went to Pike, who was covered in tortilla chips, with a smear of guacamole down his front. He asked him what had happened in the refrigeration unit. Pike told him what he’d heard.
‘And where are the bodies from the warehouse?’ he asked.
Pike swallowed hard; his goitrous neck shook.
‘Downstairs in the freezers.’
McManus moved Dowd aside and shot Pike twice in the chest, once in the head.
‘I’m stuck in traffic,’ said Fox. ‘I’ve had the operations room patch the recording of the call through to me.’
‘He’s missed his deadline by a couple of hours,’ said Boxer, alone in the room. ‘I’m worried now. I thought this would be our big opportunity. I think somebody’s got to them. Where’s DCS Makepeace?’
‘I left him at Thames House. We’d just got to the end of a briefing on Frank. I wanted to get back to the Ops room.’
‘According to Mercy, the Met are going to go public with these two as soon as they’ve traced some photos.’
‘Have they got confirmed identities beyond Skin and Dan?’
‘Mercy tells me they’re ninety per cent certain that Skin is called William Skates. He’s been inside, got a long record, shaved head, blue eyes and, most important, he has a spiderweb tattoo. They just want to confirm that his DNA matches the blood sample they found in the Grange Road house. It might take a few hours. They could make the early evening news with him. The second one, Dan, is more of a problem. At the moment they’re assuming he’s got some sort of history, so they’re pulling all records of all male nurses who’ve done time. So far there have been no Dans. Now they’re looking to see if there have been any male nurses who’ve done time in the same prisons as William Skates, or any other gang members belonging to Archibald Pike’s crew.’
‘Have you got a strategy for the next call?’
‘It’s all worked out. I want to move hard and fast on this one. When/if he calls, I’m going to get Isabel to do the deal.’
‘You said they’re at five million at the moment.’
‘Believe me, with all the forces ranged against him, he’ll accept a hundred grand and kiss me on both cheeks,’ said Boxer.
‘Have you had the OK from D’Cruz?’
‘He says he’s on his way. I’ve asked him what funds he can access now and he’s confirmed that a hundred grand is feasible and he’ll bring it with him.’
‘Our concern is still for Alyshia,’ said Fox. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to out of the two men?’
‘The audio team did some work on the phone call and confirmed that it was made outside with people walking past. They can hear wind in trees, which means a park. So it looks as if one of them leaves to make the call, distant from where they’re keeping Alyshia. He’s either paranoid about the call being traced, or there’s no network, which seems unlikely if they’re in London. Our caller is not a Londoner. His accent is middle class, Estuary English. What we know about William Skates is that he’s Stepney born and bred, so we’re pretty sure we’re talking to Dan, the nurse.’
‘If Skates is left with the girl, what do we know about him?’ asked Fox. ‘Is he volatile? Is he likely to harm or kill her if he comes under pressure?’
‘He’s got a long record of violence, starting with football hooliganism in the 1980s and stabbing one of his teachers. He’s done time for GBH. But there’s no record of any violence against women and no sexual offences. I’m still waiting on a fuller profile from Mercy.’
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‘OK, we’ll assess that risk when we’ve got the additional information,’ said Fox. ‘Tell me how you’re going to handle Dan in the next call.’
‘I’ll get Isabel to tell him what he probably already knows, that by taking over this kidnap, he’s upset a lot of people. If we need more pressure, we’ll tell him the police are on his tail too, but I don’t want to give him the feeling there’s no way out. I still want them thinking they can get away with it, so that they’ll do the deal with us.’
‘And you’re going to do the ransom delivery?’
‘That’s my intention,’ said Boxer, reading something else from Mercy as it came through on the computer. ‘I’ve just heard that their transport ended up in a breaker’s yard crusher this morning.’
‘That means they’re local and running out of options,’ said Fox.
‘Especially if they’re expecting to tear off with five sports bags with a million apiece, each weighing in at 50 kilos,’ said Boxer. ‘A hundred grand is going to look very nice and portable now.’
22
10.15 A.M. (LONDON TIME), 1.15 P.M. (LOCAL TIME), TUESDAY 13TH MARCH 2012
Dubai International Airport, United Arab Emirates
Amir Jat arrived in the busy Sheikh Rashid Terminal with hand luggage only. A driver took him to a house on 14A Street in the Al Waheda district, close to the airport. They did not speak.
‘We don’t have much time before your next flight,’ said Jat’s agent, serving him a glass of boiled water. ‘Mahmood Aziz has asked me to confirm to you that none of the major groups within the al-Qaeda network are carrying out operations of any kind in central London.’
‘What about splinter groups, or unknown opportunists trying to get al-Qaeda recognition?’
‘That’s more difficult to ascertain. He’s working on it and he hopes to have some more information for you by the time you arrive in Paris.’
‘You must tell him that the kidnappers have issued no financial demand. They have only asked for “a demonstration of sincerity”.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That’s the point,’ said Jat. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘All right, I’ll do that,’ said the agent. ‘In the meantime, here are your directions from Mahmood Aziz for the contact he promised you in London. You are to make your way to the Al Hira Educational Centre on Plashet Road in the London Borough of Newham. The nearest tube station is Upton Park. At the centre, you should ask for Saleem Cheema.’
‘What if it’s closed before I get there?’
‘You mean, you want to take action immediately?’
‘It might already be too late,’ said Jat. ‘You must tell Mahmood Aziz that his group in London have to start looking now.’
‘What for exactly?’
‘Anything they can find out about the kidnap of Frank D’Cruz’s daughter, Alyshia,’ said Jat, frustrated by everyone’s apparent indifference. ‘They have to find out where she is being held and be prepared to take action. By that I mean, take over the kidnap.’
‘What further information do you have for this group to act on?’
‘None.’
‘I’ve checked all the news channels about the kidnap,’ said the agent. ‘And there’s nothing. They must have a news black-out in place.’
‘Mahmood Aziz assured me that this group was fully capable.’
The agent looked a little uncertain. He had no idea of their capability but he knew, like everyone else, that London was a huge city and for any group to find someone hidden in it, with scant information, an impossible task. He was also aware that this was not something to be discussed with Amir Jat. He gave orders and they were followed.
‘I will get that message to him,’ he said.
‘I need a number to call Saleem Cheema when I arrive in London,’ said Jat, taking out a UK mobile phone.
The agent gave him the number and handed Jat a German passport. Jat checked that it had a valid entry stamp for Dubai and studied the photo. He went in to the bathroom where a set of clothes was laid out for him. He removed his sherwani, shalwar kameez and white taqiyah and put them in a black plastic bag. He shaved off his beard and changed his hair style to match the passport shot. He dressed in the black trousers, white shirt and black V-necked sweater provided. On his way out, the agent gave him a sports jacket, a wool coat and an airline ticket in the same name as his new passport.
By 1.45 p.m. the driver was taking him back to the airport, and at 2.00 p.m. he checked in, still with hand luggage only, for his flight from Dubai to Paris.
Dan couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so paranoid. Even when he knew he was going to be busted for stealing drugs from the hospital, he hadn’t been as scared as he was now. It wasn’t the thought of death that frightened him. Death itself would be a fine thing and he’d seen enough of it in his time as a nurse to no longer fear it. What terrified him was the thought of how he would arrive at that death. Being caught and then in whose hands would he be? He’d never been present at one of Kevin’s sessions, but he’d heard about them and he’d been inside the specially sound-proofed room Kevin had in the basement of the St James Road warehouse. There was something a little homo-erotic about Kevin’s tastes that made Dan suspicious of what he got up to in his spare time.
Then there was the police. Just the thought of the whole process of being arrested, taken down to the station, interrogated again and again until they’d heard and seen the story from every angle, made him feel exhausted. Then there was the trial, the sentencing and back to HMP Wherever, with all its power struggles, infighting, drugs, pettiness, violence, relationships and crap food. And this time it would be for life: at least twenty years.
The two possibilities made his guts sweat that horrible, cold black ooze that filled the peritoneum with dread.
A couple of black kids were playing footy behind blue railings, in front of a long block of council flats at the end of Branch Place. He envied their unconscious joy at the heroic dribbles and rifling shots. He crossed the bridge on Bridport Place and dropped down onto the towpath on the north side of the canal. He walked fast past endless new developments of smart residential flats in glass and steel – the City workers bulldozing their way across the East End through Dalston and De Beauvoir Town. He felt safer off the streets. No one was walking along the canal in this cold.
He came up off the tow path just before the thousand-yard-long Islington Tunnel, headed down Duncan Street, and turned left into Angel tube station.
He’d been going to head west but now, in a moment of inspiration, decided to go up to Hampstead. He would make the call from the heath. It would relax him. He’d be on his home turf, having done his training at the Royal Free Hospital.
The lift regurgitated him out of the Hamsptead bowels in more or less the same state as he’d gone in. A bitter wind was blowing down the high street and here there was a totally different class of Londoner, leaving an upmarket bakery with their wholemeal bread and boxed cheesecake. He ducked down the narrow lane of Flask Walk, past the pub. Wouldn’t have minded a pint of Young’s to give him courage. In fact, what the hell? He went up to the bar, ordered a Bushmills and a pint of bitter. He sunk the whisky and sucked down half the pint. This had been a good idea. His nerve started to creep back. He ordered another Bushmills, threw it down followed by the other half of bitter. He now felt as if he had a whole platoon of mates with him and they were going to take on all-comers, and win.
It was 4.00 p.m. by the time he crossed East Heath Road and headed down the tree-lined path onto the heath. Here there were people, insulated by big, puffy, quilted coats, walking their dogs. A muscly Jack Russell in a red woolly jacket trotted jauntily past him, while a heavy black lab staggered ponderously behind its owner, who was in no better condition. Two women joggers with pony tails and legs reddened by the cold huffed past, the one telling the other how kundalini yoga was changing her life.
How had he got himself into this state? Why wasn’t he still
a nurse, heading for a new shift and the certainty of doing good, and pay day with pints in the hospital bar with the lads? Putting a bullet into the back of the cabbie’s head flashed sharp in his mind. His father, a postman, had told him at sixteen years old, after a run-in with the police: always resist the temptation to take the first step down, because that will give you your momentum.
That first step down had been stealing drugs to make a bit of money, and now he’d killed two people. But why? He looked up into the cathedral roof of bare branches above his head. He’d asked to work with Skin. That was it. And, by then, he knew what Skin was about. There was something in him that had been inexorably drawn to Skin’s aura of indestructability.
Maybe he should call it all off. Disappear into a new life. He had that bit of money from the cabbie, two grand as he stood now. That would fly him somewhere else, away from the madness.
But he didn’t stop and turn. It seemed to have been established somewhere that he was going to make this call to Isabel Marks and he was powerless to arrest the momentum of fate, even though it seemed to have disaster written all over it. As he arrived at the park bench on Parliament Hill, overlooking the city lights thrown out across the horizon, glinting in the gun-metal blue-grey of the finishing day, the setting sun dipped below the cloud cover and shed a pink-orange light across the city. In the east, on Canary Wharf, the skyscraper of One Canada Square picked it up in its glass frontage and stood there like a vertical gold ingot, saying: ‘I’m yours, claim me.’
Possibly it was that inspirational sight, plus the two Bushmills and the pint of Young’s, that jogged Dan’s elbow. He sat down on the bench and made the call.
‘Isabel Marks?’ he said confidently. ‘I just wanted to tell you that your daughter is not only alive and well, but in very good health, given the strain she’s been under.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve called,’ said Isabel. ‘I’ve been worried sick. I couldn’t think what had happened. You’re more then five hours past your last deadline. Has there been a problem, Dan?’