Relentless (26 page)

I shivered visibly, knowing that he meant what he said, and
feeling physically sick with fear. 'We're not going to try anything,
I promise.' But I was already speaking into a dead phone.
I stepped out of the phone box and motioned for Kathy to
park up properly. She found a spot next to the wall that lined the
village's graveyard, and got out. Her movements were unsteady
as if she might collapse at any time, and her face was ashen, but I
had no sympathy. She'd got us into this.
'This way,' I told her, pointing up the hill past the pub and the
family butcher's. 'We've got to hurry.'
She fell into step beside me and we strode up the road in
silence. A white-haired man in his seventies appeared in the
front door of one of the cottages. He was dressed in a tweed
jacket and tie, and he smiled and gave us a small wave. Instinctively,
I waved back and managed a weak smile in return, feeling
hugely jealous of anyone who had anything to smile about on
this particular day.
The road became steeper and was lined with overhanging
trees as we passed the pub, and soon the terraced cottages
gave way to a wooded hill of oaks and beeches, with just an
occasional house appearing through the greenery on either side.
The only sounds were the squawks of pheasants and the faint
but ever-present roar of planes passing above the ceiling
of unbroken white cloud above us. Then, suddenly, from the
garden of one of the houses, came the laughing shouts of young
children. I felt my insides constrict so tightly it was difficult to
breathe. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to keep walking,
wanting to get as far away as possible from the sound and what it
reminded me of. Kathy kept pace, her features contorted into a
frozen expression of deep animal pain. I knew that this was
tearing her apart as much as it was me.

As we walked, and the road got so steep that it began to
resemble a climb, I slipped a hand into the pocket of my still
damp jacket and felt Kathy's phone. The woods around us were
silent now, the houses gone, the road gradually becoming little
more than a potholed track. I looked around, trying to spot
anyone monitoring our progress, but if anyone was there, they were well hidden. Kathy's mobile was a fliptop like mine, so I
flicked it open inside the pocket and, finding what I hoped was
the on switch, pressed my thumb on it until it made a tiny
muffled bleep.
We reached the brow of the hill, maybe four minutes after
leaving the car, and the road flattened out ahead of us. There
were still trees on either side but they were more spaced out
now, making concealment that much more difficult. Beyond
them, fields were visible as well as several farm buildings. I could
still see no-one.
I felt with my finger for the number two button on the phone.
Kathy had never been good at remembering numbers and her
code to unlock the SIM card was a simple 2222. Four pushes on
that button and the phone would start broadcasting a signal. I'd
read somewhere that this was enough for a phone company to
track its location, often down to within a few feet. I was taking a
terrible risk, and a voice in my head told me that by switching
the phone on I was sentencing my children to death. Deeper
down, instinct told me that unless I made some effort at providing
a clue to our whereabouts, then we - the whole family were
finished. But if I was searched, and they found the phone,
then there really would be no way out. I needed to ditch it
somewhere, but it was going to have to be somewhere close to
our destination. The problem was that with every step I took,
the prospect of my discovery became that much more real.

Even now someone could be watching me through binoculars,
following my every move.
I pressed the numbers and flicked the phone shut, clutching it
in my palm. Then I slipped my hand from my pocket and, as I
drew level with a thick puddle of mud formed in a divot at the
side of the track, let it slip from my grasp. At the same time I
moved closer to Kathy, putting an arm on her shoulder, and said,
louder than was necessary, that everything was going to be OK.
'Of course it's not going to fucking be OK,' she answered,
without bothering to turn in my direction. But at least she didn't
hear the phone hit the ground.
I immediately regretted my action, but it was too late to worry
about that now. The die had been cast. You make split-second
decisions, and sometimes they can have life-changing results;
the point is, you still have to make them. I kept walking,
not breaking my stride, not giving anyone watching even the
slightest hint that I might be up to something. I said nothing
further to Kathy and she said nothing to me.
The woods ended and became fields, the track continuing to
run through them in a straight line before disappearing as the
land dipped downwards. A house stood alone, just back from
the track, about a hundred yards' distant.
'OK, stop where you are,' said an unfamiliar voice a few feet
to my right.
I did as I was told and saw a thin man in a Homer Simpson
face mask appear from behind a thick holly bush that partly
obscured a timber-clad, single-storey building a few yards
behind him. The man held a pistol with a long, cigar-shaped
silencer that dwarfed his skinny, hairless wrist. He was dressed
in jeans and a black, pulled-up hoodie with the word surf
written on the chest in jaunty script. I couldn't see his face, but I

could tell he was young - probably early twenties. There was
something in his overall demeanour - a little gawky and skittish
- that suggested he wasn't a hundred per cent confident in what
he was doing.
He waved us over with the gun, and when we reached him he
pushed us behind the bush so that we were out of sight of the
road.
'Empty your pockets,' he demanded, waving the gun around
as he spoke.
We did so. There wasn't much. I had a pen, some loose
change, and my credit card wallet. Kathy didn't have anything.
She tended to keep her personal belongings in a handbag, which
I guess had been left at the cottage and had subsequently been
turned into charcoal.
'Chuck it all on the floor.'
I let the stuff drop from my hands and lifted my arms away
from my sides as he patted me down in an amateur fashion,
before turning his attention to Kathy. She glared at him, and
pushed her legs tightly together as he subjected her to a slightly
more detailed search.
When he'd finished, he told me to pick my stuff back up. 'All
right, get inside,' he said, pushing first Kathy and then me in the
direction of the single-storey building. He made a point of
pressing the gun hard into my back, and I assumed he was
enjoying his little bit of power. It depressed me that the world
seemed so full of individuals who gained enjoyment and satisfaction
from inflicting pain.
The building was obviously a fairly recent and expensive
barn conversion which made it look similar to a high-spec log
cabin. The front windows were large and double-glazed but the
curtains were drawn, making it impossible to tell who was inside.

We followed a cobbled path down to the front door, and when
we were two steps away it opened with a flourish. The huge
balaclava-clad man who'd come into our cottage's master bedroom
the previous night holding a pump-action shotgun loomed
over us, this time unarmed. The man Daniels had called Lench.
He was still dressed in the same black clothes, flecked now with
pale mud, and his immense bearing and long, ape-like arms,
bulging with muscles like cannonballs, gave him the appearance
of an executioner from a medieval history book. Behind the
mask, he radiated a cold confidence that had the entirely natural
effect of making other men feel weaker. I'd met the occasional
man like him in the business world, although never one his size.
They were invariably highly successful, and, just as invariably,
psychopaths.
'Come inside,' he said in an ordinary, slightly feminine voice
that did nothing to detract from the air of menace that surrounded
him.
I was first in, and he pointed me in the direction of a large and
very modern kitchen, all done out in pine, with an oak dining
table in the middle that seated eight. There were pots and pans
lining the walls, all in order of size and make, and everything
was spotlessly clean and tidy. I went over to the far window and
looked out across the field. Kathy followed me over, while
Lench took a seat at the head of the table facing us. The younger
man who'd searched us stood near the door, the gun held by his
side, the Homer Simpson mask gfving us a dozy smile.

'You know what I want,' said Lench, without preamble. 'And
one of you knows where it is. Our mutual friend, Jack, said that
it was you, Tom, but I have a feeling he might have been
protecting someone.'
He smiled behind the balaclava and looked at Kathy. She held

his gaze, the fear that had been so prominent on her face earlier
now giving way to a quiet rage that sat behind her eyes. Her
body was tense, and I thought for a moment that she might do
something stupid, like charge him. But she stayed where she was
and remained silent.
'I've been thinking about it ever since yesterday afternoon.
When Jack knew we were about to kill him, he tried to think of a
way to protect the woman he was fucking, so he told us that
it was her husband who had what we were looking for. That's
how you came to be involved in everything, Tom. All very
unfortunate, really.' He leaned forward in the seat, resting his
elbows on the table, and regarded us both in turn. 'And now the
moment of truth. Does a child die, or do you tell me where it is?'
I looked at Kathy, but she continued to stare at Lench.
'You murdered Vanessa, didn't you?' she said.
'Are you talking about the woman at the university? That was
a case of mistaken identity, I'm afraid, and it wasn't me. One of
my colleagues was dealing with that. He ran into her while
looking for you. It didn't take us long to find out who you are
and where you worked. But I'm not interested in discussing this.
You know what I want. Now, are you going to tell me where it
is?'
Hatred flared in Kathy's face, and once again I got the feeling
she might try to do something stupid. I moved in closer and put
a hand on her shoulder.
'Remember, Mrs Meron, your children are depending on you.'
She glared at him defiantly for several seconds before finally
reaching down and pulling up the leg of her jeans a couple of
inches. She unzipped one of her ankle boots and pulled a small
gold-coloured key from inside her sock. She put it down on the
table and slid it across in Lench's direction. 'Jack gave me this

yesterday, before you killed him. It opens a safety deposit box at
King's Cross station. I don't know what it is you want, but I'm
guessing it's there.'
'Number three-two-eight,' said Lench quietly as he examined
the key. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out
a mobile. As we watched he called a number. When the person
at the other end picked up, he reeled out a set of instructions,
keeping his voice low and turning away so we couldn't hear what
he was saying. A few seconds later, he replaced the phone in his
pocket. 'Our man will be at that deposit box in about forty
minutes. As soon as he's verified the contents we'll let you and
your children go. But if you haven't been entirely honest with us,
on every matter' - he seemed to look right through me as he said
this - 'then you all die.'
I thought of the phone sitting in the mud fifty yards away, and
wondered whether it would save or condemn us.

40

Twenty minutes after Jean Riley had called Mike Bolt, she
phoned him again. By this time he was pacing up and down in
the sitting area in front of his kitchen, half-watching Sky News,
desperate to be doing something. The reporters were dissecting
the previous day's big football match. As was often the case,
England had lost to supposedly weaker opposition, the final
score being 2-0. Bolt had missed the last goal - a goalmouth

scramble after a terrible keeping error - which Sky helpfully
showed for him. Schoolboy defending, said the reporter, using a
well-worn phrase that Bolt had to admit was an apt description.

So far, there'd been no mention of the Jack Calley murder, or
that of Kathy Meron's colleague at the university. Clearly no
one in the media had made the connection yet between Jack and
Lord Parnham-Jones, and as for the other killing, a mundane
stabbing all too common in London, it would be lucky to make
the local news.
Bolt picked up the mobile on the first ring.
'They've got a signal on Kathy Meron's phone,' Jean told him.
'A place called Hambleden, seven or eight miles off the M40 in
Buckinghamshire.'
'I know it.' Bolt had been there once before with his ex-wife
on one of the occasional day trips they used to make to places
outside the city. He remembered it as a very pretty village with
good walks in the surrounding countryside. 'How close can you
pinpoint it?'
'We've got it down to the top of Ranger's Hill, which runs up
from the north end of the village. You'll need to look at a map
to get an exact spot. Are you going to drive over there?'
There was, of course, no way Bolt could have said no. 'Yeah, I
think I'm going to take a look. I'll let the big boss know where
I'm going, and if I get a location on Kathy Meron, I'll call for
back-up. Keep me posted of any changes.'
He knew that there was no point trying to get additional
resources to help him, not with knowing only the location of
Kathy Meron's mobile. He also didn't want to flood the-area
with local police, just in case the couple were in danger and their
safety was compromised.
When he'd hung up, he called DCS Evans, but his line was

busy so he left a detailed message before ringing Keith Lambden
to let him know about this new development.
'She .drives a maroon Hyundai Coupe apparently,' Lambden
told him. 'A witness called the incident room an hour ago to say
she'd seen it parked behind some trees about twenty yards down
from Calley's house, and only just visible from the road. This
was at about half past one yesterday.'
'So, just after the neighbours saw her drive past? That's
strange. The neighbours, the Crabbes, said they'd seen the
woman they identified from the photograph as Kathy Meron
with Jack Calley several times before, so I'd assumed they were
having an affair.'
'I think it's a fair assumption to make.'
'But if that was the case, why didn't she park on his driveway?
There's room for at least three cars on it, and Calley's only
got one. Why park your car twenty yards away, and out of
sight?'
'Maybe someone else was there.'
'Or maybe,' Bolt said, 'she didn't want to be seen.'