Lynch (17 page)

Joyce puffed up his cheeks when she’d finished and slowly let out a long stream of breath. ‘Fuck me,’ he said.

‘Interpol didn’t tell you any of this?’
Clark
asked.

‘None of the detail,’ Joyce said. He stood. ‘We’re to hold you for the night and get you all down to
London
in the morning. I think your colleagues were more concerned with the logistics than the history.’

Clark
stood and shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘Mrs Lynch shouldn’t be spending the night in a cell,’ she said.

‘We’ll put an extra mattress in,’ Joyce said. ‘This way, please.’

They were shown to a couple of cells and asked to divvy themselves up among the two rooms. Scott insisted that he share with Katherine, and
Clark
agreed, offering to share with John in the smaller of the two cells so that Katherine, Scott and Jesse could share. There were only two beds in each cell.

Sergeant Joyce locked them in for security reasons and said he’d have some tea and food brought to them.

In their cell, Katherine sat gingerly on one of the beds, the two-inch thick blue plastic mattress under her looking more like a gym mat than something to sleep on, and Scott and Jesse sat opposite her, their hands automatically groping for each other, their fingers locking tightly together.

Joyce brought drinks and sandwiches and a few pillows, and after sipping half-heartedly at their tea, Katherine suggested they all get some sleep. ‘It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’

She stretched out on her back on the small bed and Scott and Jesse lay down beside each other. They turned on their sides to spoon, Scott’s arm over Jesse’s side, his nose nuzzled into the back of his neck, and he kissed softly the flesh above his shoulder.

When they woke in the morning, joint-sore and stiff, they were still in the same position.

Chapter 20

When María stepped off the plane and allowed two large stewards to carry Lucia down in a temporary chair, she switched on her phone and headed into the terminal with the other passengers.

It was barely six o’clock in the morning but the sun was up in the east and
London
City
Airport
was already quite busy. She had packed very little, only the essentials—mostly Lucia’s medications and equipment—and as they waited by the carousel for their luggage, Thomas Walter answered his phone with a groggy snort. ‘Did I wake you?’ she asked.

‘Nonsense,’ Walter said. ‘Have you arrived?’

‘
London
City
Airport
. Send a car. No, send a van, and a man with a strong pair of arms.’

‘I won’t even look for the innuendo,’ Walter said.

Twenty minutes later, she sat in the passenger seat of a small van, leaning back to Lucia and holding her arm reassuringly, casually wiping the girl’s chin every so often. The driver, a pleasant-looking young man with a goatee and balding head, had evidently been instructed not to interact with his passenger for he said nothing more than he needed to when he picked them up and made no comment when María asked for his help to lift Lucia’s chair into the back. He kept his eyes on the road and drove within the speed limits.

When she pushed Lucia’s chair into Walter’s office, Walter was talking to his computer screen. He looked up, frowned, and came around his desk.

‘You’ve brought company?’ He smiled.

‘It’s a long story. Where’s Fernandez?’

Walter pointed to his computer. ‘Skype.’

They came around the desk and Walter let María sit down in his fat-cat leather chair. ‘
¿Dónde estás?
’ she demanded when she saw Fernandez on the screen.

‘
En la ocultación
,’ he replied. In hiding.

In English, María said, ‘Some kind of man. What happened?’

‘Wrong address,’ Fernandez said, his eyes clearly staring over her shoulder at Thomas Walter.

Walter raised his hands against the accusation. ‘The location was accurate. It just clearly wasn’t Rider’s abode.’

María turned back to Fernandez, ‘He was there?’

‘His boyfriend,’ Fernandez said. ‘Or it would appear so.’

‘This is the man you killed?’

‘No. The dead man was a neighbour. The boyfriend got away from me. He’s probably with Kane Rider now.’

‘We have to track them down,’ María said.

Walter said, ‘And that’s where we have some good news. I was about to tell Mr Fernandez when you came in. A number of people were picked up by local police from an address in Harrogate near
Leeds
. I’ve had someone check out the house and it’s most definitely our man’s. An associate of mine tells me the group of people are currently in police protection. But they’re going to be moved to
London
before long, if they’re not already on their way.’

Fernandez said, ‘I’ll find them.’

Walter leaned on his desk and stared at his webcam. ‘I can find out where they are being kept if they’re not already moving.’

‘And if they are on their way to
London
already?’ María asked.

Walter shrugged. ‘We can pick them up when they get here?’

‘No,’ Fernandez said. ‘They’ll take them straight to the police. We have to get to them before they arrive.’

‘Mr Walter,’ María said, ‘can you find out their route? My guess is they won’t risk driving down the motorway in a van that has “Witness Protection” emblazoned on the side. They’ll take an alternative route.’

‘I’ll get on it right away,’ Walter said.

Scott sat up at the sound of the cell door being unlocked. Katherine was already on her feet, leaning against her walking cane and stretching her back. ‘If you’d all like to follow me, please,’ a constable said.

He led them to a sterile conference room where Sergeant Joyce stood at the head of the table. A tray of croissants and Danish lay before him along with a pot of tea and a coffee pot. Clark and John were already seated and as the others filed in, John smiled and said, ‘Tuck in before I eat the lot.’

Joyce motioned for them to sit. ‘We can order more if we run out,’ he said. When they were settled around the table, he cleared his throat and said, ‘At seven-thirty, a van will pick you up from here and take you nonstop to
London
’s Interpol offices. The van will avoid the major routes, so the journey will take a little longer than it should, but it’s a necessary precaution. On a Sunday morning, the roads won’t be too busy anyway. This Fernandez guy is still out there and we cannot expect that he’s working alone.’

‘Will there be any muscle?’
Clark
asked.

Joyce nodded. ‘You’ll be accompanied by a trained tool man,’ he said, using the colloquial police term for a weapons expert.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll allow me to check out a small Smith and Wesson,’
Clark
mused.

‘I don’t suppose I will,’ Joyce smiled. ‘You’ll be in good hands.’

Wiping flakes of pastry from his lips, John asked, ‘What happens to me? I’m only part of all this by association. I mean, I love a good road trip as much as the next man, but I have a life to get back to.’

Sergeant Joyce shrugged. ‘Until Interpol decides you’re no longer under any threat, I’m afraid you’re part of the tour with the others.’

Scott added, ‘And we’d miss your sharp tongue and your wit.’

‘And my stunning good looks,’ John said. ‘Don’t forget my stunning good looks.’

It seemed everyone was too tired to laugh.

Joyce checked his watch. ‘You’ve got thirty minutes before you leave. Please, enjoy your breakfast. There’s a washroom through that door behind you and I’ll see you again before you go.’

When they were alone, everyone looked at
Clark
. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘I’m as much a passenger in this ride as you guys.’ She ran her fingers through her greasy hair and stood. ‘I think I’ll spruce up a bit before I’m marched in front of Robert Mann and his firing squad.’

Katherine said, ‘Getting shot at doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think.’ Her comment was so obscure that, after a moment of contemplative silence, everyone laughed—even
Clark
.

She locked herself in the washroom with a Danish and the others ate in mutual silence. At quarter past seven, Sergeant Joyce returned and asked them to follow him.

They were shown outside to what was, from outward appearances, a UPS delivery vehicle, chocolate brown with the brown and yellow logo and front sliding cab-doors. ‘It’s reinforced,’ Joyce said. ‘Don’t ask me why they chose a delivery van, but it’s less conspicuous than a police van.’ As the driver stepped out and opened the back, Joyce said, ‘This is Mick. He’s your courier. And that,’ he added, as a tall man in a short-sleeved shirt stepped out of the back of the van, ‘is Mr Rhodes, your tool man. He’s on loan from Interpol.’

Rhodes nodded politely to
Clark
. ‘Detective,’ he greeted her. ‘We’ve done some business before, some years ago.’

Clark
frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember your face.’

‘I looked a little different at the time,’ he said, his cryptic meaning clear enough to her. ‘I’m not a public operative.’

She nodded and climbed into the van. ‘What was the case?’

‘
Glasgow
, 2007,’
Rhodes
said.

‘Ah,’
Clark
responded. She nodded again. ‘Let’s get everyone to
London
in one piece, okay?’

‘Sure thing.’
Rhodes
helped the others up into the van. It had been kitted out with double seats from a coach, all facing forward, except the row at the back which faced the rear door. When everyone was inside,
Rhodes
climbed in, took a seat at the back and gave Sergeant Joyce the smallest of salutes.

‘Good luck,’ Joyce said.

And
Rhodes
pulled the door shut.

Chapter 21

Walter clapped his hands and grinned with delight when he put his phone back in his jacket pocket. He looked at María in the corner of his office who was sitting in a chair in front of Lucia, trying to feed her some yoghurt.

It was clear to María that the fat attorney was waiting for her to say something, but she simply glanced at him and returned her attention to her daughter. He was like an excited puppy craving attention for a good deed.

Bored of waiting for her to speak, Walter said, ‘They’re on the move. My source tells me they’re in the back of a UPS van. Posting themselves to
London
by the look of it.’

‘How reliable is this source of yours?’ María said without looking at him. Lucia was knocking her head from side to side with her fists and there was more yoghurt on her chin than in her mouth.

‘He’s a
Leeds
constable,’ Walter said. He sat in his leather chair and swivelled once. ‘They’re taking the scenic route, starting off on the A61 to the A38 then switching to the A511 and—’

‘These road names mean nothing to me,’ María said. ‘Find out where we can intercept them and get Fernandez on their tail. If we miss this opportunity I will hold you personally responsible.’ She turned back to her daughter and loaded another spoonful of yoghurt. ‘One more spoon,
mi hija
. One more spoon.’

Walter huffed, pulled his chair into his desk, and loaded up Google Maps to review the route he’d been informed off. Almost inaudibly, he mumbled, ‘How these people have taken precedence over the Merkava is beyond me.’ He’d never wanted to be a soldier, but the thought of riding in a tank and blowing up his enemies thrilled him. He always thought he’d suit army-green.

María was swift, rising to her feet and striding the three steps to Walter’s chair. She wrapped an arm around his corpulent neck and stuffed the spoon she’d been holding into his mouth, pressing his tongue back almost enough to choke him.

‘I thought David Bernhard was a friend of yours?’

Walter’s eyes bulged. He tried to nod.

‘These people were nobodies, but now we’ve started, we’ll finish this thing. For good. Okay?’

Walter nodded again.

María stepped back, releasing him, and looked at the spoon. She threw it on his desk, leaving a yoghurt splash, and said, ‘I need a new spoon now.’

It felt like they’d been travelling for days, Scott thought, but when he checked his watch it was only ten-thirty. Three hours since they left
Leeds
in the back of a delivery van. Three hours since he left behind Scott Lynch—who was he now? He didn’t know if he was Kane or Scott any more. He wasn’t even sure it mattered. Maybe this time he’d become Aaron Aaronson, or Zackary Zafir. It made no difference.
That which we call a rose
, he thought. Shakespeare had it right.

Jesse held his hand beside him. Their fingers had been locked together since they got in the van and Scott’s fingers were a little numb, but he didn’t let go.

Across the aisle, Katherine and Clark sat together, also holding hands. Scott could see the folding of Clark’s face as they rode ever closer to
London
and to her fate at the hands of Detective Superintendent Mann. He couldn’t see her being sacked. He’d step in if he could;
Clark
was doing what she thought was right and it wasn’t her fault Fernandez had tracked them down.

That responsibility fell squarely at his own feet.

He looked back at John in the row behind who smiled and went back to chewing on his nails. Sergeant Joyce in
Leeds
had round up some clothes—from God knows where—and put them in a backpack. John had been the first to rummage through it and found himself a white vest that was only a little too large for his slender frame.

The backpack now lay on the floor between the seats.

In the back row,
Rhodes
was typing quickly on a mobile phone, pausing for a reply, and typing some more. His phone had been bleeping for the last hour or more as he exchanged messages with someone in the outside world.

Clark
turned. ‘Where are we now?’

Rhodes
checked his phone again. ‘Just short of
Coventry
,’ he said.

‘Is that all?’

‘Taking the back routes and sticking to the speed limits,’
Rhodes
explained.

Clark said, ‘I thought we’d have been at
Oxford
at least.’

Rhodes
smiled briefly and continued tapping at his phone.

Katherine rubbed her eyes and said, ‘I feel like we should be singing
It’s a Long Way to Tipperary
or something.’

‘You start,’ John said, ‘and we’ll all join in.’

They lapsed into silence again.

Scott stared through the front windscreen. From this angle, he could only see the tops of trees and the grey expanse of sky. He tried to convince himself that as soon as they made it to
London
he’d stop feeling so anxious. But he knew that wasn’t true.

Once they hit
London
, when he saw the inside of the Interpol building again, that would be the end of both Scott Lynch and Kane Rider. That would be when he was issued with another new name—they all would—and they’d be forced to set up home somewhere else, one big happy family, maybe in Scotland or Wales. And life would go on, or some semblance of life. Another city and another lie.

And he’d be looking over his shoulder constantly, trying to determine if that guy walking down the street behind him was reaching in his pocket for his phone or if it was a gun, wondering if Fernandez—or any number of David Bernhard’s old drugs buddies—had tracked them down again.

He looked at Katherine again. She had taken a bullet before, had saved Kane Rider’s life. Could she cope with another?

In a warehouse in south
London
, María carefully inspected the M16 rifle in her hands. She hefted it, unclipped and clipped the cartridge, weighted it against her shoulder. The US-made assault rifle was lightweight and used widely by multiple militaries across the globe.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think this one would be fine, thank you.’

‘And eight clips as usual?’ the salesman asked. He was a forty-year-old in a pair of sweat pants and a vest whom she had had dealings with before. She trusted his expert advice and liked his prices.

María nodded. ‘And I’ll take the SR22 as well. Two of them.’ The Ruger pistol was compact and semi-automatic, a favourite of hers even though it only had a ten-shell magazine capacity.

The salesman checked the chambers of all three weapons before passing them over to her and said, ‘Shall I bill you directly, or Mr Ramirez?’

María took a business card from her back pocket and handed it to him. ‘Bill this guy,’ she said.

‘Who is he?’

‘Thomas Walter,’ she told him. When she got back behind the wheel of the van she smiled at Walter in the passenger seat. ‘You owe that guy some money,’ she said. She turned to Lucia in the back of the van and said, ‘Ready, honey? Let’s hit the road.’ As she pulled back onto the main road, she said to Walter, ‘Switch the sat-nav language to Spanish, please. Her English voice is more annoying than yours.’

Fernandez was disposing of the police officer’s body when his phone rang and interrupted him. Looking at the screen, he recognised Thomas Walter’s number and sighed. He was tempted to hit the reject button but instead, one hand still under the cop’s chin, he answered. ‘Yes?’

‘We’ve found our men,’ Walter said. ‘They’re in the back of a van heading south towards
London
. We have the route. I’ll send it to you. Miss Herrera and I are on our way to intercept them. You are to bring up the rear behind them and you must hurry. They have a substantial head start on you but they can’t be moving very fast.’

‘I have a fast car,’ Fernandez informed him.

‘Excellent,’ Walter said. ‘I’ll call you soon.’

The fat man hung up and Fernandez put his phone back in his pocket. He reached for a knife and traced it carefully across the cop’s neck, careful not to make a nick. He usually had a collection of tools for the disposal process—an art form that he had perfected over years—but this time he would have to make do with what he could find in Jesse Whitaker’s home.

On the floor beside him, he had arranged a serrated bread knife, a paring knife, one medium-sized butcher knife, a bottle of industrial-strength bleach that he found under the kitchen sink, and the plastic wrap of a mattress that was folded neatly in a cupboard.

He would prefer to have used a concentrated form of sodium hypochlorite instead of bleach, but the industrial brand he had found was a 59% solution and would prove adequate.

Cutting open and spreading the plastic sheet on the floor, he rolled the officer onto it and he picked up the butcher knife again. He had already stripped naked so as to avoid blood spatter on his clothes and now, kneeling beside the man’s head, he held the chin up and brought the blade down swift and strong. It took three chops for the neck to sever.

He continued this way, working at each of the joints of his body, the shoulders, the elbows, the hips, the knees, using both the heavy butcher knife and the serrated blade where necessary, until the police officer was a jigsaw puzzle of ten pieces. The thick smell of coagulating blood was neither pleasant nor repellent to him but he knew stronger smells were to come.

Using the paring knife, Fernandez peeled the skin from the officer’s fingers, thumbs and toes to remove any identifiable prints, and he placed the separated skin pads in a bowl. In the same way, he removed a mole from the officer’s back. It would not cease identification of the body, but it would slow the process down.

When his carving work was done, he wrapped the body parts in the sheet of plastic and knotted each end. He then took a cigarette lighter and heat-sealed the length of the plastic, a slow and precise job that took some time to complete. Walter’s caution of speed was lost to him until his work here was done. His car was fast and he would easily catch up to them.

With the body—and the majority of the blood—safely contained, Fernandez took a shower and washed himself clean before redressing and taking the newly wrapped parcel to his car. Back in the flat, he drank two glasses of water and washed the glass. Then he returned to the living room and to the bowl of skin pieces that he had cut from the cop, and he unscrewed the bottle of bleach.

The 59% sodium hypochlorite bleach solution on its own would cause a base burn to the skin that would set in motion the disintegration of the skin molecules and render identification near impossible. But mixed with an ammonia solution, sodium hypochlorite produces chloramines that exacerbate the breakdown of cell structure and quicken the disintegration process. It also generates a gaseous reaction that is both powerfully foul-smelling and hazardous to the respiratory system.

Fernandez had no ammonia and so he had to improvise. He returned to the kitchen and urinated in a coffee mug. He held a tea towel over his mouth and nose and carefully poured his urine into the bowl of skin and bleach, wary against splashing his clothes with the substance. He left the bowl oxidising on the coffee table and returned to his car, taking the mug with him to avoid leaving behind any identifiable traces.

Thomas Walter’s directions had come through on his phone and now he called up the map application. It was approximately one hour since Walter had called him and given the route Walter had supplied, he estimated if he drove at between 90 and 100mph for the majority of the motorway journey, he could join the A40 before
Oxford
, coming off the M40 at Bicester, and he wouldn’t be too far behind them.