Target (19 page)

Mike Bolt was an optimist. He'd had some hard, hard times – the death of Mikaela being the hardest of all – but he remained conscious of the fact that if he kept a level head and rode the punches thrown at him, eventually he'd come through the other side, and things would get better. Because if you let them, they always did.

But at that moment he was having to work hard to keep his spirits up. Finding the mustard gas and, by extension, Tina and Jenny Brakspear was looking like an impossible task. In Hook, they were up against a highly professional operator who'd only remained at liberty for so long because he kept ahead of the game. But it was still possible, he told himself. It was just a matter of staying calm and working through the leads they had, and for that they needed resources.

It was twenty to four when Bolt stepped outside into Cavendish's back garden, leaving Mo inside with him. He dialled Big Barry's home number. The case had changed dramatically now that national security was threatened, and Bolt needed his boss's help.

Big Barry still sounded asleep when he answered the phone, but that didn't last long. 'How could this happen?' he demanded when Bolt told him about the mustard gas.

'All too easily, by the sound of things. Obviously, the important thing is to find the bloody stuff. Cavendish is in a bit of a state of shock.'

'I'm not bloody surprised. He'll be in even more of a one if it gets let off and it's his firm that's responsible for it. How bad could it be if it's released?'

Bolt told him.

'Christ.' There was silence on the other end of the line as Big Barry took the information in. 'I'm going to have to get the director involved. The PM's going to have to know about this as well. This is government-level stuff.'

'I know,' said Bolt, moving further into the garden. 'Cavendish has given us a list of agencies in the UK and Europe that Mainline have used before to hire drivers. But there are a lot of them. Eighteen altogether. And as Brakspear was trying to hide what he was doing, it's possible he could have gone to someone else.'

'How do we know that he even hired a driver? What's to stop him sending one of the kidnappers over to pick up the order?'

'I asked Cavendish about that. All drivers carrying hazardous goods have to have something called an APR licence, which has photo ID on it. They give them out to plenty of people, but it's unlikely the company manufacturing the mustard gas in Germany would have given the order to someone who didn't have a valid one. One could always be faked, I suppose, but my guess is Hook's going to try to intercept the load somewhere between the factory and the final destination, which is a secure facility that Mainline have just outside Cambridge.'

'If he hasn't done it already.' Big Barry sighed. 'OK, email me that list and the name of the company in Germany. I'll get resources lined up to contact everyone, but it's all going to take a while at this time of the morning.'

'There might be a quicker way,' said Bolt.

'What?'

'I'm pretty sure Brakspear was being imprisoned in his home shortly after Jenny was kidnapped. He was there on Monday because Tina and Cavendish both told me they called him at different times, and he was there when Fallon turned up yesterday morning. So it's possible he called the agency to hire the driver from his home phone. If we check the records, we might be able to find out who it is.'

'Good thinking,' said Big Barry, suddenly sounding a little happier. 'Good work, old mate. I tell you: if we stop this stuff falling into the wrong hands, it'll be a real result for SOCA. A high-profile one, too.'

Bolt knew that his boss was always on the lookout for the big result that would get him on to the next rung of the SOCA ladder, and nearer to his final goal of directorship. Ordinarily, Bolt would have let it go. He was used to Barry's attitude, and because he was a decent enough boss he could generally tolerate it, but these weren't ordinary times. 'I'll be happy when we get Tina and Jenny Brakspear back,' he countered, making little attempt to disguise the irritation in his voice.

'Of course, of course,' said Big Barry, backtracking. 'And what about Roy Brakspear? You said he was at home yesterday morning. Is it possible he's still there?'

'I doubt it, sir. My gut feeling is that Hook would have moved him after Fallon turned up, just in case Fallon raised the alarm. And if not then, they'd have moved him by now because Hook must know we've spoken to Fallon.'

'Hook's got a lot on his plate at the moment and he can't be operating with that many people. He might not have had the chance. Can you get down to Brakspear's place and take a look around? You're up that way, aren't you? In the meantime, I'll get a full surveillance team with armed back-up, and a search warrant sorted out. We might have to break him out of there.'

'I don't want to do anything that endangers Tina, sir. Or Jenny.'

'We'll do what we can to bring them home in one piece, but I'm sorry to have to say it, old mate, but as of now they've ceased to be top priority.'

Bolt and Mo were exhausted, operating purely on adrenalin as they drove to Brakspear's place.

'I want to tell Saira to take the kids out of London for a couple of days,' said Mo after a long silence. 'Her sister's in Leicester. They can go and stay there. There's enough room.'

'Don't do anything yet,' Bolt told him. 'We don't even know the current whereabouts of the gas, and it's important we keep things under wraps as much as possible. We don't want to start some kind of panic.'

'That's easy for you to say,' Mo snapped. 'You don't have a family.' He stopped himself from going on, a look of anguish crossing his face. 'I'm sorry, boss, I didn't mean it like that. It's just, you know...' He shook his head. 'All this is a lot to take on board.'

'It's all right,' said Bolt. He knew he'd almost certainly have done the same if Mikaela was still alive: made a call, told her to keep quiet but to get out of the city. Now that he lived alone it was hypocritical for him to deny others the chance to put the safety of the people they loved first. 'Do what you think's right, Mo,' he said eventually. 'I won't stand in your way.'

Mo nodded, and fell silent again.

It had just turned quarter to five when they reached Roy Brakspear's house. Bolt slowed down a touch as they passed the front entrance. The wrought-iron gates were shut but he caught a glimpse of Brakspear's car on the driveway.

They parked next to a terrace of whitewashed cottages nearby and got out of the car. The first signs of light were appearing on the horizon and the early morning was peaceful and silent. Big Barry had called back to tell Bolt that a surveillance team wouldn't be available for at least an hour, but he'd also said that if he thought the place was empty then they should go inside and worry about the consequences later. Which suited Bolt just fine.

A footpath at the end of the terrace ran parallel to the exterior wall of Brakspear's property to a cornfield beyond, and they moved up it in silence. The side gate was locked, but as long-term surveillance officers they were used to getting into places they weren't supposed to, and they helped each other over the wall and into the garden.

The house was quiet, with all the curtains drawn, and they crept quietly across the lawn until they reached the back door. Bolt listened at the glass but heard nothing beyond. He tried the door handle but it was locked. The lock was old, though, and could be picked in seconds.

He and Mo exchanged glances. It was likely Brakspear wasn't there, but it was also possible he was, and that whoever was baby-sitting him would be armed.

'Let's do it,' whispered Mo.

Bolt nodded, produced his picks, and a few seconds later they were inside an old-fashioned utility room with a washing machine and fridge freezer. Both men produced their standard-issue pepper sprays – the only weapons they had, and woefully inadequate if they encountered trouble. Holding his out in front of him, his finger on the nozzle, Bolt crept through the silent house, conscious of Mo right behind him.

The utility room gave way to a spacious kitchen with a breakfast bar in the middle that had obviously been refitted recently. Unwashed pots and pans filled the sink and there was a faint odour of fried food.

They moved into the silent gloom of the hallway. A dying moonlight filtered in through the window above the front door illuminating a framed poster-sized photograph on the opposite wall. Bolt stopped and inspected it.

The photo was a family shot of a younger Roy Brakspear standing between an attractive woman in her thirties and a cute-looking girl of about ten, which must have been Jenny. All of them were smiling at the camera, and even in the gloom Bolt could see that Brakspear looked genuinely happy. A man with his family. The photograph resonated with Bolt. It also angered him because it demonstrated so perfectly the casual evil of the men who were putting him through this. Bastards. A sudden desire for vengeance ripped through him, so intense that it made him shiver.

He turned away and padded silently across the hallway to the staircase.

That was when he caught a faint stale smell coming from upstairs. Like rancid meat.

He stopped, turned. Mo had caught it, too. He was wrinkling his nose. They both knew what it meant.

Bolt headed up the stairs and out on to the landing. The door opposite was shut, but the smell here was much stronger and hung heavy in the air. The murky silence seemed loud in Bolt's ears.

Holding the pepper spray in front of him, he slowly opened the door and stepped inside.

Roy Brakspear was lying face down on the bed, sideways on, his legs dangling off the edge. He was wearing casual middle-aged clothes – a pair of slacks and a navy sweater – tan brogues on the feet. His arms were outstretched on either side of him where he'd fallen and a small pool of blood had formed round his head. Further drops speckled the sheets where the bullet that had been callously fired into the back of his head had exited.

Mo came in and stood beside Bolt. He didn't speak.

'Poor sod was just a loose end to them,' said Bolt, looking down at the body. He thought about the smiling husband and father in the downstairs photo. Two of that family were now dead. It was possible the third member, Jenny, was too, and if she wasn't yet she would be once the mustard gas was in Hook's hands.

They searched the rest of the house, throwing all the lights on, no longer needing to keep quiet, but there was no obvious evidence pointing to either the identity or the location of the kidnappers. The place would have to be searched a lot more thoroughly but this would now be done by scene-of-crime officers.

They left the way they'd come in, and Bolt put a call in to Big Barry. 'Bad news,' he said when his boss answered, and he told him what they'd found.

'Poor bugger,' sighed Barry with only the barest modicum of sympathy. 'I've got news for you as well. There's good and there's bad.'

'What's the good?'

'Your hunch paid off. We checked Brakspear's phone records, got the number for the drivers' agency he used, and we've finally got the name of the driver picking up the load, and the registration of his lorry.'

'What's the bad?' asked Bolt, even though he could guess what it was.

'He's not answering his phone and the tracking device on the lorry isn't picking up. The bugger's disappeared into thin air.'

Frank O'Toole watched from his position in the gap behind the steps leading down to the ferry's lower parking level as the man he was tracking weaved his way through the stationary vehicles until he came to the lorry. The man's name was Trevor Gould. He was in his early fifties, with a ruddy complexion suggesting high blood pressure and an immense pot belly which made him look like he'd swallowed a beach ball. He stopped by the lorry and clicked off its central locking, unaware that its plates had been changed.

Another guy in a suit, looking exhausted, made his way to his own vehicle, and from the top of the steps O'Toole could hear more voices. It was time to move.

As Gould opened the driver's door and heaved himself up on to the step, precariously balancing the half-eaten baguette he was carrying, O'Toole slipped from his hiding place and strode over to him, keeping his head down and watching the man in the suit out of the corner of his eye as he got into his own car.

Gould was so busy squeezing himself into the driver's seat that he didn't spot a thing until O'Toole was leaning into the cab and jabbing the hunting knife into his side.

'Move over,' he hissed, 'and don't look at me or make a sound. Otherwise you're dead.'

'I don't want any trouble,' said Gould, who was sensible enough to do what he was told. It was a real effort for him to clamber over the handbrake and the gearstick, and O'Toole noticed with wry amusement that he continued to clutch the greasy baguette as if it was the crown jewels.

'Where's the tracking device in this thing?' O'Toole demanded.

'Under my seat,' replied Gould, making an exaggerated effort not to look at him.

'Disconnect it.'

As Gould leaned down, O'Toole slipped a hypodermic syringe from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He removed the stopper and, as Gould sat back up again, jabbed the needle into his arm.

Unlike the man he was currently working for, Frank O'Toole didn't enjoy killing people. He'd only done it once before and that was fifteen years ago now. A tout who'd been selling information to the Brits. O'Toole and another man had kidnapped him from the street outside his home and taken him to an abandoned warehouse just outside Newry where he'd been tried by an IRA military court and found guilty of the crimes of which he was accused. There was only ever one sentence for touting: death. O'Toole had been given the task of carrying it out, something he'd done without hesitation, putting a bullet in the back of the man's head as he knelt down, blindfolded and begging for his life. O'Toole had had no sympathy for him – touts deserved what was coming to them – but he hadn't gained any satisfaction from doing it either. It was a job, nothing more. Just as it was a job now. And this time he was being paid a hundred grand for his troubles – more than he'd earned in the last ten years – which meant there was no place for weakness. Or too many questions.

Trevor Gould grimaced as the poison flooded into his system, and his eyes bulged. O'Toole slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed him back in the seat as he juddered and writhed. He could have killed him with the knife but that would have been way too messy. O'Toole wasn't squeamish, but he was going to have to drive this thing for the next hour and he didn't want it looking or smelling like a slaughterhouse.

Gould took several minutes to die, but his demise was silent and attracted no attention from the people who were now milling about their cars as the ferry made its way slowly into Harwich docks. When he was finally still, his face puce, O'Toole reached into his pocket, pulled out the APR licence badge that had been made for him, and attached it to his own jacket. He then squeezed Gould's body into the sleeping area behind the front seats and chucked a grimy-looking duvet over it. Ignoring the smell that was already beginning to permeate the cab, he polished off Gould's baguette, then started the lorry's engine as the ferry drew into the docks.

Barely five minutes later the ferry's iron doors opened, and O'Toole joined the long line of traffic snaking its way towards passport control. He sighed with relief as he was waved through with the merest hint of a glance by a kid barely out of his teens. He didn't even have to open his window. Just waved his false British passport in the kid's general direction. It amazed him that there was so little security, although he guessed that these days men like him, white and middle-aged, were no longer considered suspicious.

He chuckled to himself. Once upon a time he was one of Scotland Yard's most wanted men, with his own file at MI5. Now he was considered part of a long ago, irrelevant past.

Such complacency was going to prove a huge mistake.