Blood debt, p.29
Blood Debt, page 29
She tapped in replies to comments and questions, her thumbs flying over the virtual keyboard of her smartphone. The house she was watching was largely in darkness already. One light shone in the upstairs apartment. She would wait until the lights went out before heading home to her own tiny studio flat. Because Pandora Hahn, serious investigative journalist, conscientious and rigorous researcher, had found a small snag in something one of her informants had told her, and she’d plucked and picked at it till she’d freed the loose thread. And the more she pulled, the more the thread unravelled. Now she intended to follow that thread into the labyrinth, right to the minotaur’s lair.
Chapter 51
Half past midnight, the same night
THE STEEL DOOR INTO THE BASEMENT OPENED and a man stood silhouetted in the meagre light of the pub’s bar area. He flicked the lights on, and a few old-style strip lights flickered to life, bathing the space below in cold white light. He descended cautiously to the man seated on a mattress on the floor. One leg was shackled to an iron hoop driven deep into one of the age-blackened walls and he was handcuffed, but still the newly arrived man was wary. He was right to be.
He was fifty, maybe. Grey-haired, slightly built, diffident.
‘Sergeant Turner,’ he began. ‘I’m sorry for all this,’ He glanced around him at the dank conditions Rick had been kept in for the past three days. ‘Do you remember me? My name is Lawrence, I’m Sam’s—’
‘Driver,’ Rick interrupted. ‘Yeah, I recognise you.’
This quiet man had chauffeured Sam last autumn in the final, fatal raid that had torn Rick’s life, his future plans, and any chance of happiness to shreds. The others – ex-army, ex-police, paramilitaries – were of a type. Lawrence, courteous and softly spoken, was so unlike the rest of Sam’s crew that he’d stood out.
The older man looked around him with something like dismay. ‘Sam was hoping this would all be over by now.’
‘By “this”, you mean my abduction and illegal imprisonment?’
‘You’re angry. I get it—’
‘Nah, mate,’ Rick said. ‘I got past anger two days ago. The stage I’m at now is ice-cold rage.’
‘Yes,’ Lawrence said softly. ‘I can only imagine how you feel—’
‘Come over here, mate – I’ll demonstrate.’
Lawrence looked acutely embarrassed. ‘I wouldn’t normally have come here – stepping outside of my role – it’s not something you do around Sam. But I thought you should know. Things didn’t go to plan.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Rick said, jangling the chain attached to his leg.
For a second, Sam’s chauffeur seemed stuck for words, but staring at the floor, he said softly, ‘He was trying to protect you.’
‘Yeah, that’s Sam – protecting me by beating the shit out of me.’ He had been beaten – first by Sam, although he admitted grudgingly that his brother had pulled his punches, let him down easy in their little tiff at Lockleigh’s apartment. But he’d fought the two men guarding him repeatedly – and lost – till they’d resorted to chaining him up and staying well away.
Again, Lawrence seemed to be struggling, and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, Rick felt sorry for him. ‘You’d better tell me what’s happened.’
‘He’s vanished.’
Despite all that Sam had done to him, Rick felt a stab of fear.
‘When?’ he managed.
‘Just over an hour ago.’
‘Circumstances,’ Rick said. ‘Details.’
‘The auction took place yesterday at three p.m., BST. As expected, Lockleigh didn’t show at the auction, and the winning bid was anonymous – brokered. The arrangement was that the Bellingen canvas would be held at a bonded warehouse, of sorts. It’s all—’
‘Dark Web, black-market stuff. I get it,’ Rick said.
‘Lockleigh was well organised – switched transport and used decoys, as Sam predicted, but we had the tracker. The canvas ended up on a trading estate just inside the M25 at Dartford.’
‘I’m guessing you stayed close.’
A nod. ‘Me, the boss, and a bodyguard in one car, three more in a van. The rest of us held back while two of the crew scouted the place out on foot.’
Rick huffed an incredulous laugh. ‘He was planning to take back the canvas, wasn’t he?’
Lawrence lifted one shoulder. ‘Said it was a point of principle.’
Rick sighed, gestured for him to go on.
‘As soon as the deliverers left, we drove onto the car park – it’s a typical light industrial unit, part brick, part metal sidings. Sam went in with three men; me and the bodyguard were to wait and watch. There was no indication of an ambush, no shots fired, but it was taking too long, so we went in.’ He swallowed. ‘The place was empty. Sam was gone. We found the three who went in with him locked inside a meat storage locker – two shot, the other one knocked out.’
‘The two who were shot?’
‘One dead. The other two are being taken care of.’
Rick fixed him with a stony look. ‘You need to clarify.’
‘I-I mean medically taken care of. They’re safe.’
‘What about the canvas?’
‘Gone.’
‘Can you track it?’
He gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Tracker’s been deactivated.’
‘Jesus,’ Rick murmured. ‘How’d they get out?’ Lawrence looked confused and he said, ‘What was the escape route? If your lot didn’t see him—’
‘They’d cut a hole in the steel panelling at the back. Must’ve done it before we’d even got there.’
‘Shit …’ Rick wiped a hand over his face. ‘Why are you telling me this? I mean I’m trapped here.’ Suddenly furious, he yanked ferociously at the chain. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?’
‘Sam has no second in command,’ Lawrence said. ‘He tends to trust in his …’
‘Invincibility?’ Rick supplied.
‘I was going to say, “contingency plans”,’ the older man said with a faint smile. ‘But I think you’re closer to the mark.’
‘So nobody’s doing anything?’
‘We don’t know where he’s been taken, and none of us has the authority to mobilise personnel.’
Still raging, Rick deliberately slowed his breathing and felt his heart rate follow suit; he had to be calm and rational when he asked the next question: ‘Lawrence, I want the truth. Do you think Sam is already dead?’
The chauffeur looked hollowed out. ‘I don’t think Lockleigh would want to kill him right away.’
Jesus, Sam …
‘How long d’you think he’s got?’
A sigh. ‘It depends how much he pisses Lockleigh off.’
‘Sounds about right. Okay. Who’s left?’
‘Personnel?’ Lawrence glanced up the steep steps to the bar area.
‘What – Little and Large?’ The chauffeur looked blank, and Rick added, ‘Wiry short-arse and a big fucker built like a weightlifter, but deceptively light on his feet – those two, upstairs.’
Lawrence must have made the connection – a comedy duo of the Seventies and Eighties – because he nodded, with the ghost of a smile.
‘They’re good,’ he said.
Feeling the bruising in his ribs and back, Rick ruefully agreed.
‘And loyal. And we’ve got access to weapons and gadgets,’ he went on eagerly.
‘Useful to know,’ Rick said. ‘But it’s gonna take more than four of us to tackle Lockleigh’s mob. Those two must know people.’
Lawrence shook his head. ‘That’d take funds – which we don’t have.’
‘They must know that Sam’d see them right after the event.’
The diffidence Rick had seen earlier in the man returned and he glanced away. ‘Um, thing is, Sam doesn’t like people using their initiative when it comes to spending his money.’
‘This isn’t a regular operation – this is Sam’s life. Talk to them.’
Lawrence looked horrified by the prospect. ‘You might think they’re a couple of comedians, but they won’t listen to me.’
Rick took a breath and let it out in one long, frustrated rush.
‘You got a key to these?’ He held up his manacled hands.
Lawrence took a set of keys from his pocket and extracted one from the bunch before handing it over gingerly.
Rick was out of the cuffs in a second, but looking down at the leg chain, he said, ‘This presents a bigger challenge.’
The chauffeur frowned, then his brow cleared. ‘I might have just the thing.’ He disappeared behind a steel beer keg and came back with a metal tool kit. He set it on the keg and rummaged for a moment. ‘Power drill?’
‘Something quieter,’ Rick said.
‘Bolt cutters?’
They cut through the chain like butter.
‘Now,’ Rick said, ‘are you armed?’
Lawrence swung back his jacket to reveal a holstered pistol on his waistband.
Rick held out his hand, but Lawrence stepped back, his hand on the butt of the gun.
‘Lawrence. You want to help Sam, you gotta trust me.’
‘I dunno. I mean, I want to—’
‘You know who I am, don’t you? I mean, who I really am.’
‘He said you’re a cop and he used to know you before and you’re all right.’
‘Before what? Before he was a crook? Lawrence, Sam’s always been a crook.’
Lawrence raised his free hand to silence him. ‘That’s what he told me, but I guessed a while ago. I mean, Sam protects Sam – that’s what he’s like – but it’s always been different with you. And I got to warn you, Rick, since nine o’clock tonight, everyone knows. It’s all over the web that you’re his brother.’
‘Let me guess,’ Rick said. ‘Pandora.’
A curt nod.
For the first time in days, Rick was grateful he didn’t have access to his phone to witness the carnage social media had wrought to his reputation.
‘So …’ he tried again, hand out, palm up.
After another brief hesitation, Lawrence unholstered his gun, and Rick had to steel himself not to flinch.
He handed Rick the weapon, butt first.
‘Now, get those two down here,’ Rick said. ‘I’ll handle the rest.’
Chapter 52
One a.m.
SAM’S BREATH STUTTERED, ECHOING UP into the high, vaulted rafters of the church. The Bellingen canvas was placed fifteen feet from him on herringbone parquet gritty with powdered plaster and brick and lit by a couple of high-power LED flashlights. Restoration work was in progress on the building and steel props supported a crumbling mezzanine of choir stalls that ran the length of the building on either side of the main aisle. Many of the windows had been vandalised, and thick plastic sheeting hung in their place, gently moving in and out like the bellows of a sleeping dragon. The altar had been removed, and scaffolding raised to access the glass rotunda in the former sanctuary.
Both men were sweating. Both out of breath. But Sam, alone, was in pain. Tethered by rope between two of the scaffolding poles, he hung his head, taking shallow sips of air to reduce the sharp stabs that accompanied every intake of breath. A broken rib, he thought.
Theo Lockleigh stood between him and the canvas. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Lockleigh said.
Sam forced his head up. ‘Doesn’t leave much to the imagination,’ he said, and was oddly cheered by repeating Rick’s assessment of the daub.
‘Yet you bought it.’
Sam shook his head, managing a faint smile. ‘I stole it.’ He was pleased to see Lockleigh’s eyes spark with anger.
‘Well, I paid for it, and I want my money back.’
‘I didn’t steal it from you, Theo!’
‘You walked off with fourteen years of my life,’ Lockleigh rasped.
‘I suppose,’ Sam said, between painful breaths, ‘an apology won’t suffice?’
‘Not even close,’ Lockleigh said, the corners of his mouth curling into the hint of a smile. He’d always appreciated Sam’s chutzpah. ‘But reimbursing the seventeen million I paid for this will go some way towards compensating me. I’ll think of a few others to help you work off the debt by and by.’
Sam adjusted his stance and found a position of relative comfort. ‘I had no idea that you missed me so much.’ Breathing easier now, he went on, ‘But, Theo, you have to learn to let go – the student outgrows his mentor.’
Lockleigh laughed and Sam heard danger in the sharpness of it.
‘I taught you everything you know.’ He paced left and right, looking Sam up and down. ‘Your diction may have improved somewhat, and I gave you a little polish, taught you how to dress. But you were a guttersnipe then, and you remain a guttersnipe.’
‘You taught me the basics that gave me access to your exclusive club,’ Sam said, growing in confidence as the pain receded. ‘It’s disappointing, with your private education and your law degree, that you still don’t realise that discernment – taste – is innate, it can’t be learned.’
Lockleigh stepped up and backhanded him.
Sam’s head whipped left, and blood flew from his nose, speckling his attacker. Lockleigh recoiled with an exclamation of disgust, and Sam snuffed more blood from his nostrils.
‘The dealers and brokers don’t care about your “art”, Theo – they know most of it’s dross. It’s the money they respect.’
Lockleigh was wearing sap gloves, padded and weighted with powdered steel in the knuckles. Sam saw him pull the right glove tighter and he braced for the impact.
For a second he greyed out and his legs buckled. The strain of the ropes burned his wrists, yanking his shoulders at the sockets, and a sharp stab in his side made him cry out.
He regained his feet and forced himself upright. Something moved in the shadows – Errol and ‘No Mercy’ Mercer, Sam thought. Were any other members of Lockleigh’s old crew still around, or had he brought in mercenaries especially for this sting operation? Sam knew that he and his men had taken down three in the ambush, but there had been more. How loyal were they? Might he turn their newness to his advantage? And what about Errol? They’d been friends, once.
‘Want to know how I got Munot to cooperate?’ he asked, willing control and strength into his tone. ‘I gave him a way out. New identity, new life.’
Errol was smart; if he was there, he’d get the message.
‘Didn’t get very far, did he?’ Lockleigh said. ‘That’s always been your problem, Sam – arrogance. You consistently underestimate the opposition.’
And you, Sam thought, are like your choice in art. Heavy-handed, unsubtle. Aloud, he said, ‘Give a man a chance to better himself. If he’s any kind of man, he’ll take it.’
This again was for Errol.
It seemed that Lockleigh had little patience with the philosophical questions that used to entertain him, because he stepped in and hit Sam again. ‘I want what’s mine,’ he roared.
Sam smiled, spat blood. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Take that hideous thing away, and I’ll give you whatever you want.’
Lockleigh worked on Sam some more, and after a few minutes, Sam heard a voice he recognised through the billowing and echoing sounds of his own grunts of pain, and the thump of Lockleigh’s fists pummelling his body.
‘Boss. Boss,’ it said. ‘He’s tight as a clam – you’ll just end up killing him.’
Errol. Sam could have wept in gratitude.
‘Then he’s no good to me.’ Lockleigh, still out of breath, reached around to the small of his back and came out with a Glock-seventeen. ‘I might as well kill him now.’
Sam raised his head and smiled, though it hurt every muscle in his face.
‘Do you think I won’t kill you?’
‘I think you’re greedy,’ Sam murmured, his words slurred by the bruising in his mouth. ‘I think you’ll exhaust all other possibilities before you give up on seventeen million pounds.’
‘Is it worth gambling your life on that?’
Sam laughed, coughed, groaned. ‘We both know my life was forfeit the moment we left Dartford.’
Lockleigh ducked under the ropes that bound Sam. A second later he felt the barrel pressed hard into the base of his skull and he remembered his harsh warning to Rick: No one on this earth can handle a bullet in the back of the head.
‘How many times have you done this to some luckless bastard who’d outlived his usefulness, Sam?’ Lockleigh goaded. ‘Dozens? Scores?’
‘Oh, I lost count years ago,’ Sam said, his jaw clenched to stop his teeth chattering.
The pressure vanished and, his breath coming in small creaking gasps, Sam waited for the next blow to fall.
Lockleigh’s hand came around to his face and he flinched involuntarily.
‘How about this one. Remember him?’
Lockleigh had a phone in his hand. Sam tried to focus on the image, but there was blood in his eyes. Blinking hard, his vision cleared, and he recognised Jason Floren. He was slumped sideways in a bathtub, bound to the bath taps by his wrists. His head was tilted back, and the two bullet wounds Sam had inflicted – chest and head – were clearly visible. Sam had made sure of that. Blood and brains had spattered the pristine wall tiles. The duct tape, which Sam had removed only minutes before taking the photograph, hung from Floren’s cheek like a silvery flap of skin.
‘You see, Sam,’ Lockleigh whispered, his mouth close enough to Sam’s ear that he could feel the warmth of his breath. ‘You were working for me, and you didn’t even know it.’
Sam turned and sank his teeth into Lockleigh’s earlobe. Lockleigh howled, beating at him with the butt of the gun, finally catching him a blow across the bridge of his nose that made him let go.
Lockleigh fell onto his backside then scuttled away backwards clutching at his ear. Sam spat out blood and flesh.
‘You animal!’ Lockleigh screamed, levelling the gun at him. But Sam knew he wouldn’t shoot. If he’d meant to use it, he would have shot Sam to get free of him. In all likelihood, the weapon wasn’t even loaded. Exhausted and hurting though he was, Sam was comforted by the certainty that – at least for now – he was more valuable to Theo Lockleigh alive than dead.
