After a restless night tossing and turning, her mind a mess of ‘ifs’, ‘ands’, and ‘buts’ of uncertainty, Karla had decided to put some distance between herself and Frank.
So for the past couple of days, she’d concentrated on working, spending long hours at the café so she didn’t have time to dwell on him, or his lies and evasiveness.
Frank had failed to put in an appearance at the café, and for that she was glad. He’d tried to ring her a few times, but so far she’d ignored his calls.
Now, as she picked up her mobile from the counter and looked at it, she frowned.
Frank again. The forth time in as many hours.
She started to put the mobile down, but relented. Now was as good a time as any to tell himn it was at an end. Thumbing the screen she held it to her ear. “Yes?”
“Hello, it’s me. I’ve been trying to ring you all morning. Last night too.”
He sounded desperate, and Karla felt a pang of guilt. Nudging it aside, she put a hand on her hip, turning her back on the tables. Only one customer was in, but she didn’t want old Mrs McLeavy gossiping to the whole village about her call. “Been busy Frank. Nice to hear from you,” she said, her tone saying something different. There was a short pause as Frank seemed to think that over.
“Mandy didn’t kill herself,” he said eventually. “I think she might have been murdered.”
That certainly got her attention and she leant forward, her voice rising. “What?” Noticing Mrs McLeavy’s quick glance, she hunched her shoulders around the mobile. “What did you say?” she whispered.
“I said —”
“Hang on a minute.” Karla moved to the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
“You there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Listen, I’ve got proof ... well not yet ... but I will have ... I’ve just got to—”
“What are you talking about Frank? For goodness sake slow down a bit.”
“Yeah sorry. Guess I’m a bit uptight. I can’t tell you everything yet ‘cause I’m waiting on a call from a girl called Chantelle that’s she’s got the stuff I need. But listen ... I’m pretty certain that Mandy didn’t kill herself.”
Karla rubbed the side of her face, her confusion making it difficult to take in what he was saying. “You’re not making any sense Frank. What’s happened? Where are you?”
“In London. Damn. Look I got to go. Someone on call waiting. It’s probably that girl I was telling you about. I’ll call you as soon as I can. ‘Bye.”
“No Frank, wait—”
Karla was left staring at the phone as he rang off, wondering what was going on. One minute he was telling her that he had a fortune stashed away, the next he’s running off to London again on some fruitless search. And now some cock-and-bull story about his daughter not having committed suicide.
Leaning over the stainless steel counter, Karla tried to make sense of it all, wondering if Mandy’s death had affected Frank in ways that needed the sort of professional help she just wasn’t able to give him.
No, it wasn’t her problem anymore. She had to stop letting him drag her in time and again this way.
Then it hit her.
Frank had said that his daughter might have been murdered. Jesus Christ, that made her last thoughts all the more relevant, and all the more worrying!
*
“Yeah?”
“It’s me, Chantelle.” Her voice was hard and low, a throaty whisper. “I’ve got that information you wanted.”
“Good. Bring it to the hotel and I’ll give you the rest of the money.”
“No, I can’t get out for that long. Meet me somewhere nearer.”
“Where?”
“The Inner Circle, at Regent’s Park. There’s a bench outside Queen Mary’s Rose Gardens. In an hour. Wait for me there.”
“But that’s—”
Frank swore softly. She’d rung off.
It didn’t make any sense, the Inner Circle was farther from the hostel than his hotel. Uneasy that she’d chosen such an isolated place to meet him, Frank looked up the last call on his mobile. It was listed as her number, but when he rang it back there was no response.
Turning off the TV, Frank sat down and thought about whether he should go and meet the girl or not. He didn’t have much choice as far as he could see. He’d driven ten hours to find out why Mandy had committed suicide, to be told she hadn’t. If he wanted that proof, he’d have to go and meet her.
Mind made up, he crossed to the small safe in the bottom of the wardrobe and took out a wad of twenty pound notes. After counting out five thousand pounds, he wound an elastic band around the roll and stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket.
He had an hour to kill. What to do?
The hotel room felt fuggy and he couldn’t get the air conditioner to work. It had begun to give him headache, so picking up his helmet he made for the door. He’d take a ride around London. That’d clear his head.
*
The girl turned off the mobile and Altaf nodded his satisfaction. She dropped it on the table, her eyes alive with the hunger that constantly drove her. She could smell the cocaine somewhere in the room - the faint tingle in the back of her throat, the itching in her nose.
Altaf raised his eyebrows, well satisfied, a slight smile twisting the corners of his mouth as he looked at her. They were all the same these sluts.
Pulling a small plastic bag from his pocket, he held it up and shook it, watching the girl’s eyes widened as she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. But as she reached out for her prize, he grabbed her wrist in a rough grip.
She managed to drag her gaze from the bag and look at him. “Say one word about this to anyone else,” he said, “and I’ll make you regret you were ever born.”
The girl sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. She nodded and grabbed the bag, grasping it to her chest as though he might snatch it back again.
“Now get out, and tell Marcos I want to see him,” he said.
When Marcos entered the room, he pushed a chair towards him with his foot.
The big man sat and waited.
“Did you take care of the other stupid bitch?”
Marcos nodded. “Yeah. Sent her up to Nottingham with Dodo. She won’t be causing us any more trouble.”
“Good,” he hesitated, feeling uncomfortable at his minder’s stare.
“What?” Marcos asked.
Pushing aside his uneasiness, Altaf tipped his chin at the mobile. “I’ve set up a meeting with this Frank Collins guy. Get him back here and find out what he’s after. If he’s trying to chisel his way into my bit of the city, make sure he knows what that’ll mean. I want him to get the message good and clear, okay?”
His minder nodded slowly, but Altaf was already on his feet and halfway out the door.
Chapter 24
Karla paced up and down the kitchen, mobile clutched in her hand. Frank’s call had really unsettled her. As she paced, she worried away at her bottom lip with her teeth, constantly flicking her hair behind one ear.
Just last night she’d made up her mind that she’d had enough, that it was time to end this one-sided relationship, and now here she was again, drawn into his web, acting like a nervous idiot in love.
Damn it, she was a nervous idiot in love. In love with the most frustrating, infuriating, self-centred, devious man she had ever met.
The doorbell tinkled and she headed back into the café, serving the young couple who had entered with cups of cappuccino and some sticky buns. They were her first customers since she’d talked to Frank a couple of hours earlier.
Karla hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come. With the economy getting so bad, the village had already lost two of its small shops. The News was full of doom and gloom these days. She rested her forearms on the counter, watching the couple talk. They leant in towards each other as they laughed quietly together, their eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight streaming through the window.
&
nbsp; That was the sort of relationship she longed for. The sort of man she deserved. One who was light and full of fun, not heavy and full of dark corners.
After a lot of soul searching, Karla decided to call Frank and give him a piece of her mind - then an ultimatum. If he wanted their relationship to continue, there could be no more secrets.
*
Frank checked his mobile - almost three thirty. He strolled out of the gates to the Rose Garden and on to The Inner Circle, walking towards the green bench where Chantelle had arranged to meet him. On the way he stopped at his bike and stuffed his helmet into the pannier.
A large man sat at one end of the bench, reading a newspaper and, as Frank walked over and sat down on the other end, he glanced over and nodded. The man didn’t nod back, just rustled the paper as he turned to another page.
Frank leant back on the bench, crossing his legs.
Where the hell was she?
The sun was warm, the scent of roses heavy on the air. Mind beginning to wander, Frank brooded about what Karla might be doing right now, and how he could get back into her good books again. He’d really messed things up with her this time.
Feeling the buzz against his thigh, he pulled out his mobile, smiling when he saw Karla’s icon on the small screen.
“Hello babes,” he said, turning his back on the man reading the paper.
“What the hell are you playing at Frank? Why are you still in London?
Karla was shouting and Frank leant forward, stunned at her anger.
“Well, I’m waiting on Chantelle. I told you! It depends on what she’s managed to find, but I reckon—”
Frank’s breath burst from his lungs and his body exploded into a cauldron of pain, so fierce that he couldn’t move. His mobile clattered onto the path and he dropped forward onto his hands and knees, moaning loudly. The last time he’d felt such an intensely burning, agonising pain was when he’d been kicked in the testicles, back in his third year in prison.
Writhing on the ground, Frank was dimly aware of a shadowy figure leaning over him, and the sound of a vehicle drawing up alongside.
“Quick, get him in the back before someone sees us.” The deep voice faded in and out of Frank’s consciousness as he was yanked to his feet. “Open the God-damned doors!”
Propelled across the pavement, Frank felt himself lifted and thrown into the back of a van. The doors slammed shut and the vehicle took off.
The whole thing had taken less than fifteen seconds.
*
Jerking the phone from her ear, Karla frowned at it. The loud percussive noise had almost deafened her. It sounded as though Frank had dropped his mobile on the floor.
Pressing the phone back to her, ear Karla listened intently, a finger blocking her free ear so she could hear better. She could just make out a deep voice talking, but not what was being said.
“Hello? Hello Frank, are you there?”
The only response was the sound of car doors slamming and the phone being picked up - then an empty silence as the call was cut off.
Karla’s frown deepened as she stabbed out Frank’s number. But all she got was an unobtainable message. His mobile had obviously been turned off. Temper rising, she tried again, with the same result.
“Can I have a cup of tea, please dear?”
“Huh?” Karla turned back to the counter, mouth half-open, mobile still crushed against her ear.
Mr Could frowned at her from across the counter. “To take-away if you would,” he said.
“Oh yes. Yes of course, Mr Could. Sorry, coming up.”
“Having trouble with your phone dear?” Mr Could asked.
“Yes, sort of,” she answered, almost burning herself on the hot urn in her hurry to serve him. She needed to get back on the phone and find out what Frank was up to, why he was still in London.
“Using all this technological stuff will end in tears, you mark my words dear. You see if I’m not right. Those phones do strange things to your head.”
“Well they’ve certainly done strange things to yours,” Karla mumbled to herself as the old man hobbled his way out of her café.
*
Frank rolled over onto his side. “What the fuck happened?” he managed between clenched teeth, trying to keep from throwing up.
“You got punched in the kidneys,” a deep voice said.
Someone knelt at his side, and as Frank tried to focus his eyes, he felt his wrist being tugged as they were secured with something. Next his ankles were fastened together and Frank guessed he was being tied up with cable ties.
Swallowing back the bile in his throat, he groaned loudly as the speeding vehicle threw him from side to side. He took a deep shuddering breath, then wished that he hadn’t when a sharp pain shot through his back.
The man finished his work and sat against the side of the van, head bent forward due to the restricted height.
“Where are ... you ... taking ... me?” Frank managed between bouts of nausea.
“Shut up.”
Frank saw the man’s meaty hand curl into a fist and quickly laid his head back down on the metal floor again, not wanting to chance another punch to his kidneys.
He closed his eyes, trying to recall what had happened. It was obvious that Chantelle had either been caught, or had sold him out, and that the big ape sitting next to him was part of the gang running the girls.
The van hit a speed bump and Frank banged his head as he was bounced across the floor. The big man went through his pockets, grunting in satisfaction when he found the rolled up bank notes. Luckily he’d left his wallet back at the hotel.
A short while later the van stopped and the doors banged open. Frank saw a tall, thin Asian man standing outside, arms akimbo like some old fashioned gun-slinger.
“Got some questions for you,” the man said. “Answer them truthfully and I just might let you live.”
Chapter 25
Frank was dragged from the van, thrown onto the big man’s shoulder like a side of beef, and carried into the house as if he weighed no more than a child. After being dumped in a captain’s chair and the cable ties removed, his wrists were taped to the arms. His captor then checked that the bindings were tight and left without saying a word.
The basement was cold and Frank looked about in trepidation. The low ceiling and enclosed space began to bring back unpleasant memories of years spent in similar enclosed places. His legs hadn’t been tied, so he tried to stand.
Useless, the chair was fixed to the floor. He began to work on the bindings, flexing and relaxing his muscles to loosen the tape, aware that he was in deep, deep trouble.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only twenty minutes or so, a door open and soft footsteps sounded on the wooden staircase leading down into the basement.
Frank watched as a pair of well polished shoes appeared, followed by grey coloured slacks, then a slim waist, clinched with a thick leather belt. The man came further down the steps, revealing a slim torso with narrow shoulders, his dark Asian features contrasting with the bright smile on his handsome face.
The man had a confident arrogance to his step, something Frank had seen many times during his spell in prison - the signature look of a cruel man who wouldn’t baulk at inflicting pain.
The newcomer looked around the cellar, as if familiarising himself with a room he loved being in, then focused his full attention on Frank. His stance was relaxed as he stood hands in his pockets, legs slightly spread.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Frank Collins,” Frank answered. “I’m trying to find out what happened to my daughter.”
Frank figured that in the circumstances the truth was probably the best approach.
“That why did you beat up one of my runners and asked him questions about my suppliers?”
The man’s voice was surprisingly soft. Frank could smell a faint odour on his breath but was unable to identify it.
He guessed that this must be Altaf Chandi
o, the man who’d ensnared Mandy.
“As I said, I was trying to find out about what happened to my daughter.”
Chandio nodded. “Ah yes, Mandy. Your slut daughter.”
Frank felt a sudden tightness in his chest, a shortness of breath, a ringing in his ears - signs that he was about to lose it in a big way.
Calm, Frank. Keep calm.
He had to somehow talk his way out of this. Loosing his temper now would get him nowhere. The man was obviously winding him up on purpose.
“Who are you working for? Someone up north?” Chandio asked.
“Look ...” Frank took a deep breath and swallowed hard as he pushed away the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him - anger, terror, regret, but most of all a deep-seated yearning to tear this bastard’s head clean off his shoulders. “I just want to know what happened to my daughter. That’s all. I couldn’t give a shit about you and your sordid little drugs set-up.”
Chandio pulled his hands from his pockets and clasped them together in front of him. He laughed softly. “That’s rich coming from you, Collins. Especially since you stabbed some poor bastard to death. Sordid is as sordid does, isn’t that what they say?”
Frank felt the shock of the man’s words tighten in his guts and a surge of adrenaline straighten his back. “How the hell—” he began, but then lapsed back into silence.
“Oh don’t worry, I know all about you and your time inside, Mr Big Man Collins. A quick check on your bike’s plates by a special friend of mine told me all I needed to know.”
“So you know that I’m not interested in your drugs then.”
“Well now, that may be true, or it may not. You get around a lot up there in Scotland, don’t you? A courier gets to go lots of places, meet a lot of people - people who may want to expand down here perhaps?”
“I’m just a guy trying to get on with his life and make a living.”
“Prove it.”
“Are you fucking insane? How the hell can I prove that, you cretin!”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Frank regretted saying them. Chandio had pushed buttons he’d thought buried years ago - buttons that he had little control over.
The slap was almost feminine, but it still took Frank by surprise. Easing his jaw back and forth, he stared up into dark brown eyes and smouldered helplessly. Chandio leant forward, supporting his weight on Frank’s wrists, almost nose to nose with him.