Death Trap (24 page)

After another silence, which he milked for all it was worth, a triumphant Stephen Foster got to his feet. ‘Come on, Mr Larkin; let’s go back to my office for a chat. We’ll decide what legal cases we want to bring against the Metropolitan Police Service.’

With that he swept towards the door with his beaming client. Calmly he opened the door and said to his client, ‘If you’d just wait outside a moment.’

Gary Larkin didn’t need to be asked twice, quickly escaping from the room.

Stephen Foster partially drew the door back and then looked directly at Rio. ‘Since I’m not able to talk to my
other client
directly, can you or someone in your team present Nicola at my office at five this evening. She needs to be present for the will reading of her uncle and aunt.’

Then he left. But Rio wasn’t letting him off that lightly. She stood up to follow him, but Strong grabbed her arm, rising to his feet as well: ‘You might be bringing a wagon-load of trouble to the Met’s door and Tripple isn’t going to like it.’

Rio shook him off and rushed to catch up with Foster. She found him near his client at the reception desk.

‘A word if you please, Mr Foster.’

With a cynical twist of his lips he joined her.

‘What’s going on here?’ Rio asked, voice tight.

‘I’m doing my job.’

‘But how can you represent a suspect who may have been involved in the murder of former clients of yours and hiring a hitman to kill another? Surely that’s a conflict of interest.’

Foster sighed. ‘There’s no conflict of interest, because currently Mr Larkin, as I understand it, is merely a person helping with your inquiries.’ He let loose with one of those smiles of his that got right on her nerves. ‘But if there is a conflict of interest I’m sure I can resolve it to everyone’s satisfaction.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you could.’

The smile slipped from his face as he lowered his voice. ‘And let’s be clear about one thing – carry on harassing Mr Larkin and I will make sure he sues the pants off the Met and you personally.’

thirty

6:00 p.m. North Cyprus Time

4:00 p.m. London Time

Samson Larkin pushed half of his chips onto red number 18: the same number as his birthday. He watched the roulette wheel spin as he held his breath.

The first week of life on the run was a holiday for the eighteen year old. His father had arranged for him to be flown to France in a light aeroplane, no questions asked. From there, he’d gone on to Italy and caught a ferry to Turkey from where he’d moved on to North Cyprus, all on a cousin’s passport. There was a family resemblance but it didn’t matter, no one was looking very closely anyway. He was expecting it to be a breeze; it was hardly likely Interpol would be looking for a Londoner who was in violation of his probation.

When he got to the small village up the coast from Kyrenia – the holiday home of an older cousin he didn’t remember but had been told had done a runner from Britain years back – he collected the keys from the estate agent who held on to them on the cousin’s behalf. His cousin was currently sunning himself up in Florida on an extended holiday.
Lucky bastard
. The estate agent hadn’t asked any questions either, which was just as well; Samson didn’t like being asked questions.

For seven days, he got up at lunchtime, topped his tan up on the beach, went to bars and tried to pick up a hot-body bitch; but the girls weren’t taking to his chat-up lines.

Now Samson was fed up; bored. He didn’t like the food or the constant sun and he’d already spent most of the cash his father had given him to tide him over for the next few months. Yesterday he’d rung his father, via his dad’s neighbour, and said he wanted to come home or, failing that, needed another couple of grand sent down.

His dad went ballistic. ‘You can’t come home; you’re staying put. And you aren’t getting any more dough either. Don’t ring here again – and keep your nose out of trouble.’

‘But I’m broke.’

‘Get a job then; sell candyfloss on the beach or something.’

And that’s when he figured out he could make some quick cash gambling at a casino further up the coast. So, an hour earlier, he’d decked himself out in his best suit and shades and got a cab there, with the few hundred pounds worth of local currency he had left stuffed in his pocket. The place was upmarket and Samson resented the way the security on the door seemed to be implying he wasn’t flash enough to come in. After they finally waved him through, he steadied his anger by buying a couple of cocktails and then posing at the bar for a while before going to join a game of Blackjack, which he’d heard was just like Pontoon. He lost a hundred quid in ten minutes. Getting up from the table, hissing that the ‘house was fixed’, he went over to the roulette table.

Samson had only the haziest idea about how the game was played but he watched how the other punters put on their stakes and then pulled up a chair.

Now he watched the wheel turn and turn and turn. Stop. The ball rattled to rest on his number. Bang on! It was his first punt. The croupier pushed Samson’s winnings over to him. He’d already made more than he’d brought to Cyprus in the first place. A blonde sitting opposite – kitty-kats on display, golden tan from her hairline down to her aquamarine blue glitter painted toes – smiled at him with admiration.

Roulette was easy.

He pushed all his winnings and what was left of his other chips onto the number of his birthday, only on black this time.

He sent the blonde a flirty-dirty smile while the wheel turned. She raised her hand. Crossed her fingers for him. To Samson’s disbelief, the ball came to rest on red and a completely different number. The blonde gave him a sympathetic shrug while his stake was raked away. Unsure what he was supposed to do next, Samson got out of his chair and went round to the other side of the table and took the blonde’s arm.

‘Come on, babe, this place is bent; let’s exit this dump and get a Sex On The Beach somewhere else.’

The woman’s smile vanished as she pushed Samson away with alarm. Before Samson could react a man, who was standing at another table, came up and confronted Samson.

‘What you doing with my woman?’ the man growled.

Fuck this shit.

Samson threw a punch at the man who swerved to one side so Samson didn’t make contact. A second punch hit the man but not cleanly, so Samson tried again. But before he could do so, he was hit in the face by a fist, which felt like a bag full of nails, and he tumbled backwards onto the roulette table where the gamblers were running for cover, shouting and screaming. The boyfriend was standing over Samson. Unable to get to his feet, he grabbed the man’s leg and sank his teeth into his ankle, biting as deeply as he could. He held on hard while he was kicked repeatedly with the other leg, until finally, he was pulled off by two bow-tied security staff.

As he was dragged to his feet, he screamed, ‘I’m a gangster, I’ve killed people; you’re all dead! You’re all fucking dead!’ But rather than take him away, the bouncers held him up straight. The boyfriend was right in front of his face and asked ‘Are you English?’

Samson’s head was hanging slightly and he said nothing, so the man merely nodded and said, ‘I thought so.’

Then he punched Samson senseless.

thirty-one

4:15 p.m.

‘If you were on the run, where would you go?’ Rio asked Calum.

She stood propped against the wall in the main room of her mother’s house while Calum lounged back, mug of coffee warming his hands, on the russet coloured armchair that had been her mother’s throne. Nikki was in the bedroom getting herself ready for the trip to Foster’s office to hear the reading of her dead aunt and uncle’s will. Strong was waiting in her BMW outside as backup in case the hitman was hiding out, ready to strike, somewhere near Foster’s. If the hired gun tried anything, both she and Strong would be ready for him.

Calum gazed back at her looking the most relaxed she’d seen him since re-entering his life. ‘Straight into your loving embrace,’ he answered with a chuckle.

Rio’s mouth quirked into a ‘oh yeah’ smile. It felt
so
good to be laughing with Calum again. If only she could turn the clock back and make it right between them. God, how many criminals had she heard say that exact same thing?

‘There are rumours that you got married,’ she informed him softly, ‘to the wrong woman.’

He hesitated before he answered, ‘Is there ever a right woman to marry?’

Rio let go of that line of questioning and got back on to the first. ‘So where would you hide out?’

‘Are you talking domestic or international?’

‘Not sure, but I suspect it’s abroad.’

Calum leaned forwards and placed the cup on the small side table. ‘It all depends on who I am and what I’ve done? And, of course, who or what I’m running from?’

Rio pulled off the wall and folded her arms. ‘I am eighteen, violent and don’t want the cops to find me.’

Calum studied her, his green eyes becoming thoughtful and ever so slightly dark. ‘Who are we talking about here?’

Rio clammed up. Calum might be helping her, and he’d kept to his side of the bargain letting her know that Nikki was safe every hour, but she was still keeping all information given to him on a need-to-know basis. And did he need to know Samson Larkin’s name?

Rio made her decision. ‘Have you heard of a South London crime family called the Larkins?’

Calum frowned as he rubbed his forefinger and thumb against his jaw. ‘Only Larkins I know are three brothers – Martin, Terry—’

‘And Gary,’ Rio finished. ‘I didn’t know there was a third brother.’

‘Martin, the oldest, was the one who managed to get away. Last I heard he was some well-known academic specialising in – get this – criminology.’

Rio let out a little puff of surprise. ‘You’re not talking about Professor Martin Larkin?’

‘One and the same. The way I hear it he stays well away from South London. Not many people know about his blood connections and the only reason I know is because of my dealings with the family. Plus he’s a friend of my mother’s—’

‘The Dame?’

Calum rolled his eyes heavenward at the name everyone called his mother. She knew it needled him so shouldn’t have said it, but she was too shocked to hold it back. Dame Maggie Burns was the high profile and very vocal CEO of a leading campaign group that advocated on behalf of women who had suffered domestic abuse. People listened to her, even the government. Some men called her – behind her back – a ball breaker, while others hung a halo over her head. Whatever, she scared Rio shitless. She’d only met her once, that third time she’d turned up to see Calum at the hospital three years ago.

‘Stay away from my son.’
Five words uttered so softly but with such an electric edge of retribution that Rio hadn’t even argued, had just turned and walked away.

‘How did she end up hooking up with Martin Larkin?’

He shrugged. ‘He was a trustee for years on one of her charities.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me you knew the Larkins?’

‘Because you never asked. And you know why? You still don’t trust me.’

The momentary peace between them shattered. Rio felt angry: at herself and because Calum was right, despite what she’d told Strong earlier about trusting him. He had knowledge of the dirty goings-on across this city, so should have been one of the first people she drew on for Intel. And what had she done? Let all her personal baggage get in the way. She had such strong feelings for this man. Was it love? Hell, she didn’t even know. But what she was sure about was it was time to trust him.

‘I picked up Gary Larkin as a potential suspect in the Greenbelt case . . .’

Rio told him the whole of it. After she finished, Calum said, ‘The drug deal makes sense, but I never pegged Gary as a violent criminal. He’s the baby of the Larkin brood – Terry’s junior I think by ten or eleven years. He’s low level, an opportunist really. And if they need money to get an in on a drug deal where would they get half a mill to pay a hitman?’

‘That has been on my mind as well. But you know what the underworld is like. There are all kind of deals going on. Maybe Gary and Terry Larkin agreed to pay their killer once the deal comes through and they have access to a steady stream of cash.’

Calum thought for a few seconds. ‘Maybe. But it’s not the usual way these bounty hunters set their terms and conditions. Once the job’s done it’s cash-in-hand.’

‘The eighteen year old is Samson Larkin, Terry’s son. Did you know him?’

Calum shook his head. ‘He was a kid when I knew the family, so he wouldn’t have been on my radar.’

‘He hightailed it out of town while on probation. Family claim he’s in Spain working like any decent man. But there’s no trace of him there. So where do you think he might have gone?’

Calum thought about it. ‘Well, obviously, it would have to be somewhere with no extradition treaty, so that’s most of Europe out. Then it would have to be somewhere that an eighteen-year-old Brit would feel reasonably at home, so that’s most of the rest of the world out. So it’s likely to be somewhere comfy and cosy; either the family or a friend has to stash the kid so he won’t have to start filling in forms for accommodation or registering with the local cops.’