Terror's Reach (4 page)

With Angela’s misfortune weighing on his conscience, Joe worked
furiously for thirty or forty minutes. When he finally paused, the
muscles of his arms and back were screaming for relief and his body
was dripping with sweat. But he felt a lot better.
He peeled off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it. The sun was
high above him, mercilessly hot. A couple of black-headed gulls drifted
silently overhead. There was almost no birdsong, he realised; just a
distant forlorn chirping from the woods across the road.
Joe walked over to the pallet of paving blocks, where he’d left his
watch for safety. It was three forty-five. Time to get that swim he’d
promised himself.
He was putting on the watch when the sound of an approaching
vehicle made him look up. With traffic so rare on the island, he had
spent enough time out front that he could recognise most of the local
cars by their engine tones. This one was unfamiliar.
It was a white Ford Transit, two years old, the bodywork faded but
clean. A sign on the side in plain black lettering said CC Construction. Below that, in a font too small to read quickly, an 0845 number. No
web address or trade-association logo.
There was only one man in the cab: slim, youngish, with unruly
dark hair and a gunslinger’s moustache. He gave Joe the briefest of
glances, then turned his attention back to the road, his brow furrowed
with intense concentration. Either deep in thought or pissed off about
something.
Probably the latter, Joe guessed. Builders’ vans weren’t a particularly
unusual sight on Terror’s Reach, but at this time on a Friday he’d
have expected to see them heading in the opposite direction, back
towards the mainland and the nearest pub.
Joe was turning away when an audible thud from the rear of the
van caused him to hesitate. The Transit veered slightly, as if the driver
had been startled by the noise. Then the van straightened up and
accelerated away. Before it disappeared around the bend in the road
Joe memorised the registration mark. No real reason, but old habits
died hard.
He went on thinking about it as he tidied up. The likeliest possibility
was that some equipment had shifted or fallen over. But the
thud hadn’t sounded hard and metallic; it had been soft and muffled.
Yielding, like flesh. It reminded him of the noise a disruptive prisoner
made, throwing himself against the side of a police van.
Except that didn’t make any sense. If there was someone else in
there, why weren’t they sitting up front with the driver?

As Liam drew alongside the Nasenko house, his attention was caught
by a man on the driveway. Late thirties, dark hair, tall and muscular.
He was staring straight at the Transit. Liam focused on the road,
sneaking another look as he drove past.
A thump from the back echoed through the van. The shock made
him jerk the steering wheel.
'Shit,’ he muttered. Sit still, you silly bitch.
He corrected the steering and checked the mirror. Saw the man
watching as the van rounded the bend and the Nasenko house slipped
out of sight. That must be the fella on the beach who’d rattled Gough.
Seeing him, Liam could understand why.
Easing up on the accelerator, he grabbed his phone and pressed
the speed dial.
'What?’
'Just passed some big bastard, paving the driveway. That’s the other
bodyguard, I take it?’
Yes. But you have no need to worry about him.’
You sure? He looks pretty handy.’
'Don’t worry, I tell you. Soon he will be gone from here. The others
are ready, yes?’
'Oh, yes. Everyone’s ready.’ Liam smiled. 'Ready and raring to go.’

Six

Angela Weaver freewheeled onto her driveway and half dismounted, balancing gracefully on one pedal as she rolled along the path at the
side of the house. She felt tremendously relieved that Joe had come
to her aid. It meant she didn’t have to mention the accident to Donald
at all. Her only regret was making that clumsy joke about her similarity
to the bike. An ancient, creaking old wreck. What had she been
thinking?
She regularly encountered Joe on the beach, usually reading or
sketching with pencils. Over a period of months, as they’d sat and
talked, he had gradually revealed more about himself and his
chequered past. She was flattered that he’d taken her into his confidence.
He was a lovely man, who for the most part endured his
suffering with good grace. He didn’t deserve the fate that had befallen
him.
Then again, Angela thought, who did?
She propped the bike against the fence and turned to make sure
Brel had followed her into the garden. Before going in she checked
the graze on her knee. It was drying up nicely, but cleaning it out
with witch hazel could wait. First she needed a cup of tea and a sit
down.
She took a couple of deep breaths to compose herself. Rubbed her
hands over her face, took off her hat and patted her hair into some
kind of order. Silly, really. She could stroll in wearing clown makeup
and a bright orange fright wig and Donald would be hard-pressed

to notice.
She opened the back door and stepped inside, and as she crossed
the threshold a familiar melancholy descended.
Angela had once watched an intense, beautiful film called House
of Sand and Fog, and it had inspired her to christen her home in a
similar fashion. For the past two years this had been the House of
Sorrow and Fury, and although she could never countenance leaving
it, she also knew she could never quite feel happy here any more.
Donald was sitting at the scarred pine table in their large old
fashioned kitchen, engrossed in a recipe book. Impervious to the heat,
he was wearing his favourite gardening clothes: old brown cords and
a threadbare check shirt. He didn’t acknowledge Angela’s presence
until the dog padded over and collapsed, panting, at his feet.

'Nice ride?’
'Lovely,’ she lied. 'Though it’s sweltering out there. Poor Brel was

labouring.’
Donald bent down, stroking the Labrador’s head. You go far too
fast, that’s the trouble. It’s not the damn Tour de France.’
'It keeps me fit. I wish you’d exercise more often.’
'No point,’ he said, licking a finger and turning the page. 'See

anyone?’
'Not really. Just that chap who works for the Nasenkos. Joe.’
Angela saw her husband flinch. His body tightened, his head dipping
closer to the refuge of the book. She grabbed the kettle and tipped
the dregs into the sink.
'That’s his name, Donald. He’s called Joe. I can’t help that, and I
can’t not say it.’
Yes, you can.’
'Oh, Donald.’ Her exasperation blew out on a sigh, lost in the
gurgling rush of water as she refilled the kettle. Here was a man who
decidedly did not bear his suffering with good grace.
So many times she had resolved to confront him, try and bring this
nonsense to an end. But always she found herself putting it off. Today
her justification for doing so was slightly more impressive. The accident
had left her weary and shaken, and a lot more upset than she’d
dared admit to Joe.
Because the truth was that the motorcyclist had seen her in plenty
of time, and yet made no attempt to correct his position.
If anything, he’d been aiming right at her.

The first thing Liam noticed was that the gates were open. A second
later he spotted a car on the driveway. It must have come in after
Gough had left the island.
He let the van roll past the entrance, coming to a halt alongside
the perimeter wall. The neighbouring property was partly obscured
by a screen of mature fruit trees, and there were no buildings at all
on the opposite side of the road. Plenty of privacy, at least.
He turned off the ignition and thought about what to do. Almost
immediately he was interrupted by a rapping on the bulkhead. A wary
voice called his name.
Yeah, all right.’ Liam slipped out of the cab, wiping his face with
his hands. He checked the road was clear, then opened the rear doors.
The wash of hot stale air made him recoil.
The van was loaded with equipment, which included eight large
propane cylinders. Squashed amongst them, Priya should have looked
grimy and dishevelled, but there didn’t seem to be a trace of sweat or
dust on her.
'Welcome to Terror’s Reach,’ he said, and as she stepped down it
was all he could do not to gasp.
Even in blue jeans and a plain black top, she looked like an
Indian princess. Or maybe a Bollywood star, playing the part of an Indian
princess. She was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
Her hair was dark and lustrous, as light and fine as smoke. She had milkand-honey
skin, every inch of it utterly smooth and unblemished.
No sense denying it to himself, Liam thought. He was hooked.
While Priya took in the magnificence of the building, Liam studied
her face. He saw her eyes widen, then narrow again with concentration.
He noted the way her lips came together, leaving just a tiny hole in the
centre.
The house was called Dreamscape, and to Liam it resembled a
dozen gigantic Coke cans, stacked in two layers of six. It was a
monstrosity: eight thousand square feet of prime real estate. The curved
exterior walls were clad in red and white glass ceramic panels, while
the interior featured huge open-plan rooms and a wealth of solid oak
and marble.
The current price tag was six and a half million, and it had been
on the market for nearly two years.
'The design’s too idiosyncratic,’ Priya said at last. 'That’s why it
hasn’t sold.’
'That, and the fact it’s overpriced by about three million quid.’
She turned to him, frowning. 'Why are the gates open?’

Joe finished clearing up while debating whether to walk along the
road to the beach and see where the mysterious van had gone. At the
same time a voice in his head told him to leave it. His job was to
watch over Cassie and her children, not patrol the island for rogue
builders and potential litter louts.
He was still undecided when the front door opened and Cassie
Nasenko appeared, carrying a tall glass of water.
'Thought you needed a drink,’ she said. You’ll give yourself a heart
attack, working so hard in this heat.’
'I quite enjoy it,’ said Joe. The glass was slippery with condensation.
He was careful not to drop it, or let his fingers brush against
hers.
He drank gratefully, while Cassie turned and inspected his handiwork.
'It’s coming on well,’ she said, without much enthusiasm. He
knew she’d have preferred to leave the shrubbery untouched.
'Thanks. Is Jaden okay?’
Yeah. He still wouldn’t have a nap. And Sofia didn’t have long
enough, so they’ll probably end up being grumpy tonight.’
Joe tutted. 'I bet you’re looking forward to seeing your friends?’
Yes, I am.’ Her gaze flickered towards the house. 'Oh, and there’s
been a change of plan. Yuri wants to see you.’
'He didn’t send you out here, did he?’
It was a curt response, enough to make Cassie blush.
'I was bringing you the drink.’
'I know. Sorry.’ Trying to soften his tone, he said, 'It’s just… I don’t
work for Yuri. I work for you.’
She crossed her arms, clapping her hands against her shoulders as
if suddenly cold. 'Actually, you work for Valentin,’ she said, and there
was an unspoken message in the pause that followed. And so do I.

Liam leaned into the van and reached for a heavy-duty metal toolbox.
He was aware of Priya’s scent, something light and floral. She was
standing just behind him, her hands clasped together. Anxious but
not panicked, which was a relief. Maybe she wouldn’t turn out to be
a total liability.
'Did anyone notice you on the way here?’ she asked.
'A guy out front at Nasenko’s place.’
'A gardener?’
'No. One of the staff Then he remembered. 'What was that noise
you made?’

'Oh, I lost my balance. Sorry.’
Yeah.’ Liam gave a brusque nod. Maybe not a total liability . . .
He opened the box and the top tier concertinaed out. He removed
a set of drill bits and examined the weaponry concealed beneath them.
Half a dozen semi-automatic pistols, complete with silencers, and a
selection of knives.
He stopped mid-delve. At this point he knew nothing about the
threat he was facing. Was a gun a tad excessive? Was a knife too messy?
'Ah, fuck it.’ The remnants of his Irish accent were strongest when
he cursed: sounded more like feck it. He left the toolbox and shut the
van doors. Gave Priya an encouraging glance. 'Come on.’
The boundary wall was about five feet high, painted a brilliant
white, its curving design mirroring that of the house’s front elevation.
The wide double gates were carved from Iroko hardwood, electrically
operated, with an intercom set into the wall beside them.
Liam knew the building had an extensive security system, with a
network of movement sensors and high-definition cameras. It was quite
feasible that someone would be monitoring their approach, so he made
sure to stroll up to the front door, his leisurely manner and pleasant
smile reinforcing his entitlement to be there.
Priya followed, studying the large potted palms along the driveway
as if half expecting someone to leap out at her.
'Relax,’ he said.
'I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you.’
Definitely an attitude there. He found himself dwelling on her mouth
again, that tantalising little gap, and had to push the image away.
Later.
The car was a red Renault Megane Sport, parked close to the house.
Liam casually trailed his hand along the bonnet as he passed it. Still
warm.
The front door was made from heavy oak, flanked by narrow windows
of opaque decorative glass. There was a security camera mounted
above the door, and a covert one embedded at eye level in the door
itself.
'Go with me,’ said Liam, and knocked firmly.
'What are you planning to say?’
'Depends who answers.’
He heard movement inside. The door was opened quickly, without
any caution, by a young man in pinstriped trousers and a puce-coloured
shirt. He was about thirty, with dark hair and big brown eyes. A good
looking guy, and didn’t he just know it.
But his glib smile died as he registered their presence. His gaze
was drawn to Priya, then reluctantly back to Liam, and in his narrowing
eyes Liam spotted an unmissable trace of guilt. With that, a number
of things became clear.