Target (14 page)

'And?' Bolt knew there had to be an 'and'. The faces said it all.

Mo took a deep breath, his face tight with pent-up emotion. 'And the body of a young woman's been found nearby.'

The man in the cream suit ran a comb through his thinning hair, straightened his jacket, and surveyed himself in the full-length mirror, pleased with the image that stared back at him.

He was not the best looking of men, he knew that. Physically, he was small and round in stature, with a large, hooked nose and thin, flinty eyes that hinted at an intelligence not entirely to be trusted. At school they'd christened him 'Shifty', and had tended to shun his company.

None of this bothered him unduly, however. After all, looks were transient. They disappeared eventually. He possessed something far more valuable. Power. There was a poise about him, a cool confidence in the way he carried himself, which had come from years of success in his chosen field. People treated him with respect. There were those who feared him too, knowing his reputation as a strong-willed man, unafraid of making tough decisions. Not the sort of person you would want to cross.

But what the man in the cream suit enjoyed the most was the fact that no one, not even those closest to him, had any idea of the true power he wielded. Nor the terrible secrets he harboured.

As he turned away from the mirror, the phone in his left trouser pocket began vibrating. He had a message. It was from a number he didn't recognize, but he knew the identity of the sender well enough. There was only one person in the world it could have been.

The message was in block capitals and just three words long.

STAGE TWO SUCCESS.

The man in the cream suit felt a tingling, almost sexual sensation running up his spine as he walked over to the window and looked out towards the darkening sea.

Events were moving fast now. All those months of planning were finally coming to fruition.

He looked at his watch and smiled.

Just twenty-four more hours...

There were plenty of reasons why I'd deliberately avoided involving Maxwell until now, but chief among them was the fact that I didn't trust him. After all, he was a career criminal with a moral code that was skewed at best, non-existent at worst, so not the kind of guy you'd automatically turn to for help. But that also made him the kind of person best suited to tell me what the hell my next move should be, because as a criminal he would at least have some idea how other criminals think, and be able to advise me accordingly. And even if he wasn't feeling charitable, I figured that the fact that I was writing a book about him would give him some incentive to help me. After all, when it came down to it, I was more valuable to him alive than dead.

Maxwell (he didn't seem to have any other name) had retired from the London crime scene having made, in his own words, too many enemies – a feeling I was becoming all too familiar with. He now lived in deepest Berkshire, an hour's drive out of town on a good day, close to double that when you were doing it all the way from Hackney at the tail end of rush hour, as I was now.

I didn't phone ahead, deciding that it was easier to turn up unannounced, and it was getting close to eight o'clock when I pulled up outside the pretty picture-postcard cottage with the thatched roof that was his current abode. For a city boy who'd grown up on a sprawling east London council estate it seemed a strange place to end up, a good mile from the nearest house and almost dead quiet, except for the very faint buzz of traffic that you get anywhere in south-east England, and the occasional plane overhead. But that was one of the many paradoxes about Maxwell. He might have been one of the top London hard men in his day, but he also liked to grow his own vegetables and while away his days fishing for trout in the nearby streams.

I was relieved to see that the front door was open, and as I got out of the car and breathed in the fresh country air I felt a lot better. The city and all the danger it represented suddenly seemed a long way away and, if I was honest with myself, the idea of someone like Maxwell being on my side came as a huge relief.

I could hear movement inside – a reassuring clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen – so I rapped hard on the door and called out his name, just so he'd know it wasn't one of his old enemies coming calling.

A few seconds later, Maxwell appeared in the narrow hallway, all five foot six of him, barrel-bodied and pug-faced, looking vaguely comical in an apron with a large cartoon pair of breasts on it. His grizzled face creased into a frown. 'All right, Robbie. Didn't expect to see you today. We didn't have a meet planned, did we?'

Maxwell always referred to me as Robbie – a term of address I'd always hated, but I'd never had the heart (or balls) to correct him.

'I need your help,' I said, looking straight into his narrow, hooded eyes.

The frown deepened, but he nodded. 'Better come inside then. Want a drink of something?'

I knew I needed to keep my wits about me, but the thought of a real drink proved irresistible. 'A beer, if you've got one.'

I followed him into the kitchen where a big pot was bubbling away on the stove. I didn't stop to look at its contents, but the smell was good, and I felt the first stirrings of hunger since lunchtime.

Maxwell opened two bottles of Peroni and handed me one, then led me through into his tiny sitting room where we always conducted our interviews, and which had clearly been designed for men of Maxwell's height rather than men of mine. I bent down, narrowly missing the overhead beam I'd almost knocked myself out on the first time I was here, and took a seat in one of the two old leather armchairs by the fireplace.

He sat down in the other one, placed the beer on the coffee table beside him, and lit a cigarette. If he was at all concerned about what I had to say, he didn't show it. But then that was Maxwell all over. He wasn't the kind of man to be easily fazed.

'OK,' he said through the smoke, 'what's happened?'

It seemed like I'd already told this story a thousand times, usually to a sceptical audience, but I had the feeling Maxwell would believe me. He'd inhabited the world where this kind of thing happened for a long, long time. So I told him everything, with the exception of Ramon's murder, every so often taking a big slug of my beer, while he listened in silence.

When I'd finished, he stubbed out his cigarette, rubbed a stubby, nicotine-stained finger along the side of his nose, and looked at me with a suspicion I wasn't expecting. 'You sure you ain't been smoking too much of the wacky baccy, Robbie? This is some fucking story and I know you've been prone to, you know, breakdowns.'

I met his gaze. 'It's the truth. I swear it.'

When the suspicious look didn't disappear, I told him I had the photographs to prove it and pulled the print-outs of the images Tina had emailed me from my back pocket.

'All right, let's have a look,' he said, and took them off me. He unfolded three of them and looked at them carefully. 'And these were taken today in London?'

'In Hackney. Why? Do you know the guy?' It was a long shot but, given Maxwell's previous career, not a complete impossibility.

He shook his head. 'You said he was Irish, right?'

'That's right. Northern Irish, I think.'

'I had dealings with some Belfast paramilitaries – UVF blokes – a few years back, but I never trusted them. The greedy bastards were always trying to put one over on you.' He sighed, handing the photos back.

'So,' I said, 'do you believe me now?'

He nodded slowly like some wise, thuggish Yoda. Maxwell never did anything in a hurry. 'Yeah,' he said at last, 'I believe you. Looks like you're in a lot of shit, mate.'

'Yes, Maxwell, I know that. What I'm after are suggestions about what I should be doing about it.'

'My advice?' Pause. 'Take a long fucking holiday. A month at least. Somewhere a long way away. And make sure you're on email as well. We'll need to speak about the book. Try to forget any of it ever fucking happened.'

'But what about Jenny? I can't just leave her at the mercy of someone who's going to kill her.'

Maxwell's features cracked into an unpleasant smile. 'Never really took you for the hero, Robbie. Thought you were more the sort who just liked to write about them.'

'Then maybe you don't know me that well. If someone's in trouble and I can help them, then that's what I'm going to do.' Two nights ago that hadn't been the case, but now I genuinely meant it.

'Well, that's real touching, Robbie, but you try poking your nose into something like this and you're going to end up with it sliced off, know what I mean? Let me give you a piece of advice,' he said, pointing his Peroni bottle in my general direction. 'Only get involved in something when you absolutely have to, or where there's money involved. Anything else, steer clear, because it ain't worth it. Especially in this case. If what you're saying's true, then it's possible they've killed a copper, which means they're prepared to kill anybody. Next time it could be you.' He settled back in his chair, having delivered his sage advice, and lit another cigarette.

I realized what Maxwell was truly like then. When I'd first met him I'd thought him glamorous – a hard man definitely, ruthless too – but because he liked a laugh, told a good story and was always nice to me, I'd got to thinking of him as a loveable rogue, someone who might hurt other criminals – people whose actions deserved it – but also someone who would stand up for the underdog, who wouldn't put up with bullies, who could be reasoned with, because underneath it all his heart was still somewhere close to the right place. But this was all bullshit. Maxwell was just another selfish thug, and it shocked me that it had taken my own experience at the hands of selfish thugs to understand this.

'Have you ever killed anyone?' I asked him.

Maxwell shook his head. 'I've come close a couple of times when people fucked me over, but no, I ain't.'

'What about kidnapping someone? Have you ever done that?'

He paused before answering. 'I've had to persuade people to pay back money they owe. Sometimes that meant holding them in places against their will, until their associates came up with the cash. Maybe even giving them a little bit of a kicking to ensure their cooperation. But no. Not like you're talking about. I never hurt women. I respect them too much for that.'

The way he was talking disgusted me, and I think that disgust must have shown on my face because his own creased into a fierce glare. 'Don't go all moralistic on me, Robbie. I've done some bad things. You know that. And I ain't particularly proud of some of them either, but I'm also a realist. And yeah, it's bad that this girl, whoever she is, has got herself kidnapped, but it ain't my business, and it ain't yours either. You hardly know her. And you're in a lot of trouble already. You've done what you can. Leave it.'

'I can't leave it.'

'Then I ain't gonna help you, mate. Sorry, but that's the way it is.' He shrugged his immense shoulders, as if to say there was nothing more he could do.

I felt terrible. I'd been a fool to expect him to help me. I thought about threatening to knock the book on the head unless he changed his mind but dismissed the idea immediately. I needed it as much as he did; and anyway, right then, the book seemed totally irrelevant.

I drank the last of my beer down in one, savouring its coldness.

'Do you want another?' he asked.

I did. Desperately. I really needed just to unwind, and the chair felt extremely comfortable. I could feel the indignation draining out of me. 'Yeah, please. And can I ask you a favour? I need a place to stay for a few days. To give me some time to lie low and think. Can you put me up here?'

'All right, but on one condition: you don't try and hunt for that girl while you're under this roof. Like I told you, I don't want to get involved.'

He fixed me with the kind of stare that dared you to defy him. I had a feeling not many people did, and I was no exception. I said that I wouldn't, and he headed back into the kitchen for more Peronis.

I knew I wouldn't be able to keep the promise, though. The events of the last two days might have frightened the shit out of me but I was still determined to locate Jenny and get her to safety. My life had changed. I'd changed. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to be risking my life to help a girl I hardly knew, but now that I was doing it, there was no way I was going to give up. And for the first time, sitting there in Maxwell's house, I actually felt good about that.

But tonight...Tonight I was going to have to put my quest to one side. I was tired. I needed to rest.

When Maxwell came back with the drinks, I was already yawning. He told me I looked shagged out, and I didn't disagree. I drank the second beer fast while he spun one of his more amusing yarns about his days as a gangster. I wasn't really listening though, and when he offered me a third, I declined. 'I just need to close my eyes for a minute,' I said, feeling an overwhelming tiredness.

I remember him saying 'No problem', and something about having some chicken soup when I woke up, and I also remember him watching me closely as I drifted off, which I thought was a bit odd. Then sleep came and relieved me, at least temporarily, of all the burdens of the world.

They'd driven much of the way in silence. Two men who'd been colleagues for almost six years, who'd had their ups and downs but who also, when it came down to it, were prepared to risk their careers and their necks for each other.

Bolt was conscious of the fact that Mo had done more of the risking over the years, that he'd covered for Bolt in some tricky situations, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone else in the car with him as they went to see if the woman who'd been found dead near Tina Boyd's abandoned car was in fact Tina herself. There'd been no identification on the body when it was found with gunshot wounds to the face by a dog walker two hours earlier, and the only description Bolt and Mo had was that it was a dark-haired woman in her thirties. But it was one that fitted Tina, and Bolt wasn't the type to believe in coincidences. In the car he'd fought to keep an open mind and not jump to conclusions, but it was a battle he'd steadily lost.

He'd remembered the first time he met Tina, in a dive of a pub in Highgate one wet Saturday night. He and Mo had gone there to get some information from her about a case they were working on. It wasn't long after her boyfriend had died, and Bolt remembered how tired and vulnerable she'd looked, and how he'd had an immediate desire to take her in his arms and protect her. It was a feeling that had never really gone away during all the time he'd known her.

The victim's body was still at the crime scene when Bolt parked his Jaguar at the edge of the police cordon. Darkness was descending fast now, but the quiet stretch of wooded B-road just south of the village of Bramfield was a hive of activity. Two police patrol cars with their lights flashing blocked the road, a uniformed cop eating a baguette in one of them; a dozen other police vehicles and an ambulance were lined up on either side of the road. A plastic tent had been erected just inside the tree line, and a few yards behind it a red Nissan Micra that Bolt recognized as Tina's was parked up on the verge.

Bolt and Mo showed their ID to the uniform, who managed to finish chewing his baguette long enough to point them to a van where they could put on the plastic coveralls all officers were obliged to wear when entering crime scenes. Once they were kitted up, they slipped under the scene-of-crime tape and walked along a specially marked path lined with more tape in the direction of the tent.

Bolt was aware that his breathing had increased. He'd always feared death, right from childhood, because he'd never been able to believe – and God knows he'd tried – that there was anything beyond it. Unfortunately, because of his job, he'd had to see far more of it than most people, and almost always when the end had come violently. The sight of their empty faces was something he'd never got used to, and the prospect of seeing someone he knew and cared about lying there was much worse.

'I can do this if you want, boss,' said Mo quietly, turning his way.

Months earlier, when they'd been sharing one too many beers at a pub near SOCA's Vauxhall HQ, Bolt had told Mo about the night he made a pass at Tina, and about his feelings for her. It wasn't the sort of thing he usually shared; he preferred to keep matters of the heart to himself. But the drink had done what drink always does and loosened his tongue, and, with Tina having only recently departed from SOCA, he'd been at something of a low ebb. Mo hadn't approved, Bolt knew that, but he'd been sympathetic to his boss's plight, as he was now.

Bolt looked at Mo, saw the concern in his friend's eyes. He appreciated the offer but knew it was essential he didn't show weakness. 'No, it's all right,' he said. 'I'll be fine.'

One of the white-overalled officers peeled away from the throng and came over to them. 'Mo Khan?' The questioner was a woman in her mid thirties with an attractive, friendly face that didn't look like it needed much encouragement to break into a smile. Beneath the transparent hood she was wearing her hair, tied back, was a fiery red.

'That's me. And this is my boss, SG3 Mike Bolt.'

'I'm DCI Miller, the SIO on this case,' she said as the three of them shook hands. 'Thanks for coming. She's over here. The body was discovered by a dog walker approximately two and a half hours ago,' she continued as Mo and Bolt followed her to the tent. 'No real attempt to conceal the body.' She opened the flap and stood to one side. 'It looks like she was shot several times in the face and then just left where she fell.'

Bolt didn't flinch but his expression was granite as he stepped inside, barely conscious of Mo and DCI Miller filing in behind and standing either side of him.

She lay there alone, flat on her back in a halo of coagulating blood, arms neatly by her side, eyes closed. There were two small black holes in her face: one just below her mouth, the other high up on her cheek, like a large, out-of-place beauty spot. She looked asleep, peaceful, as if all the trials and tribulations of this world had been lifted from her shoulders. Which of course they had.

Bolt took a deep breath and turned to DCI Miller. 'It's not her,' he said.