'I know that. Look, hear me out, please. It's really very important. I need to talk to you. I didn't say I wanted to ask you questions about this.' Campbell felt a sudden urge to tell her everything all at once, to tell her his real name, that he had lied to her, that he knew far more than she could begin to imagine. He held his tongue and drew in a deep breath.
'What is this about Mr Michaels? I'm not sure I should even be talking to you.'
'Wait!' Campbell felt the panic rising. If he messed this up, he had no idea what to do. His thoughts raced. There was silence on the line and he wondered if she'd gone for an awful moment.
'What is it?' Her tone was sharp now, irritable. She was out of patience.
'I know what was stolen in the break-in.'
For a second Campbell was probably as surprised as she was at the outburst. Neither spoke. Long seconds passed in silence. Would she bolt? Run to the boss? Think this was some kind of threat or blackmail?
'And I think I know why,' he said, laying the rest of his cards on the table.
A pause. 'Why are you telling me this?'
She was biting. He could hear just an edge of intrigue in her voice.
'Your boss may be involved.'
Each breath felt agonisingly long, tortuously drawn out as he waited. Each heartbeat took an hour as his words hung on the airwaves.
'Sarah?'
'I'm here.'
'Will you meet me?'
'What do you mean?'
'To talk. Its extremely important.'
'No. What do you mean, that-' she paused 'he may be involved?' She obviously didn't want to mention her boss whilst standing in the office where she might be overheard.
'The break in, what was taken. He might be behind it.'
'How? I'm afraid I don't follow you.'
'Sarah, I can't explain everything now. It would be easier if we met. I need to show you something. I just - I need you to look at it, maybe tell me I'm wrong, tell me I'm way off. Frankly I'd be delighted if you did.'
She went silent again and once more the doubt crept over him. Perhaps he was pushing too hard now. Perhaps she just thought he was an insistent journalist trying to fool her into giving him the story he wanted. Or maybe she'd just been keeping him on the line whilst she called somebody over to listen in. He opened his mouth to speak again, fighting the urge to shout, to beg, to plead with her to help him.
'Where?' she said.
27
Wednesday. 6.30pm.
It was dark when he got in the door to his flat and a little cold so he set the kettle to boil and trotted through to his bedroom to change out of his suit into jeans and a sweater. Looking around the room he thought that his room looked a little different - more untidy? - than he remembered leaving it. No, he thought. It was always a mess and he was tense and paranoid. Of course that was how he'd left it.
He didn't really know whether Sarah would actually show up to meet him. He had let her nominate a neutral venue as a gesture designed to demonstrate that he could be trusted. She was suspicious of him; that was obvious. Whether she believed his cover story about being a journalist but simply suspected his motives, his journalistic integrity, or whether her mistrust ran deeper than that he couldn't know. He could have been anyone of course, and she a lone woman asked to meet with a strange man? what else could he expect her to be but suspicious of him?
By agreeing to her terms of time and place he hoped that he had given her some small cause to trust him. To grant him at the very least the benefit of the doubt. But would she even show up at all? He had fretted over that since ending the call. It was a gamble, he'd known that, and until she actually showed up, he wouldn't know if it had worked. Again the paranoia had him seeing her turn up surrounded by company officials and police, pointing an accusing finger at him from the doorway.
He checked the memory stick again; still hidden, still invisible. He switched on his laptop computer again and made another cursory check that there was no trace of the data that he had accessed on the stick itself just as he had on his PC at work, eager to remove any trace at all, to leave no trail.
As he shut the machine down and began to pack it back into its tough leather case the shrill sound of his doorbell cut through the silence of the flat and he could almost feel the sound of it reverberate through his chest.
Nervously he went to the door and peered through the fisheye. He was surprised to see a woman standing there. Wrong doorbell? He pulled open the door and found himself staring into the blue, blue eyes of a pretty young woman.
She said hello but Campbell's eyes were paying more attention than his ears. Her golden hair was scraped back from her forehead and arranged in an elaborate twist, which left a spray of hair falling away from her head like flowers in a vase. She wore fitted black trousers and a tailored shirt with large collars that was unbuttoned halfway down. Underneath the shirt, which clung to her slender frame, the pinstripes tracing its shape, was a plain black top cut straight across the chest.
He quickly snapped his head back up and looked her in the eye again hoping she hadn't spotted it. In his confusion he almost asked her if she knew Sarah but stopped himself.
'Hi. Can I help you?' he said and tried to make it sound breezy, nonchalant.
'Hope so,' she said. 'I'm having a bit of a nightmare actually. There's this guy who's been following me since I got off the bus up the road.' She hooked a thumb back over her shoulder in no particular direction. 'I thought I was being a bit mental at first you know, paranoid. But then I started walking along this road and he kept following,' she explained, embarrassed that she might be overreacting. Campbell peered out into the street but could see little past the hedge in his front garden.
'I'm really sorry. Would you mind if I just came in for five minutes or something until he goes away? I know it probably sounds silly?'
'No, no. That's not silly.' He tried desperately to think of what to say. He was reluctant to let her in and get involved in this, not when he was supposed to be heading out to meet Sarah. But he couldn't just leave this girl alone, scared and asking for his help. And the longer he stood there, the more awkward he began to feel. 'Of course,' he spluttered finally. 'Come in. Please. Come on -'
He stopped, frowning as the girl stepped backwards and from the side of the door appeared one of the burliest, most threatening looking men Campbell had ever seen.
' - in.'
'I thought you were never going to ask,' said Keith Slater as he clamped a huge hand over Campbell's shoulder and thrust him roughly back inside, sending him sprawling onto his back. 'Close the door Angie,' he called over his shoulder and stepped into the hallway.
II
28
Wednesday. 10.30pm.
'Drennan, its me.' The accent was clipped and well spoken, the delivery abrupt.
'Ah, good morning.' A breezy, self-assured tone, or a valiant attempt. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'
'We still have a situation. Imagine my shock to hear that you've made a spectacular mess of things once again.'
'Imagine,' replied Drennan flatly.
'I take it that the matter is being dealt with?'
'Naturally.'
'The security cameras in the building happened to suffer a systems failure the very same evening. Just a small one though. No one will have even noticed that. A frame or two lost from the recording, though those in the East didn't need to know that. I figured I'd let them spend time worrying about each other than what they were asked to do. Keep them occupied.'
'How considerate of you. Would you like to avail me of the very latest information?' The other man clearly had the upper hand despite Drennan's cool responses. He didn't always talk like this, just when he wanted to rub Drennan's nose in shit. He knew his questions would have to be answered.
'Delighted. The, um, real annoyance to which you no doubt refer is in hand. The Barrel-Maker turned up cold in a hospital in south west London and he's been identified but I've spoken with somebody and
I'm making that go away...'
'Hate to be sceptical old chap but you aren't overestimating the scope of your influence are you?' said the other man, his voice thick with contempt. Drennan felt his hackles rising but he fought his temper. He needed to conduct himself with cool detachment and politeness, just as he had in the park that cold morning, days ago.
'It shouldn't be an issue. Anyway, I'm also running down a lead where he was last seen and will be tidying up that loose end shortly as well. All a touch unfortunate but taken care of without too much fuss. Certainly no need for panic.'
'You'll excuse me if I don't share your confidence. This loose end. How loose is it?'
'Well I haven't taken care of it yet but -'
'So how do we expect to tidy that up? Please elaborate Matthew.' The tone was both condescending and irritable now.
There was silence on the end of the line briefly. 'He was taken into the hospital by somebody and I have an address. Seems the barrel maker stumbled into a party in his haste to uh, disassociate himself from the others and then... had a fall. This chap - and trust me, he is nobody - he brought him in saying something about falling and landing on a wine glass apparently.'
'I take it he didn't land on any such thing.'
'Who's to say? He may well have.'
'Let me rephrase that. The wine glass was not what did for our friend.'
'Not entirely no. But as I said, I have an address so I think perhaps I ought to pop over and explain to him how very virtuous silence can be.'
'Drennan, far be it from me to suggest that your subtle psychological manipulation might be less than flawless but have you given this any sort of thought at all? As far as we know, these two had a good long cosy chat about this whole business and he's sitting at home now on the phone having a natter with the press.'
'I think you're overreacting, with respect.' Drennan said carefully.
'Really? Well its wonderful that you feel you can share your informed and considered opinion Matthew but I think this has gone far enough now don't you?'
'I have people on it and the guy doesn't have a clue. In and out to work nice and punctual, picking up his dry cleaning, picking up groceries.'
'Nevertheless Matthew. Tick tock.'
'I'm not sure I follow you.' Drennan's self-assurance was deserting him now and the other man did not miss the note of apprehension creeping into his voice.
'Well, assuming that the worst has happened and we have a major leak on our hands, a bloody spillage - and considering the implications of this, there is absolutely no reason I can see that we may risk assuming otherwise - then only swift and decisive action is likely to be of any value at this stage. I will ensure that such action is taken. Let me have the name of the police contact you have. Unlike yourself, I am under no illusions as to the extent of my own influence.'
'Very well. I'll dig it out and pass his number on. What about our loose end? What do you want to do about that?' There was a nervousness in his voice now, an uncertainty that was rarely present.
'That's no longer a concern of yours Matthew.'
'Let's not be rash.'
'You would rather we rely on cheap scare tactics and the word of some young man we don't know? One uncertainty is one too many.'
'Well, may I ask who you intend to use for this?'
'I maintain a number of associates in various fields. Many of them can be relied upon for efficiency, discretion and loyalty. There should be no reason why this need go on any longer, nor for any of us to be further entangled in this mess. Agreed?'
A pause. 'Agreed.'
'Perfect. Consider our problem eliminated.'
Drennan said nothing.
'The Barrel Maker?' snorted the other man. 'You are beyond parody sometimes.'
29
Wednesday. 12am.
Somewhere off to the left he could hear a squeaking sound, more metal than animal. An occasional tapping punctuated it. A loose window? The air was cold and he could feel his muscles begin to tense and shiver as a breeze crept around his ankles.
The shuffling of feet, movement around him, a wooden clunk as something heavy was set down. A cough from behind.
His wrists, tightly bound at his back, had begun to feel warm with the friction as he struggled to find a more comfortable position and he thought that he felt something wet there now. Sweat?
Suddenly he felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck as a huge hand clamped around it and pinched the skin there. He felt his head snapped backwards and twisted sideways and then he could feel hot breath on the side of his face.
'Now you be polite and I might decide to leave you alone,' a voice growled in his ear and he was released with a rough shove that threatened to knock him off balance for a moment before his seat righted itself.
'Good evening gents. What do we have here?' From the right came the thick East London accent and he could tell immediately that this new presence was in charge. Anyone that would speak to the other man in that way could only be his boss.
'Take the blindfold off,' the same voice instructed sharply.
Even in the relative gloom of his surroundings the light stung his retinas and Campbell squinted hard. Standing in front of him was a balding man in thick rimmed glasses who stood a very stocky five foot six or seven he guessed. His chin was stubbled and jowly and his nose sat squat in the centre of his face but his black eyes peered out through the lenses of his glasses and Campbell knew that even without the ropes he would have been unable to move under that gaze.
'Mr Campbell. Been itching to meet you old son,' he growled and offered a hand that looked as if it could enclose his entire head in its grasp.
'Don't forget your manners, please,' he said after a pause and Campbell frowned, puzzled.
'Uh, George...' said the other men and nodded toward where Campbell sat.
Gresham looked from the man to Campbell and leaned forward to look down over his shoulder. 'Oh yeah. Silly me. Slater, take the ropes off.'
Campbell felt the ropes being tugged roughly from his wrists and it stung the raw flesh there as much as it relieved his discomfort. He drew them into his lap and saw that the chafing of the rope had drawn blood, which had run down over his hands and spread rusty smudges of it around his wrists and forearms.
'Mr Campbell.' He looked up at the man called George as he slid a stool across the floor and sat in front of him face to face. Close enough to smell the sweet coffee on his breath.
Campbell nodded but his jaw felt as if it were clamped shut and he said nothing.
'Do excuse my friend. No harm done?'
Campbell shook his head. 'No. No, fine.'
The other man eyed his wrists and raised an eyebrow. 'Not fine at all are you?'
'Um. No. Not really.'
'Not really. That's one lie.' Gresham said and held up a finger as if to count it off. 'How did Keith treat you?'
Campbell turned his head slightly to see Slater pat a hand on his ribs. Gresham leaned forward and took hold of Campbell's shirt at the bottom, lifting it to reveal two large and darkening bruises on either side of his rib cage. Campbell winced as he saw the extent of it for the first time.
He had been bundled roughly back into his flat and almost lifted off his feet. Slater, without a word had landed a solid right into his left side. Campbell, the wind knocked thoroughly out of him, collapsed to his knees and gasped for breath, curling up on the floor and clutching at his ribs. Before he could regain his breath Slater had snatched him back up to his feet and with both fists gripping his shirt at his shoulders had pinned him solidly against the wall.
'You've got something I want so hand the thing over
and don't even think about messing me around,' Slater had hissed at him through clenched teeth.
Confused, scared and off guard Campbell had spluttered and coughed as he tried to draw proper breath and had managed only a few words in response. 'I don't know...'
And then Slater slammed a fist into his other side and Campbell had felt as if his chest were about to collapse.
'Where is it?' he snarled but now Campbell really was struggling for breath and answering was beyond him.
'Right. Pull the car up out front Angie,' said Slater gesturing toward the door. Then Slater was in his face again, talking still through clenched teeth, spittle hitting Campbell's cheek. 'Don't say I didn't give you a chance.'
Campbell was brought rudely back to the present as he felt a further jabbing pain in his tender ribcage. Gresham was poking a finger into the bruise and screwing his face up with mock pity. 'So come on. How did he treat you? Nice was he?'
Campbell stared at Gresham bewildered. Was he seriously expected to answer the question? Gresham stared back, waiting. Campbell gave an uncertain nod, thinking that perhaps it was best to be co-operative.
Gresham held up two fingers. 'Two lies.' He shook his head reproachfully. 'No more.'
And then he backhanded Campbell hard and sharp across the face, opening a cut across his cheekbone. Campbell screwed his face tight as the pain exploded across his cheek, white heat in his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth.
Eventually, when his vision cleared and the vicious stinging began to subside Campbell found himself looking at the two rings on Gresham's fingers.
'Understand?' Those eyes again. Straight into his. Campbell nodded.
'Good. Now, the quicker I get answers to my questions - no lies - the quicker we can all be on our way.'
'Yeah? S-sure.' Campbell tried to keep the fear from his voice but it emerged as little more than a croak.
'Lovely. Right. Why don't you tell me what you've been up to lately then, eh? Met anyone interesting recently?'
30
Thursday. 3am.