Target (15 page)

I'm going to kill you.

The afternoon had turned out to be the most terrifying of Tina Boyd's life. For what must have been close to an hour she'd driven her car at gunpoint along the North Circular Road, and finally out of London on the A10 heading north. During that time the man had spent much of his time asking her questions, often touching and stroking her as he spoke. Sometimes his tone was conversational. He would ask her about her background, her likes and dislikes, her work as a police officer. Other times his tone became cruel and he'd ask her quietly, playfully, what lengths she would go to in order to live, and whether she believed in life after death.

It was clear he was enjoying tormenting her, but she'd refused to play along, answering him defiantly (she'd do what it took to stay alive and, yes, she did believe in an afterlife), yet at the same time giving him enough information to keep him interested, and even asking questions of her own, although on these he tended to be evasive. Still, she was proud of herself for remaining calm, even when they'd left the noise and traffic of the A10 behind and moved on to quieter, more isolated roads. Even when he'd ordered her to drive off one of these quieter roads and down a deserted wooded lane.

It was only when he'd told her to stop the car and taken the keys from her that the fear really hit home. Tina's legs had buckled slightly as she was ordered on to the grass verge. This was it. The moment of truth.

You've seen his face!
screamed a voice inside her head.
He's going to kill you!

But she hadn't panicked. Instead, she'd turned to face him, knowing that it was harder for even the most brutal killer to shoot someone in cold blood that way, forcing herself to ignore the obvious fact that she was dealing with a sociopath.

He'd raised the gun so it was pointed at her chest and they'd looked at each other for a long, lingering moment.

And then he'd smiled, and said, 'Empty your pockets, and take off your watch.'

She'd done as she'd been told, pulling out her wallet and house keys. At his command, she'd thrown them into the bushes.

He'd come forward and given her a quick one-handed pat-down to check there was nothing left behind, then opened the boot and pushed her inside, slamming it behind her.

Despite being cramped and uncomfortable, for the first time Tina had felt a real surge of hope. He intended to keep her alive, for the moment at least, and this gave her a chance.

He'd also made a mistake: he'd missed the set of picks in the back pocket of her jeans, and failed to tie her hands. She'd immediately reached round, pulled them out and shoved them into her sock where they would be even harder to locate. She knew she was taking a big risk, concealing them and risking her tormentor's wrath later, but this was a time for big risks.

The car hadn't moved, and the engine had remained off for a long time. Tina had begun to wonder if he'd simply abandoned her. Then, finally, she'd heard another car pull up next to her. She'd banged on the metal of the boot with her fist and yelled out as loudly as she could, excited at the prospect she might be freed. But when the boot opened she'd been greeted with the sight of the man with the gun again.

Without speaking, he'd pulled her out. She'd asked him what was going on but he'd told her to shut up, then shoved her roughly into the boot of the new car, a dark-coloured saloon. She'd had to push a couple of bags of grocery shopping aside before she could squeeze in, which had made her wonder where he'd got the car from. A few minutes later they were on the move again.

What was clear to Tina as she was driven along road after winding road was that the man who'd taken her was not only a sociopath but an extremely intelligent one who appeared to appreciate the tools available to the police for tracking down kidnap victims – hence his decision to get rid of her phone and her car. This was bad news, not only for her but also for Jenny Brakspear, because she was certain that this man was involved in her abduction too.

But what she couldn't understand was why he was choosing to let her live. 'Just be thankful he is, girl,' she'd whispered to herself, wondering at the same time why she'd allowed herself to end up in this position. Her desire to go it alone and bend the rules was, she'd always believed, borne out of a need to see justice done, yet there was more to it than that. There was also something self-destructive about the impulse, as if she were driven by a need to court danger, even in the knowledge that eventually she'd come unstuck.

However, now that her life truly was on the line, she realized, almost with a sense of surprise, that she desperately wanted to live. To try to return to the happier days that had been absent for far too long. Lying there frightened and hunched uncomfortably against the bags of shopping, she told herself that if she got through this she'd kick the booze – that monkey had been on her back for far too long now – and maybe even quit the force altogether and go off travelling somewhere new. South America, or southern Africa.

After what seemed an age the car slowed and made a sharp turning, then after a further hundred yards or so she heard the sound of gravel crunching under the wheels before it finally came to a halt. They'd already stopped a while back for about ten minutes, but this time she instinctively knew that this was their final destination.

She heard footsteps on the gravel and the sound of muffled voices, then the boot was flung open and the man with the gun shouted at her to shut her eyes, threatening death if she disobeyed.

There was no danger of that. She squeezed them shut like a young kid playing hide and seek as a hood was pulled roughly over her head. She was then led along the gravel by two men, each holding an arm, and dragging her, so she had to move fast. She was taken through several doors, then up some stairs and through yet another door, before finally being pushed roughly into a chair.

In silence they handcuffed her wrists behind the chair and strapped her to its back from stomach to neck with a roll of masking tape. She couldn't move an inch, and her hope began to evaporate. She still had the set of picks in her sock but there was no way of getting to them now.

The man with the gun told his colleague to leave, and there was a throaty edge to his voice as he spoke. Then he pulled off Tina's hood. His lips cracked into a smile, a look of undisguised lust in the big staring eyes, and she felt her heart sink. She knew then that this bastard had been telling the truth when he said he was going to kill her.

But it was clear that he wanted to have some fun first.

When they were back in the Jaguar, having finished at the crime scene and having briefed DCI Miller about their hunt for Tina Boyd, Mike Bolt let out a long, deep sigh. 'I tell you, Mo, sometimes this job really gets to me.'

'It gets to all of us, boss. You know that.' Mo turned, and Bolt could see the lines of tension on his face. This had been tough for him, too.

'You know, I haven't seen her in more than a year, but if it had been her I think I would have fallen apart. I never knew she'd had that much of an effect on me.'

'But it wasn't Tina, was it? Which is a good sign. That's the way you've got to look at it, boss. Accentuate the positive. Keep the faith.'

'But where the hell is she?' said Bolt, staring out of the window at the trees.

The fact was, they'd run out of leads. The Land Cruiser Tina had photographed earlier had disappeared off the ANPR's radar, having last been spotted thirty miles away in Essex, and now Tina had disappeared too. All that remained was an anonymous woman shot dead in what appeared to be a professional hit. One that bore Hook's hallmarks – and Bolt could guess his motive: to hijack the victim's car and make it as hard as possible for him to be followed. As always, he seemed to be one step ahead.

'We're not going to stop searching for her,' said Mo eventually, his voice weary. 'Of course we're not. But I don't think there's much more we can do tonight.'

Bolt nodded. Mo was right. There really wasn't much else they could do. An alert had been put out to all the UK's police forces and now it was simply a matter of waiting. Without another word, he started the engine and pulled away.

But they'd barely been driving five minutes when Bolt's mobile started ringing.

'Who is it?' asked Mo, as he picked up the handset and examined the screen.

Bolt frowned. 'An old informant of mine. Strictly small time. His name's Maxwell.'

When I woke up, I didn't have a clue where I was. Then I saw the empty armchair opposite me and the coffee table with the half-full ashtray and the Peroni bottles beside it, and I remembered I was at Maxwell's place.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The lights were on in the sitting room and the curtains were pulled but I could tell it was dark outside. I looked at my watch. Twenty past ten. I'd been out for an hour at least, probably longer. I got to my feet. The door to the kitchen was closed, but I could hear Maxwell in there. I needed a drink of water, then I needed to get to bed.

But I only took one step before the door opened and I realized with a single jolt of sheer terror that it wasn't Maxwell in the kitchen at all.

'Hello again,' said the Irishman, coming into the room, a gun with silencer raised in front of him. He was dressed in a black boiler suit and black boots, the saucer eyes cold and angry.

My stomach churned, and my legs felt like they were going to go from under me. All my optimistic thoughts of carrying on until I found Jenny, of defying the men I was up against – so attractive when I'd been sitting in the comfort of Maxwell's cottage with a large beer in my hand – turned immediately to dust, and I was once again what I'd always been: a terrified man out of my depth.

I didn't even think about running. There was no point. I was trapped. I tried to think of something to say, something that might stop him from doing what I knew he was about to do, but nothing came out.

'Didn't you believe me when I said I'd kill you if you carried on with your foolishness?' asked the Irishman, his harsh accent tinged with incredulity that I could be so stupid.

And the thing was, he was right. I had been stupid, utterly stupid, ever to have got involved. In that moment, I cursed Jenny Brakspear. And I cursed Maxwell too. I couldn't believe he had betrayed me like this. I knew he'd not been the most morally upright guy in the world, but I'd trusted him.

'Now it's time to pay for what you've done,' he said, grabbing my arm in a tight grip and pushing me back into the kitchen with the butt of the gun.

I could smell the chicken soup as I was shoved through the door. I saw Maxwell in there with the second kidnapper, the big lumbering guy with the shaven head. Both men had their backs to me, and even in my fear I felt a burst of rage. 'What's the matter, Maxwell? Can't you bear to face me, you treacherous bastard?'

Maxwell and Shaven Head turned round almost as one, which was when I realized that Maxwell wasn't a part of this at all. His face was bloodied and he had a deep cut above one eye. A rope had been pulled tight round his neck, the pressure making his eyes bug out. Shaven Head held one end of it in a gloved hand while his other held a gun, which was pressed hard against Maxwell's side. Maxwell, who was dwarfed in size by his captor, looked exactly like I felt: terrified. He wasn't even making any attempt to hide it, and this more than anything else extinguished any hope that I'd had. If even a hard bastard like Maxwell could be overpowered by these people, what the hell chance did I have?

'All right, let's go,' said the Irishman impatiently.

Shaven Head nodded and dragged Maxwell out into the hallway. I was given a shove and made to follow.

They seemed to know where they were going because they took us through the hall to the cottage's back door. I wondered immediately why they were taking us this way. It was only Maxwell's beloved vegetable patch that was out there.

The answer became obvious as soon as we were outside: the Irishman picked up a pair of shovels that were leaning against the door and handed one to each of us.

My heart beat savagely in my chest as I took mine and watched Maxwell take the other. Then I heard him groan because he too knew what we were going to have to do now.

I can't adequately describe the fear I experienced then. It was total and all-encompassing. My life didn't flash before me. Nothing like that. There was only the sure, solid knowledge that this was the end, that soon there would only be black nothingness. I wished I was religious, that I could have some small hope of salvation to cling on to, but I hadn't believed since I was a child, and death had always seemed too far away to care about.

But now . . . now it was right there at my side.

I felt dizzy as we were taken across Maxwell's small but well-kept lawn. I started to fall, but the barrel of the Irishman's gun pressed tighter into my spine, forcing me forward. I straightened up, desperate to delay the inevitable as long as possible, and kept moving.

Maxwell's vegetable patch was as big as the lawn itself and was bisected by a path that ran up to where his land ended and the woods began. We walked in dead silence up the path and then on to the soft soil so that we were standing side by side, facing the tree line. The night was warm and silent, and I was conscious of drops of light rain beginning to fall on my head. I swallowed and stood stock-still, staring blankly into the pines, ignoring Maxwell. Ignoring everything.

The Irishman stood on the soil behind us, while Shaven Head remained on the path and produced a torch from his pocket. He shone it on the side of my face and I thought I heard him snigger. My bowels felt like they were going to open and I clenched my buttocks together, not wishing to humiliate myself completely in my final moments.

'Time to dig, gentlemen,' said the Irishman, a genuine enjoyment in his voice.

I didn't hesitate, slamming my foot down on the shovel with more strength than I thought I was capable of, and hurling up a pile of dirt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Maxwell hadn't moved, and I felt a sudden slither of hope. Was he going to make some kind of move? Do something that might save us?

Then he spoke. 'Listen mate, please. I'm nothing to do with this. He's the one you want. I don't know anything. He just came here tonight for a drink, that's all.'

'You know you're going to die,' said the Irishman, addressing Maxwell. His tone was calm and even, almost reasonable. 'But there are different ways that you can meet death. It can be quick, and comparatively painless. Or it can be slow and agonizing.' He emphasized this last word, letting it slide almost playfully out of his mouth. 'It's your choice which way it is, but I can promise you that if you don't do exactly as you're told, then by the time I'm finished with you you'll be begging me to finish you off.'

Maxwell at last got the message, and began digging.

And so we dug together. Dug our own graves. The adrenalin coursed through me as I worked, and the rain grew steadily harder. I was terrified, but the act of thrusting the shovel into the soil gave me something to concentrate on, and even though I knew that the moment I finished it would spell the end, I kept on going, if anything increasing my pace, as I concentrated my fear and impotence on the task at hand. It was as if I wanted to make sure my final act in this world was done in the best way possible so that I could leave it with my head held high.

'What's your name, my friend?' the Irishman asked Maxwell when his hole was half dug and mine two-thirds done. Shallow, but almost long enough for me to fit in. I pictured myself lying face down in it, a bullet in the back of my head, the rain drumming down on my corpse. Never to be found, or properly mourned by the two people I cared about most in the world: Yvonne and Chloe.

'They call me Maxwell,' he answered listlessly.

'And is that your real name?'

This time he didn't hesitate. 'No,' he said. 'It's Harvey Hammond.'

I almost laughed out loud.
Harvey Hammond
. What sort of name was that? How could you have a gangster going by the name of Harvey? I was beginning to realize now that the man whose violent past I was meant to be chronicling might not be all he had cracked himself up to be.

'And what has Mr Fallon told you, Mr Hammond?'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maxwell, Harvey, whatever the hell his name was, stop digging and stand up straight, turning round so he faced the Irishman. 'Everything,' he said, figuring no doubt that there was no way he'd be believed if he tried to lie. 'But I promise you, there's no way I'd tell a fucking soul about it. I'm not that kind of bloke. I don't get myself involved in things that don't concern me. And I'd rather die than talk to the law. I've never said a word to them in my life. Honest.' He wiped the rain from his eyes and I could see that his shoulders were shaking. 'Please,' he whispered. 'He's the one you want. Not me. I'll keep shtum. Not a word. I promise.' And then, louder, almost wailing with desperation, 'I fucking promise!'

I realized he was crying. Sobbing softly. And I felt sorry for him. I couldn't help it, even though he was trying to get them to kill me rather than him.

I kept digging, staring now at the sodden hole in the ground I was standing in, trying to remain as anonymous as possible, letting Maxwell get all the attention. Knowing, even without seeing it, that the Irishman had lifted his gun and was preparing to kill him.

'Please!' begged Maxwell – Maxwell the growling hard man with the scar on his face; Maxwell who was never fazed by anything; Maxwell who was now shivering and shaking like a wet kitten. 'Please don't kill me. I won't say a word. I swear it. I fucking swear it!'

'Turn round,' said the Irishman. 'Face the trees.'

Maxwell made a weird moaning sound, and didn't move.

I gritted my teeth and dug furiously, ignoring the burning feeling in my biceps as I tried in vain to shut the world out.

There was a sound like a cork being popped from a champagne bottle, barely audible in the rain, and Maxwell's legs went from under him. He fell on to his behind and remained sitting upright, his grizzled face a mask of pain, both meaty hands clutching at his injured knee.

The Irishman took two steps forward, stopping in front of Maxwell, the smoking gun barrel pointed down at his head.

I stopped digging, stood up straight, eyes fixed on the scene in front of me.

Maxwell looked up at his executioner and just for an instant his expression became calm as he accepted the inevitable. Then the popping sound came again and a line of blood sprayed from the back of Maxwell's head as the bullet hit him in the face. He stayed stock still for an incredibly long moment, then tipped over backwards, his eyes still open. A spent shell landed in the mud beside me as the Irishman casually pumped two further rounds into his body. Maxwell juddered violently, threw one arm uselessly into the air, then, as his fist hit the sodden ground with a loud slap, he lay absolutely still.

The Irishman turned my way, grinning at me. He briefly glanced at the hole I'd dug and seemed satisfied that it was adequate. Then he lifted the gun so that the end of the smoking barrel was pointed directly between my eyes. 'So, my friend, your turn. Same as before. I can do it quick, or I can do it slow. Now, be honest with me. Aside from Miss Boyd, is there anyone you've told about Miss Brakspear?'

If I answered him, I died. If I didn't answer him, I'd get kneecapped like Maxwell, and possibly worse. Either way my life was completely over, and for several seconds I was utterly incapable of speaking. I simply stared at him, unable to avoid seeing Maxwell's body as it lay bleeding in its shallow grave, conscious of the warm trickle of urine running down my leg. I hunted desperately for any possible sign of mercy in the cold, staring eyes, knowing there would be none. But still you look, because in the end it is your only hope as you scrabble around for any chance of staying alive for a few moments longer.

A stark choice. Give up Dom and enjoy a few more precious seconds, even though the end result would be the same. Or say nothing and go to my grave right now.

'Tell me,' he said, lowering the gun so it was pointed at my kneecap.

I opened my mouth. It felt as dry as a bone. The urge to give up Dom and stay alive just one more moment was almost unstoppable.

But then he turned his head in the direction of the cottage.

I turned my head too, because I'd also heard it. The sound of a car coming up the lane, its headlights illuminating the woods.

It stopped. Directly outside the cottage. And I heard the doors open.

Which was the moment I snapped out of the stony trance I'd been in and, with an angry shout, threw my shovel at the man who was about to kill me.